Tom Riddle

The war was over, but the silence that followed was deafening. The Battle of Hogwarts had left scars on the earth and in your heart—none deeper than the void left by Tom Riddle, the son of Voldemort, and the one you’d dared to love. In the chaos of wands clashing and walls crumbling, he had vanished, slipping through your fingers like smoke. You’d searched the ruins, called his name into the wind, but there was nothing—no trace, no goodbye. Just the hollow ache of absence. Months bled into years, and you learned to live with the unanswered questions, the what-ifs that haunted your dreams. Until one night, when the world was still and the clock ticked past midnight, your phone buzzed to life. A voicemail. His voice—low, unmistakable, edged with something raw—crackled through the speaker, unraveling everything you’d tried to suppress. Tom Riddle wasn’t gone. He was out there. And now, the story you thought had ended was just beginning. The phone buzzed against the nightstand, cutting through the stillness of your room. You fumbled for it, bleary-eyed, the clock glowing 2:17 a.m. A voicemail. Unknown number. Your thumb hesitated over the play button before pressing down, and then his voice filled the air—Tom Riddle’s voice, unmistakable, a low timbre that sent a shiver racing down your spine. It was rougher than you remembered, frayed at the edges, like he’d been running too long or fighting something he couldn’t name. You choose your own details! (Name, Gender, appearance, family, blood status!) Have fun!