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Chapter Text

He could feel his magic coursing through every corner of his body. He was angry. Fury boiled in his veins; he had asked for just one thing, a simple task, and his followers had achieved nothing.

Useless. That’s what they were. They couldn’t do anything without his guidance. He observed Avery and Malfoy kneeling before him, their heads bowed in a pathetic display of submission.

A sly smile crossed his lips as he noticed the faint tremor in Lucius’s hand. A mere flick of his wand and their lives would be nothing—just lifeless bodies cluttering his office, staining the prized rug he had brought from Albania.

“Remind me once again, Lucius, why can’t you catch him?” he demanded in a cold voice, allowing his magic to flood the room, creeping into every corner like a shadow.

He heard the unmistakable hitch in both their breaths. The fear was palpable.

“He vanishes, my lord. It’s as if he’s part of the shadows. He appears and disappears as if he never existed,” Lucius stammered, his voice cracking with fear.

The wizard tilted his head slightly, thoughtful. Appearing and disappearing, and the Dementors did nothing. Something didn’t add up. That being hadn’t freed any prisoners or caused direct chaos. He was merely playing, wandering from cell to cell, sometimes greeting the inmates as if he were a casual visitor.

It all began three months ago. A guard reported seeing an unfamiliar shadow in a hallway. When they went to investigate, they found him.

Someone. His body was cloaked in black; there was no face, no eyes, no visible form. Just a pale, elongated hand with a black ring on the ring finger.

Since then, the pattern had repeated: he appeared, mocking them to their faces, then vanished, leaving behind a trail of icy magic, as cold as a Dementor’s aura.

He had sent his Death Eaters to track him down, but they returned empty-handed. Useless, all of them. The incompetence was starting to draw attention.

The newspapers were now speculating about the “infamous wizard” who mocked Azkaban, entering and leaving as if it were his home. It was a blow to his reputation. He was the one in control. Nothing moved without his knowledge; no law was passed without his permission.

He frowned, bringing a hand to his face as he growled.

“Get out of here!” he ordered with a roar. An instant later, the room was empty.

He began pacing back and forth. Who was this wizard? It was an enigma that was igniting unacceptable rumors. He couldn’t allow it.

Loosening his tie with a frustrated sigh, the familiar sound of Nagini drew him out of his thoughts. The serpent was gliding toward him with elegance.

“What do you need, Nagini?” he asked in a soft hiss as he sat back down. The snake slithered up his body, settling in his lap with the confidence of one who knew they would not be refused.

“What has you so tense, master?” she responded curiously.

“The Azkaban wizard,” he replied, stroking the diamond-shaped head of his familiar.

“He is cold,” Nagini hissed, savoring the attention.

He arched an eyebrow, intrigued.

“What do you know about him, my dear?”

“When you sent me with Lucius, I felt him. His aura is cold, a stain of darkness surrounds him. He is different, master. His magic... it’s like yours, yet also distinct,” the snake explained.

That revelation piqued his curiosity. If his magic was similar, he had to be a dark wizard. Modestly powerful to be toying with them in Azkaban.

“Did you see his face, Nagini?”

The snake shook her head, already half asleep.

That was a problem. If he saw his face, even for an instant, he would find him. He knew it. That’s why the wizard played from afar, wrapped in shadows. The flame of his curiosity burned ever brighter.

He decided to investigate personally. With a flick of his wand, he sent Nagini to her quarters.

Adjusting his tie, he slid his wandbeneath his sleeve and Disapparated.

He hated Azkaban.

That place reminded him of the fragility of life. The Dementors, soul-devourers, destroyed everything in their path, taking lives as effortlessly as he did.

They were not so different from him.

He, too, had killed. Muggles, wizards, even relatives. For him, killing was as natural as breathing. Ruling, as well.

The cold of the place enveloped him as he advanced through the corridors dividing the cells. His magic spread through the surroundings, warning the Dementors to stay away.

He despised them.

He held power over them. He knew it. But even the slightest touch of those creatures, and life would extinguish—fragile as a candle flame blown out. He walked with silent steps, like a predator stalking in the shadows. His wand rested hidden, pressed against his arm, a constant reminder of his supremacy.

He reached the corridor the entity had chosen as its favorite, a place that now seemed to breathe darkness. He stopped at the center, his eyes evaluating every corner, every cell. The silence was oppressive. The prisoners didn’t murmur, didn’t groan. They barely seemed to breathe.

His magic, restless, began to surround him like an invisible cloak. It expanded, filling the void until suddenly, the shadow appeared.

The atmosphere changed immediately. A dense and icy magic spread through the room, saturating the air with a darkness as deep as his own. And there it was, before him—the wizard who mocked his Death Eaters, who slipped past the guards like a ghost, entering and leaving Azkaban as if the place were nothing more than a playground.

The entity before him was unmistakably human, though it barely seemed so. He could feel the spark of life within it, faint but present. The pale hands of the stranger hung at their sides, and on the ring finger of their left hand glimmered a black ring, an object that seemed to absorb what little light remained in the room.

The wizard’s face was concealed beneath a cloak that enveloped him completely. Yet the sensation of being watched was overwhelming, as if those unseen eyes were piercing through his soul. The stranger’s magic flowed freely, powerful and oppressive, weighing the air down with an almost unbearable heaviness.

Tom was accustomed to seeing his Death Eaters collapse under the weight of his magic in seconds. But this being... it stood motionless, unyielding, as though it didn’t even notice.

“Who are you?” he demanded, his voice as cold as a blade of steel. It wasn’t a question; it was an order.

The response came in a soft but distant voice, laden with an eerie echo.

“I am who I am. Who are you?”

The words were simple, but the implicit challenge ignited a spark of anger in the Minister. His jaw tightened.

“I am the Minister for Magic, Tom Riddle. I command you to show me your face,” he declared, every word carefully calculated, his tone firm like a hammer striking.

The wizard laughed softly, a sound so low and distant it felt like a whisper caught in the wind.

“And I am I, Minister Riddle,” the stranger replied, tilting their head with an air of calculated mockery, studying Tom as if he were an interesting but insignificant object.

Tom’s patience began to wear thin. He didn’t want to draw his wand—not yet. His control was absolute, even as fury churned within him.

The stranger took a step forward, drawing closer. Every movement seemed like a provocation. Tom’s magic reacted instinctively, coiling around him like a snake ready to strike. Yet, he remained still, watching.

He was the most powerful Dark Lord the world had ever known. He ruled Magical Britain with an iron fist. No one, no one, dared to challenge him.

And yet this being did so, with an unsettling calm that only fanned the flames of his rage. His magic continued to spread through the room, making it colder, more inhospitable, as if it were absorbing every trace of warmth and life.

A muffled whimper escaped from one of the cells, trembling, barely audible. He paid it no attetion, keeping his gaze fixed and unyielding.

"We won't leave here until I know who you are, little ghost," he declared, allowing his wand to appear as a silent but clear threat.

The wizard before him did not react. His posture was serene, unshaken, and he tilted his head, as though considering a response.

"I am a shadow, Minister Riddle. A shadow that carries your greatest fear."

The stranger's voice was soft, almost melodious, but it was laced with an underlying danger, a power that echoed in every corner of the room.

Tom refused to be intimidated. He observed the wizard's calculated steps, so light they were barely audible, like the whisper of a feather falling.

"You should watch your tone," he threatened with an icy calm, though the stranger's words still echoed in his mind.

His greatest fear? The idea was absurd. He, Lord Voldemort, the heir of Salazar Slytherin, feared nothing and no one. He ruled Britain with an iron fist, and at his command, legions of followers moved like scorpions at his word.

"You are not my ruler," the wizard retorted, taking another step closer.

The cold intensified. It was a cold that penetrated to the bone, colder than any encounter with a Dementor, yet more intoxicating, more visceral.

"You are in Britain. I govern it. You are beneath me," Tom responded, stepping forward with his wand raised, ready to strike if necessary.

The stranger let out a low laugh, a sound that seemed to float in the air like a distant echo.

"Not so, Tom. I belong to no place. I am simply what you fear most."

The wizard raised his left hand. The black ring glimmered faintly, absorbing the little light that remained in the room. With an almost lazy motion, he waved his hand, and the temperature dropped even further.

Dementors began to pass through the walls, five in total. The room filled with their oppressive presence. Tom raised his gaze and studied each one of them. He watched as they approached the stranger, surrounding him.

The Dementors did not behave as they usually did. They adored him. They bowed their heads as if before a king, moving in circles around him with a reverence that reminded him of meetings with his own Death Eaters.

Tom's heart raced as he saw the wizard raise a hand and caress the creatures with an odd familiarity. The Dementors seemed to shudder under his touch, as though they were... happy?

"What are you, really, little ghost?" Tom asked, deliberately ignoring the creatures and focusing only on the being before him.

The stranger looked at him, and though his face was still hidden, the intensity of his presence pierced through him like a dagger.

"It's simple, Tom. You fear death. So much, that you split your soul to avoid it. Is that not so?"

The revelation hit like thunder. Fury exploded inside Tom, and his magic responded violently. The air grew dense, charged with power. But the stranger's magic did not retreat. It defended itself, just as strong, just as relentless.

No one knew of his Horcruxes.

Panic mixed with rage. Not even his most loyal Death Eaters knew of the fragmentation of his soul. He had burned every text, erased every trace. And yet, this being knew.

"How do you know that?" he growled through gritted teeth, his words resonating in the now heavy and icy room.

"I know many things, Tom. I am many things. What do you think I am?" the wizard replied, stepping away from the Dementors with a gesture. The creatures stood still, like shadowy statues.

The wizard advanced slowly. The distance between them shrank until their magics collided, intertwining in a silent battle. When they were mere centimeters apart, Tom finally saw his face.

It was pale, with sharp features and green eyes so intense they seemed to burn with their own light. Eyes that made the killing curse pale in comparison to their shine.

The wizard raised both hands, and the hood fell, revealing tousled black curls, pink lips, and a defined jaw. He was beautiful.

Mortal beautiful.

"A ghost..." Tom murmured, unable to tear his gaze from those green eyes that kept him frozen.

The stranger smiled.

"I, Tom, am death."

The voice was barely a whisper, but each word was engraved in his mind. Before he could react, the wizard vanished, taking with him all the oppression and cold.

The Dementors faded, leaving the room in an unsettling silence.

Tom remained still. His magic returned to him, gathered and alert, but his mind was trapped in what had just happened.

He had faced what claimed to be death. He had felt its power, its magic, and seen a face that was both fascinating and terrifying.

And now, more than ever, curiosity burned within him. He would find it.

Never, in all his existence, had he imagined that death could be so mortally beautiful.

Chapter Text

He was on his way to the meeting of the Sacred Twenty-Eight.

He held no official position, but he commanded those who did. His Death Eaters followed him in a silent line, living shadows beneath the pale light of the moon. The cloak he wore, as dark as the starless night, was reserved only for special occasions, where fear and obedience were sown.

A new Lord had been proclaimed weeks ago, an apparition wrapped in mystery. No one knew his last name, his political leanings, or his true identity. Uncertainty pulsed like a slow poison in the veins of those present, a mixture of fear and fascination before the unknown.

Upon reaching the designated place, the silence was grave. All the lords of the oldest and most powerful magical houses were there, bowing before his figure. The air smelled of reverence, but also of submission born of pure terror.

At the front of his followers stood the Black family. Sirius Orion Black, the lord of the ancient and proud Black house, was bowed in impeccable reverence, his black hair falling like a dark veil over his face.

He tilted his head slightly, observing. Sirius had also been a recent acquisition for his entourage, a prize that solidified his power. His father had ceded him the leadership of the house, an act of submission disguised as tradition. Now he wore the Dark Mark, and in the flickering candlelight, its glow was a silent reminder of his unwavering loyalty.

He lifted his head calmly and entered the room. The magic he radiated was palpable, like an invisible wind moving his brown locks with each step. One by one, the present bowed their heads even further, as if the weight of his presence was unbearable. A smile, cold and full of teeth, curved his lips as he saw how his innate power bent them effortlessly.

He walked slowly to take the seat at the head of the table. Every movement was a calculated act of dominance, and one by one, the others took their places. To his right, the seat remained empty, an absence with a deliberate purpose. To his left was Sirius, with an icy gaze that seemed to challenge the world while submitting only to him.

His attention shifted to Lucius Malfoy, whose blonde hair was intricately braided. He vaguely remembered that this Death Eater had mentioned having recently had an heir. He assumed this trivial detail was the cause of the unusual arrangement in his hair.

His gaze slid toward the Lestranges. The twins, with eyes gleaming with unsettling madness, reflected a spark of the insanity they shared with their wife. Across the dark table, filled with wines, cheeses, fruits, and bread, the banquet was laid out like a provocation; but none dared to move a muscle until he did.

They had come to discuss the new Lord, the one wreaking havoc in the shadows. They did not know his last name or his origins, and none of his followers had been competent enough to uncover it.

All they knew was that an ancient castle, hidden near Scotland, had been claimed by an unknown heir. The entire region was impregnated with a dark and cold magic that seeped through the air like poison. Thestrals and Dementors had begun to gather around the castle, drawn to the energy emanating from the place.

That awakened a twisted hunger within him, a drive that coiled inside him. Perhaps that man was the one he had been searching for all this time. The unknown figure with black obsidian-like hair and dangerous green eyes obsessed him. He felt curiosity, longing, even a spark of desire that his mind tried to suppress.

His own magic vibrated with anticipation, intoxicated by the idea of a possible encounter with the one who called himself Death.

He took his wine glass with an elegance devoid of haste. He swirled the crimson liquid in a subtle tilt, allowing the candlelight to dance on its surface. The movement caught the attention of his Death Eaters, who raised their eyes with a mix of expectation and fear.

"Who is the new Lord?" he asked, his icy voice slicing through the air like a sharp dagger. His gaze scanned each of those present, not seeking answers, but submission. Some shrank in their seats, trembling under the weight of his presence. Others, like Lucius Malfoy, raised their heads with effort, forcing themselves to speak.

"We know he is one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, my Lord," Malfoy began in a controlled tone, though his hands betrayed a slight tremor. "We also know he resides in Scotland, in an ancient castle... one that is protected by blood magic."

He raised one of his perfect eyebrows, a gesture that was both curiosity and threat. Blood magic was a complex, dangerous art, rarely used without devastating consequences. He remembered stories of wizards who had perished trying to wield it. Now, suddenly, a wizard powerful enough had emerged from the shadows, able to protect an entire castle with the strength of his lineage.

"Continue, Lucius," he ordered with venomous softness. He saw how Malfoy swallowed with difficulty, as if his words were blades tearing at his throat.

He loved that moment, the instant when his absolute power became manifest. Fear was palpable in the air, and the control he exercised over them was intoxicating.

"Rumors... rumors are spreading, my lord," Malfoy continued, avoiding his direct gaze. "About his power, his magic... they say it is dense, heavy. And that his cold doesn't just freeze... it burns."

At hearing those words, something deep and dark inside him stirred. It was the same emotion that had invaded him before, a mix of obsession and hunger. His magic, as if sharing his thoughts, spread through the room, enveloping him and those present in an aura of oppression.

Everyone held their breath, aware of the fragility of their lives before him. But that feeling of danger intoxicated him, feeding his desire for the unknown. That Lord... that man of icy and burning magic. It was him.

It had to be him.

His magic longed to meet that man again. Weeks had passed since their last encounter; weeks of unease. He hadn't returned to Azkaban, and the rumors didn't mention that he had either. It was as if the world was holding its breath.

He was ecstatic at the thought of seeing him again. To feel his presence, his breath. His longing was so visceral that he could almost touch it. He wanted, with an intensity bordering on madness, to touch him. To feel his pale, cold skin, as cold as his magic.

He could taste his essence: his breath, his eyes, his power flowing like a dark river through his veins. Everything about him was a call, a promise of completeness and destruction. He wanted to lose himself in it, to tear away everything that was left of himself and devour it.

To feel death.

To feel his true lineage.

He wanted to ravage everything.

"My lord..."

The voice pulled him from his obsession. He slowly turned toward the speaker. Nott was standing beside Malfoy, his green eyes fixed on him. But those eyes were not the ones that consumed him, they didn't hold the burning power that marked him to the bone. No, these were ordinary, insignificant eyes.

The young man held a note that a raven had just delivered.

"Go ahead," he replied coldly, giving permission to speak while his eyes remained fixed on the note.

Nott nodded nervously, opened the message, and began to read, though the words seemed to stick in his throat.

"I’m waiting, Theodore," he growled, letting his magic spread like a dense, suffocating cloak throughout the room. He wanted to hear the words, needed to hear them. He needed to confirm what he already suspected.

"The new Lord... is Lord Peverell, my lord," Nott stammered, his voice barely a whisper.

The silence that followed was absolute, almost unbearable. His magic exploded like a storm, creeping like a hungry snake into every corner of the room, choking everyone with its presence.

That surname.

It hadn't had a bearer in centuries. But it was one of the oldest magical lineages, a family wrapped in an aura of darkness and power. Its name was associated with the most forbidden arts, with secrets that should never be revealed. And, above all, with death.

That closed the circle. It was him.

It couldn't be anyone else.

"My lord..." Nott's trembling voice interrupted his thoughts, "...that surname is intertwined with necromancy. Wizards with that affinity could be extremely dangerous."

Necromancy. He had read everything about it, every treatise, every dusty scroll he could find, but he had never practiced it. He never attempted it. Death, after all, had been his first and deepest fear. Since he was a teenager, the idea of dying tormented him, of disappearing and leaving behind everything he had built, everything he had conquered with blood and magic.

He couldn’t allow it. Never. His life was his greatest treasure, his legacy, his immortality. He had to preserve himself. His achievements couldn’t crumble, not when he was the only one worthy of ruling over Britain. Only him. No one else.

But now, the idea that he could be a necromancer... the idea pierced his mind with a mix of fear and fascination. He remembered the words, every syllable spoken with a tone that seemed to drag the shadows with it:

“I, Tom, am death.”

A shiver ran down him, from the base of his neck to his spine, cold and biting like an ice-cold knife. If he was death, then he would be his. And if not, he would still be his.

Obsession consumed him. That boy, that man, already had his curiosity. But more than that: he had his anxiety, his hunger, his deepest need. His magic called him, dragged him toward him like an irresistible magnet.

He closed his eyes, and the image of that face filled his mind, as vivid as if he were standing before him. That wild black hair, chaos that evoked a storm at midnight. Those green eyes, deep and magnetic, like enchanted emeralds burning with an ancient and dangerous power. The scar that ran across his face, from the arch of his brow to his cheekbone, was a mark of war, proof that death had tried to claim him... and had failed.

He was his. He had been his since the moment their eyes met, since the instant his magic, like a famished creature, recognized him and marked him as its possession.

The idea of possessing him was not a mere whim, nor even a desire. It was a mandate engraved in his bones. It was fate, unbreakable and inevitable. A right that no one, not even the universe, could take from him.

He took a sip from his cup, letting the dark liquid spill down his throat, warm and searing, igniting a spark inside him. With the first sip, he slightly raised his hand, a silent signal for his followers to begin eating. He, however, remained silent, still, like a shadow lurking, studying them with a sharp and calculating gaze.

Every movement, every word, every breath of those present was a piece of a game board that he controlled. But now there was a bigger move in mind. One that obsessed him.

He had to arrange a meeting, an audience, any excuse to exchange words with the heir. After all, he was the Minister of Magic. The most powerful man of his time. Of ancient lineage, of pure blood, with magic that, even from a distance, made the air around him tremble.

The mere thought made his magic, always contained and vigilant, stir with anticipation. A hungry flame that burned brighter, more alive. His blood, warm like the wine he still held, vibrated with the certainty that the encounter was inevitable.

Fate had already spoken. And fate always belonged to him.

"Dangerous..." The word echoed in his mind like a mocking refrain. Dangerous was barely the beginning.

Lord Peverell was not a threat. He was an inevitable destiny.

The night was deep, already brushing midnight. The office was shrouded in shadows, lit only by the constant flicker of the softly crackling fireplace, filling the space with dancing shadows. Sitting at his imposing desk, his hand moved with calculated precision, tracing words on a parchment. The pen glided over the paper, outlining the ideas for his next speech.

At his feet, Nagini lay asleep, coiled like a lethargic guardian. The windows were shut, the air still, heavy with its own magic, drifting freely through the study like an invisible, imposing, and omnipresent presence. It was a place he completely controlled, an extension of himself. He liked being there, surrounded by his own power, by his absolute authority.

It was an unquestionable truth: he was the most powerful dark wizard of his time. A sovereign of chaos, a master of fate.

A strand of brown hair fell across his face. With a slow gesture, he tucked it behind his ear, without taking his eyes off his writing. His hazel eyes followed each stroke with fierce concentration, absorbed in his work, in his mission. There was no fear in him, only an unshakable calm. No one would dare challenge him. No one. His protections were unbeatable, capable of annihilating a hundred wizards before they could even breathe.

And then there was his magic. Subtle, lethal. An untamable force that wrapped around him like a second skin.

But then, something broke the stillness. A dry, unusual sound: books falling from a nearby shelf. He raised an eyebrow, a gesture laden with contained irritation. With a flick of his hand, the books returned to their place. However, barely had he refocused when the same volumes fell once again.

This time, he stood up. He walked toward them with deliberate steps, picked them up one by one, and just as he was about to return them to the shelf, it happened.

The entire room darkened. The light from the fireplace was swallowed by a dense, icy shadow, and a cold wind swept through the space, scattering papers and furniture. The magic in the air changed, growing heavy, suffocating, charged with vile and fickle power.

He knew instantly. It was him.

The same presence he had felt weeks ago in Azkaban. The same magic that bent everything to its will, that soaked every corner with its crushing weight.

He didn’t draw his wand. It wasn’t necessary. Calmness enveloped him as he slowly turned, his movements measured, almost ceremonial.

And there he was.

Sitting on his desk, like a king claiming his throne.

His black hair cascaded in wild waves, framing his pale, sharply contoured skin, almost ethereal. He wore an emerald green shirt, with the first buttons undone, revealing the curve of his neck and the beginning of his torso. His arms, thin but strong, were wrapped in the fabric with a grace that bordered on unreal. Black pants, perfectly fitted, framed his long legs, casually crossed, completely ignoring the papers crushed beneath his weight.

He was majestic. A being made of pure power, of a beauty that shouldn’t exist.

His eyes shone with an electric intensity, a flash of raw energy that seemed capable of setting the world on fire. There was something wild in his gaze, something that spoke of chaos and destruction, but also of an attraction impossible to resist.

He said nothing. There were no words.

Because there, in that moment, before him, was the being that had awakened something deep and primitive within him.

Obsession.

He was beautiful. And terrifying.

His magic filled the room like a contained hurricane, abrasive and destructive, threatening to consume everything. And yet, the only thing he could do was stare at him.

Because that being was his. It had to be.

Tom didn’t move. He remained in his place, in complete silence, letting his gaze fixate on the figure before him. His own magic, always vigilant and contained, now stirred, entwining with the intruder’s in an invisible dance, a subtle war of powers.

“Hello, Tom.” The voice broke the silence like a soft, dark blade. Those words, spoken with disarming calmness, sent an electric shiver down his spine.

Tom raised an eyebrow, not bothering to conceal his disdain.

“I’d like to respond,” he said coldly, “but the last time I saw you, I didn’t get a name.”

The man let out a soft, low laugh, filled with something that couldn’t be described in words.

“Forgive my bad manners,” he replied with a slight nod of his head. “I’m Harry Peverell. A pleasure to meet you, Minister.”

He didn’t move. He remained sitting on the desk, with the same nonchalant attitude, indifferent to how improper it appeared. And yet, Tom couldn’t tear his gaze away.

The smile he received in response was a brutal blow to his perception. It wasn’t just a smile. It was a demonstration of power disguised as beauty. And Tom, for the first time, felt something he didn’t entirely understand. The idea that something so beautiful could be so dangerous unsettled him. The intensity of the man’s magic seemed to engulf him, suffocating, consuming him.

He took a step forward, slow, deliberate.

“The new lord…” he murmured, his voice calm but loaded with tension. “The one everyone’s talking about. A resurrected shadow. From death.”

Another step forward, shortening the distance between them.

“I am what I am. I’ve already told you, Tom.” Harry’s voice was as soft as it was lethal. A knife wrapped in velvet. “A last name is not a binding.”

As he spoke, he raised a hand. The books that Tom still held lifted with an elegant movement, flew toward the shelf, and settled with unsettling precision. But Tom didn’t look away, not even for a second. His eyes stayed fixed on the man before him, on that blazing green that seemed capable of unraveling his soul.

“Thank you.” The word came out dry, almost like a growl, as he took another step forward.

Harry tilted his head slightly, as if the thanks belonged to him by right.

“A pleasure, Tom.” His words were a sharp whisper, a sweet poison that seeped into the air. “By the way, the necromancy part... I think you already knew. After all, I am death, Tom. I am your panic. Your limit. Your fear.”

The last words were like a spell. Tom’s magic reacted immediately, surging like a caged animal, fueled by proximity, by provocation. His entire body seemed to respond to that presence, as if something in him recognized the man not only as a threat but as something inevitable.

He took another step. Now, they were inches apart.

The green eyes stared at him with an inhuman intensity, overflowing with power, as if they contained an entire world. They were hypnotic, irresistible, a deadly trap disguised as perfection. A magnetic force that drew him inexorably, like an abyss from which there was no escape.

Harry’s presence was suffocating, overwhelming, a storm that consumed everything. And in that moment, Tom knew he was facing something more than a man. He was facing chaos made flesh, his obsession and his damnation.

“I’m not afraid,” he responded firmly, his gaze unshaken.

“That’s not what your Horcruxes say, Tom,” came the cruel reply, his eyes intense and a sharp mockery imbued in every word.

The blood in his veins seemed to boil. He stepped closer, encircling him with his arms braced on either side of the desk, trapping him in an invisible cage. His senses flooded: the intense scent emanating from him, the raw magic that seemed to permeate the air, the emerald gaze that pierced through him, unrelenting. Everything about him was a challenge to his will, a threat that slowly enveloped him.

And his soul reacted. Something deep and primal inside him stirred, writhing in his chest and igniting a fire that spread like a torrent through his veins. The presence of that man destabilized him in a way he couldn’t explain.

The stranger didn’t back down, not even blinking. He looked directly into his eyes, as if reading the darkest secrets he kept inside.

“I’m securing my life,” Tom growled, his deep voice barely contained, leaning in until they were inches apart. “I am power, I will be history, and I will live to write it.”

The other man smiled slowly, dangerously, before whispering, his voice a dark echo that resonated deep within Tom:

“I secure death, Tom. I will make you cross over to the beyond, to another world, to a new life... a path you’ll never be able to avoid walking.”

His words were hypnotic, and Tom found himself lost in them, in those rosy lips that seemed as much a weapon as a temptation.

“I am the most powerful wizard in Britain,” he murmured with restrained force, a silent scream demanding recognition. Even now, with death at his doorstep, he refused to yield.

“And I am death, dear Tom. I am inevitable, inescapable, impossible,” he whispered in an even lower tone, as seductive as it was lethal. Tom’s breath caught the exact moment the other man slightly moved his legs, opening them in a silent invitation.

Everything in his body burned.

Tom, intoxicated by the proximity, gave in to the impulse that consumed him and moved, settling between his adversary's legs. The heir smiled slyly, pleased, as if he had been waiting for this the whole time.

He felt like he was in the wolf’s den, defenseless, trapped at the mercy of a predator who was playing with him. And yet, in that apparent vulnerability, his body vibrated with euphoria, with an unknown emotion that electrified him. Hehad fallen, yes, but he had done so with a twisted pleasure that terrified him as much as it exhilarated him.

The intensity shot up when he felt cold hands, as cold as death, gripping his cheeks. The icy skin burned against his own, warm and feverish, as if the touch were a spark igniting something deep and ancient. Their gazes met, and in that instant, everything exploded.

He didn’t feel attracted; no. He felt dragged. Like an animal hypnotized by a deadly trap, aware of its fate yet still unable to stop.

The man’s eyes, green and glowing, called to him, a luminous abyss full of promises and damnations. A mere brush, and the air between them shattered: pink lips against his, a hot breath colliding with his face.

"Inevitable..." Tom whispered, his voice barely a murmur drowned by the tension between them.

The eyes of death followed every movement of his lips, as if they were recording that moment, as if they were drinking in every word. And in that instant, Tom knew: he was in ecstasy.

"I am, Tom, but everything has its time," the man replied, with a sweetness that was pure poison. "I am your condemnation, I am your death. And you..." His lips stopped a breath away from his. "...You are my life, Tom. The source of my existence."

The kiss came like a storm, overwhelming and scorching. Those lips were soft, yet loaded with raw force, a power that trapped him and consumed him completely. The blood in his veins seemed to explode, his body trembling with an intensity he had never known. It was a sweet delicacy, an exquisite poison he couldn’t stop tasting.

For a moment, he feared his arms would give way, that his body couldn’t bear the weight of everything he was feeling: the magic, the presence, the power. He surrendered to the kiss, to the connection that dragged him into an unknown depth, and he knew he could never escape.

When they pulled apart, their eyes met again. And Tom understood.

There was no way out.

There was no escape, and he didn’t want to find one. This being, this man, had everything: his mind, his soul, his body. He was destroying him and rebuilding him with every breath. It was stunning, suffocating, addictive.

Their lips were once again a breath away from each other.

"We belong to each other, Tom." His voice was soft, but filled with an absolute truth. "You, who fight to hold onto life, and I, who embrace death as an old friend."

This time, it was Tom who kissed him. It was a desperate, hungry kiss, inclined to tear everything down. He pushed him toward the table, leaning him down until he was completely trapped beneath him. Their mouths came together with overwhelming force, their magics dancing, intertwining, enveloping each other like two souls destined to merge into one.

He had tasted the abyss, and now he knew he couldn’t stop. He didn’t want to stop.

The desire for possession burned him. What he wanted, he got, always. And this time would be no different. Though a dark certainty settled in his mind: he was not the hunter.

He had been taken, trapped, dragged to his doom. The mortal beauty before him was destroying him with every touch, with every look. But it was so perfect, so imposing, so... inevitable.

He wanted to belong to him. He wanted to worship, to feel, to keep that power in his hands. He needed it. And he knew, with the intensity of a vow carved into his bones, that it would never be enough.

He would be his for eternity. Just as he, Tom Marvolo Riddle, already belonged to him forever.