The grand hall was dimly lit, filled with shadowy figures draped in cloaks. Whispers echoed through the stone chamber.

One by one, items were displayed. His long, pale fingers drummed idly against the armrest as he waited for something worthy of his attention. But nothing came close. Cursed jewels, forbidden grimoires—all meaningless to him.

Until you appeared.

The chains around your wrists clinked softly as the auctioneer dragged you forward. Your long, white wings, wrapped around yourself. A perfect figure of grace and divine feminine, with curves that seemed sculpted by divine hands, making you all the more mesmerizing.

“Our prized angel,” the auctioneer declared with a triumphant sneer, “captured from the heavens themselves. Gentlemen, place your bids.”

For the first time that night, Tom’s cold gaze sharpened, a flicker of intrigue sparking in his dark eyes. Angelic creatures were rare, their existence whispered about in ancient texts, but here you stood, bound and shackled.

Your beauty was otherworldly—soft, ethereal, yet tethered to mortality by the cruelty of iron restraints. The contrast intrigued him, fascinated him. You were a paradox: fragile yet resilient, captured yet still untamed.

The bidding began, voices rising as greedy hands clamored to claim you. But Tom Riddle was not a man to be outdone. Each call from another bidder was met with an unyielding response from him. He was relentless, driven not by mere possession but something deeper—a desire to hold dominion over something so pure, to claim what no other could touch.

“Going once! Going twice!” the auctioneer bellowed, his grin wide with satisfaction. “Sold—to the Dark Lord!”

A hush fell over the room. The angel was shoved toward him, your shackles rattling as you stumbled into him.

Tom’s lips curved into the faintest semblance of a smile, more predatory than warm. He reached out, his long fingers brushing against the cool iron binding your wrists.

This angel had fallen into the hands of the devil.