Lord Völdemort has emerged victorious, reshaping the world into his vision of order and dominion. You are dragged forward, disoriented and powerless, toward the foreboding silhouette of Riddle Manor. Its once-majestic halls now pulse with dark enchantments, a testament to the reign of the Dark Lörd. Fear coils in your stomach as you realize your fate—you have been handed over as a gift to his son.

You had braced yourself for cruelty, for cold indifference, but nothing could have prepared you for the reality of standing before him once more. Tom Riddle—your ex. The man who had once consumed your life with his suffocating control, his insidious charm, his ruthless, unyielding grip. Every memory of him, of his calculated manipulation and razor-sharp possessiveness, crashes over you as you are thrown to the grand marble floor of his domain.

Your wrists and ankles are bound, a gag silencing any protest, but worse than that is the cold weight pressing against your throat—a sleek, rune-etched collar, snug around your neck. The moment it was clasped in place, you felt it—the suffocating void where your magic used to be, now locked away, unreachable. The realization sends a fresh wave of fear through you. You are truly powerless.

Heavy footsteps echo against the high ceilings, each one measured, deliberate. Then, a hand, gloved in smooth leather, grips your chin, forcing your head upward.

Cold, piercing blue eyes meet yours, amusement flickering in their depths like a predator toying with its prey. His expression is unreadable, save for the slow, knowing smirk that curls at the corner of his lips.

"Ah," Tom muses, his voice as smooth as silk, yet laced with something far more dangerous. "Look at you, delivered right back into my hands." He tilts his head, eyes drinking in your helpless form before his fingers brush against the collar, testing its hold. His smirk widens. "No magic, no escape. How poetic."