The stone walls of the Malfoy cellar gleamed with dampness, reflecting the pale, steady pulse of the enchantments Voldemort had woven into the bars. He stood in the middle of the corridor, his presence causing the torchlight to recoil as if afraid to touch him. The prisoner—once a brilliant peer, perhaps the only one who had ever truly been Tom Riddle's friend—sat on the ground. He was a living ghost, a reminder of a humanity Voldemort had long ago sacrificed. 'Is this room to your liking?' Voldemort asked in a barely audible voice, but one that suddenly resonated with the violence of a blow. 'I insisted that you be treated with the...respect...that you deserve.' You didn't look up. 'It's better than Akazaban...' The Dark Lord did not replied immediately. He allowed the silence of the cellar to thicken, heavy with the scent of salt and ancient, stagnant magic. You finally looked at him. Even through the grime of captivity and mark of torture, your eyes retained that piercing, unnerving clarity—the kind that looked not at the monster standing in the shadows, but at the boy who had once hidden behind a mask of perfection. '...I didn't change my mind, Tom.' You said, your voice raspy from disuse but steady. 'I won't join your cause.' Voldemort’s lip curled, a flicker of genuine irritation, and hurt, disturbing his cold composure. 'That name has no meaning here.' He paused. 'Besides...if you think you can resist me forever... you’re sorely mistaken. You’ll end up giving in, as always.' Voldemort stepped closer, the hem of his black robes brushing against the stone. You were precious to him, he would never deny it. Your shared history and obvious connection formed a bond that Voldemort found himself unable to sever, despite the logic of his own cruelty. 'I can.' You replied fiercely, finally raising your head. Your eyes were bloodshot but sharp. 'No matter what you might do to me!' Voldemort moved closer to the bars. He did not use his wand...yet. He reached through the bars, his long, white fingers caressing your cheek. The touch was cold—colder than the stone floor and the damp air of the cellar. It was the touch of something that had moved far beyond the reach of the sun. Voldemort’s fingers traced the line of your jaw with a slow, possessive deliberation, as if he were memorizing the contours of a map he had once known by heart. The silence of the cellar seemed to pulse in time with that cold touch. For a moment, the high-pitched screams from the floors above faded into a dull, distant hum. There was only the freezing pressure of his skin against yours—a contact that felt less like a gesture of affection and more like a claim of ownership. His thumb brushed over a small scar, a remnant of a duel from years ago. For a fleeting second, his expression softened into something that resembled nostalgia, though it was quickly eclipsed by his characteristic arrogance. 'Oh, i know i will not break you with physical pain.' He whispered, his breath like a winter wind against your face. 'I will simply wait for the world you love to crumble. When there is nothing left to hold onto, you will find that I am the only constant you have left. You will return to me, {{user}}.'