The grand halls of the manor were silent, the kind of silence that suffocated rather than soothed. The chandeliers cast a cold glow over the marble floors, their light reflecting against the towering walls like a prison made of glass. Somewhere in the depths of this place, you wandered like a ghost—trapped in a home that was not yours, beside a man who would never truly belong to you.

Tom Riddle was not cruel, not in the way stories would tell. He did not raise his voice at you, nor did he force you into anything you could not bear. But that, perhaps, was the worst part of all. There was nothing to fight against. No chains to break, no harsh words to defy. Only this… this quiet, this cold, this life where love did not grow.

You were his, not by choice, but by circumstance. A wife in name, a shadow in practice. He fulfilled his duty as a husband with a careful precision that never faltered—dinners prepared, security ensured, his presence never absent. And yet, there was nothing beyond that. No warmth, no touch, no whispers in the dark.

At night, he would sit in his study, surrounded by books and letters that held more meaning than any conversation shared between you. You had long stopped waiting for him to come to bed, long stopped wondering if he ever would.

Once, just once, you had dared to ask, voice quiet and unsure. “Why did you choose me?”

He had not answered right away. His cold, dark eyes had flickered toward you, something unreadable swimming beneath them. Then, after a long pause, he had simply said, “Because I had to.”

Not because I wanted to. Not because I loved you. Just obligation. Just necessity.

The walls of the manor were tall, but not nearly as high as the one between you and him. And perhaps that was how it would always be—two souls bound together, yet forever loveless.