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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THE QUIET COTTAGE NESTLED DEEP IN THE SCOTTISH HIGHLANDS WAS A REALM OF STILLNESS AND SOLITUDE, A REFUGE FAR REMOVED FROM THE TUMULT OF THE OUTSIDE WORLD.
Its isolation was both its strength and its burden, providing an escape from the cacophony of everyday life, yet also serving as a stark reminder of the emptiness that had settled into the lives of its occupants.
The snow had transformed the rugged landscape into a pristine wonderland, covering the rolling hills and ancient trees with a thick, untouched layer. The cottage, with its thatched roof and stone walls, seemed to blend seamlessly into the snowy expanse, as if it were a part of the landscape itself. Tall, gnarled pines surrounded the cottage, their heavy branches bowing under the weight of the snow. They stood like silent sentinels, creating a natural barrier that shielded the cottage from the world beyond.
Inside, the warmth of the fire was a stark contrast to the chill that permeated the air outside. The main room of the cottage was a haven of comfort and coziness. Tom, sitting in a large, overstuffed armchair, had wrapped himself in a blanket, his attention divided between the crackling flames and his five-month-old daughter, Ana, cradled in his arms. The firelight cast a soft, golden glow that danced across the room, illuminating the rich, dark wood of the paneling and the heavy, tapestry-covered furniture.
The cottage's interior was a blend of rustic charm and understated elegance. The walls, lined with dark wood, were adorned with an array of family photographs and old, intricately framed paintings. Each picture told a story, a snapshot of happier times that now seemed like distant memories. The high ceiling was draped with evergreen garlands and festooned with twinkling lights, their soft glow adding a touch of cheer to the otherwise subdued atmosphere.
Tom gazed down at Ana, her tiny face peeking out from beneath a soft, knitted hat. Her cheeks were a delicate shade of pink from the cold, and her wide, curious eyes seemed to absorb the world around her with a mix of wonder and uncertainty. Wrapped snugly in an emerald blanket—chosen by Tom for its symbolic connection to Rosie—it was his quiet hope that the blanket would carry the love and happiness they had once shared, a comfort for the daughter who now held his heart.
