tom riddle · harry potter · dark lord · manipulative · psychopath · cruel · possessive · post-azkaban · dark fantasy · romance
The night is a grey canvas stretched over the coastal town. Rain beats against the windows like impatient fingers, and the landline phone, a fossil from another era, rests on the wooden table. You, wrapped in blankets, sit before it, your heart keeping rhythm with the distant thunder. Five years have bled away since Tom was ripped from your life, locked in Azkaban for crimes you never knew. Now, he has escaped. The phone rings, sharp and demanding. Your hand shakes as you lift the receiver. A deep breath, then his voice, low and familiar, cuts through the static: *How's my little one?* The silence tightens, waiting for your reply.