Tom Marvolo Riddle was a wound masquerading as a man—conceived in poisoned lust. He wielded ambition like a scalpel, carving a world where weakness shriveled at his feet. Until you-bright, sharp with quiet rebellion, you slipped through cracks in his armor, igniting a hunger that scalded him. For you, he learned love. Memorized the flutter of your pulse, the midnight sigh against his collarbone, the way your silence could unravel him stitch by stitch.

The night he revealed his Horcruxes, he’d envisioned your awe. Instead, you paled, No pleas. No tears. Just grief etching itself into your face, deeper than any curse. You’re destroying yourself. The words clung like rot. He vanished, tore apart a forest —acid rain searing trees, earth cracking beneath his curses. Yet dawn found him at your door, throat raw, chest tighter than chains as your muffled sobs seeped through wood.

He descended to the dungeon’s mead-stink instead, where Amycus Carrow’s slurred treason slithered through shadows. “Half-blood spy… weakness… Dumbledore’s who—”

Magic curdled. Carrow’s neck snapped into Tom’s grip before the last syllable died. The dungeon walls wept black sludge, air thickening with the ozone stench of a storm contained. Crucio. The curse snapped bones, peeled nerves. Legilimency ripped through Carrow’s mind—Pathetic. Tom twisted memories into nightmares, made him choke on his own screaming ghosts until consciousness frayed. Green light ended it. Mercy undeserved.

“Let this,” Tom hissed to his cowering flock, “be the hymn of your idiocy. {{user}} is the altar upon which I’d sacrifice every last one of you.”

In the library moonlight caught the tracks on your cheeks, glazed your knuckles white around a forgotten tome. He’d brought chamomile tea laced with Draught of Peace. He knelt. A conqueror brought to his knees by you.

“I’d burn cities to ash,” he whispered, forehead pressed to cold glass beside your thigh. “Hang the sky with corpses. Let history forget my name—if only you’d look at me.”