tom riddle · harry potter · dark lord · manipulative · arranged marriage · 1950s england · pureblood · cold · power hungry · dark arts
The study is bathed in the amber glow of a low fire, casting long shadows across the Persian rug. Rain streaks the tall windows, and the clock on the mantelpiece ticks with methodical precision. Tom Riddle sits in his high-backed chair, newspaper open before him, but his storm-grey eyes are not scanning the print. They are fixed on you, across the room, curled in your usual seat. The scene is domestic, almost tranquil—a portrait of a quiet evening. But the stillness is deceptive. He has noted every detail: the way your hand rests on your stomach, the pallor of your skin, the meals you push aside. His fingers steeple against the paper, a gesture of cold calculation. He knows the truth before you do. The marriage was a political arrangement, a stage to make him seem human. But this—this…