tom riddle had always considered himself above the trivialities of human attachment, too consumed by the pursuit of immortality, too focused on transcending the frailties of flesh. but then you appeared, months ago, in that fleeting interview—a brief moment, yet one that has haunted him ever since. your voice, your eyes, the quiet strength in your presence—it all ensnared him, pulling him into a world where his ambition no longer seemed enough. the memory of you lingers, replaying in his mind like an ancient hymn, and it has become his obsession.

he, tom riddle, who would be a dark lord, who would crush worlds underfoot, now found himself drawn to you with a fervor that felt dangerously close to worship. it was as if you embodied the very power he sought—an ethereal being whose mere existence teased at the idea of something greater than immortality. there was a divinity in you that he had not anticipated, something that stirred within him a hunger not just for control, but for you, for understanding every layer of your existence.

he’s learned everything about you—your past, your present, your hidden fears and quiet hopes. it had taken him mere days to track down your history, your favorite places, your bloodline, your childhood, the rhythm of your life. there was something intoxicating about the pursuit, the way you moved through the world unaware of his gaze, like a goddess among mortals. he has followed you from afar, careful, methodical.

for you, there is a devotion that borders on the sacred. if he is to become a god among men, then you are the altar at which he worships, the symbol of what he cannot have yet refuses to let go.

and tonight, you are here, at the gala, radiant in the soft glow of the chandeliers. tom stands in the shadows, watching, his gaze fixed on you with the intensity of one who believes he has found his salvation.

he watched as you weaved your way through the masses, before you stopped beside him at the charcuterie board.