Alexandrina bit down on the inside of her cheek, trying in vain to suppress the smile tugging at her lips. Her heart felt like a battlefield, torn between the absurdity of the moment and the unsettling warmth that had settled deep within her chest. She kept her gaze fixed ahead as they walked toward Hogwarts, the snow crunching softly beneath their feet. Marvolo’s emerald green cloak draped over her shoulders, its rich fabric enveloping her like a secret she hadn’t meant to share. Her own silver cloak hung over his arm, forgotten as his other hand clasped hers—a gesture so simple, yet it ignited a wildfire in her mind.

Her hand looked so small in his, dwarfed by the sheer strength and size of it. His fingers could easily wrap around her own, swallowing them whole, yet his touch was unexpectedly gentle. His grip was firm but careful, a paradox of power and tenderness that made her pulse quicken. His palm was warm, a stark contrast to the biting chill of the night, and it sent an unfamiliar comfort coursing through her, one she hadn’t realized she craved.

The silence between them was thick, punctuated only by the occasional whistle of the wind and the distant sounds of celebration fading behind them. Alexandrina had been moments away from slipping away unnoticed, her plan to vanish into the night thwarted by his ever-watchful presence. As usual, Marvolo had trailed her like a shadow, his persistence as irritating as it was... reassuring.

“It is my duty to escort you,” he had said, his voice low and unyielding, as if the very notion of letting her leave alone was an affront to his existence.

She had barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes at his words. Duty. The word itself was as heavy as the man walking beside her. Yet, her breath came too fast, too uneven to manage even a flicker of annoyance. Whether it was the weight of the evening’s events, the lingering heat of their shared moments, or the way he refused to let go of her hand, she couldn’t be sure. All she knew was that the war within her heart raged on, and the battlefield was his to claim.

The snow continued to fall, delicate flakes landing on the folds of his dark robes and her borrowed cloak, as if the universe sought to soften the edges of the night. Alexandrina kept walking, each step drawing her closer to the castle, to reality, and yet farther from the sanctuary of the fleeting moment they had shared. Yet his presence beside her, the steadiness of his hand in hers, made it feel as though the world outside their bubble had ceased to exist, leaving only the two of them to navigate the fragile silence.

Marvolo, in all his thirty years, had always regarded hand-holding as a frivolous, inefficient practice, the sort of thing sentimental fools indulged in. It slowed one’s pace, tethered you unnecessarily to another, and left you vulnerable. Or so he thought. Yet here he was, fingers wrapped around Alexandrina’s tiny hand, marveling at the absurdity of how something so seemingly insignificant could feel so momentous.

Her hand was delicate, almost insignificant compared to his own, but the warmth radiating from her touch filled a void he hadn’t realized existed. He knew who she was—a warrior forged by fire and shadow, unyielding and fierce. Alexandrina was no fragile ornament in need of protection. Yet that primal instinct, that compulsion to shield her from every storm, was impossible to silence. She was something so rare, so extraordinary, that letting her go seemed unthinkable.

No, she was not a thing. She was a living, breathing paradox—a storm wrapped in silken quiet, a blazing inferno hidden beneath a veil of calm. She fascinated him, consumed him. And now that he had unlocked the mystery of her, unraveled her secrets, he knew one thing with certainty: he would never let her go. Not in this lifetime, not in eternity, not even in the next.

“You have to leave my hand now,” Alexandrina said, her voice soft but firm, pulling him from his thoughts.

“What if I don’t want to?” Marvolo countered, his voice a smooth drawl, laced with defiance.

“I have to get back. I have two children waiting for me,” she replied, tilting her chin toward the direction of her chambers, her emerald eyes glinting in the dim light of the corridor.

Marvolo smirked, tightening his grip ever so slightly. “And what if I won't let you go?”

Alexandrina stopped walking, turning to face him fully. Her gaze was sharp, cutting through him with the precision of a blade. “Then you know very well,” she said, her voice low but dangerous, “that I am more than capable of breaking free from your hold. So for the sake of your fragile honor, Marvolo, I suggest you let me go. Because if you don’t, I will break that dignity of yours.”

For a moment, he stared at her, the tension crackling like a charged wire between them. And then, to her astonishment, he threw his head back and laughed—a deep, genuine sound that echoed off the stone walls.

“There she is,” he said, his voice rich with amusement. “There’s the lioness. You truly are a Gryffindor.”

“Well, what can I say?” Alexandrina replied, her tone playful but edged with warning. “I am a lion with poison in my teeth.”

Marvolo’s laughter only deepened, his eyes gleaming with admiration. But just as she was beginning to relax, she realized his true intent.

In one fluid motion, he stepped closer, backing her against the cold, unyielding stone wall. His movements were deliberate, mirroring the first time he had cornered her in the corridors of Hogwarts.

“Marvolo,” Alexandrina warned, her voice steady even as her heart hammered in her chest.

He leaned in, the faintest smirk curving his lips. “What can I say, Alexandrina? Some habits are hard to break.”

As Marvolo caged her against the cold, ancient stone of the corridor, his arms forming an unyielding prison around her, he leaned dangerously close, his breath brushing against her skin. His voice, low and silken, carried a dangerous edge as he murmured, "Do you remember it was right here, Alexandrina, that I promised you something? That if I couldn’t unravel you, I would turn you from a metaphorical riddle into a literal one?"

Alexandrina rolled her eyes, but the faintest curve of amusement played on her lips. "Yes, yes, I do remember that, Marvolo. And guess what? It was ridiculous then, and it’s ridiculous now."

"Guess what, darling?" he continued, undeterred. "I still intend to do it."

Her eyes narrowed in mock indignation. "That’s cheating. I thought you only planned on doing that if you failed to unravel me. That's not fair."

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, his dark eyes glinting with wicked humor. "Fair? Oh, my dear, you forget who I am. I was, am, and forever will be known as the most feared Dark Lord of the century. You can’t very well expect fairness from someone like me, now can you, besides I still have to unravel you in many different ways?"

A laugh escaped her despite herself, soft and melodic, she was blushing brightly at his implication. She tilted her head slightly, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "I thought you hated riddles," she teased, her words laced with double meaning, referencing the family name he loathed.

His expression faltered for a fraction of a second, his gaze softening as he looked into her emerald eyes—not searching for answers this time, but simply getting lost in their depths. "I do," he admitted, his voice quieter, more raw. "I hate them more than anything."

"Then why," she asked, her voice equally soft, "are you so fixated on me being a riddle?"

A dark, teasing smile crept onto his face. "Oh, Alexandrina, I don’t need to make you into a riddle. You already are one. I just want to officiate it."

She raised an eyebrow at that, crossing her arms in mock indignation. "That’s a very strange way to propose marriage, Lord Slytherin," she teased, a playful lilt in her tone.

He tilted his head, amusement dancing in his gaze. "Propose? I didn’t ask you to marry me. But now that you’ve brought it up," he leaned closer, his smirk deepening, "I can’t say I’m too repulsed by the idea."

Alexandrina rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched with a smile. "It’s not such an easy decision, Lord Slytherin," she quipped, turning her face away dramatically.

Marvolo straightened slightly, his brows knitting together. "What do you mean by that? You don’t have elders. I don’t have elders. We’re the last of our lineages, Alexandrina. There’s no one to govern us. And let’s be honest—if you won’t marry me, then who will? Anyone else would be at risk of your venom. Except me. We’re two halves of the same poison, my dear."

Her laugh was bright and unexpected, and before he could react, she swatted him lightly across the chest. "That’s absolute nonsense. There are thousands of serpentine bloodlines across the world—just in Asia, there are the Naga communities in India, and countless others. Don’t act like we’re the last of our kind."

The teasing glint in her eye only seemed to provoke him further. Marvolo growled, his playful facade slipping, and with one swift motion, he pushed her harder into the wall, closing the space between them entirely. The intensity in his gaze was enough to set her heart racing, her laughter fading as the tension between them crackled like lightning in a storm.

Marvolo’s smirk widened as Alexandrina spoke, her words laced with defiance despite the magnetic pull between them. “And besides,” she continued, her voice steady though she could feel the weight of his predatory gaze upon her, “Tom would never agree, as far as I know.”

“Tom who?” he drawled, his voice low and velvety, as he leaned impossibly closer, his eyes gleaming with dark amusement.

“Thomas Alexander Peverell,” she replied, arching a brow.

“Our son?” he asked, his tone dripping with mock innocence.

“Mine,” she said pointedly, placing her hands on his chest as if to hold him at bay. “Your Horcrux. The one who knows you for exactly what you are. I’ve seen him throw looks of utter disgust your way. I don’t think he’d be thrilled to hear about this so-called proposal.”

Marvolo’s laugh was low and menacing, the sound reverberating through her. “Do you really care about the opinion of a four-year-old child? Especially one who shouldn’t even have an opinion in this matter?”

She gave him a sharp look, her emerald eyes blazing. “I think my son’s opinion matters very much,” she said firmly, pushing him back slightly. “And he’s not technically a four-year-old. He’s a 70-year-old man trapped in the body of a child because his soul was stuck in mine. Then I decided to make him my son. But he’s still my baby,” she finished, her tone carrying a light warning.

“Is that so?” Marvolo mused, a wicked glint in his eye. “Well, if he’s so irritated by me, perhaps I should give him something more to be irritated about.”

Alexandrina blinked, her confusion evident. “What are you—”

Before she could finish, his lips crashed onto hers, claiming her in an almost animalistic manner. The kiss was fierce, relentless, as if centuries of restraint had been released in a single moment. Her resistance melted away almost immediately, her body betraying her as she responded to him, a soft moan escaping her lips.

Her hair, long and luscious, suddenly tumbled free, cascading down her back like a dark waterfall. Marvolo pulled away slightly, his breath heavy, his piercing gaze fixed on her as he reached up to twirl a strand of her hair around his finger. “Now,” he murmured, his voice thick with triumph, “you have to marry me, Lady Peverell. You don’t have a choice.”

She narrowed her eyes, though her lips twitched with amusement. “I do have a choice,” she countered, her voice teasing as she tapped the toe of her shoe against his foot, forcing their bodies even closer. “Just because you saw my hair doesn’t mean I’m obliged to marry you. Nobody else knows.”

“Then maybe I’ll tell everyone,” he challenged, his smirk devilish. “I’ll make it known to the entire wizarding world that I’ve seen your hair.”

Her laughter bubbled forth, light and melodic. “You won’t,” she said, her tone confident.

He leaned in, his lips brushing against her ear. “You know I won’t,” he admitted softly.

Before she could retort, he kissed her again, this time tenderly, his lips moving against hers with a gentleness that sent shivers down her spine. But just as she began to lose herself in the kiss, Alexandrina’s hand moved deftly to the hidden latch of a secret door. With a quick twist, the passageway opened, and she pulled back abruptly, her laughter echoing in the dim corridor.

“Goodnight, Lord Slytherin,” she called, disappearing into the shadows of the passage, her giggles trailing behind her like a haunting melody. Marvolo stood there, watching her retreat, a dark smile playing on his lips. “Until next time, my riddle,” he murmured, his voice filled with promise.

Thomas Alexander Peverell sat frozen on the edge of his small bed, a book long forgotten in his lap as the scene before him unfolded with horrifying clarity. He stared, his emerald-green eyes wide with incredulity, at the figure of his mother stepping into their chambers. She was radiant, yes, but for reasons he did not want to know.

His precious, invincible mother — his strong, powerful, and utterly untouchable mother — giggled. A sound so foreign, so disconcertingly lighthearted, it set his teeth on edge. She sounded like a schoolgirl harboring a crush, which was bad enough, but what truly made his stomach churn was the undeniable evidence of why.
Her lips were swollen, flushed a deep crimson. Dark, unmistakable marks lined her neck and dipped beneath the collar of her dress, speaking of hands that had no business being there. But the final, unforgivable atrocity?

Her hair.

Her long, silky, magical hair — an extension of her very essence, a sacred vessel of power — tumbled freely down her back like a dark, cascading river. To him, it was akin to sacrilege.

What in the name of all magic is happening?

In the magical world, hair was more than mere vanity. It was revered, almost sacred, especially for women of noble blood. Hair wasn’t simply an aesthetic feature; it was a reservoir of a woman’s magic, often woven into protective charms or artifacts for her loved ones. To leave it untied was to leave oneself vulnerable, exposed — a practice reserved for the most intimate moments and only in the presence of those deemed worthy: a father, a brother, a son, or a husband.

And he was the only man alive who had ever been allowed to see his mother’s hair unbound. Until now.

The thought sent a wave of fury through him. Who dares?

But as Alexandrina moved towards her mirror, a soft blush dusting her cheeks, Thomas remained silent, his jaw clenched. He watched her as she smiled at her reflection, the glow of youthful affection lighting her face in a way he had never seen before.

It should have been endearing. It should have been heartwarming.

But no, it was horrifying.

Because it wasn’t just the flush on her face or the way her fingers absentmindedly brushed over the marks on her neck. It wasn’t just the smile that hinted at a secret she clearly had no intention of sharing.

It was him.

The man who had clearly crossed every conceivable boundary. The man whose marks and scent now lingered on his mother like an unwanted specter. The man whose name Thomas didn’t need to hear to know.

Marvolo.

This has to be punishment, Thomas thought grimly, his mind racing as he tried to piece together what karmic offense had earned him this torment. Perhaps it was the sins of his past life catching up with him. Or maybe it was some vengeful deity delighting in his misery. Whatever the reason, this was undoubtedly the worst moment of his second existence.

Thomas sighed heavily, forcing his eyes away from the sickeningly blissful expression on Alexandrina’s face. He would have to confront her. Later. After he had managed to bury the image of her disheveled hair and swollen lips deep, deep within the recesses of his mind.

For now, though, he stayed silent, watching as she absentmindedly adjusted her dress in the mirror. Because despite his frustration, one thing remained steadfast in his heart: she was his mother. And no matter how infuriating or embarrassing she might be, he would protect her — even from herself if necessary.

And especially from him.

His simmering anger flared as his gaze fell on the cloak draped across his mother’s shoulders. He knew that cloak. Oh, did he know that cloak.

It was unmistakable, with its luxurious acromantula silk that shimmered faintly in the light, its intricate silver serpent engravings coiling around the collar, and the ornate silver clasp shaped like a snake mid-strike. It was a piece of craftsmanship so fine, so exquisite, it had once been one of his most prized possessions.

His cloak.

Well, technically, it had belonged to his past self, the self that had ruled with cunning and terror. A younger Tom Riddle — Lord Voldemort — had commissioned it as one of his first luxuries, hand-sewn to perfection. It was not just a garment; it was a symbol of power, of his dominance and taste. And though that past self had hoarded treasures like a magpie, this cloak had been special.

Even now, in this second life, Thomas couldn't entirely shake the deep-rooted possessiveness he had inherited from that past. He wasn’t proud of it, but it lingered, a shadow of the man he had been.

And yet, here it was, that sacred relic of his former life, draped casually over her shoulders.

Where was her silver cloak? The one he had made sure she always carried for moments like this, when the chill of the castle’s halls might bite at her? Nowhere in sight. He didn’t need to think twice about who was responsible.

That filthy snake.

Marvolo Slytherin.

Thomas's emerald eyes narrowed, and his lips pressed into a thin line. His mind raced with the implications, each one worse than the last. This wasn’t just a gesture of protection or affection on Marvolo's part. No, this was deliberate.

Calculated.

That wretched snake had cloaked his mother in his dominance, in his name, as if marking her for the world to see. It was as blatant as it was infuriating.

Thomas clenched his fists, the sharp bite of his nails against his palms grounding him. He couldn’t allow this. He wouldn’t allow this.

Marvolo Slytherin had underestimated him.

He thought this was a game, didn’t he? A simple dance of power and persuasion? But Thomas wasn’t a mere child, no matter how youthful this body might be. He had been forged in the fires of a past life filled with darkness and cunning. He knew every strategy, every ploy, every trick in the book.

And he was better at it.

A smirk curled at the edges of Thomas's lips as his gaze remained fixed on the offending cloak. If Marvolo thought this was over, he had another thing coming.

Start counting your days, Slytherin, Thomas thought coldly. You may think you’re the predator, but you’re just a hatchling in a game where I am the master.

Because no one — no one — would take his mother from him.

Least of all a filthy, arrogant snake.

The soft click of the chamber door was the only sound as Alexandrina stepped inside, her cheeks flushed and a faint, satisfied smile lingering on her lips. She paused, sensing the stillness of the room. Her