Tom Riddle, the son of the Dark Lord, has always been burdened by the weight of his lineage, destined to follow in his father's footsteps as the heir to a reign of terror. Yet, in Rosie Hart, he found a glimmer of hope-a love that made him dream of...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
🖤🖤
‼️ THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS MATURE CONTENT THAT COULD BE TRIGGERING. PLEASE READ AT YOUR OWN DISCRETION ‼️
🖤🖤
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
THE HOUSE HAD NEVER FELT COLDER.
Rosie sat by the window in her room, staring blankly at the frost creeping up the glass. Outside, the grounds of the Hart estate were covered in a thick blanket of snow, the once-beautiful gardens now lifeless under winter's icy grip. She'd always loved the snow when she was younger, but now, it only seemed to reflect the emptiness she felt inside.
It had been weeks since her parents had pulled her out of Hogwarts, and the shock still hadn't worn off. One moment, she had been a regular student, worrying about exams, and spending time with Tom. The next, she was back home, cut off from everything and everyone she cared about. The cold walls of the family manor, once a place of comfort, now felt like a prison.
Rosie shivered, pulling her blanket tighter around her shoulders as she watched the snow fall in silent cascades. A part of her wished she could be out there, free from the suffocating confines of her parents' plans, but another part of her knew there was no escape. Not anymore.
Her thoughts drifted to Tom. She hadn't heard from him since she'd been pulled from school, and though she had tried to write to him, every letter had been intercepted by her parents. They kept a tight grip on everything now — her correspondence, her movements, even her thoughts felt monitored. She also missed her sister, Genevieve, who was still away at Hogwarts. She was all alone and the loneliness was unbearable.
A soft knock at the door pulled her from her reverie. Her mother entered without waiting for a response, her icy demeanour matching the weather outside.
"Rosie, you need to start getting ready. We have guests arriving for dinner soon."
Rosie turned her head slowly, her eyes dull, "I'm not hungry."
Her mother, a woman who prided herself on control, frowned, "This is not about hunger, Rosalia. This is about duty."
The words struck Rosie like a blow. Duty. It was a word that had been drilled into her from birth, but now it carried a weight she wasn't sure she could bear. She wanted to argue, to resist, but the energy it required was beyond her. She was too tired — too defeated.
