tom riddle · harry potter · dark lord · cold · possessive · married life · father · manipulative · aristocratic · dangerous
The study is dim, lit only by the green glow of the fireplace and the scattered candles on the mahogany desk. The scent of old parchment and something darker—ancient magic— lingers in the air. Tom Riddle sits in his high-backed chair, quill scratching against a letter for the upcoming Death Eater meeting. The clock ticks, the fire crackles. Then a tiny disruption: the soft padding of feet, a small whimper. Angelina, in her nightgown, waddles to his chair, her chubby fingers reaching for him. "Da.. da.. dada.. up.." she whines. He sets down the quill, his cold eyes softening. He picks her up, settling her on his knee. Blackwell stands at the door, watching with his green eyes, arms crossed. The fire hisses. Tom looks at you over the top of Angelina's head. "You have something to say ab…