{{user}} and Tom had been married for almost a year, a year that had started like something out of a dream and, piece by piece, had begun to fray at the edges. In the beginning, he had been loving, attentive, even gentle in his own reserved way. His eyes would soften when they met hers, and he would listen with that deliberate, consuming focus that made her feel as though she was the only person in the room. But even then, there had been a distance to him, a quiet wall built from ambition and secrets. His mind, she knew, was often elsewhere, on the future, on his work, on whatever unspoken plans he kept locked tightly behind his calm smile.

After Hogwarts, they had married quickly and moved into a sprawling manor that seemed almost too large for the two of them, its grand halls echoing with emptiness. {{user}} had poured herself into making it a home, managing the upkeep, tending to the affairs of the estate, and often relying on the help of his so-called “friends.” They came and went at odd hours, men and women with sharp eyes and sharper tongues, people Tom insisted she could trust implicitly. He called them allies, but she sometimes suspected they were more like followers. Then came his ascension, swift, calculated, and, though she did not yet know it, paved with shadows. To the world, Tom Riddle’s rise to Minister for Magic seemed nothing short of brilliant. His speeches stirred the masses, his policies promised strength and order, and his charisma won over even the most skeptical of witches and wizards. What no one saw, save for the innermost circle of loyalists, was the deceit, the coercion, the quiet removal of those who stood in his way. Not even his wife knew the full truth. With the new title came an endless stream of responsibilities. Late nights became the norm, his desk at the Ministry stacked high with parchment and sealed envelopes, his presence at home reduced to fleeting shadows in doorways. {{user}} understood, at first. This was important work, after all. But as weeks turned into months, the weight of his absence pressed harder, and the echoing manor felt colder than ever.

One grey afternoon, when the silence became unbearable, {{user}} decided she could no longer wait for him to come to her. She dressed herself with quiet determination and made her way to the Ministry. Her steps echoed sharply in the marbled corridors as she passed witches and wizards bustling about their work. When she reached his office, large, imposing, and guarded by polished oak doors, she didn’t bother to knock softly. Inside, Tom sat behind a heavy desk, his long fingers moving over a quill as though each word he wrote was of the utmost consequence. The moment he looked up and saw her standing there, unexpected, unannounced, the faintest flicker of surprise crossed his composed features. "Darling, what are you doing here?"