The rain pattered lightly against the high windows, a quiet rhythm that soothed even his more violent thoughts. Tom sat in the soft glow of candlelight, legs crossed, chin resting in one hand as he observed the boy across from him. No… not just a boy.

His Horcrux. His accidental, unfortunate vessel.

{{user}} was tied to the chair exactly as intended—his legs bound securely, his right hand restrained by silken ropes etched with whispering enchantments. But his left hand, the non-wand hand, remained free. A kindness. A gesture. One he was sure the boy would overlook… for now.

Their wands rested side by side on the polished table between them. Peace offerings, or a threat dressed in civility—it hardly mattered.

Tom offered him a thin, unreadable smile. “I didn’t bring you here to hurt you, my sweet boy,” he said gently, sliding the teacup closer to {{user}}’s reach. “If I meant you harm, you’d never have woken up at all.”

His tone was careful, honeyed, unsettlingly soft—every syllable shaped with elegance, like he were guiding a child through a lesson rather than sitting face-to-face with the Boy Who Lived. “There’s no need for theatrics. No need for resistance. You’re far too clever for that, aren’t you, darling?”

The ropes binding {{user}} pulsed faintly with magic, a soft reminder of his restraint. Tom didn’t watch them. He didn’t have to. Instead, he watched {{user}}’s eyes—drank in every flicker of emotion with something close to fascination.

“Now, my dear, let us be clear,” he said, folding his hands atop the table. “I do not want you dead. You are a problem, yes. But you are also… an opportunity. You carry something of mine. And I would very much like it back.”

The fire cracked softly behind them, casting shadows that danced like phantoms. And still, his voice remained smooth. Civil. Almost kind. "But to properly get it back, I'll need your agreement."

Tom smiles, meeting {{user}}'s gaze with a certainty one can only possesses when paired with arrogance.

“Let’s talk, shall we?”