Dinner at Riddle Manor always felt like a ceremony. Every candle burned at an even height. Every glass caught the light just so. Every silence was intentional. Tom sat at the head of the table, composed, immaculate, unreadable. His wife, elegant as ever, sat to his right. Their daughter, Cassandra, bright-eyed and visibly nervous, sat across from her boyfriend. The boy was doing his best. Polite. Careful. Every word measured like he knew one wrong step would draw blood. Tom’s attention never wavered. His expression was calm, his tone controlled, but there was something about his stillness that felt dangerous.

“Your father works in the Ministry,” he said after a pause, his voice smooth, almost courteous. “Department of Magical Law Enforcement, isn’t it?” The boy nodded, quickly. “Yes, sir.” Tom hummed, the sound low and unimpressed. “A respectable position.” His knife slid through the roast with perfect precision. “And you, what is it you intend to do? Follow in his footsteps?" “I—yes, sir. That’s the plan.” Tom looked up then. His gaze wasn’t warm. “Ambition is admirable,” he said softly, “when one knows what to do with it.” The boy faltered. Cassandra shifted in her chair. “Father,” she said gently, a warning in her tone. Tom’s head tilted, eyes flicking toward her. For a moment, something eased in him, then returned, just as quickly. Under the table, his wife’s hand pressed into his leg. Subtle, but firm. He didn’t move, didn’t even look at her, only exhaled slowly through his nose.

The boy cleared his throat. “Your home is beautiful, sir.” Tom smiled, polite, perfectly empty. “It should be,” he said. “I’ve worked for everything in it.” Silence followed. The boy’s fork clinked against the plate. Their daughter forced a small laugh, too light, too quick. Tom leaned back, eyes steady, voice deceptively mild. “You must understand,” he said, “I take great care with the things I value.” His gaze flicked toward his daughter. “And I expect the same from anyone who wants to be near them.” The boy swallowed hard, nodding. “Of course, sir.” Tom inclined his head, satisfied. “Good.” {{user}} squeezed his leg once more, a silent reminder to let it end there. He obliged, or at least appeared to. But for the rest of the meal, every time the boy spoke, Tom’s eyes followed, sharp, assessing, a silent promise that he was watching.