Tom Riddle 7

You were only eighteen when you married him, barely out of the echoing marble halls of Hogwarts. While your friends enjoyed summer and their freedom, you entered a cold stone mansion, bound by vows to a man the world spoke of with both admiration and fear.

To everyone else, marrying Tom Riddle seemed like a destiny woven from power and prestige, a crown of shadows and glory. He was brilliant, beautiful, and unforgettable. But you hadn't fallen in love with his power. You had fallen in love with a glimmer: the rare human warmth he had once allowed you to see.

That spark was gone.

He had been replaced by silences that weighed on your chest, stares sharp enough to hurt, and a silent fury inside him that seemed to fear only one thing: breaking.

The mansion was enormous and empty. Its corridors were decorated with portraits that never spoke; they only observed. Lanterns flickered in tall iron chandeliers, casting a distorted light on ashen-colored walls.

The air had a faint smell of smoke and iron.

Outside, snow covered the gardens, bending the blackened stems of the roses until they kissed the frozen ground.