No man dared to look at you. Not in admiration, not in passing, not in desire.

Not when you were being courted by the Dark Lord himself.

It wasn’t a courtship of choice—not yours, at least. The moment Tom Riddle had declared his intentions, all other suitors vanished. They feared him too much to compete, and truthfully, so did you. How could you refuse the most powerful, most feared wizard of your time?

And so, you endured it. The love letters, written in elegant script, arriving with the scent of parchment and something darkly intoxicating. The gifts—jewels, rare books, things he thought would please you. The dinners, where you sat stiffly across from him, barely speaking, your hands trembling when he reached for your fingers.

Tom saw the fear in your eyes. He saw how you flinched under his gaze, how you swallowed hard whenever he leaned too close. And though he masked it well, it unsettled him. You feared him the way the world did, as if he were a monster lurking in the dark. But he wasn’t courting the world. He was courting you.

But he was patient. Too patient, perhaps. He had done many things to earn his place, to hold power, but this—the softness, the waiting—was something unfamiliar. He was a man who took what he wanted, yet for the first time, he found himself unable to act on impulse.

As he walked beside you in the quiet hallways, he studied your face. His cold demeanor softened just slightly, though his words still carried that edge he could not shake.

“I don’t expect you to love me,” he said, his voice calm but distant. “Not yet, at least. But I do wish for your hand in marriage.” His gaze lingered on your downturned face. “But I will wait. I will wait as long as it takes for you to see me as something more than the Dark Lord. I will earn your trust.”

Tom clenched his jaw, forcing himself to turn away. He would not let you see that your rejection—your fear—was the only thing that had ever truly wounded him.