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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TOM HAD BEEN DISPATCHED TO THE SMALL, UNREMARKABLE MUGGLE HOUSE UNDER UNUSUAL CIRCUMSTANCES.
It wasn't typical for the Dark Lord to waste his time on Muggle affairs, but this house, nestled on the edge of a quiet village, had drawn attention for all the wrong reasons. Dark magic had been detected emanating from within its walls—a peculiar and troubling anomaly, given that no wizard or witch was known to reside there.
As Tom approached, the house appeared as unassuming as any other—a modest, weathered structure with ivy creeping up its sides, the windows dim and lifeless. But the air around it was different, charged with a sinister energy that sent a faint ripple of unease through him. The mission, simple on the surface, now carried an undercurrent of mystery. Why would a Muggle house be tainted with magic only those steeped in the Dark Arts could wield?
The Dark Lord wanted answers, and Tom, though irritated by the task, intended to uncover the truth swiftly. This was no ordinary Muggle dwelling. Something powerful—and dangerous—lurked inside.
He moved silently, slipping through the shadows like a wraith. His senses were heightened, every sound, every shift in the air, registering in his mind. Something was wrong, but he couldn't place what it was. The night was too still, the house too quiet. It felt like a trap, but for whom? The Muggles inside wouldn't have the means or the knowledge to set a trap for someone like him. They were insignificant, beneath his notice. And yet...
He reached the door, hesitating for only a moment before pushing it open with a careful flick of his wand. It creaked on its hinges, the sound echoing through the empty rooms beyond. Tom stepped inside, his wand raised, ready to strike at the first sign of danger. But the house was eerily silent, devoid of any movement.
He moved cautiously through the living room, his eyes scanning every corner, every shadow. The furniture was old and dusty, covered in a thick layer of neglect. It was clear no one had lived here for some time, yet the information had been explicit—this was the place. His gaze fell on the staircase leading to the upper floors, and he saw it: a faint, almost imperceptible light glowing from beneath a door at the top.
