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 MINISTRY OF MAGIC LOOMED BEFORE THEM LIKE AN OMINOUS GIANT, ITS IMPOSING STRUCTURE CASTING LONG SHADOWS IN THE EARLY MORNING LIGHT.
Tom and Rosie stood just outside the grand entrance, their fingers tightly intertwined as they faced the daunting reality of the day ahead. This wasn't just another trial; it was a reckoning. For Tom, it meant confronting the ghosts of his past, the lingering doubts about who he was and who he had become. For Rosie, it was a fight to protect the man she loved—the man who had saved her, their daughters, and had risked everything to break free from the darkness that had once threatened to consume him.
Rosie felt her heart thudding in her chest, her pulse quickening with every step they took toward Courtroom Ten. She knew the weight of what awaited them. The courtroom would be filled with people who saw Tom not as the man he had chosen to become, but as a symbol of his father's legacy—the Dark Lord's son, carrying the stigma of a family name drenched in blood and cruelty.
Tom walked beside her, his expression stoic, but Rosie could sense the tension radiating from him. She glanced up at him, and for a fleeting moment, their eyes met. His jaw was set, his eyes hardened with determination, but underneath that, she saw the vulnerability he so rarely allowed anyone else to see.
"We'll get through this," Rosie whispered, her voice soft but filled with conviction. "They need to know the truth. About everything."
Tom nodded, though he said nothing. His hand tightened slightly around hers, a silent acknowledgment of her words. Rosie knew what this trial meant to him. It wasn't just about avoiding Azkaban—it was about proving, to the world and perhaps even to himself, that he was not the monster everyone feared he might become.
As they entered the Ministry, the bustling hallways seemed to hush as they passed. People stopped to stare—some in curiosity, others in judgment. Tom's name had always carried a heavy legacy, but now, after the war, after he had defected from the Death Eaters, the whispers were louder. Rosie straightened her back, refusing to let the weight of their stares intimidate her. She wasn't here for them; she was here for Tom, for their daughters Ana and Jazzlyn, for their future.
