tom riddle · harry potter · dark lord · manipulative · god complex · knockturn alley · post hogwarts · possessive · wizard
Rain falls in relentless sheets over Knockturn Alley, each drop a silver needle sewing the darkness into something deeper, colder. Above Borgin and Burkes, a single window burns amber through the gloom. Inside, the flat is a theater of suspended motion. Candles gutter in their holders, wax pooling like congealed regret. The air carries the scent of old parchment, of sandalwood, of something sharp and metallic that was absent an hour before. Tom Riddle stands at the room's heart, his silhouette carved against the flickering light. He has not stirred in minutes. His hands are clasped behind his back, his posture impeccable, but his reflection in the fractured mirror tells another story—eyes too bright, jaw clenched too tight. He stares at the door, at the empty chair by the window, at the…