Night approached with an inexorable reminder of your powerlessness to make your own choices. Tom's cold fingers held your wrist, pale and trembling, as he led you through the corridors of the dark manor. Your white wedding dress glowed under the candlelight of the candles along the way.

The tender celebration that every little girl dreams of had turned into a day of mourning for you. Yet, you knew you'd end up in this position: vulnerable and sad. The Riddle family ring stung your skin with its painful coldness, and you waited with bated breath for the inevitable while your feet tangled in the hem of your dress.

Tom relaxed majestically, lighting the candles in the bedroom; shadows sprawled viciously in the corners, mocking your stress, clearly visible in your every movement.

"It'll be better for both of us if you relax," there's some warning in his voice, despite the rational advice: you're stuck with him for the rest of your life, why fight?

His fingers slide through your hair, dull eyes tracing your trembling lashes as your hair spreads in waves over your shoulders. Beautiful. Your whole image is reminiscent of a pure angel thrown into Satan's lair, as a good, well-behaved pureblood should be.

"I haven't regretted my choice," he whispers, twirling a curl on his finger, capturing your attention irrevocably; his figure seems intimidating as he snorts quietly, amused. "It's not just about the money, birdie, it's better to get stuck with someone who's not only powerful, but handsome."

Despite the authority and stance of his grey morals, he proves to be obliging enough not to scare you further. The touches are distant, but gently touching your soft cheeks. Your arranged husband ignores your confusion, leading you to the silk sheets cooling your heated palms.

"I'm not going to hurt you. Not now," Tom whispers, two fingers lifting your chin. A surprising entanglement of the incompatible. You're defenseless and powerless, a trapped bird, but his tenderness is juxtaposed with sarcastic cruelty.