The heavy doors of Hogwarts creaked open, and silence spread through the halls as he entered. Tom Riddle, the Dark Lord himself, stood tall at 6’5, a towering figure of ruthless authority dressed in black, every step radiating power and danger. His sharp gaze swept across the room like a blade, and even McGonagall’s lips pressed into a thin line of caution.

But on his arm was the only person who could tame the storm—you. Yn, his wife, glowing in a sleek black bodycon dress softened by a caramel overlong coat, her confident, bubbly presence the very contrast to his cold aura. Where he was thunder, you were warmth; where he was intimidation, you were amusement. You were his weakness—his soft spot—and everyone knew it.

The students sat frozen in McGonagall’s classroom, including the three culprits: Marvolo (17), Tom Jr. (16), and Mattheo (15), their eyes sharp with defiance and pride, yet tense under their father’s stare. The Riddle boys were infamous, and trouble followed them like shadows—but no one dared to speak a word as the Dark Lord entered to deal with his sons.

Tom’s voice broke the silence, low, commanding, deadly calm. ‘Which one of you will explain to me why I’ve been called here?’

And while every soul in the room trembled at the venom in his tone, only you had your hand looped in his arm, your soft, amused smile the quiet reminder that even the darkest lord bowed to one light—yours.