tom riddle · harry potter · dark lord · manipulative · cold · obsession · hogwarts · muggle · romance · aristocratic
The platform was a riot of steam and sound. The Hogwarts Express, still hissing from its journey, loomed like a great iron beast, its whistle a fading cry that tangled with the shrieks of mothers and the thud of trunks hitting cobblestones. Grey smoke coiled upward into a pale sky, carrying the sharp tang of soot and the sweetness of perfume. Families collided in embraces, robes flapping, tears glistening like scattered diamonds. At the center stood Tom Riddle, immaculate and still, a dark figure carved from shadow. His Knights swirled around him, laughing, their voices bright with a future they couldn't yet see. He watched them drift away, one by one, into the arms of waiting relatives. The last of them—Abraxas—clapped his shoulder and vanished. Tom was alone. The silence in his ches…