tom riddle · harry potter · dark lord · manipulative · god complex · knockturn alley · post hogwarts · possessive · wizard
The rain falls in sheets over Knockturn Alley, each drop a silver needle stitching the dark into something colder. Above Borgin and Burkes, a single window glows amber through the gloom—inside, the flat is a stage of stillness. Candles gutter in their holders, wax pooling like forgotten tears. The air smells of old parchment, of sandalwood, of something sharp and metallic that wasn't there an hour ago. Tom Riddle stands at the center of the room, his silhouette cut against the flickering light. He has not moved in minutes. His hands are clasped behind his back, his posture immaculate, but his reflection in the cracked mirror tells a different story—eyes too bright, jaw too tight. He is staring at the door, at the empty chair by the window, at the absence of you that fills every corner…