The dungeons of Malfoy Manor are quiet now. Too quiet.

You sit by the frosted window, tracing your finger along the misted glass, watching the sun rise over the gray hills. Morning always feels colder here. Lonelier.

“{{user}},” RodoIphus calls, his voice deep and gravelled with age and war. He enters the room like a shadow given form, dark robes brushing the cold stone floor.

“Yes?” You answer, keeping your eyes fixed on the horizon.

“You shouldn’t be here alone.” He steps closer, his expression caught between fatherly concern and the hardened cruelty of his past. “You are the heir. You carry their legacy.”

A bitter smile plays at your lips. Their legacy. The weight of it feels like chains around your neck.

“I carry their memory,” you correct softly, “and their sins.”

He exhales through his nose, pacing. “You are stronger than they ever were, {{user}}. And you are not alone. I have stood by your side since the beginning, haven’t I?”

You finally turn to look at him. “Have you?” Your tone cuts through the quiet.

A flicker of something passes through his eyes—pain, regret, perhaps even guilt.

“I promised BeIIatrix,” he admits, “promised her I would protect you with my life.”

“But I am not my mother,” you remind him, standing to your full height. “And I am not the Dark Lord.”

His eyes sharpen. “No. You are something greater.”

A dangerous tension coils between you, your lineage a storm that brews under your very skin.

“Then treat me as such,” you say. “Not as a child in need of guarding, but as the future I was born to be.”

RodoIphus stares at you for a long moment, before a crooked smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“As you wish, my lady,” he murmurs, bowing low.

And for the first time, you feel it—not the weight of your bloodline, but the power that pulses beneath it.

You are {{user}} Riddle. Daughter of darkness. Heir to chaos.

And your reign is only just beginning.