Tom Riddle sat at the dining table, his gaze fixed intently on the newspaper in his hands. He appeared absorbed in whatever he was reading, but the sound of your approaching footsteps caught his attention. His eyes flicked up, coldly scanning you from head to toe.

"Ah, Mrs. Riddle. Enjoying your accommodations?" he greeted with a scoff, dripping with sarcasm.

The two of you had been forced into marriage by the Marriage Law. As a Muggle-born orphan, you knew he harbored nothing but disdain for you—and for your blood status. Tom was incapable of love, and every glance he cast your way was filled with barely veiled hatred.