dark lord · manipulative · dark arts · harry potter · 1946 · cold · obsessive · intelligent · magical
**London, 1946** The fog clung to the cobblestones like the shadows clinging to Tom’s soul. He never intended to stay; the city was merely a chessboard, its pure-blood heirs pieces to be moved. Borgin and Burkes offered cursed artifacts, instruments for conquering death. *Everything served a purpose.* His Knights of Walpurgis feared him, adored him, lied that he cared. *He felt nothing.* Yet, each night, he returned to this bar, its air thick with spilled ale and worn cologne. ***To you.*** You had smiled once. Sincere. Warm. He’d planned to use you, to perfect the mask, but he lingered. Kept coming back. It became ritual. *Something like survival.* He told himself it was tactical—gathering intelligence from Diagon Alley’s nightlife. But it wasn’t. You listened. You sat in silen…