white dove ★ T.M.R/Reader ★

Part Six

He looks annoyingly unfazed considering the circumstances; he's wearing a very ill-fitted striped shirt and trousers, and his hands are cuffed before him where he stands within the barb-like spikes of the cage. His lips and cheeks are flushed. The tell-tale sign of Veritaserum poisoning. They've loaded him to the brim.

Riddle's hair is a mess of curls that fall to the dark angles of his brows, his eyes averted, his expression controlled, and there's an absolute symphony of camera clicks and flashes as every single reporter relishes in the sight of him, gorgeous in his cage. He's the perfect headline. You've seen how they talk about him in their stories when you can stomach looking past the huge pictures they print of him.

– 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚊 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚛𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚐𝚐𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚑𝚎𝚗𝚍 –

– 𝚊 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑 𝚋𝚢 𝚋𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚑, 𝚁𝚒𝚍𝚍𝚕𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚊 𝚜𝚗𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏, 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚔 𝚘𝚏 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚌 𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚜 –

– 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚣𝚣𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚞𝚗𝚢𝚒𝚎𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚖𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚁𝚒𝚍𝚍𝚕𝚎'𝚜 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚙𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚊ç𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚞𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚜 –

They love it. They love that he's such a wonderfully beautiful murderer. You've heard stories from the mail department three floors above your new office that they've been flooded with letters for Riddle, witches and wizards of all ages sending in long pages of rapacious obsession, declarations of love, of marriage, locks of hair, lipstick stains, bloodstains, claims of devotion. The papers love that, too.

Riddle's eyes don't lift to the lightshow, in fact, he doesn't seem to care to pay attention to the room of people staring at him nor the Wizengamot peering down at him over their spectacles and disapproving frowns.

You feel a touch on your arm. Dumbledore's even look is reassuring, and you let out a shaky breath, gritting your teeth.

"Tom Marvolo Riddle," drawls the Chief Warlock, "you are brought before the Wizengamot today, the twenty-seventh of November 1951 to receive your sentence for the crimes of which you stand accused and charged by due process – three counts of murder in the primary degree, one count of murder in the second degree, fifty-six counts of torture, four counts of the use of the Killing Curse, thirty-seven counts of the use of the Cruciatus Curse, nine counts of the use of the Imperius Curse, six counts of perverting the course of justice, nine counts of heinous use of Dark Magic, four counts of conspiracy to commit murder, three counts of conspiracy to commit torture, seventy-six counts of intimidation –"