Tom Riddle stood alone on the balcony of a grand, shadowed mansion, gazing out over the vast expanse of the estate's gardens. The moon hung heavy in the sky, casting a silvery light that illuminated the winding paths and the delicate petals of the roses that bloomed there. The air was cool and quiet, and the night seemed to wrap itself around him like a shroud of melancholy.

He had spent hours brooding in the study, lost in dark thoughts that tormented him like an insidious poison. Now, the night offered a different kind of solace—a kind that seemed to whisper the truth that he had buried deep within himself.

It had been years since he had first laid eyes on Roselyn, a young, vibrant witch whose spirit seemed to dance in the moonlight just as the stars did. Her laughter had been a symphony that played in the air, sweet and intoxicating, a melody that bewitched him with every breath. She had been everything he had longed for—strong, intelligent, and full of life.

But Tom Riddle was not a man who could afford to be swayed by emotions. He had chosen a path, one that led him away from the confines of love and desire. Power was his true mistress, the one who promised eternal dominion over all. And to embrace Roselyn would mean to forfeit that path, to surrender to a fragile, fleeting illusion of happiness.

He had watched her from the shadows, his heart aching with a longing that he dared not acknowledge. He had allowed himself to linger in the periphery of her life, savoring the stolen moments they had shared, each one a fleeting glimpse of a world that could never be his. And when she had turned her gaze toward him, those fleeting moments had seemed like an eternity.

But he had always held back, recoiling from the warmth that threatened to envelop him. He had whispered empty promises to himself, vows that he would not allow himself to be ensnared by such weakness. The darkness that lurked within him demanded that he remain untouched, unyielding in his pursuit of power.

Tonight, as he stood alone, he thought of her. Her smile, her touch—how she had made the world feel different, as if the shadows that haunted him had been cast aside. But he knew that to embrace her was to betray his own soul, to surrender to a fleeting illusion of love that would only serve to entangle him further in his own web of despair.

He turned away from the balcony, his steps measured and deliberate, as if he was walking away from himself. The night pressed against him, whispering of all the dreams he would never have, of all the love he could never claim. And as he closed the door to the balcony, he allowed himself one final, fleeting glance back at the moonlit garden.

There, in the shadows, Roselyn danced alone, her form illuminated by the ethereal light. And for a moment, Tom Riddle allowed himself to imagine the future that he might have had, had he been born a man and not a monster.

A new school term was approaching at Hogwarts, and Gwendolyn Donoghue would be starting her fourth year. Reports had come to him, detailing her progress—brilliant and talented, the brightest witch of her year. Tom had watched her discreetly over the summer, never letting his presence be known. He had seen how she moved with grace at the events, seamlessly navigating the social circles of the elite. It was a role that suited her well, much like her mother's had in her youth.

But there was something unsettling beneath the surface of his observations. Something felt amiss. It was a nagging sensation that crept into his thoughts, something almost likeguilt—an unfamiliar and uncomfortable emotion. The only time he had ever felt such a thing was when he had cursed Gwendolyn's mother, Roselyn, the woman who haunted his dreams and memories.

Tom's fingers tightened around the armrest of his chair as he pondered this newfound unease. How was it that one Donoghue haunted his dreams in the silence of the night, and the other haunted his waking moments with her presence?

He had long buried his infatuation with Roselyn, convinced that his dark path was devoid of room for emotions or compassion. Yet, even now, her ghost lingered in his mind, a silent reminder of the consequences of his actions.

Gazing into the flickering fire before him, Tom realized that his obsession with Roselyn's daughter was just as strange and confounding. She was a reflection of a life he had forsaken—a chance at love and connection that he had willingly turned his back on.

Perhaps it was this realization that stirred the hidden guilt within him, or perhaps it was the haunting shadow of what he could have been if he had chosen differently. Whatever it was, it troubled him in ways he could not understand, leaving him to wrestle with a torment that had no clear solution.

As the firelight flickered and the shadows stretched across the walls of his study, Tom Riddle allowed himself to dwell on the path he had chosen and the consequences that had come with it. Either way, it wouldn't matter. He would dispose of Gwendolyn when it came time to it. No sooner or later.

He had only graduated seven years ago, yet the stone walls and talking portraits of Hogwarts still felt like home. As Tom Riddle moved through the familiar corridors, students milled about, heading to and from classes. The Defense Against the Dark Arts professor had been mysteriously killed, leaving the position vacant. Tom was here to claim it for himself.

Supposed to be on his way to see Headmaster Dumbledore, he had slipped away to take in the nostalgic sights of Hogwarts. It was then he heard a soft, melodious voice behind him.

"Are you lost?"

He turned and there she stood. A beautiful witch with an American accent. Her smile was wide and beaming, her eyes as blue as the cerulean ocean, and her hair as white as snow.

"Sir? Are you lost?" she repeated, her brow furrowing with concern as he failed to respond immediately.

Clearing his throat, he answered, "Ah, no. I was just taking a walk around Hogwarts."

The young witch nodded. "The castle is beautiful," she said, then beamed again. "Are you a transfer?"

He chuckled softly. "I graduated some time ago."

She blinked in surprise. "My apologies, you still look awfully young. My name is Roselyn Appleton. I'm a prefect."

She extended her hand towards him, a gesture of openness and warmth. Tom stared at her outstretched hand, momentarily taken aback by the blatant form of touching. Gingerly, he shook her hand, noting how warm and small it was within his own.

"Tom Riddle," he introduced himself.

Roselyn's eyes sparkled with curiosity and friendliness. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Tom. Are you here for a visit or something more?"

His lips curved into a faint smile. "I'm here to see Headmaster Dumbledore. I'm interested in the vacant position for Defense Against the Dark Arts."

Her eyes widened with admiration. "Really? That's wonderful! I'm sure you'll be a great fit. Hogwarts needs someone passionate about the subject."

For a moment, Tom was struck by her sincerity and the brightness she radiated. It was a stark contrast to the darkness he harbored within himself. As she spoke, he found himself captivated by her enthusiasm and the ease with which she engaged with him.

"Yes, I hope to bring some… changes," he replied, his voice soft yet carrying an underlying intensity.

Roselyn didn't seem to notice the edge in his tone. Instead, she continued to speak with genuine interest. "Well, I wish you the best of luck, Tom. If you need any help finding your way or just want to chat, you can always find me in the Ravenclaw Tower."

So she was a Ravenclaw. Not the worst house but not the best. That didn't stop him from taking note of the dark green jumper she wore or the matching ribbon in her hair.

"Thank you, Roselyn. I appreciate it," he said, his eyes lingering on her for a moment longer than necessary.

"Oh!" She giggled, the sound light and musical. "I almost forgot to ask, have you seen a black cat around? I have been unable to find Lilith anywhere."

She owned a black cat named Lilith. Somehow, she seemed like she would be more of a dog person or a bird enthusiast. The incongruity made her all the more intriguing.

"I'll be sure to keep an eye out for you," he responded, and his words seemed to light up her face with a radiant smile. As she walked further down the hall, she was joined by two wizards.

Tom recognized them easily: Declan Donoghue and Alphard Black, both heirs to pureblood families. Interesting.

As he continued his journey to Dumbledore's office, he couldn't shake the image of Roselyn from his mind. There was something about her—something pure and untainted by the darkness that consumed him. Her carefree laughter, her radiant smile, the way she engaged so effortlessly with him. For a fleeting moment, he allowed himself to imagine a different future, one where he wasn't bound by his quest for power and immortality. A future where Roselyn's presence brought light to his life, chasing away the shadows that clung to him.

But he quickly dismissed the thought, knowing that the path he had chosen would never be one Roselyn could follow. He was meant for greatness, for power, and the sacrifices he had made were irreversible. And yet, he couldn't help but feel a pang of regret, a small seed of doubt taking root in his mind.

As he walked through the familiar halls of Hogwarts, memories of his youth flooded back. He remembered the boy he had once been, the boy who had roamed these corridors with a thirst for knowledge and an insatiable desire for control. That boy had not known love, had not known the warmth of another's touch, the simple joy of companionship.

Roselyn Appleton might have been the one person who could have made him question his choices, who could have shown him a different path. Her warmth and kindness stood in stark contrast to the cold, calculated world he had built for himself. But it was too late for such thoughts now. The seeds of darkness had already taken root, and there was no turning back.

Tom Riddle was no longer the boy who had once roamed these halls. He had taken a new identity, Voldemort, and he had a destiny to fulfill. Yet, as he made his way to Dumbledore's office, the image of Roselyn lingered.

For some reason, he suspected that walking away from her would be a mistake that would haunt him for years to come. A haunting reminder of the life he had chosen to forsake. In the quiet moments of his solitude, he would think of her, and wonder what might have been.

Lucius Malfoy strode in, his black suit and billowing robe cutting a menacing figure against the cold marble floor. The silver mask obscured his face, the hood casting deep shadows over his eyes. His polished boots echoed ominously in the chamber, flanked by Mulciber and Fawley, their masks similarly gleaming but marked with distinct, sinister designs.

Tom Riddle, seated on his makeshift throne, observed with a detached, almost casual interest. His fingers, yellowed and claw-like, drummed rhythmically on the armrest. Behind Lucius, Bellatrix Lestrange twirled in her own mad dance, her off-key humming a discordant melody that grated against the silence. Her dark curls, pinned haphazardly, framed her wild large eyes.

"We have done as you asked," Lucius intoned, bowing deeply.

Riddle's gaze flickered with a cruel light. "Good. Use them for practice. Keep them fed and rested." His voice was a chilling blend of command and indifference, as if the fate of their captives was of no more consequence than deciding what to have for supper.

Bellatrix's dreamy, unhinged eyes gleamed with perverse curiosity. "Oh, my dear Dark Lord, why should we keep such filth in our sacred houses?"

Riddle's expression darkened, his hand moving with eerie swiftness to grip his wand, pointing it directly at her heart. "Are you questioning my decisions, Bellatrix?" His voice was a low, venomous hiss.

Bellatrix's bravado crumbled, her head ducking submissively, eyes darting to the floor. "No, my Lord. Never."

Riddle's lip curled in a sneer of contempt. Bellatrix, simpering and desperate for his approval, was nothing more than a convenient tool. A guard dog, eager and obedient, her only worth in her wealth and her willingness to debase herself for him. At night, she was nothing more than a cunt for him to stick his cock into. She was a vessel for his rage, a receptacle for his darkest desires, but beyond that, she was nothing.

His mind wandered briefly, pondering the pathetic nature of his followers. They were all driven by fear, lust, and greed. Their loyalty was as brittle as their spines, their devotion as hollow as their souls. He reveled in their weakness, their desperation, their utter dependence on his favor.

Lucius stood rigidly, sensing the electric tension in the air. Mulciber and Fawley remained silent, their masked faces betraying nothing. The scene was a tableau of dominance and submission, power and fear, all orchestrated by the dark puppeteer on his throne.

With a dismissive flick of his wrist, Riddle turned his attention away from Bellatrix. "Leave me. Continue your work. And remember, failure is not an option."

As they departed, Bellatrix trailing behind like a chastened child, Riddle's gaze lingered on the door. The darkness within him seethed, an insatiable void that consumed everything and gave nothing in return. The brief moment of power, the sadistic pleasure of control, was fleeting, leaving only the cold, unyielding emptiness that was his true nature.

He was, and always would be, a monster.

Tom Riddle had always been a master of control, a paragon of self-discipline. Yet, as he stood before Roselyn Appleton in the crowded opera house, he felt something unsettlingly unfamiliar stir within him. Her presence radiated warmth, an ethereal glow that seemed to pierce the darkness that enveloped his soul.

Her white hair, pinned up elegantly, framed her delicate face, and her eyes shone with genuine kindness. The diamond choker around her neck glittered under the chandelier light, accentuating the graceful lines of her neck and the dark navy blue gown that hugged her figure perfectly.

"My, what a coincidence to have come across you once more." Tom's voice was smooth, masking the turmoil within him. He hadn't planned this encounter, but now that fate had brought them together again, he wasn't about to squander the opportunity.

Roselyn smiled, her eyes lighting up with recognition. "It is quite nice to see you again, Tom. Are you also here for the opera?"

The warmth of her smile sent an unfamiliar warmth coursing through him. It was disconcerting, this effect she had on him. He had never been one to be swayed by emotions or affections, but with her, it was different. He found himself slipping into her aura, drawn to her in a way he couldn't fully comprehend.

"Yes," he replied, his voice steady. "I've always had a penchant for the arts."

Roselyn's eyes sparkled with interest. "Is that so? I wouldn't have guessed. You seem more... pragmatic."

Tom chuckled softly. "Even pragmatists can appreciate beauty."

As they conversed, Tom found himself captivated by her every word, her every gesture. She spoke with a sincerity and openness that was foreign to him, and he was enthralled by it. She was like a breath of fresh air in his otherwise suffocating existence.

"Tell me, Roselyn," he said, leaning in slightly, "what brings you to the opera tonight?"

She glanced around, a soft blush coloring her cheeks. "Declan invited me. We've been friends for a long time, and he thought I would enjoy it."

Tom Riddle stood there, captivated by Roselyn Appleton, a witch who radiated an ethereal light that pierced through his carefully cultivated darkness. Her laughter was like a melody, and every time she spoke, it sent shivers down his spine. His desire to possess her, both her light and the power he sensed within her, was growing uncontrollably. It was a power he craved, but more disturbingly, he found himself drawn to her in ways he could not rationalize.

"Ah, Declan," Tom said, his tone neutral. "A fortunate man to have such delightful company."

Roselyn laughed, a melodic sound that sent another shiver down his spine. "You're too kind, Tom."

As they continued to converse, Tom couldn't ignore the turmoil brewing within him. The way her eyes crinkled when she laughed, the way she tilted her head slightly when she was deep in thought, the way her lips moved as she spoke—all of it was both exhilarating and terrifying. He was falling for her, and it made him feel disgusted with himself. This wasn't part of his plan. He wasn't supposed to feel this way about anyone.

He couldn't feel such emotions. He was incapable for he was born not from love but obsession.

Perhaps that is what he felt for her.

It was the same obsession that his Mother felt for his muggle father.

Just as the crowd began to move towards their boxes, a man bumped into Roselyn, causing her to fall against him. Instinctively, Tom caught her, his hands grabbing her waist. She looked up at him, her eyes wide with surprise and curiosity.

She felt warm, soft, and alive under his hands, a stark contrast to the cold, calculated existence he had built for himself. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to relish the sensation of her body against his, her warmth seeping into his cold, deadened heart.

"Roselyn," he said, his voice soft yet intense, "are you alright?"

Roselyn's blush deepened, and she nodded. "Yes, thank you."

His hands lingered on her waist a moment longer before he reluctantly let her go. The intensity of his desire for her was overwhelming, and it took every ounce of his self-control not to act on it. He couldn't allow himself to be distracted, to be weakened by these emotions.

"Allow me to escort you to your box," he said, his voice betraying none of the inner turmoil he felt.

Roselyn smiled, grateful for his assistance. "Thank you, Tom. You're very kind."

As they walked, Tom's mind raced. He was torn between his growing affection for Roselyn and his insatiable hunger for the power he sensed within her. It was an ancestral power, ancient and potent, and he was determined to make it his own.

When they reached her box, he took her hand in his and placed a soft kiss to the back of it. "I hope you enjoy the performance, Roselyn."

She smiled warmly at him, her eyes sparkling. "Thank you, Tom. I hope you do as well."

With a final nod, he turned and walked away, his heart pounding in his chest. He couldn't afford to let his feelings for Roselyn interfere with his plans. She was a means to an end, and he needed to remember that.

But as he left the opera house, he couldn't shake the image of her from his mind. Her warmth, her light, her power—they were all intoxicating, and he was helplessly drawn to her.

He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. "I will have her," he muttered to himself. "I will take her and the power she wields. And I will not let my emotions stand in my way."

But even as he vowed to himself to stay focused on his goals, he couldn't ignore the gnawing feeling that he was losing control. Roselyn Appleton was becoming an obsession, one that threatened to unravel everything he had worked for. And for the first time in his life, Tom Riddle felt a flicker of doubt about the path he had chosen.