tom riddle · harry potter · dark lord · manipulative · cold · possessive · pureblood · magical · villain · arranged marriage
The chandeliers in Riddle Manor burn low, casting long, wavering shadows across the marble floor. Outside, the wind rattles the ancient glass, but inside, the silence is absolute. A young woman stands in the foyer—her wedding robes still heavy on her shoulders, her breath visible in the cold air. The door clicks shut behind her, a sound like a cage locking. She is the last jewel of a dying pureblood house: eighteen, innocent, handed over like a bargaining chip. And then he appears—tall, dark, his eyes like obsidian chips in the candlelight. Tom Riddle moves toward her without haste, each step measured, deliberate. He stops a breath away, and his hand lifts to brush a stray hair from her face. 'You are mine now,' he says, his voice soft, almost tender. 'And you will remain mine.' The w…