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...
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‼️ THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS MATURE CONTENT THAT COULD BE TRIGGERING. PLEASE READ AT YOUR OWN DISCRETION ‼
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ROSIE LAY ON THE COLD, DAMP FLOOR OF THE ABANDONED COTTAGE, THE MUSTY SCENT OF DECAYED WOOD AND MILDEW FILLING HER NOSTRILS WITH EVERY RAGGED BREATH.
The air was heavy with moisture, clinging to her skin, as if the very walls of the cottage were suffocating her. The stone floor beneath her was uneven, jagged in places, digging into her side and leaving deep bruises that only added to her misery. Around her, the once-grand structure had crumbled into disrepair—broken beams hung precariously from the ceiling, and shattered windows allowed the wind to howl through, its mournful wails echoing off the walls like the cries of a ghost.
The faint light of day barely filtered through the cracks in the rotting wood, casting long shadows that twisted like spectres in the gloom. Cobwebs hung in every corner, thick with dust and abandonment, swaying slightly as the wind swept through the gaps in the cottage's walls. The room was sparsely furnished—a single overturned chair in the corner and a table covered in a thick layer of dust, the remnants of a life long forgotten. The walls, once painted in what she imagined had been vibrant colours, were now peeling and mottled with mould, their dismal condition reflecting her own fraying resolve.
The smell of damp earth rose from the corners of the room, mixing with the sharp metallic scent of her blood, seeping from the cuts and bruises that covered her body. Each movement sent a fresh wave of agony through her limbs, her muscles screaming in protest from the endless strain of trying to break free. Her wrists were raw from the ropes that had bound her, her ankles swollen from the shackles that had long since bitten into her skin.
Outside, the rain pattered relentlessly on the roof, the steady rhythm almost mocking in its constancy, while inside, the silence pressed down on her like a physical weight, broken only by the occasional drip of water leaking through the ceiling and landing with a hollow echo in the far corner. It was a silence filled with dread, where time seemed to stretch endlessly, blurring the line between day and night. There were no sounds of life, no sign of rescue—only the oppressive quiet that surrounded her like a suffocating fog.
