Dust motes danced in the stillness, disturbed only by your footsteps—soft echoes against stone, each one a heartbeat in the silence.

And there, at the far end, framed in gilded gold, hung the portrait.

You knew every detail by now: the way the paint seemed to shimmer, the shadows that clung to the edges like living things, the way his eyes followed you before you even crossed the threshold.

You turned to face him fully.

Tom Riddle stood within the frame, one hand resting casually in his pocket, the other gesturing lazily toward you. He was seventeen—pale, sharp-featured, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. His dark eyes glittered with amusement and something sharper, hungrier, beneath.