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Chapter Text

Despite the scorching June sun streaming through the stained-glass windows of the girls’ lavatory, reaching in with desperate golden fingers as if trying to offer one last shred of hope, Tom felt ice spreading through his veins. While the summer twilight cast the castle of Hogwarts in a warm, golden hue, there still remained a room where, amid water, blood, and shattered mirrors, the world ended. Several worlds ended.

The girl’s final, tragic scream still echoed violently through his head, carving itself into every inch of his being. With her name on his lips and her piercing and unnatural cry ringing in his ears, an echo that wrapped around his spine and threaded itself into the corners of his soul, time seemed to halt. And in that frozen moment, stretched impossibly thin, Tom knew there was no way back. He lay curled on the wet tiles, his body shaking, writhing in spasms as something in his chest splintered and collapsed. It felt as though pieces of his consciousness were being carved away, his soul torn to shreds. Her body, by contrast, didn’t move. Elegant in its silence. He could only see her faintly in the corner of his eye, only a ghost at the edge of his vision. She lay with a kind of unnatural grace, untouched by the shivering dread that gripped him. The same cold passed through both of them. But hers had already settled. She no longer felt it.

She was dead.
And the last truly human feeling Tom dared to feel was a devastating tenderness toward the lifeless girl lying beside him.

Chapter Text

When Tom Marvolo Riddle learned from Albus Dumbledore, in the drab confines of Wool’s Orphanage, that he was a wizard, he felt no joy. None of the breathless wonder that children often felt when the magical world was revealed to them.
He wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t even surprised. The only thing that stirred in his grey London days was a quiet satisfaction. Satisfaction that at last, he would be able to prove to someone, anyone, that there was more to him than met the eye. It all just felt right. He had always known he was meant for something greater. The fact that the fools at the orphanage had never seen it only confirmed their stupidity. For a brief moment perhaps, he had also felt something like admiration or even gratitude towards the grey-haired man who had come to save him from that awful place. But that dissolved quickly. The moment he learned that his classmates would all be a year younger, because Dumbledore had found him too late for Tom to join the kids his age… the moment he sensed how obsessively the old wizard clung to childish notions of good and evil… the admiration vanished. If there was anything he could still thank Dumbledore for, it was revealing the truth about Tom’s mother.
For the first time, he no longer had to feel ashamed of at least one of his parents. Only that bitter old Mrs. Cole, had made him believe his poor mother had run away from the circus pregnant like some gutter-skulking whore. It had taken him time to forgive her for loving his mudblood father. For burdening him with that filthy name Riddle. But when he arrived at Hogwarts, and learned that Merope Riddle, née Gaunt, belonged to one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight and of the twisted background she had come from, he decided he can forgive her. And he made a promise to himself, that he would punish his arrogant father for leaving his mother on her own.
Even then, in his first-year, bent in the library over the pages of a heavy book full of history of wizard families, he promised himself that one day, he would find the man who dared to leave her like that and he would remind him of her and himself. He would make sure that his father paid for her death with his own. That would be the only reason he’d ever meet his father. To look him in the eye and kill him. Only then could he reject his name, and free himself from its taint forever.
Even then, he had felt that same cold satisfaction. From the discovery and the clarity of his plan. Death didn’t frighten him. He’d had no trouble killing Toby’s hamster back at the orphanage, when the boy had stolen his pocket money. He didn’t consider his mudblood father any more important than Toby’s hamster.
—

The moment he was sorted into Slytherin, Tom knew he had to act immediately. His half-blood status placed him at a disadvantage, one he could not afford. So he made a decision to always be one step ahead. Long before his peers had even unpacked their trunks, Tom had already memorised the families listed among the Sacred Twenty-Eight. He studied the lineages of his more promising classmates and committed their bloodlines to memory like scripture. He adopted pure-blood supremacist ideals almost too quickly and easily slipped into the company of the Lestrange boy, Malfoy, Black, and Nott.
Tom never considered them friends. He didn’t even see them as equals. Not even when, unlike him, they returned home to their ancestral manors for the holidays, wrapped in the legacy of their ancient names and both pure-blood parents. To him, they were tools. Allies. Followers. They were simple. Better than the rest, perhaps. And very useful key to his success. And so, Tom made himself indispensable. Helping with schoolwork, spending time with them, feigning friendship when necessary. They shared a dormitory from the very beginning and it didn’t take long before the others began to look up to him. He let them. He encouraged it. He always emphasised his mother’s heritage and the fact that he was the oldest among them. And that power belonged to those who understood the weight of it. He even gave their group a name: The Knights of Walpurgis, an idea that came to him while half-listening in a History of Magical world lesson. He said it with enough conviction that they accepted it without question. So for a brief moment Tom felt something close to belonging. Not affection. Not camaraderie. But alignment. Direction. It satisfied him.
Tom rarely felt anything that resembled warm feelings. But satisfaction, cold, silent, self-assured, was enough.
—

When it came to the professors, Tom was not exactly well-liked. He excelled in every subject, of course, but true warmth was rare. Perhaps only Madame Agnes Scribner, the Hogwarts librarian, held any real fondness for him. Drawn to the quiet intensity with which he studied and the endless hours he spent tucked into corners of her library. And Professor Slughorn, naturally, had always taken a curious liking to him. The rest of the staff respected him. Some, perhaps, even quietly admired him. But most kept their distance. Tom was rarely caught doing anything improper. And even when they were certain he had something to do with a missing potion, a vanished creature, or a mysteriously broken object, they could never prove it.
Then there was Dumbledore. Tom didn’t admire him. He didn’t particularly respect him either. But he avoided him nonetheless. Perhaps even feared him, just a little. Not out of guilt, but because Tom had grown almost certain of one thing. Dumbledore was surely a Legilimens. The idea unnerved him more than he liked to admit. And so, he returned to the library with renewed purpose, delving deep into books most students would never dare open. He began studying Occlumency in earnest, convinced it was the only way to keep his mind his own.

Becoming a prefect in his fifth year helped. It granted him partial access to the Restricted Section. A quiet victory that felt almost ceremonial. Occlumency was a useful side pursuit, it was other books that he found interesting and useful. He rarely returned to London for holidays, only when absolutely necessary and came back to Hogwarts as early as he could, eager to disappear once more between the shelves of the library. There, surrounded by dust and secrets, his plans grew sharper.
Everything was falling into place. He was in control. The feeling of satisfaction grew stronger and stronger every day.
And that was precisely when he met
Her.

Chapter Text

August 1942

Since 1940, students had been permitted to remain at Hogwarts the whole year, due to the war ravaging Europe and the growing threat of the German Third Reich. Tom had almost felt grateful to the Nazis. It meant he could spend the summer buried in the Hogwarts library and wandering the castle’s silent corridors. Most Muggle-borns remained as well, while his pure-blood classmates returned home, safely ensconced in their ancestral manors. He welcomed the quiet. He was close to something, he could feel it. His focus had shifted to Salazar Slytherin, his legacy, his life. Tom held nothing but disdain for the other founders, but during his reading on the history of Hogwarts, he stumbled across a reference to four rooms, each supposedly left behind by one of them. Intrigued, he allowed himself to briefly consider the others as well.
It didn’t take long to confirm how disappointingly straightforward Helga Hufflepuff and Godric Gryffindor had been. Helga’s Great Hall had apparently been designed as a sanctuary. Open to all students, regardless of house or bloodline. A “symbol of unity.” Pathetic, Tom thought. Not only was it unimpressive, it was nauseatingly inclusive. All it did was deepen his distaste for the Hufflepuffs. Gryffindor’s so-called “secret” entrance behind a griffin statue that led to the Headmaster’s office was no better. All it required was a password. Typical. Tom found it laughable, especially since Gryffindor reminded him so vividly of Dumbledore. Noble, naive and so very loud about it. Rowena Ravenclaw though, sparked a flicker of interest. Her hidden room was far more elusive. The Room of Requirement, as it was called, supposedly revealed itself only to those in desperate need. Tom made a note to return to it later. He didn’t mind Ravenclaws. At least they were clever. Calculating. They lacked ambition, yes, but they weren’t completely useless. Salazar Slytherin, however, his chamber was different. All he could find in books was the name, the Chamber of Secrets. Whispers of a monster that would serve the one worthy enough to find it. But the books weren’t enough. So he went to the only professor he marginally trusted.

“Come in,” came the drowsy voice of Professor Slughorn as Tom knocked on his office. Tom stepped inside with his usual elegance, a look of feigned humility carefully placed across his face. The old professor lit up when he saw him. “Ah Tom, I thought I spotted you on the grounds. London must be terribly dangerous these days, I’m glad you’re here where it’s safe. Now, what can I help you with? It’s still holidays. You know, you’re allowed to take a break from your books.” Yes, Slughorn liked him. Or at least he cared in his own awkward, self-indulgent way. But Tom wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries. He didn’t ask about the professor’s holiday or his health. He got straight to the point.
“I’ve been studying the Four founders this summer,” he said smoothly, “and came across references to rooms they each supposedly left behind. But I can’t seem to find anything substantial about Slytherin’s chamber. I was hoping you might point me in the right direction, sir.” He smiled just enough and a familiar crease appeared on Slughorn’s brow. Tom knew that look well. He’d seen it whenever he asked about things no other student would dare inquire after. That wrinkle always meant he was onto something.
“Well, Tom… it’s said that Salazar Slytherin left behind a secret chamber somewhere beneath the school,” Slughorn began, a cautious tone creeping into his voice. “But no one’s ever found it. Many have tried. We don’t even know if it’s real…” Tom already knew all of that. So he pivoted, to the creature he’d read about. The one allegedly hidden inside? The wrinkle deepened and Tom’s interest sharpened. “Yes, well…allegedly is an important word. So, according to the legend,” Slughorn sighed, “there’s said to be a monstrous serpent of some kind, left to aid his heir in… cleansing the school. But of course, such ideas are ancient. Outdated. And—” he added with meaning “strictly forbidden. You know that, Tom.” The old man looked at him pointedly. He knew about The Knights of Walpurgis. And he had been trying, with limited success, to steer them toward harmless academic pursuits. Tom’s alliances, fortunately, had little interest in anything of the sort. They much preferred tormenting their Muggle-born classmates. “The school year will begin soon,” Slughorn continued. “As a prefect, you’ll have greater access to the Restricted Section. Perhaps you’ll find something there… But some things remain hidden for good reason.” Tom gave him a look of practiced disappointment full of sadness. It worked. With a resigned sigh, Slughorn handed him a permission slip.
“Thank you, professor,” Tom said with a smile that barely reached his eyes. There was still a week before term began. Tom hated wasting time.

Pleased with himself, he headed straight for the library. He presented the free-pass proudly to Madame Scribner and was already turning toward his destination when she called out behind him.
“Oh, Myrtle’s just in there helping me shelve some books. Don’t let her startle you, dear!” Tom forced a polite smile and nodded. Myrtle? Who the hell even was that? And why would he be startled? She probably meant some house-elf doing librarian tasks for her. Lost in thought and the drowsy light of the afternoon, Tom didn’t notice the small figure floating past the rows of shelves, books levitating elegantly around her, until he collided with her full force. The impact shattered her charm and sent her, and the stack of books, crashing onto him.
“What—?” came a startled girl’s voice, far too close to his face. Tom blinked, trying to process what had happened. Someone had fallen on top of him. She shifted nervously and he froze in panic. Recovered quickly, he grabbed her by the shoulders with his strong hands, and hauled them both upright, ensuring a deliberate amount of distance between them.
“This is the Restricted Section,” Tom hissed through clenched teeth, adjusting his robes.
“Yes. I’m sorting the books. What are you doing here, Riddle? Do you even have permission?” The moment she said his name, Tom looked at her for the first time. She was gathering the scattered books again, her wand levitating them back into piles. He didn’t answer. After a moment, Tom realised, he was staring.
“I have a pass from Slughorn. Not that it’s any of your business—” he snapped, rising above her. She looked vaguely familiar. Ravenclaw robes. Large round glasses. A voice too shrill to forget. “How do you know my name?” he frowned and she rolled her eyes.
“Everyone knows your name.” The words were muttered bitterly as she continued picking up the books without his help. “Myrtle Warren? We have Potions, DADA and a few other subjects together,” she added, a little softer now. Yes, he knew Myrtle Warren. Mostly from the idiotic giggles of these girls from her house, who made fun of her every time she raised her hand in class and were apparently bullying her. He remembered she was clever. Sometimes the second-best in their year, just behind him. But he quickly shook his thoughts off, since he couldn’t care less about her. He just nodded, raising an eyebrow, silently urging her to move. She finally seemed to realise he was waiting and sighed. “By all means, your highness. Forgive me for breathing the same air as the Heir of Slytherin,” she said with a sarcastic little bow before disappearing between the shelves with her floating piles of book. As she passed, a soft scent of lilies trailed behind her, strangely out of place in the dust and silence of the library. Tom shook his head once again and returned to his task.

Everyone knows your name… It unsettled him. It irritated him. She’d said it with such casual disdain. As if it were obvious. As if his name, that filthy name, belonged to someone insignificant. It gnawed at him. He hated that name. And he would make sure she understood it all. Not that it mattered what some Myrtle Warren thought. But everything begins in small steps.

Chapter Text

September 1942

Tom had been appointed prefect on the very first day of term, but even then he knew he wouldn’t get any further on the matter of the Chamber of Secrets alone by himself. Despite Abraxas being unusually helpful this time, even managing to procure a book from the Malfoy Manor library, Tom had reached a dead end. From everything he’d gathered, the only apparent way to gain access to the Chamber was through bloodline. Only a direct descent of Salazar Slytherin could open or even just find the Chamber. Only the Heir of Slytherin… Tom could have sworn he’d heard the phrase before. But it wasn’t until the very first Potions class of the year that he remembered the round glasses and floating piles of books.

Unlike most of his classmates, Tom wasn’t the sort to pass notes in class. So he waited until after the lesson to speak with that teary-eyed Ravenclaw girl. But she bolted from the classroom the second the bell rang, leaving him with no choice but to approach the gaggle of giggling cows always orbiting around Olive Hornby. Tom had never shown much interest in inter-house socializing, least of all with girls. Any romantic encounters he participated in were strictly limited to Slytherin girls, mostly purely for strengthening his position in hierarchy. Although Tom was used to girls throwing themselves at him, he entertained it only when it served a purpose, never with girls like this. So he had no idea what chain of events he was setting in motion by asking Olive Hornby about Myrtle Warren.
“Riddle,” Olive cooed, fluttering her lashes and leaning in far too close to his liking, “to what do I owe the pleasure?” Her band of vacant-eyed friends watched from behind her, tittering. Tom recoiled in disgust and answered sharply.
“Where’s Warren? Myrtle.” Both of Olive’s eyebrows shot up, but she recovered quickly, rolling her eyes.
“If you’re looking for that pathetic thing, she’s probably whining again. Second floor, the broken girls’ lavatory no one uses.” She gave a mock-innocent smile. “I can help you find her, if you want. We all know that extended exposure to that girl can be… damaging.” Her friends burst into more annoying giggles. His voice was ice.
“Why would I ever want anything to do with You?” It was rare to see Tom Riddle approach a girl, so when he so flatly rejected Olive’s offer, others nearby had been already watching. The blonde flushed a furious red and opened her mouth to reply, but Tom had already lost interest. He was about to push past her and head to the second floor when something stopped him. He wasn’t sure what it was. Maybe the overdone citrus perfume clouding around Olive and then in the contrast, came the memory of the dusty library and that refreshing scent of lily of the valley. He turned around the people that were watching and then back to Hornby. “Anyone here with at least a single functioning brain cell,” he said coolly, “should know that spending time with Warren is infinitely more…useful, than wasting it on you.” He flashed her a razor-sharp smirk and, with his usual measured grace, walked away, leaving Olive humiliated and speechless in the echo of his footsteps. On the way up to the second floor, Tom convinced himself it had all been for the pure satisfaction of putting that irritating girl in her place. That was all. He promised he wouldn’t waste another thought on the matter.
—

The girls’ lavatory on the second floor was… sad. At the center stood a once-beautiful marble sink, cracked and weathered, surrounded by puddles that had long seeped across the warped tile. Most of the stall doors hung ajar or had been broken clean off. Only one remained closed and from behind it came the unmistakable sound of sobbing.
“Warren?” Tom called flatly, already regretting the detour. He hoped she wouldn’t be crying, he had no time for girls’ hormonal nonsense. He took a few steps forward, preparing to call again, when the weepy Myrtle Warren emerged from the stall. In the daylight, with the turquoise light filtering through the stained glass window and spilling across the floor, she didn’t look ugly. In fact, she wasn’t ugly at all. Not beautiful, no. But apart from a few spots and freckles on her nose and cheeks, red-rimmed eyes and disheveled long brown hair, she was… pleasant, almost cute. She was comically small compared to him, something he already knew, having clumsily lifted her off the library floor the week before. The moment he realized he was staring again, Tom was repulsed with himself. It must have been Olive’s comments earlier, that was all. “Took you a while,” he said with a mocking smirk, towering over her. Myrtle glanced up at him, her eyes swollen, through crooked glasses. Tom had a sudden, strange urge to fix them.
“What do you want? This is the girls’ lavatory,” she sniffled, “and it doesn’t even work.” But the Slytherin boy ignored her entirely.
“What did you mean?” he demanded. “In the library. You called me the Slytherin heir,” he paused, “my mother was Gaunt.” Myrtle sighed and brushed past him to the cracked marble sink, splashing her face with cold water.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Riddle. Honestly, I don’t even understand what you want from me. I’ve got enough problems-”
“I thought you were smarter than to let someone like Olive Hornby make you cry,” Tom cut in sharply. “And if you start crying again, I’ll tell her she was right about you next time.” Myrtle froze, her eyes wide with horror.
“You talked to her? About me? Are you insane? What did I ever even do to you, Riddle?! It’s the first week of school and you’ve already ruined everything for me!” She suddenly turned and bolted out of the lavatory. He must have been really desperate to even consider asking a girl for help. He made a note to himself to NEVER do such a thing again before he took two strides after her. Yet he stopped just before the corner. There it was again, that unbearable giggling. So he stayed hidden.

“Well, well, crying again?” Olive Hornby’s voice echoed off the tiled walls. “Did Tom Riddle see you and run away in terror? Or were your glasses so filthy you didn’t even see him coming?” More cruel laughter. Tom could’ve sworn he even heard Warren mumble something, but another voice cut in.
“What? Are you in love with Riddle now? Think he’d ever look at you?”
“You’d have to actually do something about yourself first.”
“Oh, Charlotte, don’t be stupid,” Olive replied sweetly. “Nothing could help poor little Myrtle. No boy would ever look at her.” He could already hear her quiet sobbing again. Tom didn’t feel pity, of course not. At most, he felt a flicker of responsibility for his own involvement and, perhaps, a tactical consideration. Myrtle wasn’t stupid, madame Scribner adored her and she clearly had access to the whole Restricted Section and knew her way around. On top of that, there was this weird feeling, maybe intuition, that Warren knew something. He quickly constructed enough reasons in his mind to justify, mostly to himself, stepping in. She had her back to him now, looking smaller even than before. The girls loomed before her, smirking cruelly. Tom Riddle narrowed behind her and fixed his black eyes on Olive and her companions. The laughter died instantly, while Myrtle barely noticed him.
“I thought we understood each other in class,” Tom began coldly. “Bullying a fellow student is a violation of the school rules. As a prefect, I would deduct Ravenclaw some points, but then again, you’re clearly so remarkably dumb, you’ve even decided to bully someone from your own house.” A pause and his voice dropped. “Detention. All of you. A week of extra Herbology should do wonders for your intellect.” They flinched under his gaze and he felt Myrtle stiffen next to him. “If I find out you haven’t learned your lesson,” Tom added, smiling darkly, “we can make it a month.” Another pause, a beat. “Or something worse. Now get lost.” The girls began to back away. Myrtle stood frozen at his side. But Olive Hornby wasn’t done without a fight.
“Since when does Tom Riddle criticizes bullying mudbloods?” She hissed through her teeth. A valid point maybe, but Tom Riddle was an authority. And always had the last word. He didn’t have a slightest problem with reminding that to people. With just a flick of his wand, the cloying citrus perfume surrounding Olive morphed into something foul, overpowering and nauseating. The blonde girl turned green in embarrassment, her friends shrieking as they scattered away from her in disgust.
“Two weeks then,” Tom called after them, barely hiding his amusement. Smug satisfaction settled over him that he almost forgot about the gloomy girl next to him.

Myrtle slowly turned to face him, her expression still frozen in fear. She stared at him, lips slightly parted, as if she’d forgotten what she’d meant to say.
“Don’t let it go to your head, understand?” Tom said, his voice sharp. “Consider it an offer Warren. I help you and you,” his gaze raked over her skeptically, “you help me.” Tom knew that Myrtle was a mudblood and he didn’t intend to forget it. But unlike his fellow Slytherins, he knew when it was advantageous to make an exception. So when the shabby little girl just continued to gape at him in silence, he rolled his eyes and sighed impatiently. “I’m not going to hurt you. Calm down. You help me with what I need and I’ll make sure those cows leave you alone. But you’ll have to pull yourself together, Warren. I don’t have time for your crying sessions.” He explained it relentlessly, praying to Salazar it would be enough. It was obvious to him now that Warren’s greatest weakness was Olive Hornby and her little circus. He didn’t know why and he didn't care. What mattered was that a week ago in the library, the same shy girl had actually seemed competent, a bit confident even. So he raised his dark eyebrows, waiting.
“And what could you possibly need me for?” she muttered, her voice low but edged. “Don’t you already have enough of your little Slytherin lap dogs?”Tom smirked. Progress. Apparently all it took was getting rid of the annoying crowd and she was functioning again. That, he could work with.
“What I need you for is my concern,” he said, that strange smile curling on his lips. The one no one could ever quite decipher. Maybe it was amusement, maybe just sick satisfaction with himself.
“What do I have to do?” Myrtle straightened her posture and crossed her arms. Not stupid indeed, good.
“You, my dear, will help me find the materials I need in the library,” Tom said with thinly veiled triumph. “And then… you’ll help me find what I need.” He tilted his head slightly, observing her. “And you’ll tell me what you know about Salazar Slytherin.”
Perhaps, if Myrtle Warren had lived a happier life. Perhaps, if the first person to ever speak to her as if she actually mattered somehow hadn’t been Tom Riddle. Perhaps, if he hadn’t been standing there like that, with those black eyes burning, that crooked smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth and his dark hair falling into his face… Perhaps then, she would have simply walked away. And forgotten he ever existed. But in that moment, Tom Riddle began to exist for Myrtle more vividly than anyone else ever had. He represented the hope of something. Anything. That she didn’t even care what that something was.
“You can hand Hornby detentions all you want,” she said quietly, “but you don’t exactly follow the rules either, Riddle. And I’m guessing you’ll want me to break them, too.” She paused, narrowing her eyes. She gave him a mocking smirk, an attempt to match his. “So how do you know I won’t tell anyone?” Tom was amused, intrigued even, though he didn’t show it. And for a moment, a curious chill ran down his spine, the strange thrill of imagining what he could turn this small, overlooked girl into. He looked directly into her brown eyes, gaze intense and steady, that Myrtle felt as if he could see straight through her. She shifted, taking a nervous step back.

“We’ll take an Unbreakable Vow.”

Chapter Text

September 1942

Tom Riddle was convinced he had everything perfectly planned. He was certain that someone like Myrtle Warren was precisely the kind of easily overlooked puzzle piece he needed. She was intelligent and at the same time desperate and naive enough to accept his offer without asking too many questions. The only thing he had to do in return was ensure her classmates left her alone. It was almost laughably simple. He almost felt sorry for her when she so confidently claimed how he was manipulating his so-called “friends,” all while allowing him to do the very same thing to her. Well, he felt sorry for about two seconds.

That evening, as he lay in his meticulously arranged bed, while Lestrange snored obnoxiously beside him, he did not think about the Chamber of Secrets, as he had on so many nights before. He thought of Warren, with such persistence that it even took him longer than usual to send a minor hex in Lestrange’s direction to silence his infuriating serenade. Despite the fact that, as a girl, she was slightly more complicated for him to understand, someone like her was practically perfect. An innocent and invisible mudblood no one had ever paid attention to. Had it not been for him, she would most likely have died crying in those bathrooms and remained there to cry even after her death. He pictured her as his small, cute puppet, all while she would just see him as her saviour. Exactly what Muggles were meant for. As the night deepened and sleep continued to elude him, Tom began to think of Warren with slightly less caution. He wondered what she might look like if she did something about those long, unkempt brown hair. He remembered how easily he had lifted her in the library. How she had looked at him, eyes swollen from crying and lips parted, when all he did was just send Hornby to hell. Tom Riddle was already half-asleep when a slow, creeping satisfaction filled him, brought on by nothing more than the memory of her frightened, devoted expression… and the intrusive scent of lily of the valley. He must work on his Occlumency again, he thought to himself while falling asleep.
—

By the end of the first week of term was the first proper gathering of the Knights of Walpurgis and Tom chose to set his plan in motion.
“Gentlemen, as you’re well aware, Europe is presently ravaged by a needless war. Though I must say, it has granted me the rare fortune of spending the summer at Hogwarts, bringing me one step closer to a promising project, in the purification of our school,” Tom began ceremoniously, seated at the head of a round, ornate wooden table. It was originally an abandoned desk that he had transfigured himself, when they found it in a forgotten classroom near the Slytherin dungeons. All he needed now was to lay the groundwork for his impending absence. “However, to properly commit myself, I’ll need to temporarily withdraw from our… customary activities. I trust you’ll all continue to observe the goings-on with diligence, ensuring that our order remains intact.” His lips curled into a sly smirk as he observed the cruel, eager expressions of the boys around him. It was laughably easy to feed their belief that the future of the wizarding world rested squarely on their shoulders. “As soon as I am certain of my discovery, you’ll be the first to know,” he added smoothly, his voice coated in velvet deceit. Nott and Black took the cue to begin presenting ideas for discrediting the Muggle-born students, schemes designed to avoid detection, of course. Malfoy produced a list of new arrivals with impure bloodlines, he liked to keep things in order. Lestrange, meanwhile, sipped firewhiskey from a smuggled flask, while Tom sat quietly, occluding, sharpening the next step in his mind.
“Keep an eye on Olive Hornby and her little pack of Ravenclaw cows,” he added with quiet emphasis on the hidden meaning behind “keeping an eye on.”
“Oi, Hornby’s pure-blood,” Lestrange muttered into his drink.
“And?” Tom’s tone cut through the air like ice. “I don’t give a damn. She’s unbearable. I said to do it, is that a problem, my friend?” His gaze was black and bottomless, devoid of patience. Lestrange shrank back into his seat.
“No,” he murmured after a long pause. “But next thing I know, I’ll be stealing Walburga from Orion if even someone like Hornby doesn’t meet your standards,” he laughed darkly, drunken and crass. Tom sneered, repulsed, while Orion Black’s fists clenched at his sides and his nostrils flared. Tom made a mental note that in matters of loyalty, Black would probably always outweigh Lestrange. Plus Tom despised nothing more than having his commands questioned.
“We don’t really care,” Tom said deathly soft. “Find yourself some Hufflepuff girl to shag, but don’t bring your filth into this.” Black gave Tom a curt nod of acknowledgment. Lestrange spat at the mention of Hufflepuff and muttered a slurred curse under his breath, filing the insult away for later. “The Ravenclaw girls go on the list,” Tom concluded coldly. “End of discussion.” When the meeting adjourned and the boys made their way back toward the Slytherin dormitory, Tom lingered, having finally made up his mind.
“Malfoy,” he called out casually after Abraxas, his smile sharp and falsely warm. “I’m going to need a favor from you.”
—

On the first Saturday of September, most of the older students made their way down to Hogsmeade. Ordinarily, the Knights would gather at the Three Broomsticks Inn, but Tom had other affairs to tend to. So he just told Malfoy to buy him a pack of cigarettes as the others were leaving and, directly after breakfast, set off for the library. He moved through several deserted aisles until he found her. Curled up in a study nook, brown hair falling across her face, a Ravenclaw cloak draped around her shoulders, sketching something into a battered notebook. Tom smirked and leaned casually against a bookshelf.
“Why aren’t you in Hogsmeade?” he asked casually. Myrtle snapped her sketchbook shut at once.
“You clearly knew I wasn’t there,” she said coldly, brows narrowing as she noticed he came directly to her. “Why are you surprised then, Riddle?” Five points to Ravenclaw, Tom thought with vague amusement, clicking his tongue impatiently.
“All the better,” he muttered. He had no intention of pretending interest today anyway. “Your little classmates should be taken care of. If not, or if someone else gives you trouble, you’ll tell me,” he said matter-of-factly, sitting down beside her without asking. When she didn’t respond, he simply continued. “I wrote the Vow so you’re bound by secrecy and I’m obliged to provide protection. Be at the Astronomy Tower tonight. Eleven.”
“That’s after curfew,” she mumbled, glancing at him, her round glasses slightly askew. Tom chuckled, low and brief.
“Did you expect we’d perform the Unbreakable in the Great Hall over breakfast?” Myrtle rolled her eyes, clearly unimpressed.
“Stop talking to me like I’m a child and maybe I’ll show up,” she retorted. But Tom knew she would come regardless. He saw it. The flicker in her brown eyes that weren’t clouded by tears for once. There was something almost pleasant about them when they weren’t red-rimmed. They were naturally wide, made even more so by those big glasses. A few loose strands of overgrown bangs fell across her face, but he could still sense her wary, intrigued gaze. “What?” she suddenly snapped, annoyed and Tom realised he’d fallen silent. He cleared his throat.
“Fix your glasses,” he muttered. As he began to rise, they came momentarily too close. The dusty air of the library seemed, for a second, to dissolve beneath that same faint scent of lilies-of-the-valley. Something caught in his chest, a weak moment, a hesitation. “They’re not awful or hideous. Just skewed,” he murmured over his shoulder, barely audible and left her confused in her corner.
—

The Astronomy Tower was expecting three visitors that night. Tom Riddle had arrived early, a cigarette burning quietly between his fingers as he stared into the distance. He had told Warren to come at eleven and Abraxas to arrive at quarter past. It was a few minutes before eleven when he heard quiet footsteps.
“Those are muggle cigarettes,” came a soft, uncertain voice. “My brother used to smoke the same kind,” Warren added as she emerged from the shadows. Tom didn’t flinch. In a strange way, he was already able to recognise the faint floral scent. He knew she was indirectly asking about the cigarettes, but he chose to answer her from the other end.
“Used to?” he asked, exhaling a slow stream of smoke in her direction. She cleared her throat and dropped her gaze to her hands.
“My older brother Albert died at Dunkirk,” she whispered. Tom nodded. He had no intention of offering comfort. If she wanted sympathy, she shouldn’t have told him. Then again, it had been his question. That alone compelled him to speak at least once more.
“Everyone dies eventually,” he said, carelessly. This time it was Myrtle who just nodded. It wasn’t entirely true, of course. He would not die. Too many wizards had found ways to postpone death. Delay it, twist it, deny it. And he was already far along that path, further than anyone knew. But he wouldn’t tell her that, obviously.
“So what do you want?” Myrtle broke the silence abruptly, her voice sharper than before. “Why do you care if Hornby and the others leave me alone?” Tom smirked, pleased by himself as always.
“I’ll tell you, my dear. But I don’t like arrangements that aren’t… sealed,” he said smoothly. “Malfoy should be here any moment to assist.” Her eyes widened at the mention of the Slytherin boy, and Tom, noting the panic, decided it was in his interest to calm her. He wasn’t about to waste the night on a botched Unbreakable Vow. “Don’t worry,” he tried. “Let me handle it and he won’t even remember you in the morning. Trust me.”
“I don’t,” she said quickly and Tom’s black eyes flashed dangerously.
“That’s good.”
—

Abraxas Malfoy was the most loyal of them all, which made him the logical choice. At the same time, he also harbored one of the deepest hatreds for Muggles, so Tom knew he was taking a risk. And indeed, when Malfoy stepped onto the Astronomy Tower in his fine cashmere sweater and laid eyes on the little Ravenclaw muggle-born girl that was almost hiding behind Tom Riddle, his lips curled into a look of open disgust. He was just about to speak when Tom cut in sharply.
“Later, Malfoy. The Unbreakable first, then I’ll explain. I’m counting on you,” Tom said with a weighted glance. He knew that would be enough. The mere fact that he had asked Abraxas, in private, had already swelled the boy’s pride. So when Tom added those final words about counting on him, the platinum-haired boy measured Myrtle with a withering look and, after a tense pause, gave a curt nod.
“I don’t know what you see in her, but fine,” muttered the Slytherin. While a strange shiver went through Myrtle’s body at his words, Tom let it pass this time. Soon enough, it wouldn’t matter what Abraxas Malfoy thought, or said, about this.
“Are you sure he won’t mess it up? I’m not planning to lose a hand…” Myrtle whispered nervously in Tom’s direction. He found himself wondering, with a flicker of genuine curiosity, whether she would always be so trusting, when there were others, that apparently terrified her. But Malfoy cut in coldly.
“I understand that mudbloods like you aren’t familiar with ancestral magic, but I’ve seen my father do this more than once. Though I can certainly arrange for you to lose your hand.” Tom shot Malfoy a sharp look, his eyes narrowing into a silent snarl. Myrtle flinched and instinctively drew back behind the folds of Tom’s robe. Abraxas, unfazed, rolled his eyes in disdain. Still, he pulled out the parchment Tom had given him earlier, carefully inscribed with instructions and straightened his spine, taking on an air of false ceremony. “Oh, and you’ll need to kneel,” he added blandly, before whispering Lumos to conjure a light and scanning the parchment. Tom knew he had to remain perfectly calm. For his pawns’ sake and probably for his own as well. After all, he had written the vow to ensure it bound her far more than it risked binding him.

“Take each other’s hands,” Malfoy instructed with deliberate focus. Tom raised his hand, palm up. Myrtle hesitated, then timidly placed hers into his. He noticed, just for a moment, how pale it was. Nearly the same ghostly shade as her face.
“Your hand is cold,” she whispered, barely audible. Tom clenched his jaw and laced his fingers through hers. Malfoy, too absorbed in the spell, didn’t notice the shift. He lowered his wand and rested the tip against their conjoined hands. Tom could feel Myrtle’s eyes on him, but he refused to meet them, staring firmly ahead into the darkness.
“Do you swear, Tom Marvolo Riddle,” Malfoy intoned, “that you will provide protection to Myrtle Warren for the duration of her schooling, particularly in the event of continued torment at the hands of her classmates?” His eyes still did not meet hers.
“I will.”
At his words, a thin tongue of golden flame curled from the tip of Malfoy’s wand and coiled tightly around their joined hands. It burned and her small hand flinched in his.
“Now, Myrtle Warren,” Malfoy continued, “do you swear that you will remain silent about your involvement in anything connected to Tom Marvolo Riddle, under all circumstances, and forever?” The girl’s eyes widened at the scope of the vow, but she did not move. For a long breath, there was silence. Malfoy looked up from the parchment and Myrtle inhaled sharply.
“I will.”
A second flame sprang to life and wound itself around their hands. This one burned deeper and Tom felt her hand tense as the heat burrowed into his own cold skin. In response, he squeezed her hand tighter and under the pale glow of Malfoy’s Lumos, her cheeks had flushed a sharp crimson. The strands of flame tightened once more, searing, binding, and then, like something alive, sank into their skin and vanished. Tom dropped her hand quickly and slipped his own into the deep pocket of his robe. They both stood as Abraxas cleared his throat, a suspicious glance fixed on his classmate. Then, in the span of a breath, several things occurred at once.
As Malfoy’s wandlight extinguished, Tom Riddle drew Warren into the shadows and the folds of his robe with a single sweep of his arm, privately acknowledging how convenient her slight frame was. In the same motion, he retrieved his wand from his pocket and aimed it directly at Malfoy, who had barely registered that something was happening.
“Obliviate.”

Chapter Text

September 1942

“Obliviate.”

The grey eyes of Abraxas Malfoy, once filled with disdain and restless suspicion, now turned vacant, almost innocent in their emptiness. The blonde boy shook his head slightly, blinking as though waking from a dream, then looked at Tom Riddle, who greeted him with an empty smile and a friendly pat on the back.
“I’ll stay for another cigarette and catch up with you later, my friend. Take the corridor behind the gargoyle on your way to the dungeons, Gryffindors are patrolling tonight,” Tom said with effortless calm, his voice laced with authority. The dazed Abraxas nodded slowly, then turned without a word and disappeared down the stairs. As soon as his footsteps faded from earshot, a small figure emerged from behind Tom’s robes.
“He won’t remember anything?” Myrtle asked and Tom found himself pleasantly surprised by her complete lack of pity. He himself felt none, although erasing a classmate’s memory probably shouldn’t be done so lightly. But neither he nor Warren even seem to consider that.
“Well, he won’t remember I ever asked him for anything,” Tom replied as he lit another cigarette. Everything had gone precisely according to plan. He was so satisfied with the outcome that he momentarily forgot any unease and tension from earlier and without a second thought, extended the pack toward her. “Take one,” he said. Not offering, commanding. If he had gone through all the trouble of orchestrating this, why shouldn’t he indulge in a little amusement? And Myrtle Warren was slowly becoming his new amusement, to see how far he could unravel her. After a hesitant pause, she reached out and placed the cigarette between her lips. Tom raised his arm with the lighter and when the spark cast a flicker of light across her mouth, his eyes dropped. For a split second, he was just a man, watching a girl’s soft lips. She inhaled, coughed on the smoke and Tom let out a low, rough laugh. New amusement, indeed.
“You do small things the Muggle way,” she said suddenly and sat down on a stone step. His face turned back to stone.
“We all make mistakes,” he said flatly. Myrtle rolled her eyes and decided to leave the subject alone for now. Instead, she asked whether he’d finally tell her what he needed her for. “I want you to help me find the Chamber of the Secrets,” he said, his interest visibly retrieved. But Myrtle Warren didn’t look impressed and that stung him. “What?” he snapped, irritated by her indifference. Yet, sitting across from him on the floor, she looked so small he nearly understood why the world frightened her so much.
“Nothing. I figured it was something like that. And I know which books are missing, not everyone can just stride into the Restricted Section you know,” she said with a shrug. Tom looked at her almost with admiration. Perhaps she would prove even more useful than expected. “But I don’t know where it is, if that’s what you’re hoping for.” Tom found himself almost relieved. He needed help finding the chamber, not for her to find it first.
“But you know which books are missing,” he smirked, dark eyes narrowing daringly. “We’re going to the library tomorrow.”
“We’re supposed to turn in the Potions assignment,” she reminded him, stamping out the finished cigarette on the stone wall. Tom growled in annoyance.
“We’ll do the Potions work, then we’ll go to the library,” he snapped and Warren merely gave another resigned shrug before rising to leave.

It was then that Tom Riddle wondered for the first time if he had ever met a girl who didn’t admire him, even just a little bit. Normally, he wouldn’t have cared. But the idea that someone might see him as forgettable or ordinary, gnawed at him. In a sudden flare of resentment, he grabbed Warren’s wrist and pulled her back. She yelped softly, eyes wide with fright and looked up at him. For an instant, his face leaned close and he smirked. She sucked in a sharp breath and felt the lingering scent of smoke, sandalwood and something unnamed, heavy as a dark shadow. Tom tightened his hand around her thin wrist.
“My hands are always cold,” he whispered darkly with a hint of an amused smirk. And in the next moment, he slipped away, vanishing into the stone and shadows of the sleeping castle.
—

Tom was the first to arrive at the library the following day. Though he was impatient to continue his research, he forced himself to sit down and finish the assigned Potions essay. It was Sunday, so the library was nearly deserted, yet he’d chosen a seat tucked in a narrow aisle near the entrance to the Restricted Section, far from the larger tables near the front.
“You’re late,” he murmured coldly when he heard a movement behind him, accompanied by the faint, now-familiar trace of lily of the valley.
“You never said what time,” Myrtle replied softly. She was right, so he didn’t respond. As she quietly slid into the chair beside him, he suddenly felt the space between them was too narrow, the silence too close. He thought he'd been too close to people in the last twenty-four hours. Without a word, he stood and turned toward the gloom of the Restricted Section.
“I finished the Potions work. Copy it and come find me,” he muttered over his shoulder, nodding toward the scroll sprawled across the desk. After some aimless wandering among the shadowed rows of forbidden texts, the small Ravenclaw girl appeared beside him like a conjured wisp.
“You used the wrong equation, so the potion wouldn’t have worked. I corrected it and rewrote it for you,” she said simply, already scanning the shelves. “Why are we searching by Ancient Runes?” Tom glanced at the spines before him, then at Warren, and then he frowned.
“I didn’t,” he muttered, his pride bristling at her assertion. He turned on his heel and stalked back toward their desk, his robe whispering behind him.
“Check it however you like,” Myrtle said behind him, trying not to sound flustered as he hovered over their work again. “Just don’t write over mine.”
“You wrote over mine,” he shot back, irritated.
“I thought you wanted it done quickly,” she shrugged again, almost casual, and began to move away. All of a sudden, Madam Scribner appeared at the edge of their aisle.
“Oh, it’s you dear,” the librarian said warmly. “I thought someone might’ve slipped somewhere they shouldn’t be.” She glanced toward the shadowed section of the library and smiled conspiratorially. “But if it’s only you—” she paused and noticed Tom Riddle, who was still hunched over their papers, frowning with calculated intensity. “Lovely, I figured the two of you might get along,” she said, clearly pleased with herself. “Since it’s just you here, I suppose I can leave for a cup of tea. But don’t linger there too long though, will you?” She beamed and shuffled away with her usual rustle.
“And that,” came Tom’s voice suddenly, deep, low, directly behind Myrtle, “is exactly one of the reasons I need you. Your calculations are correct. Now let’s go.”
—

A few hours later, they were both buried in dust-laced volumes deep within the labyrinth of the Restricted Section. As it turned out, Myrtle Warren knew the library almost better than Madam Scribner herself. She'd seem to have managed to find nearly every book of actual use.
“Draw me a map,” Tom said, reappearing before her after yet another one of his rounds through the forbidden corridors. She was curled on the floor in a shadowed corner, surrounded by tottering stacks of books she’d deemed helpful, half-dozing over an encyclopaedia of creatures said to inhabit the grounds of Hogwarts.
“Excuse me?” she blinked up at him through her round glasses.
“I’ve seen you draw,” he said with a thoughtful voice. “Plus it’s a waste of time having you explain where everything is every time. I want a map of the Restricted Section.” Myrtle had to admit that it made sense. She nodded without protest and glanced back down into her lap, where the open book still rested. Tom reached into the nearest stack she had built, selected one of the volumes, and lowered himself smoothly to the floor beside her.
“Riddle?” she asked after a beat of silence, her voice uncertain. Tom glanced at her, raising a single brow with disinterest. “Why are we looking for the Chamber of Secrets?” she asked quietly. “Why not… I don’t know, the Room of Requirement or something? It sounds far more useful and here it says—”
“Don’t call me that,” he interrupted suddenly, voice like ice. She looked at him, confused and he sighed, not sharply, but as if something had worn him thin. “It’s not my real name,” he muttered. “Just call me by my first name if you must.” Myrtle didn’t know how to respond to that. She only nodded once again, more hesitantly this time.
“I just meant…” she began once more, stealing glances at the dark-haired boy beside her. “It says here that for some time, there were persistent beliefs of a basilisk living somewhere on the school grounds. And since the Chamber is said to contain a dangerous serpent…” she let the sentence trail off, watching something flicker in his dark eyes. There was something thrilling in them, but cold and inhuman at the same time. Myrtle was suddenly struck with the urge to reach out and touch his hand, just to see if it was still as cold as she remembered, as cold as he looked. But then, before she could even finish the thought, he extended his own hand toward her. It took her a moment to realise he was asking for the book. “Why are we looking for a place that supposedly houses some horrible monster,” she asked again, “when there might be one that can allegedly conjure almost anything?” Tom didn’t look up from the page.
“We can look for the Room of Requirement afterward,” he said, dismissively. Which was just another one of his: it’s none of your concern.
—

Tom Riddle had read nearly everything the girl had brought or shown him that day. They had spent practically the entire day in the library and evening was beginning to fall. Myrtle was sketching the map when he suddenly began rifling through one of the piles of books with growing urgency.
“Warren,” Tom murmured, the edge of urgency in his voice. Myrtle gave a nonchalant hum in reply. He hated when people didn’t acknowledge him enough. “Warren,” he said again, sharper and she finally looked up at him with visible fatigue in her face. He didn’t care. “Where is the biography of Salazar Slytherin? You brought the biographies of the other three founders. Those wretches are useless to me,” he hissed impatiently, and the small girl across from him froze for a moment. No, he wouldn’t apologize, he decided. She should learn to stand up for herself, not always shrink away so pathetically.
“It wasn’t there. That’s all I found,” she said quietly, her uncertain gaze dropping to the books scattered between them. Tom stared her down, his eyes as cold and cutting as frost. Then, all at once, he leaned closer, his face level with hers, his gaze fixed on her with intensity. He was well aware of the power in silence. How long he could hold it, how long others could not. She looked small under the weight of his scrutiny and part of him approved. She should feel small. She was small.
“Are you sure?” He was frightening, he wanted to be. And although Myrtle felt herself wither even further under his sculpted, statuesque glare, and could only manage a mute nod, she was once again overwhelmed by the scent of cigarettes, sandalwood, ink and something dark. Tom Riddle was, undeniably, an unnervingly beautiful man. But that was common knowledge. Girls at school watched him from afar, breath held in adolescent awe, while he hardly spared a minute even with the loveliest of pure-blooded Slytherins. And Myrtle Warren was not lovely. Any time she forgot that fact, someone, usually Olive Hornby, was sure to remind her. She had long stopped bothering to look at boys at all. But now, as the boy stared at her like some secret might be hidden in her wide brown eyes, her cheeks flushed red with a heat she didn’t expect. The proud boy was too obsessed with dark secrets to notice how fragile the edges of this alliance could become and so he didn’t anticipate it at all. When a warm, hesitant hand rose to touch the sharp line of his cheek. His eyes widened in terror and he froze. It was instinct. Not out of shyness or shame. Out of fury. Out of confusion. He felt her warmth like an infection blooming against his skin.
“You really are oddly cold,” Warren whispered carefully, as if not even fully present. The air turned sharp. His hand snapped forward and seized her wrist. Not enough to bruise, but enough to silence. He pulled away like she’d burned him and hated that she looked concerned. He hated that she looked at him at all. He stood swiftly, spine stiff, jaw clenched.
“Don’t ever do that again,” he said, voice thin and deadly. “Ever. It’s late. I’m going to bed.” He turned without another glance and strode out of the library.
—

The corridor was colder than it should’ve been. Good. It cut through him. He walked quickly, keeping to the shadows, furious at her, at himself as he strode toward the dungeons. That girl, Warren. That pathetic, crying creature. She had no idea what she was doing. No idea what he was capable of. He was meant to rise above, above them all. She wasn’t supposed to reach him. The emerald light flickered on the cold stone walls as Tom stepped through the charmed doors. Abraxas Malfoy was slouched in one of the armchairs by the fire, idly thumbing through a Daily Prophet. He knew better than to ask first. Lestrange, on the other hand, clearly didn’t.
“Where were you?” drawled his rough voice from the window alcove. “Thought you were dead. Or worse, studying.”
“Leave it. You know damn well you wouldn’t pass any exams without him,” added the blond boy. Tom didn’t slow his stride.
“I was occupied,” he said curtly.
“With what?” Abraxas sat forward slightly, raising a curious brow. “You missed dinner.”
“I wasn’t hungry.” Lestrange snorted to that. Tom halted just long enough to make them wonder what answer might be dangerous. “Goodnight,” he said, the word a dismissal. He climbed the spiral stairs and entered their room in silence.
—

Tom lay in bed, eyes open, the curtains drawn tightly around him. Lestrange’s snoring started up again, wet and lumbering like always. Tom didn’t hex him tonight. His hands were folded over his chest like a corpse. Still cold. He couldn’t sleep. The softness of her fingers. And he had let her. He hated himself for the pause. For the stutter in his breath. For the delay in pulling away. She was nothing. A mudblood, plain, insignificant girl with crooked glasses and gloomy voice. And yet her scent still lingered faintly in his mind. He closed his eyes, furious. He didn’t care. He would bury it beneath tasks, orders, research, silence. Tomorrow, he would not speak to her. Not until he could look her in the eye without remembering how her small hand felt on his skin. Not until she was merely a tool again. Because that’s all she ever was. That’s all she ever will be. A piece on the board, a pawn. Not… Not whatever this was.

Chapter Text

September 1942

Tom Riddle had spent the next few days quietly avoiding Myrtle. He still watched her, though. In every shared class, from the edge of the Slytherin table during supper, in every corridor where he caught the scent of her. He was convinced that the more power he held over her, the less dangerous to him she would become. He stared at her endlessly and when she happened to glance his way and their eyes met, he refused to look away. He tested her daringly, measured how long she could hold his gaze before finally lowering her eyes. And yet, he hated it either way. He hated it when she held it too long, but it infuriated him more when she broke eye contact like a coward.

That evening he sat in the Slytherin common room, hunched over one of the old parchments Warren had given him. His focus broke abruptly when his right hand flared with heat. Wincing, he pulled up his sleeve. Faint golden filaments were threading through the veins of his wrist, glowing and stinging. He darted a glance around. No one noticed. Nott and Malfoy were deep in a game of wizard chess, Orion Black had gone off to court Walburga and Lestrange was… who knew where. Tom stood up sharply and stormed out of the dungeons. The library was empty, not even she was there. His hand still burned. He turned down the west corridor toward the girls’ lavatory. Just before reaching it, he passed Hornby and one of her lackeys, giggling and whispering in that shrill, irritating tone. He already knew and stepped directly into their path.
“You know what I truly despise?” he said coldly, voice like a sharpened blade. “Stupid little cows who don’t know their place.” Hornby blinked innocently.
“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about, Riddle.” Her friend snorted.
“Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you remember next time,” he smiled cruelly, without any sign of warmth in his eyes. With a single flick of his wand, Hornby’s glossy blonde hair suddenly erupted in flame. He heard a high pitched whining, the splash of a desperate Aquamenti and then, finally, the burning in his hand subsided a little.

“Warren?” He knew she was there. He could hear the quiet cries from behind the stall. He stepped past the ornate marble sink and leaned against the wall across from her hiding place. “They’re gone,” he said quietly. “And I think it’s safe to say they’ll think twice before bothering anyone again.” It wasn’t sympathy, he didn’t have feelings like that. It was frustration. Not because he cared if she cried so much, but because this was his failure. It was his job to prevent this from happening. He couldn’t stand the thought that he might’ve let it slip. He needed to fix it, prove to himself he still held the reins. He remembered how she’d hidden behind him from Malfoy at the Astronomy Tower. He liked that. He liked being the one she sought safety in. He liked feeling powerful. And he could not stand the idea that she might think he wasn’t capable of keeping his word. “Warren, you need to tell me when something happens. Now come out.” Eventually, the stall creaked open. The girl stepped out, her face blotchy with tears, robes torn, hair tangled and wet. Tom’s jaw clenched.
“That was them?” he hissed, his voice low and dangerous. She nodded slowly. A wave of hatred and something strangely close to guilt rushed through him. He had to fix at least something. “It’s going to be alright. I’ll take care of it,” he murmured, words laced with heartless threat. He stepped toward her, wand already drawn. A flick of his wrist mended her torn robe. Another, and he pointed it toward her head. “May I?” he asked with focus. She nodded, absentmindedly. Another move of his wrist, another silent spell. Her hair suddenly dried, smoothed, and gently wove itself into a simple half-up style. It was elegant and neat, leaving strands to frame her face. She looked up at him with wide eyes and Tom reviewed his work, satisfied. “Let me just-” his cold fingers brushed her cheek as he straightened her crooked glasses. “There. All good.” His hand fell back to his side.
“You do a lot of wordless magic,” Myrtle said quietly. He nodded. “What did you do to my hair?” Tom stepped up to the white marble sink and snapped off a shard of the broken mirror. He turned and held it up before her.
“Just adjusted them a little,” he said casually as Myrtle glanced at her reflection. A faint smile flickered across her face. Brief, uncertain, almost forgotten.
—

Later that evening, they were once again tucked away in the shadows of the library. Tom was deep in a passage about Basilisks when she suddenly slid closer to him.
“Here’s the finished map of the Restricted Section,” she said softly, unfolding a sheet of parchment with her careful sketch and beginning her explanation. “You’ve got numbered aisles here, each labeled with what you’ll mostly find. For instance here, books like Magick Moste Evile, mostly Unforgivables, Horcruxes and the darkest Arts. We hopefully don’t need that. Across from it is Advanced Legilimency and Occlumency, then here’s Ancient Runes and Necromancy texts, this one’s historical…” She kept talking, her voice clear and focused for once, free from the usual tremble. But Tom wasn’t listening. Not fully. Not anymore. The first crack in his attention came at the word Horcruxes. It set his nerves on edge, how casually she spoke it, as if it were just another entry on a list. She had no idea what she was saying and he needed to make sure it stayed that way. No one could suspect, especially not her. The second distraction was strange, more unsettling. It was the fluid, almost graceful way she gestured toward the map. The light thrill in her voice. Her hair was still pinned up by the magic he had cast and now that she leaned so close, her floral scent wrapped around him like a vine. It was like standing on cracking ice. And the most disturbing part was not knowing whether she was the reason the ice was breaking or the reason it hadn’t broken yet.
“Tom—…Tom are you even listening?” Her voice cut through him, and suddenly she was looking directly at him with those wide, serious brown eyes. He blinked, unsure what to say. With a stiff nod and a forced cough, he redirected his eyes to her drawing, pretending to follow the lines. “Are you ill?” she asked, frowning, studying him closely. For a terrifying moment, he thought she might reach out and touch his forehead, like Mrs. Cole used to do to the kids in the orphanage. Back then, he would have rather died than let anyone lay a hand on him but now, his black eyes drifted down to the girl’s hands with a strange, choking sense of absence. He did feel sick. His fingers twitched. The edges of his thoughts blurrede and he quickly began to occlude. Before the absence became a need.
“No, it’s fine. The map is great,” he said at last, his voice hollow. He rubbed his eyes and stared out into the night beyond the library windows. “I need a cigarette,” Tom muttered suddenly, rising to his feet. He folded her map and shoved it deep into the pocket of his robes. He was already halfway turned to leave when he looked back over his shoulder at her. “Well? Are you coming or not?”
—

They were back at the Astronomy Tower, though this time both sat on the cold stone steps, smoking.
“You didn’t even cough this time. You’re getting better,” Tom remarked, his tone unreadable.
“I’m getting worse,” Myrtle replied, almost amused. Tom didn’t say it out loud, but that was the whole point. Well, not really the whole point, more of a side quest for his own selfish enjoyment. He stayed silent. But while Warren stared out at the slumbering castle and the night sky, he found himself distracted by the idle movement of her fingers each time she took a drag.
“You should be like this more often. Hornby only keeps bothering you because you let her,” he said suddenly, cutting through the quiet. Myrtle scoffed and looked vaguely thoughtful.
“Well, that’s your problem now, isn’t it?” she smirked, exhaling a small cloud of smoke.
“I still don’t understand why you’re scared of them. Or of people, in general…” he muttered, shaking his head. Strands of raven-black hair fell over his eyes.
“You never ask,” she shrugged simply. And he didn’t now, either.

It was long past curfew when Tom Riddle escorted Myrtle Warren back toward Ravenclaw Tower. He rationalized it to himself as just another opportunity to exchange ideas. A useful insight, unbothered by others. It didn’t matter that most of the walk passed in silence. He showed her a few hidden passages along the way. In one narrow hallway, Myrtle suddenly stopped and reached out to grab his sleeve. Tom halted too and cast a soft light from his wand to see her.
“Architecture,” she whispered in realisation. Tom raised an eyebrow, confused, and turned to find her looking up at him again, those large brown eyes catching in the wandlight, alight with the familiar curiosity and thrill. He became acutely aware of her hand gripping his robe, her eyes on him, the significant scent of flowers wrapped around him like fog, the damp stone pressing in. “We’re only looking in the Restricted Section. But if the Chamber is a room part of the school, it would’ve been included in the plans. The regular library has plenty of books on Hogwarts architecture,” she explained ardently, a quiet excitement lifting her voice. A chill ran down his spine. She was a genius. For a fleeting moment, he almost forgot her filthy blood status, but he caught himself just in time. The ice beneath him was still cracking. Even so, he allowed himself a satisfied smirk and nodded approvingly.
“I’ll look into it… thanks.” Tom Riddle wondered if this was the first time he’d thanked someone and actually somehow meant it.

“Thank you for coming today,” Myrtle whispered awkwardly in front of the Ravenclaw entrance.
“It nearly burned my hand,” Tom replied, lifting his right hand with a smirk, recalling how small hers had been inside it during the Vow. He cleared his throat and for the first time, felt the weight of an awkward silence.
“Good night—” she suddenly blurted quickly and he gave a sharp nod, watching as she vanished through the eagle. Only then did he turn, beginning the long walk back through the sleeping castle toward the Slytherin dungeons. Tom was so lost in thoughts about Hogwarts architecture, the memory of cigarette smoke on a girl’s lips, and the strange workings of the Unbreakable Vow, that he didn’t notice the figure stepping into his path.
“Tom, isn’t it a little late for a walk?” came the unmistakable, mildly suspicious voice of professor Dumbledore. Tom halted and slowly raised his eyes, meeting the older wizard’s ever-watchful gaze. He immediately began occluding, slipping into that calculated stillness, when a convenient idea struck him.
“Indeed,” he replied calmly, with that perfect mix of deference and aloofness. “But I was escorting a lady back to her common room. She’s not fond of the dark corridors.” He allowed one particular memory to rise to the forefront of his mind, offering it to the older wizard. Warren walking beside him, her quiet voice, the scent of flowers, her hesitant “thank you” outside the Ravenclaw Tower. Nothing fabricated. Just enough. A single moment, tinged with softness. Not much of an affection, but proximity. The expression that flickered across Dumbledore’s face was almost laughable. Surprise, curiosity, maybe even a flicker of fondness. Tom stood still, silent while Dumbledore recovered quickly.
“Commendable, Tom,” he finally said, with that infuriatingly smug kindness. “Though in future, I’d recommend daylight walks. I wouldn’t want to have to deduct points because of these things.” Tom simply nodded, tilting his head just so. Respectful, restrained. And then he walked away. The path to the dungeons felt unusually triumphant. The ice hadn’t cracked under him this time and all because of Warren. Dumbledore, the supposed master of insight, the paragon of morality, had been willing to suspend his suspicion at the slightest suggestion that Tom Riddle had a heart. That he cared. That he might be capable of softness. All it took was a single image. One faint memory of a girl’s soft hand. And Dumbledore let him go. It was absurd. It was almost insulting. Dumbledore might be a powerful wizard. Tom didn’t dare to deny that. But he was laughably weak at the same time. Obsessed with goodness, with redemption, with the fantasy that darkness could be tempered by affection. It had taken one girl. One memory. And Tom had found a crack in the man’s distrust. Maybe, there was more than one way to use her. And Dumbledore had just proven it.
—

The next day, Tom borrowed nearly every book in the library concerning the architecture of Hogwarts. Later, during DADA, he spotted Warren with her hair styled the same way he had made it with his charm. When she saw him, she gave a shy, tentative smile and Tom gave her the faintest nod in return. He was in the middle of taking notes when a small paper snake slithered onto his desk. The moment he touched it, the spell broke, unfolding into a simple, schoolgirl note.

“Hornby’s not in class. Heard someone set her hair on fire and now she’s desperately trying to fix it, so she can face people again. Care to elaborate?”

The handwriting was neat and deliberate. Tom hadn’t even realized there appeared a smug smile on his face. Unlike most of his classmates, Tom Riddle wasn’t the type to pass notes during lessons. Still, he pocketed her message and scrawled back onto a scrap of parchment.

“I wouldn’t know. Perhaps she didn’t take certain warnings seriously.
P.S. Astronomy Tower tonight.”

He automatically signed it TMR and made a half-hearted attempt to sketch a cigarette. The note vanished from his desk and reappeared on Warren’s toward the back. However, as he exited the classroom, he spotted Warren talking to Malcolm Scamander, who handed her a book. All that previous levity evaporated. First of all, Malcolm Scamander was a Hufflepuff. Tom loathed Hufflepuffs. Second, Scamander was looking at Warren with a gaze that hovered somewhere between Orion Black watching Walburga and Lestrange staring at… well, any pretty girl. It made Tom sick. And third, Warren’s cheeks turned faintly pink. Not as much as when Tom had adjusted her glasses or during the Unbreakable Vow, but enough to enrage him. Warren was his concern. If she cried less and spoke a little more clearly now, it was because of him. She was his project. His diversion. If she was going to blush at anyone, it damn well wasn’t going to be because of Malcolm Scamander.
“Did he do something to you?” Orion Black asked beside him during Arithmancy. Tom turned toward him blankly. “Scamander. You’ve been murdering him with your eyes for the last hour and haven’t done a single equation. That’s not like you, mate.”
“He’s sticking his nose where he shouldn’t,” Tom hissed under his breath.
“You want me to handle it?” Orion offered, his voice suddenly serious. Tom shook his head and kept glaring daggers across the room. He couldn’t quite place why it bothered him this much. But it did.

Later that afternoon, Warren found him in the library surrounded by architectural books. He didn’t even look up.
“Well, hello to you too,” she rolled her eyes and sat across from him. Tom said nothing. He justified his anger to himself. Loyalty mattered. Loyalty and possession.
“Scamander doesn’t care about you,” he muttered eventually. Warren blinked at him, clearly confused. That only infuriated him more. “He probably just wants to get under your skirt,” he spat coldly, still not meeting her eyes. “You’re naive. All he has to do is show a little interest and you’ll trust him, won’t you?” Even without looking at her, he felt her go still. Somewhere, buried deep, he knew he’d crossed a line. But that had been the point. Warren abruptly stood up, reached into her bag, and slammed a heavy book onto the table between them.
“You’re cruel,” she whispered, eyes glassy with tears. Tom merely shrugged, unmoved. When he said nothing, she gathered her things and hurried off. He picked up the thick book she had dropped. Newt Scamander: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them – Extended Edition. There was a bookmark. He opened it to the marked page. Basilisks. Tom Riddle hated making mistakes. Hated admitting to them even more. And yet, he knew he should be making his way to the broken lavatory. But he was too proud, so he didn’t.
—

He sat in the dim abandoned classroom, where the several Slytherins had gathered again. The Knights of Walpurgis. For now, mostly still just a name. For now, mostly an idea. But his idea. And everyone in that room knew it. Malfoy, Black, Lestrange… each playing their part, each waiting for Tom to show them what came next. But tonight, he was impatient. He didn’t understand why he’d thought this meeting would help. It was Nott who spoke, low and almost conspiratorial, yet the moment the words left his mouth, silence fell like a shroud over the room. His gaze flickered toward Tom with the kind of unease that only men who’ve overheard something dangerous carry in their bones.
“I heard something. Dumbledore was speaking with Slughorn. About us.” Tom, who had been extinguishing the final torch with an idle flick of his wand, paused mid-motion and slowly turned back.
“All of us?”
“Not by name,” Nott muttered quickly. “But he mentioned… gatherings. Said he’s grown concerned about ‘certain ambitious extracurricular formations.’”
“That sounds like him. Sees his own shadow and thinks it’s an omen.” Lestrange gave a low chuckle, his voice echoing against the stone.
“It wasn’t just concern,” Nott pressed, as though the weight of the revelation refused to lift. “Black heard it too.” All heads turned toward Orion, leaning silently against the far wall. His jaw tensed as he nodded.
“He asked Slughorn if he knows about it. Luckily, Slughorn said nothing.” Tom’s blood chilled, not with fear, but the cold edge of calculation. Always Dumbledore. Ever the sentinel, the inconvenient conscience of Hogwarts.
“He wants to change the future,” Tom murmured, voice laced with disdain, “but he still plays by the rules of his own present. That’s his weakness.” A moment’s hush.
“Should we stop meeting?” Malfoy asked softly, almost ashamed of the question. Tom turned to him with a cold, clipped reply.
“Absolutely not. That is exactly what he wants.” He moved across the room. “We are not the sickness,” he said. “We are the cure. Let him ask his questions. He has no proof, only shadows.”
“True. And Slughorn is a shield, he likes you,” Lestrange pointed out, uncertain. Tom gave a cruel little smile.
“Slughorn is a snail. Soft, observant and easily cowed. So long as we give him no reason to retreat, he’ll keep crawling on the same path.” The room seemed to exhale all at once, tension easing into uneasy loyalty. And yet in Tom’s mind were too many things.

He had no time to waste. He was close, painfully close. The creature in the Chamber, Salazar’s biography, the last key. And Myrtle Warren, infuriating, foolish, but oddly vital, might still be holding something back. Whether she knew it or not. He would find out. Her face, the moment it fell, when he called her naive. He clenched his jaw. This was her fault. She could’ve kept it together. She should’ve stayed in her place. She shouldn’t have been so insulted. He had merely stated a fact. Anyone with half a brain could see how easily someone like her could be manipulated. If she was ignoring him now, it was just a weakness. And if it irritated him, that she didn’t even glance at him in class, that she left the library before he arrived, that she turned her eyes away when he passed the Ravenclaw table…well, it wasn’t because he cared. It was because the order had been disrupted. And he loathed disruption.
That night, he opened Scamander’s book again. Basilisks. Water. Darkness. Secrets. But something was still missing. He shut the book and sat still. His thoughts spiraled back to what had lost its rhythm. His rhythm, his system. Warren was like a puzzle piece he had carved and yet she had chosen not to fit. Maybe she simply needed to remember that ignoring him was not an option. Maybe she needed a reminder that if he stopped needing her, there would be nothing left of her. And maybe… maybe he needed to remind himself that his obsession with the Chamber of Secrets mattered far more than her. Still, when he finally lay in bed that evening, he stared at the ceiling for over an hour, wondering why he hadn’t stood up and gone to find her that day.
—

He found her sketching on the tiled ledge in the now-familiar lavatory. When she saw him, she snapped her sketchbook shut and began gathering her things.
“You know where Salazar's biography is,” he said, stepping into her path. She stared at him in disbelief, then scoffed.
“You’re impossible,” she muttered angrily and tried to slip past him. But Tom didn’t let her.
“You’re being difficult.” He raised a brow, cold and slow.
“I’m furious.”
“Same thing.” He was sure she was hiding something from him. He was angry that she was angry at him. And he was angry that it didn’t bother him, that she wasn’t afraid of him anymore. That the wide, anxious look in her eyes, the expectation that he might do something to her, was gone.
“Go on, say it. Tell me I’m stupid. Tell me I’m beneath you.” She stiffened.
“I don’t have to,” he growled. “You already know I think it.” Suddenly, a sharp sting bloomed on his cheek. She had slapped him. The jolt that coursed through Tom’s body was equal parts shock, thrill and irritation. He was oddly satisfied. He had provoked her enough to make her stop whining and crying and lash out instead. That was his doing. He smirked, taking her in with a slow, proud glance. “Good,” he muttered approvingly. But Myrtle shoved him away and stormed out of the bathroom. Tom was right behind her.

“It doesn’t make sense that the book isn’t there,” he called, striding after her, his voice low and fast, echoing down the stone corridors. “And that it doesn’t ever strike you as strange, what I ask, how I act.” The girl didn’t slow.
“It’s nearly curfew,” she hissed over her shoulder. “I don’t think this is the right time to be discussing things.” She hurried up a nearby staircase, but halfway up, the steps shuddered beneath their feet and began grinding into motion, pivoting to redirect. Warren lost her balance with a startled breath, her arms flailing. Tom took the rest of the steps in two strides and caught her by the shoulder, his grip firm, jaw clenched.
“But you’re avoiding me,” he said with a wolfish little grin. Her eyes were still wide, startled from the sudden fall, but then she steadied herself and pulled away, moving fast up the remaining stairs. His patience frayed. He followed. Fast. He stepped up right behind her, too close, forcing her to back away until her back met the cold stone wall. And for a heartbeat, neither of them moved. Darkness pressed around them as well as the silence. Tom inhaled to speak, lips barely parted and then—
“Is someone there? Peeves?” Dumbledore’s calm voice echoed around the bend. Tom swore under his breath. Without thinking, he grabbed Myrtle’s wrist and yanked her down a side corridor.
“What are you doing? You’re a Prefect and it’s barely past curfew—” she protested, breathless.
“You don’t understand,” he snapped, frustrated, leading her fast. “Dumbledore can’t see us. Can’t see me.” They ran blindly, twisting stairs, shifting corridors. They didn’t even know where they were anymore. The footsteps grew louder and Tom’s thoughts raced. He couldn’t risk being seen. Not tonight and especially not with her. The thought of Dumbledore finding out about Warren made him feel like the walls were suffocating him. Tom Riddle desperately needed to disappear and Myrtle Warren…she wished to disappear almost all the time.
Stumbling beside him, they rounded another corner and the stone wall beside them shifted. Without thinking, Myrtle dived into his robes, shielding herself as bricks pulled back, reshaping into a kind of mosaic. Tom stared. A door where there had been no door. He hesitantly extended a hand and the wall opened under his touch. The footsteps grew louder and rounded the corner. There was no time. He slipped his arm around the girl’s waist and the darkness swallowed them as the door melted away behind. Silence. The corridor vanished, the footsteps faded. The room was… strange. It felt endless, but also cozy. Almost too convenient. There was a fireplace, a velvet sofa, a chandelier casting low amber light, a table stacked with decanters and water pitchers. It was everything someone could need.
Tom suddenly realized he still held her loosely and slowly let go, stepping away with silent calculation.
“I think this is—” Myrtle breathed, dazed.
“The Room of Requirement,” Tom nodded, voice low.

Chapter Text

September 1942

Tom took a moment to collect himself, eyes scanning the strange chamber, though his attention soon drifted to Myrtle’s awe-struck expression. When she noticed his gaze lingering on her, her face darkened. She turned sharply and walked toward the seating, arms crossed in silent protest. Tom rolled his eyes and turned back toward the wall they’d passed through, now blank, void of doors or any entrance at all.
“We came from the second floor… but the staircase turned north… then we turned again—” he muttered, eyes narrowing in calculation.
“That’s pointless,” Myrtle snapped from the couch, clearly unimpressed. Tom glanced over his shoulder at her, one eyebrow raised. She sighed theatrically and let her head fall against the backrest. “It doesn’t matter where we found it. The Room of Requirement appears wherever it pleases. Once we leave, if we can leave, we likely won’t find it again.” Her voice was laced with frustration and she promptly returned to ignoring him.
“If you hadn’t overreacted, we could have stayed in the lavatory,” Tom murmured as he sank onto the couch beside her. She hissed something foul under her breath, but he let it slide. The silence that followed soon grew oppressive. Eventually, Myrtle exhaled with the weight of resignation.
“You know,” she said in a hushed voice, gaze fixed firmly away from him, “you could’ve just apologized.”
“I don’t apologize,” Tom replied coolly, voice low and firm. He saw her eyes drop to her lap, her fingers twitch, her head bow in a tight, defeated nod. It irritated him. That hadn’t been the reaction he intended. With an exasperated sigh, he pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “But I was wrong,” he ground out between clenched teeth. Myrtle blinked in surprise. “I shouldn’t have called you naive,” he added, this time turning away to hide his expression. A long silence followed and for the first time, it was Tom who found it unbearable. But he would give her nothing more, sorry was simply not in his vocabulary.
“All right,” she whispered at last, and only then did he realize he’d been holding his breath. She asked if he’d found anything useful in Scamander’s book and he merely nodded. But then Tom started wondering whether she meant to return the book. Whether she’d go back to that fool Scamander, smile up at him with grateful eyes while he stared at her like a pathetic idiot. The thought twisted something inside him. If he had the power, he’d render her invisible to every soul but himself. She was his discovery. And he had no intention of sharing. Yes, perhaps he was wrong for calling her naive, but he was definitely not wrong about Scamander. Absorbed in this spiral of possessive thoughts, he barely noticed when Myrtle rose and began examining the wall they’d entered through.
“This is bad,” she whimpered, voice tinged with panic. “How are we supposed to get out of here?” Tom lounged deeper into the sofa, deciding that he’d had enough worries for one day. Oddly, the notion of being trapped here with her didn’t trouble him in the slightest.
“We found the room because we both wanted to escape,” he mused aloud, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Maybe it assumes we still do not wish to leave. Or perhaps,” he added, voice sharp with mischief, “you don’t mind being here with me. And the Room knows.” Her cheeks flushed a brilliant red. Tom found it delightful.
“As if!” she snapped, falling to the far end of the sofa. Tom chuckled darkly but decided to get to business. He turned to her fully, gaze sharp, cutting.
“Come now, Warren. What are you hiding from me?” he said, suddenly cold. The light teasing had vanished and something dark had taken its place. Only he could switch so easily like this. Myrtle turned toward him, wary, retreating further into the corner.
“Nothing. I still don’t understand what more you want from me,” she whispered, eyes downcast. She was so bad at lying, he couldn’t believe he didn’t see it sooner. Tom shifted closer, resting an arm across the back of the couch, trapping her in. She had nowhere to go.
“Don’t insult me by pretending you’re stupid,” he said with a dark chuckle. “We both know you’re not.” She looked up at him. Although he learned most of her expressions, this one was new. Her cheeks were flushed, her breathing shallow, and in those wide eyes was something between terror and defiance. It made him feel something he couldn’t quite name. “You don’t want to get in my way,” he murmured. His voice was low, nearly tender, but it carried a warning. He watched the way the light flickered in her glasses, the freckles and spots dotting her pale skin, the way her fear slowly overtook her devotion, the slope of her nose, the tension in her jaw. And when the fear in her gaze became too much, when it flickered into something almost painful to witness, he pulled back as if burned. He stood abruptly, cursing under his breath, pacing like a beast unsettled. His fingers tore through his black hair in restless frustration. “What is wrong with you, Warren? To hell with Scamander and the rest. I took the Vow as well, I haven’t given you a reason not to trust me!” he groaned, the force of it more desperate than angry. He stared at her, the frustration in his face clear, as she shrank deeper into the cushions. “At least don’t ignore me!” he hissed at last and his voice echoed through the Room like an incantation. Myrtle clutched her satchel to her chest and looked at him. Her eyes were glassy again, as they often were, but this time she did not weep.
“What good would it do to trust you?” she asked, voice shaking but loud. “You hate Muggles! You and your precious followers. When you’re done with me, then what? Are you going to let Malfoy put me back on his list? You want me to stop being naive, but when I try to do something to protect myself, you act like I’ve betrayed you! Do you want to know why I never ask questions? Because I’m scared! Because people like you think someone like me doesn’t belong to this world! And I don’t want to know what people like you have in store for me!” Tears clung to her lashes but did not fall. She was afraid, but more so, she was furious. She was shouting at Tom Riddle and he stood there, stunned. Stunned by the fire in her voice, by the passionate anger of the invisible, weeping Myrtle Warren, who suddenly seemed lovely. Confused by her appearance, he somehow forgot what the most strategic answer would have been.
“For Merlin’s sake Warren,” he growled, voice hoarse, “You figure out everything else, but not this? I’m half-muggle myself! You think I’m incapable of making exceptions? You think I’d waste all this time with you, listen to you, speak to you, if all I saw was a filthy Mudblood?! There are no people like me.”

Myrtle stared at him for a moment longer, her face still flushed from the argument, but her breathing had slowed. The room settled into a strained quiet, like a held breath. Each returned to their end of the sofa, the silence hanging between them thick and uncertain. Tom could see her in the corner of his eye, wiping at her cheeks with both palms, expression tense and contemplative. He looked away.
“So, what’s the story then?” It came without a warning. Her voice was soft, casual almost, but the question struck like a blow. Tom turned toward her, taken aback. Of all the things he’d anticipated, that had not been one of them. He didn’t answer at first. Not because he was angry, though he often was, but because he genuinely didn’t know how. No one had ever asked. Not even the Knights really. That part of him had always been shut away, like a shameful relic buried beneath the polished surface of who he had wanted to be. He felt his jaw tighten. It was beneath him. He owed her nothing. The truth was a stain on his person. A scar. And yet, what could she do with it? She was bound by their magic not to speak of him. She had no connections, no status. She was, by all accounts, forgettable. And she didn’t look at him with pity, not yet. Even her anger had faded. And Tom was tired. Bone-deep tired. It was late and Myrtle Warren, infuriating, moody, inquisitive Warren, had managed to wear down his guard more thoroughly than any Dumbledore ever had.
“My mother was Merope Gaunt,” he didn’t look at her, but continued, voice cold and even. “The House of Gaunt is one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight,” he added, as if daring her to forget that. “But according to Dumbledore, and some Ministry records, my mother lived in an abusive household. After my grandfather and uncle were arrested and sent to Azkaban, she got involved with a wealthy Muggle from the countryside. Married him. And cursed me with the disgrace of his name Riddle.” The name left a bitter taste in his mouth, like rust. “Somewhere during her pregnancy, my arrogant father threw her out and she died shortly after giving birth to me. On the steps of a muggle orphanage in London.” His tone was detached now, as though reciting a medical fact. “They knew nothing of her. Dumbledore was the one who found me.” He fell silent. The admission rang through him like a hollow bell. He hated every syllable. When Myrtle looked at him with something dangerously close to sympathy, Tom felt his stomach turn. “If you say you’re sorry for me,” he said sharply, “I’ll obliviate you so thoroughly you’ll forget your own name.” Her eyes widened. She nodded hesitantly and he relaxed a fraction.
“Couldn’t you have lived with your father?” she asked, tentative.
“I want nothing to do with that pathetic excuse for a man,” said the Slytherin boy at once, voice low and venomous. He didn’t tell her that soon he won’t have to. That the problem would soon resolve itself, permanently. He glanced down at his pocket watch. Midnight. Leaning back against the seating, slightly bored, he still didn’t feel like leaving. When he realised, the brunette hadn’t said anything in a while, he turned to her, tired of her silence. “Well?” he said coolly. “Are you going to tell me yours or is this just a one-sided interrogation?” And although visibly surprised and taken aback by his questions, she did.

Myrtle Warren came from a Muggle family living on the outskirts of London. From her father, she inherited poor eyesight and the unfortunate glasses that framed her face. From her mother, the freckles that scattered across her nose and cheeks, the ones she despised so much. Ever since she was little, it had been clear to everyone that Myrtle was different. But people responded to that fact in very different ways. Her parents didn’t understand her. She never quite felt like she’d be important to them. They probably only ever wished she was a bit more like her perfect older brother Albert. The children in the neighborhood, and later at school, either mocked her, avoided her or ignored her entirely. Albert may have liked her, in his own way, but he was far too popular to be seen spending time with his little sister. So Myrtle learned to be alone. A few books, a sketchpad, and a pencil were usually enough.
When her Hogwarts letter arrived, she had believed it to be the answer to everything. Finally, a place where she might belong. But that wasn’t exactly how it turned out. The children at Hogwarts, especially the pure-bloods, showed her little respect. The other muggle-borns mostly kept to themselves. Her parents, rather than being proud, grew wary of her, of a world they didn’t understand. She didn’t blame them. Albert, on the other hand, was fascinated by magic. He often begged her to tell him everything. But as the war came, he had to join the army. And then came Olive Hornby and her friends, who had, from the very first year, decided that tormenting Myrtle was the most entertaining pastime Hogwarts had to offer. When her brother had died at Dunkirk, though her parents wrote to her from time to time and surely, in their own way, they must have loved her, she stopped even feeling homesick.
She wasn’t even sure where her home was anymore, if somewhere. No, Myrtle Warren didn’t feel at home anywhere. Not in the muggle world. Not in the magical one either. She spent most of her time in the Hogwarts library. In her first years, simply to avoid Hornby and her horrible friends. But later, she began to genuinely enjoy it. For the books, the quiet, and the strange kind of sanctuary it offered. It wasn’t long before Madam Agnes Scribner took a liking to her and Myrtle began helping around the library, mostly with shelving and sorting. In time, she gained regular access to the Restricted Section, and before long, she knew it better than the old librarian herself. Another place she retreated to often was the broken girls’ lavatory. It became a space to cry, to be alone, to sketch quietly in peace. No one ever bothered her there, except for the occasional intrusion from when Olive was particularly bored and went to torment her even there.

Tom Riddle was listening to her. Not so much to her words, but to the cadence of her voice, the rhythm, the way her lips moved as she spoke, the way her fingers fidgeted with the edge of her sleeve. He offered no words of comfort, no sympathetic noises. He didn’t promise her better days, nor did he try to cheer her up. That simply wasn’t the kind of man Tom Riddle was. To him, the past held little weight. Home, family, friendship, such things were unnecessary anchors. When she finished, he just gave a small hum of acknowledgment and filed her story somewhere in his mind under ‘mildly important’.
“I did take the biography,” she said suddenly, barely more than a whisper. Tom straightened, turning fully toward her. He didn’t snap or accuse. Arguments hadn’t worked and threats had proven ineffective. So this time, he waited, observing her every motion, every pause. “When you stumbled into me in the library… at the end of summer,” she continued, eyes fixed on the floor, “I realised you probably didn’t know. And maybe it was stupid, but I… I thought it might be a good safety net. So I took it.” She still didn’t dare meet his eyes. Again, he had that strange sensation, as if she was shrinking before him, becoming smaller, about to disappear. He didn’t really feel angry. If anything, he found himself vaguely impressed. After all, It had been a strategic move and that, he could at least respect.
“What didn’t I know?” he asked quietly, careful to keep his tone neutral and calm, to make it clear he wasn’t about to hex her into oblivion. She hesitated. Then looked up at him, and the pain in her expression stopped him cold. Something ancient and aching had surfaced behind her eyes, something he didn’t know how to meet. He very nearly reached for her. His hand lifted, as if pulled by something he hadn’t consented to. But he stopped himself, unsure of what he would have done if he hadn’t. Instead, she reached into her school bag and pulled out a worn copy of Macbeth. “Shakespeare?” Tom asked, almost amused. Myrtle raised her wand and with a whispered Revelio the illusion melted away. In the place of Shakespeare’s tragedy suddenly sat The Life of Salazar Slytherin. She placed the bag on the floor and shifted slightly closer to him.
“I read it a while ago,” she murmured. “There’s a lot in there, of course, but this part—” She opened the book to a marked page and showed him a huge family tree. “There’s a full genealogy. Somewhere along the Gaunt line, there’s a connection, a bloodline. It seems that Salazar Slytherin is your direct ancestor. That’s why I called you the ‘Heir of Slytherin’ that day. But when you looked confused… I thought maybe you didn’t know.” She finally looked up at him, uncertain, almost afraid.

Tom Riddle did not often experience any types of good feelings. But listening to Myrtle Warren’s soft voice, seeing her elegant fingers holding open the very key to everything, a sacred proof of legacy, of lineage, of power that was rightfully his, he felt something stir inside him. A strange, trembling exhilaration. He fought to remain composed, to keep his expression neutral. Yet, didn’t know what to do with the unfamiliar mixture of feelings not just toward the revelation, but toward the girl who had given it to him so willingly. Then he realized she was watching him and their eyes met. Her gaze was full of questions. Doubt, fear, a strange kind of sadness. As if it pained her to look at him for too long, she turned away, pulling back slightly. Tom wasn’t the kind of boy who made promises. He wasn’t the kind of boy who even knew how to give comfort. And yet, almost without thinking, he raised a hand, carefully and slowly and lifted her chin, guiding her wide eyes back to his. Her skin was warm against his fingers. His hand, by contrast, was ice. Now he understood why she was so taken aback in the library that day.
“I’ll still take care of you,” he said firmly. It was something between a promise and a threat. “You’re not like the others.” He watched with strange satisfaction as her cheeks flushed red again, a faint smile on her lips. The sight of it stirred something he couldn’t name and he quickly withdrew his hand. Warren didn’t resist when he reached for the sacred book. She let him take it without a word and turned back to her bag. From it, she drew a sketchbook and curled up in her corner of the couch. Resting the pad on her knees, she quietly began to draw. Tom was almost mesmerised. She didn’t say anything else and just assumed he would want to start reading. She just quietly withdrew. Tom opened the book, Salazar’s name gleaming faintly in the low light, but his eyes, without meaning to, kept drifting back to her. There was a softness and calm in the small girl. Before she could feel his gaze and ask why he was staring, he forced his attention back to the page.

This was it. The book lay heavy in his lap, the leather worn but dignified, as though aware of the centuries it had endured. The Life of Salazar Slytherin. His fingers brushed over the name, reverent despite himself. He opened it to the marked page. There it was. Not loud, not triumphant, just quiet ink, measured script. But to him, it roared. Slytherin. Gaunt. He stared at it, unmoving, as the silence pressed in around him like velvet, thick and suffocating, yet oddly luxurious.
He always knew he was different. The orphanage had tried to convince him otherwise. The professors had tried to confine him within the polite corridors of education. But now it was undeniable. It was not pride, not a delusion. It was his blood. A direct heir. Not merely of a House, but of a vision. A founder. A man who had seen the rot at the core of the magical world and dared to dream of a purer one. Tom exhaled slowly, his breath barely audible in the stillness. His heart beat not faster, but heavier, each pulse a drum of ancient thunder in his ears. Everything has changed now. No longer a brilliant boy with dark eyes and dangerous talents. No longer just a clever Slytherin with followers and whispers behind his back. Now he was something more. Something written. His name, once a stain, could be reforged. Not just respected, feared. He had been building something already: alliances, influence, knowledge. But all of that was dust without legacy. And now he had it. Now he had roots. Not even Abraxas with his ancient and noble House of Malfoy had such powerful ancestors. Tom closed the book gently and rested it atop his knee. He had plenty of time to read it. The air seemed clearer. The room quieter. He looked at the girl across from him.
She had fallen asleep. Her head lolled softly against the arm of the couch, sketchbook still propped delicately against her knees, though the pencil had slipped from her hand. One page bore the start of something now unfinished, forgotten. Her glasses had slipped just slightly down the bridge of her nose. And Tom Riddle watched. He sat motionless, the book closed in his lap, one hand resting atop it like a seal. The Room of Requirement, responding to their quiet, had dulled its light, casting long shadows against the stone. It painted Myrtle’s sleeping face in soft amber and outlined the hollows of her cheeks, the curl of her lip, the freckles on her pale skin. She looked harmless. Asleep, she lost that sharpness she tried to wear since she met him. No tremble in her voice. No fear. Just breath and warmth and bone. Tom tilted his head slightly. She had placed herself beside him, fallen asleep beside him, as though there was no danger at all in that act. As if she didn’t realize what kind of person she was nestling herself next to. He could do anything to her. The thought was not salacious. It was cold. Matter of fact. She was here, unconscious, defenseless. Her life, her body, her knowledge, they were all, for this moment, entirely his. He could cast a curse and she’d never wake. He could search her mind. Steal her memories. Erase her completely. And yet, he didn’t. Instead, he observed. Intently. As if still somehow trying to solve her. Her mouth parted slightly as she breathed, her brow twitching now and then with dreams. One hand curled loosely near her chest, like she was holding onto something he couldn’t see.
There was nothing exceptional about Myrtle Warren. Not in the usual sense. She wasn’t powerful. Wasn’t radiant. She didn’t command attention in corridors or silence rooms with a glance. And still, here she was. Wrapped in the same shadows as him. Knowing things no one else knew. Carrying secrets that could ruin him or crown him. And she had given them willingly. She had made herself small beside him, again and again. Had followed him, challenged him, insulted him, feared him and now, asleep, had given him the one thing no one else ever had. A complete and endless trust. Tom didn’t know what to do with that. It irritated him. It cracked something inside that he had long since buried. He felt the weight of the book shift slightly in his lap. The biography. His birthright. His future. He looked from it to her. And in the strange quiet that followed, he realised he didn’t want her to wake up and be afraid. He wanted her to wake and stay and follow him. Even if it meant keeping that monstrous part of himself on a leash, just a little while longer. He didn’t like that. But he didn’t push it away, either.

She shifted in her sleep, murmured something incoherent, and curled deeper into the cushions. The sketchbook, now loosened from her knees, threatened to slide to the floor and Tom immediately caught it. Instinct, nothing more. But once it was in his hands, he didn’t return it. Instead, he opened it and began rifling through her drawings with a kind of carelessness. It was impolite, but he didn’t stop. They were good. In fact, they were very good. Not that he had ever been fond of art, he saw little use in it, but her lines were clean, confident, precise. She had sketched mandrakes and the Astronomy Tower, students lounging in what was likely the Ravenclaw common room, a Quidditch match mid-air and even Madam Scribner with her crooked spectacles and vulture-like posture. And then… she had drawn him.
He froze. Tom Riddle knew full well that a portrait was not a mirror. It was a reflection of the artist, of how they perceived the subject. But still, this caught him off guard. His face, angular and sharp, but softened somehow, not with affection, but with observation. The detail was startling. The fall of his dark hair. The line of his mouth when it was still. His eyes, dark and hollow, stared out from the page not with cruelty, but with thought. She had studied him. Carefully. Repeatedly. His first instinct was revulsion. It felt like a violation. He was supposed to be the observer, not the observed. He controlled what others saw, what they knew, what they feared. And yet here he was, trapped in graphite, in her hand. Rendered without permission. But then something shifted. The longer he stared, the harder it became to look away. She hadn’t drawn him as a monster. She hadn’t softened him either, not romantically, not naively. But she’d seen him. Seen something most never bothered to. And preserved it. In silence. In secret. Just for herself. He felt the cold rise in his throat, that usual thing, that defense against being known, and yet it didn’t land. Not fully. The image stared back at him, untouched by his anger. It existed whether he accepted it or not. Whether he liked it or not.
She stirred again, barely. A lock of hair fell across her cheek. He was just about to shut the sketchbook when, with a clumsy turn of the page containing his own portrait, another drawing caught his eye. At first glance, it seemed harmless and almost mundane. It was the massive, white-marble sink complex from her lavatory. She had drawn it from multiple angles, every smallest detail rendered with eerie precision. The tilework. The reflection of the overhead sconces. Even the barely noticeable inscription of snakes coiled around the tap handles. Tom smirked faintly at the small serpent emblem and then his brows furrowed. He didn’t really think through and simply tore the drawing out, folded it once, and shoved it deep into the inner pocket of his robe. Then, carefully, he returned the sketchbook to its original place beside her. He checked his watch. Two in the morning. Exhaling sharply, he looked up toward the wall they had entered through and his eyes closed briefly in resignation. He thought of Warren, sleeping beside him, who had already wished they would leave before and who should probably return to her dormitory after all. He thought, somewhat begrudgingly, that by now, he too wouldn’t mind leaving. When he opened his eyes, the wall had already begun shifting. Tiles clicking into place, a mosaic rearranging itself into a door. Tom Riddle sighed again, low and tired and turned back toward the girl.
But Warren remained fast asleep, curled against the cushions like some small, stubborn creature that refused to be roused by time or consequence. He stared at her. Waking someone should be simple. A sharp noise. A spell. Even a nudge. But the thought of touching her again made something clench in his chest. Not fear. Not guilt. Something more frustrating. He shifted slightly, leaned forward and opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. Her name felt strange on his tongue now. Too soft. Too known. He scowled. This was absurd. She was just a girl. A Ravenclaw. A muggle-born with too many feelings and a penchant for crying and hiding behind sarcasm and books. And yet she slept beside him as if the world were safe. As if he were safe.
“Warren,” he said at last, low and clipped. No response. He tried again, louder. “Warren.” She stirred, but did not wake. He glanced toward the conjured door. He didn’t really want to leave her in the Room alone. His hand hovered for a moment between her shoulder and her cheek, unsure which gesture would be less intimate. He hated this. Finally, with a sharp sigh of defeat, he tapped the cushion beside her with two fingers. “Warren,” he said firmly. “Wake up.” And when her brown eyes fluttered open, dazed and confused, his breath caught just slightly. “We can leave,” he said quickly, nodding toward the newly formed door. The girl smiled, exhausted.
“How did you do that?” she asked sleepily. Tom nearly hexed her. He really hoped she wasn’t so careless with everyone.
“You must’ve finally wished to sleep somewhere else,” he smirked a bit mockingly, rising to his feet. Myrtle groaned in irritation, but didn’t argue.
—

She was so dazed with exhaustion on the way to the Ravenclaw Tower that Tom feared, for a fleeting and most unwanted moment, he might have to carry her up the stairs. With visible reluctance, he offered his arm and when she looked at him in confusion, he simply took her hand and looped it through his own.
“I’m not levitating you all the way up. Come on,” he muttered, voice tinged with a slight annoyance, cursing Merlin inwardly for whatever twist of fate had brought him to this utterly absurd situation.
“Sorry,” the sleepy brunette murmured beside him, her fingers tangled gently in the fabric of his sleeve. Eventually, he did mutter that it was fine. Outside the entrance to the Ravenclaw common room, he briefly thanked her for the book she had once hidden from him. And silently, he thanked Salazar himself that she was too tired to say anything meaningful in return.

And then Tom Riddle walked alone.The halls were empty. The moon spilled pale light through the high windows. His footsteps echoed softly against stone, the only sound in the castle awake at this hour. He made his way back toward the Slytherin dungeons with deliberate slowness, his mind sharp despite the hour. It had been a day of complications. The argument in the lavatory had been trivial at first. A simple miscalculation. But it had spiraled. Into fury. Into the strange Room. The Room of Requirement was definitely something he had not predicted. Rather one of the things from that day, that he had not predicted. Like her standing up to him or shouting at him. And then his story. The one he kept sealed behind silence and pride. He had told her. Spoken the words aloud. About his mother, about the orphanage, about the name that had shackled him to shame. And he even asked about her. Why, because he wanted to know? Because he felt… what? Curiosity? Control? His jaw clenched. He thought of the revelation. Of Salazar, the bloodline and his inheritance. He had always felt that he was meant for more. That he carried something ancient, dark, potent. But now, there was proof. Heir of Slytherin by name, by blood, by destiny. Not a title stolen, not a mask worn, a truth buried in veins and legacy. He should have felt triumphant. He did. But there was so much more. Warren knew things and willingly gave them away. Not out of duty. Not fear. Not desire. Simply because she trusted him.
Tom reached the dungeon entrance and paused. Trust was a weakness. He had no use for it. He despised it in others and buried it in himself. So why did it linger? Why did her voice still echo in the corners of his mind like a spell half-cast? He slipped inside the dormitory, the cold of the stone walls familiar, calming. He sat at the edge of his bed, fingers brushing the old sacred book. She was wrong to trust him. And yet, some deep and traitorous part of him hoped she wouldn’t stop.

Chapter Text

September 1942

Tom spent the entire following day studying the biography. He even skipped classes and, by evening, called an urgent meeting of the Knights of Walpurgis. He had spent ample time occluding, but even then, he couldn’t suppress the adrenaline coursing through him at the prospect of the impending revelation.
The air was thick with the scent of stone and mold, candle smoke, and the faint, metallic chill of something dark. The dungeons were cold, carved with forgotten runes and cloaked in shadow. They sat around the table. Nott, all twitching fingers and nervous grandeur, Orion Black, sharp-eyed and lean, Lestrange, poised like a statue bored of waiting and Abraxas Malfoy, white-haired proud boy, composed with his hands steepled under his chin. The candlelight flickered, restless and Tom entered. Tom Riddle did not rush. He did not smile. He took his place at the table like a king reclaiming a throne that had always belonged to him. No one spoke.
“Thank you,” he said at last, voice still like water. “For coming on such short notice.” Lestrange scoffed quietly.
“You summoned us. It’s not as if we had a choice.” Tom met his eyes and the boy fell silent.
“I’ll be brief,” Tom said smoothly, letting the moment stretch, letting their discomfort bloom into attention. “I found something.” He placed the book on the table in front of him. Just so they could see the title. The Life of Salazar Slytherin. The room seemed to contract around it. “I know most of you,” he continued, “believe bloodlines matter. And I won’t waste time debating that belief. You’re here because you know power is not given, it is inherited. Taken. Preserved.” A pause. The candle nearest Orion cracked. “I used to think I had no strong inheritance. That I would carve a new name for myself, not out of legacy, but through force alone.” He looked down at the book, then back at them and smiled. Not kindly. “I was wrong.” Something in the room shifted, like the walls had drawn a collective breath. “I am a direct descendant of Salazar Slytherin,” he said, calm, clear, merciless. “By blood. By line. By ideals.” The silence was deafening. Nott’s brows rose a fraction and Lestrange blinked too many times. Even Malfoy shifted not out of disbelief, but calculation. Then Black spoke.
“Do you have a reason to believe that?” Tom didn’t answer right away. He opened the book to the genealogy and stepped aside, letting the candlelight fall upon it. Names danced across the page in crisp, ancient ink. Gaunt. Slytherin. Merope Riddle and a child. They leaned in. One by one. And they saw. When Tom finally spoke again, his voice was quiet but sharper than ever.
“You’ve followed me because there’s more to us. Because we can give the wizards back the power that is rightfully ours. Because Muggles don’t deserve any.” He stepped forward. “And now… now we know we were chosen for this.” His eyes burned, not with fire, but with certainty. “This school, this world…it rots from within. Weak blood, weak minds, diluted magic. We can change that. But not as rebels. Not as boys playing at power.” He looked at each of them in turn. “We do it as heirs.”

A long silence followed. Tom watched them, expression unreadable. He did not smile. But inside, something bloomed. Then Lestrange stood without a word and crossed to the old wooden cabinet tucked behind a tapestry. He opened it, pulled out a heavy bottle of firewhisky, reserved for moments of significance, and conjured five crystal glasses.
“To legacy,” he toasted and they all raised their drinks. “An heir,” he muttered with a crooked smile, setting his empty glass down with a little clink. “Well. That certainly changes things.”
“It explains a great deal,” Nott chuckled darkly, watching Tom from the corner of his eye. Orion Black leaned back in his chair, one leg crossed elegantly over the other, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. His curious gaze was fixed on Tom.
“How did you find it? The book,” asked the noble boy. Voice like silk, but his eyes were all blades. Orion Black was the second oldest after Tom and probably the second most intelligent as well. Tom didn’t answer right away. He reached for his own glass, did not drink, and ran a finger slowly down its rim.
“It came into my possession,” he said smoothly. Abraxas raised an eyebrow.
“From where? It seems to be a Restricted document. I've never seen it before.” Tom’s lips curled slightly.
“Perhaps your family lacks the necessary… motivation.” Lestrange gave a low amused whistle and raised another glass. They drank, some with reverence, some with calculation. Black sipped and never looked away from Tom.
“You didn’t answer my question,” he said and Tom set his untouched glass down with a soft tap.
“And I won’t.” Silence. It wasn’t a threat. It was worse. It was a line drawn, one none of them had the confidence to cross. “I have my sources,” Tom said at last, almost lazily. “And some secrets have more value when they stay buried.” He leaned forward, eyes catching the flame of the candle just enough to look gilded. “What matters is not how I found the truth, only that it is the truth. And that from now on, everything changes a bit.” He let the words hang there. No one spoke. Even Lestrange was quiet now. They weren’t fools. They knew what it meant. Tom Riddle had always been dangerous. But now he had legitimacy. Now he had history at his back. Almost a royal one. Blood, legacy, myth. Now, he wasn’t simply the dangerous brilliant boy at Hogwarts. He was something higher. Something inevitable. Something they would all follow or be crushed by. As the meeting came to a close, Tom turned to face them one last time. His expression was glacial. “No one is to know. For now.” The boys nodded.
“Does Dumbledore know?” Nott asked suddenly. Tom’s brow furrowed, and he fell deep into thought. After a moment, he spoke.
“Even if he does, he doesn’t know that I know. That’s what matters,” he said quietly, more to himself than to them. He almost missed Black’s question.
“Does anyone else know, besides us?” For the briefest second, an image of a small brunette with large round glasses flashed behind Tom’s eyes. But with her came also the memory of her face twisted in fear, anger and sadness. When you’re done with me, then what? No. Warren was his. He wasn’t sure what exactly, but unmistakably his.
“No, no one else knows,” he said firmly.
—

Later that evening, Tom made his way up to the Astronomy Tower, as he often did. He could think better there. The cold fresh air, the darkness, and the weightlessness the height offered made it the perfect refuge. He lit a cigarette and sat on the stone floor, staring out into the night.
“I thought I might find you here,” came a quiet voice behind him. He didn’t turn.
“That’s new. You looking for me now?” he replied, a little annoyed. When she said nothing, he sighed in resignation. “Are you going to stand there like some kind of ghost, or are you going to sit with me Warren?” He cleared his throat and set the cigarette box and lighter beside him on the stone tile. She sat next to him and lit her own. He liked the way she did it. With that quiet, effortless assurance. He liked the way the smell of smoke tangled with her scent. “What do you know about Parseltongue?” he asked suddenly.
“There’s little I can know, unless I speak it myself,” she replied, eyes dropping to her lap. “Most Parselmouths are said to be associated with the Dark Arts. Other witches and wizards tend to look at them with fear or distrust.” Tom hummed in reply. “You speak Parseltongue,” she said suddenly, more a statement than a question. The always calm certainty in her voice startled him enough that he didn’t even think to deny it.
“How do you know?”
“It’s expectable,” she said with a shrug. “The ability to speak and understand it is usually inherited.” She was strange. She spoke of things most people whispered about with calm, with ease, as if it were no more than academic interest. If something didn’t affect her directly, it seemed she had no fear or any particular interest in it.
“But you don’t look at me with fear or distrust,” Tom noted, exhaling a slow drag of smoke.
“No.” She replied reluctantly and he looked at her properly for the first time that evening, eyes narrowed. She was watching him through her large, round glasses, and even in the shadowed moonlight, he could see that wide-eyed expression. He felt the edge between them, sharp and delicate, like glass underfoot. He probably shouldn’t let her cross it.
“Maybe you should,” he warned, voice low. Myrtle tilted her head slightly, still watching him.
“Do you want me to?” she asked, thoughtful and Tom was a man far too selfish to give her more than one warning. He flicked the cigarette off the edge of the Astronomy Tower and watched the ember fall. His eyes darkened.
“I don’t.”

They remained silent for the rest of their time on the tower and Tom suddenly became so acutely aware of everything around him that it exhausted him. The autumn wind, growing colder by the day. The occasional glint of moonlight when it slipped out from behind the clouds. The girl beside him. The warmth radiating from her, the sound of her breathing, the way her robes shifted every time she moved. All of it pressed in on him and he began to feel a kind of lightness, like the dizzy float after a few glasses of firewhisky, which wasn’t particularly safe.
“It’s late. Come on,” he said, more abrupt than he meant to, as he got to his feet. Myrtle followed without question, and they walked together through the hidden passages toward the Ravenclaw Tower. She said nothing the entire way, and that made Tom uneasy. She wasn’t usually this quiet. “Is everyone treating you alright?” he asked suddenly once they reached the entrance. Myrtle nodded and smiled softly up at him. And before he could stop it, something like a smile threatened the edge of his own mouth. He cleared his throat quickly and nodded back. His face felt warm. The chill of the dungeons suddenly sounded like a very safe destination.
“Goodnight,” he muttered and turned away. That night, Tom Riddle had planned to visit the broken lavatory and study the sink statue, but he felt so uncharacteristically overwhelmed that he went straight to bed instead.
—

It was announced on a gray Thursday morning during a Defence Against the Dark Arts class.
“Starting next week,” said Dumbledore, eyes sweeping the classroom like a net, “we’ll begin working with the Patronus Charm.” A pause followed. Not out of confusion, everyone in the room had heard of it, but anticipation. Excitement. Whispers. Tom Riddle said nothing. He sat at his desk, posture perfect, fingers folded neatly on the wood. But inside, a coil began to tighten. “The spell requires a certain strength of mind,” Dumbledore continued, voice pleasant but never light. “Not just intelligence, though many of you have that in abundance. Not raw power, either. Rather, it demands clarity. Focus. Lightness of being.” Tom’s jaw tightened. Lightness of being. Ridiculous. He could cast Cruciatus if he wanted to. He could manipulate minds. He could vanish a book from a shelf without moving a finger. But a Patronus? That charm had always hovered just outside his reach. And worse, it wasn’t a silent failure. It was visible. Public. A room full of students would see his wand remain dark. Dumbledore turned toward the blackboard, conjuring a flickering silver wisp in the air, the beginnings of a graceful phoenix. The room gasped softly.
“I want you to begin thinking,” the professor said, “of a memory. Not just a happy one, a pure one. Something untouched by fear or bitterness. Something that belongs only to you.” Tom’s eyes dropped to the page in front of him. Pure and happy. He couldn’t even name a memory that qualified. The classroom had emptied slowly. Chairs scraped. Wands were holstered. Students filed out in pairs, buzzing with excitement over the upcoming lesson. Someone near the door was already trying to remember what a “pure” memory might even feel like. Tom lingered. He always lingered when he wanted to control the narrative. Dumbledore stood at his desk, calmly vanishing chalk marks from the board with a wave of his fingers, as though he hadn’t already sensed the boy behind him wasn’t preparing to leave.
“Mr. Riddle,” he said without turning. “Is there something?” Tom stepped forward slowly, hands in his pockets, expression carefully schooled into one of polite detachment.
“I’d prefer not to take part in the Patronus unit,” he said plainly. Dumbledore paused mid-motion and the chalk vanished anyway.
“Prefer?” he echoed gently. Tom gave a slight shrug. The older wizard turned to face him fully, hands folded, head tilted slightly, that maddening look that said he saw more than he let on.
“It seems… unnecessary. I’d rather devote my time to —”
“And why,” Dumbledore interrupted softly, “would a boy of your talents not want to master a spell so fundamentally tied to one’s inner strength?” There was no mockery in the question. Which somehow made it worse. Tom’s smile tightened.
“The spell is of little use outside of Dementor defense and I find that emotional projection isn’t particularly… my discipline. I could be more productive working independently. Perhaps an advanced charm essay or additional dueling work.” He said it well. Calm. Rational. Arrogant enough to be convincing, but not disrespectful. He even allowed a faint smile.
“And is the difficulty with the charm itself… or with the memory?” Tom stiffened. It was a half-second, barely enough for anyone else to notice, but Dumbledore always did.
“I didn’t say there was any difficulty,” Tom replied, cold and clipped. “I simply find the exercise… sentimental.”
“A dangerous word,” Dumbledore said softly, “for a boy your age.” Tom tilted his head.
“Is sentiment required to defeat the Dark Arts?”
“No,” Dumbledore replied, “but understanding yourself often is.” A pause. The light flickered low. The silence pressed in. “I’ll think about your essay proposal. But I encourage you, Mr. Riddle, to at least try. I would regret,” he added gently, “to see your usual academic excellence fail to reflect itself here, simply because you refused to try.” The air in the room shifted, not sharp, not hostile. But the message was unmistakable. Tom’s jaw tightened. For a brief moment, neither of them spoke. Then Tom bowed his head just slightly, enough to end the conversation, but not enough to suggest agreement. And turned to leave.

Outside the classroom, barely breathing, Myrtle Warren leaned against the cool stone beside the entrance. She hadn’t meant to stop. She’d stayed behind to grab a forgotten quill, had seen the door ajar, and heard Tom’s voice. She hadn’t counted on how quickly the conversation would end or how quiet his footsteps could be when he was furious. The Slytherin boy stopped when he saw her and she straightened instantly, like a guilty child caught stealing ink.
“You’ve been eavesdropping,” he said. Not a question. She looked up at him through those wide round glasses, trying to school her face into something neutral, but failing. Tom didn’t bother stepping closer. He didn’t need to. He could see it in her, the slight flush to her cheeks, the way she clutched her books too tightly against her chest. He should have been angry. But he wasn’t. He was too angry with Dumbledore. Too frustrated. He exhaled sharply through his nose and looked away for a moment, as if trying to collect himself. Warren shifted, uncertain.
“I wasn’t trying to—”
“Don’t lie,” he said, voice low, but not cruel. She bit her lip and he glanced back at her. She didn’t look smug. She didn’t look scared. She just looked a bit concerned. Again. He hated that. “I’m not angry,” he said after a beat. That surprised her, visibly. And somehow he hated that too. “I just don’t appreciate being observed,” he added. “Not when I haven’t chosen it.” She nodded understandably.
“I don’t like the spell either,” she offered after a moment. “Olive Hornby somehow already knows how to cast it. Over the holidays she even sent her annoying peacock to mock me. Probably just to let me know she can cast it now, but still…” she said, annoyed with the memory. Tom tried to suppress a low laugh. He wasn’t laughing at her, he was laughing at the absurdity of how vastly different their reasons were for resenting the spell. He also imagined the poor peacock, squawking in Hornby’s unbearable voice, and almost felt sorry for the Patronus.
“You could tell Dumbledore,” he then said with a smirk. “With a bit of luck, he might cancel the requirement altogether.” And they simply walked together to their next class.
—

The fire in the Slytherin common room burned low, more for atmosphere than warmth. The Slytherins were used to cold due to living in the dungeons. Its green glow flickered across velvet drapes and old portraits, throwing shadows that made everything look older and heavier. The Knights were spread across the couches in their usual loose formation. Orion Black, lounging with studied indifference, Nott thumbing through a copy of Magical Theory in Conflict, Abraxas with his expensive boots crossed neatly on the table, sipping something dark from a silver flask. And Lestrange perched like a crow on the arm of a chair, eyes far too curious for his own good.
“They’re really making us learn the Patronus Charm?” Abraxas scoffed. “What a waste. As if the Ministry would let Dementors near Hogwarts anyway.”
“Dumbledore’s idea,” Nott muttered. “He thinks it’s character-building.”
“Speaking of the class, Tom didn’t I see you leaving that lesson with the mudblood? The one that’s always crying?” said Lestrange suspiciously with a face of visible disgust. Tom, who had been leaning in a shadowed corner near the fireplace, didn’t look up immediately. He could feel their eyes, though. A flicker of amusement in Abraxas’s smirk, the raised brow of Orion, the calculating curiosity of Lestrange.
“I stay behind sometimes,” he said calmly, “Dumbledore likes to talk.” Lestrange tilted his head.
“About Patronuses?”
“About expectations,” Tom said evenly. “Which I always exceed.” Nott snorted. Abraxas raised his flask in a mock toast. Orion, though, was watching him more carefully now, like someone beginning to suspect there was more under the surface.
“And the crying girl?” he asked with a cruel smirk. Tom pushed off from the wall, smoothing his sleeves.
“I don’t know, she was just there. I don’t keep a track of every filthy student here, ask Malfoy then” he lied calmly with a mocking smirk and Nott laughed. When Black excused himself to go study with Walburga, it gave Tom a chance to retire as well.
—

He left the Slytherin dorms and checked his watch. It was late afternoon. The conversations with his classmates had become increasingly draining and irritating, so without much thought, he found himself heading to the library. A few students sat scattered around the large tables, and Madam Scribner was writing something into a massive ledger.
“Is Warren here? Myrtle,” Tom asked her, a trace of impatience in his voice.
“Ah, Tom…good afternoon to you too. You really mustn’t startle me like that,” the librarian scolded gently. Tom gave a curt nod and mumbled an apology, waiting for her answer. She finally looked up from her notes. “Yes, Myrtle’s somewhere in the back. Though I think she came in with someone,” she added, frowning in thought. Tom’s brows knit. For a split second, he wondered if he didn’t miss any signs from the Vow, but not a sting in his arm, not a tightening in his chest, nothing happened. Still, his pace slowed as he moved deeper into the rows of bookshelves, until he heard her nervous laugh. He stepped out from around the corner smoothly, and the moment he spotted Scamander standing near the table where she sat, his expression soured.
“Warren,” he said quietly but firmly as he reached them, “I need to speak with you.” The Hufflepuff boy turned to him with disinterest.
“Why? Can’t it wait?”
“What business is it of yours? And no, it can’t,” Tom said darkly through gritted teeth, towering over the other boy like a shadow pulled taut with tension. Myrtle stood quickly, scrambling to gather her things.
“I’m really sorry, we have an essay together,” she offered Scamander an awkward smile and then without thinking hooked her arm through Tom’s and pulled him away.

“What the hell was that?” she hissed at him quietly as they left the library.
“What the hell was that? You tell me. Why are you wasting your time with someone like him?” he shot back, visibly irritated, as they automatically began heading toward the Astronomy Tower.
“I wasn’t wasting time with anyone. I was just returning the book from his grandfather,” she replied defensively, baffled. “What do you even need from me?” she asked as they walked down the long corridor. Tom stopped. He didn’t actually need anything. He didn’t want to talk about the Chamber of Secrets, he already had a fairly clear idea of where to look, and he definitely didn’t want her to know about it. He didn’t really want anything from her at all. And yet, he had no idea how to answer.
“If you were just giving back the book,” he said eventually, raising an eyebrow, “then why did he look so bothered that you were leaving?” She dropped her gaze, shifting awkwardly.
“He just asked if I’d like to go for a walk…with him,” she muttered quietly. Tom tilted his head at her.
“A walk?” he repeated with disgust and she nodded. He immediately pictured that blundering idiot dragging her off somewhere near the Forbidden Forest only to bolt at the first suspicious noise and leave Warren behind. Tom was already cycling through which hexes he could send at Scamander without getting caught, when her voice broke through his thoughts again.
“Look, I know it sounds stupid, but no one’s ever asked me like that before and—” Before she could finish the sentence, Tom suddenly grabbed her wrist and spun them both around. “What are you doing? Where are we going?” she demanded, confused, as he led her down the corridor.
“You wanted to go for a walk. I’m taking you for one.”
—

Once they stepped out into the courtyard, Myrtle glanced at Tom suspiciously. He was staring ahead, eyes narrowed, scanning the grounds.
“Forget it. It’s too cold, let’s go back,” she offered awkwardly. But before she could turn, he had already drawn his wand and muttered something under his breath. Within seconds, her robe transformed into a warm autumn coat. Then he did the same with his own. Her eyes widened even more than usual and Tom finally looked at her.
“If you’re cold, tell me,” he said simply, then turned toward the horizon. “The sun’s setting soon, so we shouldn’t go too far. But a walk to the lake should do.” When she didn’t move, he turned back to her and tilted his head. The setting sunlight reflected in her glasses, softening her entire expression. Her usually dull brown hair glinted copper in the fading light, and that ever-curious look in her eyes seemed somehow gentler now. For a fleeting moment, Tom Riddle understood why Malcolm Scamander had asked her out. And it irritated him even more. No. He would not let something like that happen. Warren was bound to secrecy but what if the stupid Hufflepuff started asking the right questions or used her somehow. That would be a risk for him as well. He was doing all of this preventively. “Come on, or we’ll miss it,” he prompted, and she finally began to walk beside him.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked softly after a while. Tom shrugged.
“You said you wanted someone to take you for a walk.”
“You’re way too opportunistic for that,” she replied firmly, clearly expecting a different answer. He didn’t respond. Instead, he rather asked if she was warm enough. She sighed and nodded with a faint, sad smile. If he paid more attention to her expressions, which of course he didn’t, he would’ve classified this one under ‘Not a Favorite’. But when they reached the hill and the Black Lake came into view, glowing with the last streaks of sunset, her face changed. She stared, enchanted, at the shimmering water and for the first time, Tom couldn’t picture her ever looking miserable.
“I’ve never seen it like this,” she whispered, breathless. He glanced at the lake. Though he didn’t feel anything close to warmth, he let her have the moment, if only because her face now looked like one of those ‘Definitely better than usual’ ones. They stayed on the hill a little longer, until the sun dipped low and time pressed forward. They began heading back and Tom silently cursed that he had ever learned Occlumency instead of Legilimency.

“I don’t want you spending time with Scamander,” he burst out suddenly. “I don’t want you going for walks with him.” Myrtle stopped for a second, blinking at him with a bemused look. But when she realized he was serious, her brows furrowed.
“Why not?”
“I just don’t. He’s not good for you,” Tom muttered, jaw tense, eyes fixed ahead. Myrtle scoffed in irritation and continued walking.
“Why does it even matter?” she accused. “To you. Why does it matter to you?” Tom was still, barely breathing. The grass stirred around his legs, cool and alive.
“I don’t like repeating myself,” he said eventually.
“That’s not an answer.” He stepped toward her. Slowly. Deliberately. She didn’t back away. His voice, when it came, was low and cold.
“Because you belong with me, not wandering around with some dull-witted fool who thinks kindness is a virtue.” She was caught off guard for a moment.
“You mean, belong to you?” He tilted his head slightly, the barest shadow of something flickering behind his dark eyes.
“That would make things simpler,” he admitted. For a moment, the words hung there, between them, vulnerable and heavy. She looked at him, the disappearing sun catching in her glasses one last time.
“You don’t even know what I’m like.”
“I know enough,” he replied, almost harshly, as if to stop himself from knowing more. “You’re not stupid. You see things you shouldn’t. You ask the wrong questions. And you’re far too calm when you should be afraid.” The last words came out bitterly, almost accusingly. As if it were her fault he couldn’t shake this restlessness. A breeze moved through the trees again, lifting strands of her hair, carrying the scent of lakewater.
“Yet you’re afraid to ever have me” she said almost automatically, voice barely above a whisper. He narrowed his eyes and something twisted deep in his chest. He wanted to laugh. Or hex her. Or press her against the nearest tree just to make her stop talking. Instead, he said nothing. Just looked at her with an expression she couldn’t read. She turned and began walking again, not waiting this time. The sun was already gone. And Tom Riddle, who had never followed anyone, followed her back toward the castle.

By the time they reached the main entrance, the last dregs of sunlight had fully vanished, replaced by the flicker of torches lining the walls. The cold stone corridors were quiet, too late for students to linger, too early for prefects to start patrolling. Their transfigurated coats turned back to the robes of their houses as they walked side by side. Occasionally, hers brushed against his and he noticed it every time. They were quiet the whole way back. Tom wasn’t used to feeling unfinished. Like there was more to say, but no script to follow.
“You said that I should stay by your side. Am I supposed to just wait when you need me then?” Myrtle asked as they reached the final turn toward the west wing. Tom looked over, one brow raised and stiffened slightly.
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then what do you want?” He didn’t like this. He actually hated this. What even was this interrogation? What was the point? He searched her face as if the answer might be hiding there. No one ever questioned him. Not Malfoy. Not Black. Not even Dumbledore, definitely not like this. Not with wide, open eyes and such baffling softness. The sheer nerve of it. His jaw tensed.
“I told you. You’re too indispensable. I don’t want to share you with some idiots that know nothing.” He said, probably too sharply.
“You say that like I’m a library book.” Her lips quirked, unsure if she should be amused or irritated. Tom’s shoulders stiffened, and for a moment, he simply looked at her. His height cast a faint shadow over her as he stepped closer. Not threatening, but unmistakably dominant. His black hair caught the edge of the firelight as he ran a hand through it in silent frustration, a familiar gesture when he didn’t know what to do with his thoughts.
“I don’t do these conversations,” he finally decided. She hesitated and then nodded. When Tom turned to the direction of Ravenclaw’s dormitory, she stopped him, too softly.
“It’s alright. I’ll go alone tonight.” Tom’s brows drew together. It wasn’t ‘alright’. A man was supposed to escort a lady in the first place and he had never truly considered it something she chose. It was simply what was done, what he did. He had allowed her questions, answered them even despite her maddening softness… but this? This felt like a dismissal. A boundary drawn without his permission.
“No,” he said, flatly. She blinked.
“I—what?”
“I said no.” His voice was low, but the finality in it echoed louder than any raised tone could have. Her lips parted in protest, but his expression stilled her. Not angry. Not cruel. Just resolute. “If you can interrogate me, then I can decide this,” he said coolly. “I’ll escort you to your dormitory. That’s not up for discussion. You’re not walking all the way up in the dark corridors alone.” She looked at him and saw that his posture was perfectly calm, his tone even. But beneath it all, there was something flickering in his eyes. Something sharp and wounded and unyielding. Maybe he needed control because it was the only way he understood closeness. Maybe he offered protection because he couldn’t name affection. She didn’t push further. Instead, with a quiet sigh, she nodded.
“Alright.”

“I won’t talk to Scamander,” she said quietly, looking at the points of her shoes. Tom nodded approvingly. He considered saying something, but decided he already talked too much for his liking today. “And I did enjoy the walk. Thank you.” She offered a smile but he didn’t know how to return it properly. For a moment he felt the urge to reach for her again, but then she suddenly wished him goodnight and disappeared behind the moving portrait. He stood there for several seconds, his arms hung at his sides, tense. There was no direct message in her leaving. No rebellion either. Just a quiet distance. And Tom Riddle, who always had a plan, now stood beneath the torchlight, staring at a door he couldn’t enter and didn’t know how to open even if he could. But he did enjoy the walk. Maybe he should have told her.

Chapter Text

October 1942

The Defense Against the Dark Arts room buzzed with the rare energy of a show-off lesson. Chairs had been pushed back, wands in fists. There was space cleared along the middle of the room, and the scent of candle smoke mingled with the sharp electric air that always came just before magic was unleashed. Even Black looked halfway interested. A Gryffindor boy near the windows whispered excitedly to his friend, and someone at the back had already summoned a silvery fox that jittered across the floor before fading. Up at the front, Dumbledore’s robes swayed like blue flames as he paced, smiling faintly at the excitement.
“Expecto Patronum,” he said, his voice warm but pointed. “A beautiful spell. A rare one. It demands clarity. Purity. A memory not merely happy, but truly light and pure.” Tom Riddle stared straight ahead, jaw tight, fingers curled around his wand beneath the desk. Dumbledore turned, his piercing blue eyes settling deliberately on him. “Would someone like to try first?” Dumbledore said lightly, but his next words were anything but casual. “What about you, Tom?” A shift rippled through the room. A few students turned in their seats, brows lifting, lips already curling. Tom’s chest burned. He knew this was coming. He had warned him. Told him plainly he didn’t want to do this spell and now Dumbledore was baiting him in front of everyone. He didn’t move. His face was smooth, his expression cool, but his pulse thundered in his throat. He couldn’t let anyone see him fail in anything.
“I will,” came a downcast voice from the side, thin but loud enough to interrupt the silence. Myrtle Warren had raised her hand. She stood, robes slightly crooked, cheeks already pink, eyes far too wide behind her glasses. Even Dumbledore blinked. A flicker of disappointment just barely there crossed his features before he covered it with his usual warm nod.
“Very well, Miss Warren. Go ahead.” She walked to the center of the room. A few students snorted audibly.
“Oh, this’ll be good,” Olive Hornby muttered behind her hand. Tom felt something cold and heavy settle in his gut. Myrtle lifted her wand, shoulders tense. For the fact that she was supposed to think about something happy, she looked perfectly unhappy.
“Expecto Patronum!” Nothing happened. A few sparks of silver mist sputtered out, flickered like a dying candle, and vanished. The laughter was immediate. Someone barked, while Olive Hornby and her friends were explaining how expected this was.
“Enough,” Dumbledore said, a little more sharply than usual. “It is a very difficult spell. Some of the best wizards can’t manage it right away. That was a respectable attempt, Miss Warren.” The brown haired girl dipped her head and scurried back to her seat. She didn’t look at anyone. Not even Tom. But he looked at her. Because in that absurd, humiliating moment, she had protected him. Stolen the spotlight. Taken the fall. She stood in a quiet corner, her hands trembling a little. “Right,” Dumbledore clapped his hands, smiling again, and the class snapped back into motion. “Pair up or work alone. Try summoning your Patronus. You may use any space in the classroom. You’ll have twenty minutes.” The room burst back to life. Sparks of light, shouts of “Expecto Patronum!”, someone accidentally launched their wand into a bookshelf. A Gryffindor boy summoned a glowing falcon and received a round of impressed oohs. No one was watching Tom anymore. And he had enough. He left the classroom and didn’t return until it was over. After the lesson he decided to confront Dumbledore.

The professor lingered by his desk, calm, composed, as if he hadn’t just orchestrated a public test disguised as a lesson.
“I hope,” Dumbledore said, his tone mild but deliberate, “that today didn’t feel like an ambush.” Tom cleared his throat.
“It didn’t. But I’d rather take a lesser grade than perform some sentimental circus trick,” he said coldly. Then, more biting. “And I’d certainly rather fail than be humiliated like the Ravenclaw girl you allowed to go first.” Dumbledore was silent for a long moment. Then he stepped forward, his voice still calm but now with a quiet steel underneath.
“I allowed her to try,” he said, “because she was brave enough to raise her hand.” Tom turned now, slowly, his black eyes flat and cutting.
“She failed.”
“She tried,” Dumbledore corrected, too softly again, “and that Mr. Riddle, is something you have yet to do.” Their gazes locked, ice against fire. Tom’s voice dropped, low and razor-edged.
“Then give me the poor grade. It will be the first and last.” Dumbledore didn’t smile.
“As you wish. But there are some things even perfect marks can’t replace.” Tom didn’t respond. He simply turned, coat sweeping behind him, and walked out the door like a storm in a bottle. The air in the corridor felt thick. Tom walked fast, silent, his heels echoing like drum beats against the stone. Arrogant old fool, he thought to himself. Dumbledore’s voice still rang in his ears, calm and condescending, soaked in that maddening righteousness he wore like a second robe. Always watching. Always pretending to understand. But what Dumbledore didn’t grasp, what he refused to see, was that some of them weren’t made to stand in the light and chirp silver birds from their wands. Some of them were born to survive. To conquer. Tom’s fingers curled tighter around his wand. He didn’t need a Patronus. He didn’t want one. He had no use for light. And he’d rather burn the sun out of the sky than endure the gray-haired wizard’s mentoring and suspicious lectures. He wasn’t even watching where he was going. His boots struck the stones in clipped, purposeful strides, but his mind was still in that classroom. Dumbledore’s damnably calm voice, that nerve to ask Tom to demonstrate the spell first. And the pathetic hypocrisy of being all about the good but allowing the students to laugh at Warren. Brave enough to raise her hand, he’d said. Tom scoffed under his breath, turned a corner too sharply and stopped.
Warren stood cornered, back against the wall, surrounded by Olive Hornby and her four ever-present shadows. Her robes were twisted, her satchel hanging from one shoulder by a thread. One of the girls gave her a shove, and Myrtle stumbled with a small cry.
“Oh come on, Myrtle, it was pathetic,” Olive was saying. “A whimper, a shimmer and nothing. I thought we were about to see your imaginary friend.” Another burst of laughter. One of the girls yanked at Myrtle’s satchel and let her books scatter to the floor.
“Maybe her Patronus is a dust bunny,” one of them said, and the others howled.
“Or a dead goldfish,” Olive added, stepping closer. “Do you even have a happy memory? Or were you born miserable?” Myrtle tried to push past, but Olive shoved her back hard, and another girl grabbed her sleeve and pushed her sideways.
“Stop it—” Myrtle cried.
“Stop it,” Olive mocked back in a whining tone. “Stop itttt. You’re such a little—” As she flipped her blonde hair, shorter since the incident with flames, she noticed him. Her smirk faltered, she remembered his warnings. But the other girls didn’t. They were still laughing. Waiting for their queen bee to sting again. So Olive straightened, swallowed her hesitation, and forced the smirk back onto her lips. “Well hello Tom,” she cooed. “You really must be lunatic if you’re here to play hero again. It’s a shame that—” Tom didn’t say anything to that. He didn’t even let her finish. His wand was already out, his hand burning, when his voice came low and sharp.
“Furnunculus.” The spell hit Olive like a whip. She shrieked as boils bloomed across her cheek and temple, red and blistered and grotesque. She stumbled back with a gasp, hands clutching her face as her friends screamed. But Tom wasn’t finished. He turned, fast, wand raised, face cold blooded, and aimed at the next girl in line, who stood frozen and white as chalk. Myrtle’s voice cut through.
“Tom—” It was soft, but with a firm urgency. It didn’t sound like a plea. It sounded like a line she was asking him not to cross, not for her sake, but for his. His wand paused mid-air and the corridor buzzed with silence for a second, the only sounds being Olive’s pathetic sobbing. Tom’s eyes were dark with rage, and for a long second, he didn’t move. Then he turned his face slightly, enough to glance at Warren and saw the look on her face. Not fear. Not judgment. Just the familiar concern again. His fingers tightened around the wand. He clenched his jaw and slowly lowered it.
“I play no hero,” he gritted through his teeth down to Hornby. Then his eyes locked again on the trembling girl that was supposed to be next. “Heroes have boundaries. I’m sure you don’t want to test mine again.” He turned to Warren. “Come on.” With a precise flick of his wand, Myrtle’s scattered books shot up from the floor and flew neatly into his waiting hand. His movements were smooth, unhurried, and yet dangerous, like a storm just barely restrained. Myrtle fell into step beside him, clutching her bag. They walked past the huddled girls in silence, broken only by Olive’s muffled whimpers as she clutched her blistered face. Tom stopped. Just once. He looked down at Hornby with disgust, her eyes wide and wet, boils swelling along her cheekbones and brow.
“Try to tattle,” he said coldly. “See what happens.” No emphasis. No raised voice. Just a promise, dark and final.

Tom walked in silence, his pace sharp and decisive, Myrtle’s books tucked under his arm while she stumbled quietly beside him. He was angry with her. Angry that she’d raised her hand. Angry that she’d volunteered only to humiliate herself. Angry that she’d let Hornby mock her. He could feel she was about to say something, but he cut her off before she could start.
“Not now,” he muttered through gritted teeth and led her onward. Eventually, they reached the library, automatically heading all the way to the back where the Restricted Section began. He dropped her books firmly onto a study table and turned to glare at her. “Why in Merlin’s name would you volunteer?” Myrtle didn’t answer at first. Her elegant fingers traced nervously along the spine of one of the books.
“Maybe I just wanted to try…” she said with a shrug, trying to sound casual. Tom let out a hollow, almost desperate laugh.
“You barely even tried!”
“Well… that’s not the point anyway. I didn’t like what Dumbledore did. He knew everything and purposely called you out. It wasn’t fair,” she defended herself. Tom rubbed his eyes and sighed. He couldn’t stay angry at her. If it hadn’t been for her, things could’ve gone much worse for him. But still, she’d made a fool of herself for no reason, and now she was looking at him with those tear-stained eyes. And he shouldn’t care, he shouldn’t feel guilty.
“That was my business,” he hissed. “You should’ve stayed out of it. God, if you at least knew the spell—” He stopped mid-sentence. Two old voices echoed down the library. Myrtle’s expression shifted from defiant to confused just as Tom widened his eyes in warning and quickly clamped a hand over her mouth. He brought a finger to his lips, signaling her to stay silent, and listened. The voices grew closer and he recognised Dumbledore with Slughorn. In an instant, Tom yanked her down to the floor and they crouched beneath the table just as the two professors passed their aisle and stepped into the Restricted Section. As soon as he was sure they hadn’t been noticed, Tom looked at the girl crouching beside him. Only then did he realize his hand was still over her mouth. He felt her warm breath on his palm, the soft brush of her lips and looked down, almost sheepishly, before slowly pulling his hand away. She then whispered something. He blinked, confused, and looked at her.
“I asked if we should follow them,” she repeated in a whisper. Tom smirked, a sly flicker lighting in his grey eyes.

They had slipped into one of the darker corners of the Restricted Section, behind a high shelf of dusty grimoires. There was barely enough room for one, and Myrtle was pressed up against the stone wall, her shoulder brushing his chest, breath shallow and uneven. Tom stood before her, unmoving, gaze locked toward the aisle as he listened.
“…I don’t understand what exactly it is you’re implying, Albus,” came Slughorn’s voice, quiet but offended.
“I’m not implying anything, Horace. I’m stating plainly. There are signs. The boy is brilliant, yes, but cold. Calculating. His failure with the Patronus only confirmed what I’ve feared.” Tom’s jaw clenched.
“He’s under pressure,” Slughorn retorted. “We’ve both seen how high his standards are. And surely it doesn’t mean—” Dumbledore interrupted, calm but firm.
“The Patronus is not a test of intellect, Horace. It requires something else. And I believe that… might be the very thing Tom Riddle lacks.” Tom exhaled slowly through his nose, rage simmering.
“I still don’t see the urgency in this Albus,” came Slughorn’s slightly wheezy tone. “It’s not as though students are wandering in and out of the Restricted Section unsupervised.” The boy and girl hiding just behind one aisle stilled and didn’t dare to move. Tom’s pulse beat loud in his ears. He could feel Warren freeze beside him. It was clear to him. The men were here for the book. He watched them through the narrow gap between shelves as they reached the relevant section.
“…That’s odd,” Slughorn murmured. Tom could practically hear Dumbledore’s frown. “It should be here, The Life of Salazar Slytherin. Green leather binding, silver runes on the—”
“I know the one,” Dumbledore said curtly. “And it is not here.” They stared at the space on the shelf where the biography once stood. Neither spoke for a long moment. Tom slowly turned his head toward Warren. Their bodies were almost flush, a breath apart. He could feel the heat radiating from her through the fabric of her robes. Her chest lifted softly against his as she tried to stay still and silent, but even that small movement made him sharply aware of how close they were. Too close. Her breath ghosted against his collarbone. He didn’t mean to glance downward, but he did. Her figure was pressed tightly between him and the wall, smaller than ever, curved where he hadn’t paid attention before. Hadn’t allowed himself to. And now that he did, he couldn’t un-notice. He swallowed. Something twisted low in his stomach, foreign, unwelcome, distracting. His fingers brushed at her loose robe, jaw tight. This wasn’t what he needed. Not now. Not ever. She shifted slightly and looked up at him, wide-eyed, oblivious to the growing tension in him. That probably made it worse. He began to think about the other ways to ruin her. About other ways she could have been his… Dumbledore’s voice snapped him back to the present.
“Someone has taken it.”
“…A student?”
“No. Sure not, I would’ve noticed. And none of them would’ve known which book to look for and why.” Tom felt Myrtle glance at him. “Come,” Dumbledore said abruptly. “We’ll check the inventory in my office. Perhaps it’s misfiled.”

Their footsteps retreated but Tom remained frozen, gaze unfocused, every nerve on fire. He didn’t move. Not immediately. The silence pressed in, thicker now that the men were gone. All he could hear was the faint rustle of her sleeve against stone, the shallow intake of her breath. He wanted to blame her. For the heat curling in his gut, for the quickened pace of his heart, for the way she was looking at him. His hand moved before he could stop it, brushing a strand of hair from her face, his cold fingers grazing the shell of her ear. She flinched ever so slightly, not in fear, more in surprise. And she didn’t look away.
“You should’ve let me fail,” he said suddenly, voice a rough whisper in the darkness. Her brow knit.
“What?”
“I warned you.” His voice was lower now. Measured and dangerous. “You don’t understand what I am,” he whispered tightly, “what I’ll become.”
“I know,” she replied with tiredness in her brown eyes. The kind of tiredness that came from years of being overlooked. That was her reason. People saw her as nothing for too long. They stopped mattering to her. She didn’t care. She didn’t care what happened to others. She didn’t care what he was, so long as he didn’t look through her. So long as he looked at her like she was real. That same maddening softness in her gaze remained, unshaken, and it clawed at something raw inside him. Tom’s hands tightened at his sides.
“So what? You’d rather be hated by me than ignored by them?” And she held his gaze.
“Yes.” It wasn’t a dramatic confession. Just the truth. Clean and bleak. She didn’t need affection. She didn’t need kindness. She just needed to matter to someone, anyone. He clenched his jaw, staring down at her. At the way her lashes caught the low lamplight, at the curve of her cheek, at how maddeningly near she still was. He could’ve kissed her. The thought was sudden, jarring. Unwelcome. He could’ve. Right here. Now. Just to make her stop looking at him like that. Just to shut her up. Just to remind her that if she thought this was some sort of rescue story, she was wrong. Instead, he stepped back and nodded. He didn’t need to check to see if she followed. Her footsteps were already echoing after his. But the fire didn’t leave him. Not when they slipped silently back through the library’s maze of shelves. Not when they passed by the few students who didn’t even look up. Not even when the heavy door shut behind them, and the castle’s chill finally settled over his skin like frost. Because even now, hours later, floors away from her, he could still feel the heat of her breath on his collarbone. And it made him furious.
—

The curtains around his bed were drawn shut, sealing him into a velvet-lined void. He sat on the edge of the mattress, elbows on his knees, fingers threaded tightly in his black hair. This was ridiculous. It was nothing. She was nothing. Just a silly, awkward Ravenclaw girl with oversized glasses and soft hands and a voice that wouldn’t stop echoing in his skull. He scoffed under his breath, pulled his hands away and let them fall against the bed with a dull thud. There was no reason his skin should still burn from the place where her shoulder had pressed into his chest. He should be thinking about the book. The book and the Chamber. That should have been what looped endlessly in his mind. Not the way her breath had hitched when he touched her face. Not the way she hadn’t flinched when he’d snapped at her earlier that day. Not the way she looked at him as though she didn’t know how dangerous he was or worse, as if she did, and still stayed. He stood up abruptly, the motion jerky, and paced a tight line between his bed and the tall bookcase pressed into the dormitory wall. His robes were still half-buttoned, his tie loose and strangling. He tugged it off and threw it onto the bed.
“You didn’t show up for the study circle. Lestrange is perfectly doomed without you,” chuckled Black darkly as he entered the room. After some moment of thinking, Tom finally spoke.
“You’re going to marry Walburga. You desire her. Do you ever find it…inconvenient?” Orion raised an eyebrow from across the room.
“What do you mean?”
“The Desire.”
“You mean inconvenient like when I’m trying to focus on an essay and she’s got her blouse unbuttoned more than usual?” smirked Orion smugly and Tom’s lips barely curled.
“Something like that.” Black leaned back, thoughtful.
“It’s not inconvenient. It just is. You want something, you feel it. You take it or you don’t. It’s like everything else. Trying not to want something just makes it worse.” Tom was quiet, jaw tightening. Black chuckled low in his throat and his eyes narrowed. “Who is it? Did the ‘unreachable cold gentleman’ decide he wants someone?” Tom’s voice was icy smooth.
“I don’t want anyone.” Orion barked a laugh. “You don’t get it. I don’t have time for these things.”
“You can’t control instinct, mate. You can only decide what to do with it,” his roommate flopped back on his own bed. “Honestly, no girl would say no to you. That's power as well. Enjoy it.” He grinned mischievously and shut his curtains. Tom didn’t answer anything and withdrew as well. He wasn’t some child at the mercy of his impulses. He wasn’t them. He wasn’t one of those boys who threw away power over a crush and a pair of lips. He’d studied Occlumency. Trained his mind into an iron vault. Nothing could slip in unless he allowed it. So why, when he closed his eyes, did he not see the Chamber, or the lineage in Slytherin’s script, or the throne he meant to carve from blood and ash, but her? Her slightly sad smile. The way she’d looked up at him beneath that table, wide-eyed and too close. He shoved the thought away. It came back. He tried to drown it. It rose with more clarity. Tom Riddle lied down, breathing through his nose. He reached for his wand and cast a quick silencing charm on the curtains. And then he gave up. He thought of her. He hated it. He hated her. And yet, something deep inside him, something possessive and starving, wanted to ruin her in so many ways.
—

The next morning came grey and quiet. A sliver of rain on the windows. A chill in the air. The kind of Saturday that made the castle feel even more like a mausoleum than a school. Tom avoided her. He managed not to see her. Not at breakfast. Not in the library. Not even in the corridors she usually haunted like some kind of well-read poltergeist. Good. He told himself it was good. He needed clarity. Focus. Silence. He needed air. It had nothing to do with her. By the time he reached the lake, the castle had nearly vanished behind the slope. The trees were skeletal. Bare branches clawed at the pale sky. The Black Lake stretched out before him like glass, perfectly still, deceptively deep. Tom stood at the edge, hands in the pockets of his cloak, eyes fixed on the dark water. He sat on one of the few wooden benches and opened another forbidden old book he took. He read through some Parseltongue phrases. Translated another inscription from the hidden archway near the dungeons. Stared at her drawing of the sink in her lavatory. He could open the Chamber. He should. He was certain he knew the path. He had the language, the blood, the drawing. And yet…
A breeze lifted off the lake and brushed over his cheek. He saw her face again, pressed close beneath that table, eyes wide, breath shallow. The soft curve of her neck where his hand had nearly rested. How effortlessly she had tucked herself against him, like it was natural. Like she trusted him. Like she would follow him into the darkness without even knowing what he truly was. She didn’t say no. She never said no. She never would. That thought was a spark. He felt it burn through his chest like a pulse. Orion had said that was power. But Tom didn’t want it like Orion did, not soft or simple or lust-drunk. He didn’t want her in spite of his power. He wanted her because of it. With it. Bent to it. There were worse ways to own someone. For a fleeting moment, in the withering remains of sunny days, Tom Riddle let himself imagine what it might feel like to crush the line between dominance and desire. To feel her breath against his lips, not in fear, but in surrender. His throat felt dry. This was madness.
He would open the Chamber.
He would silence this.

He turned his back to the Black Lake, where the wind was already beginning to stir stronger waves, and headed back toward the castle. It was just before evening and Tom walked straight to the broken girls’ lavatory. His focus was solely on the Chamber, his Only goal. He tried to push Warren out of his mind with such intensity that it didn’t even occur to him he might run into her. As he stepped onto the white tiles, crossing a large puddle of water, his black eyes fixed on the sink marble statue.
“What are you doing here?” a soft voice startled him. He spun around sharply. Only now did he notice her sitting beneath the turquoise stained-glass window, painting something. Whatever plan he’d had dissolved instantly and for a moment, he didn’t know what to say.
“I didn’t see you all day,” he said eventually. In truth, it was because he had been avoiding her, but he left that part out.
“I was in Hogsmeade,” she answered simply, watching him with quiet focus. Tom frowned. Most students went to Hogsmeade over the weekend but Warren never did.
“Why?” he asked immediately. The girl flushed, tugging at her sleeve like she always did when she was nervous.
“I needed a few things…I also got you something,” she blurted and Tom, who for some reason felt like he’d just been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to, scrambled to get hold of his thoughts. “You’re not going to look?” she asked a little disheartened and he realised he was still standing stiffly by the sinks. He gave a confused nod, crossed the space between them and sat on the ledge across from her by the stained glass. Her pale hands were smudged with gold paint and a few brushes lay beside her. She pulled out a thick, elegant notebook bound in black leather. She turned it so the spine faced him and Tom saw golden letters carefully painted into the cover. “I thought maybe you could use something to write in… when you discover something important,” she said nervously and offered him the thick diary. “I know you don’t like your name, but this way It’s properly yours,” she added, eyes flicking toward the gold lettering. Tom took the journal into his hands, the weight of it unexpectedly grounding. The black leather was smooth and cool, the gold letters impossibly neat. His name stared back at him. But it was painted by her, it wasn’t by those he so utterly despised. His first instinct was suspicion. But Warren was not clever in the way manipulators were. She didn’t scheme. She offered. He ran a thumb across the spine. It was well-made. Thoughtfully chosen. As if someone had watched him closely, too closely. He should have rejected it, scoffed, said something cold and biting. But his voice caught in his throat. He didn’t deserve this softness. He didn’t want to deserve it, didn’t ask for it. But here it was, staring back in golden ink. His eyes flicked up to her. She was waiting, like someone who had never received much herself. That look stirred something sharp and unbearable in his chest. He cleared his throat, gaze still fixed on the journal.
“Thank you.” It sounded foreign in his mouth, stiff, unused. The words didn’t feel like his. And yet they were real. The girl looked up sharply, surprised, as if she hadn’t expected him to say it at all. He didn’t meet her eyes. Instead, he traced the corner of the journal again with his thumb, like he needed something to do with his hands. “It’s… practical,” he added quickly, as if the usefulness of the gift justified the gratitude. A soft laugh escaped her, not mocking, just gentle. Tom shifted uncomfortably and finally looked at her. “You don’t have to laugh,” he said, jaw tightening slightly.
“I’m not,” she replied quietly. “I just… didn’t expect you to say anything.”

He was gripping the journal like it was something dangerous. Maybe it was. Then his eyes fell to her hands. Pale. Elegant. Streaked with fading gold like she’d been handling sunlight itself. You want something, you feel it. You take it or you don’t. He reached out before he could stop himself. His fingers closed around her wrist, cool against the warmth of her skin. She stilled. With a brush of his fingers and a breath of wandless magic, the gold lifted from her skin like dust in wind, dissolved into the air in a shimmer and disappeared. But he didn’t let go. Her pulse fluttered beneath his thumb. He could feel it. Fragile and real. She turned her head, slowly. Watching him. Waiting. Wide-eyed and silent. Still, he didn’t release her.
“I’m not good at… gratitude,” he said, voice low. Warren gave the faintest smile, not smug, not forgiving. Just understanding.
“That’s alright.” It wasn’t. Nothing about this was alright. He was Tom Riddle. Precision and purpose. He wasn’t meant to sit beneath stained glass beside a girl with gold-streaked hands and let her make him feel. But her skin was soft and warm beneath his cold fingers. He brought her hand down, gently, and his eyes followed it as if to study it. Too delicate. His thumb brushed once more along the line of her knuckles, and he didn’t stop himself this time.
“I don’t owe you,” he said lowly.
“I didn’t say you did.” Her voice was so calm it made his jaw tighten. There should’ve been fear in her eyes, some sign she understood what she was pushing into. But there wasn’t. She didn’t flinch. She leaned ever so slightly closer, not enough to break the balance but enough that he felt it. Tom’s lips parted. A breath in. His gaze dropped, flickered to her mouth, just briefly and back. His hand was still on hers. She blinked up at him. She didn’t say anything. And he didn’t move. Not yet. Just one more second. Instead, he lowered their joined hands slightly onto the cool stone between them, as if that made it casual, as if it made the contact incidental. His fingers relaxed, barely, but didn’t let go. A subtle gesture, but unmistakable. A quiet possession. Then, as if nothing inside him was tearing, he spoke.
“Is everything okay after yesterday?” His voice was smooth. Almost lazy. Like they were discussing something vaguely amusing, not the violent hex he casted on another student.
“You mean Hornby?” Tom nodded once, his thumb brushing lightly over her knuckles as if to keep her.
“Those boils bloomed like cursed roses.” There was that curl at the edge of his lips. That small, terrible satisfaction he didn’t even bother to hide.
“She cried the whole night and some 7th year girl tried to help her because she was afraid to go to the Hospital Wing,” Myrtle admitted quietly. “It was… a lot.” Tom’s gaze was still fixated down, not at her but at the small hand in his.
“Good,” he said simply. The word hung between them, thick and sharp.
“You’re not worried you’ll get in trouble?” she asked softly. Then he finally looked at her. Not angry. Not defensive. Just confident. Cold, composed, almost smug.
“I am in trouble,” he chuckled darkly, tilting his head. “But not for that. Not yet.” She didn’t reply. She didn’t pull her hand away either. “I told her to leave you alone. I warned her. This was mercy,” he added and his voice dropped slightly, darker and heavier. “I could’ve done worse.” His eyes flicked to hers then, sharp and unreadable. She didn’t look away. She didn’t scold him. Of course she didn’t. Because she didn’t care about them. She didn’t care what he did to them. As long as he didn’t hurt her. And he knew that. It was dangerous and addicting. He released her hand slowly, fingers dragging from her skin as if it pained him to do it. He needed to breathe. He needed to stop thinking about the feel of her pulse beneath his fingertips. He needed the air to be thinner, the tension to break, her to be further away. He brushed the front of his robes with one hand, a needless, controlled gesture, and picked up the journal she’d given him with the other. He hadn’t come here for this. He hadn’t come here for her. He glanced once more toward the sink with the carved serpents and felt blocked. Not by fear. Not even by doubt. Just redirected. Infected. He hated it.
“I should go,” he said abruptly, his voice regaining that polished edge. “It’s my turn for patrol tonight.” He turned, slipping the diary under his arm like it had always belonged to him. But then just as he reached the archway something traitorous forced him to pause. He turned his head halfway, avoiding her eyes but not the silence. “Do you want to join me?” he asked flatly. “For the patrol.” It came out too quickly. It was stupid. He knew it the second he said it. It was against his better judgment, against the weight of everything he should be thinking about. There was a pause. Then a smile, he heard it in her voice before he saw it.
“Alright.” She bent to gather her sketchbook and brushes, hurried but careful. He didn’t watch her directly. Just the movement. The softness of it. The way she never quite broke the quiet, like she belonged in the shadows of the castle. He was cursing himself and Black’s words. But what would he prefer? Polite decline? Indifference? Should he take it back?
“Meet me by the stairs to Astronomy Tower some time after curfew. I have to arrange it with the other Prefect so no one knows.” She stopped by his side and suddenly softly brushed her fingers against the back of his hand. It was nothing. It was everything.
“Okay,” she said barely above a whisper. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Only watched as she left the lavatory in front of him, that faint smile still on her lips. And Tom Riddle followed out, hating how quietly pleased he felt.

The Chamber was left untouched.
The serpent remained asleep.
Another night. He would wake it another night.

Chapter Text

October 1942

Tom was supposed to have Rounds with Lucretia Black, Orion’s older sister from sixth year. It hadn’t been difficult to arrange things with her. She was a Prefect, but mostly just because she had good grades. In Tom’s opinion, she was in Slytherin purely because she came from the House of Black. He couldn’t think of any other reason. Even Warren seemed more ambitious than Lucretia. He had simply told her before curfew that it would suffice if she patrolled dungeons, the first and second floors and he’d take care of the rest. As he reached the staircase by the Astronomy Tower, Myrtle was already there. He didn’t know if he was supposed to greet her. Formalities like that weren’t something he had ever concerned himself with.
“I told Lucretia not to go higher than the second floor,” he informed her flatly. “So I’ll cover the main corridors of the remaining five. You can leave at any point if you want.” She nodded in response. He studied her for a brief moment in the dim torchlight. The way she was standing there, quietly waiting for him, made something shift inside him. He turned, leading the way into the night-dark corridors, robes sweeping silently behind him. He didn’t look back to see if she followed.
He knew she would.

Tom walked in measured strides, the hem of his robes brushing the stone with every step. Myrtle followed close behind, but always slightly to the side, slightly in the shadows. He didn’t comment on it. It felt appropriate. They made their way down the third-floor corridor, the torchlight casting elongated shapes across the walls. A faint sound echoed ahead, a quick feet, a hushed laugh. Myrtle halted, disappearing into an alcove while Tom rounded the corner just in time to catch a pair of two girls sneaking down a side corridor, eyes wide as they spotted him.
“Past curfew,” Tom said, cold and bored.
“We—we got lost,” stammered one of them. Tom arched a brow.
“You’re no first-years to be getting lost. Ten points from Gryffindor. Each.” The girl tried to argue, but Tom had already turned, walking away without another word. Myrtle emerged silently from the shadows to follow.
“I thought you’d be worse,” she noted after a while.
“I told you I can make exceptions,” he replied and they continued in silence for another floor. Occasionally, Tom would glance at her when she wasn’t looking. The way she moved softly, gracefully, her expression thoughtful as she observed tapestries, portraits and old stone. She didn’t ask to talk, didn’t complain about the late hour, didn’t question him on anything for once. It was a strange kind of presence. Quiet but constant. On the fifth floor, a sudden whispering noise reached their ears. It was a couple. Older than the girls, likely sixth-years. Tucked between two statues, wrapped up in each other, oblivious to the world. Myrtle stayed behind without being told and Tom stepped forward.
“Is this your idea of a date, or do you both just enjoy detentions?” he asked dryly. The boy cursed under his breath and stepped back, shielding the girl behind him.
“Riddle,” the girl gasped, mortified. “We weren’t— I mean—”
“You were. Spare me the details.” He eyed them with icy amusement. “If you’re going to break rules, at least learn to be better at it. Fifteen points from Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw. He paused.
“That’s ridiculous—” The boy’s shoulders tensed. Tom tilted his head slowly, and the student shut up.
“Detention slips will be delivered in the morning,” he added. “And if I ever catch you again, I won’t be so generous.” He turned again and walked away. His companion fell into step beside him once more. They walked on. Shadows stretched before them. The castle remained hushed, as if even it was watching. They ascended to the sixth floor in silence, their footsteps hushed against the worn stone. No sounds of students now. No whispers, no late-night rendezvous. Just the rhythmic pace of two sets of shoes and the distant creak of an ancient castle settling into the night. Warren walked next to him, her gaze wandering. Over window panes glazed with the reflection of moonlight, over portraits that dozed with half-lidded eyes. She didn’t speak. Her silence wasn’t awkward. It was watchful. Present. And yet it gave too much space for thought. Tom kept his eyes ahead, shoulders squared. But inside, something uncoiled again. The quiet was too much. Not outside, but within him. That same pressing awareness of her. That familiar scent that followed her like a second skin. The lilies of the valley. He’d once read it symbolized memories and a return to happiness. Some nauseatingly poetic thing. It lingered in the air like a whisper. And for reasons he couldn’t quite stomach, it had started to settle in his mind like a parasite.

The first time he’d noticed it had been back in the Astronomy Tower. And ever since, it had begun to haunt his senses in the most inopportune moments. In class. During meetings. Even while reading in the common room. The scent didn’t belong there, didn’t belong in his thoughts, and yet—
“Do you like lily of the valley?” He didn’t mean to say it out loud. It just slipped, quiet and too casual to sound like him. The small brunette blinked and turned to look at him, puzzled.
“What?”
“Your perfume. Or whatever it is you wear. It smells like lily of the valley.” Tom cleared his throat lightly, keeping his expression neutral. She flushed faintly, startled.
“Oh, I didn’t know that’s what it smelled like.” She looked ahead again, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s just something my aunt gave me for my birthday. I never really thought it was that strong.”
“It is,” Tom said before he could stop himself. She looked at him again, a little more uncertain.
“I should probably find something else then—”
“No.” It came too fast. Too firm. She blinked. “It’s not bad,” he said again, more carefully now. “It suits you.” He didn’t add that it followed him into his dreams. That when he passed a patch of the actual flowers blooming near the greenhouses last week, he’d frozen for half a second without knowing why. That it made him irrationally angry when he’d once smelled it on someone else in class. That when they’d been pressed together in the Restricted Section the other day, her body curled so tightly against his, he could still smell her on himself hours later.
“I didn’t mean to bother you with it,” she murmured quietly.
“You don’t.” But she had. In every way imaginable. He clenched his hand by his side, letting his nails dig faint crescents into his palm. He wasn’t going to let this unravel him. He wasn’t going to be ruled by softness or scent or the curve of her lip when she smiled, too unguarded and unaware of the chaos she stirred in him. He was in control. Always in control. But when her shoulder brushed his as they passed another corner in silence, Tom nearly stopped walking. It would be so easy to reach out. To take. To own. His fingers twitched. Instead, he pressed on, unyielding, hoping the seventh floor would swallow him whole before he did something he wouldn’t be able to undo. They had finished the Rounds and Tom was about to offer he’s going to walk her back to the Ravenclaw dorms when she suddenly beat him to it.
“Do you want to go smoke?” she asked innocently and it almost amused him. He knew she didn’t use to smoke. He liked ruining her. He reached into the pocket of his robes and pulled out the familiar cigarette box, then flipped it open, glanced inside, and let out a quiet breath through his nose.
“Only one left,” Tom muttered.
“Oh… okay, never mind then—”
“We can share it,” he said simply, already turning toward the staircase. They climbed the spiraling staircase of the Astronomy Tower in silence. The castle provided only the faint creaks of old stone and distant echoes of the wind following them. When they stepped out into the open air, the cold kissed their skin, sharp and refreshing. The moon was low, casting a silvery gleam across the battlements. She moved to sit on the familiar patch of stone near the parapet, legs tucked beneath her robes. Tom followed, but didn’t sit right away. He stood behind her for a moment, looking down at her. Her silhouette outlined by moonlight, the curve of her neck exposed as she tilted her head slightly to feel the breeze. It was unbearable.
Eventually, he sat down beside her and lit the cigarette, watching as the tip glowed red, embers swallowing the paper in gentle increments. The faint smell of burning tobacco mixed with the icy, clean air of the Astronomy Tower. He took a drag and she was silently watching the smoke curl upward, vanishing into the velvet-dark sky, stars distant and indifferent witnesses to their quiet ritual. He passed the cigarette to her wordlessly, his fingers lingering perhaps a heartbeat longer than necessary, brushing against hers. She took a careful drag, the smoke slipping from her lips in a slow, graceful exhale. For a moment, there was only silence. The castle below them seemed to hold its breath. She handed the cigarette back, fingers hesitant but eyes unwavering. Tom lifted it again, inhaling slowly, the warmth bitter and comforting. He didn’t look at her directly and couldn't risk it. Not now. Not when everything inside him felt frayed, volatile, as if one careful touch or careless glance might set something off, something he wasn’t sure he could restrain.
“So you smoke now,” Tom murmured quietly.
“I smoke with you,” she answered simply, pulling her robes closer against the chill. Tom hummed softly, passing the cigarette back to her without speaking. She took another careful drag, always mirroring his movements and then passing it back to him. They exchanged it in silence again, slow, deliberate, familiar. After the third exchange, instead of taking it gently between her fingers as before, she suddenly leaned closer, her head tilting, long hair sliding softly against her shoulder. Her lips brushed close to his fingers as she took the cigarette directly from his grasp, inhaling softly, unsteadily. Tom froze, his heart hammering painfully against his ribs. Her breath ghosted against his cold skin, warm and trembling, and suddenly he found himself unable to look away. She exhaled, smoke drifting between them, her eyes wide and innocent, completely oblivious to the violent storm she had just ignited inside him. She moved back slightly, her cheeks faintly pink, whether from embarrassment or the biting cold, Tom couldn’t tell. He watched her, silent and intense, swallowed and gripped the cigarette tighter. The possessiveness inside him, dark and dangerous, surged like something unleashed. The tension tightened further, unbearable and charged. Neither moved, neither spoke. He didn’t pull his hand back as if daring her to do it again and she leaned forward with a quiet determination, her eyes never leaving his as she inhaled softly from the cigarette still pinched between his fingertips. It was torture. Beautiful, agonizing torture. Her face was too close, eyes too trusting, the soft curve of her lips too inviting. Every instinct told him to pull away, regain control, build back the wall she’d just effortlessly torn down. But he didn’t move. He simply watched her, eyes darkening, chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. Every nerve in his body screamed at him to do something. She withdrew slightly, hesitant, but the space between them remained impossibly small. He wanted her to reach for him again. He hated himself for it.
“You’re devastating,” he whispered, voice low and rough as gravel, not even sure if he said it out loud or just in his head. Her eyes widened, cheeks flushed brighter and she was searching his face. He leaned in, close enough to feel her warmth, voice dropping to an almost threatening murmur. “You don’t get to do this with anyone else.” She stared up at him, lips parted, breath shallow and quick.
“I don’t smoke with anyone else.”
“And you won’t,” said Tom, dangerously quiet. Then his fingers twitched, nearly crushing the smoldering cigarette. He turned, flicking the remnants away, watching it spiral downward into darkness. For an unbearable moment, Tom felt the walls inside him shudder, almost crumble. But he pulled sharply away, standing abruptly. “We should go. It’s late.” He didn’t look back as he strode toward the stairs, but he felt her hesitation and confusion lingering behind him.
“Tom—”
“Don’t,” he warned, voice a harsh command. But even he could hear the plea in his tone, the desperation he couldn’t entirely mask. “Not now.” He felt her follow, silent again, keeping her distance this time, respectful or perhaps afraid. He preferred it. He needed it. Yet as they descended the spiraling staircase into the dark and waiting castle, her scent followed him again. It haunted him. And worse, it wasn’t nearly enough.
—

The scent of crystallized pineapple and aged ink clung to the air. Golden light streamed through the high windows of the Potions Master’s office, catching on glass bottles and softly illuminating the shelves lined with preserved specimens and old wizarding portraits. Tom stayed after class, finishing some additional notes. Slughorn looked up from a simmering cauldron of something lavender-colored and smiled warmly.
“Ah, Tom! Just the person I wanted to see!” Professor’s round face beamed as he noticed the Slytherin boy. Tom blinked slowly, spine straightening. “I’ve got wonderful news!” Slughorn declared, pointing a stubby finger at him like he was awarding a prize. “You no longer have to worry yourself over that dreadful Patronus business.” Tom didn’t react.
“Pardon me?”
“The assignment!” Slughorn said, as if it were obvious. “That unreasonable grading system Dumbledore proposed. Honestly, I didn’t even know it was graded like that. But I had a word with Headmaster Dippet myself, and well…” He puffed up, clearly proud. “Let’s just say he agreed. You won’t be penalized for being unable to produce one. A shameful standard to expect that kind of advanced charm from students. Too much pressure really, too much pressure…” The old man was muttering more to himself now, brows furrowed. Tom’s eyes narrowed.
“But I didn’t tell you about the grading—”
“Oh,” Slughorn said breezily, waving one hand, “a poor girl from your class came to see me yesterday. Quite miserable, crying. She’s normally really smart, exceptional in Potions. She said she couldn’t cast the spell and was terrified she’d fail the class.” Tom’s breath stilled and Slughorn’s eyes wided once more. “Oh now, you’re a Prefect. I have a reason to believe her classmates are giving her trouble. Would you mind checking into it?” His wrinkled face saddened. “The little Warren girl. Always shedding a few tears, round glasses. She made me realize how unfair it all was. I couldn’t let it stand.”
“So you spoke to Headmaster Dippet about it…” Tom slowly stood, closing his book with careful precision.
“I did indeed!” Slughorn beamed. “And Dippet had a word with Dumbledore himself.”
“I see,” Tom said softly.
“Can I count on you with the issue? I have too many students, it’s hard to see everything,” Slughorn added with a concerned expression. Tom smiled. A perfect, hollow smile.
“Yes. I’ll be sure to do that.”

And indeed, when Tom arrived at DADA lesson that day, Dumbledore called him aside before class.
“Mr. Riddle, a moment.” Tom’s spine stiffened and his eyes flicked to Warren, who just entered the classroom, not meeting his gaze. Dumbledore waited until the boy came to his desk. “I’ve reassessed the grading standards for the Patronus lesson.” Tom said nothing. Dumbledore hesitated which, for him, was rare. “No one will be graded less for being unable to cast it.” A beat.
“Thank you, sir,” Tom said, voice flat. Dumbledore studied him.
“You may not believe this, but I’m not your enemy, Tom.” Tom’s lips curled ever so slightly.
“No. Just my judge.”
Later in the lesson, Tom was swelling with pride. A small defeat for Dumbledore was a great victory for him. Unlike most of his classmates, Tom wasn’t the sort to pass notes in class. But that day, he flicked his wand toward a certain desk two rows ahead and a droplet of ink fell from Warren’s quill, slowly forming into elegant letters.

After curfew. By the statue of Boris the Bewildered. Don’t let anyone see you. — TMR

From the shadowed back row, Tom watched her. Saw the ink blossom across the parchment like a secret blooming in plain sight. He saw the moment her quill froze, the slight twitch in her shoulders. Her fingers, pale and elegant, trembling just slightly, folded the note with quiet reverence. Her cheeks flushed the softest pink and that was all he needed. He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin, eyes fixed on her like a predator studying something it already owned. He allowed himself the smallest of smiles, sharp and unreadable. He didn’t understand Hornby or any other bullies. Because she was perfect like this, carrying his secrets in her blush.
—

The dungeons whispered with cold, ancient damp as Tom descended the final steps into the Slytherin common room from the boys dormitories. The low ceiling arched like the belly of a beast, and the greenish darkness of the Black Lake filtered in through the vast, enchanted window set deep into the far wall. Beyond the glass, the lake churned in slow, eerie swirls, the shadows of drifting kelp and the occasional passing creature moving like ghosts across the stones. Inside, firelight crackled from the black marble hearth, but even that warmth felt subdued, strangled by the murky weight pressing in from the lake outside. He had hoped to slip through unnoticed. A ghost between curfew and secrecy. But Lestrange and Malfoy were hunched over a wizarding chess board near the fire, heads low, pieces clicking in swift, strategic bursts. Lestrange looked up first, eyes catching Tom’s silent stride with that ever-watchful, serpentine stare.
“Late night?” Abraxas asked lazily. Tom didn’t stop walking.
“Prefect duties.” Abraxas looked up and quickly nodded, as if to say of course, that explains it all. He was younger, eager, and above all obedient. He wouldn’t question. But Lestrange wasn’t built to obey.
“Thought you were not so long ago with Lucretia,” he said coolly, moving his knight. The piece slammed into a bishop and let out a pathetic screech before crumbling into ash. Tom’s jaw flexed, but he kept walking.
“Plans changed.”
“Mm,” Lestrange mused, still not looking at the board. “They do that, don’t they? Especially when a man’s got… private motivations.” That made Tom pause, just for a moment. But it was enough. Enough for Lestrange to notice. To store it away. Abraxas looked nervously between them, sensing the shift in the air, then busied himself with realigning a fallen pawn. Tom tilted his head, black eyes unreadable in the greenish light.
“Shouldn’t you be focusing on the game, mate?” A quiet beat. Then Lestrange smiled without warmth and leaned back in his chair.
“Always am.” Tom turned and left, his robes whispering behind him as he vanished into the darkness of the corridor. He walked faster than usual, each footstep sharp, calculated. The chill of the dungeons clung to his skin, but the burn under it was something else entirely. Anticipation, obsession, the furious pulse of control just barely slipping from his grip. He was late. And he hated being late. But he hated being watched more. And Icarus Lestrange was watching.
—

The corridors above the dungeons were warmer. The few torches cast thin gold along the stone floors and Tom’s steps echoed in a steady rhythm. He passed the library. Passed the tapestries that whispered if you listened too long. When he reached the fifth floor and made his way toward the statue of Boris the Bewildered, that confused old wizard with his gloves on his feet and hat in his hands, Warren was already there. She stood near the edge of the alcove, half-hidden by shadow, arms folded tightly around herself. Her posture was stiff, uncertain. Her eyes flicked up the moment she heard him and the worry etched on her features dissolved into something softer. Relieved, maybe. Something he didn’t want to name. Tom exhaled through his nose.
“I was delayed.” He didn’t explain further. He didn’t apologize. He simply looked at her, how her hands were red from the cold, how she’d still come. Still waited. Without another word, he motioned for her to follow. “This way.” They walked in silence, the girl a few steps behind him, their footfalls the only sound as they moved through the corridor. It was strange how familiar this was becoming. The hush of late hours, the secrecy in every breath. But this time he turned left at the next intersection and her brow furrowed.
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.” He stopped in front of a plain wooden door, unmarked. A password passed under his breath and the door clicked open. She blinked at the sudden warmth that spilled into the hallway. Inside, the Prefect’s bathroom was a cathedral of tile and steam. Tall stained-glass windows shimmered with watery colors, eerie mermaids and enchanted sea-creatures. A massive marble tub lay sunken in the center, its silver taps already beginning to glimmer with residual magic. As soon as the magical room detected it had visitors, warm water thick with bubbles and pale blue steam began to pour into the marble tub. The whole room smelled of peppermint and pine. The girl stepped closer to look and Tom found himself watching her instead of the water. Noticing, again, how close they were. Again. Warren turned to him, her glasses a bit dewy.
“This is the Prefect’s bath.”
“Yes,” Tom said simply, walking inside like he belonged there. “Your beloved lavatory is broken. I thought I’d show you a better one.”
“I’m not allowed here.”
“You aren’t,” he said coolly, glancing over his shoulder at her. “But you’re here with me.” She hesitated again before stepping in fully, her boots soft against the warm tile. Her brown eyes moved everywhere. The chandelier hanging low above the water, the glimmer of charmed light bouncing across the walls. She looked as though she might forget to breathe. Tom stood by one of the taps, examining it. Not because he didn’t know what he was doing, but because he needed a moment. Her awe was pleasing. And dangerous. Because when she looked at him like he had shown her a whole new part of the world, it made something coil low and possessive in his chest. He turned back to her.
“You don’t like most places, do you?”
“No.” She blinked at him.
“But you like this?” He asked and her lips parted as if unsure how to answer.
“Yes.” And Tom was pleased with himself.

Minutes passed in relative silence. Warren lingered at the edge of the tub, her fingers tracing the carved stone idly. Tom remained still, leaning against one of the far pillars, arms crossed tightly over his chest, watching her without watching her. The air grew denser. Heavy. Tom could feel the sweat beading at the back of his neck beneath his collar. With a swift, absent motion, the brunette tugged at the clasp of her school robe and shrugged it off, draping it over the nearest hook. Left only in her fitted white shirt, the hem barely tucked into the waistband of her dark uniform trousers, her figure suddenly seemed far too defined. The fabric of the shirt clung to her from the rising humidity, subtly outlining the lines of her ribs, the slope of her waist, the way her chest lifted with each breath. It was nothing really scandalous. But Tom’s thoughts still derailed like a train. His eyes snapped to her. His composure slipped, just for a moment. A small hitch in his breath, a minute tightening in his jaw. She turned toward him, unaware. Her cheeks pink from the heat, glasses fogged slightly.
“It’s a bit hot in here, isn’t it?” she asked, brushing a hand beneath her collar. Her voice was soft. Completely innocent. Tom didn’t answer. His throat had gone dry. Her question rang in his ears, echoing beneath his skin. Isn’t it hot? Yes. Yes, it was too hot. Without thinking, or perhaps without wanting to think, he pulled at the fastenings of his own robe and let it fall open, slipping it off with a grace too controlled to be casual. He draped it neatly over the railing, exposing the dark button-down shirt beneath, he rolled the sleeves to his forearms, his collar slightly undone. He could feel her watching him now. And that was horrifying. It was suffocating. He needed to say something.
“Yes, it’s better like this,” he muttered just to fill the silence. He didn’t meet her eyes. She hummed in vague agreement and returned to gazing at the mosaic mermaids swimming lazily across the stained-glass windows. Tom watched her reflection shimmer in the surface of the bath, distorted and rippling. Every now and then, her fingers would tuck her damp hair behind her ears or adjust the sleeves of her shirt. Tom needed to snap. He needed to be mad at her. He needed a reason, anything.
The Patronus.
She had gone to Slughorn.
His eyes finally cooled. He composed himself and took a slow, casual step toward her, his footsteps muffled by the steam-thick floor.

“Tell me something, Warren,” he said, tone light, almost conversational, but his eyes were unreadable. “Do you make a habit of solving my problems behind my back?” She straightened.
“What?” But his expression didn’t change.
“Slughorn. The tears. A poor miserable girl who can’t cast a Patronus,” Tom said slowly, enunciating each word like he was savoring them. “You played it well. I’ll give you that.”
“I didn’t— I mean—”
“You did,” Tom cut in, voice quieter now, but far more dangerous. “You went crying to him, and he went to Dippet. And now suddenly the grading policy changes, Dumbledore backs off. And I’m supposed to pretend that’s a coincidence?”
“I didn’t mean—” she began, but he stepped closer.
“You did mean it,” he said. “You didn’t tell me because you knew what I’d say.” He towered over her now, shadowed in steam and stained-glass light, and Warren shrank back slightly. “You think I needed help?”
“No,” she whispered quickly. “I just— I thought it wasn’t fair. I told you I didn’t like the spell, I thought—”
“You thought Dumbledore was being cruel,” he said. “And that you could fix it. Alone.” She nodded, slowly. The steam fogged the edge of her glasses.
“Yes.” Tom was silent for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he smiled but it wasn’t warm. It never was.
“It worked.” The girl hesitated. He reached out then, brushing his fingers against a dewy strand of her hair, slicking it behind her ear with far too much gentleness for the sharpness in his eyes. “You cried. And they listened.” She didn’t respond. Couldn’t. “And you’re not even very good at lying,” Tom added with a strange kind of admiration, stepping around her slowly, like circling prey. Her lips parted again, but she didn’t speak. Tom stopped just behind her. She could feel him at her back. His breath, cold and calculated, moved beside her ear. “I don’t like being managed,” he said, quiet and low.
“I wasn’t—”
“You were.” But then he leaned forward just slightly, voice dipping further, velvet against glass. “But I like what it did. So maybe I’ll forgive it.” Warren swallowed. Her voice was smaller now.
“You’re… not angry?”
“Oh,” he murmured, and his hand grazed her arm lightly, deliberately, “I’m furious.” He stepped in front of her again. His expression was composed, too composed. The worst kind of stillness. “But I also enjoy having Dumbledore silenced. And you finally did something for yourself as well.” His lips twitched. But then suddenly a guilty expression flickered across her face, almost like fear. And he didn’t like that. His brow lifted, sharp and warning. She took a step back, as if trying to retreat, to hide, but he followed.
“I know I said I didn’t like the spell,” she began timidly, her back pressing against the tiled wall. “I wasn’t lying to you!” she added quickly.
“What is it?” he pressed, irritation in his voice. Tom hated it when people wasted time with pointless explanations. Her breathing hitched, nervous and uneven. His eyes dropped to her chest, rising and falling sharply under the weight of his gaze, of his nearness. She had undone the upper buttons of her white shirt due to the heat. It was probably more than was proper in the presence of a man and now those big uncertain eyes watched him with something between anxiety and hope. After a moment, she inhaled, shifted sideways with caution, and pulled her wand from the pocket of her trousers. She raised it, slowly, carefully. For a second, her eyes fluttered shut. Lashes trembling, her lower lip quivering slightly. When she opened them again, there was a spell waiting on her breath.
“Expecto Patronum.”

It was gentle. Barely a whisper. But from the tip of her wand, light bloomed. Soft, silvery, like fog catching the moonlight. And then it took shape. Delicate. Shy. A small rabbit, glowing faintly with ethereal luminescence, hopped down from the wand and onto the water of the bath. The surface rippled, but the Patronus did not sink. It moved like starlight. Curious, silent, and surreal. The bubbles around it reflected its light like scattered pearls.
Tom stared, unmoving. The rabbit took a hop forward and then another. And then it turned toward him. Its nose twitched. It tilted its head, then took one final little step toward him, as if drawn by something deeper than magic. And that was when Tom snapped.
“You could do it,” he hissed. The rabbit blinked, oblivious, lowered its ears fearfully and disappeared. Warren looked up at the cold fury that had settled on his face like frost.
“You could always do it.” She swallowed. “All of it. In the classroom. The crying.” His voice was low and dangerous, like velvet over a dagger. “You staged the whole damn thing.”
“I didn’t stage it—” she said quickly, eyes wide.
“You did! You staged it all.” His voice cut through her words. “You just wanted him to apologize to me from the very first moment you overheard us in the classroom.” She didn’t deny it. Something cracked inside him. “I told you to stay out of things.”
“I know.”
“But you did it anyway,” he snarled.
“I just…It wasn’t fair—”
“I. Don’t. Care. About fair.”
The steam thickened around them. Her glasses were askew again, but she didn’t break eye contact. And Tom hated her for it. Hated the way her chest rose and fell just inches from his. Hated that her lips were parted. He leaned in, too close, voice barely a breath.
“You think I couldn’t handle it? That I need you bleeding for me? Did you ever stop to think why I can’t cast it?” He growled through gritted teeth and then suddenly she looked scared. It was that. That look on her face. The sudden fear in her eyes she was trying so hard to hide. The fear of him. It stabbed him. Because the thought of her being afraid of him made something inside him recoil. It made something in his chest ache like an open wound. He reached out and slammed his palm flat against the wall beside her head. She gasped quietly. He was breathing harder than he wanted to, too close again, the floral scent of her rising between them like poison. Her blouse was damp from the heat, her throat exposed, collar slightly open from the stifling air. And her hands, those small, pale, trembling hands, clutched her wand like a lifeline. He leaned down slowly, his voice quieter now, more dangerous.
“You don’t get to do things behind my back, Warren. Not for me.” She nodded and still looked scared. And he wanted her to. But not like this.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he breathed out, his black eyes closing in exhaustion.
“Like what?” she asked quietly. He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to crush her or protect her, kiss her or leave her sobbing. He turned away. Not sharply, but with that eerie, unreadable silence of his. Black eyes dark again, not in fury this time, but in something colder. Something that said he was sealing it all behind that perfect mask of his. And she saw it. The withdrawal. Like a door slamming in her face.
“Tom—” she breathed, her voice cracking with dread. “Please…”
People who begged were pathetic. And yet it pained him to hear her voice like this. Then she moved on impulse, stepped forward and reached for him. She barely touched his exposed forearm. Just her soft fingertips. But it was enough. He spun with instinctive speed as if it burned him and her foot slipped. The steam, the slick tile, the curve of her boots. It all betrayed her at once. Her foot skidded, her weight pitched forward, and she let out a soft yelp as she collided into him. His hands caught her automatically, their bodies colliding with a sharp splash of limbs and startled breaths. And then they were falling.
Into the marble bath.

The water swallowed them with a thunderous splash, bubbles scattering, steam rushing up in thick waves. Myrtle gasped as the warmth soaked through her instantly, drenching her hair and blouse and everything beneath. Tom’s arms still had a reflexive grip on her waist, pulling her with him as he crashed into the water back-first. They surfaced together. Breathless, soaked, tangled. Her hands still clung to his shoulders, trembling. His chest heaved, water slicking his black hair flat against his pale forehead. They were chest-to-chest in the middle of the marble bath. The water was hot, slicking their hair to their faces, their clothes plastered to skin. Her blouse clung to her with inappropriate precision, water pouring off the sharp angles of her collarbones, clinging to the curve of her chest. Her glasses hung askew, fogged and dripping, and her eyes wide, stunned, his.
Tom’s breath came slow and heavy. His hands were still on her waist, his fingers spread too far, digging into soaked fabric. He could feel her through it. Every line, every trembling breath. He should’ve let go but he didn’t. She blinked up at him, stunned and flushed. Her lips parted as if to speak but she didn’t. She just looked at him. His voice dropped to a rasp.
“Don’t ever grab me like that again.”
“I didn’t want you to leave me,” she whispered, breath catching, her lips wet. The water rippled gently around them, brushing against their ribs, their legs entangled beneath the surface. Her knee was against his thigh. Her breath ghosted against his neck. Tom’s grip on her waist tightened.
“You could’ve hurt yourself,” he muttered harshly, trying to summon distance that simply didn’t exist anymore.
“You caught me,” she answered. His chest seized. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. Her fingers curled into the soaked collar of his shirt, and his eyes dropped to her throat, her mouth, the water gliding down her chest. Something uncoiled in him, sharp and hungry. And he couldn’t take it anymore.
With a strangled sound of something like rage and something like hunger, he crashed his mouth onto hers. She gasped against his lips. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t like anything a first kiss should be. He kissed her like he wanted to devour her, like he wanted to brand her from the inside out. His hand tangled in the back of her shirt, dragging her forward, slamming her into him as his other arm wrapped tight around her waist. Her wet body molded to his. She made a tiny noise of surprise and then another, softer one, surrendering. She kissed him back. Shyly, desperately, as if trying to understand how to match him, how to meet this devouring force with something of her own. But it wasn’t even possible. He was all heat and fury, dominance and need. Their lips crashed, parted, met again. His tongue slid past her lips and she whimpered, stunned and breathless, arms grasping his biceps as if she was really about to drown. His mouth tore from hers, dragging heat down her jaw and to the pulse in her throat. Open-mouthed kisses burned along the sensitive skin there, his breath hot, his voice even hotter, rasping and low, like a spell cast only for her.
“You don’t get to look at anyone else,” he said against her neck, his lips brushing her collarbone. “You understand?” Her fingers clutched at the wet fabric of his shirt.
“Tom—” she gasped and he growled at the desperate sound of his name, kissing lower now, voice sharpened by lust and command.
“That you’ll never let anyone else this close. That you’re mine.” She nodded, almost too dazed to speak. He bit gently at her throat. “Say it.”
“I am,” she breathed. “Just yours.”
He crushed her closer. Water splashed around them, the motion of their bodies creating waves. Her legs brushed his beneath the surface. One of her hands pressed against his chest again, but not to push him away, just to feel him. Her shirt, soaked and clinging, left almost nothing to the imagination. He could see the outline of her chemise beneath, the pale swell of her breasts, rising and falling with every ragged breath. He kissed her again, harder. He couldn’t stop. And he finally understood what Orion meant. Desire wasn't a weakness. It was power. And now that he’d tasted it, it wasn’t enough.
He needed her whimpering against his mouth. He needed her trembling fingers curling in his hair. He needed her to know that no one would ever touch her, look at her, breathe around her without him allowing it. Her lips were red now. Her cheeks flushed. Her glasses crooked. Something in him shattered. He pressed her back against the marble again, his hands gripping her thighs beneath the water, mouth finding hers again and again, until they were both drowning in it. Heat and steam and skin, and her. Always her.
A mistake he refused to admit to.

“Are you cold?” he pulled back slightly after a while, his breath still heavy against her lips. She inhaled deeply and shook her head, but Tom felt the slight tremble that ran through her as she shivered in his arms, both of them still submerged in the bath. He took her face in his hands, not gently, but possessively, brushed her wet hair from her cheeks and rested his forehead against hers, exhausted. For a fleeting moment, he thought of counting the spots and freckles on her face and felt absurdly certain he’d never grow tired of it. She shivered again, this time he knew it was from the cold. In one smooth motion, he lifted her onto the edge of the tub as though she weighed nothing at all, and then climbed out after her. They stood, water cascading off their soaked clothing and Tom stared at her like a boy discovering the beauty of femininity for the first time. She was small and dripping, lips swollen and bruised from his kisses, her wet shirt clinging to pale skin and revealing soft curves in ways it shouldn’t. He felt his blood surge downward, heat pooling in his body and as she hugged herself shyly, he realized he was outright staring at her in an extremely inappropriate way. He flushed and mumbled an apology in a low voice. Quickly, he drew his wand and cast a drying charm. First on her, then on himself. If she noticed that he once again added the charm he used to tame her hair, she didn’t say. She didn’t say anything at all. And he didn’t really know what to do. He wasn’t used to after.
But then he stepped toward her, slow, deliberate and let his fingers trail along her jaw, curling around the back of her neck, pulling her to him again. Not to kiss her, but to speak darkly against her skin.
“I don’t share, ever,” he warned and felt her shiver. He felt her heartbeat against him, still fast, still uncertain. She didn’t know what she’d done, what she’d started. She’d let him have a taste and now he’d never be sated. His hand slid down to her waist, resting there too long. Not pulling her in again. Just claiming space. Feeling it. Memorizing the shape of her, his to take, his to keep. But something about the look on her face, so open, so unguarded, tugged at something in him that twisted like a knife. Not guilt. He didn’t do guilt. Just unfamiliarity. Intimacy. It was almost worse than hate.
“We should go,” he said and she nodded, still leaning into him.

As soon as they stepped into the corridor, the cold air hit them and she instinctively hid slightly into his robes. His hand automatically found her waist. They walked like that, the corridor dark and silent but for the faint whisper of their steps. Her small body against his side, like she’d belonged there and the warmth of her beneath his fingers was maddening. He told himself it was just to keep her close. Just until they reached the turn. But it wasn’t.
Every step he didn’t touch her, he suddenly felt it. An ache, an absence, a gnawing need. His thumb moved slightly, brushing over the fabric of her robes as if testing how much more he could get away with. They didn’t speak. There wasn’t a need to. They passed a tall window, moonlight casting slatted shadows over the stone floor. Her hair caught the silver light, still a bit damp, curling softly against her neck. Tom’s eyes fell to her throat. The place he’d kissed. Something dark and dangerous flickered behind his gaze. She was his. And now that he had her, not even the gods could take her from him.
They stopped at the corner near her dormitories. She looked up at him, uncertain again, like she didn’t know whether to thank him, kiss him, or vanish. He didn’t give her the chance to decide. Still silent, still unreadable, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her temple. Then another to her jaw. His hand was still on her waist, fingers tightening briefly, possessively
“Tom,” she breathed quietly. “I don’t care that you can’t cast one stupid spell.” He nodded and she offered him a nervous smile. He kissed it off her lips, trying his best not to devour her again. Then, like a shadow peeling from the night, he vanished down the opposite corridor.

The hallways were dark and quiet. Tom walked slowly, his steps echoing against the cold stone walls, but he barely registered them. Her smile still lingered on his lips. He should’ve felt repulsed. Disgusted. He should’ve been angry with her. Warren was no threat to his ambitions. She wasn’t a rival, or an enemy, or a valuable piece in any of his plans. She was nothing. And yet he tasted her everywhere. In his breath. In the memory seared against his mouth. In the aching places of him he never allowed to ache.
He passed through the sleeping Slytherin common room. The dungeons were dark and green-lit through the enormous glass window that revealed the black waters of the lake beyond. Shadows moved slowly past the reinforced glass, flickering like ghosts. It was quiet, but not peaceful. By the time he reached his room and shut the door behind him, something inside him was already clawing. Everyone else seemed asleep, good. He stood in the dark, eyes closed, trying to wrest the images away. Her parted lips. The taste of her breath between kisses. The heat of her body pinned against the marble. The wet fabric clinging to her skin. He pressed a hand over his eyes. This wasn’t who he was. He wasn’t like others. That was the entire point. That had always been the point.
But he wanted her. He wanted her in the most selfish, animal, indulgent way imaginable. He wanted to ruin her again and again and again, until nothing in her life existed except him. Until her entire world began and ended with his name on her lips. Until she never looked at anyone else and never belonged to anyone else. He sank down onto the edge of his bed and let the blackness of the room stretch around him.
He should’ve obliviated her. Could’ve, so easily. One flick of his wand and she wouldn’t remember the way he kissed her, the way he’d basically lost control in the bath, the way his insides had trembled when he made her say she was his. He could’ve. He’d done it before for lesser reasons. But a twisted part of him wanted her to remember. Wanted her to ache the way he did now, burned into the marrow of her bones. He exhaled, long and low, and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the wooden floor like it might give him answers. His fists clenched. The craving in him was not just about kisses or skin, it was about possession. About ownership in a way he had never dared allow before. Because somewhere between the lies and the tension, she had made herself his. And he, in turn, had become something far more dangerous.
A man with nothing left to deny himself.
—

Tom Riddle rose before the others, long before dawn scraped its pale fingers across the Slytherin dormitories. The stone walls were slick with the breath of the Black Lake, and the torches still burned low with a blue-ish haze. He sat upright in bed, perfectly still, his hands clenched in the sheets. It should’ve disgusted him. The need. The indulgence. She was nothing. A nobody. A mudblood with a stammer in her voice. But his mind kept returning, ravenous, to the way she had trembled against him, to the sound she made when he kissed her throat, to her lips parting on his name like she’d been made to say it. Just yours. It burned into him. A brand across his mind. That wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He was supposed to open the Chamber. Cleanse the school. Ascend.
He had barely finished buttoning his collar when Nott stirred in the bed across the room and muttered something incoherent. Tom flicked his wand to silence him, irritated by the existence of anyone else. He skipped breakfast. He needed distance. Control. And yet, he couldn’t quite grasp what it meant anymore. Because if control meant cool silence, the art of restraint, the perfection of poise, then why had he never felt more powerful than when he had her crushed against the marble lip of that bath, lips swollen from his kiss, her breath catching like it belonged to him? He hadn’t forgotten how she looked, soaked and flushed, trembling not from fear but from need. Her need for him. And now? Now she was somewhere in the Ravenclaw Tower, wearing that same stupid tie knotted too loosely, books clutched to her chest. Speaking to others. Sitting too close to someone else. Not thinking about him while he—
Tom curled his hand into a fist and bit back a snarl. It wasn’t fair. When he wasn’t with her, he unraveled. There was no sense of command, only the absence of it. She was his and yet the world kept moving, refusing to recognize it. He wanted it. All of it. Again and again. He needed her to remember every second and he felt it again. That burning under his skin. Not love. Not even desire in its purest form. Withdrawal. The kind of thing addicts tasted in their throats before they tore their world apart for another fix.

They had Ancient Runes first. Together. He knew all of it by now. Knew how she always left early and walked the long way from the Great Hall to avoid Hornby and the others. Knew how she lingered at the staircase near the Potions corridor for a moment, usually fussing with her books or her hair or whatever odd Ravenclaw business consumed her in the morning. And that’s where he waited.
Tom stood still as a statue in the shadowed archway. When he saw her, the burning feeling consumed him again. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, the same hand that had been fisted into his robes the night before and everything in him screamed not to let her walk away like nothing happened. Like she wasn’t His.
He didn’t call her name. Didn’t speak. He simply moved, silent and assured, slipping behind her with a predator’s pace. The hallway was empty and before she could head to the second floor, his hand closed around her wrist and dragged.
“What—” she gasped, startled, her books nearly slipping from her arms. He caught them effortlessly and pulled her into an unused supply cabinet behind one of the hanging tapestries. He locked the door with a flick of his wand. It clicked shut and the air grew still, heavy. Dust and the faint smell of old parchment lingered around them. He dropped her books onto a shelf with a thud and turned toward her. His eyes drank her in. The flush in her cheeks, the panic blooming softly in her breath, the way her lips parted to speak again.
“I didn’t see you at breakfast…I thought you were avoiding me,” she whispered, looking down nervously.
“I was,” he answered truthfully and stepped closer. Her back hit the wall, eyes wide behind her glasses. His voice dropped, dark silk. “You make it impossible.” He leaned in, one arm resting beside her head, his body pressing into hers until he could feel her breathe against him.
“We have class—” She tried to remind him and herself, but his mouth already met hers. Hard, claiming and precise. This wasn’t like the bath, it wasn’t new. It was earned. It was the price for what she’d done to him. For the way she’d looked up at him with wet lashes and begged to belong to him. Her hands clutched his robes, unsure whether to hold or push, but he didn’t give her the chance to decide. He kissed her open-mouthed, teeth grazing her bottom lip, dragging a low sound from her throat that only he would ever hear. She tasted like tea and devotion and his hands weren’t hesitant. They moved to her waist, fingers digging into her uniform, thumbs brushing under the hem of her sweatshirt where skin burned warm and soft. She whimpered.
“Tom—”
“No,” he muttered, lips brushing her jaw. “You don’t say my name like that unless you want me to forget we have class at all.” He kissed her throat next, rough and biting, marking her. Not because anyone would see it, but because he would know. Because she would know. She arched into him and he felt the growing pressure below his waist, a muffled groan escaping his lips. He pulled back just enough to look her in the eye, pressing her harder against the wall with the weight of his body. His hand moved from her waist to her neck, thumb pressing lightly under her chin, tilting her face upward. Her knees buckled. He caught her, of course. One hand slipped behind her thigh, slightly lifting her leg and she let him. Gave in to the weight and heat and darkness of him like it was the only place she felt safe. He didn’t let it go further, not yet. Not here. Because she’d follow him into the fire if he asked, and that meant he could choose when to burn her. So instead, he kissed her again, deep and slow and possessive, until she melted into his chest.

When he finally stepped back, her lips were swollen, her knees trembling. He fixed her collar with delicate fingers. Straightened her blouse. Brushed her hair behind her ear like he hadn’t just wrecked her. She looked at him with those glassy eyes of hers but this time, not because she had been crying. She took a deep, shaky breath to say something, but Tom brushed her bangs a bit, leaned in and pressed a kiss to her forehead.
“I’m going to go to class now. You’ll wait a moment and come in after me.” He noticed the way her eyes widened. He knew exactly why she always made sure to be among the first to arrive at every lesson.
“If anyone dares to laugh at you,” he said dangerously calmly, “they’ll think twice before they ever laugh again.” He handed her the books he’d set on the shelf earlier, then slipped out of the cabinet and disappeared down the corridor.
—

When Tom entered Ancient Runes later, he took his usual seat at the back beside Nott. It was an elective course, one none of the other Knights had bothered to take. He felt no compulsion to explain to the old ghost why he had arrived late. Professor Cuthbert Binns, wafting about in his spectral absentmindedness, simply handed him a stack of twenty parchments studded with old runes, meant as a translation assignment for Professor Beery’s Herbology nonsense.
“Your detention mr. Riddle,” said the see-through professor simply.
“Salazar be with you,” Nott muttered in half-sincere pity but Tom only shrugged.
“I’ll survive. It’s probably for the best. If Binns did it himself, he’d nod off before the second paper and remember it sometime next century.”
“You’re in a good mood for this early in the day.” Nott eyed him, intrigued. “Found something new?” A crooked, almost indulgent smile crossed Tom’s lips. He flexed his fingers slightly, the phantom heat of Warren’s skin still pulsing in his palm.
“Oh, you have no idea,” he murmured.

The door to the tiny classroom creaked open once more. Myrtle slipped in with a murmured apology clinging to her lips like a guilty prayer. Professor Binns turned with a frown, his translucent features gathering into something resembling disappointment.
“Miss Warren,” he intoned, “I would not have expected you to idle. You’ll assist Mr. Riddle with the rune translations.” She gave a tense little nod and folded herself into a seat like a shadow taking form. A Slytherin girl in the row ahead let out a laugh, loud and cruel, and turned toward Tom with a smirk and batting lashes.
“Twenty parchments and a filthy Mudblood? That’s what I call a dreadful afternoon,” she purred. “If you scare her a little, I bet she’ll do the work for you. We could study together instead, if you’d rather. Wouldn’t want such a poor little thing spoiling your whole day.” Tom didn’t even look at the witch. But from the corner of his eye, he saw Warren’s hurt expression, the subtle waver in her shoulders, her lips still slightly swollen. He coughed loudly into his sleeve and waved his fingers sharply. In an instant, the annoying girl’s inkwell exploded and splattered her desk, robes, and her smug little smirk. She shrieked in horror, hands waving uselessly, seeking the source.
“I think I’d rather stick to runes with anyone,” Tom said coolly, voice dripping with mockery. “I’d hate to end up… filthy.” He flicked his wand with elegant precision, clearing his and Nott’s desk of every stray drop. The Slytherin girl flushed scarlet and Binns finally roused to annoyance.
“If you’d be so kind as to clean yourself, Miss Elwood, this is not an art class. And if you suffer from spontaneous magical episodes, I suggest you visit the Hospital Wing before polluting my classroom.” The class broke into hushed laughter. Tom didn’t join in. He only watched, satisfied, as the corners of Warren’s lips twitched into the smallest, most reluctant smile.

He soon realized he would have to Occlude. At least while attending classes. He would have to lock down his mind with cold precision, or he would lose it entirely. During the classes they shared, he forced himself to ignore her. Eyes forward, posture perfect, his expression carved from stone. But every breath she took near him unsettled the stillness of his control like ripples over glass. Her scent. The faint sound of her quill. The way her hand brushed the page when she turned it. It was maddening.
And during the classes they didn’t share it was even worse. In those hours, he had to Occlude hard. He had to build walls, seal chambers, isolate thoughts as though they were dangerous contaminants threatening the sanctity of his ambition. Otherwise he couldn’t focus. He couldn’t breathe.
He sat in Divination, staring blankly into the murky haze of a crystal ball, while his mind wandered far from the stars and the nonsense of fate. She was in Care of Magical Creatures at that very moment. Vulnerable. Surrounded by people. By Scamander, for one, and other fools too dense to see her for what she was. He imagined them speaking to her. Laughing to her or with her. He couldn’t decide which case was worse. Perhaps someone would notice the way she smiled when nervous, or how her fingers always tugged at the end of her sleeve. Perhaps someone would try to touch her. His fists clenched under the table. He couldn’t concentrate on a single planetary alignment, nor care what Mars in retrograde meant for his “emotional balance.” The only balance he craved was the assurance that she was untouched. That no one else would look at her the way he did, no one else dared. She didn’t know it, but he was guarding her constantly, even in absence.
The room reeked of incense and old velvet. Thin trails of smoke curled along the air like ghosts that hadn’t been properly exorcised. A pale pink haze clung to the ceiling, and beneath it, students sat hunched over steaming crystal balls as if waiting for the universe to whisper something useful through the fog. Tom sat with Lestrange and Malfoy. Abraxas looked vaguely amused, lazily twirling his wand between two fingers, while Lestrange glared at the mist like he expected it to insult him. Tom wasn’t doing anything. Not even pretending. His crystal ball remained untouched. Cold. Useless. He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled before his lips, trying to block everything out. Occlude. Occlude. Occlude.
Warren was across the castle. Still surrounded by people who weren’t him. She said she was his. Said it under her breath in a steamy room as if she meant it with her bones. But what if—
“Mr. Riddle.” The voice snapped through the fog. Tom’s eyes flicked up. Professor Malfort stood at the front of the room, robes trailing like smoke, her silver bangles clinking quietly as she tilted her head toward him. She was ancient. Half-blind. But her gaze was disturbingly focused.
“Your walls are too high,” she said, her tone too soft for accusation. It sounded more like a prophecy. “You need to let some light in or you’ll burn it with your shadow, without ever meaning to.” Abraxas stopped spinning his wand. Tom stared at her. Cold and dangerous.
“What?” he asked flatly. Malfort did not blink.
“You are ahead of even yourself.” For a split second, something flared behind his eyes. Not fear. Never fear. But fury and disgust.
“I don’t need to be read,” he said quietly, rising from his chair with the slow grace of someone wrapping a knife in velvet. “Especially not by charlatans choking on cheap perfume.” The insult hit like a hex. Someone gave a low whistle. Lestrange smirked but didn’t interfere. Professor Malfort, however, merely smiled.
“The more you lock the doors, Mr. Riddle, the more the house inside you will rot.” He didn’t answer. Just turned on his heel and walked out of the room without asking. The crystal ball remained untouched. Still cold.
—

The classroom of Ancient Runes was empty now. The windows were high and arched, fogged with the breath of a long day slipping into dusk. Shadows fell in angled patterns across the flagstone floor, and outside the wind stirred faintly through the trees. Tom Riddle stepped into the room without a sound. She was already there.
Warren sat hunched over a stack of faded parchments at the furthest desk. She wasn’t wearing her outer robes, just the fitted Ravenclaw sweater pulled over her uniform shirt, sleeves pushed to her elbows, and her pale skin already covered with ink. Her long hair was pinned back lazily, glasses slightly slipping down the bridge of her nose as she leaned forward, utterly absorbed in her work. Tom didn’t speak. He didn’t announce himself. He watched. Her hand curled softly around a quill, her brow slightly furrowed in concentration. The sun rays danced over her skin and outlined her figure in a way that made something coil sharply and possessively in his stomach. She didn’t hear him at first. He let that stretch for just a few more seconds. Enjoyed the silence. The way she looked without knowing he was looking. Then his lips twitched.
“You already started.”
“We finished early today,” she replied simply, still not looking at him. “And I don’t mind.” He stepped closer now. Slowly. Let the sound of his polished shoes against the stone announce his approach. When he reached the desk, she finally looked up at him. Her eyes widened for just a breath, and he saw the familiar flicker of unease, quickly smothered.
“I’m halfway through,” she murmured. “If you want to go I can—”
“No,” he interrupted. With a flick of his wand, the stack of parchments vanished. Just disappeared into nothing, the air around them hissing faintly with displaced magic.
“But—Tom, you’ll get us both—”
“Detention?” he offered darkly, stepping closer. “We’re already here, aren’t we?” She swallowed. Her legs instinctively pressed together beneath the desk. Tom placed his wand down with measured precision, then reached for her hand.
“Come here,” he said and she obeyed. Slowly. Quietly. Her body rose from the wooden chair, and Tom turned her smoothly, backing her toward the table now bare of parchment. His hands found her waist as he helped her onto it surprisingly gently. Like he’d decided this moment long ago and would not be denied it. She sat, breath slightly quickened, cheeks tinged with a flush. Her knees pressed together again, uncertain. He didn’t push, just placed his hands on either one of her knees and then, slowly, very slowly, guided them apart. Just enough. Just enough to feel that sharp spike of awareness pass between them, all heat and silence. Just enough to step slightly between them.
“You didn’t tell me how your day was,” he said, voice hushed and dangerous. She blinked.
“My…?”
“Your day,” he repeated, eyes never leaving hers. “If someone was giving you trouble.” Her lips parted, but no words came. She looked like she couldn’t quite understand why he was asking.
“No one,” she whispered. He tilted his head.
“Good. You’d tell me right?” Her lips twitched as though she might say something, but then his hand moved up her side, to the curve of her waist, then to her ribs. The weight of it lingered there. His other hand came to rest beneath her chin. Not gentle. And then his thumb brushed against her jaw, tilting her face up to meet his gaze more fully.
“I hate this” he breathed dangerously.
“I know,” she whispered and he leaned in. His breath ghosted against her lips, and she froze. The pulse in her neck fluttered beneath his fingers. Her hand reached up instinctively, clutching his wrist. His hand wrapped fully around her throat. Not tight. Not yet. Just resting there. A promise. A claim.
“I hate that you make me feel things,” he said. His voice was silk over a knife.
“I know,” she whispered, eyes searching. His thumb stroked once along the hollow of her throat. Then he leaned in until their foreheads touched.
“Merlin, say something useful Warren,” he whispered and when he finally kissed her, it was slow. Deep. And dark. The kind of kiss that rewrites a person’s sense of direction. Her lips were parted against his, the words still trembling there. It was slow and almost gentle at first. But it carried a weight behind it. A storm brewing just beneath the surface. The moment he felt her hand clutch the front of his sweater something inside him gave way. It surged. Desire, yes. But not the harmless kind. Not the kind boys whispered about in dormitories or shared under the cloak of night. This was hunger. The kind that claimed. He kissed her harder now, tilting her head back as he deepened it, hand still wrapped around her throat, thumb moving to trace the line of her jaw. She moaned softly into him, and he swallowed it greedily. His other hand slipped down to her thigh, gripping it with a pressure that made her gasp again, not in pain, but in shock.
“You’re mine,” he whispered hoarsely into her mouth. Not a question. Not even a demand.
A verdict. He pressed himself closer, fully between her legs now. The table creaked faintly beneath them as she arched to meet him, as her hands moved. One to the back of his neck, the other to his chest, small fingers running through his black hair. He felt dizzy.
From her scent, lilies and ink and her, from the heat of her against him, from her heavy breaths. Her breath trembled as he kissed down her throat. Her pulse was erratic beneath his lips. He parted his mouth slightly as he dragged his teeth, not biting, just a warning, along her skin, and she made a sound that would haunt him in every empty moment.
His self-control had always been a fortress. But this wasn’t crumbling, this was opening. He wasn’t losing control. He was taking it. Of her body, of the moment, of the ache in his own blood. She tilted her head to give him more room to kiss down her throat and he could hardly stand it.
“I’ll ruin you,” he growled into her neck.
“I know,” she whispered again, breathless. His hands slid to her waist and he lifted her forward, the curve of her breasts pressing against his chest. She wasn’t resisting. She was reaching, needing, pulling him closer with something desperate. He leaned back just slightly, gaze raking over her flushed cheeks, her mussed hair, the red bloom on her lips.
“I warned you,” he murmured, voice rough, possessive. “I told you to be afraid.” She nodded, dumbly, lips parting to say something but he kissed her again, and the kiss said everything. His hand fisted in the edge of her sweater, dragging it up an inch, just to feel the warmth of her skin against his cold palm. She whimpered. He exhaled sharply through his nose, forehead pressed against hers again.
“I am not a good person,” he rasped. Her breath trembled but she nodded again. “And I won’t be, ever.” His hand returned to her throat, not pressing, just resting there. His eyes locked onto hers. He knew she didn’t care. He was almost angry she didn’t care. Almost
“Just don’t leave me,” she moaned quietly with a desperate plea. That was all she needed. She wasn’t scared. Not of him, anyway. He could see it. She was trembling because she wanted him just as badly, because he saw her that day in the library. She looked at him with that maddening mixture of innocence and adoration that made his stomach twist and his chest burn. His mouth was on hers again before she could finish the breath. And this time, he let his hips press forward, slow and aching and devastating. Just a warning. Just a ghost of what could come. The kind of pressure that made her claw lightly at his shoulders, breathing his name like a confession. His voice was low and dangerous against her ear.
“It’s all your fault,” he whispered, nipping the soft skin just beneath it. And he kissed her again. Hard. Possessive. Final.

The room smelled like old magic and warm skin, the autumn sun setting down as his body pressed into hers again and again, like he could fuse them, like if he could just have her fully he’d stop this screaming in his blood. Desire was power. And this power, her, in his arms, at his mercy, whispering his name with swollen lips, was the most dangerous kind of all. He couldn’t give it up.

Chapter Text

October 1942

Tom’s days were lighter. Not in the way of sunlight or cheer, but in the way a burden becomes tolerable when eclipsed by obsession. The Chamber could wait. He kept inventing new reasons not to pursue it. Reasons meant, mostly, to convince himself. Dumbledore was watching him more closely than usual. The man’s eyes lingered, curious and piercing, like he knew. So Tom reasoned that he ought to wait, ought to study more about Basilisks, thoroughly. He should account for the possibility that the legends were wrong, that something else waited in the dark, or nothing at all. He needed the perfect story, the perfect alibi, the perfect hour. Yes. There was still time.
And in the meantime he had found a new kind of power. Quieter, slower-burning, but no less intoxicating. A power that coiled through his chest when she looked at him, flinching and flattered. A power he held between his fingers when he tilted her chin up. Warren had become a secret he possessed. And yet, maddeningly, she was still entirely herself.
He took nearly every opportunity to pull her behind the great tapestries or into old cupboards, and she followed. Sometimes startled, sometimes blushing furiously, but always yielding. He’d catch her walking alone after lessons, always a little too absorbed in her thoughts, clutching books too tightly, shoulders curled as though bracing for some imagined impact. He would step out from the shadows and her breath would catch in that way he had grown addicted to. She had stopped asking why. She never resisted. And somehow, that invitation, shy and wordless, drove him half-mad. He invented reasons to leave the Knights early. To skip meals. To take detours. Just to catch her slipping into the library or leaving her lavatory alone, and corner her there. Press her into shadowed alcoves. Press his mouth to her neck just to feel her shiver. Kiss her until she melted in his hands like something made of snow and trust. When he was with her, he had to touch her. Constantly. Obsessively. Whether they were hunched over textbooks late into the evening, her fingers stained with ink and her brow furrowed in concentration or simply sitting in silence on the cold stone of the Astronomy Tower. He kept her close. Close enough to hear her breath. Close enough to feel the warmth of her. His hand would find her waist, trace the curve of her hip idly. Or it would be his thumb moving across her pale knuckles, or his palm placed on her thigh with the kind of unspoken claim that made her pulse quicken. She never moved away. Her hands still hesitated when they reached for him, slow and nervous, but after a few days they did reach. Sometimes, when she was rather tired, she’d even tuck herself under his arm without prompting, eyes closed and breath shallow, like she didn’t quite believe she was allowed to. And Tom, who had never liked being touched, who had spent years convincing himself he needed no one, would tighten his hold with something close to desperation. Not that he ever said anything. He only looked at her. Possessive. Hungry. Wanting something he couldn’t even define.
She was soft-spoken but clever. Clever in quiet ways. When she thought he wasn’t paying attention, she would ask the most disarming questions. Do you ever wonder why Wizards don’t use electricity? or Do you ever dream in color? She had a mind that wandered strange paths and sometimes he even wanted to understand. To know how she thought. What frightened her. What made her laugh, not that she laughed often. But when she did, it made something seize painfully in his stomach.
He hated that. He hated that she could do that to him. He hated even more the fact that when she was out of his sight, off in her dormitory, or in a class he didn’t share, or gods forbid speaking to someone else, he felt less. Like he was missing something necessary. Like he needed to see her again just to think clearly. That feeling was unacceptable. So he pressed closer.
He laid claim with kisses, with touches, with the look in his eyes that warned her. With all of his groans of “You are mine.” And she never ran. She leaned into it, slowly and fearfully, but she leaned. Some part of her wanted to be wanted. Some part of her, maybe the loneliest part, seemed to crave being kept. She was still nervous. Still hesitant. Still unsure of the rules. But she was his. And that was enough. For now.

But time moved, and the world outside their hidden corners did not pause for Tom Riddle’s new obsession. The Chamber waited. The Knights whispered. Dumbledore watched. And Tom began to wonder just how far he was willing to go to keep what had, somehow, become his.
—

The Knights of Walpurgis met again the following Saturday, summoned by Tom with a flicker of parchment passed from hand to hand. They gathered in the shadowy classroom close to the dungeons, their voices low, robes trailing like shadows. A single orb of green-blue light hovered in the center, cast from Riddle’s wand. It made the stone walls shimmer like the lake overhead. He was already there when the last of them arrived. Sitting, legs crossed, at the far end of the table, fingers steepled under his chin. Malfoy to his right, always first. Lestrange opposite him, cold and watching.
“This is the first full meeting in a longer time,” Lestrange said bluntly after the opening formalities had passed. His fingers tapped absently on the table, his tone carefully neutral. Tom raised a brow.
“And yet you’re alive. So clearly you weren’t lost without me.” The others chuckled, but Lestrange did not. His eyes narrowed slightly. “People talk. About who we keep an eye on.” There it was. The line crossed. A faint twitch curled at the corner of Tom’s mouth, something like amusement, something much darker beneath.
“Let them talk,” he said softly. “There’s no power where no one knows your name.”
“They talk about you spending time with a Mudblood,” Lestrange pushed. Tom’s gaze sharpened.
“Do you think I’d waste my time on something that didn’t serve me?” Lestrange hesitated, and Tom stood. He stepped slowly around the table, letting the silence coil behind him like smoke. “She’s useful. She obeys. Unlike some of you, she doesn’t question me at every turn.” Lestrange tensed.
“You’re saying it like she’s an equal to—”
“I’m saying she knows her place,” Tom interrupted, his voice still smooth, still soft, but now venom-laced. “And if you knew yours, Icarus, you wouldn’t be asking me if I’ve lost my focus. You’d be asking what comes next.” The silence that followed was absolute. Tom circled back to his seat, sat down gracefully, and folded his hands again. “Now. Let’s begin.”
They talked of politics, of professors worth watching, of a boy from Gryffindor who’d been asking questions too loudly about bloodlines. Of Dumbledore. Always Dumbledore. The world around them was a game of shadows and whispers and Tom Riddle was determined to master every board. Nott proposed recruiting Rosier and Avery from 4th year. But beneath it all, behind every calculated sentence and gesture, his thoughts kept drifting to her. To the feeling of her hand in his. The slight hitch in her breath when he pressed too close. He had power. So much already. But never had power felt more visceral, more intoxicating, than when it was wrapped around the shape of Myrtle Warren.

Orion Black interrupted his thoughts.
“Slughorn and Beery are hosting a masquerade ball on Halloween,” he said, voice bored but watchful. “Bit of Samhain. Some performance of tradition and refined morale. Dancing and pumpkin punch. Courting rituals for fourteen-year-olds.”
“Revolting,” drawled Nott. “Do we have to go?” Orion arched an eyebrow.
“Only if you plan on surviving socially this year.”
“Sounds dreadful,” muttered Nott. Black smirked.
“Walburga’s planning to attend. Which includes me of course, as an escort.” That got a laugh. But Tom’s expression didn’t change. He hadn’t missed the flicker of eagerness in Orion’s voice when he’d said her name. That mixture of arrogance and fatal devotion the Blacks bred so well.
“A ball,” Nott repeated, scoffing. “In the middle of a war.”
“Are you literally bothering yourself with the muggle war when you can get a nice lady drunk at a party?” Lestrange chuckled. Tom sat still. One finger traced the rim of his goblet with an unnerving rhythm.
“Everyone will be there.”
“Yes,” Black confirmed. “Dippet even invited the ghosts.”
“Even better,” murmured Tom. “Everyone important will be distracted.” Lestrange let out a low hum of amusement.
“So, we don’t go?” Tom’s dark eyes lifted slowly.
“Quite the opposite, my friend. We go.” Then Tom turned his head slowly toward Malfoy, who straightened a little, sensing something was expected. “Malfoy,” he said mildly, “you know the etiquette of these events. How they’re structured, where people move. I want you to think it through. Entrances. Distractions. Who’s likely to linger where.” Abraxas lit up as if given a crown.
“Yes. Of course. My father always said—”
“Good,” Tom interrupted before he could begin. “Bring me something useful.” He then turned to Nott. “Could you observe Avery and Rosier? If we let them join, we should be certain. The Knights aren’t a social club.”
“Rosier’s got a bit of influence. And Avery’s uncle is high up in the Department of International Magical Cooperation,” the reserved noble boy began but Tom didn’t blink.
“I’m not interested in their families. I’m interested in them. Composure. Vision. Intellect. If they’re loyal. If they’d act if told to act. I want you watching.”
“With pleasure,” Nott raised his glass in a mock toast.
“What exactly are we doing during this ball?” Lestrange adjusted the cuff of his robe. Tom turned to him at last.
“We’re watching. Listening. Moving. The professors will be occupied. Dumbledore will be drunk on nostalgia and pumpkin mead. Slughorn will be busy trying to flatter everyone and matchmake students. That leaves the rest of the castle… pliable.” A pause. “And,” Tom added with chilling softness, “masks make people stupid.”
“Or brave,” Lestrange smirked.
“Or both,” said Tom. The candlelight guttered slightly. Shadows crept long and slow across the stone floor. Tom stood, smooth and quiet, like an idea becoming form. He paused at the door, his back to them.
“Oh—and Black,” he said, without looking. “Make sure to check Icarus and his drunken ladies, we are not causing chaos directly.” Their laughter echoed as Tom vanished into the hall.
—

Tom found himself waiting for her once again behind the stone arch of an alcove on the third floor, the hem of his robes unmoving in the still air, his breath silent. He barely saw her the whole day, they didn’t share classes the whole morning and he was going mad. But it wasn’t her voice that arrived first.
“Hey. Warren.”
Scamander. Tom’s jaw tightened. He could hear them both now, just around the bend of the hallway. He didn’t move.
“I was wondering,” Scamander began, his tone falsely casual, “if you’d save me a dance at the Halloween Ball.” There was a beat of silence, the kind that made Tom’s fingers twitch with awareness.
“I uh… I hadn’t really thought about going,” she said softly. Tom could picture her, nervous, arms clutching her books, glasses slightly askew. She wasn’t even lying. She likely hadn’t dared to hope for something so social, so exposed. And it wasn’t for lack of wanting, it was because the world had taught her she didn’t belong there.
“Come on,” Scamander continued. “It’ll be fun. I’ll make sure you enjoy it.” There it was. The self-assured tilt. The arrogance. The confidence of someone who believed the world owed him something because he always belonged.
“I don’t think so,” the girl said, her voice firmer this time. “But thank you.” A pause. Then the cold shift.
“You’re seriously saying no?” Malcolm said, his voice hardening. “You’d rather go alone, or what— sit in the library like a freak, scribbling in your little sketchbook?” Tom’s spine stiffened. “You know, I thought maybe I’d do something nice,” Scamander continued bitterly. “But Merlin, you’re impossible. No wonder no one ever—”
“Stop,” Myrtle said, quietly but with tremor. “Please don’t—”
“I mean, look at you.” There was something about those four words. Low, cruel, and soaked in humiliation. It made Tom’s vision sharpen like the sudden hiss of a blade leaving its sheath. His fingers curled slowly at his sides, his knuckles stiff with control. It would be so easy. One whispered spell and Scamander would choke on his own tongue. Or trip down the staircase and split his head open like a dropped fruit. Or better yet, something untraceable, something slow and silent and unholy. Tom did not move. Not yet. Because her voice came again, small but steady.
“I said no, Malcolm. That should’ve been enough.”
He heard her steps. Quick, retreating. He waited five seconds. Ten. Then he stepped out from the alcove and watched Scamander’s silhouette vanish down the opposite hall, scowling, muttering to himself. Tom didn’t follow him. He had never needed to run after prey. Instead, he turned in the direction the girl had gone, eyes dark. She had said no. She was his. Scamander could wait.

The echo of quiet sobs was barely audible beneath the dripping of the old lavatory taps, but Tom heard them before he even opened the door. He didn’t make a sound as he entered, only let the door swing shut behind him with a low creak, announcing his presence not with words, but with silence. The sound of the sobbing faltered, as if she recognized that quiet. He found her in the last stall, the door half-ajar, knees drawn to her chest atop the old stone ledge, glasses pushed up into her hair, her face buried in her sleeves. Her cardigan had slipped from one shoulder. She hadn’t even heard his steps and she looked so small. Ridiculously so. He could have turned around. Could have feigned ignorance. But he stepped closer instead.
“You’re not well.” He said it simply. It wasn’t a question. Warren startled, lifting her head. Her face was blotched with tears, the rims of her eyes red. She tried to straighten herself like she hadn’t been caught.
“Just—just tired,” she murmured. “I didn’t sleep well, that’s all.” He didn’t answer. He simply stepped into the stall. She tensed, but didn’t move. He leaned against the door as he closed them and looked down at her through narrowed lashes, studying the curve of her mouth, the tension in her jaw, the way she tried not to let her lip quiver again. His voice was low. Almost too soft.
“Lie better.” That made her look at him again, properly, warily.
“I’m not—”
“You are,” he said simply. “But I won’t ask. If it mattered, you’d say it.” She bit her lip. He saw her considering. Wanting to speak, maybe, or confess something. But she only nodded once, swallowing hard.
“You look pathetic like this,” he said. “Like you’ve been thrown away.” Her shoulders curled inward slightly, wounded.
“But you haven’t,” he continued. “Because I haven’t thrown you away.” That made her freeze. He stepped forward slowly, placed one hand on the side of her jaw, tilting her face toward him. His thumb brushed the tear track from her cheek, almost reverent. Her breath caught at the touch. Her lips parted, but no words came. And then, because for some reason it pained him to see her like this, he lifted his wand. A faint shimmer coalesced in the air between them. A soft green glow, twisting and sparkling gently. Her breath caught as it took form. A faint wisp of lilies of the valley, delicate and ghostlike, blooming from the tip of his wand and hovering in the air before her.
“You—,” her lips parted.
“I was bored,” Tom said before she could finish. “Not everything I learn is for a reason.” That was a lie. Even she knew that. He said it as if he hadn’t memorized the exact curve of her perfume’s scent weeks ago. And she didn’t ask, because it was all enough for her. Because he did what no one else in her life had ever done, not really. He stayed.
—

The next day, Tom found the Hufflepuff boy by the greenhouses. It was before dinner. Most students were already in the castle, the air damp with the scent of rain and leaves. Tom had waited, leaned against the corner of the greenhouse wall like a shadow coming unmoored from stone. His hands were in his pockets, his back relaxed, expression unreadable. Malcolm Scamander didn’t even see it coming.
“Scamander,” Tom said lowly as the boy passed. Malcolm turned, startled.
“Riddle? What are you—” Tom hit him. There was no build-up. No speech. No warning. His fist connected with a sound not unlike a snapped branch, knuckles meeting cartilage, jaw, cheekbone, and Scamander’s head jerked sideways from the sheer force of it. He staggered back, catching himself on the mossy edge of the wall.
“What the hell—!” Another punch. This one to the gut. Scamander doubled over with a sharp exhale, but Tom didn’t give him time to recover. He grabbed the front of the boy’s robes, slammed him back against the cold greenhouse stone, one hand curled into the fabric, the other bruising from the punch.
“I should break your ribs,” Tom hissed. “And no one would question it.” Blood welled at the corner of Malcolm’s mouth. His breath was ragged.
“What— what did I—”
“You know what,” Tom snarled. Malcolm looked up, eyes widening. Realisation started to bloom in his bruised expression.
“Is this about Warren? She’s a mudblood since when do—” Tom hit him again. Faster and sharper. Scamander’s head struck the wall and left a smear of red.
“You don’t get to say her name.” Tom’s voice had gone eerily quiet, like the wind before a thunderclap. “Not now. Not again. Not ever.”
“She turned me down. I didn’t even touch her—,” Scamander spat blood into the grass.
“You humiliated her,” Tom growled.
“She made me look like a fool!” Malcolm barked through the blood. “I didn’t even know…I thought you hate mu—” Tom’s hand closed around his throat. He didn’t squeeze. Not yet. Just pressed his palm to the vulnerable skin, felt the fluttering of panic beneath his fingers. Controlled. Dominant. Cold.
“What I do is none of your concerns,” he whispered. Malcolm’s eyes widened and Tom leaned in, close enough that Scamander could smell the faint trace of peppermint on his breath.
“You will forget her. You will forget she ever looked at you. You will never speak of her again. To anyone.” He pushed harder, just for a second. Just enough to make the boy choke. “And if you do,” Tom continued, voice glacial, “you’ll wish I had left you here with something as kind as a black eye.” He let go. Scamander collapsed to the dirt, coughing, gasping. Blood ran down his face in a slow, sticky line. His hands shook. Tom looked down at him in cold satisfaction.
“There’s no one out here,” he added softly. “No one saw. No one will believe you. You say a word, and I’ll take something from you you can’t get back. I’ll always find something.” Then, without another glance, he turned and walked away. Not hurried. Not shaken. Triumphant.

Dinner in the Great Hall was a dull affair. The ceiling above was overcast with sullen grey clouds, matching the mood of the rainy October evening. Students clattered cutlery and yawned into their porridge bowls, owls swooped overhead, and conversation buzzed in the usual way. All perfectly ordinary. Except for one subtle shift. Tom sat in his usual place among the Slytherins, chin propped against his fingers, posture relaxed, though every muscle was coiled like a waiting spell. His gaze, half-lidded and unreadable, remained fixed across the Hall. On Scamander. Malcolm was seated at the Hufflepuff table, pale and hunched, a book open in front of him but untouched. His right eye was ringed in blossoming violet and blue, a shade only half-masked by whatever weak healing charm he’d attempted. He kept blinking as though the light hurt him. His jaw was slightly swollen, and when he winced while lifting his goblet of pumpkin juice, Tom felt a flicker of satisfaction curl beneath his ribs. Whatever fragile courage he’d once drawn from Warren’s sweetness had shattered the moment Tom’s fist met his face. He hadn’t done it for love. He didn’t believe in such foolish things. He had done it for order. For possession. For the quiet, burning injustice of watching someone try to reach for what was his.
He let his eyes drift to the Ravenclaws. Warren wasn’t there. Not yet. The edge of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but something sharper. She was probably still upstairs, brushing out her hair or tying her tie wrong or looking in the mirror and doubting what he saw in her. He wasn’t sure himself, but definitely something. He’d carved the proof into the silence. Malcolm Scamander wouldn’t try again. No one would. Tom would make sure of it.

“What happened to Scamander?” asked Nott lazily as he glanced up from his soup. “Turned up with a shiner. Real nasty one.”
“Practically walked into me before,” added Rosier, who was now sitting next to him. “Poor bloke flinched so hard you’d think someone was about to hex him blind,” he finished with a grin. Tom straightened like a prince descending onto a darkened throne, not bothering to hide the bruised knuckles. Orion eyed him, ever observant.
“I see you took care of it,” he said coolly. “Whatever it was.” His gaze met Tom’s, not accusing, not questioning. Merely knowing. And amused. A pause stretched between them. Lestrange let out a low whistle, trying to piece it together.
“Problem solved, then?” Abraxas asked, his voice sharper than usual, half-intrigued, half-unsettled.
“Problem?” Tom said softly, dragging out the word like a slow knife. “I’m not aware there was one.” Another pause. A shift in the air.
“You do realise,” said Orion, still relaxed but now watching Tom with the sort of dangerous interest one might reserve for cursed objects, “he’s a wealthy pureblood.” Something flickered in Tom’s eyes, not anger. Amusement, perhaps. Or warning.
“He overstepped,” Tom said simply, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves like the matter bored him. “And I don’t like when things go uncorrected.”
“He must’ve said something particularly stupid,” drawled Nott, smirking. “You usually don’t get your hands dirty.” He glanced importantly at Tom's swollen hand.
“There wasn’t much blood,” Tom murmured, and a few of them chuckled. Only Orion kept looking at him with that half-lidded, serpent stare.
“Just be careful, Tom,” he said at last. “If we start bleeding for our little hobbies, eventually someone notices the stain.”
“See you later, gentlemen,” said Tom and left with the faintest smirk at the corner of his mouth.

As he was leaving the Great Hall, he didn’t expect her. Not there, not then. Not with her fingers curled into the sleeve of his robe like she owned the right. Like she wasn’t trembling. Like she hadn’t spent her entire days hiding from the world. But she stood in front of him now, her face pale with determination, her hand small and stubborn on his arm.
“That way,” she said shyly, tugging him toward an empty classroom just beside the Transfiguration hallway. He didn’t move. She looked up at him, those glassy brown eyes flickering with hesitation. But something in them had changed. “Now,” she repeated. Not louder. Not begging. Commanding. That single word, so small and brave in her voice, was all it took. He smirked smugly and followed. The class was dim and warm with old dust, just a few desks. It probably wasn’t even used this year. She stepped in first, the door clicking shut behind them like a spell locking into place. To his surprise, she pulled out her elegant wand and with a quick flick of her wrist, she locked it. He stayed still, watching her. Waiting. She then nervously stepped closer and took his hand. She observed his purple knuckles, then brushed her pale fingers over the injury softly, soothingly.
“I saw Scamander,” she said after a beat. Tom said nothing. The air between them thickened. She bit her lip. “You didn’t have to— Are you okay?” She asked suddenly. The question stopped something in him. Not why did you do it or how could you. Not you went too far. Just Are you okay? Of all things, she was worried about Him. Even when the bruises were his fault. Even when the blood wasn’t his own. She should have been afraid of him. Should have looked at him the way others did, with suspicion or distance. But instead, her voice had cracked with concern. She was his, completely. It broke him.
His hand shot out, seized her waist, pulled her to him in a single, brutal movement. Their mouths crashed together, not a kiss but a conquest. Her gasp was devoured before it could leave her throat. His fingers dug into her ribs. Her back hit the locked door with a dull thud. She let him. No stammering. No protest. And that was worse. His magic poured into the space between them like smoke. Dark, volatile, full of thorns. Hers met it with quiet strength, silver and soft, like the glow of moonlight on water. But it did not retreat. It welcomed him and he kissed her like punishment. Like proof. Like he needed to carve the memory of this into her lips and her lungs and her spine. His mouth broke from hers, trailed to her jaw, down to her throat. Her head tipped back, baring her neck for him like instinct. His teeth grazed the skin just under her ear. She whimpered, a small, breathy thing that turned molten in his chest. His hand wrapped around the back of her neck. Not rough, but firm. Anchoring. She leaned into it. He could feel the thrum of her pulse beneath his fingertips, fast and full and so completely his.
“Why did you pull me in here?” he asked her against her skin, mouth brushing her collarbone now, teeth catching on the edge of it.
“I…” she faltered. “Because of that and…I wanted—”
“You wanted Me.” His voice was barely a breath, but the venom in it hummed with pride. “Say it.” She panted desperately. “You wanted me,” he repeated, more demand than statement. She nodded, lips parted, breath hitching.
“Yes.”
“Say it.”
“I wanted you.”
He kissed her again, slower now. Open-mouthed and reverent and violent all at once. His hands were in her hair, then on her waist, then tugging her against him like the distance between them was physically intolerable. She made another soft sound, a noise he hadn’t heard from her before, a moan she tried to swallow, and his control frayed. He angled her head to kiss her deeper, tongue stroking hers in a way that made her knees buckle, and he caught her, of course, with one arm curled low around her back.
“You drive me mad,” he whispered against her lips. Kissed her jaw, her temple, her cheek. His hand moved up to cup her jaw again, thumb sliding across her lower lip. She trembled, eyes wide, pupils blown. Fear and yearning tangled in her gaze as she searched his face.
“Do you… hate me?” For a heartbeat he said nothing, only held her gaze while his thumb swept the slope of her cheek, tender, terrible. Then he leaned in, his voice a ruinous confession against the corner of her mouth.
“So much. I hate you so much.”

He kissed her again. Hard and bruising and desperate, like hatred could taste sweet, like hatred could save him from something far worse. Because he didn’t hate her the way he hated the rest of them. He hated her the way stars hate the night for needing it. He hated her until the word meant wanting, until it meant belonging. She was everything. Trembling and too warm and flushed and messy and his.
“I’ll ruin you,” he whispered against her neck.
“I don’t care,” she breathed out desperately, devotionally. Tom exhaled sharply, like he’d been struck and in the same breath, kissed her again, harder, deeper, with something that bordered on unhinged. Her mouth opened to him instantly, without thought, and he took full advantage, pressing her even more into him. She felt small again in his arms, impossibly warm and soft and alive. And His. He kissed down her jaw, her throat, nipping lightly where the skin thinned over her pulse point. It made her whimper again. His hands, now at her hips, gripped hard, one slipping beneath her blouse, dragging his fingers along the slope of her back. He wanted to burn his fingerprints into her. She shivered violently in his arms, clutched his shoulders, her legs trembling. His hand now caressed bare skin, rough palms over silk-fine softness. And still she didn’t pull away. Still she looked up at him, glassy-eyed and flushed and breathing like she couldn’t decide if she was frightened or desperate.
“You shouldn’t want this,” he hissed suddenly, more to himself than to her. His forehead pressed against hers. “You shouldn’t want me.”
“I do,” she said. So quietly. So fiercely. Her hands at his jaw. “I do.”
He growled, a sound raw with disbelief and victory and hunger, and then pressed her hips into him. Effortless. He claimed her mouth in a kiss so bruising it could barely be called a kiss anymore. It was a consumption. Tongue and teeth and low groans. One of his hands gripped her thigh, the other buried in her hair as he tilted her head back further.
“Tom—”
He shuddered. She said his name like a plea and he broke apart under it. His hand slid beneath her blouse again, palm against her ribs, her heartbeat rapid and fluttering like a caged bird beneath his touch. And he’d never let it stop beating. Not because he was kind, but because he wasn’t sure if he could live with the silence it would leave behind. And Warren, wide-eyed, trembling, nearly breathless, wrapped her arms around him tighter. As if he needed to be held too.

The little-used classroom still held the ghost of their breathless hunger, of limbs colliding in silence, lips meeting like promises meant to ruin. Tom sat back now, sprawled with calculated elegance on one of the old chairs, dark robes askew, collar loosened. His wand lay abandoned on the desk beside him, but his eyes never left her. She stood a few paces from him, flushed and glowing in a way she never realized. Her tie was undone, her blouse slightly untucked, and her lips bore the deep red kiss of his mouth. She reached up to straighten her shirt with trembling fingers, but his gaze stilled her. She flushed deeper. It never ceased to undo him. The way she became shy under the weight of his eyes. She tried to look away, fingers fidgeting with her sleeve cuff, but then she stepped closer. She always did. She never ran. Even when she should have. Tom reached out and curled an arm around her waist, pulling her closer. He liked holding her like this. Not necessarily in the heat of it all, but after. When he could see the mark of him on her. When he could remind himself she was real. He slipped his arm into her robes and drew lazy patterns on her lower back over the fabric of her shirt.
“You’re really not going to that Halloween Ball?” She blinked and took a ragged breath.
“Helen Abbott wanted to go dress shopping to Hogsmeade with me,” she murmured, fixing her glasses. “But I… probably won’t go.”
Something in his jaw twitched. He hated that they all made her so insecure that she thought so little of herself even for a masquerade ball. He tilted his head, dark eyes steady.
“Go shopping with her.” She looked startled.
“What?” He flexed his fingers dangerously lower on her back, probably inappropriately.
“You’ll go with me,” he said softly. “There’s merit in masks. No one would know it’s you. Or me. We could slip in and slip out.” His voice dropped lower. “No eyes watching. No questions. Just your shadows.” She stared down at him, blinking slowly. He could see the thoughts shifting behind her gaze, the uncertainty. He reached up and thumbed at the fabric of her collar, still wrinkled from where he had pressed her against the door.
“You wouldn’t need to talk to anyone.” Her breath caught, he felt it. Her lips parted, soft and unsure. “And besides…” His fingers brushed her neck, then her jaw. “I’d like to see you in disguise for me. We could dance if you’d like…just once.” She looked like she might melt from the weight of his attention. Her mouth opened to answer, but she hesitated. He took the moment to lean forward and press a kiss to her stomach, through her thin blouse. She gasped softly and he smiled against the fabric.
“You’ll come with me,” he said simply. It wasn’t really a question. With the same quiet force he used to bend the world, he guided her carefully, deliberately, to settle onto his thigh. The move was effortless. Natural. As though she had always belonged there. She sat, startled, weight tentative. Her hand gripped his shoulder for balance. He didn’t say anything. Just rested his palm on her hip, thumb brushing the hem of her blouse where it had ridden up slightly. For once he allowed his time to slow down. Or maybe it only narrowed. Into heat, and breath, and the faintest scent of lilies lingering in her hair. It wouldn’t hurt, would it? It was just for a moment. Just a small thing for her. It was probably the least he could do. To hide beneath a mask for one evening. To dance with her once, faceless to the rest of the world. It would be indulgent. Weak. But gods, he wanted it. Wanted her.

And then she moved. Without speaking, Warren leaned in and brushed her lips against the side of his neck. Tom froze. For a heartbeat, probably several, he didn’t breathe. She’d never done that before. Not unprompted. Not that. And it wasn’t frantic or urgent like their hidden make-outs in cupboards and corridors. It was slow. Delicate. Sincere. He didn’t know what to do with sincere. He tilted his head slightly, not consciously, just enough to give her better access, to bare his throat. His grip on her hip tightened. Firmly. Like if he didn’t hold on, he’d do something dangerous. Her lips moved again, soft against his skin. Another kiss. And then another, higher now, just below his jaw. Her breath was warm, her courage trembling but undeniable, and her small hands anchored against his chest as she explored the shape of his neck with gentle worship.
He was malfunctioning. No other word came close. She didn’t even know what she was doing to him. Against his will. Against everything. His breath grew heavier. A small sound escaped the back of his throat, something frustrated and low. She shifted ever so slightly in his lap, and he gripped her thigh through the fabric of her uniform trousers, grounding himself.
“You shouldn’t—” His voice was barely audible. Hoarse. But he didn’t finish. Because he didn’t want her to stop. She whispered something, maybe his name, but it was lost against his skin, drowned out by the roaring in his ears and the flood of something dark and hungry pulling at his chest. He shut his eyes. He didn’t breathe. Didn’t dare. Her mouth pressed again, lower now, and something primal inside him coiled tight. Merlin knew he’d consumed her lips in every corner of this castle. But this was different. This was Warren, an invisible awkward Ravenclaw girl, pressing soft kisses to his neck like he was the only important thing in her world. Maybe he was.
She pressed a wet kiss below his ear and he made a low sound in his throat before he could stop it. A groan barely audible, but enough. She stilled. Her lips hovered just above his skin, eyes wide, half-afraid, half-embarrassed. She started to lean back, as if she’d gone too far, as if she expected to be scolded or shut out. Tom’s hand shot out and gripped her waist harder, pulling her flush against him.
“Go on,” he breathed, voice rough, a command rather than a request. His breath grazed the shell of her ear, hot and shaking.
“Do it again.” Her eyes widened, searching his. But he was unreadable. Only his jaw was tight, only his grip on her hips betrayed just how much restraint this cost him. She swallowed, cheeks flushing deeper than he thought possible, and pressed another kiss just there again. He let his head fall back, exposing his throat to her in a motion that felt dangerous. He didn’t understand what this was. How she could undo him like this, one warm kiss at a time. He’d trained himself to resist temptation, to command it, bend it into tools. But she wasn’t temptation. She was something softer. Stranger. A trap without sharp edges, one that closed slowly around him until he forgot what escape was. Her lips moved lower, trailing to the hollow of his throat. He hated her. Because in all the power he craved, in all the careful control he maintained, there was her. Her hands on his shoulders, her breath warm on his skin, her lips on his throat like she had every right. “The next time Scamander looks at you I’ll kill him.” The words slipped from his lips like a curse. Not in the dramatic way some boys might have muttered it, but with the dead certainty of someone who meant every syllable. It wasn’t a figure of speech. It was a promise. She froze slightly and her breath caught. But she didn’t protest. She didn’t even flinch. Somewhere, deep down, she knew. Knew what he was, and stayed anyway. Tom’s jaw tightened. His fingers were already digging into the softness of her thigh through her trousers, but now he pulled her fully into his lap, shifting her until she straddled him. She let out a quiet sound, half surprise, half surrender and he swallowed it with his mouth, devouring her again, as if silencing any possible objection before it could form. Her knees braced against the wooden edges of the chair, her hands pressed to his chest for balance. He could feel her everywhere now. Her body pressed to his, the warmth of her in places that made his thoughts bleed together into something far less holy than any noble man should think. Maybe that was why it thrilled him. He hadn’t planned this. None of this. The room still looked like any abandoned classroom, cold and dim and entirely unremarkable, but it felt like a confessional, a place where sins were not only whispered, but begged for. The weight of her above him was dizzying, intoxicating in a way no spell had ever been. And it still felt like power.
He hadn’t even known it was possible to have so much heat pooling in his stomach and still think, still plan. He was aware of everything. Her blush. Her trembling fingers. How her lips looked even redder now, kissed too many times and never enough. How no one had likely ever even looked at her like this, not really. And he liked that no one else had. That no one else knew the softness of her neck, the shape of her gasp, the faint scent of lilies of the valley clinging to her hair. He pressed his hand low against her back, keeping her close, his other hand lifting to brush the glasses gently up the bridge of her nose before trailing along her jaw. She stared down at him, dazed, half-unbelieving, lips trembling just slightly.
“You don’t even realise,” he whispered against her mouth, voice guttural, “how inappropriate this is.” Her eyes widened slightly.
“But—” she began softly, confused. He smirked darkly and brushed his lips along her jaw.
“You’re in my lap,” he said, voice like velvet scraped over stone. “Straddling me. In a classroom. Soon even after curfew.” She flushed scarlet.
“I—I didn’t—” He chuckled darkly, but there was something between mockery and adoration in his tone.
“I should deduct Ravenclaw a few points for that,” he said almost lazily, “for you being such a reckless little thing.” He kissed her again before she could respond. Slow, deep, his hand sliding into her hair. His restraint was slipping like silk through fingers, and he didn’t even try to stop it now. He wanted her like this, hot and wide-eyed, clinging to him as if he were both damnation and refuge. He pulled back just enough to whisper low into her ear, “Say you’re mine.”
And when she did, trembling and breathless, he kissed her like it was a vow sealed in blood. —

He kissed her goodnight at the edge of Ravenclaw Tower, nothing sinful this time. Just her face cupped in his hands, the briefest brush of his lips against her forehead, and a low murmur of something only she could hear. She’d smiled, shy and glowing, before disappearing behind the bronze door. Tom turned. But he didn’t go back to the dungeons. His steps carried him downward, but not far enough. At the split near the Great Hall, he paused and turned toward the library. Just for a moment. Just to remember himself. His purpose. It was late. The corridors were quiet. And Madame Scribner had long since locked up for the night but Tom Riddle knew more than one way in. A whispered Alohomora, a silent slip of his wand, and the library sighed open for him like a lover who knew he’d come calling eventually. He walked with casted Lumos along the Restricted Section, searching for several forbidden texts. The boy had come seeking bloodlines, ritual fragments of Divinatio Sanguinis that might lay bare every branch of his ancestry without the bother of Ministry archives. One brittle volume promised a scrying charm. All it required was a reflective surface and the caster’s own blood. Tom never flinched from what was necessary.
He cleared a space and transfigured a tarnished silver inkwell into a broad-bottomed bowl, filling it with water whispered from his wand. The surface stilled into a dark mirror. He slit the inside of his palm, just shallow enough, just clean enough, and let the droplets fall into the silver bowl he’d conjured. The water inside accepted it greedily, curling like ink spilled through a vein. Then traced the runic sigil for lineage in mid-air. Three strokes, a circle, a closing hook. But he hesitated, lost focus, thought of her lips on his neck, of her trembling under his touch. His hand tensed. The circle of the sigil wavered, the finishing hook bled into an unintended angle. Subtle, but enough to shift meaning. The visions trapped him immediately.

A corridor slick with moon-cold tiles. Round broken glasses. Warren lay sprawled at the threshold of a stone doorway that shouldn’t exist. Water pooled beneath her, glimmering like mercury. Somewhere beneath the floor a vast body coiled, muscles shifting with ancient grace. A green sun opened just long enough for Tom to feel its hatred lance through his chest.
…
The ruined lavatory. Porcelain shattered, fountains of water spewing from cracked sinks. Hundreds of pale hatchling serpents slithered over her motionless cold body. They ignored Tom entirely, instead circling her in patterns that looked unnervingly like runes. As they hissed, he understood their Parseltongue chorus: “Unworthy of master. Filthy Mudblood.”
…
The Great Hall transformed into a ballroom overflowing with masks and candlelight. Myrtle stood in the center beneath a tangle of floating jack-o’-lanterns. Her mask a white lace, her gown dripping pearls of frost. The dancers spun around her without ever touching. Her smile was brittle ice. Each twist of her skirt left small petals of snow. When she finally turned toward him, her eyes were blank, lifeless. She was floating like a ghost. His feet sank through the polished floor; black water flooded upward, swallowing music, light, air.
…
Myrtle Warren, pale and rigid, lips faintly blue, as though kissed by winter. He bent to press his mouth to hers, desperate to warm her, to wake her. Her skin was ice even beneath his usually cold palms. His own breath fogged in the air, yet hers did not answer. Her chest did not rise. He slammed his fists against the wet floor as Mrs. Cole’s voice echoed somewhere unseen: “There’s something wrong with that boy—he brings cold with him, never warmth—”
…
The vision convulsed. Water and ice shattered into shards of memory and threw him backward, through time and he was back in the Wool’s orphanage again. He was eight. The chapel attic smelled of mold and lamp oil, the windows tacked with newspaper to keep the drafts from blowing the candles out. Two parish volunteers pinned his arms to splintering floorboards. A third, sweating beneath a crooked crucifix, muttered Latin he did not understand. He remembered the chill iron taste of the bit they forced between his teeth, remembered Mrs. Cole wringing her hands in the doorway, insisting “it’s for the good of his soul”. He remembered choking on holy water, coughing black strings of it back onto the priest’s vestments. He remembered trying to set them on fire with a thought. Anything to make them stop. And when the candle flames bent toward him, stretching like desperate fingers, they only screamed louder that the Devil was within him. Cold rope. The weight of bodies. A hand striking his head again and again while they prayed for mercy he would never give.
Then a final smell of scorched linen and fear as the rope fell loose and everyone fled, swearing he howled like an animal. He stayed on the floor until morning, staring at the ceiling where the plaster had cracked into the shape of a serpent’s grin. And then her empty wide eyes again.
…
He lurched away from the desk, the bowl shattered. Water and blood sluicing over the edge like viscera. His chest heaved. The candlelight flashed too bright, then too dim. Shadows warped so the shelves looked like rows of gallows. Panic clawed up through his rib cage, ancient and forbidden. Not fear, he tried to tell himself, but the air wheezed hot and thin. The vision’s chill still clawed at him, dredging up the orphanage smell of mildew and shame. Warren lifeless and cold. Mrs. Cole screaming. The serpents hissing refusal. Prophecies. Fate. Visions. He despised them. They presumed to rule him, to dictate an end. He set the path. Not the magic, not ancient runes, not the sick memories of a chapel attic. He was the Slytherin Heir, he would rule.
Bracing both palms on the desk, he sucked air through his teeth until the black spots receded. Then he flicked his wand. The spilled water vanished, the bowl knit itself whole and turned back to the inkwell, the sigils faded. The library door slammed behind him as he fled into the corridor, cloak snapping. He ascended staircase after staircase, faster than breath, until he stood outside Ravenclaw Tower. Only the bronze eagle knocker barred him now. But he knew the password well enough. He heard it every other night from her lips after he kissed them. Warm, he told himself. She’s warm. He needed to see it. Feel it. He would wake her if he must, drag her to the nearest hearth, press her pulse to his lips—
Because if fate thought to rob him of the one fragile ember he’d allowed in his life, it would learn what wrath meant when wielded by Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Chapter Text

October 1942

Tom allowed himself to slow only when the spiral staircase ended and the bronze eagle of Ravenclaw Tower loomed before him. His chest still clenched and shuddered as though a cold hand were wrapped around his lungs. He loathed himself. Loathed the tightening, the ragged breath, the weakness of losing command over his own body. He loathed the botched ritual, the visions it had vomited into his mind, the past he had spent years locking behind iron doors. For so long he had held those memories in chains.
Mrs Cole’s crucifix glinting above him in the chapel attic, her screaming prayers that cracked open the rafters, the rope biting his wrists, holy water burning his skin like acid while the priest snarled and drove salt into his gums. He had learned, painstakingly, to keep that nightmare in a mausoleum behind his thoughts. Yet the memories had breached every lock. He saw the boy again, the boy he had been, thrashing beneath thick ropes while candle-flames bent toward him in mute obedience. He smelled the scorch of hymnals catching fire, heard the crack of timber as the chapel roof began to burn and then the flashes of the dreadful visions. He saw her small body crumpled on wet tiles, eyes vacant, lips colder than his own ever were. “There’s something wrong with that boy,, he brings only cold—”
Cold, that was what haunted him now. The same lifeless frost had glazed Warren’s face in the prophecy he could not believe, the prophecy he refused to obey. So he hurried on, pulse pounding loud in his ears, the vision of her lifeless body hounding every step. He needed to see her, to feel the warmth beneath her skin, to forbid the future from claiming what was his.
The bronze eagle stirred, feathers creaking.
“I speak without a mouth and hear without ears,” it intoned, voice solemn as midnight. Tom cut it off, tongue rough in his mouth. He had heard her whisper the answer only nights ago, lips still swollen from his kiss.
“Echo,” he breathed too quickly, his voice catching as though it belonged to someone smaller, frailer. The eagle inclined, the door unlatched. He slipped through and, with a snap of his wand, drew the Disillusionment Charm over himself like a shroud of frost. He didn’t belong there but that had never stopped him.

Ravenclaw Tower was everything the Slytherin Dungeons were not. Wide and open, tall bookshelves, silver-blue tapestries and glassy windows that framed a night sky smeared with clouds. Books that floated dutifully back to shelves, silver orreries turning slow as distant galaxies. It was beautiful, this airy temple of logic. And merciless. The coldness here was not just architectural. The Ravenclaw Tower felt sterile to him. Too clean. Too exposed. No alcoves. No curtains. Nowhere to disappear. Nowhere to hide. There was nowhere for an anxious soul to hide its shaking hands. It explained so much. Of course she hated it. Of course she had nowhere else to be but elsewhere.
He moved like a shadow and climbed the spiraling stairs in silence, still feeling the breathless edge of panic clawing in his ribs. His palm throbbed with each beat of his pulse, the gash from the ritual spell he’d cast too hastily, too recklessly. He hadn’t even remembered to close the wound. Tom started to sense the suffocating feeling again, desperately rushing towards the girls’ dormitories. He found her room without difficulty. He had expected some hesitation, Ravenclaws were meticulous with their wards, but as he reached the small door with a neat and elegant writing, he found none.
5th Year: Abbot Helen, Warren Myrtle.
Tom thought they were foolish and reckless but then again, she had no need to conceal herself here. She was invisible, even among her own. Inside, he scanned the beds. Abbott’s bed was easy to spot. It was decorated delicately, almost aristocratically, a riot of pastel lace and books stacked by color. Hers was the other. Simpler. Minimal. Everything in its place. A little too neat. As if she tidied not for vanity, but to take up less space. A worn textbook teetering off the nightstand, a hair ribbon carelessly draped across the bedpost, her school shoes tucked too neatly under the frame. He cast a silent Muffliato around her corner of the room, watching the hum of the spell settle like fog around Helen Abbott’s sleeping form in the next bed.

The room stilled even more. Tom stood motionless for a long time after the door clicked softly shut behind him, the Disillusionment Charm still clinging to him like ice along the bones. Only when he was certain Helen Abbott’s breathing had not shifted, still light, steady, oblivious, did he allow it to melt from his skin. A ripple of sensation passed over him, revealing the trembling outline of a boy too composed to admit the panic that had only just begun to loosen its grip. He made his way to her bed like someone trespassing upon sacred ground. The curtains were half-drawn, leaving her form faintly lit in the moonlight slanting through the tall arched windows. She was curled on her side beneath the blankets, brown hair loose across her pillow like ink spilled in sleep. One hand tucked beneath her cheek. Still. Breathing. Warm. Alive.
He sank slowly onto the corner of the bed, careful not to shift the mattress too much beneath her. His hands, trembling still from whatever hell he had scraped himself out of, settled into his lap. The palm was still split from the botched spell, crusted blood sharp against his skin. But it was nothing. Nothing compared to what he had seen. Her body, lying lifeless on the cold tile. Her mouth parted just slightly, like a doll dropped and forgotten. Her skin pale with the absence of heat. His eyes closed, jaw tight. He’d clawed his way up a thousand corridors just to banish that thought. To prove it wrong. And now that he was here, now that he had seen her chest rise and fall, soft, sweet and rhythmic, it still wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough at all.
He needed to hear her voice. That shy, hesitant voice that cracked when she was nervous and fluttered when she tried to be brave. He needed her to blink at him sleepily, to scold him in that quiet, breathless way she did when he was being unreasonable. He needed her to see him. To wake and remind him he wasn’t lost to fate or prophecy or the flames of a childhood no one had dared to look at properly. The ache inside him was growing unbearable. His gaze dropped to her face. The soft curve of her cheek, lips slightly parted in sleep, lashes brushing the faintest shadow on her skin. He swallowed and his body leaned forward before he even realised what he was doing. The need pulled at him, dragging him closer like a tide too old and too strong to resist. Just one touch, he told himself. Just to be sure. Just to know. He reached out, slowly and reverently, and brushed a strand of hair from her temple with the backs of his fingers. She stirred, barely. A breath. A shift beneath the blankets. No more. He could stay like this forever, he thought. Guarding her. Watching her breathe. Making sure the cold couldn’t take her. But the truth was simple and cruel. He didn’t want to be her guardian. He was selfish and wanted her curled against his chest, whispering against his collar, kissing his neck softly, looking at him with endless devotion. And he hated that. Hated her for making him want that.

She shifted. It was subtle, a wrinkle in the fabric of quiet, but Tom noticed it immediately. Her fingers twitched against the pillow, brows faintly drawn in the center. A murmur escaped her lips, wordless and small, but enough to snatch the breath from his lungs. She was probably dreaming. Her shoulders tensed beneath the blanket, and something in him snapped taut.
“Warren,” he whispered, voice low and rough, like it had been dragged through ash. She stirred again. This time slower, heavier. Her lashes fluttered. A small crease deepened between her brows. And then, blinking up at him in the dim light, she woke. She stilled at once. Her breath caught in her throat as her gaze sharpened, finding the outline of his face above her, cloaked in shadow. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. The moment stretched tight between them, electric with the sense of something irreversible.
“…Tom?” she breathed, her voice cracking with sleep and confusion. “What… are you…”
He exhaled, finally, chest still shuddering with the last remnants of the panic he hadn’t allowed himself to name. He didn’t answer her right away. He didn’t know how to.
“I—” she tried again, sitting up slightly. Her eyes darted around the dormitory and she reached for her glasses on the nightstand. She looked at him properly then and her eyes widened. “You’re bleeding.”
He glanced down at his palm, the blood smeared in dried patterns across the lines of his hand, and said nothing. She sat up more fully, blankets falling to her waist, her nightgown a whisper of fabric in the moonlight. The tension between them sharpened into something almost inappropriate. She stared at him, his dark eyes, his open collar, the way he looked like something chased from the jaws of hell and not yet recovered, and all her questions became irrelevant.
“Okay…come on,” she whispered, hoarse but urgent. “I’ll just… close the curtains.” For once he didn’t argue. Didn’t speak. He just unbuckled his shoes methodically and hid them silently underneath her bed, then climbed carefully onto the mattress. She drew the bed-curtains shut with a flick of her wand and cast a charm to lighten the space at least a bit. The rest of the world disappeared. It was just them. In a bed that smelled faintly of parchment and her. She turned to him and when her fingers brushed his, he watched them in wonder, as if she were the spell that had brought him back from the burning edge. The girl reached for the clasp of his robe. Tom stilled. His eyes followed the soft line of her throat down to her nightgown, the delicate edge of her collarbone in the casted light. He felt the shift immediately. Heat crawled up his spine, sharp and consuming. He couldn’t place it. After what he had seen? After what he had become? It startled him how quickly the selfish need could return, how close it always sat beneath his skin. But then her hands faltered and she muttered quickly.
“It’s just… It’s stained. The blood. It shouldn’t be on the bed.” Something in her apologetic tone, nervous and absurdly practical, brought him back to reality. She wasn’t even thinking about impropriety or reputation. She just didn’t want to ruin the covers. She was so small and innocent and lovely in the moment, he let out a breath that was almost a laugh and shrugged off the robe himself, folding it slowly and placing it beside her pillow.
“Your hand.”
He offered it, watching the way her brow furrowed as she examined the cut. She didn’t ask how it happened. She didn’t ask why. Just pulled her wand and murmured a quiet healing charm, gentle and efficient. He watched her as she worked, her lips pursed, her eyes cast downward, the curve of her cheek dimmed by the glow of her magic. She cared only about his well being. She didn’t ask or tell him to leave. She was his. Small, simple, filled with quiet power. It would be so easy to fracture this. But he wouldn’t. Not tonight. Here, her hands warm, her lashes low as she focused and he began to stitch together the tatters of himself again. She was his. His little offering to the life he had never meant to live. His mistake he refused to ever name. And he would keep her warm. Even if it meant setting the rest of the world on fire. Even if he himself was cold.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she whispered, not unkindly, just a little nervously. “If anyone found out…” Her words were swallowed by the silence. He didn’t answer. He only shook his head and then reached for her, arms curling around her as he pulled her close and buried his face in her hair. His breath trembled. She gasped softly, freezing for just a moment, and then she melted. She let him.
“I don’t want to talk,” he murmured finally, the words shaped more from desperation than anything else. “Let me stay.” Her heart was racing. He could feel it against his chest. She didn’t say yes, but her hand came up and tangled gently in his dark hair, and that was answer enough.
“I’m really tired,” she whispered, almost apologetically. “I’m sorry—”
The apology struck him like a blow. She looked at him, guilt softening her features, as though she believed she had done something wrong by succumbing to exhaustion. As if holding his bleeding hand in the middle of the night wasn’t enough. As if her warmth, her silence, her simple presence hadn’t just stopped the unraveling of him. She started to shift away, as though to grant him space in her bed, her world, unsure what he needed, unsure what he wanted from her. But he moved faster. His hand came up to cradle her cheek, cold fingers threading into her hair, thumb brushing gently along the edge of her temple.
“No,” he said, and his voice was low but firm, threaded with something more than control. Something rarer. Something terrifying. “You don’t apologise to me.” Her eyes widened.
“I’ll take care of it,” he continued, barely above a whisper. “Everything. You don’t need to ask. You don’t need to understand. Just sleep.”
“But—” she started, her voice as soft as the sheets, already fighting the heaviness in her limbs. He leaned forward then, pressing a kiss, light as breath, onto her forehead. Then another to her cheek. Then lower, to the corner of her lips. As though sealing the words in.
“I’ll handle it,” he whispered again, a vow this time. To her. To himself. To whatever dark gods watched from the corners of his mind. “I always do.” She exhaled shakily, slowly, and something in her, something tentative and trusting, sank fully into the shape of him beside her. Her head found the hollow of his shoulder. Her lashes fell and he let his arms tighten around her waist, laid his palm flat between her shoulder blades, where her warmth pulsed steady and soft against him. For an instant the world was exquisitely still. Only the hush of charmed curtains, the faint crackle of starlight beyond the tower’s windows, and the whisper of fabric where his hand smoothed the length of her spine. Her warmth replaced the echo of holy water on raw flesh, the scent of lilies drowned the stench of scorched hymnals.

He tucked the blanket higher over her shoulders and let his fingers drift along the curve of her arm. If she stirred, she did not wake. She only nuzzled closer, unconscious trust offered like a sacrament. He nestled his chin into her hair and drew in a slow breath, sealing the moment inside his ribs. The panic ebbed. The tremor in his lungs stilled. Control flowed back, curling through his veins. He set the path. He was the Heir of Slytherin, master of the hidden halls, heir to secrets older than the castle stones. The Chamber would open when he willed it, not when visions commanded. Blood oaths and serpents answered to his tongue alone. And the girl whose heartbeat whispered against his chest was bound to him by unbreakable vow and by His will.
Tom’s gaze roamed her sleeping face, her spots barely visible in the blue light, lips parted in a fragile sigh. So simple, so mortal, yet she had become the hinge upon which his night now turned. His obligation. His proof. The ember he’d chosen to shelter, precisely because the world would never suspect it lay in his palm. He did not close his eyes. He did not need sleep. He would stand sentinel till dawn, rebuilding every wall brick by deliberate brick inside his mind, until there was no room for chapel fires or dead futures. Only corridors of polished stone, doors that opened at his word, and the girl breathing steadily in the fortress of his arms.

The hours bled in silence, broken only by the soft sounds of her breathing, the occasional rustle of blankets, the shifting of her body curled into him. He’d adjusted his position just once, to let her lie more fully against his chest. She was his now. That much was undeniable. Not like an object, more like a secret. A possession in the oldest, most sacred sense. Like a spell known only to one wizard. A flame held in trembling hands. His hand never left her. Sometimes it rested lightly on her shoulder. Sometimes his fingers slid gently down her spine as though to reassure himself she was real. Warm. Breathing. Not the vision he’d seen sprawled lifeless on those cursed tiles. She was warm.
The sky outside the tall enchanted windows of Ravenclaw Tower began to lighten. The stars dimmed. The blue haze of morning crept across the stone floor, kissing the hem of her bed curtains like an uninvited guest. Tom watched the light move, silent and motionless, he knew he had to leave. Soon. The tower would stir to life. Students would whisper and stretch and someone would notice the ripple of a Disillusionment Charm not quite properly concealed. And then it would all be over.
He shifted carefully and turned slightly to face her. She remained asleep, her brow soft now, untroubled. She looked younger like this. Almost happy. He reached to brush a lock of hair from her cheek, fingers careful. Then he leaned down and pressed a kiss into her temple. A second one followed, against her forehead. As if every inch of her face was a sigil he could memorise and carry with him into battle. But when he moved to rise, her hands tightened around him. He froze. She was still half-asleep, eyes barely open, lids heavy with dreams, but her voice came in a broken whisper.
“Don’t go yet.” He swallowed hard, his throat dry. A war raged beneath his skin. The part of him that ruled, that planned and calculated and moved pawns into place, screamed at him to leave, now, before the light finished creeping in. But the other part, the one that had bled through his fingertips during the blood rite, the one that shattered beneath the image of her body cold and still, clawed for more. For her.
“I can’t stay,” he murmured, his voice rough. “It’s dawn.” She blinked up at him, still half-lost in sleep, her hand moving to rest lightly on his chest.
“Hmm” she sighed sleepily and nuzzled more into him. And that was his undoing. He stayed. He laid back down properly beside her and let her nestle into the crook of his shoulder again. She draped an arm across his chest and he felt her breath warm against his neck. His arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer, grounding himself in the shape of her body. And he stayed until the sunlight turned the blue curtains to gold. Until he knew every tick of her breath by heart. He stayed until he couldn’t pretend the sun wasn’t there. Until he thought, if only for a moment, that he wasn’t the monster they feared, the weapon forged in shadow. She didn’t know what he’d done. What he’d seen. What he was becoming.
Eventually he had to stop pretending the sun didn’t exist. He felt as some foolish lover from Shakespeare’s tragedies. Hideous muggle heritage, he thought to himself. She sighed in faint disagreement again but this time he didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He’d never leave like this. He only smoothed his fingers through her hair again, memorizing the shape of her breath. The feeling of being wanted. And then he rose. Silently, he slipped from her bed, retrieving the discarded parts of himself. Wand, tie, robe, shoes. Each movement was measured, surgical. He straightened his collar in the small mirror beside her bed, catching a glimpse of his own face. Bruised beneath the eyes, sickly pale, and yet calmer. In control again. But before he turned away, something caught his eye. Next to her pillow lay a grey ribbon, slightly wrinkled. He reached for it before he could think. Soft to the touch. The faintest scent of lilies clung to the fabric. She had worn it in her hair the evening before. He remembered tugging it loose. He pocketed it. Not for sentiment. For control. A reminder of what belonged to him. Then, without a whisper, he raised his wand and a casted Silencio wrapped around the soles of his shoes, slipped again beneath the folds of the Disillusionment Charm and the world fell into a hush. Not even the floorboards creaked as he passed. He did not look back. With the grace of a shadow, he melted through the tower’s winding stairs, disappearing before the sun could spot him properly. No one saw him leave. No one ever would.
Tom passed the sleeping bronze eagle without a word and slipped out through the high door, the cold stone of the castle walls breathing around him like a giant stirring from a dream. It was still early, too early for most students, but already the castle had begun to wake. A distant rumble of a moving staircase. The faint creak of armor shifting. A faint echo of Peeves somewhere above, cackling through the rafters. The first flutter of owls in the tower. Time was quickening. And the risk grew with every second. But Tom did not rush. He moved with eerie calm, gliding through the corridors like something long dead and forgotten. He passed behind ancient statues, slipped through side passages students had long stopped using. His fingers trailed along the walls as if claiming every stone for himself. Occasionally, he paused to listen. Then moved on.

Suddenly a tall silhouette rounded the corner. Albus Dumbledore. The name itself tasted of menthol sweets and self-righteousness. A magician who flattered himself a saint. How thoroughly revolting. He wore midnight-blue robes, auburn hair untidily bound at the nape, looking, as ever, as though he’d been awake since the beginning of time. For one carved-out second both wizards halted. The air between them tightened like a bowstring.
“Mr Riddle,” Dumbledore said, voice polite but edged with something glass-fine. “You are abroad very early. Unusually early.” Tom forced a breath through his teeth. Not now. Terror and visions still rattled behind his ribs, the memory of Myrtle’s warmth had only just begun to quiet them. Yet Dumbledore’s presence brought everything roaring back. Fury flared like a spark to dry tinder.
“Early?” Tom echoed, schooling his tone to cool civility. “Is morning patrol now a crime?”
“Patrols, yes. Though those begin on the hour, and you are rather… distant from your assigned route.” Dumbledore’s gaze flicked, almost lazily, to the faint bloodstain Tom had missed at his cuff. “Rough night?” Tom followed the glance, heat rising beneath his collar, but not embarrassment. Rage. Rage at being read so easily.
“Always probing, Professor,” he said softly. “Have you found what you’re looking for yet?” Dumbledore’s expression didn’t change, but something sharpened in the set of his shoulders.
“Sometimes, Mr Riddle, what one finds is less important than what one chooses to do with it.” Tom’s lips curved, half a smile, half a snarl.
“You’ve known for years I’m not like the rest.”
“I have known you are… extraordinary,” Dumbledore answered, gentle as a scalpel. “Extraordinary gifts warrant extraordinary caution.”
“Caution,” Tom repeated, savoring the word. “Is that why you hid the truth from me? Did you imagine keeping the Slytherin legacy locked in a dusty shelf would keep it from its rightful heir?” The old wizard’s brows rose a fraction, but he did not speak. Tom tilted his head, voice a hiss of triumph. His eyes gleamed. The black color darkened even more. “The castle has corridors you’ve forgotten.” Dumbledore held his gaze. Sadness there, and steel.
“The question, Tom, is whether you will walk them alone. Power isolated from love grows brittle. And cruelty, once embraced, has a way of turning upon its master.” Tom’s quiet laugh was low, almost tender.
“Love is a leash for lesser men. And cruelty, in my opinion, is only a tool.” Dumbledore wasn’t startled and if he was, he didn’t show it. He just diligently eyed the young man.
“You have a strong opinions for your age then, Mr. Riddle.”
“Good morning,” said Tom as he decided to dismiss himself, not looking back. Dumbledore watched until the boy vanished into the dark mouth of the dungeon passage, robe swirling like a shadow withdrawing from light. Only when the echo of Tom’s steps dissolved did the professor finally turn away, eyes narrowed, sorrow heavy in his throat.
Tom’s boots struck the dungeon flagstones with slow, deliberate finality. A measured cadence meant to erase the echo of Dumbledore’s baritone from his skull. The lanterns here burned emerald and gold, warping every shadow into the curve of a serpent’s spine. He inhaled the damp air of Slytherin territory. He despised the old wizard so much.

Yes, the man wielded formidable power, Tom never denied that, didn’t dare to, but power shackled to sentiment was power squandered. Dumbledore cloaked ferocity in velvet homilies, in tea-cup gentility and twinkling eyes, all while pretending the sharp edges were incidental. Liar. Tom respected a knife that admitted it was a knife.
He pictured the old wizard’s pity-creased smile. Equal parts concern and thinly veiled accusation. How many times had that smile hovered in classroom doorways, pretending to shepherd lost lambs while cataloguing potential wolves? Dumbledore suspected him, of course he did, but he lacked the conviction to act. Always talking of choices, always wagging a finger about love and light, yet never driving the blade home. A fatherly chastisement where a surgical strike was required. Coward.
Tom’s hand drifted to the inner pocket where the grey ribbon lay coiled, a symbol of triumph, still faintly perfumed with her flowers. The softness of it against his knuckles reminded him how thoroughly Dumbledore underestimated him. The old fool lectured on loneliness and brittle power while Tom carried the living emblem of devotion in his pocket. He commanded loyalty, even worship, without hiding behind the pretense of altruism. Warren followed him not because he feigned goodness but because he offered truth. Strength, certainty, a place at his side in the kingdom he would forge. And The Knights followed him for the very same reasons, each in their own way. Not because he promised them salvation, but because he did not insult them with it. He made no empty oaths about goodness or redemption. There were no illusions of becoming better men under his rule, only stronger ones.
In that, perhaps, he and Dumbledore were indeed alike. Both shepherds in their own right. The difference was that Tom did not blush to admit his crook was also a spear. A slow smile curled at the edge of his mouth, sharp as a scythe. Let Dumbledore watch. Let him circle like a solemn hawk above the parapets, whispering of choices to children who would never matter. Tom would dig deeper, open doors the old man feared to touch, claim relics buried in the marrow of the school itself. And when the time came, all of Dumbledore’s star-bright platitudes would crumble beneath the weight of one truth. A crown fits best on a head unbowed by shame.
Tom paused before the stone arch that yawned into the Slytherin common room. Green light washed across his face, catching the glint of something fervid in his eyes. He straightened his collar, smoothed the ribbon between his fingers and stepped through.
—

The aftermath left no scars, only vows.
Tom Riddle did not fall apart. He reorganised. Recalibrated. Rebuilt. Brick by brick, command by command. What had happened that night, what he had allowed to happen, was a breach. A moment of rawness he had not authorised. The panic, the visions, the way his hands had trembled with memory. The way he’d searched her bed, blood on his palms, and let someone see him like that. Unacceptable. He would never again let the past claw through him like that. Never again let a spell, a prophecy, a feeling unmake him. He was the architect of his fate, not its victim. And so he began again, brick by precise brick, wall by seamless wall. Cold, calculated, correct. He returned to his routines with double precision. Took longer paths to classes just to observe where the Professors walked. Memorised the schedules. Studied the castle’s blueprints and spell-sealed crevices with the same hunger he’d once reserved for secrets of immortality. He was in control.
And then there was Warren. That strange flicker of need did not leave him. It had only deepened, transformed. His obsession matured into a silent, constant surveillance. He knew what classes she had and with whom. He knew where she sat in the library and how many steps it took her from the Ravenclaw dorms to the lavatory. He still kissed her behind bookshelves and shadows, but now with more hunger and less hesitation. She’d begin to ask, sometimes, with a tilt of her head and a shy tremor in her voice. “About that night…” And his mouth would be on hers before the sentence had breath to grow. Every time she reached for meaning, he silenced her with possession. With lips. With hands that held too tightly. Because the moment she made it real, named it, it would become something he couldn’t control. Something like fate. And he would not be ruled by prophecy nor past. Not again.
So instead, he kissed her. Again. And again. Until her words forgot their path and her hands found his collar. Until she breathed only for him. He’d whisper dark promises against her throat when the rest of the castle slept. “You don’t need to ask,” he’d murmur. “I’m here, aren’t I?” “You’re mine.” And she let him take and take. Still nervous. Still uncertain. But never stopping him. There was a desperation now in how he touched her. His hand lingered at the nape of her neck like a collar, his fingers wove through hers as if imprinting a claim. He had seen a version of her without life. He refused to see it again.
And the little girl, perhaps unknowingly, had started to shift too. She no longer flinched at his grip, no longer shied away from the dark heat in his gaze. She was learning how to pull him closer with her softness. Her silences. Her slight, unintentional invitations. And he knew almost everything by now. How to kiss her like a vow. How to silence questions with hands, not words. How to burn everything that tried to weaken him and rebuild from the ashes.
The boy who had shaken in the chapel was buried now. The Slytherin Heir had risen again. And this time, there would be no mistakes.
—

The castle thrummed with anticipation.
Flyers for the Halloween Masquerade drifted on enchanted breezes through the corridors, each charmed with silver script that shimmered and pulsed like veins of moonlight. Tom had little interest in it. Which, naturally, was why he had to attend. He’d already noted the shifts in routine. Guard posts being lightened, corridors left unpatrolled, Professors too busy rehearsing enchantments to mind students slipping away. Distractions. A gift. He would use them. The masquerade was a performance and Tom did not miss performances.
Professor Slughorn stopped him in the corridor outside the Potions classroom, arms full of floating spell-inked programs.
“Ah, Tom!” he boomed, slightly breathless. “I trust you’ll be gracing us with your presence Saturday evening? Everyone who’s anyone will be there! A fine opportunity to network, you know,” he winked at his favourite student. Tom inclined his head slowly, politely, repressing the instinct to curl his lip.
“Of course, Professor,” he said smoothly. “I wouldn’t dream of missing it.” Slughorn beamed and waddled away, his sleeves trailing confetti charms.

Back in the Slytherin dormitory, things were less glittering. Nott lounged across his four-poster like a viper basking, Malfoy sprawled on the trunk of his bed with French fashion catalogues, and Icarus Lestrange occupied the windowsill, boot-heels clinking against iron lattice. Orion Black paced, one hand shoved through his curling hair, the other crumpling a folded list of instructions.
“Merlin’s beard, she’s turned it into a whole wedding,” Orion muttered. “Walburga changed her dress three times. Told me my owl-posted response was ‘sloppy.’ What the hell does that even mean? I agreed to go! If I so much as button the wrong cuff she’ll hex me bald.”
“Ah, the iron fist of cousinly affection,” Nott barked a laugh. Malfoy grinned over the top of his magazine.
“Should’ve gone with someone from outside the family tree. Preferably one with less taste for tyranny,” Lestrange drawled from his perch at the windowsill, turning a silver ring over his fingers.
“And end up filthy? Toujours Pur, my friend, toujours pur,” laughed Orion as he recited his family’s motto.
“I’d rather the tyranny than the sobbing,” muttered Malfoy, flipping through a book of enchanted mask designs. “You know, my cousin sobbed for two hours when her date brought her white roses instead of cream. Imagine what a wrong button does to Walburga.”
“You’ll survive. Bring her to Slughorn’s punch bowl early, slip a nip of Ogden’s in. She’ll loosen.” Lestrange’s smile was darker than the Black lake. “Half a flask of firewhisky and even Walburga might remember what fun looks like.” Tom leaned back in the chair near their bookshelf, silent so far, the shadows licking along his cheekbones. He’d allowed them their noise. Their puffed-up aristocratic complaints. But now he smirked faintly, something cool and distant dancing in his eyes.
“You’re all remarkably bad at this,” he said lightly, examining the ends of his fingers. “Devotion doesn’t require florals or flattery.” Orion raised a brow.
“Right, because witches are That simple.” Tom looked up. His smile widened, barely.
“I have to agree. They can be perfectly devoted.” The room stilled. It wasn’t the words, it was the way he said them. Calm. Certain. Like a man discussing strategy rather than affection. Lestrange straightened, interest sharpening.
“Well, that’s a curious opinion, Riddle.” But before he could press further, Orion let out a laugh, quick to deflect.
“So you’ve taken my advice then,” he said, smirking. Tom’s eyes flicked over him, considering.
“Your advice wasn’t completely useless,” he allowed. “I have to give it to you.” Black laughed again, louder this time, while Malfoy gave a low whistle and Lestrange just watched, watchful as ever. None of them knew. Not really. None of them would ever guess about Warren. And that was precisely how Tom liked it. His smile was as thin as a shadow. But it was there. He already knew what it meant to hold unswerving loyalty in the hollow of his hand. And if Lestrange watched a moment too long, saw a flicker of something feral in Tom’s eyes, he said nothing. Only returned to the window as Orion resumed pacing, muttering about cufflinks and Walburga’s wrath, while the sun was slowly setting.
—

The next evening, he pulled her to the abandoned corners of the library. She didn’t even flinch now. Just blinked up at him, all wide eyes and nervous breath. Still shy. Still utterly his. They were sitting on the wooden floor, both of them reading. Their sanctuary was quiet. Not the kind of quiet that made sound seem absent, but the sort that made it sacred. He’d found her just before curfew, trailing behind her classmates like always. Always the last. As if she thought the night wouldn’t notice her if she kept her head down. But he noticed. Always.
“Are you sure you want to go?” she asked suddenly, voice careful and low, as if afraid the room might listen. “To the masquerade. It just doesn’t seem like…something you would want.” Tom looked down at her, a slight furrow in his brow. It was such a her question. Uncertain, braced for dismissal. He looked at her for a long moment, then slowly brought his hand around her waist, pulling her closer. His voice was lower than usual, rough with something he wouldn’t name.
“What worries you?” he asked. “The crowd?” She shifted slightly next to him, her gaze dropping from his as if her own thoughts had suddenly made her too visible.
“Don’t you want to go with someone…” she began, voice soft, almost drowned by the late hour, “someone noble? Or pure? Or…don’t you want to go alone? So you could choose freely…who to dance with?” There was no accusation in her voice. Only confusion. Painfully quiet uncertainty. As if the mere act of questioning could offend him, could send him away. And perhaps it could, if she were anyone else. But Tom stilled, entirely, as though her question froze something in him. Then slowly, with that bone-deep deliberateness that made his stillness more dangerous than any outburst, he brought a hand up to her jaw and guided her face back to his. His eyes were darker than the sky outside, fixed entirely on hers.
“I want what’s Mine,” he said, quiet and hard and absolutely clear. His thumb traced her lower lip. She swallowed, barely breathing. “I want to dance with you where no one will know it’s me. And I want to leave with you when I choose. That’s what I want,” he continued, voice now a whisper against her skin. He tilted her chin, kissed her, slow and deep and inexorably final. It wasn’t about seduction. It was ownership. When he pulled away, he kept his forehead against hers, breathing in her quiet, trembling presence like air after drowning. His hands tightened slightly at her waist, possessive. “I memorised every possible inch of you. There’s no world in which you’re invisible to me.” She softened at that, just a breath, and he kissed her again. Not with urgency, but with that brutal possession of someone claiming something already theirs. After a moment, he pulled away, his hand still at the back of her neck.
“What will you wear?” he murmured, and though his tone was smooth, there was that glint in his eye again. Want, control, calculation. She swallowed.
“I was at Hogsmeade with Helen but I didn’t really find anything. And I couldn’t even afford it, so she said she’d lend me one of her dresses. She has nicer things anyway.”
“That won’t do,” Tom said at last. “You’re not her. Don’t you want something that’s yours?”
“It’s just…it’s not a big deal, I didn’t even mean to go at first. Besides I really don’t have the money for a dress now when the muggle war—”
“But you are Mine,” he interrupted quietly. Almost dreamlike, almost gentle. His hand lifted to brush a strand of her hair behind her ear. “I’ll find something. I’ll send it.” She opened her mouth, instinctively ready to protest, but he was already shaking his head. Softly, patiently.
“Don’t argue,” he murmured and smiled, the kind of rare, private smile he gave only to her, when he wasn’t being watched, when the storm inside him quieted for just a breath. He didn’t explain further. He didn’t need to. That was the nature of his promises. Calm, absolute, irreversible. She couldn’t tell whether it was comfort or control, perhaps it was both. And perhaps that’s why her breath caught and her cheeks flushed and she didn’t say anything else. Just leaned slightly closer, drawn to the shadowed warmth of him. Her head tilted down slightly, lashes brushing her cheeks as though in thought, but he could feel it. The shift in her breathing. The heat under her skin. The ache in her silence. Then, without a word, she reached for the book in his hands. Tom didn’t move. Her fingers brushed his as she gently slid it from his grasp and set it on the floor beside them. Slowly. Hesitantly. Hands trembling just a little. He watched her through half-lidded eyes, that same quiet amusement pulling at the corner of his mouth, but deeper than amusement, it thrilled him. Sent a sharp, hot edge through his blood. She was trying. Trying to be brave. He waited.

And then she kissed him. Softly. Not like the moments when he pulled her to him with the hunger of a man starved for control and certainty. Not like when he devoured her with hands and lips to forget the rest of the world. This was hers. Hesitant, trembling. She pressed her mouth to his, her lips warmer than he remembered, and then slowly, with the shy care of someone who still thought she might be wrong for wanting, she traced the tip of her tongue along his lower lip. Tom’s breath caught. He let out a low sound, almost a growl, his hand rising to cradle her jaw, not gently, but not roughly either. Just certain. She gasped at the intensity of it, and he caught her around the waist and pulled her into his lap in one swift motion. She straddled him now, wide-eyed and breathless. Her thighs on either side of his, her face still pink from the boldness she’d managed. She hadn’t expected that to affect him like this. But it had. More than she could possibly understand. His hands splayed against the small of her back, holding her there, holding her to him, and his lips found hers again. This time with deeper hunger. Fiercer affection. His tongue stroked into her mouth with aching thoroughness, drawing a soft moan from her throat that he swallowed like a secret. All of her care, all of her gratitude, all of her quiet devotion, she had tried to pour it into that kiss. The heat of her mouth was intoxicating. He kissed her until she was trembling, until his hands found her hips and he had to grip tighter to keep from losing himself completely. Until his voice broke between them, low and hoarse and wrecked with want.
“You’ll make me lose control like this,” he warned her, his lips still brushing hers. Her voice was barely there.
“Would that be…so terrible?”
Something primal surged in him at that. A flicker of astonishment, of dark delight. She was still afraid of the world. Still unsure of her place in it. But here in his arms, she wanted him. Him. He felt his blood running down below his waist where she sat, straddling him. He growled low in his throat, all restraint torn like brittle parchment. His hands roamed, pressing her to him, mapping every inch she dared to give. And she gave in. Shyly, gasping into his mouth, but she did.

Tom’s hands moved slower than usual, as if this moment required precision beyond spells. He brushed his knuckles along her collar first, over the edge of her uniform, his gaze watching her more than his fingers. Watching the way her eyes fluttered half-shut, the way her breath caught in her throat. He moved with aching deliberation. His fingers undid the knot of her Ravenclaw tie, drawing it free with a practiced ease, letting it fall beside them like some silken token of surrender. Then the first button of her shirt. Then the second. Then the third. She let out the smallest sound. Half gasp, half plea but not one of protest. Her hands clutched at his arms now, anchoring herself to him as her chest rose and fell too quickly, her heartbeat thundering beneath pale skin.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispered darkly, almost as a warning. She shivered and then slowly shook her head. He didn’t rush. His mouth followed his hands. He pressed a kiss to the hollow of her throat. Then another, lower, over the sharp curve of her collarbone. His lips moved like a blessing. Slow, deliberate, a worship written in silence. She bit her lip hard, trying not to make a sound. And he adored her for it. The way she trembled in his lap, pressed against him, arched into his touch with a soft whimper that barely escaped her throat. The way she struggled for silence, because she knew. God, she knew what this was, what danger they danced with. And still, she gave it to him. Shyly. Boldly. Trustingly. His voice came low against her skin, a ragged whisper.
“You have to tell me to stop.” But she shook her head faintly again, lips parted but wordless. She let her soft and elegant fingers bury into his hair, let him open her like a secret no one else was meant to read. Her blouse hung loose now, modest still but undone. Just enough for the moment to hover on the edge of sacred and sinful. Tom’s breath dragged shallow beneath his ribs as he watched her. The rise and fall of her chest beneath the thin white cotton of her shirt, her pulse flickering just below her jaw, her wide eyes reflecting candlelight and ruin. He could have torn the world apart for this moment.
His fingers drifted to the hem of her blouse, already loose around her frame now, and started undoing the remaining buttons. He paused, waiting for something. A flinch, a protest, a word. But there was nothing except her shallow breath and the way her fingers curled against his shoulder. With a slow breath of his own, Tom brought his wand to hand, barely a motion, and murmured a quiet Muffliato. The spell shimmered around them, humming like a veil drawn tight. He touched her collar, then the soft slope of her shoulder, and let the blouse slide down her arms like water. It pooled at her elbows first, she hesitated then, just for a second, then let it fall away. Beneath she wore a simple beige chemise. Loose and elegant, made of thin linen that trembled with the movement of her breath. Her skin glowed pale and fever-warmed beneath it. His gaze moved over her as though he was memorising scripture.
“I…” she whispered, voice fragile and breathless, “I’ve never…” She trailed off, her words like moths scattering into silence, dissolving between them like sugar in tea. Tom leaned closer, brushing his nose along the line of her cheek, then lower near her ear. Then he kissed her properly. As soft as he could bring himself to. His voice came soft, dark, laced with something reverent.
“Neither did I,” he murmured into the kiss. It was almost too soft to catch, a secret confessed into her lips. But she heard it. Froze in the smallest intake of breath, her eyes fluttering open against his cheek as if trying to read his face, unsure whether to believe him. But he didn’t take it back. Didn’t clarify, or retreat. He only kissed her again, slower now, like something earned instead of stolen. Her cheeks flamed red, but she didn’t hide. Her shoulders softened, her grip eased, her hands lifted from his chest to brush along his jaw, uncertain but braver now. The fear became intimacy.
Tom’s arms tightened around her in turn, pulling her gently more into him. The thin beige chemise brushing against the linen of his shirt. She made a soft sound and when her forehead dropped to rest against his, her breath warm and uneven, he stayed perfectly still. Let her feel what it was to be held. And maybe let himself feel it too.

He had learned the mechanics of power long before he’d learned comfort. How a hand on a shoulder could command silence, how a smile could dismantle an enemy, how a single whispered promise could bind a life more surely than chains. But this, her slight weight folded against him, the faint tremor in her fingertips easing only when his arms tightened, this was an unknown science. And the strangeness of it shivered through him as sharply as any spell.
She fit against him with unsettling precision. Not because of curves flaunted or flattery spoken, she had neither, but because she disappeared so well into his shadow. Small, pale, easy for the world to overlook. A girl designed, it seemed, for corners and quiet places. And yet for him she glowed like a live coal buried in ash. That contradiction ignited something low and elemental in his blood. Hunger, yes, but also the savage delight of discovery, of claiming a secret passage no one else had noticed.
She wasn’t beautiful, not by the gilt-edged standards paraded at every Slytherin soirée, but there was a soft gravity in her that drew him the way forbidden magic drew the desperate. The slope of her collarbone beneath thin linen. The quick pulse in her throat. The faint, constant scent of lilies of the valley that now clung to his own robes. None of it should have mattered, yet he felt he could burn with the need for her. He buried his face in the hollow where her neck met her shoulder, breathing her in, tasting the salt of fear and trust mingled on her skin. His hands, so often instruments of calculation, curved instinctively to shield rather than command. And as her heartbeat settled into his, he realised that he was not merely permitting this closeness, he was starving for it. For the first time since Wool’s orphanage, someone held him without wanting to exorcise the dark from his marrow.
It terrified him. And it thrilled him. So he tightened his embrace, just enough that she sighed, soft and secure, against his collar. A sound no one else would ever hear from her. A sound that belonged to him alone. The word echoed through him, hot as iron, sweeter than any incantation. He cupped her waist now, thumbs stroking lightly over the edge of the chemise where it met the curve of her ribs. Not indecent. Not yet. But intimate. Deeply, irrevocably intimate.
“Does it frighten you?” he asked, his voice a low rumble against her skin. She nodded with a soft smile.
“You frighten me,” she said, too honest, too lovely. “But not like you think.” He stilled, utterly. Their eyes met. Her lips parted. He kissed her then. Not with violence. Not even with hunger this time. But with devotion. Maybe that was the secret to her devotion. His own. And in that stillness, she kissed him back, and he let his control melt. Not collapse, never. But melt like ice turned molten, only for her.
She shivered an involuntary tremor that rippled through her limbs, tiny and immediate. Tom felt it as though it jolted straight into his spine. The library was cold even on temperate nights, the moments just in her thin chemise had stolen the warmth from her skin. Control re-rooted itself in him like a steel rod. Delicately, he drew the white shirt back up over her shoulders, fastening each button with unhurried precision. One, two, three. He retied her Ravenclaw tie, probably better than she ever will, smoothing the silk as though sealing a spell. The intimacy of dressing her was, somehow, almost more personal than undressing her. He could even see it in her eyes, filled with exhaustion and wonder.
“Better,” he murmured, tugging the lapels straight. Then he lifted her up and rose with her as though she weighed nothing.
By the time they reached the corridor, her steps were unsteady from more than passion. Her eyelids drooped in a slow, reluctant flutter. He guided her through shortcuts only ghosts remembered, his palm steady at her back, casting a silent Disillusionment charm whenever a torch brightened or a distant door opened. Outside the bronze eagle of Ravenclaw Tower, the girl swayed, drawing a small breath to speak.
“Tom… when you… in my room—” The words drained out of her like water through cupped hands, equal parts curiosity and the need for reassurance. He pressed a finger to her lips, then replaced it with his mouth as always. Soft, absolute, silencing. The kiss was brief, but it stole her question and her breath together.
“Not now,” he whispered. Warm promise edged in command. “Sleep. I will see you tomorrow.” Her lashes fluttered and she nodded. Trusting. Obedient. His.

He waited until the eagle turned and she disappeared from him. Only then did he turn, cloak whispering around his ankles, and vanish down the stairs. Mind already spinning to the perfect dress that he would pick for her, that she would wear for him. He pictured it with clinical clarity. A column of shadow-black fabric that whispered when she breathed, threaded through with silver so fine it would catch even candle-ash. No frills, she had never needed them, only clean lines, the suggestion of hidden curves. A neckline modest by the standards of the ballroom, but cut low enough that he alone would remember the fragile scoop of her collarbone beneath thin fabric, the heat of her pulse when he pressed his mouth there.
“I’ve never…” So soft, so apologetic, like inexperience were a sin she must atone for. The words had scraped something raw in him. Fury at a world that had overlooked her and a hunger to be the first and last to teach her every secret.
His hands curled at his sides, recalling the tremor that ran through her when he undid the buttons. That shy, brave flick of her tongue against his lip still burning on his skin. She was enough to unravel him. And he thought about his answer. He had said it without much thinking. Neither did I. He didn’t lie to her often, only when necessary. This wasn’t really necessary. And it was true, in the strictest sense. He’d never done that, never needed or wanted to. But the truth was more complex. Desire, for Tom, had never been about fumbling touches or youthful lust. He craved power, clarity, awe. And yet, when her fingers gripped his shoulders and she whispered those words like a confession, he’d felt something inside him tilt. An edge of hunger he didn’t recognize. It wasn’t the act itself that tempted him. It was the way she had offered it. Not with shame, but submission. And if he was honest…no, not honest, precise. If he was precise, he would admit he’d never wanted something so badly that it made his restraint feel like breaking glass. Not until her.
He reached the final corridor. The walls here wept a perpetual damp, emerald torches glossing the stones. It smelled of lake water and iron. Yet even in that cold, he felt incandescent, as though her warmth had branded him from the inside.
Plans for serpents and chambers, for lineage and legacy, crowded his thoughts. But above them all was now a girl in a black-silk dress, eyes wide behind a mask, too luminous for the world that had missed her. For once he didn’t even mind. Control reclaimed, vision sharpened, he stepped inside. Tom Riddle, monster, heir, architect, allowed himself one thin smile before the shadows swallowed him whole.
—

Tom Riddle approached the problem of attire the same way he approached arithmancy. With ruthless logistics disguised as courtesy. The masquerade would be crowded. Prefects at every arch, house-elves near the kitchens, professors drifting in swirls of punch and gossip. If Warren walked in wearing Helen Abbott’s charitable hand-me-down, it would be an echo of her Ravenclaw dorm, where everything elegant belonged to someone else. That could not stand. Not with him. But obtaining a gown quiet enough for her yet magnificent enough for him meant a trip beyond the usual student haunts.

Money had never been an obstacle for Tom Riddle. Not because he had it, but because he understood the illusion of it. He stole from those too rich to count their change, too self-assured to notice when a coin pouch went light. Pure-blood sons with silk-lined robes and careless pockets, Slytherin scions who left galleons on the Common Room tables after a bet. He didn’t even think of it as theft. It was simply reallocation, wealth redirected to purpose. His purpose. And Tom was always prepared. Always. The idea of standing powerless, penniless, needing to ask, disgusted him. So when the masquerade was confirmed, he already had a neat cache of coins hidden in the false bottom of an antique ink box in his trunk. Enough for a suit. Enough for a dress.
Asking Malfoy, Black or any of the Knights was out of the question. Instead, Tom chose a man whose vanity blossomed in direct proportion to his usefulness. Professor Slughorn was consumed by the success of his social spectacles, mention the Masquerade and the professor all but bloomed. Tom approached him with a boyish tilt to his head and just the right trace of hesitance, the kind that made a teacher feel needed.
“Professor, I wondered if you might advise me on something.” He offered the opportunity to be consulted, a soft distinction that inflated men like Slughorn more effectively than flattery. “It’s about your Halloween Ball,” Tom continued and within moments, Slughorn had leaned in conspiratorially. The Ball, it seemed, was a favorite of his. When Tom mentioned he was hoping to acquire a unique ensemble, Slughorn’s delight was nearly uncontainable.
“I’d be honoured to help you! Of course, of course. There’s a darling little place in Hogsmeade, very discreet, very old family clientele. You’ll want to speak to Madame Lavigne, tell her I sent you.” He chuckled, eyes twinkling, delighted that his prized Slytherin had confided in him. Tom smiled modestly, a faint inclination of his head, the image of humble brilliance. He took note of every word. Every action has a reaction. Slughorn’s was useful. Slughorn’s blindness even more so. And the professor, blinded by his own affection, never noticed how Tom’s eyes glittered not with gratitude, but with calculation.

The bell above the old shop door let out a silvery chime as Tom stepped into the small atelier. It was nestled between an abandoned apothecary and a hatter’s storefront in Hogsmeade, dim and elegant, and scented faintly of cardamom and cedar. Velvet-lined mannequins stood poised like frozen ghosts behind polished glass, their dresses glimmering faintly with hex-stitched beads and whispered enchantments sewn into the hems. Madame Lavigne emerged from the back like a summoned spirit. Tall, corseted, and powdered, with a wand balanced between her fingers. Her eyebrows lifted when she saw him. Not many boys his age crossed this threshold, certainly not alone.
“I was told to find you,” Tom said smoothly, voice calm, patient, composed, his Slytherin mask perfectly affixed. “By Professor Slughorn.” That name opened every door. Her smile suddenly bloomed with knowing warmth.
“Ah but of course! Dress robes for the ball, I imagine?”
“But not for me,” Tom said. “For someone else.” She blinked, clearly caught off guard.
“Your sister?” Tom’s lips curled, not quite into a smile.
“No.” A pause.
“Then…perhaps a gift for the lady you’re courting?” she asked delicately, with that particular intonation French witches used when dancing around gossip. Tom inclined his head and for a moment wasn’t sure how to answer.
“A gift, yes,” he decided simply, uncompromisingly. Something in his tone, the quiet command, made the woman stand straighter. She gestured with a pale hand.
“Very well. You may describe her.”
He had no problem with that and described Myrtle Warren like a cartographer detailing sacred land. Her height, “She stands just so, here,” he lifted his hand, measured precisely. The slope of her shoulders. The narrowness of her ribs, the curve of her waist. The pale wash of her skin that no sunlight dared alter. The tremor in her fingers when she was nervous, how she always tucked her hair behind her left ear, never the right. That she would try to disappear into the crowd.
“And her colouring?” the witch asked.
“Long brown hair. Wide eyes, also brown, sometimes gray. Cool undertones. Silver suits her more than gold. She doesn’t wear much jewelry…” Madame Lavigne tilted her head slightly, as if she couldn’t decide whether to be touched or alarmed.
“It’s not often,” she began, voice smooth with that old Parisian lilt, “that a gentleman, especially one so young, comes in to choose a dress for a lady himself. Even less so with such… specificity.” Her eyes flicked to her notes scratched in delicate ink. “Most men don’t know their wife’s eye colour. Or care to.” Tom slowly smiled. A thin, cold thing, sharp as frost.
“I’m not most men.” Madame Lavigne tilted her head, intrigued.
“Non, monsieur,” she murmured, “you most certainly are not.”
She then led him through the back, past enchanted mirrors that whispered commentary and silk bolts that shifted colour depending on the wearer’s aura. She pulled dresses from their perches. Deep navy velvets, gauzy silver fabrics that shimmered like ice. He rejected most with a glance. Too bright. Too shapeless. Too loud. Then, she lifted one gown. It was made of velvet black, soft as sin, catching the light in folds like liquid night. The bodice was shaped with eerie precision, designed to fit close to the body, with a square neckline edged with antique lace so fine it might have been spun by spiders. The sleeves were long, hugging the arms until the elbow, where they fell into soft, draping bells of sheer black lace, embroidered with patterns like enchanted ivy. Barely visible until one looked close, like secrets stitched in silk. The waist was sharp, as if carved by wandpoint, and fell into a full skirt that could move like shadow poured across stone, swaying with silent drama. Tom said nothing for a moment.
“That one.”
“Are you certain?” she asked delicately. “Young witches your age usually prefer something with… more glimmer. More colour. To be noticed. Especially for a ball.” Tom finally turned to her, his posture loose but unwavering.
“She doesn’t want to be noticed,” he said simply, almost amused. “She wants to survive the evening.” The seamstress blinked.
“Very well then,” she nodded eventually and neatly packed the gown for him. He paid, promised to pass on greetings to Slughorn and left. And Madame Lavigne, for all her discretion, would remember the boy in the dark coat and eyes like obsidian long after he had gone.
—

It was the day of Halloween. Earlier that day, Tom made sure the box had arrived safely at the Ravenclaw girls’ dormitory. It had been placed precisely on Warren’s neatly made bed, wrapped in silence. No card. No message. Just three letters burned into the edge of the parchment seal, precise and unforgiving. “TMR”
She would know.
The torches burned lower tonight. Lower and stranger. As Tom stepped through the great doors of the Great Hall, flanked by Nott and Malfoy in their crisp, he found the world already steeped in enchantment. There was no trace of the usual benches and tables. Only a floor of obsidian gloss, smooth and cold as still water, reflecting candlelight in fractured gold. Enchanted leaves drifted endlessly from an unseen ceiling, curling midair like they’d caught fire mid-fall. Rich, russet petals bloomed in overflowing urns. Branches clawed toward the sky of the bewitched ceiling, ink-black and barren. Even the air tasted different. It was probably more Samhain than Halloween. At least he could feel it. Old, watchful, pagan blood whispering through the stone. Secrets beneath lace. Fire beneath the festivities. The world turned just slightly more vulnerable tonight.

“Did you see Lestrange?” Nott asked, glancing around and already scowling. “He better not be with my cousin.”
“He said he’d find the punch,” Malfoy added with dry disdain. “Which I assume means he’s already attempting to spike it.” Tom barely registered them. His black mask, simple, cut like some half-forgotten Roman relic, fit perfectly, obscuring only enough. His jaw was sharp beneath it, hair smoothed back elegantly. A black coat over matching dress robes, tailored just enough. A singular pin at his lapel. The serpentine S, nothing else.
Orion Black was already dancing. Walburga clung to his arm like a cold verdict, darkly divine in navy velvet and pearls, chin raised like she ruled the whole damn school. She might, for now. Together, the two of them looked like a portrait. Pureblood perfection cast in onyx and steel, polished and rehearsed. Regal. Inevitable. Tom watched them for only a second. He had already assessed the entire room by then. Even through the soft distortion of masks and half-shadows, he could feel the press of presence. Near the dais, Tom’s eyes narrowed as they passed over Albus Dumbledore. The man stood beside Slughorn, sipping something amber from a silver goblet, his mask simple, enchanted only to shimmer faintly with every turn of his head. Dumbledore was watching. Not mingling. Not smiling that ridiculous lemon-drop smile. Watching. Tom felt the tension coil in his spine. Not fear, never fear, but alertness. He knows I’m here. He doesn’t know why. It was enough. Horace Slughorn, by contrast, was in rapturous conversation, gesturing broadly, clearly bragging about the enchantments he’d personally suggested for the decorations. The man’s mask looked like a sugared pumpkin. It was absurd. Tom sighed in resignation. The ghosts had gathered too. Hovering high above, their transparent forms flickering near the floating garlands.
Everywhere else was movement. Whispers. Laughter. A symphony of mortal warmth and pretension beneath the candlelight. And still, he hadn’t found her. But he would. His eyes swept through every masked pair, every corner of the hall, searching not for a face but for a feeling. A presence. Something he knew more intimately than breath or thought.
He was not like Lestrange, luring into a trap. He was not like Black, holding a girl out of duty or performance. He had chosen. He even chose the right dress for her to wear.

“Smile,” Malfoy nudged Tom sarcastically, who did not.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Tom said in return, voice silk-wrapped steel. He scanned the floor again, calculated. Girls twirled like petals, masked, perfumed, radiant. But none were her. He turned toward the darker corners of the hall. A soft thrill curled in his chest, quiet and anticipatory. The mask gave him power. Cover. It was rare to be able to watch without being seen. He let himself indulge in it. To search her out like a secret he already knew but longed to rediscover.
And then there she was. Near the entrance to the side corridor, half-shadowed by the blooms of autumn hydrangea. She didn’t stand out like the others. Not garish. Not glittering. But Gods, how his breathing stopped. The dress was exactly as he’d imagined it would be. It fit her like poetry written for a page too fragile to hold it. The fabric clung to her like ink on skin. The neckline, shadowed with black lace, revealed the soft hollow of her throat. The sleeves fell into those enchanted, lacework bells. And the skirt moved like something alive. Smoke. Silk. Sin. Her mask was small. Modest. Black to match the gown, lace filigree edged in silver. Her hair was pinned loosely, one curl falling at her temple, her lips slightly parted as she glanced around, unsure, uneasy, too visible. And yet invisible to them all. But not to him. Never to him.
She looked up. Saw him. Her eyes widened just slightly behind her mask and relaxed at least a bit. She recognized him. Of course she did. He was at her side a moment later, just brushing past a pair of Gryffindor girls without noticing them at all.
“You shouldn’t—” she started as soon as he reached her, her voice soft and barely heard beneath the low sound of music.
“You look exactly how I wanted,” Tom said, voice smooth as heat against candlewax. She blinked.
“Tom— I shouldn’t have kept it. I can’t— I should give it back after tonight, I’ll find a way to pay you—”
“No,” he said, gently but with steel underneath it. “You won’t.” She opened her mouth again but he cut her off with the smallest shake of his head. “You’re not borrowing it, Warren. It’s yours. Like you’re mine. In exchange, you wear it for me.” Her breath stilled. For a second, she forgot to blink. His hand found hers where it clutched the fabric of the dress. He bowed slightly. Almost mocking, almost reverent. A careful performance.
“One dance?” he half-asked, eyes glinting behind his mask. “Before anyone notices.” He drew her to a darker corner of the ballroom floor. Behind one of the enchanted tree arches where golden light filtered through falling leaves, too warm, too gentle for a place like this. Where no one would look. Or perhaps, where only he would. His hand rested at her waist, the other catching her fingers. The music was a slow waltz. Unfamiliar. Minor key. Half-haunted. Perfect. And for one long, luxurious moment, they danced. Just once. But it was enough to etch into bone.
Tom didn’t take his eyes off her. They moved in silence. Neither graceful nor clumsy, but close. Too close. Her hand trembled faintly in his, and his palm at her waist was far too possessive for propriety. But no one could see them clearly here. A veil of dancing silhouettes blurred the foreground, and the heavy garlanded arch behind them created a small world all their own. They were not a couple in the way the ballroom understood couples. Not like Orion and Walburga, regal and cruel in their symmetry, or Olive Hornby, who fluttered and flirted with whatever pureblood boy would entertain her long enough. Tom was not even like Lestrange, who spun some poor sixth-year Hufflepuff between his fingers like a predator playing with a mouse. No, what Tom had in Warren didn’t belong to the realm of masks and waltzes and rehearsed affection. It was not made for display. It was older, stranger, deeper. He didn’t need her to glow under the lights or cling to his arm like a trophy. She was the secret behind his breath, the pulse he returned to after rituals and ambition. No one knew. No one should know. That was the point. What he had with her wasn’t a performance, it was a possession. A quiet claim written in shared shadows and hidden hours. In the stolen breath between her lips and his name. She was his vow.

The nervous girl tilted her face up toward him, just slightly, like something in her chest wanted to speak but hadn’t found the words.
“Why are you being nice to me?” she whispered, as if the question itself was cursed. She wasn’t teasing. She was still afraid of breaking whatever this was by naming it. He spun her slowly. The skirt flared like black water, caught and stilled by his hand. The music carried them, and Warren, shy and trembling Warren, wasn’t looking away. Her gaze held his, as if trying to read something buried in the lines of his jaw, in the dark gleam of his mask. And Tom let her. He watched her watching him. It was almost unbearable, how real she looked in that moment. Like a secret pulled from his own ribs. Like something he’d made and could not unmake. His voice was low, careful.
“I’m not being nice, Warren.” The way he said her name sent a chill down her back. “I’m not your knight in shining armor. I don’t do this to make you feel better.” His hand rested at her waist like a tether, keeping her close even as his words cut the air between them. “This isn’t a fairy tale. If you’re expecting salvation, you’ve mistaken me for someone else.” She looked at him, unsure if she’d misstepped, if she should retreat, but he didn’t let her. He stepped closer, so their masks nearly brushed, so only she could hear what came next.
“You make sense to me,” he murmured, quieter now. “You don’t need to understand that. In fact, I hope you don’t.” The witch didn’t speak at first. Her lips parted slightly, then closed again as if she were biting the inside of her cheek. Her hand twitched in his. An anxious, involuntary thing. And she looked at him, uncertain.
“I think I need a bit of air,” she murmured. Tom’s brow twitched. The words didn’t make sense. Not here. Not now. Not to him. He didn’t release her waist. Her gaze flicked up to meet his, hesitant. “Just for a moment,” she added, trying to soften it. But it only sharpened something in him. His voice was quiet, steady.
“Now?”
“Yes. It’s loud and I— I just need a second.” His eyes narrowed, not cruelly but confused.
“It wasn’t loud a moment ago.” Her mouth opened like she might explain, then closed again. She tried to shift her weight back, but his hand held firm.
“You can’t…leave,” he said flatly. It wasn’t an order. Not exactly. Just disbelief made audible.
“But…Tom—” she echoed, innocently. Tom didn’t move. Didn’t answer. He was trying to understand. The music still floated around them like silk. Her dress swayed just so. Her mask was slightly askew, her lips parted like she might say something meaningful. He had just told her the truth, more than he told anyone and now she wanted to leave?
A cold note settled in his chest. Something was wrong. She looked down. Shifted her foot again, gently testing the edge of his grip. He didn’t stop her. Not yet. But he couldn’t let her go, not fully. Not without understanding. His voice came quieter now, almost more human.
“Did I say something that frightened you?” She didn’t answer. That was worse. A silence grew between them. Longer than the one before. And then her gaze rose, uncertain, trying to be brave. But he saw it. That flicker of fear. Barely there but real. And it was like being punched in the chest. He’d spent years perfecting fear, wielding it. But this wasn’t the kind he wanted from her. Not her.
“I just have a hard time understanding sometimes…,” she sighed apologetically, nervously.
But she was His. The same girl who whispered “Are you alright?” when he was dripping blood not even his own. The girl that hadn’t asked a single question when he’d found himself in her bed and had only wished for him to Stay longer. The girl that lied to everyone for him by now. The one he found crying in the bathroom stall so many times.
He let her go. Slowly. Like unraveling something fragile. She didn’t run. But she didn’t look back either. She disappeared past the velvet curtains into the corridor, leaving behind a breath of her significant scent, candlelight, and something colder. Tom remained where he was. He couldn’t follow. Not yet. His body felt… separate.

Why had she looked at him like that? He thought of her dress. The soft black satin he’d picked. Had he asked her if she liked it? No. He hadn’t. He’d assumed she would. He remembered the way she danced with him, the way her hair caught the light, the way she had watched him, so real it was almost unbearable. And now she was gone. And he hadn’t even asked if she wanted him to go with her. He had chosen her. Deliberately. Precisely. He had built this moment with the care of a spell but it wasn’t enough, was it? She needed to want to stay. And she had wanted to. He was sure of it. Until now.
Tom’s hand curled at his side. His expression darkened, not with anger but with the need to correct something. Because he couldn’t afford to lose control. Especially not now. Especially not her. He turned, sharp and silent, heading toward the velvet exit she’d slipped through. His stride determined, his mind already reaching forward like a shadow. He would find her. He had to.

But just beyond the archway, hidden in the far end of the corridor, something else moved too. Someone else. Tom never noticed danger too late. But this time, he might have.
—

Tom moved like a shadow through the corridors. He left the ballroom behind. Away from the candlelit laughter, down into older, colder stone. He didn’t call her name. He never would. That would imply something was wrong, that he was wrong. He went first to the broken lavatory. Of course he did. The door creaked open with the same mournful groan as always. Cold tile. The faint stink of mildew and rust. The cracked mirror still held the ghost of her reflection, he was sure of it. But the place was empty. Still. He stepped inside. She wasn’t here.
Air. She said she needed air. His mind turned north instinctively, toward the Astronomy Tower. The place where students went to breathe or smoke or fall apart. She would go there. She had before. With Him. But his steps faltered as he passed the marble sink in the center of the lavatory, the one crowned with serpent-headed taps. He stopped. The air felt colder here. The serpents, once dulled with time and water, glinted tonight. Watching. He stared at them. Stone eyes. Forked tongues. A silent promise in their design.
Tom leaned in slightly. The shadows moved strangely here, unnaturally slow. Something about the way the tiles curved around the base of the sink, the peculiar slope in the floor… Could it really be here? He reached out and touched the edge of the serpent tap, and the metal was warm. Then Agony.
Golden-hot pain exploded in his arm, just around the wrist. The Unbreakable Vow. He staggered back, breath hissing through clenched teeth. No. No, no, this was worse than before. Worse than when Olive Hornby had mocked Warren for the poor Patronus spell. Worse than when the Slytherin girl had laughed at Tom ending up with her for detention. Worse than every time he’d been forced to intervene from a distance, from a shadow, teeth gritted, magic restrained.
This was different. This was burning. His legs almost gave out. He grabbed the edge of the sink to steady himself, heart slamming in his chest like he’d been thrown from a cliff.
Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. He straightened slowly, eyes now wide and black with fury. His lips parted just slightly. The pain was still there, coiling like fire beneath his skin. She was in danger. Not upset. Not scared. Danger.

And just before the corner of the Astronomy Tower, where the castle walls grew cold and slick with night mist, a shadow was pinning Myrtle Warren to the stone. Not the way Tom had done it. Not the way he’d cornered her in silence just to kiss her until she forgot her own name. This was violent. Cruel. A pale hand clamped her jaw, not to tilt her face up and see her, but to crush it in place.
“What is it, huh?” the boy hissed, inches from her, his voice lewd, full of venom. “What does he see in a filthy little mudblood like you?” Her eyes were wide and wet, lips trembling, and her breath came in short, panicked bursts. She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her tears trailed silently down her cheeks, soaking into the fabric of the dress Tom had picked for her. And her mouth kept moving, barely audible. A single word again and again, like a broken charm, like a desperate prayer carved into her breath.
“Tom.”
Somewhere far below, music still played. Faint violins. Laughter. Spinning skirts and masks. Everyone was at the Ball. Professors. Prefects. The entire castle lit with flickering jack-o’-lanterns and whispered hexes, the veil between worlds said to be thinner than ever. No one would come. No one would hear. She was alone again, the way she always had been. Only now she was more afraid than ever. But she clung to the syllables of his name like they were spellwork, blood-soaked and trembling. He was her only hope. He always had been. Even if he didn’t know it. Even if it was too late.

Chapter Text

October 1942

Tom took the stairs two at a time. Each step upward drove the pain deeper into his arm. The magic of the Vow was ancient, blood-bound, and absolute. And now it screamed through his nerves like fire in his bones. It was no longer a warning. It was just a dreadful scream. His pace slowed. He couldn’t hear anything at first. Just the pounding of his pulse. Then a sound. A whisper. A name. His name.
“Tom…”
He froze. It wasn’t the usual sound of his name from her. It was weaker. Cracked. It sounded like pleading. Like drowning. He turned the final corner and saw them. Warren was pinned to the wall, her mask on the floor as well as her wand, her hair tangled and dishevelled. A boy had her trapped. Tall, dark robes, half-unbuttoned, the glint of something twisted in his eyes. Lestrange.
His hands were on her jaw, gripping cruelly and Tom could see the bruise already blooming beneath her skin. She struggled, not with strength but desperation. Her mouth was trembling and Lestrange laughed.
“I just wanna know, sweetheart,” he slurred, voice thick with drink and poison, “if you’re really worth all the fuss.” He leaned in and tried to kiss her. The girl twisted violently, teeth bared and bit him. Hard. Blood welled up from his lip.
“You little—” he snarled and the slap that followed cracked through the corridor like a gunshot. Her head snapped sideways into the stone. She gasped. And then the blood came rushing from her nose, thick and red and sudden. She slid slightly down the wall, dazed, her hands limp at her sides. Time cracked open. The torches on the wall guttered. The corridor dropped ten degrees in an instant, shadows lengthening unnaturally. The temperature responded to him. So did the stone. The silence between footfalls became absolute. Lestrange turned, already sneering.
“What, come to fetch your—” He didn’t finish the sentence. Tom raised his hand. No wand. The corridor buckled. A wall of invisible force hit Lestrange in the chest with such brutal precision that his body lifted off the ground and slammed across the hallway with a crunch. The air cracked like glass. Stone fractured behind him. He dropped to the floor in a twitching heap. Tom walked toward him. Not rushed. Not panicked. Purposeful. Controlled. Lethal. Lestrange tried to rise, coughing, blood on his lips now, too.
“It was just a joke,” he hissed, eyes widening. “I didn’t mean— I didn’t even do anything yet!” Yet. Tom’s fist collided with his mouth before his brain could catch up to the word. Something shattered, teeth probably.
“Get up.” Tom’s voice was cold. Lestrange didn’t move, but he was breathing. Barely. Tom raised his hand again, magic crackling at his fingertips, the kind of old magic that the castle itself stirred in fear of. Behind him, Waren made a soft sound. Barely a whimper. It pulled him back and he turned. Her new dress was torn at the sleeve, face bloodied and dazed. She looked like something precious broken open. Like a flower cut and thrown away. His chest rose and fell once, twice. He turned back to Lestrange. The beaten boy groaned as he tried to push himself up, blood dribbling from his split mouth. One eye was already beginning to swell shut. Tom stood over him, perfectly still. The hallway was deathly quiet now. Warren hadn’t moved. She sat pressed against the wall like an abandoned porcelain doll, blood still slowly trickling from her nose. And still, Tom couldn’t look at her again. He wasn’t sure if he’d keep Lestrange alive.
“Why?” asked Tom, voice low, calm, cold. Lestrange coughed. Spat blood. Then he laughed. A stupid, drunken laugh. He tried to smirk, but his face was too swollen.
“I thought maybe she hexed you. Or maybe you finally snapped and shagged a pity-case to feel like a god.” A pause. “Guess I just wanted to see what all the fuss was about.”
Tom moved without thinking. He slammed Lestrange’s head into the floor, once, then again. Not enough to kill. Just enough to make the boy choke on his own breath. He crouched beside him, finally lowering himself to Lestrange’s eye level. His voice was soft, surgical.
“You made a mistake.” Lestrange whimpered. Tom’s wand slipped smoothly into his hand, as if summoned by thought alone. He twirled it once, as if bored. “You think because you have an old name and a bit of blood in your veins, that gives you power,” Tom whispered. “But I am not just a name. I am not blood.” He leaned closer. “I am what comes after them. Lestrange shuddered. Tom’s gaze dropped to the wand in his fingers, and then rose again.
“And when I’ve taken everything, when all your family kneels, and your future rots beneath mine, remember that it was for this.” He touched the wand lightly to Lestrange’s temple. “I’ll make sure no one from your future, no one from your family or life, will escape me. They will all bow to me, they will worship me, starting with you now. I will make myself your bloodline’s past, present and future.” A beat passed. “And you,” he added softly, “won’t even remember why.” He said it like a curse. Like a prophecy. Then, finally…
“Obliviate.”
A small puff of silver mist curled from the tip of the wand. Lestrange’s face went blank, slack. His breathing slowed and he passed out. Tom flicked his wand. Lestrange’s body lifted slowly from the floor, limbs limp, head lolling forward. Blood trickled down from the corner of his mouth, staining the collar of his robes. Tom guided him with an eerie calm, the same way one might handle a marionette or a corpse. At the edge of the corridor, just at the top of the steps leading up to the tower, he stopped. Then the flask. Tom spotted it a few feet from where the fight had started, half-spilled and reeking of expensive firewhiskey. He levitated it over. With a quick charm, he wiped his own fingerprints clean, then tucked the flask gently into Lestrange’s slack hand, curling the fingers around it. The scene was almost pitiful now. A drunken pureblood boy, bruised and broken, passed out on the cold stone steps after drinking too much on a Halloween Ball and stumbling in the dark. No crime. No witnesses. No memory. No Myrtle Warren.
Tom stared at him for a moment longer as if committing the image to memory, or perhaps making sure the Vow had stopped burning. He stood in the silence Lestrange left behind, wand still in hand. The corridor felt dead now. No more blood. No more voices. Just stone and firelight and her. Only now, finally, did he turn back to her. She hadn’t moved. She sat slumped against the wall, her knees drawn close, her arms wrapped around her stomach like she was trying to hold herself together. Her nose was still bleeding faintly, trailing red down her upper lip. Tom stepped closer. Her eyes weren’t on him. They weren’t on anything. Just the far wall. Wide and glassy and unblinking. He crouched beside her, slowly, as if she might shatter if he moved too fast.
“Warren,” he said softly. His voice cracked in a way it never did. Nothing.
“It’s alright,” he murmured. “I dealt with it.” Still nothing. A faint tremble passed through her shoulders, barely visible. He reached for her. Carefully, reverently, like touching something that wasn’t meant for hands. When she flinched a bit, he pulled back. He looked down the corridor again, toward the steps. No one had come. No one had seen. But they would. Eventually.
“We shouldn’t stay here, okay?” He turned back to her, eyes searching hers. “I need to get you somewhere safer.” He tried to think. The Ravenclaw Tower? No. Too dangerous. The Slytherin Dungeons? Even worse. The library, the lavatory? No place in this school was really hers. She didn’t belong anywhere except to him. His throat tightened and she stirred slightly, a small whimper in her throat, the kind a body makes when it’s run out of tears but not pain. Her hands were still curled against her chest. He reached for her again. This time, she let him. She leaned into him as he carefully lifted her, her blood staining the shoulder of his robe. Her head fell to his collarbone. He didn’t rush. He didn’t speak. But he didn’t know where to go. Not yet.
And then the wall behind them shifted. It didn’t creak or groan. It simply changed. The ancient stone rippled like moonlight on water, and a seam formed in the mosaic, black iron and tile pulling apart to reveal a doorway where there hadn’t been one before. The Room. and It had heard him. His need. A space of safety. Of solitude. Of hers. He stepped through.
The door sealed behind them like a held breath. And the world, for one terrible, beautiful moment, disappeared.
—

Tonight, it was warm. The floor was wood and velvet. The walls deep burgundy. A soft fire crackled in an ornate hearth. A towering bed with light curtains dominated the center, elegant and wide enough to swallow them both. A faint, enchanted glow shimmered above the nightstand where a magical first aid kit waited, open. It had known what they needed before he had.
Tom laid her down on the bed as if she were made of glass. Her hands clutched his collar until the last possible moment, fingers slipping away only when he gently pried them free. She didn’t speak. Didn’t even move. Her eyes stayed open, unfocused. He’d never seen her like this. Not even in the bathroom, crying over cruel girls and shattered self-worth. Not even when she told him about her miserable life. Not when she lied to him about the Patronus. This wasn’t sorrow. This was void. Like something had been taken out of her.
He knelt beside the bed and reached toward the first aid kit. His hands moved precisely, almost mechanically. Gauze. Cooling charm. A delicate wand-tip tincture for internal swelling. Everything precise. He worked on her like a spell that could be reversed if he just followed the steps right. He wiped the blood from her nose. Careful, so careful. He muttered a charm to dull the soreness along her jaw. He touched her hairline where the bruise was forming, fingers soft, lingering. Still, she didn’t look at him. He exhaled slowly, his throat tight.
“Warren,” he said again, almost pleading this time. Nothing. “You’re safe now.” Still nothing. “I took care of him. He won’t remember. He won’t touch you again. No one will.” He tried to brush a damp curl away from her temple. Still, her gaze didn’t shift. He stood. Began to pace. Briefly. Sharply. His mind spiraling, dissecting the moment. What did Lestrange say? What did he do? Had Tom been too slow? Too distant? Was it him? Was she afraid of him, now? He turned back.
“Warren,” he said, firmer this time. Not cold but desperate. “I need you to say something.” Her lip quivered. But she didn’t. He dropped back to the bed, beside her. And then, gently, he slid his hand beneath her cheek and turned her face toward him.
“I need to know you’re alright.” That broke something. She blinked. Just once. And her hand barely twitched toward his sleeve. And then, in the faintest breath of a voice, barely formed at all she finally spoke.
“Don’t leave me.”
The words fell from her like a shattered coin, like something lost and found again.
“No,” he said, and it came quieter than he intended. “I’m not going anywhere.” Her gaze hadn’t moved from his collarbone. Still unseeing, like she couldn’t quite make herself look higher. Her fingers flexed once in the folds of his robe. He swallowed. His hand was still cradling her face, his thumb resting just below her cheekbone, stroking slightly. Her skin was warm, that was good. Warm meant alive.
“I liked them,” she whispered suddenly, still not looking at him. He didn’t understand.
“What?”
“The dress.” Her voice cracked. “It was the most beautiful thing anyone’s ever given me.” Tom said nothing. She swallowed hard. Her eyes still didn’t rise. “And now it’s just—” her fingers pulled at a torn thread, “it’s ruined. I ruined it.”
“No,” Tom said immediately, sharply. “Don’t say that again.” She fell silent. He sat still beside her, close enough that his thigh touched the edge of her skirt. “You didn’t ruin anything,” he said. “Least of all that dress.” She tried to laugh. It came out broken.
“You can’t even look at it.” He turned to her then, eyes dark, steady, real. Tom wanted to give her back what Lestrange tried to take. The meaning. Dignity. Beauty. Even if not in a sweet or sentimental way, even if just in his way, he wanted to make it right. It was a strange feeling, one he didn’t really know.
“I adored you in it,” he said then and his voice was a low incantation. “You don’t even know how much. You were unforgettable. And nothing he did will change that. And you are mine.” A beat. “He didn’t ruin that.” She blinked. He continued. Her breath caught. “The dress was yours before he ever saw it. And it will never belong to that moment.” Her eyes brimmed again. This time, she let a single tear fall. He reached for his wand slowly and she looked at him, confused.
“I can make it something else. Something softer. For the night. You don’t have to give it up. We can just change it a bit till you’re feeling better.” Her mouth parted, but she didn’t speak. She only nodded. With a slow, precise flick, he whispered a transfiguration charm under his breath. The satin shimmered, not disappearing, but folding, elongating, weaving into itself. The torn hem repaired. The bodice loosened into a more forgiving drape. The bloodstains dissolved into deep silver embroidery, soft and blooming, like night violets stitched along the trim. The dress was still hers. But now it looked like something meant to sleep in, to be safe in. His arms were stiff at his sides at first. He wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch her. Not this time. Not after what happened. Not when she was already holding herself together with fraying thread. But then she reached for him. Slid her hand up his chest. Twisted her fingers into his collar.

“I was afraid you were going to kill him.” Her voice was flat. Honest. Tom didn’t respond right away. He studied her. Then spoke, very quietly.
“I would’ve. Without question. If you’d asked me to.” She stared at him. Wide-eyed. Terrified. But not of him. Of how much she believed him. She then closed her eyes, resting her head on his chest.
“I should’ve noticed sooner,” he said after a moment. His voice was steady. Like he was reciting a confession he’d rehearsed for himself. “I should’ve followed you the moment you left.” Her lashes fluttered, but she didn’t respond. He went on, low and measured. “You weren’t wrong in anything. Do you understand? This wasn’t your fault.” She didn’t move. But her lips parted, ever so slightly. He could see how her throat tightened, like she was trying to believe him but something in her still couldn’t. He lowered his voice even more, mumbling into her hair as she lay shyly on his chest.
“You didn’t do anything wrong. He did.” A pause. “And I made sure he’ll forget.” Her brow furrowed faintly. Her voice was dust.
“Forget what?” Tom’s fingers moved gently through her hair now, brushing a curl back behind her ear.
“You. What you mean to me. What he thought he saw. He doesn’t remember your name. He doesn’t remember touching you. He doesn’t even remember me being there. Just firewhiskey. A staircase. Nothing more.” He leaned closer, just enough to speak directly to her ear, low and certain. “You are mine to remember. Not his.” She closed her eyes. A tremor passed through her, small and involuntary, like something inside her was breaking and curling inward at once. Tom stayed perfectly still beside her. He looked at her again. Her breathing had finally steadied, but she hadn’t let go of him. Not once. He spoke, quieter now, like he didn’t want the room to hear it.
“I need you to want to be mine.”
The silence that followed felt impossibly long. But then she turned her face toward him just slightly. Just enough for their eyes to meet, soft and uneven in the firelight.
“I do,” she whispered. Something changed in him then. Something irrevocable. His hand slipped from her hair to the curve of her neck and he leaned in to press a kiss to her temple. When he pulled back, she was still watching him. Her eyes looked more awake now. Like she was trying to climb out of whatever place she’d been trapped in.
“You’re still shaking,” he said as softly as he could, as though it weren’t obvious. She didn’t respond. “You should rest,” he murmured, brushing his thumb down the side of her throat. She hesitated. Then moved slowly, into the blankets, curling toward him rather than away. Tom took off at least his robes and followed, easing down beside her once again. Not looming, not overtaking. Just there, steady and silent. Her breath whispered into the hollow of his collarbone.
“It wasn’t your fault either.”
Tom stilled. Her fingers, still resting at his chest, curled slightly into the fabric of his shirt. “I should’ve stayed with you.” There was no bitterness in her voice. No shame. Just regret and something warmer beneath it. Something that trusted him. Tom exhaled slowly. His eyes on her, not to question her, but to remember her like this. Speaking those words. Choosing him. He didn’t know if he should thank her. He didn’t really know how. So instead, he brought her hand up to his lips and kissed her knuckles, slow and reverent, as if sealing something ancient and unspoken between them.
“You’re with me now,” he said against her skin. Her lips parted, but she didn’t speak. She looked up at him and simply leaned forward. Barely, tentatively. And she kissed him. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t practiced. It wasn’t the kiss of a girl trying to impress him. It was a kiss only for him. It was shaky, soft, real. And Tom let himself feel it. He kissed her back, careful, controlled, but fully present.
“I still feel like I’m falling,” she whispered.
“That’s alright,” he murmured. “I’ll stay here to catch you.” She closed her eyes. And for the first time since the tower, she smiled, just barely. A ghost of a smile. But it was real. There was nothing left to say, not in this moment. Myrtle’s hand remained in his. Her body curled naturally into his side, her breathing slower now. He watched her lashes tremble, then settle. She was falling asleep. And Tom didn’t stop her. He just stayed, still unused to the weight of another person against him. But her warmth was undeniable. The subtle hitch in her breath as she began to dream. The way she clung even unconscious, like her body didn’t trust safety to stay. He could’ve slipped away. Could’ve sat back in the chair across the room and watched her from a distance. But he didn’t. He stayed. She needed to know he was still there when she woke. So he remained beside her. Awake and quiet. The soft rhythm of her breathing the only sound in the room. And for the first time in a long while, Tom Riddle didn’t think about the future. About power. About secrets and spells and bloodlines. He just listened to her.

Somewhere far beyond the walls of the Room of Requirement, the Halloween ball surely ended. The music was long faded now, no more violins, no footsteps in the corridors, no distant laughter echoing through the stone. Just the hush of a castle returned to sleep. The kind of stillness that came only after Samhain, when the veil thinned and the air tasted like smoke and something older. Even the shadows seemed quieter now. As if the night itself had run out of things to say. Inside the Room, the fire still glowed. Warm. Safe. Untouched. And somewhere in the darkest hours of that silence, Myrtle stirred. Not fully awake, not frightened, just present again. Her fingers found his collarbone and he opened his eyes.
“You didn’t leave,” she whispered, the faintest trace of disbelief in her voice. He turned toward her.
“I said I wouldn’t.” She blinked slowly, adjusting to the dark. Her face was close to his, the satin of her nightgown brushing his chest where the blanket had slipped.
“Does it frighten you?” she murmured, “being this close to someone?” His throat tightened.
“No.”
“Liar.”
He smiled. Just barely. He let her say it and didn’t correct her. For once, he didn’t have the energy to lie. Her fingers brushed lightly at his jawline, drawing idle circles now. Not pulling. Not pleading. Just being near him, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Tom stared toward the ceiling, toward the soft flicker of the charm-glow above them.
“I don’t even hate you for it anymore,” he said suddenly, his voice low. Almost lost. She stilled. He could feel her watching him. “I don’t know how.” A pause. He hadn’t meant to say it. He hadn’t meant to mean it. But it was true.
The first time she’d stumbled into his life, tear-stained, ridiculous and loud, he’d hated her. Hated that she seemed so pathetic, hated that she noticed things no one else dared to. Hated how she didn’t consider many things important. Hated how she humiliated herself for him. And now? Now she was curled in his arms, in the nightgown he’d transfigured from the dress he had chosen, trusting him to hold her after something monstrous. Still trembling. Still breathing. Still his. And he didn’t hate her. He didn’t know if he could.
“I should,” he muttered. Her fingers slid up, brushing the curve of his eyebrow now. He turned his head just enough to meet her eyes. There was no smugness in her. No triumph. Just the slow-burning glow of someone completely devoted. He stared at her. And quietly, desperately, wanted to kiss her again. But he didn’t move. Not yet. He didn’t trust what would happen if he did. She was still pressed to him, her chin against his chest, fingers curled at his side beneath the blanket. Her body was warm and small and still trembling in places, but no longer with fear. Now it was something quieter. Something closer to want. He didn’t move for a long time. Just held her. Let himself feel what it meant to be wanted. Then slowly, carefully, he let his fingers trace a line along her spine. Just once. Testing. She didn’t pull away. Her breath hitched slightly. Not in distress but in anticipation. His hand stilled.
“You must be tired?” he half asked and his voice sounded strange even to himself. Low, hesitant, almost uncertain. She looked up at him, her nightgown slipping slightly off one shoulder and simply shook her head. Slowly with a soft smile. His eyes searched hers for the smallest flicker of fear, hesitation, but there was none.
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
She reached for him this time, not just his collar but his skin, her hand slipping beneath it, fingers resting over his chest. Her touch was feather-light. He leaned down, kissed her again. Not fiercely. Not hungrily. But completely. His mouth moved against hers like a promise he couldn’t speak aloud. One hand slid into her hair, the other resting against her waist, feeling the heat of her beneath the fabric. Her body arched slightly into him. But he paused again. Pulled back, just enough to whisper.
“Tell me again.” She blinked, lips parted. “Tell me you want to be mine,” he said, more tense now. “That it’s not because you’re scared. Not because I—”
“Tom.” Her hand slid to his jaw, thumb brushing his cheek. “I want you.”
And he kissed her again, deeper this time, mouth open against hers. He moved with more care than he had ever given anything. As if she were not just a girl but a secret, a relic, a prayer he wasn’t allowed to speak in daylight. Her breath hitched again. But now she was kissing him back.

He couldn’t stop kissing her. It was unlike him, this lack of restraint. But there was something about the way she moved against him now, the way she kissed him back without fear, without apology, that unmoored every instinct he had spent years building. His hand slid down the line of her spine again, more deliberate this time. The transfigured nightgown shifted with the motion, slipping further off her shoulder, baring the curve of her collarbone to the firelight. He kissed that too. And when he pulled back to look at her, flushed, tousled and his, his voice dropped to something even darker.
“I want—,” he didn’t even know what he wanted. Didn’t know how to name the desperate need that was burning low in his stomach. Her breath caught, but then she suddenly guided his hands and he moved carefully, slowly drawing the nightgown down over her arms, baring her inch by inch. Not stripping. Revealing. Beneath it, she wore a beige chemise again. Soft. Modest. But the sight of her in it undid him more than if she’d been bare. Because she trusted him with this. With herself. He set the nightgown aside like it was sacred. His fingers grazed her bare shoulders. Her eyes didn’t leave his.
“You’re ethereal,” he said simply. His voice was low, matter-of-fact. Not sweet. Not worshipful. Just true. And something inside her seemed to break open under it. She leaned up, pressed a kiss to the side of his throat, then his collarbone, then paused. Her hand moved to his chest. To the edge of his shirt. Her fingers trembled. He should’ve stopped her but he didn’t. She slid the buttons open slowly, one by one, careful as if unwrapping something forbidden. She sucked in a breath when she touched his skin. Cool to the touch, smooth like marble. He let her. His heart was hammering. It shouldn’t have been. He didn’t allow this, to be touched, to be looked at, to be seen.
But her hands were reverent. Not greedy. Not possessive. Just curious. Careful. She pushed the shirt off his shoulders. And he let her. The air hit him like ice, not because it was cold but because he was. He always had been. Untouchable. Self-contained. Perfect in form and shadow. She didn’t flinch. She touched him like he was something worth holding.
“You’re freezing,” she whispered, hands ghosting over his chest, almost as if unsure whether it was allowed.
“I told you, I always am,” he said softly and then he kissed her again. Slower this time, hand sliding under the blankets, along her hip to her thigh. Skin to skin now. Her breath trembled.
“I want you to feel safe,” he muttered into her skin, voice ragged.
“I do,” she whispered. Her hand rested lightly on his chest, stilling there, palm splayed over his sternum as if trying to understand the rhythm beneath it. His heart didn’t pound the way it had during the fight. It moved quieter now, but no less urgent. Tighter. She looked up at him. The room was dim, golden from the fire. Her hair was falling into her eyes, lips slightly parted. Her chemise had slipped slightly over one shoulder. He thought she might ask something. She didn’t. Instead, she moved. Leaning in slowly, so slowly, she pressed her lips against his chest. Not at his mouth. Not his throat. His chest. Right above his heart. His body tensed. Her mouth was warm. Barely a brush at first, like she was afraid she’d do it wrong. As if he might scold her but he just lay still. Breathing shallow. And then she did it again. A second kiss, just beneath the first. And a third, lower still, just beside the edge of his ribs. Tom didn’t mean to close his eyes, but he did. His fingers had clenched in the sheets. He didn’t realise it until he felt them shaking. No one had ever done this. No one.
They’d touched him. Professors, caretakers, occasionally classmates, but always with intent. Always with coldness. Clinical. Distant. Curious. They touched him like a theory to be proven. Like an artefact. She was kissing him like he was human. His jaw locked. He couldn’t speak. Not without breaking whatever held him together. She moved again, another kiss, higher this time, close to the hollow of his collarbone. Her hands still light on his skin, like she didn’t know how far she was allowed to go. He wanted to tell her to stop. He wanted to tell her to keep going. He wanted to say nothing and just feel. Her lips brushed his skin again, near his shoulder now, and finally he turned to her. His hand found her cheek and he looked at her like something cracked open.
“You don’t even realise how dangerous I am, how dangerous I’ll become” he whispered and hesitated.
“I think you don’t really want me to,” she said softly and simply. He didn’t speak. He didn’t know how to speak. Because part of him, the part that had memorised power like scripture, wanted to take her trembling hands and show her what it meant to kiss a boy like him. But another, the quieter one, just wanted her to stay. He leaned down, kissed her lips again. Her hand curled back around his ribs. His hand moved higher, splaying across her back, holding her to him. He kissed her neck. Her shoulder. The edge of her jaw. He wouldn’t try more. Not now. It was enough to feel her like this. Open, breathless, his.
“If you ever asked me to stop, I would. You have to know that.” She pressed her forehead to his.
“I know.” And at that moment, Tom didn’t know if he worshiped her or hated her more for it. But he kissed her anyway. And then again. And again.
—

The fire had burned low. Only embers now, glowing faint and red in the hearth. Outside the walls of the Room, the castle was wrapped in that strange hush that followed Samhain. Not silence, exactly, but the kind of stillness that felt watched. The kind that lingered after masks came off and spells faded and the dead had returned to whatever place they came from. It was Sunday. And the school slept on. Drunken seventh-years passed out in velvet robes. Forgotten shoes left in corridors. The faintest traces of pumpkin spice and ash still clung to the air, like the memory of celebration worn thin at the edges. But here, in this room made only for them, it was warm.
The blankets had tangled around their bodies in the night. One of her legs was slung over his, her head tucked under his chin. Her hand, half-closed, rested lightly against the side of his ribs, as if she’d forgotten she had a right to let go. Tom hadn’t moved. He hadn’t wanted to, which was new. His eyes were open, even if hers weren’t. She was still sleeping. Soft, warm and safe and the firelight painted her pale skin in gold and shadows. The chemise she wore was rumpled at one shoulder, slipped down enough to bare the faintest line of her collarbone. He could see the purple mark he’d left there. Not violent. Not rough. Just his. It had been a long time since he’d stayed this still for someone. He didn’t know what it meant yet. Only that he wanted to. For just a while longer.
She stirred. Just slightly, a shift in her breathing, a twitch of fingers curling tighter against his side. Then slowly, she blinked. Her voice was still half-dream, half-real.
“You’re still here.” He looked down at her.
“Of course I’m still here.” He studied her. There was something different about her face now. Still soft, still tired, but less broken. Less afraid. She was watching him like she didn’t quite know what he would say. Then she smiled faintly. It wasn’t smug. It wasn’t hopeful. Just quiet. The way someone might smile when they were still deciding if they were allowed to. Suddenly she blinked and looked up at the window.
“What time is it?”
“Early.”
“How early?”
“Early enough that everyone else is still unconscious.”
“Except you.”
“I don’t sleep,” he said flatly. She hummed softly, not quite amused, not quite disbelieving. There was a long pause. Her brow furrowed, faint. She was thinking about something. About the hallway. About the cold stone where Lestrange had— She flinched. Just barely. But he felt it. Tom’s hand slid down to her waist.
“You’re safe,” he said. She nodded, but didn’t speak. He reached up, brushed a thumb along her cheek. “He doesn’t remember.” She met his eyes. Her voice, when it came, was quieter than he expected.
“I still do.” He went still. She wasn’t accusing. Not really. Just speaking. Naming the truth between them.
“You know that I can—“
“No,” she interrupted quickly. “Promise me you won’t ever make me forget anything.” Tom swallowed something bitter and nodded. They didn’t say anything for a long moment. Just lay there. Listening to the sound of the fire breathing low against the stones. Eventually, he broke the silence.
“You should eat something. We can steal something from the kitchens later.”
“Are you going to feed me, too?” she chuckled sarcastically.
“If I have to,” he said dryly, because he probably would have. A ghost of a laugh escaped her. It caught him off guard. Then she spoke again, more gently.
“It’s very different when it’s just us.” He didn’t say anything to that and just tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and sat up. The sheet slipped down his torso. Her eyes flicked to his bare skin, pale and cold-looking in the morning light, smooth like marble carved into something living. His collarbones sharp, the ridges of muscle across his stomach subtly defined. A sculpture that breathed.
“You’re really beautiful.” He stilled. Then turned to look at her, slowly, like he was making sure he’d heard her right. She wasn’t teasing. Wasn’t even blushing. She was just watching him with that soft, slightly tilted expression she sometimes wore when she was thinking something, a sort of innocent focus, as if cataloguing the shape of his face for later. He blinked once. Said nothing.
“Sorry— I’m sure you hear that a lot,” she added, more quietly now. His mouth opened. Then closed. He had been called many things in his life. Talented. Brilliant. Dangerous. Impressive. Even beautiful, yes, but not like that. Not like a fact. Not like a compliment offered in the hush of morning, from a girl who looked like bruised silk in the firelight. He didn’t answer. Just turned away, reaching for where his shirt had been tossed to the floor. But his hands stilled in the fabric. And then he spoke without looking at her.
“You’re the only one who’s ever said that and meant it.”

She then reached for the nightgown that had been folded at the edge of the bed. The one he’d transfigured for her and then took it off. The charm disappeared over night and she was now holding the black dress again. It was still elegant. Still beautiful. But now it carried the memory of the night before. Stains they couldn’t really clean with charms. She looked down at it, hesitated. He noticed.
“You still like it,” he said, half as a question. She didn’t look up.
“Yes.” A pause. “But it’s ruined.”
“No,” he said. “It’s not.” She looked at him then, searching his face for irony. There was none. He ran a hand through his black hair, brushing it back, voice quieter now. “You were beautiful in it. That doesn’t change because someone else looked at you the wrong way.” She blinked, surprised by the directness. Tom stood and picked up his wand, graceful, precise. Then he turned back.
“Let me fix it.” With a flick, the fabric in her hands shimmered, the blood fading away, the tears vanishing stitch by stitch, until it was whole again. Then slowly, it changed even more. Satin turned softer, thinner, paler, shifting into something closer to linen, something meant for comfort, for warmth. A long nightdress, cinched gently at the waist. She held it, stunned.
“You didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to.” Another silence. Then she stood up as well. The beige chemise shifted with her. Her hair tumbled around her shoulders. She turned away just enough to pull the new nightdress over her head and for a moment, as she raised her arms, Tom looked away. Not because he was ashamed. But because he wanted her to feel safe. When she turned back, she was quiet. Soft. Her face unreadable. And he was staring with certainty. He stepped toward her, she didn’t move but as soon as he was closer, she reached for his hand. Their fingers laced together. The fire burned lower. Outside, the castle began to stir. But here, in this room shaped by need and fear and something else, time held its breath.

The world hadn’t woken yet. Outside the walls of the Room, darkness still clung to the castle like damp smoke. A few enchanted jack-o’-lanterns still burned in the high windows, flickering behind frost-glossed glass. Myrtle walked beside him in silence. She didn’t know this path, didn’t know any of the halls Tom led her through. They dipped below the level of the dungeons, past corridors with no portraits, where no suits of armor stood watch. The kind of place that didn’t exist on any map. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. She followed him without asking. When they stopped in front of what appeared to be just another patch of blank stone wall, Myrtle hesitated.
“The kitchen,” he said shortly, already lifting his hand. She didn’t have time to ask how before he tapped the wall three times in an odd, clipped rhythm. A moment passed, then a brass handle shimmered into being. It glinted like something pulled from a memory. Tom opened the door without hesitation. Heat rolled out. Warm and sweet. Inside, the kitchen glowed. Copper pans lined the walls. Iron stoves hummed with soft enchantments. House-elves bustled to and fro, their movements so efficient and quiet it felt more like choreography than labour. Tom stepped in like he owned the place, Myrtle trailed behind him.
“I didn’t know students could come down here,” she whispered, as though speaking too loudly might revoke the privilege.
“You’re not most students,” he said without looking at her. That stopped her short for a second. Then one of the house-elves, barely up to Myrtle’s waist, appeared beside them with a neat bow. Tom gave him a look, not a smile, not quite.
“Breakfast. Something warm,” he said firmly and the elf vanished. Warren shifted on her feet. The room was bright in a way that made her aware of every part of herself. The stiffness in her shoulders, the lingering ache in her jaw, the way the sleeves of the dress clung to her tightly at the shoulders. She didn’t sit. Not until the tray arrived. Two bowls of porridge, steaming and dark with honey. A small basket of warm scones. Butter. Clove tea. A little jar of something that might’ve been blueberry preserve. Tom pulled out a chair and gestured with the smallest nod. She obeyed. But when the bowl was set in front of her, she stared at it. Her fingers fidgeted with the spoon. Her stomach turned uneasily.
“I’m not really hungry,” she murmured. Tom didn’t respond at first. But she could feel it. The shift in him. His attention, sharp and full, suddenly on her like a scalpel. She knew this feeling by now and didn’t look up. Tom remembered Hornby’s voice, sugary and sour at once, making some biting comment about Myrtle’s figure, her waist, her arms. He remembered Warren shrinking in on herself. He made a quiet mental note, the kind he kept in a locked cabinet behind his eyes and filed it away. She wasn’t eating much. She hadn’t eaten the night before either. He reached across the table, not unkindly, and pulled the bowl slightly closer to her.
“You should eat,” he said. It wasn’t soft. It was final. She blinked at the bowl. Then at him.
“Will you have something as well?” she asked quietly, not meeting his gaze. Tom stilled. That wasn’t a question he’d prepared for. He didn’t like eating in front of people. He didn’t do it, usually. It was unnecessary. Uncontrolled. Mundane. But she wasn’t asking for a performance. She just didn’t want to be alone. So he nodded. And picked up his spoon. Myrtle began to eat, slow and awkward at first, as if her body wasn’t quite sure whether it wanted to allow her the comfort. The food was warm. Soft. Slightly spiced. After a few bites, she didn’t look like she hated it anymore. They sat there quietly. Tom took measured bites, watching her when she wasn’t looking. She ate enough. Not much. But enough. After a while, she looked up at him.
“It tastes a bit like Christmas,” she said softly. He didn’t look up.
“It’s just cloves.” But a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, he didn’t like it. She pushed a bit of scone across the table toward him. He raised a brow.
“Try it,” she said, voice shy but insistent. He did. For her. The kitchen stayed warm around them. The house-elves worked in silence. Somewhere upstairs, the castle was finally beginning to wake but down here, in this forgotten pocket of stone and morning, it hadn’t found them yet. And for a little while, it was enough.

They didn’t talk much during the breakfast. Not because there was nothing left to say but because the warmth between them, as fragile as it was, didn’t need words to survive. Not yet. As they made their ways out, he still glanced at her twice as they ascended the stairs, checking her footing. Checking her shadow. As if something might still reach through the stone and take her from him. The halls were stirring now. Torches flickering back to life, the scent of distant smoke curling through the stairwells. The remains of the Ball lingered faintly, like forgotten spells and sugar. But the students were still sleeping. Most of them, anyway. No one crossed their path as they moved in silence, one shadow behind another. They reached the split in the corridor, one turn toward the west, the long slow climb toward the Ravenclaw tower. The other turn, back into the dungeon-dark. Myrtle slowed.
“I can go the rest of the way,” she said quietly, brushing her skirt. “You don’t have to follow me up. It’s ridiculous, really. You’d just have to come all the way down again.” Tom didn’t answer. She glanced up at him and sighed gently.
“Tom.” He turned slightly. “I’m fine.” He didn’t respond so she stepped closer.
“I am. Really. It’s day already. And I know you have things to do. People to scold. Portraits to threaten.” That earned a faint scoff. Barely a breath. And then, before he could reply, she lifted herself onto her toes, a small unsteady gesture and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. Not quite his lips. Not quite not. It was soft. Brief. But not forgettable. Her voice followed it like a charm.
“I’ll be alright.” His hand twitched as if he meant to reach for her and stopped himself.
“I don’t like you walking alone.”
“I’ve done it my whole life.”
“That doesn’t make it safe.”
“It never was,” she said. “But I know where to find you now.” He didn’t like that answer. But it was the only one she gave. He hesitated a moment longer. Then stepped back into the corridor, shadows folding around him again. She turned to leave but his voice caught her just before she rounded the corner.
“Warren.” She looked back. He was half in the dark already, but the voice was sharp and certain. “Just so you know— I’ll make sure you eat properly from now on.” She blinked. Then laughed a bit, once and with slight amusement.
“Is that a threat?”
“Only if you want it to be.”
And then he disappeared, his cloak sweeping soundlessly into the stone below.
—

By the time he stepped back into the common room, the torches had dimmed to a dull green-blue. Still no one had woken properly. He found Rosier and Avery sprawled near the hearth, limbs tangled, hair mussed, one of them snoring faintly. A mask lay crushed beneath Rosier’s boot. There was a puddle of something expensive near Avery’s sleeve. They had potential. In theory. Rosier had that silver-tongued charm that worked on girls and governors alike. Avery had bloodlines and a careful wand hand when he bothered to use it. But this spoke for itself. Weakness. Carelessness. Indulgence. Tom didn’t pause. He stepped over them like they were furniture and descended again. Maybe some other time…
The dormitory was cold and still. His skin was clean. His thoughts were not. Malfoy’s bed was to the right, a grand four-poster pushed slightly off-center. Abraxas was still in his robes, bowtie askew, half-curled beneath his emerald duvet, one pale hand stretched across the pillow as if searching for something. A good face. Perfect posture. A certain lineage to lean on. But somehow lost. As always. Nott, on the other hand, neatly tucked beneath the covers of his own bed, curtains half-drawn, his wand resting with practiced care beneath his pillow, looked like something from a noble portrait. Quiet. Clean. Intentional. He moved past them without a sound, gaze sliding once to the empty bed beside the dresser.
Lestrange’s bed. Still unmade. Still vacant. And the fury surged in him again. Good. He was glad the bastard wasn’t there. Because if he had been, curled up beneath silk, breathing easy, free of blood and bruises and the choking smell of his own fear, Tom wasn’t sure he would’ve stopped himself from waking him up with a hex. He should have killed him. The thought wasn’t a passing spark. It was a steady flame. His fingers twitched at his side. Instead, he turned to his own bed. Sat. Forced himself to stillness. He was composed but his mind wouldn’t shut up. He thought of Lestrange’s smirk, even through bloodied lips.
“Guess I just wanted to see what all the fuss was about.” The way he’d touched her. The way she’d cried for him to rescue her. He bit the inside of his cheek. Hard. His eyes drifted to the ceiling. Blank stone, faintly veined. Silent. His gaze dropped to Black’s empty bed at last. Tom was sure Orion must have left the ball with Walburga, sharp-mouthed, composed, pureblooded to the marrow. It was inevitable. Their names would be signed beside each other in the Black family tapestry one day, stitched in gold thread and sealed in wax. A future written before they were even born. And somehow, that made Tom feel something he couldn’t quite place. Not jealousy. Not exactly.
He did despise Orion’s arrogance. Walburga’s brittle pride. The way they clung to their names like armor, as if they’d done anything to earn them. But the simplicity of it, of having someone. Of belonging to a legacy that welcomed you, instead of clawing your way into one by force. There was something in that that made his jaw tighten. If Myrtle Warren had been born different, to a noble line, with silk gloves and tutors and family estates, he might have danced with her properly at the ball. He could have escorted her in full view of the Hall, her hand delicately on his arm, her lips painted the exact color he imagined. He could’ve bowed to her, bent to kiss her gloved fingers under the floating candles, watched her dress catch the light like a gem he owned outright. But that wasn’t their story. No, he’d left the ball to find her, her blood eventually soaking through his robe. He’d carried her like something broken. And instead of a slow waltz, he’d knelt by her side and wiped bruises from her throat with shaking hands. She wasn’t noble. She wasn’t anyone. Not to them. And still she was his. He didn’t even know what that meant.
A part of him, the cold, ancient part, loathed the thought. Hated that he’d spent the night playing savior. That he’d let himself ache over her pain. That he hadn’t killed Lestrange for laying a hand on her. But another part, quieter, crueler, and far more selfish, liked it. Liked that she needed him. Liked that she whispered his name like it meant safety. Liked that only he could fix it. There was no nobility in her blood. No tapestries. No gold. Nothing he could leverage. But she had cried into his chest like it mattered. Clung to him like he was something more than myth. He should’ve been disgusted but he wasn’t. He should’ve stayed distant and he hadn’t. He should’ve taken what he wanted and walked away. But instead he stayed. Because he wanted her to want him. Even now. Even after. He stared at the wall for a long time.

Then he rose. He couldn’t sit any longer. He crossed the room without thinking, like something hunted by its own shadow. The dormitory seemed too small, too quiet. His thoughts too loud, too tactile. He pushed open the bathroom door and closed it behind him with a precise click. The mirror reflected him in pieces. Collarbone, jaw, the hollow of his throat. He didn’t cast any light. The dark suited him. Tom stood for a moment. Just breathing. Then his hands moved to the clasp of his robe.
He stripped it off. The soft fabric fell to the bench. Next came the dress shirt, each button undone like a curse unspoken. And then bare. He faced himself in the mirror. His skin was pale beneath the dim light, sharply defined. Collarbones, ribs, long sinewed lines of restrained strength. His hands twitched at his sides. She touched him there, kissed him. It wasn’t even a memory. It was a feeling. Her fingers, hesitant but certain, sliding beneath the collar of his shirt. The look in her eyes, half-wrecked, half-reverent. Her lips parted slightly when she traced the shape of him. Her breath on his chest. The way her mouth found the hollow beneath his collarbone and kissed it like it was sacred. He couldn’t escape it. He braced his hands on the cold marble of the sink and bowed his head. The stone bit into his palms. That was good. But the images wouldn’t leave. The firelight behind her. Her brown hair spilled over the pillow. The hem of her chemise riding up just slightly. The heat of her breath against his neck. The sound she made when he kissed her deeply, her fingers threading into his black hair. The way she’d clung to him, not in fear, but want. The ache curled low in his abdomen again, unbearable and he hated it. He hated that he wanted more. That the memory of her had sunk this deep. That it was her. Warren, the weepy girl who now occupied the most private corners of him. He exhaled slowly, carefully but it didn’t help. Then he stepped toward the shower. The knobs were brass and he turned them with precision. The pipes groaned, the heat rose. Water poured down in sheets, hissing against the stone. Tom stepped beneath it and for a few moments, he simply stood there. Let the heat lash his spine, his shoulders, his neck. But no amount of scalding water could silence the memory.
She’d been trembling. Pressed against him in the bed like a breath that couldn’t settle. Her chemise slipping off one shoulder. Her voice small and steady, sighing his name. He clenched his jaw. This isn't a weakness. He repeated it silently to himself, like a ward against something crawling inside him. This is natural. A response. A function of need. Just biology. Manhood. Want. Not hers. His. It didn’t mean she had power over him, quite the opposite. He could use this. Shape it. Redirect it. Let it burn itself out where no one could see. His eyes slid closed as his hand braced against the tile. His other moved lower. Control, he told himself again. The image of her mouth parted in firelight, her hand on his chest, her thighs tucked to his side, trembled behind his eyelids. He exhaled once, low and broken. She was only his. He let her name echo silently in the hollow of his mind. Not as a weakness, as a possession. With a final, stifled breath, half-gasp, half-growl, her name tore from his throat before he could silence it. Not shouted. Not spoken. Just claimed. And only then did the unbearable heat within him begin to settle, like fire finally starved of air. He stood beneath the steam, chest rising hard, breath catching in his throat. Still trembling but not with guilt or shame. The certainty that her name would live beneath his skin now and no one else’s, whether she meant to place it there or not, was enough. He dried his hands. Buttoned his shirt. Composed himself. And as he stepped out into the cold green light of the dungeons, he didn’t look back.
—

The Knights gathered late that afternoon, the scent of last night still clinging faintly to their robes. Most had managed to return to form. Hair combed, uniforms straightened, hangovers charmed away. Tom sat at the far end of the long table, untouched by it all. He hadn’t spoken yet. He didn’t need to. Lestrange limped in last. Late. Pale. And ruined.
Even with healing charms and glamour spells, the damage was impossible to hide. The left side of his jaw was slightly swollen, the corner of his lip split and slow to heal. He wore a fresh robe but probably hadn’t showered and when he pulled back the chair beside Nott, there was a hitch in his breath like something in his ribs was still cracked. The room fell quiet. Then laughter.
“Bloody hell, what happened to you?” Malfoy barked, grinning.
“You get in a fight with a hippogriff?” Nott added, already snickering.
“Or did some witch finally slap you for trying to touch her arse?” Black, from the far end, smiling faintly over a chessboard. Lestrange tried to wave them off.
“I don’t know. I don’t remember.” That drew more laughter. But Tom didn’t move. Lestrange lowered himself into the chair carefully, with the deliberate movements of someone trying not to grimace. He reached for a glass of water with his left hand.
“I woke up in the Hospital Wing,” he muttered. “They said a prefect found me passed out by the Astronomy Tower. Had no idea how I got there.”
“You don’t remember?” Nott asked, incredulous.
“I already told you I don’t! I remember drinking,” Lestrange said stiffly, with a hint of irritation. “But not… that much. I don’t know. My head’s been splitting all morning.”
“You probably fell down the stairs like a bloody idiot,” Black muttered.
“I think I would remember falling down an entire tower.”
“You don’t even remember the name of the last witch you shagged,” Malfoy grinned. Lestrange scowled. His hand went to his side, pressing lightly.
“Something must’ve happened. I just don’t know what.” The laughter started again, louder this time, boys shaking their heads, amused and dismissive. Another rich pureblood wasted on whiskey and poor choices. Only Tom stayed silent. He didn’t smile. He didn’t speak. He just watched.

Tom’s fingers tapped once against the side of his goblet and he got to business.
“Rosier and Avery have… potential,” he said finally, voice smooth, almost absent. “But I wouldn’t call them reliable. Not yet.” Malfoy looked up at him.
“Avery made top marks in Magical Combat in his year.”
“He also passed out on the floor of the common room,” Tom said without looking at him. A beat. Malfoy snorted.
“Fair.” Then the tone shifted as he turned to Orion with a smirk. “You disappeared right after the waltz. Walburga with you, obviously.”
“I’m sure they had a noble reason,” Nott smirked. “Bloodline and all.”
“Likely just went to reaffirm a marriage contract,” Malfoy muttered again. “With tongues.” Tom didn’t speak. But the image of Orion’s hand on Walburga’s waist flickered across his mind. And then without meaning to he thought of Warren. Her shivering form in his arms. The blood on her collar. Her desperate voice. Don’t leave me. He pressed the feeling down like a blade to a flame. He was not like them. Any of them. Nott cleared his throat.
“If we’re finished recounting love lives,” he said, eyes flicking to Tom with slight amusement, “there’s more important news.” Tom’s gaze sharpened.
“Go on.”
“A suspicious leaving, third-year Gryffindor. Rubeus Hagrid.”
“Who?” Malfoy asked, unimpressed.
“The half-giant boy,” Nott informed. “Keeps strange company, rarely speaks. He snuck out. To the dungeons. More than once during the ball.”
“That’s not his common room floor,” Tom frowned. “Why?”
“Don’t know,” the boy said coolly. “But he has no friends down there. None of ours, anyway. If he’s poking around where he shouldn’t be, someone ought to notice.” Hagrid. Gryffindor, third year. Poor bloodline. Isolated. Large, but unfocused. Easy to miss. Easy to overlook. He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled again.
“Keep watching him,” Tom said softly. “And we’re still watching Dumbledore. Everyone. But we don’t interfere. Not yet.” Nott nodded once. Lestrange shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His hand rubbed at his temple again. Tom turned his gaze on him.
“Do you remember anything else?” he asked, knowing full well the answer. Lestrange looked at him, then away.
“Just… a hallway. Then darkness.” Tom said nothing. He didn’t need to. The spell had held. The memory was gone. But his threat remained.
I will make myself your bloodline’s past, present and future.

The others filtered out. Tom stayed seated, watching them all go. Except one. Nott hadn’t moved from his place by the chessboard. He hadn’t played all meeting, but a knight and bishop stood in the center of the board, pieces turned slightly askew, as if frozen mid-battle. He was tracing his thumb along the grain of the table, lazy and silent. Tom didn’t look at him.
“You’re not leaving,” he said calmly.
“No,” Nott said, still not looking up. There was a pause. Quiet. Heavy, but not hostile. The room had dimmed, late light pouring in through the stained-glass windows, dyeing the floor in green and gold. Nott finally looked up.
“You’re very quiet about Lestrange.” Tom raised an eyebrow.
“What would you like me to say?”
“That you believe him,” Nott said simply. “Or that you don’t.” Another pause.
“I don’t find drunkenness interesting.”
“Neither do I,” Nott responded. “But I do find gaps in memory interesting.” Tom turned his full attention on him now.
“Do you think something happened?”
“I think something always happens,” Nott replied, calm as a priest. “I just wonder why no one remembers it.” Tom didn’t answer. Nott moved a bishop one square forward on the board.
“I also think it’s convenient,” he added, almost casually. Tom smiled then. Barely.
“For whom?
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Nott said gently. He looked down again, adjusted a knight’s position. Tom’s gaze sharpened and he stood, slow and deliberate. The two boys regarded each other, Slytherin royalty in two opposite forms. One all polished ambition and sculpted control, the other coiled insight wrapped in deadpan detachment. After a long moment, Tom stepped around the table. Closer. His shadow fell across the chessboard. Nott’s fingers paused on the knight. Barely a tremble. Tom held his gaze a second longer, then reached across the board and straightened one of the misaligned pieces. The King. Black.
“Loyalty,” he murmured, “isn’t about knowing everything. It’s about knowing what not to ask.” Nott exhaled, not afraid but quieted. And Tom turned to leave. He reached the heavy doors of the room and rested his hand on the carved handle. Before he opened it, he spoke once more. “Keep your eyes open,” he said over his shoulder. “But not so wide you forget how to blink.” Nott didn’t answer. But as Tom left the room, he heard a chess piece being moved, one sharp click on the marble board. A fallen pawn.
—

“I need a way to reach you,” he said flatly the next day in the library.
“You’re reaching me now.”
“I mean when I don’t know where you are.” She turned.
“Tom—”
“No.” He stood, started to pace around. It was immediately harder for him to think when she’d said his name. “When I need you, I mean I need you. Not when it’s convenient, not when I run into you by chance, not if you feel like it. When I say I need you, Warren, you’ll come.” Something in his voice made her shiver. Not with fear but with weight. With the rawness of being wanted.
“But I will,” she said softly. “You don’t need a spell for that.” She looked up at him with quiet, trembling certainty, her voice lovely and innocent. “I’ll always be where you need me.” That almost undid him but he shook his head.
“I don’t like promises,” he said. “I’ll find something. A method.”
The library was emptying now. Night had seeped into the castle, long and dark and velvet-silent. The chandeliers had dimmed to a low amber glow, and the lanterns over the reading tables flickered like half-burnt candles. In the corner of the Arithmancy section, hidden between dusty shelves and carved columns, Myrtle Warren sat surrounded by open tomes, unrolled scrolls, and notations. Her hair was pinned up loosely, ink smudged across one wrist. A glyph bloomed across the parchment before her, traced in her narrow, careful hand. But Tom’s attention had long since shifted.
He sat beside her in their hidden corner of the library, late, hushed, forgotten and stared at her like she was the only spell worth learning. Myrtle had been trying to keep her focus, murmuring something about resonance markers and ritual sequences but Tom hadn’t turned a page in twenty minutes. His hand had drifted from the parchment to her knee beneath the table, resting there with idle weight, his thumb stroking soft patterns over the fabric. Then slowly, he leaned in. So close she could feel his breath at her neck.
“Tom,” she said, nervous, “you said we should be studying…”
“I am,” he murmured, voice low, brushing her hair gently back from her shoulder. “I’m studying your responses.” Her breath caught as his lips ghosted just beneath her ear.
“This doesn’t feel like studying,” she whispered, already trembling under his touch.
“You’d be surprised what I can learn from this,” he said almost thoughtfully as though he were conducting an experiment. One hand slipped to her waist, the other threading into her hair. “The way you lean into me. The way your breath hitches when I do this—” He kissed the spot just behind her ear, warm and slow. She shivered.
“Tom,” she breathed, “you wanted to find the spell…”
“I do,” he said, his voice velvet and edged with something darker. “But I can do that tomorrow.” Her hands clenched weakly into his robes. He kissed her again, her neck, her jaw, her cheek and then her lips, finally, with exquisite slowness. Her mouth opened beneath his without a thought. He didn’t devour her. He didn’t rush. He claimed. With patience. With hunger. Like he had all the time in the world. The book lay forgotten on the table. Her legs were half draped over his lap now, one of his arms curled behind her lower back, holding her firmly to him. He squeezed the side of her thigh over her trousers and loosened her tie to kiss the exposed skin with reverence.
“You belong to me,” he said into her throat, not asking, not doubting. Declaring. And Myrtle, breathless and warm in his arms, only nodded.
He thought the ache would ease once he touched her. Once he kissed her that way. Once he slid the soft silk of her nightgown from her shoulders in the Room and pressed her trembling form against his chest. But it hadn’t. If anything, it had worsened. It was never enough. The more he touched, the more he craved. The more he held her, the deeper the void. It wasn’t lust in the ordinary sense, he had learned to control that, to deny it. This was different. This was something stitched into him now, need not for release but for claim. Before, it had been enough to kiss her in the shadows, to imagine her when he was laying in his bed, curtains charmed shut. But now? Now that he’d felt her bare legs under the blankets, now that her soft mouth had pressed kisses into his chest like a benediction, now that she’d gasped his name as if it were sacred, it was like something had rewired in him. If he’d wanted her before, it had been compulsion. Now it was need. A dependency that scared him more than he would ever say. He held her now, half-seated on his lap in the shadows of the library, and already he could feel it rising again. The ache, the need to pull her closer, to be inside her skin. He hated the need. Despised how she lived under his skin. But when her breath caught from a single touch, when she melted from the press of his mouth to her pulse point, that was power. And power made it bearable. Power made it his.

They didn’t hear the footsteps at first, just the soft shuffle of worn leather shoes across the flagstones, echoing faintly through the stacks. Tom stiffened. Warren pulled back slightly, breath uneven. His arm tightened instinctively around her waist.
“Shhh,” he whispered to her temple. She nodded, flushed and trembling, still half in his lap. A moment later, a familiar voice called gently through the rows of books.
“Is anyone still there?” Madame Scribner. Tom’s eyes narrowed, sliding the open book back in front of them, brushing his thumb once over Myrtle’s cheek before helping her shift. She fixed her tie hastily. He stood just in time to meet the librarian’s arrival around the corner, composed and expressionless as always. Scribner raised an eyebrow, taking in the scattered volumes, the full parchment scroll, the open inkpot.
“It’s past curfew. You two are clever enough to know that.”
“We were researching a particular runic structure,” Tom said smoothly, already slipping his wand back into his robes. “Time must’ve gotten away from us.” The Ravenclaw girl nodded quickly.
“We really didn’t mean to—”
“It’s alright Miss Warren,” Scribner sighed, adjusting her shawl. “You both have more academic credibility than the usual lot hiding behind Arithmancy shelves to kiss each other.” Myrtle turned scarlet. Tom did not smile but his eyes gleamed faintly.
“Go to sleep. Both into your own dormitories, please.”
“Yes of course,” Myrtle mumbled, clutching her bag. They waited until the footsteps faded again. Then Myrtle gave him a look, half amused, half mortified.
“She likes you.”
“She likes You.” Tom corrected dryly. “She respects me.”
“She kicked us out.”
“She also didn’t deduct any points.” Myrtle laughed, brushing her hair back and Tom made a mental note in his head to find more ways to hear that sound again.
They reached the end of the corridor, where the path to Ravenclaw Tower split from the main staircase. She turned to say goodnight, but Tom didn’t slow. He followed her, silent and unbothered. She looked at him.
“But we should probably—” Tom glanced at her, eyes cool.
“As if I’d ever let you walk alone in the dark.”
They paused beneath the archway to the Ravenclaw dorms, the corridor wrapped in deep blue shadow. The eagle knocker slept, unmoving. Myrtle turned to him, hesitant, fingers tugging nervously at the sleeve of her robe.
“Tom… did you, by any chance, go through my sketchbook?” She shifted her weight and his eyes narrowed slightly.
“I didn’t. Why?”
“I feel like a drawing is missing. One of the pages torn, maybe.” A pause. He remembered it perfectly, the drawing of the lavatory’s sink. The little serpents she’d sketched without knowing, the way her lines echoed architecture older than the castle itself. He’d torn it out the moment he took her sketchbook in the Room of Requirement. Folded it. Locked it in the back of his nightstand. His voice didn’t waver.
“Maybe you drew it on something else and left it somewhere. You do that often.” She was clearly unsure, biting her lip in that way that made her look heartbreakingly sincere. So he stepped closer. Brushed her hair behind her ear.
“Go sleep,” he whispered, tone low and silken. “Don’t worry your pretty head about it. I’m sure you can draw another just as good.” She opened her mouth, maybe to protest, maybe to ask again. But he didn’t let her. He kissed her. Properly. Deeply. Like punishment and reward all in one. Her back met the cold stone wall as his hands slid to her waist, guiding her closer. Her lips parted for him automatically. A little whimper, soft and helpless, caught in her throat. She kissed him back like she was drowning in him, as if his mouth was the only real thing in the world. He devoured her like a secret he wasn’t supposed to want. His hands slipped beneath the edge of her cardigan, long fingers grazing over her pale skin underneath. She sucked in a breath and he angled her head, kissed down her jaw, her neck, the hollow beneath her ear.
“Tom,” she breathed, eyes fluttering. And he hated how sweet it sounded. His name. He pressed his mouth to her pulse, teeth grazing, and she moaned, her hips shifting ever so slightly against his. The friction made him freeze. His breath caught, low and strained. He pulled back before he lost himself. She looked dazed, hair mussed, lips red. He cursed the ache in his blood. She blinked slowly, dreamlike and panted.
“What were we talking about again?” He smiled faintly.
“Nothing important.” A final brush of his fingers along her waist, then he stepped back.
“Go to sleep, Warren.” She nodded faintly, eyes still locked on his lips as if trying to remember what she’d meant to ask in the first place. She didn’t. And when she slipped behind the door and disappeared into the tower, Tom stood alone in the corridor, cold, hungry, and half-mad with something he wouldn’t name.

Chapter Text

November 1942

The air in the classroom was damp with ghost-breath and chalk dust. It was too early for most students to be wandering the east wing, let alone visiting Professor Binns. But Tom Riddle wasn’t most students. He stepped into the room with deliberate grace, his shoes echoing against the stone. A cluster of ancient runes hovered midair, still glowing faintly from the last lecture. The ghost professor floated just inches above his desk, muttering to himself in the low monotone of someone long detached from the living.
“Professor Binns.” The ghost turned, his outline rippling faintly like fog disturbed.
“Mr. Riddle. How can I help you?” Tom’s voice was smooth, polite and unreadable.
“I wanted to ask you about a theoretical charm.” Binns blinked slowly, if a ghost like him could blink.
“Well, hopefully I'm old enough to answer whatever you want to know.” Tom offered a tight smile.
“I’ve been reading about magical markers. Ways to leave a spell behind. One that can call someone, summon them to you. Not a Patronus, obviously,” he added, tone clipped. “But something more permanent.” Binns floated a little higher.
“You’re speaking of sigil work. Enchanted bindings. That’s not strictly charms, but there’s overlap. There are ancient practices from Mesopotamian rites and pre-Druidic scripts that were meant to call, yes. Not people, mind you. Presence. Spirits. Creatures. But anything like it is very unstable, very outdated. Banned, mostly. Usually requires blood.”
“Blood?” Tom’s gaze sharpened.
“Yes, yes,” Binns waved a translucent hand, drifting through a bookshelf without noticing. “Of the caster, traditionally. Sometimes of the intended target. Often used in war times. Summon your men or call your bonded companion. You understand, of course, that such spells often outlive their purpose. Some bound souls never quite… let go.”
“I’m aware,” Tom murmured. He wasn’t smiling now. Only listening. Calculating.
Binns carried on, oblivious.
“But as I said, quite impractical. You’d need to carve it into something and it is mostly permanent. Also you need to keep the connection strong, reinforced by repetition or the caster's health. Otherwise it fades.” Carved. Anchored. Fueled by identity. The words etched themselves into Tom’s mind with surgical precision.
“Thank you, Professor,” he said at last. Binns waved him off.
“Yes, yes. If you’re truly interested, there should be some manuscripts in the library.” Tom nodded and turned on his heel, his cloak trailing like smoke behind him. He didn’t think just about Warren now. Someday he would summon any of them. And they would feel it on their skin. Burn for him. Even if they didn’t understand why. Even if they forgot who he was. They would still come.

He walked the corridor with hands tucked behind his back, the hem of his cloak brushing against the stone. Behind his eyes, the pieces were already shifting into place. Blood, identity, carved into the skin, tethered by intention. The idea bloomed like a slow flame. He could summon them. All of them. Not with words or owls or common loyalty, but with need. With pain, if necessary. They would come because they wouldn’t have a choice. Because they would burn if they didn’t. But then there was Warren.
The thought of it hit him like a cold stone under the ribs. Her face, pale in candlelight, whispering his name like it was the last safe word she knew. Her hands shaking when he wiped the blood from her face. The way she curled into him, held on like he was gravity itself. She would always come. Of course she would. But not from pain, that he didn’t want. not like that. He pictured her skin, already bruised by someone else’s hands and the image of a mark burning into her made his stomach twist with something unnameable. Not guilt. He didn’t believe in that. But something close to disgust. At the thought of her flinching. At him causing it. No, he wanted her close. Always. But also because she wanted to. He didn’t need to mark her to control her. Not her. She was already his in every way that mattered. But the others?
Tom’s mouth curled into something cold. Them, he would brand. He would carve himself into their bones. Into their bloodlines. They would come when called. They would kneel when summoned. Not from love or fear, but from loyalty. Because that was power. Warren could have the illusion of choice. The rest of the world wouldn’t.
—

The castle was quiet in the way only November knew how to be. Breathless, grey, half-dreaming. Most students had retreated into warmth, avoiding the corridors unless forced by class bells, hunger or rendez-vous. The lavatory on the second floor remained untouched, except by the girl who claimed it like a chapel, and the boy who now entered without knocking. Tom didn’t speak at first. He didn’t need to. She was there by the window again, paintbrush in hand, her eyes squinted in soft concentration. Smudges of ink and paint stained her sleeves and on the tiled floor beside her sat a small wooden box filled with brushes. She was beautiful in the way soft things become when no one’s looking.
He sat down beside her. Not close, not far. Just enough to lay open the book on his lap. Dense, yellowed parchment filled with fragments of dark rituals and magical etymology from ancient runic schools. Not forbidden texts this time, but things left to rot in corners most students didn’t care to look. He opened the thick, weathered volume across his lap without saying anything. Myrtle didn’t look up. But a moment later, he felt her leaning ever so slightly toward him.
“You know I can hear you breathing, right?” he said flatly. She ignored him. Instead, she bent further, peering over his shoulder, her glasses almost grazing his jaw.
“It says here,” she murmured, tracing the line with her finger, “that for this kind of rune-binding to last, you need some sort of…symbol. Physical. Carved or marked.”
“Yes,” Tom replied, turning the page. “I’ll come up with something.” There was a pause.
“Or…” Her voice was lighter now. “I could paint it for you.” He turned slightly. Raised a brow. “I mean,” she added quickly, fiddling with a brush between her fingers, “just if you want to see how it might look. It helps to see things sometimes, doesn’t it? I could do it now. If you like.”
Tom studied her. She didn’t blush, didn’t look away. Her devotion never came with the embarrassment others would have felt. Just quiet resolve. She wanted to be useful. That was what made her dangerous. He considered it for a beat, then rolled up his left sleeve without a word and held out his arm. Myrtle blinked.
“There?” He just nodded firmly. A flicker of surprise passed her face, but she leaned closer.
“Okay.” She dipped her brush in black ink, steadying his forearm with her free hand. “What should it be?” He glanced down at her fingers, delicate and smudged with paint. Then spoke quietly, as if calling it into being.
“A skull. Clean lines. And a serpent. Coming out of its mouth…wrapped down the arm probably.” She hummed in acknowledgement. Focused. The brush moved with slow precision. And Tom only watched her, the ink staining his skin. Her devotion turned tangible. She held his arm with both hands now, fingers curling around his wrist to keep the angle steady as she painted. Her grip was gentle but sure, like he was something she couldn’t risk mishandling and yet something hers to hold. Her brow furrowed in focus, lips slightly parted, a smear of paint on the edge of her knuckle where she’d unconsciously wiped the brush. She didn’t speak, didn’t look at him. All her attention poured into the task like he was canvas, altar. And Tom watched her, unblinking, his mind quiet. He hadn’t asked for this, not really. And yet, the feel of her touch, the steady stroke of the brush, the heat that passed between her palms and his skin transformed the dark act she was now a part of. And he would remember the exact shape of her mouth, the angle of her neck, the way she leaned into him like they’d done this a hundred times before. Like she was borned to paint him. When she leaned back, lips parted slightly in concentration, he didn’t look at the mark. He looked at her.
“I can do it again,” she offered, misreading his silence. “If you want it neater. Or…or something else completely.” Tom caught her wrist gently, stopping her hand.
“No,” he said softly. “This is perfect,” he smirked smugly with a dangerous hint of cruelty.
—

Once again, they walked beneath the cloak of night. It had become their pattern. Moving through corridors after curfew, slipping between shadows and silence, relying on forgotten staircases and abandoned wings. They gladly existed like this, after the castle turned its face away. She was his secret, threaded into the hush of stone halls and unspoken pacts. And she knew her role. She never said his name where others could hear. She rarely asked for daylight. Bound by more than just the Vow but devotion. She belonged to the hours no one saw. And he liked it that way. Hidden. Safe. His.
The castle was asleep around them. Only the hush of wind rattling against the high windows, and the soft scrape of their shoes on stone. The torches in the corridor had burned low, casting strange shadows that moved when they did. They walked in silence. Tom’s hands were buried in his pockets. Myrtle had to walk slightly faster just to keep up. She kept glancing at him, like she was trying to measure something.
“So, did you find it?” she began carefully, “The spell I mean.” He didn’t stop walking.
“Which one.”
“The one to call someone. To summon them.” A pause. The faint twitch of his jaw.
“Yes.”
“Do you want to use it?”
“No.” That was it. Flat. Final. She frowned, still watching him.
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not necessary.”
“I thought you said it was.” His shoulders stiffened. He didn’t answer. She tried again, quieter this time. “Did something happen? Did I say something wrong?” He stopped walking. Turned to her.
“It’s not about that.”
“Then what is it about?” Her voice cracked just a little. “You were pretty set on it and now it’s like…I don’t know.” Tom looked at her. His eyes were unreadable, dark.
“Warren.”
“I just—” she rushed on, as if afraid she’d lose her chance. “I thought it was a way to know when you needed me. Is it like— you don’t anymore maybe?”
“I said,” Tom snapped, his voice suddenly loud in the corridor, “It’s not necessary.” It echoed. Stone and silence swallowed the sound but not before she flinched. Visibly. She looked down, startled by his tone. Her fingers curled into the sleeves of her robes. His breath was sharp now. He ran a hand down his face, then stepped forward without another word and pulled her into his arms. He wrapped her fully in the folds of his cloak, tucking her against him as if to shield her from the cold, or himself.
“I shouldn’t have raised my voice like that,” he muttered, the words stiff and raw, pressed into her hair. Her cheek was against his chest, her glasses pressed slightly askew. She didn’t say anything at first. Then, very quietly, she mumbled into the fabric of his shirt.
“I was just scared it’s because you don’t want me anymore.” He closed his eyes. He should’ve known. He pulled her tighter, his voice was rough now, lower.
“You think I wouldn’t want you?” She didn’t answer. He tilted her chin up and kissed her. Deeply, steady and certain. As if that kiss alone could erase every doubt in her body. When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against hers. His breath was warm. Unsteady. “I won’t use the spell,” he said, “because I don’t want your loyalty wrapped in incantations.” A beat. “I want you to come to me because you want to. Because you’re mine, not because I summoned you.” Her eyes shimmered. She reached up and gripped the collar of his robes, grounding herself.
“I always want to.” He kissed her again. This time, slower. The corridor felt too quiet. The night too alive. And when he finally pulled away, there was a whisper of something dangerous in his voice.
“I realised I don’t want a spell,” he said. “If I want you, I’ll find you.” With that he pulled her sharply into the nearest alcove, pressing her back against the stone as his robes cloaked them both. His breath was quiet, controlled. Hers was already ragged. They were hidden, but not safe. She looked up at him. Moonlight from the narrow window above caught the edges of his face, too sharp, too beautiful, too dangerous. His hand flattened against the stone beside her head. The other gripped her hip, not gently. His gaze flicked down to her mouth.
“You’re shaking,” he murmured, voice barely a sound.
“You’re not,” she whispered back as if that explained everything. Then he kissed her again. Hard. There was no softness to it, no lead-in, no hesitation. It was rough, rushed, a desperate reclaiming. Like after all he needed to punish her for existing without him. Like her absence could carve a hollow into his chest and only this, only her mouth under his, only her fingers fisting into his collar, could fill it. She made a noise against his lips, half a gasp, half a whimper, and he drank it in like a sin. His hand slid beneath her collar, fingertips grazing her pulse, just to feel how fast he could make it race. She arched toward him, teeth catching his bottom lip in a breathless apology. It was terrifying, how much he wanted her. How much he’d burn the world down to keep her in the shadows with him like this. He broke the kiss just long enough to breathe, forehead pressed to hers.

“Coochy-coo, lovebirds!”
They both jerked back. Peeves was floating upside-down above the arch of the alcove, a crooked grin splitting his face like a crack through porcelain. The glow of his translucent form shimmered like oil in the dark.
“Naughty, naughty, hiding in corners! Mr. Prefect and his little crybaby.” He swooped lower. “Does your classmates know, darling? Does Dippet? Does Dumbledore?” Tom had his wand out in an instant.
“I can always obliviate you, Peeves.” The ghost flipped upright, mock-offended.
“Oooh! So scary my Slytherin prince. Always with the wand waving and the murder-eyes. But you wouldn’t curse me, would you? Not poor old Peevsie, who’s been here since your mummy’s gran wore bloomers.” Tom stepped forward once, slow and deliberate. His voice dropped like a dagger.
“Try me.”
Peeves faltered. For a moment, the grin twitched, uncertain. Then he turned his attention to Myrtle instead, voice turning syrupy and cruel.
“And you, poor little Warren girl,” he cooed, circling her slowly. “Still wearing those hideous glasses, does he like them? Does he like you? Or just how quiet you are?” He grinned. “Maybe he likes to collect broken things.” Myrtle’s breath caught. She blinked furiously, shoulders tightening as if she could fold herself into the wall. Tom moved before she could speak.
“Don’t talk to her,” he said, voice like black frost. “Not unless you want to see what kind of curses I’ve been working on lately.” Peeves halted midair. Hovered. Then, with a sly smirk, he drifted up and away, almost out of reach.
“Oh well…but touchy tonight, aren’t we?” he hummed, spinning in slow circles. “Don’t let your kisses distract you from the creeping things under the floorboards. There’s still blood in these walls, oh yes. Old magic. Hidden doors. Screaming. Chambers that breathe.” Tom’s jaw tightened and Peeves just smiled innocently. “And you two might want to scurry along,” the poltergeist added with sing-song glee. “Old Dumbledore’s doing his rounds early tonight.” And with that, he vanished in a curl of sparks, laughter echoing down the corridor. The alcove was suddenly too quiet. Myrtle clutched Tom’s sleeve.
“What did he mean?”
“Nothing,” Tom lied quickly. Then, softer, “He’s just trying to get under your skin. Don’t listen to him,” he said. “He’s been dead too long to understand anything worth living for.” Then Tom kissed her before she could say anything in return.
“Do you think he was talking about the Chamber?” She asked after a moment, voice small against his chest. Tom’s jaw tensed. They stood still in the alcove’s shadow, just beyond the last whisper of Peeves’s laugh. Her hands clutched the front of his robes, and her glasses were slightly askew from the sudden kiss. She looked up at him, blinking, expectant. Trusting. He could feel her question like a pin pressed gently to the skin. Tom exhaled slowly through his nose.
“Peeves talks nonsense,” he said. “Half the time he doesn’t even know what he’s saying.”
“But…” she hesitated. “What if—”
“We’re not wasting time chasing his fairytales,” he interrupted, voice cool. Not harsh, but uncompromising. She swallowed whatever was forming next. Nodded faintly.
“Okay.” He brushed a thumb over her cheek, and the moment softened again, but it lingered in her eyes, that small crease of worry. That thought she hadn’t voiced yet. Why did we stop looking? But she didn’t ask again. Because she didn’t want to push him. Because she didn’t want him to pull away. Because he was her whole world. So she followed him in silence as they continued down the corridor, her fingers just brushing the edge of his cloak, and the weight of the question faded but never quite disappeared.
—

The room had once been a disused trophy storage, long forgotten behind a locked corridor door and a tapestry so moth-eaten it barely clung to the wall. But Tom had transfigured it, piece by piece, until it became something almost soft. A single high-backed armchair sat before a window. One of the candles floated gently above, charmed to stay low and warm. The shadows moved like breath. Myrtle curled in his lap, knees folded, head resting just beneath his jaw. One of his arms was draped lazily across her waist, the other held a book open on the armrest. Her breath was steady, glasses a little crooked from the way her face pressed into his chest.
This was something he allowed himself. Not warmth. Not softness. Not affection. Those were words for other people, smaller people. But control, yes. Stillness. The quiet triumph of having something that was his. Something pliant and loyal and impossibly devoted, curled against him like a secret. There was power in it, not the kind that tore kingdoms down but the kind that rooted deep in the ribs and made the silence feel full. He could probably kill without blinking, destroy without regret. But here, in the low flicker of candlelight, with her small body folded in his arms and her breath brushing his collarbone, he felt nothing of that violence. Only stillness. And the deep, bone-heavy knowledge that she belonged to him. That he had been made for great and terrible things but this, too, was something he didn’t know if he could give up. He might’ve thought she was asleep until she spoke.
“Do you ever think about what comes after death?”
“I won’t die.” His answer came too quickly, too flat. She tilted her head to look at him, puzzled. Then let out a soft, breathy laugh.
“Oh,” she said, smiling faintly, “of course not. Silly question.” He said nothing. Because she didn’t know. Didn’t know the tomes he’d read by candlelight in the Restricted Section. Didn’t know the incantations etched into the spines of books bound in cursed skin. Didn’t know that he had already imagined his soul, not whole but divided, immortal. Unkillable. Instead, he deflected.
“And you?” he asked, voice quieter. She shrugged against him.
“I wouldn’t mind it.” That made something snap cold in his chest.
“No,” he said flatly. She blinked again, surprised.
“It’s not like I want to,” she said gently. “I just wouldn’t mind. If it happened.”
“No.” His grip on her waist tightened slightly, possessive, unyielding. “You’re not allowed.”
“Not allowed?” she echoed, the faintest smile returning, trying to keep it light. But he didn’t smile. Didn’t even blink.
“I’m not joking, Warren.” She fell silent for a moment. Then she started thinking, hesitantly.
“…I mean, if I had to go, maybe I wouldn’t mind being a ghost.” That caught him off guard.
“A ghost,” he repeated, sharply. Her hand came up to adjust her glasses.
“Like Peeves. Or Sir Nicholas. I think I’d be good at it.”
“You think that is a fate worth wanting?”
“I don’t know,” she murmured. “It just… I don’t belong anywhere, not really. The Muggle world doesn’t seem to want me. And the wizarding one barely tolerates me. Maybe the ghosts would like me.” A muscle in his jaw twitched. He couldn’t say what he felt, he didn’t know what it was. Anger yes, but not at her. At the thought of her speaking so carelessly about vanishing. About becoming nothing but a flickering memory in a hallway. He shifted, and she tensed but then his hand slid up into her hair, cradling the back of her head, and he kissed her. Slow, anchoring. The kind that stole breath and gave it back twisted into something new. She melted against him.
“You don’t get to say things like that,” he murmured against her mouth. She nodded slightly.
“Okay.”
“No ghosts,” he added, curling his arms tighter around her, pressing his lips to her temple like a vow.

For the first time since Her, he thought about the future, her and his future. But his future didn’t have space for things like her. Not really. Not in the way people meant when they talked about “having someone.” She didn’t fit into any future he’d imagined for himself. No manor. No heirs. No name-joining unions or wives in emerald green robes. He had never planned for softness. And apparently she thought about it as well. She shifted slightly and lifted her head just enough to speak.
“And what about later?” Her voice wasn’t accusing. Just soft. Like someone asking about the weather beyond the window, except it was about them.Tom didn’t respond. She looked up at him, trying again. “How long will you keep me?” His gaze didn’t waver, but something closed off behind it. It was too open a question. Too permanent. And permanence had never been part of his design. Power, of course. Immortality, certainly. But a girl?
He opened his mouth and nothing came out. Whatever answer lived on the tip of his tongue was too sharp to offer. After a moment, her eyes dropped. Her shoulders drew inward, ever so slightly. She didn’t speak again for a beat. Then she murmured, quiet and careful.
“I’m a bit tired,” she said, pulling back just a little more. “I think I’d like to go back to my dorm. If that’s okay.” Her voice had that subtle shape of a question, the one she never used with anyone but him. As if even exhaustion needed permission. As if she was asking whether she was still allowed to retreat. He didn’t know how to answer that either. Because something had shifted. Something he couldn’t quite name, but he felt it in the distance between her body and his now. Not in inches. In weight.
He didn’t know how to fix this. Because this, whatever it was, felt too close to something ordinary. Something emotional. Something people in relationships talk about. And Tom Riddle did not do relationships. He did control. He did possession. But right now, that didn’t feel like enough. She didn’t meet his eyes this time. Her hands moved to straighten the sleeves of her cardigan, something to do while not looking at him. Her voice was too calm, too measured, like someone who’d quietly decided not to break down in front of someone who wouldn’t know what to do with it. Tom stood without speaking, brushed invisible dust from his robes. His mind raced for a reply, a line, a gesture, anything to tether her back. But everything he thought of sounded like a command. And that wasn’t what she was asking for.
“I’ll walk you.” She looked up then, the smallest crease in her brow.
“You know, you don’t have to—”
“I didn’t ask if I had to,” he cut in, calm but firm. “I said I will.” She didn’t argue. Just nodded, quietly. The space between them hung heavy, like smoke that refused to clear. They walked in silence, the halls dark around them, the only sound the whisper of their footsteps. Tom kept close, as always, his hand brushing her elbow once when she faltered near a stair. She didn’t cling to him tonight. Didn’t lean, but she didn’t pull away, either. At the base of the Ravenclaw Tower, she stopped. Looked up at the eagle, then at him.
“Goodnight,” she said softly. He stared at her for a long moment. His voice, when it came, was lower than usual. Tighter.
“You’ll be alright?” She hesitated, just for a heartbeat.
“Of course I will.” And then she vanished, her steps light, her shadow disappearing slowly up the marble. Tom remained at the bottom of the stairs a long time after she was gone. He didn’t know how to follow someone into a place where he wasn’t needed. And he hated the quiet it left behind. The corridor outside the Ravenclaw tower was still and cold, the stone slick with the ghost of night fog seeping in through the cracks of the high castle walls. Tom descended the stairs like a shadow, silent and precise, each step punctuated by the echo of his polished shoes on the stone. The late hour wrapped the castle in silence. He was headed to the dungeons. That had been the plan. To return, to reassert control. To center himself in the familiar chill of the Slytherin common room, to continue studying the arcane texts he’d smuggled out of the Restricted Section. But as he descended, each hallway growing darker, something in his chest twisted too tightly to ignore.
Her voice still echoed. “How long will you keep me?” soft and unsure, wrapped in hesitation. He clenched his jaw. Why had she asked that? Why now? Why with that look, like she knew he wouldn’t have an answer, like she was already preparing to walk away? He’d done everything. Given her safety. Comfort. Power she didn’t even realize. He had made her his. Had she forgotten what that meant? The irritation bloomed like a bruise behind his ribs. But it wasn’t her fault, not really. It was his. His own weakness. His indulgence. Letting her close, letting her stay. Allowing himself to feel something that now pulled at him like chains. He turned sharply at the next corridor, not toward the dungeons, but to the east, toward the lavatory. Toward the truth. If Warren was confusion, this was clarity. If she made him question, this would remind him of purpose. This was his inheritance. The beginning. The door to the dark throne no one else could reach.
As he strode through the hallways, rage licked at the edge of his mind, curling with every step. Rage not at her, but at how much he’d allowed her to matter. He twisted it, molded it and redirected it. By the time he reached the shattered tiles and the flickering sconces of the girls’ lavatory, his face was still, his movements precise again. But inside, something surged.
This was where he belonged. In the belly of forgotten things. In shadows too ancient for her soft questions and tender hands. This was not where Myrtle Warren belonged. This was where he would begin.
—

The lavatory was silent when he entered, except for the low, wet drip of a broken pipe and the shivering echo of water sliding down old tile. The door creaked closed behind him with a reluctant sound, and the faint flicker of his wand cast long shadows across the cracked mirrors and broken stalls. This place had always been hers. Her sanctuary. Her tomb. Her chapel of solitude. But tonight, it was his.
He stalked toward the sink with purpose coiled beneath his skin, sleeves pushed up, steps measured. His irritation from the Ravenclaw corridor hadn’t left him, it clung to him like fog, heavier than anger, darker than disappointment. It was the rage of something unraveling beneath his fingers. A plan splintering. A feeling he didn’t want, slipping through the cracks. The marble sink gleamed faintly beneath the dust, and the serpents on the taps watched him with blank, eyeless stares. He touched the cool porcelain with the tips of his fingers. The shape of it was burned into his memory, from the drawing Warren had made, from his own obsession with it. The marble was ancient, older than the school itself, laced with threads of something darker, deeper. Something waiting. He didn’t hesitate. His lips parted and he let the sound spill out. The dry, curling hiss of Parseltongue, winding out of his mouth like a spell cast from the marrow.
The shift was not physical at first. Not visible. It began in the air. A sudden heaviness, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. The torch on the wall flickered violently. Somewhere beneath the floor, something moved. A long, low sound like ancient stone remembering how to move. And then the marble began to part. The serpents coiled and twisted. The sink opened like a mouth. A spiral staircase revealed itself, curling down into blackness that swallowed light like water. Tom didn’t move. The scent hit him first, the smell of earth, rot, and something older than life. The kind of smell that spoke of bones and secrets and dark, dark magic. Magic untouched by centuries. Magic not meant for human hands. He stared into the darkness, and for a moment, just a flicker, something inside him recoiled. Not fear. Never fear. But there was a tightness in his chest, a violent stillness in his limbs. As if he had finally reached the threshold of his own myth and now the myth looked back.
He had always known he would open it. But he had never let himself wonder what would come next. The silence below was too vast. Too knowing. The air against his face felt alive, tasting him. Judging him. His hand gripped the edge of the broken sink. White knuckled. He could go down. He could descend into the legend. Command everything that slept under. Mark his name into the stones of the Chamber and rise as something more. And yet, his mind flashed just for a second, to the image of the miserable girl. Curled up in his arms, glasses askew, painting black onto his skin. The slight trembling when he raised his voice. The way she whispered his name like a vow she didn’t understand. Something clenched in him. Hard and sudden. He stepped back. Just once. Not tonight. He let the spell fade, and with a slow, coiling sound, the marble mouth closed once more. The serpents stilled. The silence returned. But it was not the same. He would return. But not as a boy trying to prove something. Next time, he would be sure, he would descend as a god.
—

Tom avoided her.
Not with cruelty. Not with cold words or public absence. No, that would have been simple. That would have been easy. Instead, he avoided her with precision. He simply wasn’t there. No late-night walks, secret meetings behind curtains or in abandoned classrooms. No books pushed silently toward her side of the table, no after curfew library sessions. When she passed through the hallways, she sometimes felt his eyes, felt the charge of being watched, but when she turned, nothing. Gone again. He was always gone.
But he watched her, always. He knew she felt it like a hollow behind her ribs. Watched how she smiled tightly at people in the corridors. Answered questions in class. Nodded when called upon. But the shine in her eyes had dulled. He didn’t see her sketch. She didn’t return to their studying library corners. He even knew she didn’t eat much. And maybe this was the answer. How long will you keep me? As long as you don’t ask for more. Tom knew she was sad. Of course he did. He saw her in Ancient Runes, the way her eyes didn’t lift from her parchment, the slight tremble in her fingers as she wrote. She didn’t look at him once. And that should’ve pleased him, but instead it coiled in his chest like an itch he couldn’t reach. He passed her in the hallway once. She was carrying too many books, hair falling into her face. She didn’t see him. Or she did and didn’t look. That would be worse.
And worse still, he wasn’t the only one who saw. Olive Hornby noticed. Like a predator sniffing blood. Others as well. It started with small things again. A cruel smirk. A loud whisper. A paper bird hexed to fly at Myrtle’s head in some lesson, sharp enough to sting. They laughed, Warren dropped her inkpot. No one helped her pick it up. And Myrtle didn’t fight back. Not like before. Not with quiet defiance or a muttered hex. She just grew smaller. Her steps shorter. Her presence dimmer. And Tom saw it all.
He wasn’t avoiding her because he didn’t care, he was avoiding her because he cared too much, because something about her being his was beginning to reshape everything he’d built. And he needed to hate it. He ignored the burn in his wrist. It wasn’t that violent. It wasn’t sharp anymore. It was worse, it was persistent. The dull ache that meant she was hurting. Not in danger. Not dying. Just bruised, maybe. Shaken. Crying again. He clenched his fist until the bones ached. He would not go to her. She was the one who offered her skin, her hands, her trust. He hadn’t asked her to curl into his lap like she belonged there. He hadn’t asked her to kiss his chest like it was holy.
He hadn’t asked—
He hadn’t—
Tom pressed his wrist against the cold marble of the sink basin and once again ignored the magic. The burning of the Vow flickered beneath his skin like a second heartbeat, a cursed reminder that he had made something real in a moment of madness. That he had promised to protect her. That the blood in his veins now answered to someone else’s pain. It disgusted him. Not because he couldn’t handle it. But because it changed him. Because it made him think of her when he didn’t want to, not as a chess piece or a spell or a name in the margins, but as a girl. His girl. A warm, soft-lipped, trembling girl with her hands on his shoulders and her eyes wide with need.

And sometimes…Gods, sometimes—
When he couldn’t stand it anymore, when the ache in his body outmatched the cold calculation of his mind, he locked the bathroom door and turned on the tap. Steam curled through the room like breath. He stripped slowly. He didn’t rush. He stood under the scalding water and imagined her mouth on his collarbone, the sound she made when he bit down softly on her pulse point. He imagined her in that damn chemise. Again. He imagined her touch, her submission, her wanting. His hand curled low against his abdomen and he hated it, hated how natural it felt now, how easily the image of her slid into place, like a spell he knew too well. As if she had branded him. As if he couldn’t untouch her from his own memory. Sometimes he whispered her name. Not meaning to. Not loudly. Just enough for the air to catch on it. A prayer. A curse. A stain.
And when he came, panting, furious and disgusted with himself, it always ended the same way. His wrist still burned. And Warren was still not in his arms.
—

The castle had never felt so loud in its silence. Tom never minded it. Quite the opposite, he welcomed silence. But silence without her presence was something new. Tom walked the corridors like a shadow, silent and still and barely seen and yet the walls echoed louder than before. The stained-glass windows bled morning light onto the stone floors and he hated them for it. They didn’t know. They never knew. He avoided the second-floor lavatory. He avoided her. Not in the theatrical way of cruelty, not with taunts or distance laced with malice. No, he simply chose not to go. Chose not to see her. Not because he didn’t want to. But because he did. Too much. And that was the problem.
When he closed his eyes, he saw her. He saw the way her breath caught when he touched her neck, how her eyes fluttered shut like it was a sacred thing. He remembered the way she curled into his robe as if it were her whole world. The shape of her body on his lap. The way her fingers trembled when they traced the buttons of his shirt. But worse than that were the things that weren’t physical. The way she looked at him. With trust. With that soft, stubborn sort of devotion. Like he was something more than he was. Like he was something good.

He sat alone in the common room, a book open in his lap and not a single word processed. The pages had long since blurred into meaningless lines. Lestrange and Malfoy laughed over something but he wasn’t listening. Nott had brought news of the Ministry again. Black asked him a question and he didn’t answer. He thought about the Unbreakable Vow. The way it had burned when something was happening to her. The way it stayed warm even now, a low, constant reminder beneath his skin. A secret ache he couldn’t silence. He wanted to go to her. Wanted to see her painting again, brow furrowed, sleeves stained with ink and color. Wanted her eyes to light up when she saw him in the doorway. Wanted her hands again. On him, for him, because of him.
But he didn’t go. He told himself it was better. Told himself it was about keeping his priorities aligned. That he needed to be alone. But the truth bled between the lies. He was angry. Not at her. At himself. Because this wasn’t how it was meant to go. She wasn’t supposed to matter. And yet. He stared at the fire that night and felt colder than he was himself.

The fire cracked low in the Slytherin common room, licking at the damp hearth as if it, too, were reluctant to burn. The Knights had gathered tonight. Lestrange lounged lazily on the velvet settee, one boot propped on the polished edge of the table. Black and Nott whispered in their usual manner. Malfoy sat with impeccable posture, parchment in hand, scanning the notes he’d taken with calm diligence. No one dared to come close to them. A snake’s den in a snake’s den. And Tom Riddle stood with one hand resting against the back of an armchair, unmoving. He had said little. Had barely looked up when they began.
“It’s Hagrid again,” Malfoy finally offered, dragging out the name like it was something bitter on his tongue. “The Gryffindor half-giant. Still sneaking around where he shouldn’t be.” Lestrange snorted.
“Dungeons again?”
“Caught by a prefect this time. Not ours. One of the Ravenclaws. Said he heard something, some sort of clicking.” Nott raised a brow at that.
“You think he’s keeping something down there.” Malfoy shrugged.
“Could be. Maybe he’s working on something.” Tom said nothing. A beat of silence passed before Black finally glanced over, frowning.
“Riddle?” He didn’t answer. Nott cleared his throat.
“Tom.” His name again, sharper now. Tom blinked slowly, lifting his eyes from some invisible point on the wall.
“Hm?” Malfoy chuckled under his breath.
“That might be the first time I’ve seen you not listening. Mark it, boys.”
“Something on your mind?” Nott asked carefully, less taunting than the rest. His tone was neutral, maybe even concerned. Tom straightened his spine, though his expression remained unreadable.
“It’s nothing.”
“Must be some nothing to make you ignore your own meeting. We’re talking about a half-giant and possibly some illegal business. You’re the one who said we need to watch what’s slipping through the cracks.” Black hummed. Tom didn’t bite. He only shifted his weight and finally stepped away from the chair.
“Then watch him,” he said flatly. “I’m sure the four of you are capable of that.” Something in the way he said it cut the air. Not a threat. Not quite. But enough to make Black’s grin falter.
“I just meant—”
“I know what you meant,” Tom interrupted coolly. “And I don’t require clarification.” A brief, icy pause. Then Nott, always the diplomat, tried again.
“You’ve been… distracted, lately. More than usual.” Tom’s gaze flicked toward him.
“Am I failing you in any way?”
“No,” Nott said quickly. “Only—”
“Good.” Another pause. Another crackle of fire. Lestrange murmured something under his breath. Malfoy leaned over to whisper back, too low to catch. But Tom heard the laughter that followed, short and nervy. And it made his jaw tighten. Because they were right. He was distracted. And worse, he knew why. It was one thing to want her. To crave the feel of her mouth on his. To burn with the memory of her body pressed beneath his. He could live with that. Could even wield it, in the right moments. But trying not to want her? That was a war he was losing. And he wasn’t used to losing. It made him sharp. Slower, but sharper. Like a blade being ground against the wrong whetstone, the edge still lethal, but at risk of cracking.
He had told himself it’s all a weakness. Again and again. A whisper in the back of his skull, repeating the gospel he’d built his life upon. But if that were true, why did letting her go feel like drowning? It made no sense. None at all. If she was a weakness, and she must be, by every principle he lived by, then why did having her feel like power? Why did her breath catch at his touch feel like victory? Why did the sound she made when he kissed her throat echo in his mind louder than any spell? Weakness should corrode. Should corrode him. But this felt like strength of a different kind. A power that bent only to him. That trusted him, even when he didn’t deserve it. That shook when he spoke her name. It should’ve terrified him. It did. But not enough to stop. Not enough to let go.
He tore his gaze away from the others and moved toward the stairs.
“Where are you going?” Malfoy called behind him, half-laughing.
“Somewhere quiet.”
“What about Hagrid?” Nott frowned.
“Deal with it.” He was already gone. Already climbing the steps. Already wondering how many nights he could pretend he didn’t care, when his whole world was unraveling at the seams of a girl’s trembling breath and the place her head once rested on his chest.
—

As soon as he got into the room, he sat on his bed. Curtains drawn. Wand lifted in a silent gesture to seal the world out. The silence was deep, intimate and he hated how quickly his body responded to the memory of her. The way she had curled into him as if she belonged nowhere else. The soft gasp she made when his lips trailed her collarbone. Her. Always her. As if the mark she left on him wasn’t just memory but possession. He sat on the edge of the bed, hand gripping the edge of the mattress, fighting it, and then giving in.
There was no discipline left in him, not where she was concerned. Only the unbearable pressure of want. Of need. Of hers. His hand slid low into his pants and the moment he let himself remember her voice, whispering his name in the dark, his control shattered. He moved through the act like a confession, slow and desperate, jaw clenched, breathing ragged, as if he could exorcise her ghost from his bones with every motion. But even when it was over, even when the tremor left his body and his breath returned, the ache didn’t fade. If anything, it bloomed. And her name remained in his mouth like a curse.

It was past midnight when he surrendered. The silence in his dormitory suffocated him. No words into the Diary soothed the tremor in his hands. No charm, no occluding, no logic could unmake the need. It wasn’t even want anymore. It was something older, more primal, seated not in the mind but in the body. He needed to feel her. To touch something real. To ground the part of him that spun further into madness the longer he tried to pretend she hadn’t carved her way into the hollow of his ribs. Just her lips. That’s what he told himself. One kiss. One second. Then he would go back to pretending she meant nothing.
He rose from the bed with the grace of a shadow. Put on his robes that flowed behind him like spilled ink as he moved through the castle, unseen and unsleeping. The stone corridors were dark and chilled, windows fogged with November cold. The moon watched him from above, half-hidden in mist. Every footstep was calculated. Every corner navigated by memory. He reached the base of the Ravenclaw tower in silence. There, beneath the bronze eagle knocker and the star-pricked arch, he paused. His wand whispered the incantation of a Disillusionment Charm, cool magic dripping over him like oil, erasing his outline into the gloom. He was careful, surgical. A shadow in a place where no one watched. The door creaked softly open with the right answer and he stepped inside. He knew his way to this room, he had taken this path before. Once he was inside, Helen Abbott’s bed was first. A flick of his wand, near soundless. The curtains closed, snapping shut like lips silenced. Another movement, another charm, the air around her shimmered faintly and the world on her side of the room muffled into nothingness. No whispers, no sudden gasps, no accidents. Warren’s bed was next.
His breath slowed. His heart didn’t. He looked at her like a man starved, approached her like something ancient and unstoppable, like a spell already cast. One hand reached to undo the Disillusionment charm, and his outline melted into being just beside her, shadows slipping off his shoulders. She lay twisted in the sheets, her glasses folded neatly beside her pillow, the slope of her neck exposed in the dim, silver light from the enchanted dormitory windows. Her mouth was soft, unaware. Her brow faintly creased. Dreaming, perhaps, of the way he’d abandoned her. He leaned in. A kiss on her forehead first, not out of gentleness, but of ownership. A quiet claim. She stirred, breath hitching, lashes fluttering. Confused. Still somewhere between dream and waking.
“This is a dream?” she whispered hoarsely.
“It’s better for you to be,” he murmured, voice like black velvet. Then he kissed her. No warning. No prelude. Just his mouth crashing onto hers, punishing and ravenous. A kiss born of restraint snapped loose. Of nights spent silent and starving, of thoughts he tried to drown in hot water and fail every time. She gasped against his lips, fingers clutching at his robe as he pulled her closer into him, like he might tear her apart and remake her all in the same motion.
His hand found her waist, the silk of her nightgown sliding beneath his palm. He gripped her there, not tenderly but desperately. Her body arched to meet his. Her lips opened beneath the weight of him. He kissed her like she was the answer to every burning question he hated himself for asking. Like she owed him this breath. This submission. This tremble. And she gave it not because she had to, because she wanted to. Because she always had. Her hands slid up his back now, unsure but eager, and he groaned into her mouth. A sound so low, so fractured, it might’ve come from somewhere far deeper than his throat. He kissed her like possession. Like retribution. Like she was the sin and he was choosing it again and again and again.

He climbed into her bed without hesitation, his movements smooth but trembling beneath the surface. The mattress dipped beneath his weight, and she gasped softly as he aligned himself over her, bracing on his elbows to keep his weight from pressing into her completely. His fingers tangled in her hair, the other slipping around her back, drawing her fully into his arms, into him. Her breath stuttered between kisses, voice breaking as his mouth moved hungrily over hers, down to her jaw, her throat, her collarbone where her nightgown slipped. She gasped, trembling in his grip, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.
“Tom—” she whispered, dazed, barely able to speak between the rush of his lips. “This isn’t a dream.” He froze for the smallest fraction of a heartbeat.
“Shut up,” he growled against her mouth. “Shut up, shut up, shut up…” The words came between kisses, rough and unrelenting, his voice tight with something cracked and terrifyingly human. Each repetition came with another kiss, another press of his hips, another possessive grip of his hand in her hair, on her thigh, at her waist. She gasped softly, melting into him as if her body knew the rhythm, as if it had missed the weight of him, even though it had never fully had it. He kissed her harder, like her speaking aloud had ruined something fragile he was trying to preserve. Like if he admitted it was real, it would destroy him. Her body melted in his arms again, but her fingers slipped toward his jaw, as if to anchor him, to remind him she was real, that she was here. The kiss broke only so he could catch his breath, forehead pressed to hers. She clutched his shoulders, breathless beneath him, arching slightly into the kiss as his fingers slid along her waist, up her side, reverent and starving at once.
“Warren,” he murmured against her lips, voice low and hoarse. “You shouldn’t let me do this.” But his mouth didn’t stop. It moved down her jaw, her throat, her collarbone. Each kiss a declaration, a demand, a prayer. She gasped and he felt the tremble in her legs as they shifted beneath him. Her fingers slid into his black hair, as if to hold him there, to keep him real. His hands gripped her thighs through the blanket, then pushed it back just enough to press himself closer. Still fully clothed, still in control. He wasn’t gentle but he wasn’t cruel. He devoured her like she was something stolen, something he would never be allowed to have again. And for a moment, for this one suspended breath in time, he let himself feel it. The madness of wanting her. The horror of needing her. And the power of having her want him back.

His lips trailed down her jaw, to her neck, where her pulse fluttered wildly under his mouth. His tongue grazed it, once, and she shivered violently beneath him. He groaned quietly at that. Tom didn’t stop. He couldn’t. His mouth traveled lower, kissing over the slope of her collarbone, down to the neckline of the nightgown. One hand slid under it, flattening over her ribs, and he kissed each one as he went, tracing her, claiming her, memorizing the map of her like she was a book no one else would ever be allowed to read. She arched slightly, lips parted in a soft, startled breath, fingers finding the back of his head. He kissed her harder. She trembled. Not in fear, not anymore, but in some fragile mixture of wonder and ache and need. Tom rose slightly, only to sit up on her mattress with a sharp exhale, dragging her with him. His arms pulled her into his lap and she straddled him without thinking. He adjusted the fabric of her nightgown once again, letting it fall just enough to bare one shoulder, then leaned in and kissed it with slow, aching reverence. She slipped her fingers to the collar of his shirt and began unbuttoning it, clumsily at first, then faster as her hands adjusted. His skin was cold to the touch, porcelain and sharp like carved marble, but alive. He hissed softly as her fingers found his chest and he kissed her again, this time slow, open-mouthed, as if trying to devour something that had nearly been taken from him. He muttered something against her skin, something guttural, furious, low. Something about how she drove him mad, how he couldn’t stand the thought of anyone else touching her, speaking to her, even looking at her for too long.
She was already trembling in his lap, curled into him like something precious and breakable. He let his hands wander slowly over her hips, her back, the soft fabric of the nightgown as it shifted with her breath. His mouth brushed the edge of her jaw again, then trailed down her neck, slower this time, until he reached the hollow beneath her throat. She gasped faintly as he kissed it and her hands gripped his arms, not to stop him but to anchor herself. Then, carefully, he slipped the strap of her nightgown from her shoulder. She stilled. Breathless. Wide-eyed. But she didn’t resist. Tom watched her for a moment. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her lips parted. And then, slowly, he let the fabric slip further down, exposing one bare breast. Her breath caught audibly.
Tom didn’t speak. He only looked. Not hungrily, not cruelly, but like she was something untouchable. A secret. A relic. And then he bowed his head and kissed her there, slow and aching, his mouth warm and firm against her skin. She made a small sound, choked, and arched into him by instinct. His hand came up to cup her breast gently, thumb brushing her nipple in a slow, hypnotic rhythm. She shivered. Then gasped again, high and surprised, as his mouth closed around the hardening pink nub, not roughly, not hurriedly but with the same maddening care one used when he was trying not to break something fragile. Her fingers tangled in his hair, her eyes fluttering shut.
“Tom—” she whispered, unsure if it was a plea or a warning. But he didn’t stop. His hand supported her back, his other arm still wrapped around her waist, holding her safely in place as his mouth moved, slow and deliberate. He was studying her again, like a spell, like something ancient and sacred. She whimpered softly. It was too much, the attention, the sensation, the way he seemed to know exactly what to do without her needing to say anything. It built too quickly, her chest rising in uneven breaths, her thighs tensing around his lap.
And then it hit her all at once. With a soft, desperate gasp, as if the world tilted and vanished behind her eyes. Tom felt it. He pulled back just slightly, watching her come undone, eyes half-lidded, lips parted, barely holding herself upright. His hand traced slow, grounding circles on her side, guiding her back to herself. She blinked, dazed, and looked at him like she didn’t know what had just happened, only that it had been his doing, entirely. His lips were swollen, his voice rough as he finally spoke, barely more than a whisper against her flushed skin.
“That,” he murmured darkly, possessively, as if sealing something sacred into the space between them, “was mine.”

She was still blinking slowly, breath shallow, chest rising and falling against him. The air between them was hot and close and thick with something she didn’t have words for. Her arms were still wrapped around his shoulders, weak now, unsure. Her legs trembled slightly where they curled around his lap, as if even her bones had forgotten how to hold her. Tom hadn’t moved. He was watching her, his gaze so fixed, so dark it nearly burned. His hands were still on her, holding her close but there was a tension in his grip now, in his shoulders, his breath. His lips were parted slightly. The small brunette shifted faintly.
“Tom…” she breathed, unsure, almost questioning. “Was umm…that normal?” Her cheeks flamed red. His jaw clenched. Normal. Nothing about this was normal. Nothing about her unraveling like that, against his mouth, his hands, just from his attention. From the way he had studied her like scripture and tasted her like a sacrament. Nothing about the way she had whimpered into him like he was the only god she had left. He swallowed hard.
“It was perfect” he said roughly, almost too quickly. She froze. Tom exhaled slowly, like he was steadying something in his chest that wouldn’t hold. His hand slid to the back of her head, fingers sinking into her hair. His forehead pressed to hers, hard, grounding. He couldn’t look at her. Not yet. If he did, he might do something reckless. He might beg her to stay like this, to let him keep touching her, keep watching her fall apart under his hands. He might admit how wrong it felt, how broken, how powerful, that he could do this to her. That she let him. That she wanted it. That this wasn’t even what he’d thought he needed and it still wasn’t enough. His voice came out low and breathless against her skin, like a warning to them both.
“You can’t let me this near, I’m going to ruin you.” Myrtle blinked, lips parted, confused again. Maybe from the words, maybe from the quiet tremble in his tone. But before she could answer, he kissed her again. Not hungrily. Not punishingly. But like she was something he’d already broken and didn’t know how to fix. Her breath was still shaky, caught somewhere between bliss and confusion, her fingers limp in his collar. His lips brushed hers, just once more. Softly, like he couldn’t bear the taste of her and couldn’t bear not to taste her. And then she spoke. Barely audible.
“But I want you to ruin me.”
She meant it. God, she meant it. Her voice was spent, worn thin with exhaustion and surrender, but she looked up at him with something so open, so achingly real, he almost pulled away. He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because if he did, the last strand of self-restraint would snap and he would stay. He would stay, and keep pressing her open until she had nothing left but him. And the terrifying thing wasn’t how easily he could do that, it was how much he wanted to. Instead, he fixed her nightgown, laid down and held her a little longer. Let her fall asleep first. He watched her eyes close, her breath slowing, her chest rising against his. And once her fingers finally slipped from his shirt, he stood. Quietly, efficiently. Rebuttoned the robe she’d undone. Wrapped the blanket around her shoulders. Pressed a final kiss to her forehead that lingered longer than he meant it to.
Then he left. No goodbye. No word. Just the cold silence of the corridor as he vanished back into the shadows of the castle, his thoughts a storm of trembling hands and broken prayers. And the next day? He didn’t look at her. Didn’t speak. And yet her voice followed him anyway. But I want you to ruin me. It played in his skull like a chant.
—

Yet he did ignore her again. As if nothing had happened. As if her body hadn’t trembled beneath his hands. As if he hadn’t kissed her like a man possessed, whispered warnings into her mouth while pressing her to the mattress she now curled into alone. No glances in the corridors. No brushes of fingers in passing. No secret steps beside her in the shadowed hours of the evening. Nothing. He walked past her. With precision. With control. With all the elegance of a boy who’d decided it never mattered. She sat two tables from him in the library that Thursday, her sketchbook limp in her hands. He didn’t look up. She’d passed him by the dungeons on Friday evening, trembling slightly beneath her cloak, unsure if it was the cold or the silence that stung worse. He didn’t stop.
She started to crumble by the third day. He observed her too precisely not to notice. She stopped eating properly. She was zoning out in the classes. She didn’t even cry when someone insulted her. What he didn’t think was that she would do something about it.

“Stop,” she hissed close to him on the second floor after classes. He turned, slowly, his face unreadable. The familiar blank mask. She looked wild, cheeks pink with rage or heartbreak or both, tears already brimming but unshed. She didn’t wait for an invitation. Just pulled him by the wrist into the broken lavatory. “You don’t get to do this,” she said, voice trembling. “You don’t get to— to crawl into my bed in the middle of the night and touch me like that and say those things— and then pretend I don’t exist again.” He said nothing. His eyes were sharp, cool, carefully guarded. But his shoulders were too still, too tight. She stepped closer.
“You told me I was yours,” she said, quieter now. “And then you vanish. Again. Like I’m— like I’m just something you pick up and put down whenever it suits you. Like I don’t feel anything. Like I don’t matter.” His jaw flexed. She waited. Waited. The silence shattered something inside her. “Say something, Tom!” she snapped, tears sliding freely now. Still, he didn’t move. Only a single muscle in his cheek twitched. And then his gaze slid past her. Toward the marble sink. The Chamber she had no clue about was silent and cold behind her. His voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper.
“It was a mistake.”
Warren staggered back like she’d been slapped.
“No,” she breathed. “No, no you don’t do mistakes, don’t— don’t lie to me, please—”
“Stop crying,” he said hoarsely, and the words were sharp with strain, not cruelty.
“What?” she snapped, voice shrill now, raw. “You don’t get to say that. You don’t even care—”
“I do,” he snarled, too quickly. Too bitterly. The confession spat like a curse. He hesitated. His eyes flicked toward the serpent-carved sink again. Cold stone. Cold legacy. Cold future. And then he turned, already leaving, the echo of his footsteps pounding harder than her heartbeat. She stood frozen in place, shaking, the tears now falling freely, unable to understand what hurt more, the touch he’d given or the absence he left. Behind him, beneath his sleeve, the golden flames in his wrists burned like punishment. Like the truth.

Chapter Text

November 1942

The Potions were mostly quiet the next day but for the low bubbling of cauldrons and the scratch of quills on parchment. Professor Slughorn’s voice had already begun to lull, droning through another tangent about bezoars and antidotes, when Warren reached for the pewter cauldron by the edge of the shared shelf. She hadn’t seen Lestrange move behind her. Hadn’t felt him until it was too late. His hand brushed against hers, too sudden, too close and she flinched. The memory surged before thought could stop it. His hand gripping her jaw, the slam of the wall, the glint of his eyes behind a mask she couldn’t forget. Her own blood on the marble floor.
The cauldron slipped from her grasp and clattered sharply onto the desk, the contents, a milky, frothing solution of Asphodel, sloshing up and over the edge and spilling directly onto Lestrange’s fancy robes. The silence that followed cracked like glass. He stared down at himself. Slow. Deliberate. Then up at her.
“You stupid little—” He laughed under his breath, loud enough to draw attention. “Of course. Of course it’d be the mudblood.” Several students looked up. Lestrange took a step forward. “I should’ve known better than to get anywhere near you,” he sneered, voice rising. “Can you even read the recipe without sounding it out? Or are your glasses still not big enough?” Myrtle didn’t move. Her mouth parted slightly, breath catching on something unseen. Her hands were trembling at her sides. She was staring through him. Tom looked up from his own desk. Her posture was wrong. Everything was wrong. Her face was white, paler than usual. Her fingers twitching slightly, the smallest, weakest pulse of panic beneath her skin. Frozen. He recognised it immediately, from the night she bled. But Lestrange didn’t stop. “Or maybe you just thought if you spilled a bit of potion on me I’d whisk you off like some prince from your pathetic, filthy little—” Tom stood. Quietly. Calmly. His eyes met hers.
“Warren.” She didn’t blink. He stepped closer. Voice low, even but commanding. A flicker of iron beneath silk. “Go. Wait outside.” Something in the way he said it broke through. Not harsh. Not kind. But solid. Like it was the only thing that made sense. She turned stiffly like a marionette severed from its strings and walked out without a word. Her shoes barely made a sound on the stone floor. The door clicked behind her. Tom didn’t sit back down. He turned to Lestrange. Slowly. Methodically. Hands folded behind his back. The silence returned. Heavier now, charged like storm air. And Lestrange, still dripping with ruined potion, went suddenly pale.
Tom didn’t have to raise his voice. He never did. He didn’t move for a moment. Just stood there, tall and still, the way shadows hold their breath before something begins. Then he turned, very slowly, until his eyes landed on Lestrange. The boy shifted uneasily, while
Tom tilted his head, voice low and clean.
“We’re operating quietly, not in front of the whole damn class, Icarus.” It wasn’t angry. But it sliced clean as a knife. Lestrange swallowed hard.
“Right. I— sorry.” He cleared his throat. “Didn’t mean to disrupt anything.” A few students blinked, confused, unsure what exactly had passed between them. The tension was still humming just beneath the surface, like something dark and unfinished. Tom nodded once, slowly, as if granting something close to mercy.
“Sit down,” he said, without looking at him again. Then returned to his cauldron with a calm that was far too precise to be natural. Professor Slughorn, who had turned back to his notes at the front, didn’t even seem to notice. When Tom rose smoothly from his place, murmuring something to Slughorn about the lavatory, a phrase so rehearsed it barely registered. Slughorn waved him off with a kind smile. No one questioned it. No one followed. And he didn’t go to the lavatory. He turned toward the corridor outside the classroom, already knowing where she would be. Already feeling that sick, dragging tension like a burning thread beneath his skin, winding tighter the closer he got. His wrist ached and burned. And then he saw her.

Curled into the corner of the hallway, half-hidden between the stone arch and the wall, Warren was folded into herself. Knees drawn up. Shoulders shaking. Fingers fisted against her ribs like she could claw herself out. Her glasses had slipped off, clattering unnoticed to the floor. Her mouth was open but soundless. She wasn’t breathing properly. She was drowning the same way she had that night. Bloodless now but no less broken. Something in Tom’s chest locked. Then shattered. He crossed to her in three long strides. No words at first. Just motion. He knelt, one hand catching her wrist, the other reaching to tuck her hair out of her face. She flinched, violently and he stilled. Waited. Let his voice drop low, barely more than breath.
“It’s me.” Still shaking. He lowered his head, tried again. “Warren. Look at me.” Her wide eyes finally found his, wet and wild and unseeing. She was lost. He took her face in his hands. Firm, not cruel. Grounding. “You’re not alone,” he said, slowly. “You’re not there. You’re here.” Still trembling. Still too quiet. He did the only thing that made sense. He pulled her to him. Pressed her into his chest. Let her fists hit his shoulders once, twice, before they went limp and clutching. Her breath hitched against his collar. He said nothing as he curled himself around her and held her through the panic.
“I’m here,” he whispered. “You’re safe.” He hated how those words tasted in his mouth. But he said them anyway. Because it was her. And she was his. And no one, not Lestrange, not her fear, not even himself was allowed to destroy her like this again.
The sobbing came suddenly. One second she was trembling in his arms, the next she shattered like glass. No grace in it. No restraint. Just her face crumpling against his chest, her breath hitching and then the first cry tore free from her throat. A sound so hollow and broken that even Tom, who had no problem with the idea of murder, felt something inside him recoil. She was sobbing into his robes now, shaking and furious and miserable all at once. His hand stilled against her spine.
“You left me,” she choked, voice splintering. “After everything. You—” She couldn’t breathe. “You left me and I didn’t know if it was something I said or did or—if you hated me too much. You just vanished, Tom. Like it hadn’t meant anything.” He didn’t answer. Just pulled her closer, so close she could barely distinguish his body from the stone behind him. His arms wrapped around her with rigid, trembling precision, like she might dissolve entirely if he let go. He casted Muffliato without lifting his chin from her temple. They were completely hidden now. A corner between two corridors. Forgotten and unseen. A place fit for sins and confessions.
“I waited for you,” she whispered, broken. “And you didn’t come. Not to the Tower. Not even in library. I kept thinking maybe you’d say something, maybe you’d look at me, maybe you’d care. And I can't even tell anyone. Everytime Helen asked me and I wanted to say something, my wrist started to burn impossibly and I couldn't! I just…You—” She hit his chest with her fist. Weakly. “You left.” Still he didn’t speak. And then she added, quieter, cracking open. “I thought maybe I disgusted you. Maybe you hated the way I touched you. And then you came to me in the night and I thought, maybe you just used me to—to—” He made a sound. A guttural, strangled sound in his throat and suddenly, his hand was in her hair again and he was pressing his forehead to the top of her skull like it was the only way he could keep himself from unraveling entirely.
“I’m sorry,” he said. So quiet, she almost missed it. But then he said it again. Louder. And again. And again. “I’m sorry.” Her breath caught. “I’m sorry,” he whispered into her hair, mouth brushing the crown of her head, the edge of his voice tipping out of control. “I didn’t know—I didn’t mean—I thought I could—” His voice failed. “I’m sorry, Warren. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
She didn’t answer. Just held onto him tighter, her face buried against his chest, still sobbing, but softer now. No longer hitting. No longer breaking. And Tom, who had never said sorry to anyone and meant it, said it again. Over and over, like penance.
“I’m sorry.” He didn’t know what on Earth was happening to him. But he knew that he would not let her fall apart alone again. He gripped her arms before he spoke. Not hard. Not cruel. But tight enough that she could feel the heat shaking through him.
“You want to know why I left?” he said, voice quiet but sharp, like something honed to a point. “Because I knew if I didn’t, I’d never be able to stop.” His hands slid down to her wrists, gently. Then one came up, tracing the soft skin of her throat with the backs of his fingers all the way to her jaw. His touch trembled. “I am not supposed to want like this. I am not supposed to feel this much.” He cupped her face now as if her existence offended him and soothed him all at once. “I am supposed to be more than this. Stronger. Sharper. Untouchable. And yet—” He broke off. His thumb brushed her bottom lip. “And yet there is no corner of this castle I can hide in where you don’t find me.” He kissed her. Hard. Desperate. Like he needed her silence to quiet the truth in his own mouth. Then slower. Slower until his lips softened against hers and his forehead dropped to hers. His hand moved down her body now, possessive, open-palmed and slow. To her back. Her waist. Her hips. Drawing her closer. She was trembling, already clinging to him now, pulled into his lap, their knees tangled as he pressed her down against him. Her robes rode up and his hands gripped the fabric of her pants on her thighs, pulled her flush against his body.
“I could spend hours kissing you,” he murmured against her skin, trailing kisses from her lips to her neck, to the hollow of her throat. “And still starve for more. Do you even realise what you’ve done to me?” She was panting now, eyes glassy with overwhelmed longing. He kissed the edge of her jaw, down to the place where her collarbone met the swell of her chest. His mouth hovered there. “I think about this, your skin, your sounds, your shivering, more than I think of glory. More than immortality.” His voice cracked there, quiet and raw. “You’ve infected every part of me. And I can’t undo it.” He lifted his head. Looked at her. “I just needed to try.” Her lips trembled, parted, but nothing came. Just breath. So he kissed her again. Again. Again. This time sweeter. As if he needed her to feel how doomed he was. His lips hovered above hers, breath ghosting across her mouth like something unspoken, until he pulled back just slightly, like the words in him were clawing to escape.
“I’m not able to promise you any future,” he said hoarsely. “Not the kind you should want. Not even something close.” His hand slid to the nape of her neck, holding her there, just barely. “I will ruin you,” he said slowly. “I do want to ruin you.” Her breath caught.
“I already told you I don’t mind,” she whispered, trembling. His eyes burned, sharp and furious and for a second he looked like he might shatter apart from the inside.
“No,” he muttered, shaking his head, thumb pressing just beneath her jaw. “You don’t understand. You won’t be able to take this back. If you let me ruin you Warren, you don’t exist without me anymore. There will be Nothing left that isn’t mine.” The words fell like a curse. A binding one. She didn’t look away.
“I know,” she whispered. And it broke him. Because even though she couldn’t possibly understand what he truly meant, what he was planning, what he would become, she was still saying yes. Still choosing him. Still wanting to belong. He pressed his forehead to hers again, almost shaking.
“I’ll ruin you so exquisitely,” he growled, as he worshipped her skin, “you’ll never even want to be whole again.”

His mouth crushed into hers with the promise. One hand cupped her face, the other sliding down her back to pull her closer until there was no space between them, no air. She shivered, just barely, but it was enough. His hand stilled, eyes narrowing. The memory hit him like a hex. Her, only moments ago, crumpled in the corridor and panicking, her entire body folding inward. His heart slammed once, hard and low. He tore himself from the kiss like it burned him, gripping her shoulders, scanning her face like he was searching for something broken.
“Are you alright?” he asked, voice low but sharp with urgency. His thumb hovered by her cheekbone, not touching now, just waiting, like she might fall apart if he wasn’t careful. She blinked up at him, lips still parted, chest still rising too fast and then smiled, small and dazed, overwhelmed.
“I am,” she whispered. “I am now. Just…please don’t leave me again.” Something in his chest twisted, cruel and protective. Her words crashed into him like grief, like purpose, like obsession. Her devotion was a crown and a curse both. Myrtle turned her head slightly, looking around the alcove where they’d hidden, breath still catching in her throat.
“We probably shouldn’t be here,” she said with a soft, nervous smile, brushing hair from her eyes. “If someone walks past, I—” Her voice trailed off, uncertain. She didn’t want him to let go, that much was clear but she also knew what it meant to be caught. Tom exhaled slowly through his nose, one hand pressed lightly to the curve of her back. His brows furrowed. Logic clawed its way past want. They couldn’t stay here.
“You’re right,” he said quietly, clipped. Then he moved. Quick, fluid, decisive. Before she could blink, he put them both back on their feet. She gasped, surprised, fingers curling into his shoulders as he lifted her by her waist. “But I’m not leaving you now,” he muttered, already moving, already gliding down the corridor like a shadow. She didn’t argue. Her figure tucked into his robes under his arm. She smelled like ink and lily of the valley and something warmer, something his. He didn’t even realise how he missed it.
He didn’t take her to the lavatory. He didn’t take her to the tower. Instead, he moved through a door near the east wing stairwell, to the forgotten trophy storage that he transfigured, the lock long since charmed by his hand to answer only to him. He muttered a spell and the armchair transfigured into a small couch. He guided her to sit down and stepped back only a moment, watching her. She looked up at him with wide eyes and whispered.
“Thank you.” He didn’t answer. Not at first.
“You’re mine to protect. That’s not kindness, Warren. That’s fact. I was wrong for failing in it. I won’t let that happen again.” And he sat down beside her, tugging her into his side. She didn’t ask anything else. She didn’t have to. Tom was beside her, still tense, still brimming with the last remnants of his anger. At the world, at himself, at her, for pulling this out of him. But the moment she curled toward him again, small and trusting, the pressure in his chest shifted. It didn’t vanish, it never vanished, but it softened. Like something being given permission to rest.
Her legs folded up on the couch, her head settling again beneath his collarbone and this time, her arms wrapped around him as if anchoring herself to him. He stared forward for a long while, watching the candlelight flicker on the wall. No words. No demands. Only her breath warming the fabric of his robes. Only the curve of her body pressed alongside his, steady and present and real. One of his hands found her hair. He threaded his fingers through it slowly, untangling a knot he hadn’t noticed until now. She didn’t react much, only made a small noise of contentment, like some fragile thing being tucked into safe corners. He kept his eyes on the shadows. He didn’t kiss her. He didn’t press more touches to her chest or her hips or the edge of her trembling mouth. Not right now. Right now wasn’t for possession. It was for something quieter. She fell asleep like that. Right against him. And he stayed, unmoving, watching the candlelight sway. He didn’t want to sleep. He didn’t want to leave. He only wanted to hold her. Even if he couldn’t understand why.

She woke slowly, like mist rising from the lake, heavy-limbed and warm. For a moment she didn’t know where she was, only the velvet press of his robes beneath her cheek, the slow, steady thrum of his heartbeat under her ear. He was still here. Still holding her. He didn’t leave this time. The room had gone silent save for the whisper of wind against the windows. The candle had burned low, its flame flickering faint and golden, casting thin patterns over his face. He had drifted half into sleep, eyes closed, brow unfurrowed, mouth slack in the faintest way as if the weight he always carried had, just for once, loosened. She studied him like she rarely could. Without his sharpness. Without so many walls. He looked young. God, he was young. They both were. But the world had already made him ancient inside. Her hand found his collarbone. Her breath caught. And then, gently, almost as if testing something, she leaned forward and kissed him. First on the cheek. A whisper. Then the edge of his jaw. Then the corner of his mouth, lingering there, soft and reverent. He didn’t stir. Not yet. Her lips brushed lower to the underside of his jaw, then his throat. His breathing shifted.
“Kissing me in my sleep, Warren?” His voice was gravel and silk. “Are you trying to wake me,” he murmured hoarsely, voice rumbling like cracked thunder, “or kill me?” Myrtle froze slightly but only for a second. The dark still wrapped around them like a cocoon, and something inside her pulsed with boldness she rarely allowed herself.
“You weren’t really asleep.”
“Mm, I was at peace. Which is much more dangerous.” She smiled. Crooked and nervous, but there.
“And now?” Tom didn’t answer at first. Only reached up, one long hand curling around her wrist as if to still her or guide her. His thumb brushed her pulse. And then, low and slow, he whispered.
“Now I’m not sure how much of a gentleman I can be.” She kissed him once more, deeper this time and he let her. He let her do what she wanted, because in this moment, in this rare pause between their chaos, he didn’t feel haunted by the need. He felt worshipped. And that, more than anything else, was what made him feel powerful. Her kisses deepened. Gained weight. Her hand pressed to his chest now, fingers splaying as if to feel the rhythm of him from the inside out, as if she were learning him anew. His breath hitched when her lips returned to his neck, softer now. She shifted next to him and his hands found her hips without thought. He pulled her onto his lap once again. She fit. She always did. He kissed her fiercely this time, no softness left. All the restraint of the past days fractured under the weight of her in his arms, her lips on his skin, the memory of her sobbing into his robes and the way she had said “don’t leave me again.” He kissed her like he was erasing everything that had kept him away. He shifted her more fully onto him, robes rumpled, the candlelight catching her pale skin. She let him lose her robes. His hands skimmed her thighs, then her waist, memorising her shape like he was convincing himself she was real again. Her breath was shallow now. Audible and gasping. He pressed kisses along her throat, then lower. He didn’t rush. He wanted to feel every shiver, every pulse of her breath. He started undoing her shirt and finally reached her chest. He kissed across the bare skin and her back arched into him like instinct.
“Tom—” she breathed, helpless. He gritted his teeth. Every part of him was yearning.
“Should I stop?” She shook her head quickly. He caressed her slowly, so slowly like he meant to undo her with only his hands. Then he moved his mouth on her collarbone and his hand circled her breast. It broke him. The sight. The sounds she made. The knowledge that she only ever gave this to him. He pulled her closer, as if he could drown in her. As if he wanted to.
“I want…need—” he began and couldn’t finish. The words tore out of him like something half-formed, like a secret clawing to be spoken, but still too wild for language. And Myrtle, wide-eyed and flushed, trembling in the candlelight, only kissed him softly. No hesitation. No fear. Just her, surrendering to him, again. Tom exhaled shakily, like her permission had broken something inside him. Like it made everything worse and somehow better. He gripped her hips, his fingers curling over the bone and guided her. Slowly. Pressing her down to where he ached beneath her, letting her feel all of it.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmured. His voice was strained, gravel-rough. “You need to tell me to stop.” She gasped as the pressure aligned, soft and helpless sound that made his control splinter again. He guided her hips in a rhythm that made his head fall back against the couch. Subtle friction through their layers of clothes, enough to make her shiver, enough to make him tremble. The trust in her was unbearable. The way she gave herself over to him as if he would know what she needed even when she didn’t. His grip tightened. “Look at me.”
She opened her eyes immediately. The moment they met his gaze, he surged forward and kissed her again. Rough, needy, desperate. Their mouths moved like a fight and a plea all at once. He pulled her flush against him, one hand sliding up her back beneath the fabric of her shirt, the other guiding her hips as she rocked against him, clumsy and overwhelmed. And she was falling. He could feel it. Her breaths quickening, her fingers clutching at his shoulders like she might drown if she let go. He kissed the edge of her jaw, then the shell of her ear, whispering.
“You have no idea what you’re doing to me.” She whimpered in response, collapsing forward until her forehead pressed to his shoulder, trembling. He held her through it. Didn’t let her stop. And when she cried out softly into his neck, her body seizing with the quietest, most devastating release, he pressed a kiss to her temple like it was worship. Like it was ruin. She clung to him after, boneless and wrecked, still straddling him, both of them breathing like they’d been chased. Tom was shaking. He buried his face in her shoulder and let his hands roam her spine, grounding himself with the weight of her. The way she felt. The way she trusted. She didn’t say anything. Neither did he. There was nothing left in him to say. She was still trembling, lips parted with the ghost of a breath that carried his name. Her uniform was wrinkled between them, his hands hadn’t stopped moving, hadn’t wanted to. Her skin was warm, flushed from the high she’d crashed down from and Tom held her close, panting softly against her throat like he’d just surfaced from drowning. He stared straight ahead, but he didn’t see the stone wall. All he could feel was her. Still gasping faintly, she buried her face in his shoulder, her small hands clinging to the open front of his shirt. Her breath tickled his collarbone. Her knees were still planted on either side of his hips, and her body, flushed and soft and obedient, was still pressed against the hardness that had been torturing him for far too long.
It wasn’t supposed to go like this. He was supposed to stay in control. Let her fall apart, not himself. But she shifted in his lap slightly, murmuring something sweet, something only half-coherent and it was over. His breath hitched. He let out a hiss between clenched teeth and his fingers clenched hard at her hips, guiding her down with the slightest tilt. His forehead dropped against her neck, and he gave in. He let it happen. Let himself have it. Let the unbearable heat break loose and take. A low, strangled sound caught in his throat, half curse, half moan, as he finally let himself fall over the edge. He buried it in her shoulder, biting down gently to muffle the sound. His entire body tensed and Warren, already breathless and dazed, clung tighter to him, feeling the tremor ripple through his frame like something barely containable. Then silence. Shaking slightly, Tom pressed a long breath through his nose and clenched his eyes shut. He hadn’t meant to, he hadn’t planned this. But it didn’t matter anymore. He held her to him like a treasure, one hand sliding slowly up her spine, the other still firm on her hip, grounding himself even as his chest heaved. He didn’t speak. He just sat there, letting the aftershocks pulse through his limbs, her body still wrapped around his like she belonged there. After a minute, maybe two, he shifted. One sharp breath. One spell.
“Scourgify.” He whispered it roughly, brushing his wand quickly over them without comment. Myrtle stirred at the sensation but didn’t question it. She was still tucked into his chest, her lashes fluttering with exhaustion. Tom didn’t look at her. He couldn’t. If he did, he’d have to face what just happened, how she broke him. How he let her. How this was becoming a pattern he couldn’t master properly. And how, worst of all, he didn’t want to stop.

The couch creaked beneath them, no longer enough to hold what they were now. Tom shifted beneath her slowly, his hand still curved around her back, the other sliding down to his wand. He muttered a charm under his breath and the high-backed armchair melted beneath them, groaning slightly as its legs curled in, stretching and flattening into something long and low and steady. A narrow bed, soft enough to cradle her against him, solid enough to keep them pressed close. Myrtle lifted her head faintly. Her hair was a mess against his chest, cheeks pink, eyes dreamy and glassy from what had just happened. She blinked up at him, lips parted to speak, but he only brushed her hair back with two fingers and shook his head slightly.
“Sleep,” he said quietly, and even he was surprised by the gentleness in his own voice. “I’m not leaving tonight.” She didn’t argue. She just curled into him again, her legs tangling with his as she sighed into the hollow of his throat.
“You’re very good at transfiguration,” she whispered with a tired smile. And Tom held her closer, almost too tightly. One more soft flick of his wand drew the candle lower, dimmed to a flicker. She was already half-asleep when he spoke again, his voice nearly inaudible in the dark.
“I won’t ever give you away now.” And he didn’t know if she heard it but maybe it was better if she didn’t. Because he meant it in all the wrong ways. She nestled into him with a soft, sleepy sound, one hand curled beneath her chin like a child. Her breath warmed the hollow of his collarbone, steady and trusting, as if nothing in her world could ever turn against her while she was held like this. Tom stared down at her for a long time. It was unbearable, the way she fit against him. Too real. Too human. And yet precious. That was the word that clung, uninvited, to the edges of his thoughts. He didn’t want it. Didn’t want anything soft. But there she was. Warm, fragile, wrecked and ruined by him already, and still she clung to him like he was safety, not danger. He held her closer. Something gnawed beneath his ribs. Not love. Tom didn’t think he could ever feel something like Love. But something sharp and dangerous all the same. A tether he hadn’t wanted, binding him to her in this awful, quiet, blissful moment. She shifted once, pressing her cheek more fully against him, sighing in her sleep and he exhaled slowly.
He didn’t mean to let his eyes slip shut. Just for a moment, he told himself. Just until the tightness in his chest eased. But she was warm and close and real and her presence had the same effect it always did, calming him in a way he didn’t understand. The last thing he remembered was the feel of her breath on his skin and the strange, terrifying peace that came with it. And then Tom Riddle fell asleep.
—

The morning came gently. Light filtered in through the high, narrow windows, brushing across the transfigured bed with the hush of something sacred. Dust floated in the air like snow. The candle had long since burned low, leaving only the echo of its glow across the stone floor. Tom stirred first, though not sharply, not in that cold, coiled way he usually woke. His mind rose slowly to the surface, tangled in warmth and shadows and skin. She was curled against his chest. Still asleep. Her leg draped over his thigh, her fingers curled in the fabric of his open shirt. Her hair was a mess of brown strands against his arm. For a moment, he didn’t move.
His hand drifted up her back in silence. She looked younger when she slept. Less sad, less haunted. Just a girl. And yet the feel of her from the night before, so real, so close, so entirely his, still clung to his fingertips. Her quiet whimpers, the way she’d whispered his name like a sin and a promise. He hadn’t meant to let it go so far. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. But now she was here. Still here. He could smell the warmth of her skin. The ghost of her perfume clung to him. Warren stirred faintly, then blinked against the light, lashes fluttering. She looked up at him. Her voice was hoarse with sleep.
“We’ll get in trouble like this...”
“It’s Saturday.”
“…Still.”
He reached up and brushed a piece of hair from her forehead, then let his fingers linger at her temple. Her fingers slid down his chest lightly, not even thinking about it. He felt it like fire. But he didn’t stop her. He didn’t move at all.
“Can we stay here just a bit longer then?” she whispered with hope. His fingers tightened slightly in her hair.
“Well now you’re pushing your luck,” he murmured and closed his eyes strangely relaxed. That made her blush. She smiled into his skin, soft and stunned and he hated how much he liked the feel of it. For once, there was no immediate need to vanish. No ticking clock in his mind, no script to follow. Just her, her heartbeat slow beneath his palm, and the light spilling across the floor. It was terrifying, this quiet. And he didn’t want to leave it yet. He only looked at her and something in his expression shifted. The line of his mouth, the weight in his eyes. He’d woken in silence, in stillness, but now that he had her, now that her eyes were open and her breath touched his chest he couldn’t hold back. He tilted her face up with two fingers beneath her chin and kissed her. Slow at first, then deeper, longer, until her fingers curled instinctively against the fabric of his shirt. His other hand found her waist, dragging her closer again like she might somehow slip away. She gasped softly, already breathless, and murmured against his lips.
“Tom— It’s morning. I probably look terrible—” He didn’t stop. He kissed her jaw then the hollow just beneath her ear.
“Don’t care.”
“Really, I—”
“I don’t care,” he repeated, more roughly this time, between kisses. His hands slid to the hem of her shirt, fingertips grazing her ribs like he needed to feel that she was still his.
“You could be half-dead and I’d still—” A kiss to her collarbone, “—want you like this.” Her face flushed.
“But—”
“Shut up, Warren.” The words were not cruel. They were almost worshipful. Pleading. “You don’t understand—” Her breath caught as he unbuttoned the rest of her shirt and took it off. She tried to cover herself on instinct, but he caught her wrists, gently but firmly, and kissed the inside of one. “Anything. You don’t understand anything,” he said, voice rough, like he’d been starved and was finally being allowed to eat. “You don’t know what it’s been like.” And then he was kissing her again, her neck, her chest, her stomach. Reverent. Desperate. Slow, but not soft. Not anymore. He laid her back against the warm, rumpled sheets and leaned over her, dragging his hand up her thigh over the fabric of her trousers.
“You think I’ve slept since that night?” he muttered into her skin. “I couldn’t even breathe without you.” She whimpered, not from pain, but from how intense it all was and it only fed him. He kissed her harder as if to undo all the days he hadn’t touched her. As if making up for the ache in his chest that still hadn’t faded.
“I won’t leave you,” he whispered and she nodded, already lost beneath him. Tom didn’t waste another second. Something in him shattered or perhaps it was something that finally snapped free. “I won’t,” he kissed her like he’d been drowning, like the days without her had been some half-life he’d clawed through in silence. “I won’t,” his hands moved over her with a purpose that was nearly violent in its desperation, not to hurt, never to hurt, but to know, to feel, to make sure this was real. That she was here and warm and breathless beneath him. He rolled his hips once against her, slow and heavy and she gasped aloud. That sound, gods, that sound unmade him.
“Again,” he growled, barely a whisper. “Do that again.” He bucked his hips against hers, firm and possessive. She moved tentatively but her body was learning him, responding to him like instinct, like need. And he was barely holding on. His lips dragged down her chest, his tongue flicking over her bra before taking it into his mouth, sucking in through the fabric. Her back arched, her fingers flying to his hair, and he groaned low in his throat.
“Tom—” Her voice was wrecked already, pleading and undone. “Please— I don’t know what—”
“It’s okay.” His voice was hoarse, ruined. She gasped as he switched to her other breast, lavishing it with equal attention, kissing and sucking and stroking until her thighs trembled against him. She was too sensitive, too responsive and he wasn’t going to stop. Not until she fell apart for him again. He pulled her flush against him, her chest pressed to his half-unbuttoned shirt and ground up into her again. She whimpered, forehead falling to his shoulder.
“It’s okay, just let go,” he whispered, one hand sliding down between them, caressing her lower stomach. It was too much. Too much of his voice, too much of his touch. And she was already so close from the way he worshipped her, his lips, his hands, his breath on her skin. Then she cried out, a soft, choked sound of release as her body shattered in his arms, trembling violently, clutching at him like she’d disappear otherwise. He buried his face in her neck muttering words like ‘mine’ and ‘ethereal’ against her skin. For a moment, they stayed like that, locked in the mess of it all and he didn’t move away. He just held her. And in his silence, in the wild thud of his heart, he thought about how utterly ruined he already was. How none of it would ever be enough.
She shifted slightly, still trembling with the aftershocks, her head tucked beneath his chin. His fingers idly stroked her spine beneath the shirt she hadn’t quite managed to button again, tracing the dip and rise of each vertebra like he was still memorizing her body. Her voice came so quietly he almost didn’t catch it.

“Isn’t this…” she paused, fingers curling lightly into his chest, “…isn’t this wrong?” He didn’t move. She tilted her head to look up at him, cheeks flushed from the intimacy, eyes still dazed. “I mean… really inappropriate? Do people even… do this before they wed?” Tom inhaled slowly, closing his eyes for a second. It was so Her. Only she would let him wreck her completely, fall apart in his arms with her skin still tingling under his mouth and then blink up at him, blinking back to the world like a girl with her soul still half in storybooks. He could have lied. He was good at that. But something in her tone, the soft confusion, the honesty made lying feel more dangerous than the truth.
“Yes,” he said eventually, voice low against her hair. “They do.” Her brows pinched.
“But I— I thought they weren’t supposed to.” He chuckled then, not cruelly, just quietly and low. A tired, almost fond sound.
“There’s a great many things people do that they aren’t supposed to, my dear.” Her lips parted, brow furrowing deeper.
“But if we’re not— if this isn’t— I mean, are you supposed to touch someone like that if you don’t—?”
“Don’t what?” he murmured. His hand stilled on her back. She didn’t answer immediately.
“If you’re not going to keep them.” Tom’s eyes opened. Keep. As if she was something to be folded and treasured and hidden away. Something that might be discarded or stored in a drawer and yet, the way she said it, the way she looked up at him. He could barely stand it. He knew he wronged her. So he leaned in, pressed his lips to the corner of her mouth, then her jaw. Not hungry this time, not punishing. Just slow, almost gentle.
“I already told you,” he whispered. “I won’t leave you.” She swallowed, her voice even smaller.
“Even if it’s wrong?” Tom exhaled through his nose, amused.
“Especially because it’s wrong,” a smug smirk appeared on his face, dark yet somewhat affectionate. He didn’t tell her the truth, that nothing about this fit into the world they’d been raised in. That she wasn’t supposed to be in this bed, or in his arms, or in his life at all. That he had never intended to let anyone this close. He watched her as she settled against him again, lashes brushing the tops of her cheeks like something too delicate for the world. And yet he had touched her, claimed her, devoured her. She still bore the marks of his mouth. The memory of her falling apart in his arms burned into his skin, into his blood, and yet she still looked at him like he was something good. Tom closed his eyes.
He had left her. For days, the days she still hadn’t stopped mourning, he had left. He’d walked away and buried himself in his cold silence because it was easier than needing her the way he did. But now he saw it. Every tremble in her hands, every flinch when he was distant, every hesitation in her voice when she asked if he was going to keep her as if she’d already prepared herself for being abandoned again. He hated it. Not just because it made him feel like a failure, but because it reminded him that her faith in him could still break. He couldn’t allow that. He couldn’t afford to. And he also couldn’t stop. Not from holding her like this, or kissing her again, or remembering the soft sound she made when he first mouthed at her chest. Not from tracing the shape of her ribs with his palms as if memorising her structure would root him. There was something terribly, sinfully addictive in this. Something he hadn’t planned for, hadn’t wanted, and now couldn’t escape. Wanting Myrtle Warren wasn’t like anything else. It didn’t make him weaker the way he had feared. No, it made him dangerous. Because this wasn’t love. Not for him. It was an obsession. It was possession. It was power made soft, quiet, breath-warm against his throat. The most intimate kind of domination. Her trusting him like this, submitting not because she had to, but because she wanted to. She let him destroy her gently. She wanted to be ruined and that gave him a kind of control he had never known he craved. She was soft and awkward and sensitive, but beneath all that, she had given herself to him utterly and Merlin help him, he didn’t want to give her back. He had never wanted to keep anything like this before. And here she was, in his arms. Breathing against him like she belonged. And he realised, with a sudden, steady horror, that no matter what came next, he wouldn’t leave again. Not just because it would break her. But because it would break him.
—

It was his stomach that made her look at him again. Her smile was soft, a little sleepy, but undeniably real.
“You’re hungry,” she murmured, almost amused, at the low, traitorous growl. Tom scowled at the sound as if he could silence it with sheer will.
“Are you surprised?” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “I haven’t eaten since yesterday afternoon’s classes.” Her expression shifted, concern blooming where amusement had been and she tucked her chin into his chest, guilt already creeping into her voice.
“I’m sorry. That’s my fault…” He tensed. That word again. Sorry. Always so quick to carry the blame, even when he deserved it.
“Don’t apologise,” he said sharply, then softened just enough to glance down at her, brushing a lock of hair from her cheek. His voice lowered, more thoughtful, brows furrowed. “I’m fine. You, on the other hand, haven’t eaten properly the last few days.” She blinked up at him, slightly startled. He studied her. The slight hollowness beneath her eyes, the way her limbs had felt just a little too light as she curled into him. The ache in her that had nothing to do with last night. His stomach might have been the one growling, but he knew she hadn’t been eating. Not since he pulled away. He realised it then, and it burned. His withdrawal, his silence, the way he’d tried to bury her under ambition and pride meant much more. Even if she tried to laugh or kiss it away. It was more than he wanted to admit. He didn’t say any of that. Instead, he pressed his mouth to her forehead, lingered there, and muttered quietly against her skin.
“We’ll fix that. I will.” His hand slid down her back, hugging her tight. “I will make it right.”

He helped her dress. It was slower than necessary, his hands finding too much fascination in every button, every hem, the way the collar of her blouse settled gently along her collarbone. The small girl shifted under his attention, eyes downcast but her lips parted. Half in breath, half in question. He didn’t speak. Didn’t have to. His fingers ghosted over the fabric with a kind of reverence that should have terrified her, but didn’t. Each movement was deliberate, as if he were redressing something sacred. His mouth brushed her temple, just once. He hadn’t kissed her lips this time, like he was pacing himself now. Savouring, not devouring. Before they left, Tom stood at the door and murmured a series of charms with his wand, sealing the transformed room tightly behind them. No trace of what had happened. No open invitation. No welcome. Only memory and that too, belonged solely to them.
The castle was still a bit asleep, echoing softly with the quiet hush of a Saturday November morning. Light filtered in from the high windows, hazy and gold, catching on the edges of suits of armor and ghostly figures drifting lazily through walls. Tom kept her close. One hand hovered behind her back, not quite touching her but always near. She followed him without question, her steps quick and quiet beside his. When a group of early Ravenclaws passed by on the far end of the corridor, Tom pulled her into the nearest alcove until the footsteps faded. Myrtle clung to his sleeve, heart fluttering. He only smirked faintly, like the thrill of sneaking through shadows pleased him more than it should. He waited until it was safe again.
“Come on,” he whispered before taking her hand this time. Just for a moment. Just until they reached the kitchen corridor. The painting of the fruit bowl squirmed in place as he reached out and tickled the pear. It giggled, turned into a brass handle, and the door creaked open to the warm, yeasty air of the kitchens. Inside, a few house-elves stirred already, blinking up at them in surprise and hurried politeness. Tom said nothing. Only glanced down at Myrtle with an unreadable look and led her toward the nearest small table, wordless and determined.
He watched her too closely. Not in the way that made her blush, not like the night before, not like this morning. This was different. She held the warm toast in her hands, hesitating just slightly before taking another bite and from the corner of her eye she saw the way Tom’s gaze followed every movement. Not hungrily, not possessively. Assessing. Calculating. As if she were a puzzle with too many fragile pieces and he was trying to solve her without breaking anything further. She chewed, swallowed, then raised her brows at him faintly.
“You’re staring.” Tom didn’t blink.
“You’re still not eating enough.” She gave a small shrug.
“I’m not very hungry.”
“That’s not the point,” he said quietly, coolly. “You’re going to eat.”
“I am eating,” she argued, lifting the toast slightly as evidence.
“Three bites,” he said, dry. “I’ve been counting.” She flushed. There was a pause. The house-elves were bustling around softly behind them, bringing pastries, jam and fruit. Myrtle looked down at her plate again, eyes stinging slightly at the tone in his voice. Not cruel, just edged with something she couldn’t name. Like concern, if he ever let himself say such a thing. Tom leaned closer, resting an arm on the table, his voice low.
“Don’t make me feed you myself.” That made her laugh softly.
“You wouldn’t.” He tilted his head, slow and amused.
“Wouldn’t I?” She stared at him, then took another deliberate bite of toast, cheeks warm.
Tom’s eyes didn’t leave her. “Good girl.” Myrtle almost choked at that. Her fingers twitched against the porcelain plate. He smirked slightly then, just enough to make her squirm again. “Finish the fruit,” he added calmly. “You haven’t touched it.”
“Are you always going to be like this now?” she muttered, but her fork was already reaching for a slice of apple.
“Yes,” he said. “Especially when I’m the reason you haven’t eaten properly in days.” A beat. “I’m fixing it. Don’t argue with that.” She didn’t. Not when he looked at her like that. Half-murderous, half-miraculously soft. Not when it sounded too much like affection in his own twisted, possessive language.

He leaned back slightly, fork forgotten beside his plate as he watched her finish the last piece of orange under his strict supervision. For a long moment, he was silent. Long enough that she looked up, uncertain if she’d done something wrong. But his expression was unreadable, his jaw tight, brows slightly furrowed as if he was thinking hard about something. Then his voice broke the quiet.
“What would you like to do today?” The question hung in the air, strange and unfamiliar. Myrtle blinked.
“What?”
“I said,” he repeated, more slowly now, as though testing the words, “what would you like to do today?” She looked stunned. Her mouth opened, then closed again.
“I—don’t you have to study or—do something?” She fidgeted. “You have your dorms. The Knights. Or books. Or—”
“I didn’t ask what I had to do.” She looked down shyly.
“It’s just… I’m not used to anyone asking what I want.” Tom’s eyes sharpened. His voice was low, but steady.
“Okay. Well, you once liked it by the lake,” he said, quieter now. “So if you’d like to go on a walk again, we can do that.” She was still too surprised to answer. Her eyes were wide, blinking up at him like he’d offered her something impossible. It made his chest tighten with a quiet kind of rage at himself, at the world, at how someone like her could be so unused to softness. And then, after a moment more of hesitation, he added, his tone almost awkward, like he wasn’t sure if it was the right thing to say. “I don’t have to study. We can do that later,” he cleared his throat slightly, glancing off. “I…could use a fresh air as well,” he hesitated, trying not to sound stupid. Her eyes widened with something close to joy. He gave the faintest shrug, gaze flickering away. For a moment, she didn’t speak. And for once, he hated the silence. Not because it unsettled him, but because he didn’t know if he’d gone too far or not far enough. But then she finally smiled. Soft, bewildered and touched in the way only she could be.
“I would, I’d like that very much” she said quietly. And he nodded once, firmly, as if sealing a pact. Not because he was trying to be sweet. But because it was the only thing he could give her in return for the way she’d handed him her whole self.
—

The castle halls were quieter on Saturday mornings, but Tom remained alert as they slipped out of the kitchens. Their path forked in shadow and Myrtle hesitated, already clutching at the ends of her sleeves like a shield. She looked down at herself, her rumpled uniform, clearly aware of how long it had been since either of them had changed from the day before. He stopped at the corridor split and turned to her.
“Go change,” he said quietly. “You’ll be cold.” She looked up at him, eyes flickering as if trying to read his mood.
“Will you—?”
“I’ll meet you by the greenhouses.” She nodded slowly, almost like she didn’t quite believe it. And then she left, careful and quiet, like if she moved too fast the whole night would crumble into nothing.

The November air bit at the edges of the courtyard, wind cutting between the stone walls like knives. The Ravenclaw girl appeared after several minutes, wrapped in her navy coat, hair tangled into two braids and cheeks already reddened from the cold. She walked with hesitant steps, her eyes flicking around, searching for him. Because some part of her still thought he wouldn’t be there. Yesterday's night dissolving into daylight…that was how it worked, wasn’t it? Passion turned ghostlike in the morning. Dreams melting into thin air. But then she saw him. Standing by the stone archway near the greenhouses, his figure still and upright like he belonged to the morning chill. Waiting. The breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding left her in a soft, quiet sigh. She moved toward him, but as she reached him, he gave a soft, irritated noise through his nose and reached forward before she could speak. Without a word, he unraveled the Slytherin scarf from around his own neck and wrapped it tightly around hers, tucking the ends, hiding her chin beneath the thick green wool.
“You’ll freeze,” he muttered. “You always forget something.”
“It’s not that cold,” she started, smiling a little.
“I don’t like when you argue,” he said, but his hands lingered for a second longer than necessary, brushing her cheeks as he adjusted the scarf. It wasn’t tenderness. Not exactly. But it wasn’t far off. It was control dressed as care. Or maybe care dressed as control. He wasn’t sure anymore. She didn’t speak. She just let him do it, staring at his face as he concentrated. He led them through the paths that curved away from the castle. They kept to the edges of view, eyes wary for prefects and professors. But no one stopped them. No one even looked twice.
And for a little while, they weren’t a secret and a sin. Not a mudblood girl and a future tyrant. Just… Almost. Almost like a boy taking a girl out. Almost what they could’ve been in a different world. If the war inside him didn’t exist. If her name wasn’t always whispered behind her back. If everything wasn’t broken before it even began. Almost.

The walk to the Black Lake was hushed, the world caught in that in-between stillness of late November. Not yet snow, but far from warmth. Leaves crunched softly underfoot, most of the trees now bare and brittle, casting long, skeleton-like shadows in the grey light. The lake rippled under a biting wind, black and endless, like it swallowed the sky. Myrtle walked beside him, her breath misting in soft clouds. Her boots left small, careful tracks in the frost-rimmed path and every so often, her frame gave the smallest of trembles. Tom didn’t speak when it happened, didn’t scold, didn’t even glance. He simply flicked his wand downward with a soft mutter under his breath. A heating charm. Subtle and precise. It clung to her like invisible silk, a warmth she couldn’t see but felt almost immediately.
She stole glances at his hand as they walked. Long, pale fingers barely brushing against the edge of her coat. She didn’t know whether she was allowed to take it. Whether she could. Her hesitation was delicate but obvious. And for a second, Tom did nothing. Then, casually, almost dismissively, he glanced around. No one. The castle was behind them now and the lake was silent. Without speaking, he reached over and took her hand in his. No theatrics. No announcement. Just his hand curling around hers like it had always belonged there. Possessive. Steady. Undeniable. Myrtle nearly stumbled from the jolt in her chest. He didn’t look at her. He just kept walking, his thumb brushing once across her knuckles like a silent order to breathe. And she did.

They stopped by the lake, just where the frost had begun to settle on the stones near the edge. A breeze swept through, pulling at Myrtle’s coat, tangling strands of her hair across her glasses. She didn’t brush them away. She was looking at him, quiet and searching, her eyes holding something tentative and brave all at once. Tom turned toward her slowly, brows lifting just slightly.
“What?” he asked, voice low, unreadable. She hesitated. Then barely above the whisper of the wind she murmured.
“Can I… kiss you?”
For a moment, he didn’t speak. Just looked at her. And she thought maybe she’d asked wrong. That maybe the question itself was offensive, too much, too childish. But then without a word, his arm reached out, curling around her waist in a single motion and pulled her into him with such certainty it made her breath catch. She stumbled forward into his coat, into him. He looked down at her. Flushed cheeks, tiny freckles all the way to the corners of her mouth, the way her eyes blinked too much when she was nervous, as she was now.
“You ask so sweetly,” he murmured, almost darkly amused. “And look so frightened.” She flushed deeper, opening her mouth to explain but he didn’t let her. He leaned down slowly, not to tease, but to watch her tremble. To feel her anticipation like static between them. Her breath hitched just before their lips met and he felt it. He kissed her whole, with a deliberate slowness that was anything but gentle. It was dark and deep, his fingers pressing into her waist through the coat. She melted, barely keeping upright, her hands fisting in his coat. Her feet didn’t even quite touch the ground anymore.
—

The greenhouse roof creaked softly beneath their weight, warmed from below by the tropical heat of magical flora and from above by the lazy strokes of the November sun, still thin and cold through the clouds. Tom had cast enough charms to keep the glass from cracking, but it still groaned occasionally, like it remembered it was never meant to hold them. Myrtle sat in the bend of the glass slope, back to the cold wind, sketchbook open across her knees. Her hair was braided loosely and one had come undone at the end. Tom reached over lazily and toyed with it, fingers tracing the twist before curling the unraveled tip around his knuckle. He wasn’t even aware he was doing it. He just liked the feeling. Liked her better like this, when she didn’t know she was being watched. When she was too absorbed in her drawing to think of how he might be studying the curve of her neck, the little furrow between her brows, the soft parting of her lips as she focused. She shifted a little, leaned into the warmth of his side. Then her charcoal stilled.
“That’s odd…” she murmured, squinting. Tom followed her gaze. Down in the courtyard between Greenhouses Two and Four, a large figure hunched low, clearly trying, and failing, to move with stealth. He was stuffing something into his coat. “That boy,” Myrtle said, tilting her head. “Do you know who that is?” Tom shook his head without hesitation. Rubeus Hagrid. Gryffindor third-year. Half-giant. Known to lurk near the dungeons lately. Tom’s eyes narrowed slightly. His voice came out even.
“Probably no one important.” Myrtle let out a soft laugh.
“Well, he looks like he’s about to smuggle a baby dragon. Tom said nothing and just brushed the braid over her shoulder. He didn’t want her curious. She turned back to her page in acknowledgment of the silence, but he could feel the spark of her questions under the quiet. He rose slowly, brushing imaginary dust from his trousers.
“I have to go.” Warren looked up quickly, the sadness in her brown eyes immediate, charcoal still in her hand.
“Oh…of course, I’ll—” He looked at her. The late light caught her glasses, the smudge of charcoal on her freckled nose. Something caught in his chest, sharp and unwanted. He leaned down, the edge of his coat sweeping around her as he bent close.
“Meet me after dinner,” he said, voice low enough to be only hers. “Fifth floor. I’ll find you.” Then before disappearing, he pressed a kiss to the crown of her head, quick, grounding and reassuring. “Don’t forget lunch,” he muttered into her hair, leaving the rooftop air thick with spells, secrets, and the quiet tension of a girl who would wait forever if he asked.
—

The shift came swiftly, as it always did. She had looked up at him with such unfiltered ease that it had almost undone him. Almost. But Tom Riddle was not a boy made to bask in warmth for long. As he descended the steps back into the castle, the cold stone corridors greeted him like a homecoming. The affection burned off like fog in sunlight. His gait straightened. His expression sharpened. The softness fell from his face, replaced by something harder, cleaner, infinitely more precise. He was the Heir of Slytherin again. And someone was sneaking into his dungeons. Now, all that remained of the boy on the rooftop was the faint scent of charcoal and girl’s perfume on his sleeve.
The dungeons were cold, the air damp and thick with the lingering smell of stone. Tom moved like a shadow through the corridor, each step calculated, silent. The quiet was broken only by the soft drag of something being shifted just ahead. Rustling fabric, the clink of metal, a breath too loud. An intruder.

The boy was large for his age, all limbs and clumsy strength, trying desperately to sneak something into a side passage near the old storerooms. His back was to Tom. That was his first mistake.
“Hagrid.” The name cut through the silence like a spell. The third-year froze. His head jerked up, hair falling over his wide eyes.
“Sir?” he stammered. Tom emerged from the shadows, arms folded behind his back, robes undisturbed despite the draft that followed him in like smoke. Hagrid was taller than him already but the Slytherin prince didn’t mind. Power wasn’t in the height, not for a long time by now.
“No. Not quite.” He stepped closer. “But I am a Prefect and you…seem to be well past where you’re supposed to be.” Hagrid tried to edge the sack of something further behind him with one foot.
“I… I wasn't doin’ nothin’. Just cleanin’ up, is all.” Tom tilted his head.
“In the dungeons. On Saturday. With contraband in a bag you clearly don’t want anyone to see?”
“It’s not contraband,” Hagrid said too quickly. “It’s just… just scraps.”
“For what?”
“Me cat?” Hagrid floundered.
“You don’t have a cat.” There was a pause, long enough for the tension to stretch unbearably thin. Tom took another step forward. His voice lowered. “Shall I search it? Or would you prefer to explain now?” Hagrid’s face flushed red with panic.
“Please don’t tell on me,” he blurted, eyes wide, terrified. “It’s not hurtin’ no one, honest—”
“It?” Tom repeated softly. His gaze dropped to the bag and back again. “Hagrid…” He smiled, thin and joyless. “What are you feeding?” Silence. Tom’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t press further. Not yet. Instead, he stepped even closer, invading the younger boy’s space. “I don’t have to report this,” he said. “Not if you give me the truth. But if you lie again…” He let the sentence hang there. The implication burned between them. Hagrid swallowed.
“I can’t. He’s…he’s harmless, really. He’s just a baby.” Tom blinked once. Something coiled in his chest. A baby. He. Then the older boy smiled again, more softly this time, all calculated reassurance.
“I see. Well, Hagrid… secrets in this castle are dangerous things. And feeding them only makes them harder to contain.” He paused, then leaned in a little closer. “You’re not in trouble yet. But I’m watching.” And with that, he turned. Not another word. Not a glance back. Because he didn’t need to, not yet. He already had enough for now.
—

When Tom entered the Slytherin common room, it simmered in a dusky green hush, the lake casting wavering light through its high windows like underwater fire. He stepped in soundlessly, cloak drawn tight. The quiet that had held the room broke immediately at his entrance.
“The royalty returns,” Malfoy smirked, straightening from where he lounged near the hearth, lazily tossing a Fanged Flyer between his hands.
“Did you even sleep here last night?” Black asked from the chessboard. Nott was perched on the armrest beside him, his Transfiguration text half open, yet his focus on the chess game. He raised a brow. “You vanished after Potions. For the entire day…and night.” Tom didn’t answer. He walked past them toward the dormitory corridor, unbothered, but not unnoticed.
“What’s that smell?” Nott said, suddenly sniffing the air. He turned his nose slightly toward Tom’s trail. “Spring, flowers. Or something like it. Maybe a lady’s perfume.” Nott leaned back, amused. Tom paused. Just long enough.
“I followed Hagrid,” he said flatly, voice even, low. “He was sneaking around the grounds. Greenhouse perimeter. Lot of flowers there.” A beat of silence. Then Malfoy’s mouth curled.
“In November?” Tom turned slowly toward him, gaze cool as glass.
“Should I assume you’re all taking Advanced Herbology now?” Black snorted quietly. Nott said nothing, but Tom caught the flick of his fingers. He was tapping the rhythm of something against the edge of the chessboard. A nervous tic he never acknowledged. Tom’s patience wore thin in increments. He could feel it now, the tug of Warren’s scent clinging to his coat, the phantom weight of her from the hours before. It made him itch, not with shame, but with exposure. They didn’t know. But they were looking. And Tom hated being looked at.
“I’ll be in the dorm,” he said shortly, turning again.
“Wait,” Malfoy called, “aren’t you staying for the study circle? We need your help with Transfiguration!” Tom stopped at the stairs, his hand already resting on the carved stone arch. His voice was soft, razor-edged.
“You’ll manage. I’ll come back when you all decide to stop investigating me and start being useful.” He disappeared into the corridor, the echo of his boots the only sound that followed. Behind him, the Knights looked at one another. And somewhere, faintly, the scent of lily of the valley lingered.

The page crackled faintly as his quill moved, smooth and controlled. Not hasty, never hasty. His script curled with quiet elegance across the thick, creamy parchment, across the diary she had given him.
“He’s harmless. Just a baby.”
Tom stared at the final line for a long time, as if it might rearrange itself into something intelligible. Just a baby. And yet Hagrid’s eyes had glittered with too much fear when Tom questioned him. There was a tremor in the boy’s massive fingers as he stammered his defense. The way a child might hide a bleeding bird under their bed and call it a pet. He closed the diary, fingers lingering on the leather. The scent of her still clung to it faintly. He had thought once of letting it be. But instead, he found himself writing into it more often than he admitted. There was something… satisfying about inscribing this investigation into something she had given him. As if the diary itself bore silent witness to his ability of managing both. Her and his future. Two separate things.

The Restricted Section had proven disappointing this time, most of the information too vague or too ancient or too skewed toward mythology. So now he sat hunched near the back of the main section of the library, an assortment of creature-related volumes spread before him, titles like Bestiary of the Forgotten Lands. His fingers traced half-translated runes in the margins, but his mind wandered. Not just to Hagrid. The castle had too many secrets. And lately, Tom had begun to suspect that he was not the only one hunting them. There were whispers. Even Dumbledore was too interested lately. Something was shifting. And Tom, who hated being second to anything, intended to remain far ahead.
By the time dinner rolled around, he had barely moved. His back ached from the stiff chair, his vision swam faintly from the candlelight and dust. He wasn’t hungry, not really. His body demanded sustenance, yes, but hunger for food was something he could easily forget. What he couldn’t forget, however, was the image of her sitting quietly across from him in the kitchens that morning, blinking nervously when he asked her to eat more. The sharp awareness of her hollowness, the curve of her wrist too slender in the candlelight.

He passed through the Great Hall only briefly. His plate remained mostly untouched. But before he left, he wrapped an apple and two soft cookies into a napkin and tucked them into his inner pocket. Not for himself. For her. Not because he was kind, he wasn’t. But because the thought of her growing thinner from his neglect now filled him with something close to loathing. Not for her. For himself.
He adjusted his tie as he slipped out the back hall, robes whipping behind him like a shadow. She was already waiting when he arrived. Her arms were drawn close to her chest, fingers clutching one another, not out of cold but something more quiet and uncertain. When she spotted him, her shoulders softened, relief written plainly across her face. He hadn’t let her down. He stopped just before her, studied the way she rocked slightly on her heels, the way her eyes flicked up to meet his and then darted back to the stone floor. The candlelight from a bracket on the wall caught in the lens of her glasses, making her look momentarily ethereal. As if she didn’t belong in this decade. As if she’d fallen out of some book he once read under borrowed lamplight in the orphanage. Tom tilted his head slightly.
“Come with me.” No more words. He simply reached out, letting the backs of his fingers brush the length of her wrist, enough to make her follow. The castle was slowly settling into silence. Tom led her through a route she briefly recognised, past a statue with gloves on the wrong hands. And then they stopped in front of the wooden door.
“The Prefects’ Bathroom?” Warren blinked, puzzled. Tom didn’t look at her. He traced his wand along the lock and muttered a password under his breath. The click was quiet, obedient. The door creaked open, warm steam curling around them like the beginning of something intimate.
“You liked it here,” he said, tone deceptively light as he stepped inside. “The last time.” Myrtle followed, cautious but curious, and the moment she passed through the doorway she stilled. She remembered their argument, her hair soaked, the moment he turned to leave. The way he kissed her for the first time as if trying to silence the very world. She looked up at him sharply, cheeks reddening.
“I didn’t mean to upset you…that day,” she murmured. He stepped close enough to steal the space between them. His voice was low.
“I know. You never do, my dear.” He brushed a stray braid from her shoulder and let his fingers rest at the base of her neck. Her pulse trembled beneath them. Tom tilted his head again, watching her, cataloguing her every response like an alchemist mapping a flame. She was blushing, hands still clenched by her sides. And yet she wasn’t stepping away. She never did.

He remembered it all as well. The last time they’d been here, it hadn’t been like this. It had been chaotic. Emotion boiling under his skin like poison, clawing at the edges of his restraint. She had tried to protect him. That was what started it. That absurd, infuriating moment of hers, humiliating herself during Patronus grading, shielding him as if he needed protection. And then she reached for him. With that small hand of hers, too afraid he’s going to leave her. He’d snapped, turned and then they were falling. Into the water.
It was the way she looked up at him through wet lashes, her chest rising and falling like she couldn’t decide whether to sob or scream. The way he couldn’t, wasn’t able to, hold back anymore. Not when she was offering him her ruin on a silver plate. And he hadn’t been able to stop. Not then. Not once. He’d devoured her. Water sloshing up the porcelain edges, her body trembling beneath him, her fists clutching the soaked lapels of his robes. The kiss had been wild. Dangerous and suffocating. Nothing like anything that belonged in this clean, warm place with its marble and gold taps and absurd mounds of bubbles. He remembered the way she melted like she didn’t know how to be separate from him anymore. He had known, in that moment, that it was already too late.
He wasn’t going to stop wanting her. Not with time. Not with effort. Not even with hatred. He had already taken her in his arms. Taken her mouth. Drenched and furious and possessive and still she had let him. And she was still here. Still his. Maybe it wasn’t just the water they had drowned in that day.

As he watched her, he suddenly remembered the food. Tom’s hand slipped into the inside pocket of his robes, fingers closing around the small parcel he’d taken from the Great Hall before he left. An apple and two cookies. All neatly wrapped in a folded handkerchief, not for himself of course. He turned back to her.
“Did you eat lunch today?” he asked quietly. She nodded, almost too quickly.
“Mhm.” He narrowed his eyes slightly.
“And dinner?” Another nod. Quieter this time. Her hands folded politely in her lap. Avoiding his gaze. He stilled. “You’re lying,” he said flatly. The girl looked at him innocently. Her head jerked slightly in surprise, like she wasn’t expecting him to say it so plainly.
“I— I just…”
“Don’t insult me, Warren,” he cut in, voice suddenly lower. She flushed.
“I wasn’t trying to—”
“Then don’t.” He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. The temperature in the room shifted all the same. He stepped closer, pulled the napkin free and began to unfold it with the same precision as if he were unbinding a spell.
“Eat it.” She looked up at him, hesitating. “Warren,” he said, tone now tight with quiet menace, “I don’t bring you things to watch them rot.” Her shoulders sank. She reached for the cookies first, breaking off a piece and nibbling it and sat down onto a marble bench.
“Good girl,” he murmured. But his eyes didn’t soften. Not fully. He was still watching her, measuring her. Making sure she swallowed. Making sure she took another bite. He didn’t speak for a moment, only knelt down in front of her, took the apple from the bundle, and handed it to her himself. “You don’t get to do that anymore,” he said. “You don’t get to starve yourself and think I won’t notice.” Her eyes dropped.
“Next time,” he said quietly, “don’t lie. I always know.” And she did eat. Because she always did when he said so. Because even in his cold, possessive way, he cared. Or something like it.

He watched the motion of her jaw as she chewed, the way her lashes fluttered from time to time as if she were embarrassed by being seen this closely, this gently. And something in his chest pulsed again. Dangerous and unplaceable. So small. He hated how easily she’d fit into his hands. And how much he’d burn to keep her there. They sat in silence for a while. The steam curled lazily above the bath, catching in her hair, softening the edges of her glasses. Her legs swung slightly where they dangled from the edge of the bench, her shoes tapping lightly against the tiles.
“Have you ever gone in?” she asked suddenly, glancing over. “Properly I mean,” she turned crimson. His gaze flicked to the surface of the bath. The water shimmered, scented faintly with bergamot and sage, clear and still like glass.
“No,” he said at last. She turned fully to him now, surprised.
“Never?” He gave the smallest shrug.
“Didn’t see the point.”
“But it’s—” she gestured vaguely at the room, the soft candlelight reflecting in the mirrored tiles, “it’s lovely.” He hummed in amusement, as if ‘lovely’ was a reason for someone like him. Although when he looked at her…maybe it was. He said nothing. She was watching him now with something strange behind her eyes, some quiet daring.
“We should go in,” she said after a pause. “Now.” He turned to her.
“Wait—”
Before he could finish, she was already standing and folding her robes aside. Her fingers moved to the buttons of her shirt, slow but determined. He stared, lips parting slightly in disbelief as her blouse came undone, inch by inch, until her pale skin and soft bra were revealed beneath. She looked up at him then, still fiddling with the hem of the shirt, cheeks burning but gaze steady.
“Will you go with me?” she tried softly.
“Warren, it’s not appropriate—” he warned. Something sharp under his voice. A warning, or maybe a plea. His eyes trailed over the bare curve of her stomach, the lace edge of her undergarments. Her trust hit him like a curse. She lifted a brow, trying clumsily for boldness.
“So you’ve seen me shirtless,” she said, a hint of a smile on her lips, “but now I’m not allowed to swim in my underwear?” He stared at her. And she stood before him. Uncovered. Offering. Waiting. Trusting. His silence didn’t frighten her this time. Her chest rose and fell with quiet nerves, but her chin stayed up, her fingers didn’t falter. And Tom Riddle, dark, calculating and composed, could only sit there, every inch of his body coiled in restraint, pulse roaring in his ears. Her innocence was the most dangerous thing he’d ever touched. He swallowed. And slowly stood.

She didn’t move. Not away, not closer. She stood there at the edge of the bath with her blouse clinging to her elbows like something forgotten. Her hair was a little frizzy already from the steam, her lips slightly parted and her legs, bare for the first time in front of him, pale and delicate and real in a way that made something inside him still. Tom didn’t realise he was holding his breath until she looked up at him and he exhaled like she’d cast a charm. Without a word, he reached for his robes. He should have stopped. Should have told her to dress again, leave, return to the world where she was still a bit untouched by the darker shadows he carried. But instead, he undid the first button. Then another. His hands moved as if separate from his mind, methodical, deliberate.
He caught himself staring at her legs again. Slim and pale, the slight inward curve of her knees, the way her toes gripped the edge of the tile. He had imagined a thousand ways to see her like this and yet none of them had prepared him for the quiet devastation of it. How lovely she was in the half-light, how unguarded, how his. There was no smugness in her, no calculation. Just want. Just the boldness of someone giving herself over, not knowing what it would cost. And Merlin helped him, he wanted to worship it. He stepped toward her. Close enough for her breath to catch. Close enough to reach.
He moved without a sound, as if caught in a spell spun between her breath and the candlelight. His shirt slid from his shoulders, revealing the lean frame beneath, elegant in its restraint. Built not like a brute, but like a blade, sharp angles and silent promise. There were faint, healed lines along his forearms, defensive spell burns, maybe and the shadow of his ribs visible beneath smooth skin. Even now, he carried himself like a prince in exile, ruined and revered in equal measure. Myrtle didn’t speak. She only watched, hands clasped nervously in front of her as he stepped out of his trousers and stood before her in nothing but fitted black briefs. His body was slender but sculpted, carved in long strokes like something from myth. And his face… even now, even half in shadow, he was devastating. But it wasn’t just that. It was him.
It was the way he had looked at her that day and promised not to leave. It was the press of his kiss to her temple before disappearing, the unspoken fury when someone dared to touch her, the quiet chaos behind his restraint. It was the ache in her chest that told her she would recognise him by presence, by silence, by scent, in any dark room. Her mouth opened before she had time to think.
“You’re beautiful.”
Tom stilled. For a second, he looked as though she’d struck him with a curse. His jaw flexed, his hands clenched at his sides. As if the word had unsettled something far beneath the surface. As if it meant something more than she could possibly understand. He only looked at her, dark eyes burning like the last light before the storm.
“Don’t say that,” Tom said lowly. His voice didn’t rise, but something in it crackled like a held breath on the verge of shattering. His eyes hadn’t left her, not since the words left her mouth. Myrtle looked startled.
“But… you are,” she said softly, a crease forming between her brows as she shook her head, almost stubbornly now. She stood before him, trembling slightly in the charmed lights, arms loosely crossed not to hide herself but as if trying to hold herself together. Pale skin caught the blue flicker of the stained glasses and her legs looked almost too fragile to hold her. She was still in her underwear and yet she had never looked more brave. Her devotion wasn’t coy or seductive, it was full. Unearned, unwavering, impossible. And she offered it like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He watched her. Silent. The want came over him like a tide, thick and strangling. Not just the want to touch her, or taste her, but the want to own this moment. To swallow it whole. To cage her in it. To keep this impossible, maddening, perfect girl in candlelight and silence forever, where no one else could see her like this. Not even the moon. He stepped toward her slowly.
“Warren…” he said, the name tasting like thunder in his mouth. But she didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. She just looked up at him with wide, open eyes and waited, willing. He wanted to shake her. He wanted to sink to his knees. He wanted to bury his mouth in the hollow of her throat and tell her she didn’t know what she was doing. Instead, his fingers lifted, brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, and trailed down the slope of her neck like a man tracing his own undoing.

She then turned slowly and stepped to the edge of the bath. Steam rose in gentle swirls from the enchanted surface, perfumed with something faintly floral, probably whatever the last prefect had left behind. The small girl dipped a toe in first, then the rest of her foot, pausing only briefly before sliding in. She gave a small breath of surprise at the heat but then waded further in, arms wrapping around herself instinctively. The water curved around her hips like a secret. Her skin gleamed slick with warmth, droplets catching the candlelight as she moved through the bubbles. She pinned her hair up and looked back at him, blinking behind her fog-touched glasses.
“You’re not coming in?” Tom still hadn’t moved. He stood there, in nothing but his briefs, eyes heavy-lidded and burning. His hands were clenched at his sides, jaw tight. He couldn’t speak, not at first. He could only watch. He watched how the water curled against her ribs, her stomach, how it lapped at her thighs like it wanted to keep her. He was almost jealous. Not of the warmth. Not of the stillness. But of the way the water touched her. The way it swirled around her body without asking permission. Without trembling. Without shame. It wrapped around her like a lover. And the worst part was, she looked at peace in it. The muscle in his jaw twitched. He stepped forward finally, voice low and sharp-edged as he spoke.
“You seem awfully comfortable letting things touch you when I’m not allowed to.” Her brow lifted, confused.
“It’s water.”
“I know what it is,” he snapped. Myrtle blinked at him, unsure whether he was angry or something else. But Tom stepped in then. Quiet, slow, controlled. He lowered himself into the bath, eyes never leaving hers. The warmth surged up around him, but he didn’t shudder, didn’t sigh. He only moved toward her slowly, until they were chest to chest, and he could reach her without lifting a hand. His palm rose to her jaw, wet fingers slipping against her skin. She didn’t move. Just stayed there, chest rising softly against his, lips parted in the steam. Water beaded down her arms, her throat, her clavicle and Tom could feel every place it touched him too.
And he let his hands lift. He didn’t grab. Didn’t command. Just hovered for a second above her ribs, as if testing the weight of the moment. As if warning the water to make way. Then he touched her. Only fingertips. Barely there. First to her waist, dragging lightly from hip to ribs, following the curve of her side beneath the bathwater. She shivered but didn’t stop him. Then over her back, his hands gliding across her skin as if reading her. Memorising something sacred. Possessing something wordlessly. Her breathing caught and he could feel it against his chest, in her throat, everywhere. He let his fingers drift up her spine, tracing the fragile vertebrae one by one beneath the water as if she were something etched in runes, something written to be read only in secret. Then across her shoulder blades. The nape of her neck. Down her arms. And all the while, her breathing grew more uneven. Softer. She hadn’t even looked at him now. Her head stayed tilted down, lips parted, glassy-eyed from how still and overwhelming it was to be touched like this. To be studied like this. He let one hand trail lower, past her waist again, down her thigh. Not in a rush. Not even with clear direction. Just to feel how far she went. How far down she was his. His other hand rose again, thumb brushing just under the line of her bra, gliding back and forth, slow and rhythmic as if soothing her into letting him have everything. Her breath hitched sharply. She lifted her head finally, eyes shining, dazed and breathless. Mouth trembling. Tom tilted his face slightly. His eyes never left hers. His hand still didn’t stop.

Chapter Text

November 1942

The days passed differently now. There was no rupture, no trembling edge of restraint or rage. Tom Riddle walked the castle like it belonged to him again. He no longer needed to stalk shadows or withdraw into silence to regain control, he wore it like a second skin now, smoothed over every motion, stitched into his voice when he spoke to others, sharpened in his gaze when he watched her.
Warren had become an element of his day now, like the precise sound of his boots on stone or the way the Knights lowered their voices when he entered. She didn’t hover. She didn’t beg. She simply existed where he needed her, in moments carved from the noise. Soft, steady, secret. She sat beside him now and then, close enough for her sleeve to brush his, not quite touching. She smiled more, but never too much. And he didn’t ask her to change a thing. He didn’t need to. He had Her his followers, his legacy smouldering under his fingertips. Even the diary, the cursed, waiting thing she’d once given him as a gift, now held steady notes. The handwriting neat, curved with a precision that matched his mind. It contained records of creatures, secrets, spells and questionable people. A second soul for a second self. In the common room, the Knights circled him. Nott grumbled over Transfiguration, Black leaned back in a chair with one leg swinging dangerously over the armrest, Malfoy talked low about Slughorn’s next lesson. They listened when he spoke. They followed without needing a reason. He felt like a power incarnate. For the first time, he wasn’t drowning in the need for Warren or cutting himself apart with restraint. He had learned to possess her without losing himself. And he never felt more invincible.
—

The scent of dried hellebore and stewed lavender clung to the dungeon like a second atmosphere, warm and alchemical. Tom took his usual seat in Potions with quiet precision, setting his ink bottle just so, his quill laid like a blade across the page. Malfoy dropped into the stool beside him with a rustle of fabric and that typical aristocratic indifference, already halfway through grumbling about the new assignment Slughorn had promised them. Tom didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. He was calm. Composed. Warren was just two rows back, curling into herself at one of the workbenches, her fingers fidgeting with the page of her notebook. She hadn’t seen him look. He liked it that way.
Slughorn bustled into the room like a gust of eccentricity, cheeks flushed and eyes beaming.
“Now, now, my dear students! Today we begin your winter term research projects!” he declared, beaming as if he’d just handed out sweets. “Paired work, of course. Potions is as much about cooperation as it is skill, hmm?” Tom’s eyes narrowed slightly. Paired work meant unpredictability. Variables. “Let’s make this easy, shall we? I’ll do the assigning. No point letting friends partner up…where’s the challenge in that?” One by one, names were called. “Abbott and Nott. Wilkes and Black. Malfoy and Riddle…” Tom barely blinked. It wasn’t unexpected. Abraxas was competent, if not imaginative and wouldn’t dare get in Tom’s way. “…Warren and O’Connell…” Slughorn chirped. Tom stilled. O’Connell. A Gryffindor. A boy with broad shoulders and a perpetually tousled head of brown curls. Unremarkable in every way except now, now he had a seat beside Warren. Now he was turning toward her with a stupid, lopsided grin and saying something too casual, too loud. Tom watched as she gave the smallest of nods, shrinking a little as she took her quill, but she smiled politely. She smiled. And something inside Tom went entirely still. Malfoy said something beside him, a joke, a mutter, a sigh, but it might as well have been water poured on fire. Tom’s mind spun cold. That boy was leaning too close. His elbow nearly touched hers. He gestured as he talked, eyes too bright and Myrtle was nodding along like she didn’t realise her name belonged somewhere else. To someone else. Tom turned the page in his notebook sharply.
He knew he couldn’t make a scene here, not yet. Not in front of Slughorn or half the fifth year students. But his mind was already rewriting the seating chart. The partnership. The rules. There were always ways. He’d trade. Or threaten. Or charm Slughorn into believing she needed someone more capable than that boy. She did. Obviously. She was his. His patience was thin as mercury. He’d wait until the end of class. Then he’d fix it.

The Restricted Section whispered behind its chained gate but Tom hadn’t bothered leading her that far today. They sat in the quieter alcove by the forgotten political histories, where no one ever looked twice at two fifth-years bent over an open text. He wasn’t even reading. The book lay forgotten between them, half-slid from its spine. Myrtle scribbled something in her notes, teeth biting her lower lip in concentration. Tom watched her a moment longer before finally speaking, voice low but clipped.
“O’Connell won’t make a suitable partner.” She looked up.
“For what?”
“The Potions assignment.”
“Oh.” She tilted her head, eyes still warm, unguarded. “He seems nice. And he’s not terrible in Potions. I’ll manage.” Tom stared at her. I’ll manage. The words grated against him like salt in the blood. As if it were merely about skill. As if it hadn’t been him who watched that boy lean too close, speak too easily. As if that idiot’s casual gestures hadn’t lived in Tom’s head since the moment class ended.
“No. You won’t.” Myrtle furrowed her brow.
“What do you mean? It’s just a school assignment—”
“I’m not talking about cauldron temperatures and ingredient lists, Warren.” His voice was sharper now, enough to make her falter. She glanced around the rows of books, uneasy. “He’s a Gryffindor,” Tom continued, like the word itself was profane. “Clumsy. Too forward. Talks too much. And you—” he stopped himself just short, jaw tightening. She tilted her chin up.
“And me what?”
“You shouldn’t associate with him,” he said coldly. Her mouth opened, then closed. She looked away, stung.
“So?”
“So,” Tom hissed, “you won’t.”
“It’s just a school project,” she frowned, voice hushed but trembling.
“It’s not just a school project,” he bit back. “You’re mine.” She looked at him then and something in her softened. She looked down at her notes again. And after a long moment, with a blush creeping into her cheeks, she murmured.
“You’re impossible.” But she didn’t really sound angry. Tom said nothing. Only reached over to turn the page of her book for her. His hand brushed hers. Deliberate and firm.
“You’ll go to Slughorn tomorrow,” he said, voice so smooth it almost didn’t sound like an instruction. The girl looked up from her parchment.
“And say what?”
“That you don’t feel comfortable working with O’Connell.” She blinked.
“I feel okay—”
“You don’t,” he said sharply. “Not anymore.” Her mouth opened in protest but the look he gave her, sharp and unyielding, silenced whatever objections she might’ve had. He softened a fraction, leaned closer, voice low, almost coaxing.
“You’ll say that he’s too forward. That you’d rather work with someone else.” She furrowed her brows.
“But what if—?”
“I’ll go after you,” Tom interrupted. “Tell him Malfoy and I don’t work well together. We don’t.”
“That’s not true.”
“It doesn’t have to be. Slughorn knows I prefer working alone or… with someone more academic.”
“And I’m that someone?” she asked softly. He glanced at her, a sharp sort of fondness flickering at the edge of his lips. Warren looked down, suddenly shy. She pushed her glasses higher on her nose, fingers twitching over her parchment. Tom leaned back slightly, the low light of the library carving shadow across his cheekbones.
“He’ll see the solution.” She hesitated, voice barely a whisper.
“You really don’t want me working with him?”
“I won’t have you working with him, he’s not me” Tom corrected, with quiet finality. “You’re not a Gryffindor, Warren. You don’t need to make a performance out of politeness.” She blinked.
“I was just going to say he—”
“I’m not interested.” Tom closed the book before him, the sound soft but definite. Then he turned his head, gaze catching hers fully now, slow and dark like shadows moving across water. “You don’t need to talk about him,” he said, tone dipped in something almost tender, almost sweet, but with steel beneath it. “Not when you’re with me.” Her breath hitched slightly.
“But I was just—” He leaned forward, brushing a loose strand of hair away from her glasses.
“What do you think I’ll do, Warren? You think I want to sit here and listen to you talk about another boy? While you’re sitting across from me?” Myrtle swallowed. Her eyes dropped to the table.
“I didn’t mean it like that.” Tom tilted his head.
“Didn’t you?” He reached across the table, his fingers brushing lightly over her wrist. “Let’s try again.” Before she could respond, he got to his feet, slow and elegant, walked around the table and crouched beside her chair, one hand ghosting up her shoulder until it curled possessively around her nape. He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear as he spoke. Soft, coaxing, dangerous.
“I don’t want you wasting your thoughts on anyone else,” he whispered and she shivered. He looked around and then pressed a kiss to her jaw, another to the corner of her mouth.
“Tom—,” she whispered almost dazed. His lips found hers fully now. Slow at first, coaxing, then deeper. More insistent.
“See? That’s better,” he muttered against her lips and his hand tightened slightly at her nape as if anchoring her there, forbidding her from thinking of anything else, anyone else. He pulled back just enough to mutter again. “You don’t need anyone. You have me.” She blinked up at him, flushed, confused, dazed, just the way he liked her. Dependent. Devoted. His smile was surprisingly soft, almost adoring. “You only need me, Warren.”
“I know,” she whispered, almost like it hurt to admit. And that was the sweetest part, that part of her knew he was cruel, twisted, wrong, and yet it didn’t matter. She still stayed. Still wanted. Still looked at him like he was her world. Tom knelt by her chair fully now, knees brushing the worn floor of the library, one hand braced against the seat beside her hip. He stared up at her like she was some prize he’d already won, but never planned to stop possessing. His thumb brushed the hem of her sleeve, pulling it up ever so slightly, just to see the curve of her wrist. The skin there was soft, vulnerable. Just like her. He pressed a kiss to it, slow and deliberate.
“You shouldn’t think about anyone else. And I shouldn’t have to remind you. Should I?” She shook her head. He smiled. “Good girl.” Her cheeks flushed and she looked away and for a moment, Tom just watched her. The way her hair fell unevenly around her ears. The way her hands wrung nervously in her lap. The way she blushed like she didn’t know he could already map the inside of her soul. He leaned up, hands on either side of her chair now and kissed her temple, then the top of her head.
“You’ll go to Slughorn,” he said softly, as if giving instructions to a child. “Tell him you’d feel more comfortable working with someone else.” She nodded, still dazed. “And I’ll do the same.” He tucked another strand of her hair behind her ear, eyes never leaving hers. “Then we’ll be paired. As it was meant to be.” Her voice came out quiet, almost hesitant.
“But what if he says no?” Tom smiled then, all teeth, all certainty.
“He won’t.” And when she looked down, a little unsure, he kissed her again. Slow and commanding, like punctuation at the end of her thoughts. When they finally parted, Myrtle’s lips were red, her breath uneven, her thoughts scrambled. Tom watched her like he’d already won.
Because he had.
—

The next day, just after breakfast, Myrtle waited until the corridor outside the Potions classroom. She was clutching the strap of her satchel so tightly her knuckles went white. She hesitated for a long breath, then knocked twice and pushed the heavy oak door open.
“Ah— Miss Warren,” Slughorn beamed from behind his cluttered desk, spectacles perched halfway down his nose, a steaming cup of tea hovering at his elbow. “What can I do for you, young lady?” Tom stood perfectly still behind a carved pillar just around the corridor’s bend, under the soft cover of a Disillusionment charm. His arms were crossed. He could hear everything. Myrtle stepped further inside, shifting her weight nervously.
“I— I just had a quick question about the winter project, sir.”
“Of course, of course.” Slughorn gestured grandly to a chair, though she didn’t sit. “I paired you with O’Connell, didn’t I? Very good at Quidditch, though perhaps a bit too enamoured with his own ideas, ha!” Myrtle winced.
“Yes, sir. About that… I was wondering if— if it might be possible to be reassigned. Not to be difficult, I just…” She swallowed, glancing down. “I don’t really feel comfortable working with people that much extroverted.” Slughorn hummed thoughtfully, swirling his tea.
“Hm. Not a complaint about O’Connell per se, then?”
“No, sir. Nothing personal. It’s just… I think I’d feel better if I worked with someone more…composed.” Tom could practically see her wringing her hands from where he stood. But her voice was steady, polite, almost sweetly anxious. Slughorn always had a weakness for that.
“Well,” the professor said, drawing the word out as he reached for a parchment roll, “I suppose there’s no harm in checking the pairings. If someone else expresses a similar concern, perhaps we can reshuffle the lot. These things are never quite set in stone.” Myrtle nodded quickly, trying not to look too relieved.
“Thank you, sir. I really appreciate it.” Slughorn smiled again, waving his hand as if to dismiss the formalities.
“Off you go, then. I’ll let you know by tomorrow.” As the door clicked shut behind her, Myrtle didn’t see the tall shadow that slipped down the hall, just seconds ahead of her, unseen and satisfied. Tom walked slowly, deliberately. He didn’t need to look back to know she’d done well. She hadn’t even said his name. She knew how to obey. Softly, sweetly and without question. And soon, she’d be exactly where she belonged. Beside him again, where no one else would ever dare take her.

It was late afternoon when Tom finally made his way toward Slughorn’s office, unhurried, hands tucked in the pockets of his robes. He knocked once, sharp and purposeful.
“Enter!” Slughorn’s voice boomed from within. Tom stepped inside and closed the door behind him with a gentle click. “Mr. Riddle,” Slughorn said, clearly pleased, glancing up from a half-finished essay and a collection of shortbread tins. “What can I do for my favourite student?” Tom offered a measured smile.
“Apologies for the interruption, sir. I wanted to speak with you briefly about the winter assignment pairings.”
“Ah,” Slughorn grinned. “Let me guess. Malfoy’s already trying to convince you to do the entire project for him?” Tom didn’t laugh, but the faintest tilt of his lips acknowledged the truth of it.
“We work together often. Even share a dorm. I thought perhaps a fresh arrangement would be more… productive.” Slughorn sat back in his chair, eyes narrowing in thought.
“Hm. And here I thought pairing you two was the obvious choice.”
“It was understandable,” Tom said smoothly. “But perhaps not ideal. I’d prefer someone with a more complementary approach. Someone who actually writes their own notes… If it would be possible.” Slughorn chuckled, rubbing at his chin.
“So, not Malfoy.” He tapped his quill against the edge of the desk. “Miss Warren would be fine?” Tom raised an eyebrow. Not too high. Just enough to look slightly surprised.
“I thought she was already paired.”
“She was,” Slughorn said, with a little huff. “But I gathered she’d feel more at ease with someone…disciplined.” There was a pause. Slughorn seemed to consider the idea on his own, as if it had just occurred to him. “Well,” he mused, scribbling something down, “it would save me the trouble of balancing the list. Malfoy can go with O’Connell. And you and Miss Warren could work well together. You’re both really good at Potions…” Tom didn’t smile, but there was a glint in his eye, a quiet satisfaction as he inclined his head.
“If you think it best.”
“Oh, I do,” Slughorn said, already marking the new pairings. “Consider it done.” Tom gave a polite nod.
“Thank you, sir.” As he exited the office, the corridor felt warmer than before. Not from heat. No, the dungeons were always cold, but from a flicker of something else. Certainty. Possession. Balance. She was his again. Even here, even now, in the structure of academic pairings and school formalities. He didn’t need to hold her hand to claim her. He only needed to ensure no one else could.

Tom found the Gryffindor boy near the stairs leading down to the Quidditch locker rooms, where Gryffindors always seemed to linger, loud and cocky and smelling of sweat and grass.
“O’Connell,” Tom called, voice crisp as frost. The boy turned, predictably smug.
“What?” Tom stepped closer. Not too close. Just enough to make him aware.
“There’s been a change. You’re with Malfoy now for Slughorn’s project.”
“Excuse me?” O’Connell laughed, sharp and incredulous. “No way. Slughorn told me I was with Warren. I’m not giving her up. She’s the best in Potions, better than you even. She’ll do the whole bloody job for me.” Wrong answer. The chill in Tom’s face was immediate. The muscles in his jaw flexed as he took one more step forward, now well within reach. He didn’t speak right away. He didn’t have to. O’Connell’s grin faltered anyway.
“You’ll be with Malfoy,” Tom repeated, voice low and steady, a blade slid into velvet. “And you’ll be no trouble.”
“Are you threatening me?” O’Connell scoffed, trying for bravado, but something behind Tom’s gaze, the darkness, the pure stillness, caused his shoulders to tense, just slightly. The Slytherin boy’s hand twitched at his side. Not toward his wand. He didn’t need one to make a point.
“I’m advising you,” he said coolly. “There’s a difference.” O’Connell looked ready to retaliate, chest puffed, fists half-clenched but in that moment, a figure rounded the far end of the hall.
“Students.” Dumbledore’s voice was deceptively mild, but the air behind it shifted. Heavy. Watchful. Tom turned, composed in an instant.
“Professor,” he greeted, tone polite, even. No trace of the storm still lingering in his limbs. Dumbledore’s gaze flicked between the two boys. O’Connell’s flushed face, Tom’s unnatural calm. His sharp eyes narrowed just a fraction.
“I trust there’s no trouble?”
“None at all,” Tom said smoothly. “Just sorting out a scheduling issue. Professor Slughorn made a revision.” O’Connell opened his mouth to speak but Dumbledore raised a hand. Not threatening. But final.
“I see,” Dumbledore said. “Best to leave such matters to the classroom, don’t you think?”
“Of course,” Tom said with a courteous nod. The Gryffindor gave him a sharp look but didn’t say anything. Tom decided to dismiss himself. As he passed Dumbledore, the old wizard didn’t speak again but Tom could feel the man’s eyes burn between his shoulder blades like sunlight through glass. Watching. Weighing. Let him watch, Tom thought coldly. Let him try. He got what he wanted.
—

The door to the dorm creaked open, cold air trailing in from the dungeon corridor. Malfoy was the first in, tossing his satchel onto the nearest chair.
“Well,” he huffed, loosening his tie, “congratulations, Tom. I really hope you got what you wanted.” His roommate was perched near the window, long legs stretched out, lazily flipping through a Defence textbook. He didn’t look up.
“What a strange tone to congratulate someone with.” Malfoy rolled his eyes.
“I’m with O’Connell now. The Gryffindor who once tried to smoke dried dittany leaves because he thought it would give him visions. You ditched me for a—” The door swung again. Lestrange strolled in, a wicked grin already tugging at his mouth.
“For a mudblood, you mean?” Malfoy barked a laugh.
“Oh, you heard?”
“Heard it from Nott,” Lestrange said, dropping onto his bed with a dramatic sigh. Tom looked up finally, face unreadable.
“Is that a problem?”
“Not for me. Just unexpected. Thought you’d outgrow your little charity project.” Lestrange smirked, propping his arms behind his head.
“Apparently not,” Malfoy muttered. Tom closed his book. Calmly. Then stood. He stepped around the bed, slower than necessary and reached for his wand on the nightstand. Not to use it, just to remind them he had it.
“Did either of you want her?” he asked coolly, arching a brow. “Because if so, we can speak to Slughorn. I’m sure he’d be happy to reassign.” Lestrange snorted.
“Merlin, no. I don’t want to catch whatever she’s got.”
“Right,” Malfoy said. “But still… she’s not even one of our targets.”
“She’s my target. She seems to know too much. I need to keep an eye on it,” Tom lied mildly, tucking his wand away. There was a beat of silence. Lestrange broke it with a grin. “Or…You’ve got a soft spot, Riddle.” Tom turned his back to them, heading for his trunk.
“Call it what you like,” he said. “At least she won’t let me do all the work while she combs her hair.” Malfoy’s mouth fell open.
“I do not—!”
“Drop it, Abraxas,” Lestrange laughed. “You’re not winning this one.”
—

Cauldrons hissed softly with the warm, musty scent of root dust and slow-simmering brews. Slughorn’s voice carried above the bubbling, bouncing slightly with enthusiasm as he detailed the winter assignment, a paired research and brewing project designed to explore advanced magical compounds. Everyone had settled into their newly assigned seats. Abraxas was slumped beside O’Connell like a prisoner of war, scowling at the Gryffindor boy with such venom it might’ve curdled the potion beside them. O’Connell remained blissfully unaffected, digging into his notes like this was the greatest academic honour of his life. Tom sat with Myrtle. To anyone else, it was unremarkable. She was quiet, bookish and careful. A perfect Potions partner. No one would suspect a thing.
Except for the way she sat, just a little closer than necessary. The way her quill trembled once, when his hand brushed hers. The way her cheeks remained pink the entire lesson. He leaned back in his seat with aristocratic ease, lazily scanning the page in front of them. His hand drifted under the table, resting possessively on her knee, innocent enough. But then it moved. Slow and calculated. A drag of his fingers across her thigh, over the fabric of her pants. She sucked in a quiet breath. He didn’t look at her. Not directly. His voice remained calm, academic even, as he murmured.
“Do pay attention, Warren.” She nodded, eyes wide, trying to keep her quill steady as he traced a small circle just above the curve of her knee. He felt the tension in her thigh, the way her breath quickened when his fingertips lingered just a second too long. Slughorn was explaining something about venomous tentacula extractions. Tom only half-listened. This was the balance he had found. His girl. His control. His future blooming from the darkness around him. And no one had to know.Slughorn clapped his hands, sending a puff of gold dust from his cuffs.
“Now, now, settle down! Let’s not act like you’ve all been sentenced. The Winter Term Project is an honour, an opportunity for excellence!” A few groans stirred from the back rows. “Each pair will select a magical compound from the approved list,” Slughorn continued, pacing slowly between the tables, his belly nearly brushing some cauldrons. “You’ll research its history, trace its development and most importantly, brew it to perfection by the first week of January. I want to see academic rigor, practical precision and if you can manage it, a little bit of creative risk.” He smiled benevolently at the students. “You’ll present your findings after the break in front of the class. Consider it… your chance to shine.” Tom tilted his head toward the girl beside him, voice a soft murmur meant only for her.
“See? We’ll work much better together for this.” His fingers, still beneath the table, grazed just slightly higher. She tried to answer but her voice caught in her throat. Tom’s eyes remained forward, his tone clinical as Slughorn began handing out the project list. “Now pick something you’d like to do. It’s up to you.” She nodded quickly and he allowed himself a small glance at her profile, the faint colour in her cheeks, the way she gripped her quill tighter. Warren bent over the parchment Slughorn had floated onto their desk, her finger gliding down the columns. Her lower lip disappeared in her mouth once again, a habit she had when concentrating, one Tom noticed more often than he should have.
“Oh,” she whispered suddenly, tapping the parchment. “What’s this one?” Tom leaned slightly toward her without moving his hand from her thigh. His gaze slid to where her finger rested.
“Lacrimora. That’s from lacrima, to tear and mora, delay. Or perhaps some poetic word for ending.” He read the latin name. It struck like a soft bell in his mind. He knew it already. Not from Slughorn but from his own readings. A delicate, elusive potion. It blurred the lines between memory and identity. With the right infusion, a personal item, a token soaked in meaning, it could sever not just the recollection of an event but the emotional attachment to it entirely. Warren didn’t know that, of course. Her eyes stayed fixed on the brief description. Used in rare cases to soften traumatic memory. When brewed correctly, the potion may remove the emotional residue of a specific moment. In extreme variations entire figures may be forgotten. She let out a soft laugh.
“That’s sort of funny, isn’t it? You wouldn’t have to use the Obliviate spell so much.” She glanced sideways at him, smiling faintly. Tom didn’t answer. The sound of the classroom dulled, or perhaps it was just the way the blood shifted in his ears. Her voice was still innocent, amused even. But something about the image of her brewing that, them brewing that, curled at the edges of his control. He spoke quietly after a moment.
“What would you like to forget?” She blinked, startled at his tone.
“I didn’t mean—” But he’d already looked away, staring at the inked letters as if they’d revealed something she wasn’t meant to touch. As if the suggestion itself had made him aware of a future crack in the world. Something that hadn’t happened yet, but could. Something he could almost see if he tilted his head just right. Warren, still oblivious to the ripple she’d just set into motion, tucked a curl behind her ear and continued scanning the page. But Tom’s eyes lingered on the words a little longer.

To forget a person entirely. Somewhere, far ahead, that was probably how it would all end.
—

The days had folded into each other without warning, November vanishing into December as if the castle itself had exhaled and let winter take root. The library was unusually quiet that day. Thick with parchment dust and the soft ticking of enchanted clocks, candles glowing low between shelves and casting golden halos over old wood and worn bindings. They sat across from each other, but close. Always close. Myrtle’s chair was angled slightly toward his, her knee almost brushing his beneath the table, her fingers curled around a quill she hadn’t moved in minutes. Tom sat half in shadow, long fingers draped over the edge of his book. Outside, the world had shifted while they weren’t looking. Myrtle blinked, then leaned forward with a faint, breathless sound. Her gaze was fixed on the tall, frost-laced window near their table, lips parting like she’d just remembered something from a dream.
“It’s snowing,” she whispered. He didn’t look. Not at the snow. He only looked at her. The light from the glass window made her skin glow like white paper against candlelight, fragile and warm and real. Her eyes were wide, filled with the quiet kind of wonder only children still dared to have. He saw her breath catch, barely, like the first time she’d seen the Prefect’s Bathroom or looked up at him anytime he kissed her. Tom’s mouth parted slightly, his own breath stilling in his chest as if the scene before him required reverence. She turned her head back, catching him staring. She smiled, unguarded and soft and his stomach twisted. For a moment, he felt like a boy. Not an heir. Not a name carved into prophecy. Just a boy in the library with a girl who smiled at snow. And it made him feel something almost unbearable.
He didn’t speak for a moment and just watched her. That soft, snow-lit smile still blooming on her lips. Something about it made his chest tighten. Not the way it did when he was angry or victorious or in control, but something else entirely. Something he didn’t have a word for. His hand twitched where it rested on the table. He almost reached but stopped just before touching her. She looked too delicate like this, like something spun from frost and breath and too-easy endings. If he touched her like that, she might dissolve. And he wasn’t in the mood to lose things.
“Come here,” he said instead, low and certain. The girl looked at him again, caught off guard by the sudden softness in his voice. As soon as she was within reach, he tugged her gently but firmly into his side. His arm wrapped around her, tucking her in beneath his robes like a stolen secret, like something meant to be hidden or perhaps, kept. He pulled her onto his lap, his fingers curled into her hip, grounding her there and her temple found the curve of his jaw as if it belonged there. “Are you cold?” he murmured into her hair. She shook her head and he didn’t let go. Not even when he knew he should.

The library had emptied slowly after dinner, the cold pushing most students back to their dormitories, where fires flickered in hearths and common room windows fogged with breath and steam. They left as well, just to eat. He’d glanced across the Great Hall at her as the meal ended and Warren had followed him without needing to be asked.
Now, they sat pressed into the quietest corner of the library. Deep in the Muggle studies section where the dust was thick and the lamps rarely flickered overhead. The shadows felt thicker here. Safer. A place no one would think to look for either of them. He had his robes off and draped over the chair beside them, but Warren was bundled in her own, her shoulder tucked into his chest like she was trying to disappear inside him. Tom sat stiffly at first, he always did, but the longer she stayed curled against him, the more he let himself ease into it. His arm came around her slowly, firmly, pulling her closer until there wasn’t space for a whisper between them. She tilted her head slightly, her glasses nudging his collarbone.
“Did something happen?” she asked quietly, not used to this kind of peace with him. He paused, his hand stilled at her back. Then a soft hum, barely audible.
“No.” It was a lie. Not a dangerous one, not tonight, but she must’ve known it wasn’t true. She looked up at him like she did sometimes when he said things he didn’t mean. But she didn’t press. Instead, she nestled in closer, letting her breath fog a tiny bloom of warmth on his sweater. His hand resumed its motion. A lazy, circling glide over the slope of her back, his thumb dipping into the seam of her robe as if memorising her shape through the fabric. He leaned back against the bookcase, his legs stretched out, one ankle crossed over the other and she tucked her knees beneath her, fitting herself into his frame like a secret folded into parchment. Outside the narrow window to their right, the snow thickened. Warren turned slightly to look and Tom watched her instead.
“You like the snow,” he said, voice low and unreadable. She smiled a little, almost embarrassed.
“I like how quiet it makes everything feel.” He nodded once. His fingers moved up, finding the line of her braid where it draped across her shoulder. He toyed with the end of it absentmindedly, twisting it between two fingers, smoothing it down. He didn’t realise he was doing it until she stilled slightly beneath his touch. She tilted her face up again and he looked down. There were questions in her eyes he wasn’t ready to answer. Affection, too. Trust. That was the worst of it…the trust.
He didn’t deserve it. But he held her anyway. As if his arms were the only place she could exist right now. He turned his head and kissed the top of her hair, barely a brush of lips, almost imperceptible. But she melted further into him. And he let her. Kept her there. Because whatever war he was fighting inside himself, legacy, control, ambition, desire, she was the one thing he couldn’t seem to make war against.

They lingered longer than they meant to. Myrtle had curled against his side until the candles dimmed low and the silence of the library turned reverent. Tom didn’t move until she did, gently extricating herself from his warmth and standing up, reaching for the stack of books they’d used.
“I’ll just return these,” she murmured, voice still hushed, reluctant to disturb the hush they had created. She moved to the nearby shelf and began reshelving them one by one. Standard Potions references, an old volume about dangerous creatures Tom insisted on reading, a misfiled Ravenclaw essay collection. Then, as she reached to put away the last of them, her fingers brushed against a small, worn leather cover tucked between two encyclopedias.
“This isn’t from the library,” she said absently, drawing it out. Tom had begun gathering their things, but the moment he turned and saw it in her hands he stopped. His whole body stilled. Not just a little. He physically recoiled, backed up a full step, almost knocking into the chair behind him. Warren blinked, confused.
“What…?” Her fingers turned the object over. A small, black Bible. Worn spine. Gold-lettered edge. Harmless. “It’s just— it’s just a Bible,” she said, puzzled. “Someone probably—” But her voice faltered. Because Tom’s expression wasn’t puzzled. It wasn’t amused or disdainful or even cold. It was horrified. His eyes were locked on the book as if it might burst into flame in her hands. His breathing was shallow. Jaw clenched. The muscle in his cheek twitching like he was holding back something. Fury, terror, memory, all at once. And Myrtle didn’t understand. But Tom was no longer in the library. Not really.

He was six again, barefoot on the cold floor of the orphanage corridor. He remembered the sting of a ruler on his knuckles for sneaking bread. The way they spoke of God as though He were a weapon to be used. The sermons about sin. About temptation. About evil inside a child. He remembered kneeling, alone before the cracked plaster statue of the Virgin, his knees aching, his stomach growling, his face numb. Remembered the priest whose eyes had gleamed too eagerly when they spoke about demons in children. Remembered Sister Agatha gripping his chin hard enough to bruise it when he refused to say Amen. He remembered how they looked at him after the rabbits died. He remembered being called an abomination. A curse. A mistake made flesh. And now she…she stood there holding that book. Innocently. Kindly. It almost broke him.
“Tom?” her voice came again, worried now, softer than before. He flinched when she took a step toward him. He didn’t mean to, but he did. Like she’d moved too close to the open wound he didn’t want her to see. “Tom— it’s just a book,” she whispered. His hands were fists. His throat too tight.
“Put. it. down.” His voice was cold and distant. She carefully set the Bible away on the furthest shelf and stepped toward him again. When he didn’t back away, she reached for him, lightly at first. Her small, pale fingers touched his cold wrist. He still didn’t move.
“You know, I don’t even believe in God,” she whispered, trying to soothe him with the same soft voice she used when he had the visions, when he came to her that night in silence and shadows. “I don’t believe in Heaven or Hell or sins or… things like that.” His gaze flicked to hers at that, sharp and bitter and almost wounded. Like it hurt to be seen like this. Fragile. Weak. He looked too much like the boy who had crept into her dormitory weeks ago and stood frozen at the foot of her bed, too proud to ask for comfort but too desperate to leave without it. He stared at their joined hands as if he couldn’t understand how it had happened. She stepped into him fully now, wrapping her arms around his middle. Her head pressed just beneath his collarbone. She didn’t say anything else and he didn’t either. Because anything he might say would be too much. Too dangerous. But he let his arms come around her slowly, as if learning the shape of comfort in reverse. And once they were closed around her, he held her like he might never let go. Not because she asked. Not because she soothed him. But because she didn’t run. And in the silence of the library, with the holy book left behind on the table like a ghost of the past, Tom Riddle closed his eyes and buried his face in her hair and for a breathless moment, let himself exist in a world where he could be held without judgment.
She shifted, only a little, enough to lift her head to see if his breathing had steadied, if the strange terror in his eyes had passed. Her fingers twitched faintly where they lay on his back, unsure whether to stay or move. But as soon as she even thought of pulling away, his arms tightened around her. It wasn’t rough. It wasn’t commanding. But it was final. He held her as if her leaving might break something in him. She stilled again, uncertain. But then his head dipped, barely, until his forehead touched her shoulder and she stayed. Her hands found his back, smoothing up and down slowly, uncertain at first but gentler with each pass. He was tense beneath her touch, coiled like something held shut for too long, a storm trapped behind cold skin and sharp bones. But she didn’t rush him. Instead, her fingers moved with care, like a quiet hum in the storm. They slid up, into his black hair, brushing lightly over his scalp, threading softly through the strands at his nape. He shivered once, maybe from the cold, maybe not. He still said nothing. But Myrtle thought or hoped, that she felt his grip ease. Not loosen, just soften. Enough to let her breathe again. Enough to tell her he was breathing too. Her cheek rested against his shoulder now and they stood like that in the shadows of the forgotten corner of the library and he let her this close. For a moment, just a moment, he let her.
After a while he suddenly straightened as if remembering himself. Not sharply. Not violently. But all at once, the fragile tension holding him together snapped back into place. His spine lengthened, his jaw set and the shadows that had flickered behind his eyes smoothed into something composed. Controlled. Cold. It was like watching ice form over water.
“Don’t comfort me,” he said softly but with steel beneath the word. His hand moved to her waist, firm. Possessive. Still keeping her close. Still anchoring her there, as if nothing had just happened. As if she hadn’t just seen the boy beneath the dark. Warren stumbled, stunned by the shift but he didn’t give her time to speak. He looked down at her, all walls up again now, a touch of his usual arrogance returning to his lips. Only his hand lingered a bit longer than it should’ve on her lower back. His fingers flexed there once, as though remembering her warmth. Then, with a composed voice, like the past few minutes had been just a shadow slipping across stone, he spoke.
“We should go. I don’t want you too tired.” He didn’t look at the Bible again. He only looked at her. Not softly. Not gently. But fixedly, like he needed her back beneath his control to survive the echo of what had just cracked open inside him. And she let him lead her away. Because even if he’d hidden himself again behind marble and mirrors, he hadn’t let go of her hand.

The moment they rounded the next corridor, out of the hush of the library’s shadows and into the deeper dark where only sconces flickered, he stopped walking. His grip tightened. Warren opened her mouth, startled but didn’t manage a word because Tom had already pulled her into the alcove. Pressed her back against the cold stone, one hand at her hip, the other rising to tangle into the side of her brown hair. His eyes were not soft. They were lit from within, burning low like banked embers and just as dangerous.
“Wait—,” she whispered, barely breathless, her fingers lifting uncertainly to his chest. “Are you o—?”
“Don’t,” he cut her off, voice sharp but quiet, dangerous in the way it trembled with restraint. “I don’t need your concerns.” Her lips parted again but the words didn’t come. He kissed her, harsh and sudden and full of something he couldn’t name. Not hunger, not tenderness. Control. He kissed her like he needed to erase the fragility that had just cracked through him. Myrtle whimpered faintly, startled, overwhelmed, but not pulling away. Never pulling away. His mouth moved against hers, his body crowding her until she had nowhere to go but into him. She reached for him on instinct, hands in his robes, gripping tight and he groaned into her mouth like that alone was enough to drive him over the edge. “I don’t need concerns or saving,” he muttered hoarsely against her lips, barely breaking the kiss. Her brow furrowed faintly, dazed.
“But—” He kissed her again before she could finish, hand dragging down the length of her arm, fingers slipping under the edge of her sleeve.
“I don’t need anyone,” he breathed against her throat, kissing there now. “I just need you to let me have you.” She gasped as his teeth grazed her skin. He felt her pulse flutter. Felt her tremble. And it steadied him. Her surrender was his equilibrium. His dominance was his recovery. Because the weakness she’d seen, her soft hands in his, her voice saying I don’t believe in God as if that could undo the darkness, it had rattled something loose in him. And Tom Riddle did not do loose. But this, her against the wall, trembling, whispering his name like it was both question and promise, this was control. This was how he held himself together. By claiming her all over again. She turned her head just enough to murmur, breath catching against his cheek.
“Tom, we’re not even somewhere safe—someone could—”
“I don’t care,” he said, blunt and breathless, the words scraping against her skin as he kissed down the line of her jaw. “Let them walk past. Let them wonder.” His mouth found the hollow beneath her ear. “You’re mine. I’ll have you wherever I want.” Her knees buckled slightly at that and he took the opportunity to press her back harder against the stone, anchoring her with his body. His fingers slipped inside her collar, tugging it aside just enough to bare her shoulder to his mouth, where he left a possessive kiss, a mark claiming her in skin and breath and silence.
“But—if someone sees—” she whispered again, the protest only half there, dissolving even as she said it. His eyes were dark with something untamed, something dangerous.
“I’ll obliviate them.” Her breath caught.
“Tom—”
“I said don’t,” he growled again, quieter this time but no less sharp, cutting through her hesitation like a blade. “You don’t get to push me away, not now.” His hand slid down her ribs, slow, coaxing and punishing all at once. She swallowed hard, lips trembling. He kissed them again, swallowing every word, every sound she might have made. “You think I have to care about propriety, Warren?” he said into her mouth, between sharp, hungry kisses. “I’ll take you in a hallway alcove. I’ll take you in the damn library. I’ll take you wherever I need to if it means I get to feel you again.” She moaned and he kissed her harder for it. And when she cried into his mouth, soft and shaken, it was the final confirmation he needed. His hand slid up, fingers splaying over her ribs like he meant to memorize the way her lungs expanded beneath them. Her skin was warm, despite the cold stone behind her and he burned with it, needing more, always more. She was his tether, his escape, his power, his punishment. And if all he had in this world was this dark corner and her breath on his throat, he would still take it. He would still make it his.

He kissed her harder, angrier, lips dragging along her throat, her collarbone, his hands clutching at her waist like he didn’t trust her not to vanish if he let go. She whimpered against the stone wall, his mouth everywhere. Possessive and unrelenting, tracing every inch he could reach beneath her uniform layers. Then he froze for just a second, breath ragged, forehead pressing into hers. His eyes burned into hers, pinning her there. His voice, when it came, was low, hoarse and dangerous.
“Do you want me to stop?” His hand slid lower over her hip, fingers curling into her thigh through the fabric. “You have to tell me right now.” She shook her head almost instantly, breath catching, body arching toward him helplessly. But he didn’t move, not yet. “Not good enough,” he whispered darkly. “Say you don’t want me to stop.” Her lips parted, shaking, overwhelmed, his body against hers, his mouth, his voice.
“No,” she breathed, the word cracking as it left her. “Don’t stop, please.” He made a low sound, half a growl, half a groan and that was it. His hand gripped her tighter, mouth crashing down onto hers, dragging her further into the shadows of the alcove like he’d lose his mind if he didn’t have more of her. The control snapped but not completely. He was still deliberate, still wickedly focused but feral now, like her words had unlocked something brutal and unholy inside him.
“Good girl,” he hissed between kisses and devoured her all over again. He tugged her shirt loose from her waistband, hands slipping beneath with a possessive hunger that bordered on reverence. But it was not gentle, not this time. His fingers moved with purpose, undoing the buttons one by one, each sharp click like a countdown to something neither of them could name but both of them felt burning beneath the skin. His mouth never left her. Kissing down her jaw, dragging his teeth against the line of her throat, whispering curses into her skin like spells. And then his hands were on her hips, down, gripping her arse through the fabric of her trousers with a force that made her gasp and tremble in his hold. He groaned low in his throat, almost like he’d been holding back for too long and now he couldn’t anymore. His fingers dug into her, kneading her roughly, pulling her closer so she could feel how much he meant it. His hands were everywhere now, pushing her shirt further open, dragging over the thin fabric of her bra, his thumbs brushing the skin just beneath. Then he kissed her again, harder than before, as if he could consume her, as if this was the only way to remember who he was. Or forget. He didn’t slow down. Didn’t give her space to recover from the way he’d dragged her into this forgotten alcove between ancient tapestries and narrow stone, didn’t pause to think if this was proper or if someone might find them. Instead he slid his hands to the backs of her thighs.
“Up,” he ordered darkly and she obeyed, small fingers gripping his shoulders as he lifted her as if she weighed nothing. Her legs locked around his waist instinctively, breath catching as she felt him, all of him, hard and hot and devastating through the layers of fabric that still separated them. The height difference meant her back was against the wall, her face tilted up to him, his body flush against hers. His robes fell open, brushing her sides like wings as his hips rolled once, slow and deliberate, pressing his want against her. A sharp sound escaped the girl’s throat, helpless and high and he caught it with his mouth, swallowing it in a kiss that was no longer soft, no longer exploratory. It was an obsession. Every movement made her more pliant, more desperate, writhing in his hold like she didn’t know how to stop needing him. He thrust against her again, slow and punishing, letting her feel the full evidence of what she’d done to him.
“You’re already shaking,” he groaned and she whimpered, fingers fisting the front of his shirt. He dropped his mouth to the side of her neck, bit gently just beneath her jaw and she gasped his name like a broken spell.
“Tom—” But he didn’t want words. Not now. Not unless they were his.
“No one else,” he whispered, trailing kisses up her throat, his breath ragged. “Not anyone. No one else gets to have you like this. Say it.”
“No one,” she breathed, dazed, obedient. He stilled suddenly, lips brushing her cheekbone. “You’re perfect like this,” he said, voice a rasp against her skin. “Pressed against me, your legs around me, sobbing into my neck while I ruin you from the outside in.” She whimpered again, too soft to be agreement, too loud to be silence. He shifted, pressed her back against the stone more firmly and slid a hand down between their bodies. Not into her pants, it was already a lot for her now. Just enough to make her writhe, to feel her. Her hips jolted at the first brush of his hand, the flat of his palm pressing between her legs through the fabric. His mouth didn’t leave hers. He swallowed every gasp, every breathless plea she couldn’t form, every broken syllable she tried to whisper. His thumb traced a slow, deliberate circle through the fabric, again and again, until her body arched against him.
“Please,I—” she choked, trembling.
“It’s okay,” he murmured into her mouth. “I can stop if you want.” She was panting now, overwhelmed by how easily he was undoing her but shaking her head. Still fully clothed. Still pressed up against a wall in an alcove they shouldn’t be in. He felt her legs tighten around him, felt the tremble start at her thighs and ripple upward. His fingers worked in perfect rhythm, patient and firm, reading her body like something he’d written himself.
“You’re so perfect for me,” he whispered, words dark and reverent. And then she broke. It was soft, not loud or dramatic but her entire body seized with pleasure. Her arms locked around his neck and she buried her face against him, breath stuttering, body shaking. She moaned his name, helplessly, into his skin as the waves took her. He didn’t stop holding her. Not for a second. Instead, he stilled his hand and just held her tighter, high in his arms, lips brushing her temple. She was boneless and dazed and he adjusted his grip to support all her weight. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. He could feel her heartbeat through his chest. Could feel how utterly she was his in that moment. And for once, he didn’t feel mad with power or poisoned by wrongness. He felt steady. Grounded. He stayed like that, just holding her in the dark alcove, her small body soft in his arms. And only when her breath had slowed and her hands unclenched from his robes did he lean back enough to press a final, slow kiss to her brow.
“I’m not putting you down yet,” he murmured. “Just let me hold you a little longer.” And she did.
—

They slipped from the alcove like shadows, silent and flushed. Myrtle’s eyes were glassy, her breath still shaky from what he’d drawn out of her with nothing but his hands and mouth and voice like a spell meant only for her. He walked beside her, measured and composed again, the last edges of need slowly tucking themselves beneath his collar. He could still feel her thighs locked around him. Her breath in his mouth. Her trembling. She stumbled slightly, dazed. He caught her and didn’t let go.
They’d nearly reached the marble staircase to the first floor, not far from the entrance that split toward the Great Hall and the Ravenclaw Tower, when Myrtle stopped abruptly. Her whole body froze like prey that had just scented a predator. Tom glanced down at her, ready to ask what she’d seen but she was already stepping back into him, hand clutching his sleeve.
“What is that…?” she whispered, voice too small, too tight. His eyes cut forward and there it was. Moving across the corridor like a cursed thing born from nightmares. A spider the size of a small dog. Not even something earthly. Something far worse. Its legs were long and twitching. Its joints clicked in rhythmic pulses like the bones of a broken marionette. The bloated abdomen dragged slightly beneath it. Its pincers flexed, sharp and yellowed, glinting in the candlelight. It moved unnaturally, too silent for something that size, yet every step echoed. His wand was in his hand before the breath left his chest. Reflex. Behind him, Myrtle whimpered and shrank closer to him. The Acromantula reared slightly, sensing the tension, its multiple eyes shining in the dark like wet marbles. Each one blinked separately. Observing. Disgust crawled up Tom’s spine like a fever. This was just filth. Ugly in every way. Useless. He took one slow step forward and raised his wand.
“Don’t!” The voice shattered the stillness. Footsteps pounded on the floor behind them. A figure emerged from the shadowed corridor. Too big for his year, awkward in his gait, wild curls sticking out everywhere. Rubeus Hagrid. Tom’s wand did not lower. “Don’t hurt ‘im, please! Don’t—he’s mine!” Hagrid panted, skidding to a stop. “He’s just a baby—he don’t know better—please, he won’t hurt no one!” The Acromantula twitched again, curling tighter into itself like it recognized the boy.
“He was loose in the corridor,” Tom said, voice smooth and blade-thin. “In a school full of children.”
“I didn’t mean—he was just wanderin’ a bit…I swear, I was gonna take ‘im back down—he don’t bite!” Myrtle was shaking behind him now, near-silent tears welling in her eyes. She hated spiders. Hated small ones. And this grotesque hissing thing, it had her nearly paralysed. Tom’s grip on his wand tightened. He could kill it in one breath. He should. He wanted to. But then a thought unfurled inside him like ink in water. What kind of idiot child kept an Acromantula? What kind of fool wandered the castle dragging a beast behind him? A useful kind of fool. Tom stared at the creature again. And in his mind, he saw threads. Threads of chaos, of blame, of plans. He could use this. Slowly, he lowered his wand.
“I should report this,” he said icily. “You know that.” Hagrid looked as pale as Warren.
“Please don’t, sir. I’ll take ‘im right back—swear it.” Hagrid stood there, chest heaving, wild-eyed and terrified, cradling the spider in his oversized arms like it was something worth loving.
“You’d better,” Tom murmured. “Next time, I won’t hesitate. And no one else will be so lenient.” He turned sharply and reached for the brunette girl, who looked ready to collapse. Her face was paler than usual, lip trembling. She clung to him without question, still unable to understand why he hadn’t destroyed the thing. As they turned the corner and disappeared into the stairwell, Tom didn’t look back. He didn’t need to. The little monster was alive and maybe, just maybe, that would be useful when the time came. Because monsters, after all, had many purposes. And this one had just given him the perfect seed for a story that could end with blame and legend. And no one would ever suspect the boy who let it live.

They made their way in silence through the long corridor that curled toward the Ravenclaw tower, Myrtle pressed close to his side. The echo of their footsteps was quiet, but still not quiet enough for his taste. Tom cast another silencing charm over them, though the halls were mostly empty by now. She still looked like something small and hunted and she kept holding onto his sleeve like she didn’t trust the walls not to come alive. The spider-thing had rattled her more than she’d admit. When they reached the bronze eagle knocker, she paused and turned to face him. Her hair was coming loose from its braids, her cheeks still pink.
“Do you…” Her voice was so much softer than the corridor around them. “Do you want to come up? Just for tonight?” He didn’t respond right away. She rushed on, nervously. “We could draw the curtains shut and I’ll just say I’m sick tomorrow morning and… no one would know, really. You’ve already been there before. You said no one notices.” He stared at her. The desperation was childlike, but not weak. Just sincere. Honest in a way she didn’t usually allow herself to be. And it made something dangerous stir in him, because he liked it. Too much.
“Look at you,” he murmured, voice low and vaguely amused. “Since when are we scheming, my dear?” She gave a tiny huff.
“That’s basically all you do.” His mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but something close. It was true. But a few months ago she’d have wilted at the thought of lying to a professor. Now she was suggesting he sneak into her dormitory and pretend to be invisible till morning. Because she wanted him close.
“No,” he said at last, brushing his knuckles down her cheek. “You need rest.” Her face fell.
“But I—”
“Not tonight, Warren.” His tone was soft, but it was the kind of softness that meant finality. She didn’t move. Just stood there, holding onto his robes. She was tired enough that her usual self-consciousness had bled away, leaving behind something more honest, more reckless. She leaned into him again, face pressed to the front of his robes. He let her linger there, one hand resting lightly on the back of her neck. She didn’t let go and he wasn’t really sure what to do with this state of her. “Warren,” he said quietly. “I’m not changing my mind.”
“I know,” she muttered. “I’ll just miss you.” He exhaled. Tired, almost affectionate, exasperated all at once. Then she tilted her head up. The light was dim, the blue lanterns of the corridor casting shadows across her face. She looked strange at that moment. Flushed, stubborn, too young and too old all at once.
“I should go,” he said eventually, voice softer than usual but final. She closed her eyes and nodded, reluctantly. Her hands dropped. Her shoulders sagged slightly. She took a breath and then, so softly it nearly didn’t register, she spoke again.
“I love you.”
Tom froze. Not dramatically. Not visibly. It wasn’t shock that stopped him, it was silence. A silence that echoed in his chest like a bell that never learned how to ring. She didn’t repeat it. She just gave him a tired smile and murmured “Goodnight,” as if she hadn’t just said something devastating. As if she didn’t realise how deeply she’d cracked something in the still air between them. Then she turned and simply disappeared into her dorms. Tom stood there a moment longer before he eventually managed to walk away. His robes trailed behind him like a shadow, swallowing him whole as he disappeared down the corridor. He didn’t look back. He didn’t let himself.

The walk back to the Slytherin dungeons felt longer than usual. His footsteps were measured. The heels of his shoes tapping softly across the stone, echoing down the stairwells. Hands tucked into the sleeves of his robes, head slightly bowed, but not out of shame. Tom Riddle didn’t stoop for shame. He stooped because he was thinking. Too much.
“I love you.”
The words rang again, as crisp and innocent as when she’d said them. Like they weren’t a curse, like they weren’t a vow. Like they weren’t dangerous. He reached the end of the stone corridor and stopped just before the archway leading into the Slytherin common room. A torch flickered at his left. He stared at it. That stupid, soft-lipped, wide-eyed girl. How could she say something like that? How dare she say something like that. He had given her enough. His attention. His time. His protection. His touch. He had silenced her sobs with his mouth, kissed her into surrender, wrapped her in wool scarves and wandwork and even warmth that no one else on earth would ever get from him. And she had to ruin it. Wrap it all in lilies and innocence. Brand it with the word love.
He stepped through the arch. The common room was mostly empty. The fire still crackled low. Someone had left a half-drunk goblet of something on the chessboard table. He walked past it, the smell of cloves and copper curling in his nose. He made it to his room. He locked the door behind him. Silenced his corner and sat heavily on the edge of his bed. The room was dark, some of his roommates probably still missing. He didn’t care. His eyes didn’t move from the wall. His fists were clenched against the mattress.
“I love you.”
He didn’t know what that meant. Not really. He’d read about it. He’d watched boys say it in honeyed whispers behind tapestries and girls write it on letters in cursive. But that wasn’t his world. His world was Latin curses in the throat, ink under his nails, sleepless nights thinking about legacies and bloodlines and power. His world had no room for the word love. But his world also had Her. He thought of her standing there, curled in her Ravenclaw robes, curls messy from their previous stolen moment, lip tucked between her teeth like she hadn’t even realised what she’d done. She hadn’t said it to manipulate him. Not like he would’ve. Not like he could have. She said it because it was true for her. And for some wretched, hell bound second, he thought if it could ever be true for him too.
Tom stood up. He moved to the bathroom, splashing cold water onto his face. Trying to shake it out of his skin. Trying to rub the idea out of his soul. But her voice lingered there. And when he collapsed back onto the bed a few minutes later, hand pressed to his face like it could stop the word from infecting him… He realised, with a slow and devastating clarity, that she had already won something. Not his heart, he didn’t have one in the way she did. But something else. Something dangerous. She had his attention. And he wasn’t sure anymore how to take it back.
—

It was the next day’s evening and the private meeting space deep in the Slytherin dorms was thick with murmured spells and candlelight. The table in the centre gleamed, scattered with parchment, notes, and a few artifacts smuggled from the Restricted Section. Tom sat straight, but tonight, his fingers drummed idly along the spine of a closed book. He hadn’t opened his notes. He hadn’t even commented when Nott had presented a new charm variation. Instead, his thoughts circled back again to that corridor outside the Ravenclaw tower.
“I love you.”
He hadn’t slept properly. It was ridiculous. Maddening. Her voice kept echoing in his head, soft and resolute and she’d said it like it was some simple, unchangeable truth. Like it wasn’t a curse. Like it didn’t ruin everything. He should have been relieved. Power was having someone say that and not even needing to answer. But instead, he’d walked the length of the dungeons last night with the feeling of being unmade. He didn’t even realise someone had asked him a question until Black elbowed him with a mutter.
“Oi.” Tom blinked.
“What?” he snapped, sharper than usual. Nott leaned back lazily in his chair.
“We just weren’t sure if you were with us tonight. Been a bit quiet. Must be something serious occupying that brilliant mind of yours.” Lestrange snorted, flipping his wand between his fingers.
“Maybe that mudblood he traded Abraxas for,” he muttered under his breath, and the group chuckled, except Tom and Malfoy. Tom didn’t look up. He simply smoothed his sleeve and said coldly.
“If you all spent less time insulting me about filth and more time being useful, perhaps I wouldn’t have to carry the entire weight of our advancement alone.” That shut them up. Mostly.
“So what are you thinking about, then?” Malfoy sighed. Tom looked up at that, his eyes suddenly gleaming with a familiar sharpness. The predator reawakening beneath the surface.
“Hagrid,” he said flatly. “The half-giant we talked about after Halloween.”
“The third-year? What about him?” Nott frowned and Tom’s lips curled just slightly, but there was no humour in it.
“I was following him, as I already said. Near the greenhouses.” He leaned forward slightly. “He’s keeping a creature. An Acromantula.” His black eyes glittering with thrill and even Lestrange sat up straighter.
“No—”
“A baby,” Tom interrupted, “but already the size of a badger. It was outside the castle corridors last night. Almost attacked me.” He didn’t say he had company. Didn’t say how she clung to him afterward like she was still shaking. Didn’t admit even to himself that the spider’s eyes had reminded him of the nightmares he’d had as a child when the sisters at the orphanage read him the Book of Revelation out loud. The others were staring. Lestrange’s eyes were wide.
“How did you find that out?”
“I pay attention,” Tom said smoothly. Black let out a low whistle.
“You’re planning to report him?”
“Eventually,” Tom said. “When it suits us.” The room buzzed with murmured admiration, approval, some well-buried fear. But none of it reached him. He sat back again, gaze already drifting. Her voice again, echoing in his mind like a stain that wouldn’t wash away.
“I love you.”
He clenched his jaw. He didn’t need her love. Didn’t ask for it. But now that he had it, there was no chance in hell he was letting it go.
—

He had rounds again. Third this week, fifth if he counted the ones he wasn’t assigned. Two second-years sneaking out for sweets from the kitchens, twenty points from Hufflepuff. A sixth-year couple in a broom cupboard near the Astronomy Tower, twenty from Ravenclaw and Gryffindor and a disgusted glare for good measure. A ghost drifting melancholically through a restricted corridor, muttering in Latin. Nothing worth his time.
Tom Riddle moved like a shadow between staircases and corridors, the prefect badge on his chest glinting faintly in torchlight, robes perfectly pressed, eyes half-lidded with disinterest. He was tired. But not physically. No, it was the sort of tiredness that came from being forced to perform the mundane. To feign concern over school rules while a part of him pulled elsewhere, toward things older, deeper, darker. The Knights had become tedious, Hagrid too simple, Warren— He closed the thought. No need to dwell now.
He was nearly done when a soft footstep echoed from the far end of the corridor. Someone else on rounds. Tom straightened subtly, senses narrowing. Professor Dumbledore. Their paths met at the archway where the moonlight spilled across the floor, pale and cold. The older wizard’s robes were deep indigo tonight, embroidered subtly with constellations. His expression, as always, calm.
“Mr. Riddle,” Dumbledore said, stopping a few paces away. “Out late.”
“Just completing my duties, sir,” Tom replied, tone clipped and perfectly polite.
“Ah,” Dumbledore eyed him with the always present hint of suspicion. “The students do seem particularly spirited this time of year. Something about the snow, perhaps.” Tom didn’t answer. Instead, he held his gaze. There it is. That quiet pressure. That careful weight behind Dumbledore’s eyes. The flicker of Legilimency, so subtle most wouldn’t even notice. But Tom always did. He didn’t fight it. Not tonight. He had a plan, an idea to test once again. He just let it through. A single thought, as carefully chosen as a bishop on a chessboard. A girl’s voice in a quiet corridor. Soft, uncertain, unguarded.
“I love you.”
Dumbledore blinked once. It was small. A twitch of surprise he barely masked. Something shifted in his posture, no suspicion anymore, no calculation. A warm posture even. That was new.
“You’ve taken on quite a bit of responsibility this year,” Dumbledore said at last, his tone almost kind. “I hope you’re not too isolated.” Tom’s lips parted slightly, not in surprise, but in deliberate timing. He averted his gaze. Just barely.
“No need to worry,” he grinned falsely. The softness in Dumbledore’s face remained. He didn’t press but he was watching him differently now. The way a teacher might look at a boy with a secret crush on his classmate. Tom was amused and disgusted at the same time. Maybe even a bit disappointed in the so-called powerful wizard.
“I suppose we all manage. Until we don’t,” Dumbledore said lightly and it might have been an innocent phrase, but Tom felt the edge beneath it. The old man tilted his head again, gaze catching his. “It’s always good,” Dumbledore said, “to have someone during the winter. To celebrate Yule with someone close. Someone who reminds us that not all things are cold this time of year.” He let the words hang in the air like mist. Casual. Gentle. He almost smiled. But Tom just nodded, trying to look almost nervous and embarrassed, he tilted his head.
“Goodnight, Professor.”
“Goodnight, Tom.” He turned and left, the hem of his robe whispering across the stones. Dumbledore lingered behind, watching after him with a strange hopeful look in his eyes. Tom didn’t look back. But when he rounded the next corner, out of sight, a cruel smirk tugged at his mouth. Fool, he thought. If Dumbledore thought he’d caught a glimpse of something real, something human, he’d be all the easier to manage. Let the old man think the boy was in love. Let him think that girl was his weakness. Let him lower his guard. Let him think he found something good.
—

They had Potions again. Tom slid into the seat beside her just as Slughorn’s robes swished past, his movements precise, unhurried, like always. He didn’t look at her at first, didn’t have to. The command was low, nearly inaudible beneath the bubbling cauldrons.
“We’re studying today. After classes.” Not a question. Not an invitation. A decision, handed down like all of his others. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t ask where he’d been or why he’d gone quiet for the past two days. Myrtle Warren had learned how to read the difference between his silences. The ones that held storm clouds and the ones that simply meant he needed to be alone until the sky cleared. This was the latter. She could tell by the way his sleeve brushed hers deliberately, by the way his hand, hidden beneath the desk, rested on her leg. So she nodded once.
“Alright,” and she turned a page in her notes. She didn’t need more. She was there when he needed her, like always. Slughorn’s footsteps were a familiar shuffle of velvet and enthusiasm, moving through the rows with a clipboard in one hand and a self-inking quill in the other. He stopped at each pair, scribbled notes and offered his usual booming encouragement.
“Excellent choice!” he roared somewhere near the front. “Ah, yes, Amortentia, always a classic this time of year!” There were at least five other pairs working on the same thing, some already giggling over imagined scents and romantic disasters. When he reached Tom and Myrtle, however, he paused. The clipboard lowered slightly. His eyes darted from the neat handwriting on Myrtle’s scroll to the still surface of their cauldron, then back to the list.
“Lacrimora?” he repeated, blinking as if the word itself surprised him. Myrtle nodded dutifully.
“Yes, Professor.” Tom didn’t speak. He merely watched, cool and composed, letting Slughorn absorb the weight of it. The professor scratched his head.
“Lacrimora…” he mumbled again, peering at his own curriculum. “Good Merlin, I must’ve added that years ago… I don’t think anyone’s touched it since…” His voice trailed off as he inspected the ink beside their names. “Well… it’s not technically off-limits,” he added quickly, as if that settled something. Then came the laugh, nervous and short. “Not exactly a cheery choice, mind you. But academically ambitious, very ambitious.” He looked between them. Tom’s impassive gaze and Myrtle’s steady, strangely calm expression next to the boy.
“You’re both… sure?” Tom inclined his head once, eyes fixed and unreadable. Myrtle’s hands folded over the page, not a hint of doubt in her posture. “Well,” Slughorn said, clearing his throat and trying to gather his usual joviality, “I daresay I look forward to the presentation…” His eyes lingered briefly on Tom before he gave a final, clipped nod and moved on to the next pair, already calling out, “Oho! Is that Amortentia again, Miss Abbott?” And yet, as he shuffled off, his face had gone slightly pale.
—

In the quiet alcove of the library, Myrtle sat cross-legged on a chair beside Tom, her notes neatly stacked, her quill still. She hadn’t touched her parchment in minutes. Not since he arrived and wordlessly joined her, not since the silence began stretching between them like an invisible string, pulled taut. Tom finally spoke, his voice low, steady, yet heavier than usual.
“I had to do some things.” Myrtle blinked, lifting her eyes from the half-finished diagram of Lacrimora’s root composition. She didn’t interrupt. He never said anything without purpose. “Because of what we stumbled into,” he continued. “The creature. The boy. That situation.” His jaw tensed faintly. “You don’t need to worry. It won’t hurt you, ever. That’s why I wasn’t… around.”
“It’s okay.” She answered softly. He didn’t look at her. His fingers traced the spine of the old potions book between them, casual but not really.
“If you’d ever think I’d left again, just find me okay?”
“I always think you might, at least for a moment,” she whispered before she could stop herself, then smiled too quickly, too faintly. The smile was small. Too small. A twitch of lips that didn’t reach her eyes, a practiced movement born of too many goodbyes and silences. And for a moment, brief, sharp and blinding, Tom felt something tear inside him. She wasn’t trying to wound him. That was the worst of it. She said it like it was a fact. Like it belonged to the world now. Unchangeable and inevitable. He stared at her, a storm beginning behind his eyes. She didn’t rely on him. Not entirely. Not anymore. His fingers stopped tracing the spine of the book. She was his. And yet she thought he could walk away from her again. It was his failure. His mouth opened, but no words came at first. Only breath, sharp and low like he was trying to smother the fire rising in his chest.
“You shouldn’t think that,” he said at last, voice far too calm for how it burned in him. “You shouldn’t think that at all.” Her brows lifted, confused by the sudden edge to his tone, but he wasn’t looking at her anymore. He was glaring down at the pages between them like they’d personally insulted him. He turned to her then. Entirely. And she froze beneath his stare. “I made a mistake,” he said flatly, the words landing like stone. “I let you believe there’s a version of the world where I don’t want you. That was a mistake I won’t repeat.” Her lips parted, but he wasn’t finished. “I didn’t leave,” he said, sharper now. “And I won’t. You are mine, Warren. You know that. You should know that.” She blinked, visibly shaken, unsure whether to retreat or lean into the intensity now radiating off him.
“I just…” she started, but trailed off, uncertain. He leaned in slightly, dark eyes locking on hers. “I’m sorry if I said something I shouldn’t that evening,” she was toying with her sleeve again.
“No.” His voice sharpened. Not loud, but slicing through her apology like a blade through silk. He took a step closer. “Don’t apologise for it.” She swallowed, eyes flickering.
“I… I just thought maybe it made you uncomfortable and—”
“You don’t get to say things like that and then take them back, Warren.” He placed his hand onto her face. “Do you have any idea what it means to say it to me?” She shrank slightly, heart pounding.
“I just— I do feel it, I do, but I didn’t mean to—”
“I’m not interested in your nerves,” he interrupted. “I want to know if you meant it.”
“I did!” she said ardently. “But I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to—”
“Allowed?” He laughed, but there was no humour in it. His fingers ghosted along her jaw, drawing her face closer. “Do you really think there are rules for this? If you love me, then that love belongs to me. All of it. Do you understand?” Her lips parted, eyes wide.
“I… yes.”
“I don’t want pieces,” he said, leaning in now, his voice like silk over coals. “I don’t want you giving some to your friends. To anyone else. Not even to yourself. If you love me, Warren…” He glanced around before his lips brushed hers. “Then you love only me.”
“I— of course I do,” she whispered.
“Good.” He exhaled, hand sliding into her hair now, cradling her skull like he held something both sacred and doomed. “Because if you ever say it again, I won’t let you take it back. Not ever. You’re mine. Fully. Utterly. There isn’t a world for you outside of me.” She nodded slowly.
“I don’t want one.” He kissed her then, not punishing, not tender but sealing. A kiss like a lock clicking shut, like a spell being spoken aloud. He pulled her into him, hiding them in their study corner and when they parted, his thumb traced the curve of her lower lip.
“I won’t say it back,” he murmured. “Not because I don’t feel something but because I don’t know how. And I won’t lie to you.” She looked at him, dazed, overwhelmed, but nodded.
“I know.”
“But you’re mine,” he added, darker now. “Whether I say that back or not. And that won’t change.”

The library was nearly empty this late in the afternoon. Winter sun filtered in pale through the high arched windows, casting long bars of gold across the dusty desks and rows of forgotten tomes. Tom sat with Myrtle tucked closely beside him, her thigh pressed to his. His hand was wrapped around her waist, not loosely. It was firm. Possessive. As if to remind her.
She didn’t resist. She never did. Not when he drew her closer. Not when his thumb slid under the hem of her sweater and traced the bare skin at her waist in slow, idle circles. Not even when he leaned down and brushed his lips to her hair without a word, as though claiming her again with nothing but breath and skin. They hadn’t said much since settling in the far alcove of the library, away from wandering students and whispering ghosts. It was a corner that let him keep her to himself. She was being good again. Malleable.
“Could you draw it again, the symbol?” he asked suddenly, the words almost casual but not quite. His hand moved up to stroke the back of her hair, playing with the braid she’d twisted earlier. She blinked up at him, confused for a moment.
“The one I painted on your arm?” His eyes flicked to her knowingly, lips barely curling as he nodded. A flush bloomed across her face as the memory sparked and she bit her lip. “You want it again?”
“On parchment.” His tone was soft, but firm. He let his hand drift down from her braid to rest at her neck, fingers spread lightly at the nape. “I might use it one day.”
“For the summoning spells?” she asked, tilting her face toward him, eyes searching his. He didn’t answer immediately. Just watched her. Something unreadable flickered across his face. Then he shrugged.
“Maybe.” She smiled. The kind of smile that wanted to please. That bloomed from being needed.
“I’ll draw it now,” she said eagerly, already reaching for the blank parchment and the charcoal pencil they’d tucked into the side of their book. Tom didn’t let go of her as she began to sketch. Instead, he shifted his chair closer, watching her hand move carefully across the paper. His eyes trailed her profile. How focused she looked, how happy to be useful. His hand returned to her braid, then slid down to toy with the collar of her blouse. “You’re good at this,” he murmured. She gave a quiet hum of acknowledgment, shy but pleased.
“Are you still looking for it?” she asked after a moment. The question floated in the quiet like a fog. His fingers paused at the back of her neck, the skin warm beneath them. “For the Chamber, I mean,” she added softly. His gaze remained on the drawing.
“I might be,” he said eventually, voice low and unreadable. She stilled for a moment. Her hand slowed its sketching. Tom studied her for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he leaned closer and kissed her cheek, just below her eye and settled back. Watching her finish the symbol he asked for. The one that would mark the start of everything.

Tom had never been a physical person. He understood the mechanics of proximity. When to lean in, when to recoil, when silence was more effective than presence. But he did not touch. Not in the way others did, clumsily or tenderly. His world was sharp angles, unreadable glances and the space between people used as leverage. He had never liked the weight of another body near his own. But with her it was different. It was command. She responded to his touch like parchment to ink, eager, receptive and transformed. And that kind of obedience was impossible not to explore. He learned her reactions like incantations. A hand at the nape of her neck made her breath hitch. Fingertips grazing the underside of her jaw silenced her thoughts. Pressing a kiss to her temple could reduce her to nothing but quiet warmth and trust. If he dragged the backs of his fingers down her arm while speaking low against her ear, she would tremble, just enough for him to notice, just enough to make him want more. Tom realised he could steer her emotions with touch the way he bent magic to his will. And it was power, real and tangible power. It was intimate. Raw and subtle. She didn’t even realise it was happening. She melted into him, curled toward his palm like something desperate and he let her. He let her because it wasn’t only about control. It was about mastery. The precision of it thrilled him. That he could make her still with a hand to her ribs. That he could make her blush with a kiss behind her ear. That he could make her forget entire conversations just by slipping his arm around her waist and pulling her back into his chest. No one else was allowed to touch him. No one else would ever earn the right. He chose her body as the one place he let his guard down just a little bit, not because he trusted her but because he owned her reactions. Because her soft noises, her shivers, her unraveling under his hands… Those were his. His creation. His domain.
Her touch was different. It was not commanding like his. It was tentative. Quiet. Almost reverent. As if she still couldn’t believe he allowed her fingers on him. But that was what made it worse, or better. Because Tom didn’t let himself be touched. Not by the boys who would clasp his shoulder with camaraderie. Not by the professors who mistook ambition for fondness. Not even by those who craved him the way people craved power, greedy and blind. If he ever had something with others before, it was purely just part of a plan. Pureblood girls with perfect posture and proud names, willing to burn for a moment with him. But there were no after moments. No holding, no lingering touch, no tenderness. Now it was different. Devastatingly different. He didn’t just want her for a few stolen moments. He wanted all of her. Only her.
Her fingers always reached for him with trembling care now, as if she thought she might break something in him if she moved too quickly. She never would. He wouldn’t let her. But she thought it, as if he was something worth trembling for. She would lay her palm over his chest, just to feel his heartbeat. Never demanding, only wanting. Only his. She would stroke his dark hair, brush invisible lint from his collar, rest her head against his shoulder with the kind of tired trust he hadn’t earned and didn’t deserve. It disarmed him. Not because it was love, he didn’t believe in such fictions, but because it belonged to him. Every time she touched him, it reminded him that she wasn’t touching anyone else. She was his. Filthy in bloodline, yes. A muggle-born. All wrong on paper. But somehow, unspoiled. Uncorrupted by the others. She was pure where it mattered. In her mind. In her blind, relentless devotion to him. She didn’t even like the muggles, nor the wizards. She only liked him. Not even magic could have crafted something so obedient.
He hated how much he needed her touch sometimes. How it steadied him, made him feel. But he let it happen, because she didn’t know what it meant. Because to her it was affection. To him, it was possession. And possession was everything. So he let her run her fingers over the back of his hand when they studied. Let her lean against him when she got tired. Let her kiss his jaw, his lips, his throat. Let her curl against his side like she belonged there. Because she did. Because every touch she gave, sweet, soft or unsure, was one more proof that she wasn’t going to leave. He didn’t like thinking about it. The idea of losing her. Of her turning from him, slipping through his fingers like she hadn’t been shaped by him, like her body didn’t remember his hands. If he ever couldn’t have her, then no one else would. He wouldn’t allow it. He would break her himself before letting anyone else touch what belonged to him. If she ever begged to leave, he would still keep her. And if he couldn’t… if he truly couldn’t… he’d rather bury her with his name on her lips than see her live in someone else’s arms. But she didn’t need to know all that. She was being good now.

Tom rose first, already brushing imaginary dust from his sleeves. He began collecting the books, quills, parchment, the half-sketched Lacrimora diagram Myrtle had drawn before. All meticulously gathered. She didn’t move. He turned back to her, one brow raised in warning.
“Dinner.” Her mouth tugged downward into a soft, silent protest.
“Do I really have to?” she mumbled, curling further into the alcove bench. “I’d rather stay here. With you,” she tried with a smile. He exhaled sharply through his nose, almost a laugh, but not quite.
“You’re trying to distract me.” She tilted her head, eyelids fluttering hopefully.
“Is it working?” He leaned down slowly until their faces were nearly level, until he could feel the warmth of her breath against his cheek.
“No.” She huffed, but there was a smile behind it, sleepy and coy. “I have a surprise for you after dinner,” he said suddenly, low and dark with a smug expression.
“Really?” Her eyes lightened up. “What kind of surprise?”
“After dinner.”
“That’s manipulation.” He gave her a cool look.
“Five points for Ravenclaw.” That earned him a tiny scoff but she finally unfolded herself and stood. He adjusted her collar with swift fingers, a quiet, automatic motion.
“Will you at least give me a hint?” she asked as he ushered her toward the doors. He didn’t answer.
“Is it a spell?” Silence.
“A book then?” He glanced sidelong at her, dangerous and amused.
“I’m not telling you.”
“Is it alive??” Now he has stopped walking. Turned fully toward her, gaze flat but lips twitching slightly.
“You’re terrible at this.” She grinned, chin lifting as if she’d just won something. But when he leaned in, just briefly enough to brush a kiss at the crown of her head, she faltered, chest tightening. As they moved toward the dinner hall, they parted quietly.
In the Great Hall, he returned to the Slytherin table without a word, composed and distant. Across the room, she sat alone. She always did. Sometimes there was the Abbott girl, but Tom gathered they weren’t that close. And when their eyes met, fleeting and electric, he tilted his head the slightest bit toward her plate. An unspoken command. Eat. She blushed, looked down, and obeyed. Tom watched her just long enough to feel it settle in his chest, that quiet burn of possession, before turning back to his food.

Chapter Text

December 1942

After dinner, a Ravenclaw girl slipped quietly from the table, weaving past groups of students and their chatter. She didn’t look toward the Slytherin table. She didn’t need to. He found her before she’d even reached any staircase. One moment she was passing beneath a torch-lit archway and the next a hand curled firmly around her wrist, pulling her into the shadowed turn of a lesser corridor. Her heart skipped, then steadied. She knew he would find her.
“I was wondering where you were,” she whispered, teasing.
“I promised you a surprise, didn’t I?” He murmured back, voice low as he drew her in by the waist. They walked in silence, his fingers ghosting along the small of her back as they moved through quieter halls. She leaned closer with every step, half-pouting, half-excited.
“When will you tell me?” He didn’t look at her.
“You’ll need to learn patience, Warren.” She grumbled something under her breath, making him smirk. It almost made him kiss her. By the time they reached the seventh floor, most of the castle had begun to settle for the evening. He stopped in front of a massive tapestry, a ridiculous one at that, depicting a wizard in garish robes attempting to teach a trio of trolls ballet. Myrtle stared.
“What exactly…is that?”
“Barnabas the Barmy,” Tom said dryly, folding his arms. “Failed miserably, of course.” She frowned, watching one troll lift a leg with confusion.
“You brought me here to watch dancing trolls?” She asked nervously, trying not to sound too disappointed. He then stepped back and walked past the tapestry, once, twice, brows knit in silent concentration.
“Tom?”
“Give me a moment.”
“Are you okay?”
“Perfectly.”
“What are you—”
“Shh.” She bit her lip, a bit sulky. But then the wall began to shift.

Three steps, three circuits. Intent braided with magic, threaded into stone. His mind focused on the vision. Not necessarily a room for her. A room for him to be with Her.
Because the broken lavatory was unacceptable now. It reeked of the secret chamber that lay beneath it. Of the whispers she didn’t hear. Of the power she had no idea she’d been hiding above. He didn’t want her wandering there too much. He didn’t want her to know. The library? Only sometimes. Only in corners and alcoves. It was never truly theirs. Too exposed, too watched, too quiet at the wrong times and too loud at the right ones. And the abandoned classrooms were useful but beneath him. He was not a creature of chalkboards and dust. So this would be different. Not public. Not pitiful. Not a stolen place, but a made one. A conjured one. A gift he gave. Because what kind of man would he be, if not the one to answer prayers before they were even thought of?
The door appeared. Unassuming. Hidden. It didn’t creak. It waited. His breath left him in a soft hush, not reverent or shaken, merely satisfied. She stood beside him, small and expectant. She didn’t know yet what he’d done. What he’d crafted for her. For them. For the quiet sanctity of his claim. He looked down at her, and a smirk tugged at the edge of his mouth.
“After you,” he said, as if he hadn’t just commanded the castle itself to build a shrine to his obsession.

She took his hand anyway. It felt like stepping into a memory that never truly belonged to anyone. A place imagined too vividly to not exist and yet too secret to be real. The walls breathed dusk. The whole room was carved from some deeper midnight, dark wood paneled with ancient care, every line of the towering canopy bed etched with spells no one ever said aloud. It stood like a throne of sleep and silence, its draped curtains pulled back but heavy as though they could fall shut on a whim and trap the entire world outside. And the windows weren’t real glass at all. All clever lies. Stained panes, cold blue and moss green, frosted with soft enchantments to mimic mist, to blur the trees beyond in delicate silhouette. The illusion was perfect, except that nothing ever moved behind them. They were too high in the castle anyway. Yet not even clouds passed. No wind stirred.
There was a desk beneath them, tall and noble in its shape, worn at the edges from imagined use. Inkpots, a globe, parchments half-folded and candle stubs long since cooled sat arranged like offerings to thought. It was all for secrets. For letters never sent. For spells created. Every corner of the room whispered intention. From the carved chairs to the stacks of unread books at the foot of the bed, to the oil painting of some water surface, the Black lake perhaps, on the back wall. Everything meant something. It was a place built by obsession and sealed by the kiss of a thought whispered too softly to be heard aloud.
She stepped inside like someone entering a chapel. Cautious, hesitant, stunned into quiet. Her breath hitched. Just a little. Just enough. The moment her eyes swept across the dark paneled walls, the grand bed, the rows upon rows of books and ink and parchment, her spine went stiff with some mixture of awe and disbelief. And then the stained-glass windows caught her, all blue-green and soft, dreamlike frost and she froze entirely, lips parted as if something inside her had just tilted. She didn’t speak and her silence was the reaction.
He watched her from the threshold. Not moving, not interrupting, merely watching. Drinking in every flicker across her face. The way her fingers brushed the carved bedpost like she couldn’t believe she was allowed to touch anything. As if she might be told off at any moment, asked to leave. His eyes moved with her, a predator patient in stillness but not cold. Not now. There was something deeper behind his gaze. This was what he meant to do. Of course it worked. He’d summoned this room for her and her alone, or at least, that’s what he’d let her believe. And she did believe it. Because it was perfect.
And yet to conjure a room like this, to bring a girl here, alone, behind a door that vanished into stone as soon as it shut? It wasn't just inappropriate. It was unthinkable. Unforgivable. No respectable person would’ve dared. But Tom Riddle had long stopped pretending to be respectable. Rules were for the rest of them. For the fumbling boys with curfews and reputations to uphold. Not for him. He didn’t ask. He didn’t apologise. He created. If the castle hadn’t carved out space for them, then Tom would. With a glance toward her now, still entranced in the stained-glass glow, he allowed the smallest curve at the corner of his mouth.

Her fingers ghosted along the edge of the writing desk, trailing over a pot of deep blue ink, a folded length of parchment, a quill tipped in gold. She turned slowly, still breathless, still caught somewhere between disbelief and reverence. Her eyes found him in the soft light spilling from the sconces.
“How did you find it?” she whispered as if speaking too loudly might make it disappear. Tom stepped further inside, the door vanishing into the wall behind him with a finality that made her flinch just slightly. He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he took his time walking to her, letting the hush of the place settle like snowfall.
“We were here twice already,” he said finally, voice low, thoughtful, as though he were letting her in on something ancient. “But it always found us.” Her brows knit faintly, recalling the events. After a fight about the Salazar Biography, after Lestrange on Halloween, after the world had momentarily blurred into nothing but them. But Tom’s gaze was steady now, unreadable. He wasn’t talking about sentiment. Not truly. “It was useful of course,” he went on. “But I don’t like things I can’t master.” He said it plainly, without apology. Just a truth of him, as fundamental as the bones beneath his skin. “I wanted to know where it was exactly.” He watched her closely, the freckles on her cheeks reminded him of constellations now.
“So,” he continued, stepping past her, his hand grazing the curve of her shoulder, “I searched.” She blinked, confused.
“But… where?”
“In the books,” he said simply. “You told me once, if it’s not in the Restricted Section, it’s probably in the architecture records. I went through builders’ notes. Old spells woven into the foundation. Traces of intentions. Not easy to read though, definitely not findable if you don’t know what you’re looking for.” He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to. Hints too small for careless eyes, for lazy minds. But never for him. He turned back to her and the room dimmed slightly with the weight of what he wasn’t saying. That he did this for her. That this was his offering, not flowers, not poetry, but the bending of stone and spell to his will, because she had nowhere else safe to go and he was the only one who could give her this. And she stood there, still awestruck. Still breathless.
She turned to him, finally moving from where she’d stood rooted like a saint in the cathedral hush of it all, her eyes gleaming, her voice shy, almost too soft.
“And can we stay here? Just for a while?” It was so simple, so modest a question. Tom laughed, not cruelly, but with a kind of private amusement, low and smooth.
“Of course,” he said, stepping toward her. “You think I found it just to show you and leave?” There was pride in his voice, pride and something quieter, shadowed behind his words like the dust in the corners of the room. Something near to fondness, if only because this was his gift. He moved past the bed and gestured absently toward the desk tucked under the stained glass.
“I already tried a few things,” he said. “You can’t take anything from here. Not the books, not the ink pots, not the conjured things. They vanish the moment you cross the threshold.” Her brow furrowed as she listened, eyes flicking toward the worn spine of a volume near the bedside, the silver-handled scissors near the paints. “If you write something yourself, draw it, create it here… that you can take. But anything already in the room belongs to the room.” She nodded slowly, absorbing it. The kind of rules that weren’t written anywhere. The kind only he would bother to discover.
“And when we want to leave?” she asked, still almost whispering, as if the walls might overhear them.
“You think it,” he said simply. “The door appears.” She stepped closer to him, her shoulder just brushing his, not quite on purpose.
“But… I don’t want to leave yet,” she said quietly.
“I’d hope so,” he smiled smugly. She glanced toward her satchel lying by the leg of the desk as though it anchored her to reality. The quiet weight of the room pressed gently on her shoulders. Too private, too warm, too secret to feel like part of the castle she knew.
“So… would you like to go back to the Potions work?” she asked, voice too careful, like she didn’t want to break the spell but was afraid of overstaying her welcome in it. Tom turned his head slowly toward her, dark lashes lowering half-lidded over those sharp eyes. Then he laughed. Not loudly, but a low, rich thing, as if her suggestion was both endearing and absurd. With unhurried elegance, he sat back onto the edge of the bed, one arm braced behind him on the carved frame, the other draped casually over his knee. He looked like he belonged there, like he’d always belonged to velvet shadows and candlelight.
“There are a great many things I might like to do right now. Brewing potions is very, very low on that list,” he said smoothly, with the faintest curl of a smile. She bit her lip uselessly, too late, because the laugh escaped anyway, light and small and almost a giggle. Her hand came up to cover her mouth, cheeks flushed pink.
“This is…” she murmured, motioning vaguely around the room, toward the bed, the soft flicker of candlelight, the thick curtains, the enchanted blue-green glass filtering everything in a hush of underwater twilight. “This is extremely inappropriate.” Tom raised a brow, tilting his head slightly, amusement sharpening the line of his mouth.
“Is it?” he asked coolly, though the corners of his lips twitched. “Because I thought inappropriate would’ve been the evening in the alcove. Or the abandoned classroom. Or the Prefect’s bathroom.”
“That’s—” she tried, the blush spilling down under the collar of her shirt now. “Those were— That wasn’t so forward!” He looked down, then back at her, slow and deliberate.
“You’re very sweet when you pretend to be scandalised,” he murmured with amusement but looked at her more seriously. “Does it frighten you then? Being alone with me here?” She swallowed. Shook her head slowly.
“No. No, of course not.”
“But?”
“But it feels like we shouldn’t be allowed to.” A whisper, barely there. Tom lifted his hand towards her and she took it.
“We’re not allowed much of anything, Warren. So I create our own rules,” he said, pulling her close. “And we don’t need to do anything, literally. I didn’t mean it like that,” he said after a beat, surprising even himself with the honesty in his voice. He kept his gaze elsewhere but his hands remained on her, still the posture of someone deeply in control. “We can be here. That’s all,” he continued, his voice low, quiet enough to almost be mistaken for kindness. “You can draw here. Read. Study. It’s a room after all, we’ve been in those before.” But it wasn’t just a room. Not really. Not when it answered his thoughts. Not when it had opened for her. She’d moved even closer, quiet as snowfall. She was standing almost between his knees while he sat on the edge of the bed. She glanced down at him, and even in the dim, flickering candlelight, the blush was visible across her cheekbones.
“…But I can kiss you here too, right?” she asked, voice so small and shy it almost didn’t exist, as though the very idea might offend the air. Tom looked at her fully, something shifting behind his eyes. A shadow catching fire. It was the way she looked at him, like he was still made of storms and obsessions, but also of safety. He didn’t have to look up much, she was so small and standing in front of him, waiting.
“You want to kiss me?” he asked, voice dark and low, almost teasing. She nodded shyly, her round glasses slipping down a bit. He cupped the side of her jaw with the same reverence with which he once held rare spellbooks. His thumb brushed the hollow beneath her cheekbone. Her skin was warm, her mouth parted. She was his.
“Then kiss me,” he murmured, gaze heavy and unmoving. “I want to see what it looks like when it’s your idea.” She leaned slightly down to meet him then, her lips brushing his like a secret told too late. He let her take it, didn’t deepen it at first, only received. Let her pour her trembling affection into it. Her fear. Her want. Only once she drew back slightly, uncertain, did he strike, pulling her close with one hand at the small of her back, deepening the kiss without warning. She gasped into it, and he swallowed the sound like it belonged to him. And in this conjured, impossible room that belonged to no one but them, Tom Riddle gave her the only softness he ever would. Not because he owed her. But because it pleased him to give it, just for a moment.

His hand on her waist tightened slightly, but not in hunger this time. He pulled back, just enough to see her face. Her lips were still parted from the kiss, cheeks flushed, breath shallow. She looked beautifully undone, so eager to give, to offer herself as if that was the most natural thing in the world. And it was precisely that, her willingness, her softness, her blind devotion, that made him stop. She wasn’t like the others. She wasn’t meant for ruin. At least not yet.
With an unreadable look, he drew her fully into his lap instead, his arms wrapping around her waist as he leaned against the headboard of the conjured bed. Her palms still rested lightly on him as if unsure whether this was rejection or something else entirely. He didn’t let her ask. She was small and weightless against him. The fabric of her robe rustled as she shifted, settling in the space he’d made for her, her head resting cautiously at the curve of his shoulder. He exhaled slowly, his fingers brushing the curve of her spine.
“I didn’t bring you here for that,” he said, voice quiet but firm, darker than any tenderness should be. “Tonight, I don’t need to take anything from you.” She blinked, confused by the gentleness in his tone, by the restraint in his hands. Instead, he took his wand and levitated the satchel she had brought towards them, fingers rifling through its contents with disinterest until he found the spine of a worn little book with creased corners.
“Would you like to read?” he asked simply. “Or you can just rest. Tell me what you want to do.” Myrtle blinked up at him, completely undone by the question. Because she still wasn’t used to him asking. The boy who could command anyone in the school to do anything. The boy who conjured a room from nothing. Who kissed like he owned her thoughts, who whispered in the shadows, who everyone feared, and who had never once asked someone what they wanted. She smiled faintly, lips still swollen from the kiss.
“Can you read to me?” she asked softly, not entirely trusting her voice. He gave a small huff of amusement, more exhale than laugh.
“Just this time,” he said. He opened the book and as his voice started to fill the room, low and even, every word pronounced with care, she folded closer into him, surrounded by the scent of parchment and candle smoke and the press of his body behind hers. There, in a room conjured from thought and desire, where the windows didn’t lead anywhere and time didn’t seem to pass, Myrtle Warren let herself belong. Tom Riddle held her with one arm and read to her with the other. Somehow, this room felt like a secret stitched into the fabric of a dream. A pocket of a world that didn’t exist but might have, somewhere. Here, in the warm hush beneath the soft flicker of candlelight and the cool gleam of the blue-green stained glass, she leaned into him as if there were no monsters in the castle’s depths, no shadows in his blood, no future already steeped in ruin. And for a brief, vanishing instant, it wasn’t Tom Riddle the heir of anything, nor Myrtle Warren a girl who was never meant to matter. Somewhere, not here, not in this version of the world, there was a life waiting to be lived. Not this one, not the one written in the quiet fury of an orphaned boy with a name he hated. But another. One that slipped between his fingers like smoke, that existed only when the world was still, when Myrtle Warren smiled too gently, or when a door opened where there should have been only a wall.

In that other life, they would have taken the long way. Slowly. Quietly. She wouldn’t have had to give herself over to him like a moth to flame just to be seen. He wouldn’t have touched her like she was something he’d stolen. He would have offered her his hand in the open. He would have asked. And she would have said yes. Of course she would have. They would have walked together, not in hiding, not darting down disused corridors or sneaking out of the library at dusk. Openly, with his fingers wrapped around hers and nothing to be ashamed of. He would have brought her books, normal ones, not laced with hidden meanings or cursed spells. She would have annotated them in return, little notes and drawings in the corners of pages. He would’ve said they were distractions but never removed them. He would’ve taken her to Hogsmeade in winter, bought her ridiculous sweets she wouldn’t finish, watched her press her cold nose against shop windows. He would’ve let her buy him a scarf for Christmas, pretend not to wear it and then slip it on beneath his cloak anyway. He would’ve told her when she was beautiful. Without the ache of needing her to know she was his. Just because she was.
And one day, maybe years from now, he would have proposed. Not with grand declarations but with something quiet. They would have married in May. He would like the stillness of late spring. And maybe their wedding would’ve been small, tucked into the hills. She’d wear lilies of the valley and he would’ve kissed her with no need to hide the hunger in it. They would’ve had a home. Wood creaking underfoot. Shelves bursting with books. Paintings, sketches, notes pinned up on every wall. A room with high windows where Warren would work, sometimes charmed portraits for magical children’s books, sometimes private commissions of enchanted ink that bloomed in motion. And a study for him, filled with odd artifacts and parchment rolls and ancient tomes. He’d lock the door sometimes when he was brooding, but she’d always come in anyway, with her wide eyes and soft apologies and he would never stay mad too long.
And maybe, just maybe, there would be a child. And not because he craved legacy but because one day, he would try to give what he didn’t have. Their child would be strange, as all gifted children are. Clever. Sharp. With black hair and dark eyes full of stars, freckles scattered across pale cheeks. The baby would learn how to lie from him and how to forgive from her, ask difficult questions at supper and inherit his ambition, her softness. There would be quiet nights. Her head on his chest, her fingers drawing nonsense lines across his ribs. There would be arguments, of course, but he would maybe let her win them more often than not, amused by the illusion of power she didn’t realise she already had. They would have grown old. He might’ve taught at Hogwarts. Defense or Potions or whatever needed fixing. He would’ve sneered at other staff members behind their backs and praised the best students in measured comments that didn’t sound like praise. She would still draw. Maybe he’d stop pretending not to smile. And they would argue over books and spells and who forgot to charm the tea to stay warm. She’d call him dramatic. He’d call her exasperating. Most of all he’d call her ‘mine’ for the rest of his life.

That was the life the Room of Requirement offered them. Not in full but just enough to be cruel. Just enough to make him feel it like a blade beneath the ribs. Because that life was not his. Not theirs. Tom Riddle would never be that man. Myrtle Warren would never be that girl. And this room, this world was not real. Their world had blood beneath its floorboards and monsters in its pipes. Their world had destiny and secrets and an ending that already watched them from a distance, patient and cruel. And still, in the room that shouldn’t exist, beside the girl who wasn’t meant to be his anything, he turned a page, wrapped an arm more tightly around her and read on. Just long enough to know what it would cost to lose it.

As the evening dissolved into the night, the Room became quiet in the way only magical places could be. Not silent but breathing, whispering. The book had been abandoned half an hour ago, lying open at the edge of the bed where Tom had been reading aloud, his voice low and careful and Myrtle had leaned against him, slowly creating enough warmth for both of them. Now she was half-asleep, her head tucked into the crook of his shoulder, one arm thrown across his chest like she had no reason to be afraid. He didn’t move. The air had stilled. Time had slowed. He felt her shift against him, barely awake, her voice a breathy murmur against his collarbone.
“I wish we never had to leave…” Tom stared at the ceiling.
“You know we do,” he said softly, not cruelly. She didn’t reply. Her fingers only curled more tightly into his shirt. A child’s stubborn refusal. A girl who didn’t yet understand what the world would take from her. He could feel the weight of it, of reality creeping back in. The spell was breaking for him.
“Warren.” He shifted beneath her, coaxing gently. “We have class in the morning.”
“I’ll skip,” she groaned.
“You’ll ruin your reputation.”
“Good.” She buried her face deeper into him. “I want to ruin everything. I want to stay here.” His hand found the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair with a kind of quiet desperation.
“You don’t mean that.”
“I do.” Her voice was smaller now. “I just… I feel really okay here.” Tom closed his eyes. That was the worst part. He couldn’t afford to stay here with her, not like this. Not when she was starting to feel like a weakness he didn’t want to let go of. He pressed a kiss into her hair. It almost didn’t feel like a goodbye.
“Come on.” He sat up, cold air sliding in where her body had been. “We have to go.”
“You’re cruel,” she mumbled again, fingers catching the sleeve of his shirt like she could pull him back.
“I know.” She looked up at him then, confused, drowsy, almost hurt but he didn’t give her more time to speak. He was already helping her up, brushing her hair out of her face, straightening her glasses, gathering their things. She let him. Still half-asleep. Still clinging to the softness between them. Eventually he had to tug her toward the door that had suddenly appeared in the wall. Half-guiding, half-dragging her through the quiet corridors of the castle. And behind them, the room of another life vanished for now, along with the version of him who might have stayed.
—

The fire burned low in the hearth, casting long gold shadows against the emerald velvet and dark wood of the common room. The hour had scared off most students, but the Knights lingered. Draped across armchairs like fallen aristocrats, shirt cuffs rolled back, glasses half-full of brandy. They looked like they belonged to the castle, not really students of it. Tom sat slightly apart from them, as always, a silent axis around which they turned. He was reading something, one leg crossed, polished wand resting along the page like a paperweight. Abraxas was the first to break the easy silence.
“So. Holiday plans. Orion returns to Black Manor where he will, without doubt, be locked in a drawing room with dear Walburga and ten thousand antique portraits.” He leaned back with practiced languor, letting his head tip against the back of the armchair.
“Disgusting. Sorry mate, I can’t get over the cousin-thing,” Nott said, pretending to gag.
“She's a second cousin!” Orion said stiffly.
“Which makes it so much better,” Tom murmured without looking up from his book. A beat of laughter passed between them.
“You shouldn’t even be saying anything Nott,” scoffed Black, “you courting Helen Abbott via cauldrons is not much better.”
“Oh, for—” Nott rolled his eyes, but smirked. “I got paired with her, that’s all.”
“And you’re brewing Amortentia together?” Lestrange laughed. “You poor sod. What does she smell when she stirs it? Chessboards and your vault?”
“She’s a Ravenclaw, but a pureblood though,” Malfoy offered. “Abbott’s a fine name.”
“Well, I’m going to Cornwall,” Lestrange offered. “Mother’s got a strange thing for sea air in winter. I’ll probably spend the week hexing Muggles off the cliffs for fun.”
“Perfect family bonding,” Malfoy noted. “Well, since we will all be off,” he continued, “what are you up to for the break?”
“Staying here.” Tom smiled without teeth. Nott raised a brow.
“Of course you are.”
“I’ve work to do,” Tom said simply and the softness of it almost masked the steel.
“Don’t you always,” Orion mused.
“You know you’re welcome at the manor. We have more rooms than we know what to do with,” Malfoy offered almost absentmindedly.
“And more house-elves than proper family members,” Nott muttered.
“I appreciate it,” Tom said, nodding with cool gratitude, “but no.” They didn’t press. Not really. They never did. Because for all their titles and estates, none of them could’ve conjured half the ambition he carried in his spine.
“You’ll have fun here with all the staying mudbloods,” Nott said dryly. “Truly, the muddiest Christmas,” he grinned cruelly. Orion made a mock expression of concern.
“Poor things,” Lestrange smirked. “Nothing to go home to except ration cards and dead fathers.” They laughed again, cruel and clever, the way boys with too much power do. Tom smiled, but didn’t join in.
“You lot enjoy your noble winter galas,” he said at last, standing and collecting his book.
“And you enjoy your secrets,” Malfoy replied. Tom inclined his head.
“Always do.” And with that, he disappeared into the shadows of the dormitory stairwell.
—

The library was cold in the mornings. Not freezing, not hostile, just still like the rest of the castle had been swept beneath a blanket of snow and silence. A soft, bluish light seeped through the tall windows, where Myrtle and Tom were working, quills scratching in slow harmony. They were deep in their notes on Lacrimora, the complicated potion designed to pull emotion from memory and wipe it clean. A delicate art. Myrtle’s handwriting curled across the parchment in her small, steady script. Tom was diagramming spell interactions beside it, the edge of his cloak brushing hers every now and then. For a long time, the only sound was the turning of pages and the faint rustle of snowfall beyond the glass. Then Myrtle cleared her throat. Quiet. Nervous. He didn’t look up, but she could feel the shift, his attention pivoting to her before his eyes did.
“I… Tom,” she said, too light. “Over the break, I think…well I’ve decided, I’ll go to London. For Christmas. Just for a few days.” She glanced at him quickly, as if to measure the weight of it before it landed. “I haven’t seen my parents since July,” she added, “and I thought… I might surprise them.” Tom’s quill stopped mid-sentence. Silence. Dense and immediate. When he finally looked up, his expression hadn’t changed, not quite. But the air around him had.
“London.” She faltered.
“Yes. I mean…just for a bit. The train goes straight through, and I’d only stay for—”
“Absolutely not.”
“What?” Her heart skipped.
“You’re not going.” She blinked, stunned.
“You’re not—what do you mean?”
“Don’t be naive,” he said, voice low and razor-sharp. “The war. The cities. Do you have any idea what’s happening in London right now?”
“I’m not a child, Tom—”
“No, you’re something worse.” He stood slowly, both hands flat on the desk, the parchment beneath him forgotten. “You’re careless.” Her mouth parted.
“You think going to see my parents is careless?”
“Yes,” he said coldly. “Because it puts you somewhere I can’t protect you. Somewhere dangerous. Surrounded by people.” She stared at him, breath caught.
“You don’t trust me,” she whispered, half-question.
“I don’t trust the world,” he snapped, then caught himself. Too much. Too bare. He straightened, tone colder now. Measured. “You’re useful here. You’re not useful dead in the rubble of some Muggle street because you decided to chase nostalgia during a war.”
“You’re being cruel.”
“I’m being realistic.” She looked down at the parchment.
“I’ll only be gone for two days,” she said quietly. “You won’t even notice.” He leaned closer across the table, voice barely above a whisper.
“I notice everything.” She held his gaze and for a moment, neither of them breathed.
“I just wanted to see them,” she said and Tom only stared at her like he was trying to solve something. And slowly, carefully, he reached forward and touched her wrist.
“Come on Warren, have they even written since summer?” At that, Myrtle stood abruptly as if stabbed, the chair scraping back against the stone floor with a sharp sound.
“I need…to go,” she said, too fast. Tom didn’t move.
“Warren.”
“No,” she cut in, already collecting her notes with trembling fingers. “I just— I'd like to be alone now, alright?” He watched her, calm, still and utterly composed. But beneath it something was starting to flicker in his eyes. She turned, clutching her parchment and took a step toward the aisle. A step away. And that wouldn’t do. Not from him. He rose without a word, smooth and effortless, and was behind her before she’d even reached the end of the row. His hand found her arm, light but unyielding.
“Warren.”
“Let me go.”
“No.” His voice wasn’t cruel now. It was gentle. Carefully threaded with something that sounded like concern. “You’re upset,” he said softly, his fingers sliding down to her wrist. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m only trying to protect you.” She turned to him then, frustration in her eyes, heat in her cheeks.
“But you shouldn’t control where I go, Tom. I’m not—” His hand reached up, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingertips lingered a moment too long against her cheek.
“I’m just worried about you,” he murmured. “You know that.” She swallowed and his voice dropped further, barely above a whisper now. “Everything I do… it’s because I care. I know what’s best for you.”
“You think you know better than I do what I need?”
“Yes.” He stepped closer. She didn’t back away. “You’re impulsive. Soft. You think your intentions will protect you in a world that doesn’t care.” His hand moved to her waist now, fingers tightening slightly. She blinked, breath caught and then he leaned in, his mouth brushing hers, not quite a kiss. Just a ghost of one. A silent “don’t go” pressed into her skin.
“You want to leave me?” Her chest rose and fell once. Twice.
“That’s not what I said.”
“Isn’t it?” he asked softly. “You want to disappear into a city full of strangers, during a war, and leave me here alone, wondering if you’ll come back? Wondering who’s looking at you when I’m not?” She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. He kissed her then. Quick, fierce and suddenly too intimate for the dusty, cold aisle of the library. When he pulled back, his voice was low against her throat. “Don’t leave me like that. Don’t make me mad with worry.” Her shoulders sank, just a little. Her breath came uneven.
“I didn’t mean—”
“You did.” He kissed the corner of her mouth. “But you don’t have to.” He kissed her jaw.
“You can stay.” Another kiss. “With me.”

Myrtle didn’t resist when he led her back to the table. He didn’t grab her this time, he just guided her, almost reverently, his hand placed at the small of her back, like a lover rather than a captor. As she sat down, he brushed a lock of hair from her forehead again, his touch gentle and ritualistic. Then he returned to his seat next to her, composed, like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t just stolen her will with a kiss and a whisper.
“There’s no need to argue about it,” he said softly, smoothing the parchment between them. “Let’s not spoil the day.” Her mouth opened, but the words caught in her throat. Tom glanced up at her and smiled. Not wide, but warm enough to make her feel like maybe she had overreacted. Like maybe this was fine. This was normal.
“See? You’re much prettier when you don’t worry yourself with things like that,” he added, gaze steady. “Leave it to me. That’s what I’m here for.” She blinked, unsure whether to feel comforted or scolded. “You’ve got enough to think about.” He picked up his quill again, flipping back to the diagram of the Lacrimora brew. “The potion. Your paintings. That little Transfiguration essay you’re behind on, I’ll help you with that.” Her eyes widened slightly.
“You—how do you know I’m behind?”
“I know everything,” he said without looking at her, voice smooth. “I pay attention to what’s mine.” That quiet possessive undertone hung in the air like mist. She flushed but didn’t object. Tom wrote a single line on the parchment, then paused and looked at her again. Then, without a word, he reached into the air between them and conjured a single, small wisp of smoke and light. A lily of the valley. Delicate, translucent, pulsing with quiet magic. It floated just above the parchment like a memory, glowing faintly in the low library light. Its shape shimmered faintly, imperfect and alive as though made of breath.
“You can do it without a wand now?” She smiled with admiration.
“Of course I can.” His tone was casual, but the pride gleamed in his eyes. “Stubborn thing to shape really. But it’s yours, isn’t it?” She stared at it, wide-eyed. The flower rotated slowly, its glow brushing across her face like moonlight. Tom reached to tap the flower gently with his wand. It spun faster for a moment, trailing little threads of silver light. He let the silence sit.
“You’re perfect for me, you know. I hope you realise that.” She looked down, flustered.
“I’m not—”
“You are,” he interrupted, gently. “You see things other people miss. You remember everything I say. You make connections I haven’t even explained yet.” The way he said it, low and unhurried, made it feel like the truth. Like a secret between them. Her lips parted, barely audible.
“Tom…” He smiled again, slow and assured. The lily of the valley drifted down, landing in the middle of their notes, as though sealing something unspoken. Slow. Willing. Defeated. Adored. Tom returned to the diagram with quiet satisfaction, his quill moving again as though nothing had happened. But in his peripheral vision, he watched her fingers reach out to touch the magical bloom, careful and reverent. Good. She was his again.
—

The castle was quieter than it had been all year. No muffled footsteps, no chatter beneath the windows. Just the distant hum of wind moving through ancient stone and the occasional shudder of the lake beneath the ice. Tom Riddle was already awake. He always was. The sun hadn’t risen yet, but his eyes had opened just the same, pulled from sleep by instinct, by the rhythm of self-discipline that had shaped him since his miserable childhood. He lay still for a moment beneath the heavy green canopy of his bed, listening to the hush. Nearly everyone was gone. Even the Muggle-borns had left, if they had families far from the Blitz or cousins in the countryside willing to take them in. And the purebloods, of course, off to their manors and marble hearths and icy, distant Christmases. It was just him now. And Her.
He sat up suddenly, the weight of memory dropping into place. He reached for one of the books, where Myrtle had been scribbling last notes late into the night. He opened the book.
A folded parchment slipped free from between the pages and fluttered to his lap. His brows furrowed. He unfolded it, expecting notes on the potion or a silly half-riddle in her elegant handwriting. But it was simpler than that. And far more final.

“Tom, I’m really sorry.I promise I’ll be back in two days, with the first train after Christmas. I’ll get you something. I love you very much.
Yours only,
M.W.”

The room was so quiet he could hear the parchment crinkle in his hand. His eyes moved over the words again. Not angry. Not yet. But the stillness inside him thickened. He ran a hand through his hair, slow and precise, as though smoothing down something more dangerous than his fringe. Then glanced at his watch. 6:12. Just early enough. His jaw tensed but his face stayed unreadable. He folded the note again with care and slid it back between the pages of the book. No reaction, not really. No slammed doors, no spells crackling at his fingertips. Just silence. Just thought. And then he rose, as though nothing had happened at all, and began to dress, slowly, efficiently. Shirt, vest, cloak.

The train hissed out of Hogsmeade Station with a low mechanical sigh, carving its way through frostbitten fields and bare trees bent under the weight of winter. Inside, the compartments were dim and half-empty, echoing with the subdued chatter of the few students who hadn’t already vanished into fireplaces or Flooed away into manor halls and country homes. Some compartments held siblings curled under borrowed cloaks. Some sat silent with Muggle newspapers folded in trembling hands. Headlines of bombings, of blackouts, of names that wouldn’t come home. He moved through it all like smoke. The Disillusionment Charm shimmered faintly over his skin and no one noticed him pass. He walked the length of the train in deliberate steps, invisible, focused, heart cold and still. It hadn’t taken long to find her.
She was three compartments from the back, curled near the window, scarf loose around her neck, sketchbook in her lap. The glass was fogged from her breath and she kept leaning her head against it like she was trying to watch the snow flurry past. Her eyes were wide. Guilty. She was alone. Of course she was. He didn’t enter. He watched long enough to see she was alright and then he turned, quiet as a shadow and disappeared. He dropped the spell only when he locked the door behind him. Sat in a corner compartment. The wind howled against the windows and he breathed. Not in rage. Not even in heartbreak. Just silence. Failure. He should have known. His fingers were cold despite his gloves. He flexed them once, twice, and then pressed them together beneath his chin like in prayer. She’s clever. He liked that, counted on it. But not like this. Not to lie. Not to sneak. Not to leave.
He should have noticed the way her eyes drifted toward the windows too often yesterday. Should have seen the slight shake in her hand when she stirred the potion, the way her voice had trembled, not from the cold, but from planning. He was sure she wouldn’t. He hated that part most of all. He leaned his head against the glass, watching the blur of the trees beyond, the skeletal forests rushing past in monochrome. A weak part of him whispered it was nothing, that she would return, as she said, in two days. That she’d bring back some silly gift, something handmade or too thoughtful and that her eyes would widen with guilt and love and some pitiful need for forgiveness. But Tom didn’t want to forgive. He wanted to remind. Remind her what it means to be his. What it means to belong entirely, without loopholes, without exceptions, without trains at dawn.
Because now he knew that there wasn’t a version of her he didn’t keep track of. Not anymore. No matter how far the train runs. He watched the fog outside grow thicker, the fields blur into smoke. Somewhere ahead, London lay buried beneath clouds and tension, radios and ration stamps, the pulse of a world he despised. And she was heading into it without him. Except… not really. Not anymore.

The train wheezed into King’s Cross beneath a sky the colour of smoke. Rain, thin and grey, needled against the platform roof as students stepped off, stiff from hours of stillness, blinking into the dim. There were wreaths, tired things. Strips of red ribbon fluttering from lampposts as if mocking the city’s grief. Soldiers leaned against pillars in faded coats, mothers with hollow eyes ushered children off with whispers and warnings and somewhere beyond the glass, the low echo of an air-raid siren hummed like a memory.
London. Even on Christmas, the city wore its wounds. And Tom was in it. He stepped off the train last, blending seamlessly into the stream of strangers. His school robes had been replaced with a long charcoal coat that buttoned to the neck, borrowed from a Slytherin a year above who wouldn’t notice it gone until spring. He walked like he belonged here. Like he was going somewhere. But his eyes never left her. She was five paces ahead, a small figure in a brown wool coat, scarf trailing loose from her collar. Her briefcase bumped against her leg with every step, and she walked quickly, like someone trying to be brave. She didn’t look back. He knew she wouldn’t. She’d probably convinced herself that two days was small enough not to matter. She didn’t understand. Not really. Not yet.
Tom moved after her, fluid and silent. He was good at vanishing in crowds. Years of orphanage games, the instinct of a predator. He didn’t need magic. Not for this. Just patience. Just timing. Just eyes that never missed. They passed a bombed-out shopfront, Christmas lights still strung across shattered windows. Myrtle glanced at it and almost slowed, the way people do when they recognise something and pretend they don’t. He noted it. Filed it away.
King’s Cross was dark and grim under blackout precautions, most windows boarded or shuttered. A few dim bulbs glowed from behind thick curtains. Posters plastered the tiled walls: Keep Calm and Carry On, Dig For Victory, slogans repeating like mantras to the dead. Myrtle disappeared into the ticket hall and he waited two beats before following. She bought her ticket quickly, lips pressed tight. He watched from behind a pillar. Her hand trembled slightly as she passed over the coins. She was nervous, she didn’t belong. Yet she boarded the local train without hesitation. It was older, noisier. Not built for comfort. This was for working people. For the poor. Tom followed. He didn’t sit. He stood in the passage, hidden behind the streaked glass of the door, watching her reflection flicker across the window like a ghost. The rain picked up as the train rumbled forward, blurring everything into charcoal and light. His hands were in his pockets, fingers curled around nothing. He couldn’t use magic, not here, but he didn’t need it. He had himself. That had always been enough.
She looked out the window now, chin in her hand, briefcase tucked at her feet. Her breath fogged the glass. Her expression was unreadable. Thoughtful. Maybe guilty. The train lurched forward again, wheels shrieking against the tracks as it wound its way into the guts of wartime London. Tom stood motionless in the passage, the chill air leaking through the seams in the door. He still hadn’t taken a seat. He didn’t need to rest. He preferred to stand, to watch. The compartment was half full, Muggles in fraying coats, their faces pinched from cold and routine. They clutched worn parcels, baskets of rationed food, threadbare scarves that reeked of coal dust and grease. Their voices were dull, their movements duller. He watched them with quiet revulsion. They were everywhere. Droning insects in flesh. Breathing, breeding, surviving by mistake. They didn’t know what walked among them, who stood only feet away, invisible, far more than they could ever name. They didn’t see Warren either. Not the girl by the window with the long hair tucked under her cap and ink on her fingers. Not how some of her freckles were lighter than the others. Not the scar on her left knuckle from a first-year incident with Hornby. None of them saw the way she pressed her palm to the glass now, like she was trying to touch the rain. They saw nothing. But he did. She was different, his kind of different. Quiet and sharp, inward, unknowably strange. She carried something in her posture, in her eyes, that spoke of long silences and dreams left to rot. No one else noticed it. No one ever had. Except him. His to see. His to understand. His to keep.
A child coughed nearby. Tom’s lip curled slightly. A woman across the aisle snored softly against her husband’s shoulder. Someone dropped a tin cup. Clumsy hands. Clumsy thoughts. And Warren, dreaming out the window, untouched by it all. There was something almost beautiful about her. Almost sacred. He stared at her the way a starving man stares at firelight through a locked door, too hungry to knock, too bitter to walk away. She doesn’t belong here, he thought, watching her chest rise and fall gently beneath her coat. She doesn’t belong with them. She belonged with him. And if he had to follow her through every fog-slicked street of London to remind her of that, then so be it.

The sky had folded into ink by the time Myrtle stepped off the train. The platform was slick with recent rain and the lamps barely pushed back the dark, their glass domes dimmed under blackout orders. Her shoes tapped quietly against the wet stone as she walked, one hand gripping the handle of her case, the other tucked deep into her coat pocket. Tom followed at a precise distance. The streets beyond the station yawned with absence. Rows of brick houses in shades of black and grey slouched under coal-stained chimneys. Windows were shuttered or dark, curtains drawn tight. Every so often, a faint echo of music or laughter would spill out from somewhere hidden. A radio left on, a family pretending the war wasn’t real for a single night. Myrtle walked with her shoulders hunched slightly forward, not from the cold, though it was bitter, but from something quieter. Something anxious. He watched her slow near a row of terraced houses, their doors like teeth in a crooked jaw. She checked a street sign under a dying lamppost, then turned left. The wind caught her scarf and blew it sideways. He would fix it immediately, she didn’t.
Tom moved in silence between doorways, slipping into alcoves and alleys when needed, his steps lost in the rhythm of the city. He didn’t breathe heavily. He didn’t think about what he would say if she turned around. He didn’t even really think about what he’d do once she’s with her family. She reached the house, a modest two-storey thing, with peeling blue paint and flower pots turned to ash. A single wreath hung from the door, limp and wet from rain. She hesitated. Her hand hovered over the bell, dropped, hovered again. Tom narrowed his eyes. Then she pressed it. It took almost a minute. He thought perhaps no one would come. But then the door cracked open.

A woman stood there. Not old. Too young to be her mother. Dark shadows under her eyes and hair tucked into a scarf. Myrtle said something he couldn’t hear, her head bowed slightly, voice too quiet to reach him. But he saw the woman’s expression shift. Not joy. Not welcome. Surprise and wariness. Myrtle kept standing there, shoulders stiff, hands gripping her case too tightly. The woman said something and Myrtle flinched. Barely, but enough. And then the door closed. Not slammed. Just… closed. And Myrtle stood there. Still. Tom didn’t move. He didn’t really understand. Not fully. She hadn’t spoken of anyone else. She’d said she was going home. That she missed her parents. That she had to see them. But now she stood in front of a shut door, blinking up at the cracked paint as though she’d forgotten how to knock. She didn’t cry. Not yet at least. She looked very small.
Tom exhaled, a quiet breath against the cold stone where he stood, pressed into a doorway across the street. He hadn’t thought much past this moment. He had followed her here with every intention of staying unseen. Of learning. Of watching and returning with the knowledge she hadn’t given him. But now she wasn’t doing what she was supposed to. She wasn’t in danger. She wasn’t being adored either. She wasn’t smiling or laughing with her family. She wasn’t inside. She was alone. And somehow, that felt worse. Still, he didn’t move.

Myrtle turned suddenly, coat whipping in the wind and Tom sank back into the shadows without a sound. Her footsteps moved quickly, retracing the path down the street, case clutched too tightly in one hand. She didn’t look back. She didn’t hesitate this time, only walked. Fast, almost panicked, as though fleeing something she didn’t know how to name. Tom followed. There was something wrong. The door, the woman, her posture… He didn’t know much about families but he was sure this wasn’t how a Christmas reunion is supposed to go.
She walked back toward the train station, into the deepening dark. The night had thickened into damp fog, oily from chimney smoke and the stink of the city. Windows glowed faintly behind curtains. Distant sirens wailed and faded. Somewhere a dog barked, angry and alone. The station loomed ahead, crouched in brick and grime. And beside it, as if drawn from the gutter by fate itself, was one of those pubs that collect themselves near transit and desperation. Small dirty windows. Sticky walls. A hand-painted sign hanging limp in the wet. She slowed. Tom stopped to, at the edge of the platform awning, in the shadow of a derelict newsstand. He could feel her indecision. Saw her look at the door of the pub. Her hand lifted. Just slightly. But before she could reach the handle, someone beat her to it and walked from inside. She quickly took a few clumsy steps back. The man was drunk. Not stumbling, not wild, just greasy. Already there. Already too close. Tom’s breath stilled. He couldn’t see their faces clearly from this angle, just the shapes of them. The man wore a brown overcoat, stained at the cuffs. His hat pulled low. He swayed as he leaned in, like a dog nosing something to see if it still breathed.
“Now what’s a pretty thing like you doing here all alone?” the man slurred. Tom went still. Myrtle’s voice was barely audible, but it reached him.
“I— I was just…” She didn’t finish. Didn’t know how to finish. Tom could tell she was crying. He could hear it in her breath. Soft and uneven and choked at the end like she was trying not to make a sound.
“Oh, come now, don’t worry,” the man said, leaning in. His voice dropped. “Cold night, innit? Bet you’d like some warmth, sweetheart.” Myrtle took another step back. Her case bumped against her leg.
“Please,” she said quietly.
“Oh don’t be rude,” the man chuckled, slurring again, the grin in his voice turning wet. “A little thing like you? Shouldn’t be out in the dark. Could be dangerous.” She tried to edge away. Another step. Another. Tom saw her try to wipe her face with her sleeve, trembling. Her voice was smaller now, cracked.
“I’m just—I’m waiting for a train—please—” The man moved closer. One hand reached out.
And Tom moved. Not quickly, not with rage. But with purpose. Down the steps from the shadows. Out from behind the shelter. Into the filthy light, his face smooth and calm and deathly precise. She hadn’t seen him yet. But the man would.
And soon, he’d wish he hadn’t.

Chapter Text

December 1942

The man reached for her. Fingers smudged with oil and tobacco lifted, half-swung, aiming toward her cheek like some foul parody of tenderness. Myrtle flinched, recoiling but too slow. But the hand never landed. A strong hand seized the man’s wrist mid-motion. Tight. Unforgiving. The stranger reeled. Tom Riddle stood in the space between them, as if he’d materialised from the dark itself. He didn’t speak. The man blinked stupidly, mouth parted, alcohol clouding his senses.
“Where the hell did you—?” Before he could finish, Tom twisted the man’s wrist sharply, unnaturally, until something deep in the joint cracked. A wet pop. The drunk screamed. A sound like an animal. He staggered back, clutching his wrist, his other hand reaching for something, maybe courage. Myrtle gasped, still frozen, still wide-eyed, but Tom’s arm was already around her waist, pulling her behind him with the same motion he might use to draw a wand.
“Get lost,” he said quietly toward the filthy stranger. No need to shout. No need to growl. Just a voice like steel. Unmoving. The man stared at him, at both of them, panting. Rage burned under his skin, but it was buried beneath fear. He spat onto the pavement, muttered something incoherent, then turned and stumbled away into the dark, cradling his shattered wrist. Silence fell again. The faint hiss of train brakes echoed far down the tracks. A bell clanged somewhere distant. The rain began again, thin and quiet. Tom didn’t look at her yet. His hand was still on her back. She didn’t move at first. She just stood there, blinking up at him through her glasses, lips parted like she wanted to speak but didn’t know how. Her whole face trembled. And then, as if something in her had finally snapped loose, Myrtle collapsed into him. She dropped her case to the ground with a soft thud and threw her arms around his middle, burying her face in his chest, sobbing. Not the dramatic sort of crying, not loud or theatrical, but the quiet, crushed kind. The kind that comes when you’ve held yourself together too long and the first touch of warmth undoes you completely. Her fingers twisted in his coat, clinging like a child lost in a storm.
Tom didn’t speak. He wrapped his arms around her as if bringing her back to the earth. One hand cradled the back of her head, the other rested between her shoulders, steadying. They stood like that on the edge of the station, the rain soft around them, the amber glow of the pub behind them giving their shadows a strange flicker. To a passing stranger, it might have looked like a reunion. Like a wartime love story. A soldier home from the front. A girl who had been afraid she’d never see him again. But that wasn’t this.
Tom said nothing. He didn’t ask what had happened outside the house. Didn’t press her about her leaving. Didn’t demand an explanation. There would be time for all that. He could feel her cries, her shaking breath. She felt so small in his arms. And for once, he didn’t feel powerful because of it. He just held her tighter. His chin rested lightly atop her head as he shut his eyes. Not mad. Not now. Because she was back in his arms, sobbing like the world had caved in, she was his again.

The low groan of metal broke through the silence, a train. Lights blinked down the far end of the platform, casting long, golden slashes through the fog. The engine screeched as it slowed, brakes hissing like serpents in the dark. A conductor looked to the rain for any possible passengers.
“Last train to the city centre!” Myrtle flinched at the sound, as if waking from a dream. She pulled back slightly, confused, eyes swollen and red behind crooked glasses. Tom didn’t hesitate. He scooped her case up with one hand, wrapped his other firmly around her wrist, and pulled her forward.
“Come on.” She stumbled after him, unable to find her footing, unable to form words. The train groaned again, already impatient. The doors clanged shut behind them a moment later with a mechanical finality. The carriage was nearly empty, only the echo of their own footsteps clattering through the passage. Tom pulled her forward, guiding her past three empty compartments until he found one near the end. He slid the door open, pushed it shut behind them and drew the dirty curtains shut. And just like that it was theirs. A small, golden-lit sanctuary. She stood trembling in the centre of the compartment, looking lost, soaked, undone. He set the case down gently, then turned to her.
“Sit,” he said, not unkindly. She did. Mechanically. She curled into the corner of the worn bench, arms around herself. Tom knelt in front of her. The lights here were dim, but enough to see. Her cheeks were flushed from crying, nose running, raindrops caught in her hair. Her scarf had come mostly undone, clinging to her neck. Her hands were trembling. He reached for her without asking. Straightened her scarf. Tucked it back under the collar of her coat. Brushed her hair from her eyes. Then, slowly, he took off his own gloves and slid them onto her hands one by one. Her fingers didn’t resist. He smoothed them gently over her wrists when he finished.
“Any bruises?” he asked, voice low. She shook her head but he didn’t believe her. So he took her chin in his hand, carefully tilting her face to the light, eyes scanning for anything red, anything that didn’t belong. His touch was slow and terrifyingly gentle. She stared at him the entire time as if unsure if he was really there. He ran his thumb along her jaw, just once. “You’re alright,” he murmured. “No one will hurt you.” She let out a breath like she hadn’t known she was holding it. And then he sat next to her, still close enough to keep her within reach. The train shuddered beneath them, beginning its journey deeper into the belly of the sleeping city.

The train swayed gently beneath them, a long slow curve through the wounded belly of the city. The windows blurred with condensation and darkness, the outside world erased. Only the flicker of lights passed in streaks. Tunnels, brick, ghost stations. Inside the little coupé, it was warm and very quiet. Tom sat beside her in the seat, legs angled toward her, one arm draped lightly along the back of the bench. Myrtle hadn’t said anything since he’d appeared. She sat small and still, eyes on her lap, lips parted like she might say something but couldn’t quite start. Tom watched her in the way he always did. Still, unreadable, but far too intent for comfort. And then, finally, something inside her gave way. She turned to him all at once and threw her arms around him. A sob tore loose from her chest the moment she touched him. Her face buried into his coat, her hands clutching desperately like she was afraid he might disappear again, like he was the only thing left holding her to the earth.
“I’m sorry—” she gasped, breathless and shaking. “I’m so sorry— I shouldn’t have gone… I was so stupid.” He didn’t answer. Just held her. “I was— I thought I could—” She choked on her words. “I thought I could just go, I thought it would be fine, I thought— I don’t even know what I thought…” Her voice broke entirely. She sobbed harder. Tom wrapped both arms around her now, pulling her closer, resting his chin lightly atop her head. Her glasses pressed awkwardly into his collar, but he didn’t care. His hands moved slowly across her back, soothing.
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not I— I left you,” she whispered. “And I knew you’d be angry. I knew it. And then I was alone and I knew you'd hate me and—” Her fingers gripped his coat harder. “I should have stayed with you. I should have. You were right. You always are—”
“Come on, I don’t hate you.” Her breath hitched again.
“I was so scared, Tom. I didn’t know where to go, I didn’t know what to do, I didn’t even know what happened and I couldn’t go back and I didn’t— I didn’t even know how to breathe—” Tom pressed a kiss to the top of her head.
“It’s fine,” he said softly. “It doesn’t matter.” She shook her head, tears soaking his clothes.
“It does matter. I messed it up. I was stupid. And now you hate me and it’s all my fault.”
“Warren.” She went silent at the sound of his voice. He drew back just enough to look at her, one hand coming up to cradle her cheek. His thumb brushed beneath her eye, catching a tear before it could fall further. His expression was calm, quiet, almost terrifyingly kind. “I don’t hate you, it doesn’t matter now.” She stared at him, trembling. “You’re with me.” Another sob caught in her throat.
“I love you so much,” she whispered like it hurt. “I love you and I should have listened it to you— I should’ve—”
“I know,” he said simply. The train rattled gently around a corner. For a second, their compartment was flooded with golden light from a passing station. It flashed across her wet cheeks, his dark eyes, their hands clenched in each other’s coats. And then they were in shadow again. He pulled her back to him. She collapsed into him like a breath returning. And for a long time, there was no sound but her quiet sobbing and the low hum of the train, cutting through the broken veins of a dying city, carrying them somewhere, anywhere.

The train rumbled onward, steady and low, slicing through the grey veins of London. The compartment swayed with each turn, but Myrtle was still now, curled against him, her face pressed into his shoulder, breath evening out in quiet, shivering waves. Tom held her close, his fingers moving slowly through her hair, then across her cheek, brushing away the tear-streaks with care that felt almost too gentle for who he was. He looked down at her and something in his expression softened.
“What do you say,” he murmured, brushing a thumb along her jawline, “you tell me what happened?” She sniffed and hesitated. Then nodded against him, eyes distant.
“It’s stupid,” she said. “It’s so stupid.”
—

She stood in front of the house. The one with the blue door and the chipped paint and the window she used to stare out of as a child. The same crooked fence, the place for the rose bush that had died years ago. But there was no wreath she recognised. No familiar muddy boots by the stairs and no warm light in the window like she remembered. Still, she smiled. She’d imagined it on the train. Her mother’s surprised face. Her father’s silence turning into a smile. The three of them hugging in the kitchen, and how they’d ask why she hadn’t written first, and she’d say she wanted it to be a surprise.
She clutched her briefcase tightly, heart hammering. Then the bell rang. It took a moment. Then the door creaked open. And a woman Myrtle had never seen before stepped out. She was still pretty young. Barely forty, maybe. Pale eyes, hair in a kerchief, apron dusted. They blinked at each other.
“Er—can I help you?” the woman asked, voice polite, uncertain. Myrtle straightened her glasses. Her mouth felt dry.
“I—I’m looking for the Warrens.” A pause. Then a smile.
“Oh, I’m sorry love. They moved out in early autumn. To the countryside. Bit safer, what with the raids and all.” Myrtle just stared. The words didn’t make sense at first. They sounded like a mistake. A dream. Moved out? But this is home.
“I—I’m sorry,” Myrtle stammered. “Did they… leave a forwarding address?” The woman shook her head sympathetically.
“Not that I know of. They sold the place to us right after the harvest. I suppose they wanted to leave quickly. You’re a distant relative, perhaps?” Myrtle couldn’t answer. The breath left her lungs. She was still standing there, in the cold, gripping a case of books and potions essays and a tin of biscuits she’d bought from the trolley just in case they wanted something sweet. She wasn’t anyone. Not a daughter. Not even someone worth a letter.
“I—um—sorry,” she muttered, backing away. “I must have—wrong place—” The woman looked concerned but didn’t follow. The door closed again and Myrtle stood alone on the street, in the cold wind, staring at the house that wasn’t hers anymore.

She walked quickly through the streets, coat clinging to her legs, case heavy in her hand, scarf undone again and dragging against her shoulder like it was trying to come undone altogether. The houses blurred past her. Red brick. Grey brick. Christmas lights gone to save electricity. The street names were strange now, not like the ones from childhood. She didn’t know where she was going. Not really. The door had shut. That was all she knew. Her feet just moved. They moved away. She hadn’t cried yet, not properly. She wasn’t even sure she believed it. Her body was still pretending there’d been a mistake, that the woman had misunderstood, that she’d read the name wrong, that her parents were perhaps inside all along and would open the window and call her name any second now. But they didn’t. They weren’t there. And they hadn’t told her.
She turned down a narrow lane, puddles slick with oily rainwater, head down, lips pressed tight. She should have stayed with him. It wasn’t even a debate. Not anymore. She saw it now, so clearly, how safe it had been beside him. How seen she’d felt. How warm. How held. How all her terrible, secret, lonely corners had stopped echoing when he looked at her. He wouldn’t have let her be this cold, this lost. He wouldn’t have let her stand on a doorstep like some unwanted stray. A single tear slid down her cheek. She hugged the case closer to her chest. It felt absurdly heavy. She’d packed it with things she thought would matter. The books she wanted to show them, the essays in case they asked about school, a silly Christmas card she’d drawn for them with her favourite ink. They won’t even see it. She blinked up at the darkening sky. Her glasses were fogged again. The world was swimming. They didn’t even write. Not in September. Not in October. She told herself they were grieving. That her brother’s death had hollowed them out and made them forget how to love anything, even her.
But she was their daughter, too. Wasn’t she? She could still see their faces when she was leaving in summer. Tired faint smiles and words of remembering to be good. But they hadn’t told her they were leaving. They hadn’t said goodbye. She was already turning the last corner when the thought finally rose. She didn’t have anywhere to go. It stopped her in her tracks. Her knees nearly buckled. The train back to Hogwarts wouldn’t run until the day after Christmas. She knew that. She’d checked. Twice. Which meant… what?
She stood frozen in the rain, mind spinning. Her aunt came to her mind. Her father’s sister, the one she got the perfume, Tom probably liked, from. She lived in the city, near the museum. But Myrtle hadn’t seen her since summer as well. And she couldn’t just knock at her door now. Still it was something and better than nothing. She forced herself to keep walking now. She could hear the station, see the flicker of yellow light through the iron frame. She bit her lip hard, willing herself not to cry, not here, not now. But the thought rose again like poison. She should have stayed with Tom. She could have been sitting with him in the library right now. Safe. Warm. Studying beside the fire. He would’ve looked at her like she mattered. Like she belonged. And instead… Instead she was here. Cold. Alone. And nowhere left to go.
—

“I didn’t know,” she whispered, her voice breaking again. “They didn’t tell me they moved. They didn’t even write. I thought maybe they just needed time after… after my brother—” She stopped. Bit her lip. Tom said nothing. Just smoothed her hair down. “I should have stayed with you,” she went on. “You were right. You’re always right. I could’ve been with you, safe and warm and not like—like—” she choked. “Like some unwanted dog at the wrong door.” He didn’t correct her. He didn’t say she’s not unwanted, or that they were wrong to leave. He only pulled her closer.
“None of that matters now,” he said quietly. “You’re not going back there. You don’t need them.” The coupé was dim and golden, the light above them swinging slightly with the motion of the train. Rain tapped at the windows in soft rhythms, like the city was still trying to reach them. But inside it was warm. Myrtle had finished explaining and now she was mumbling incoherently. Her voice was raw, her words twisted into apology after apology that tangled and fell apart on her lips. Tom hadn’t interrupted. Not once. Now she sat curled against him, her head tucked beneath his jaw, fingers still clinging to the folds of his coat like they were the only thing tethering her to reality.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered again. “I was so scared. I didn’t know what to do…,” Tom stroked her hair once, slow and careful.
“It’s okay. I’m not angry,” he said quietly. Her breath caught.
“I thought you’d hate me,” she murmured.
“No.” She looked up at him then, wide-eyed, vulnerable, her lips chapped from the cold. He brushed her cheek with the backs of his fingers. “You’re here now.” She pressed her face into his chest again, tears still clinging to her lashes and he kept holding her. His hand moved along her back with practiced calm, not affection exactly, not forgiveness either. He could still feel the heat of that street. That door closing. The woman’s voice. He could still see the Muggle with the wet grin and the broken wrist. He didn’t speak but his hatred was a living thing now.
How could they throw her away? How could they leave her, when she was the only good thing among them? How could they try to hurt her? It made his stomach burn. All of them. The fumbling, forgettable crowd. The stupid, stumbling man who put his hands on her. The war they all made, the bombs they dropped, the cities they tore down without a thought. The woman who shut the door. The parents who left. They didn’t deserve her. They didn’t even see her. But he did. His eyes moved slowly over her face, memorising every freckle, the quiver of her lip, the softness of her mouth, the curve of her shoulder against him.
“I’m not angry,” he repeated, voice lower now. “But I will be If you ever walk away from me again.” She nodded against him, a broken little movement.
“I won’t,” she whispered, "I won't, I promise.” He didn’t say good. Didn’t say I believe you. Just ran his thumb along her knuckles, the way one might calm a trembling bird. And the train kept moving.
As it pulled into the city centre and exhaled them into the dark, it was already a late evening. The station was half-asleep, quiet save for the shuffling of a few stragglers, the echo of announcements that no one seemed to listen to anymore. Outside, the streets were hushed and slick with rain, glowing faintly under the soft orange buzz of wartime lamps. The city smelled of coal, smoke, and distant war. Myrtle stood on the pavement beside him, scarf tugged up over her mouth, hair damp and tangled. Her eyes drifted up and down the street. To the boarded-up shopfronts, the flickering streetlight, the silence. Then she looked at him.
“Tom…” she whispered, voice small. “What are we going to do?” He didn’t answer. Just slipped his hand into hers and gave the gentlest tug.
“Come with me.” And she did. They walked in silence through the narrow streets, his figure sharp and steady, her steps a little unsure. He led her with the quiet confidence of someone who had already decided what would happen, as if the path had been marked out before she’d even asked the question. The city loomed around them like a cathedral made of stone and war. They crossed the street and stopped in front of a building directly adjacent to King’s Cross Station. The windows glowed a warm, honey colour. The Great Northern Hotel. Myrtle hesitated at the bottom step. She looked at him again. Her voice came small, like it cost her something to speak.
“Tom… I don’t really have any money.” He turned to her slowly. The rain clung to the collar of his coat, his hair dampened to ink-dark strands. His expression was unreadable, not mocking, not cold. Just calm.
“I told you not to worry about things,” he said, voice low. Her eyes widened slightly, not in disbelief, but in wonder. Then he turned and pushed open the door.

The lobby breathed with the soft hush of late-night quiet. Polished tile floors, faint brass light, a ticking wall clock too slow to matter. A small christmas tree in the corner and behind the wooden desk sat a middle-aged woman in spectacles and a worn cardigan, reading from a newspaper with fading ink. She looked up as the door opened with a hiss of cold air and Tom stepped forward, straight-backed, calm, dark eyes far too focused for someone so young. Myrtle followed just behind him, her hand still loosely clinging to the inside of his coat, as if she hadn’t realised she was doing it.
“Evening, dears,” the woman greeted gently. “Bit late, but you’re in luck, we’ve got a few left. Most of the other folks cleared out after the last train.” Tom nodded once.
“We’d like a private room for two. Just tonight, for now.” The woman studied him for half a second longer than politeness allowed, something about the way he held himself. Elegant and deliberate. Not wealthy exactly, but something about him seemed very noble. She pulled the guest log toward her and dipped her pen.
“Very well, your name?” Tom hesitated when she asked with a smile. The name he hated rose to his tongue like something bitter. Riddle. That ragged, orphanage-stitched syllable. The one that belonged to the man he never met but already utterly loathed. He tasted it, scowled inwardly and let it fall away.
“Warren,” he said, calm as anything. He didn’t look at Myrtle. The receptionist smiled, unfazed.
“Mr and Mrs Warren, then.” She scribbled it neatly. “That will be 12 shillings.” Tom suddenly pulled a black leather wallet from somewhere inside his coat pocket and took out the required amount of money. She slid the key across the desk, then paused as Tom straightened slightly. Not rudely, but with the polite, assured clarity of someone accustomed to getting what he asks for.
“Would you happen to have any tea left?” he asked smoothly. “Most of the cafés had already closed…and my wife is freezing.” He said it so lightly, as though of course she was his wife. As though that was simply a fact of the world, like gravity. Myrtle glanced up at him, face blooming pink. The woman’s gaze softened.
“I could scrounge something from the staff pot, I expect.” She looked at Myrtle with kind eyes. “You must be tired after travelling, why don’t you settle in and I’ll bring it up?” Tom offered her the barest smile.
“That would be very kind of you.” He slipped the key into his coat pocket and gently guided Myrtle away from the desk, his hand resting at the small of her back with a practiced calm that made her legs work better. As they reached the stairs, Myrtle whispered, almost dazed.
“Warren?” He didn’t look at her. But as he placed his foot on the first step, he murmured.
“You know I don’t like my name,” and he kept walking. The stairs creaked beneath them. Narrow, old and lined with patterned carpet worn thin by years of passing boots and suitcases. Myrtle walked half a step behind him, still holding her scarf to her chin as though it might hide the pink rising in her face. He hadn’t looked at her since they left the desk. When they reached the right floor, she found her voice again. Soft and breathy, like it might disappear into the wallpaper if she wasn’t careful.
“And…your wife?” Tom paused in front of their door. For a moment, she thought he wouldn’t respond. Then, without turning, he spoke coolly.
“It seemed easier, saves some trouble.”
“You could’ve said sister,” she broke off, cheeks still warm. He pulled the key from his coat pocket, turned it once in the lock, and pushed the door open with a soft click. The hallway light spilled across the threshold.
“We look nothing alike,” he replied simply. That made her pause, not entirely true. He turned to her then, just barely and raised an eyebrow at her lingering silence. “Are you coming in, or should I leave the door open for someone else?” She stepped inside quickly, brows furrowed once again. But once the door closed behind them, she couldn’t help herself.
“How do you have that much money?” She turned to him, eyes wide.
“Savings,” he answered simply. Then he shrugged out of his coat, calm as anything. She opened her mouth, then closed it again. She didn’t really believe him but wasn’t sure if she wanted to know either. Tom reached out and brushed her cheekbone. His touch was light. There was a knock on the door. Tom moved first, always composed and took the tea tray from the receptionist with a perfectly polite “thank-you.” He shut the door gently behind him, placed the tray on the nightstand and poured two cups with quiet efficiency. He handed her one. Their fingers brushed. Then he sat down on the edge of the bed, motioning toward the second chair across from him like this was all planned. Like she’d always be there beside him, in any city, in any room. Like she’d really be his wife. She sat slowly, cradling the warm teacup in both hands. The tea was hot and a little bitter, clearly stretched from the bottom of the staff pot, but warm all the same. They didn’t speak for a few minutes.The silence wasn’t awkward. It just felt tired. Safe. Like something settling after a long, aching tension.
Then Myrtle shifted slightly, setting her cup down. She reached for the little case she’d carried all the way from Hogwarts, the one she’d clutched when the woman closed the door in her face. Her fingers lingered at the clasp for a second too long, hesitant. Inside, she found the small tin she’d bought on the train. A box of sweet biscuits, wrapped in soft paper, tied with a ribbon. She’d chosen them in case her parents wanted something, anything, from her. It seemed childish now. She stared at it for a moment, then looked up at Tom.
“I brought these for my parents,” she said quietly. “I thought…” She trailed off, then opened the tin. Inside were perfectly round chocolate chip cookies, probably made with magic. “They’re not much,” she murmured. “But… we should eat something. You’re probably starving.” Tom didn’t move at first. But then, without a word, he reached out and plucked one from the tin. Not hurriedly, not ravenous, just accepting. And Myrtle’s chest filled with a kind of warmth that almost hurt. She smiled, quiet and uncertain. He glanced up at her, a flicker of something not quite soft, not quite amused, passing through his gaze.
“They’re fools,” he said. Her eyes met his. And for a second, that unspoken thing between them, the name he’d taken, the hand he’d offered, the bruises he’d kept her from, pulsed like a live wire in the space between them. She held the tin out again. He took a second biscuit. “You really came all this way with cookies,” he said, almost musing, “when they didn’t even write to you.” She gave a small desperate laugh, more like a breath.
“Stupid, right?” Tom looked at her for a long moment.
“No,” he said. “It’s what makes you better.”
“Not better than you,” she smiled lovingly.
“Especially better than me,” he grinned darkly and then leaned back slightly, as if that explained everything. The cookies sat between them now, half-forgotten in the little tin. The room was warm, but not entirely. It carried the draft of old windows and wartime heating that coughed rather than roared. Tom glanced toward the en suite, a small bathroom door left ajar, where the old plumbing clanked gently behind the wall.
“You should take a shower,” he said suddenly. Myrtle looked up from her tea. Her hair was still damp from the rain, her scarf loose around her shoulders.
“What?”
“You’re cold,” he said. “You’ll catch something if you don’t warm up.” His tone wasn’t harsh, but it wasn’t really a suggestion either. She blinked at him, surprised more by his care than the way he said it.
“Oh. I… I suppose I didn’t even think about it.” Tom stood, going to her side. He didn’t touch her, not yet, but he looked down at her as though weighing her.
“Go on,” he said more gently. “I don’t want you sick.” Myrtle hesitated, still curled slightly in the chair, fingers twitching in her lap. And then she asked in a voice smaller than she meant, almost childlike.
“Will you be here when I come back?” He stilled for a moment. That quiet tension he always held inside seemed to pause, coil inward. Then he looked at her and this time, his voice was not cold.
“I came to London for you. I’m not letting you go now,” he said. He didn’t smile. He didn’t need to. That sentence alone wrapped around her like a second coat. She rose slowly, gathering her things with delicate fingers and crossed toward the bathroom. Just before she slipped behind the door, she looked back, just to be sure. Tom was still standing where she left him. Still watching.

The pipes groaned once more and fell silent. Steam drifted under the bathroom door in soft curls, trailing across the floorboards like breath. Tom sat on the edge of the bed, a cup of half-finished tea resting on the nightstand beside him. His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar now, sleeves rolled to the forearm, cuffs loosened. The lines of his body were lean, precise, a boy carved from stillness. The lights were low, the bedside lamp casting everything in quiet gold. He hadn’t moved since she went in. He’d made the bed. Set her tin of biscuits beside her pillow. Folded her scarf on the chair. Everything in its place. Everything still. The door clicked softly. He looked up and suddenly stopped breathing.
Myrtle stepped out slowly, wrapped in one of the hotel’s plain white robes, her hair damp and curling slightly at the edges. Her skin was flushed from the heat of the water and her eyes looked soft with uncertainty. She was holding her clothes, barefoot and hesitant. She looked nothing like the girl who’d been crying in his arms an hour ago. Or maybe she looked exactly like her, just seen now without the storm. And Tom froze. He didn’t speak. For a moment, he couldn’t. His mouth parted slightly, the beginnings of a thought, a command, a clever line, but nothing came out. Myrtle hovered in the doorway. The robe clutched a little tighter. Her voice was a whisper.
“I’m sorry. I forgot to take clothes to change in there and—”
“No,” Tom said too quickly, then blinked. “I mean— It’s fine. You can. Here. If you need.” She smiled faintly, stepping further in. The stillness in him had cracked just enough for her to see it. She crossed the room to her case and knelt beside it, finding clean things. He turned his face politely away, but not all the way. He was still just a boy for a moment. He couldn’t help it. Couldn’t help watching her in the mirror, quick, quiet movements, her shoulder bare for a moment as she changed beneath the robe, the flicker of skin at the edge of candlelight. When she was done, she slipped into the bed beside him with the kind of caution that felt reverent as if she thought the mattress might vanish if she moved too fast. She looked at him once, just to be sure. He was still watching her. But his voice, when it came, was soft again. Quiet. Strange in its gentleness.
“You look different.”
“How?” He just shrugged and she turned toward him, blanket tucked to her chest, her damp hair leaving little water stains on the pillow.
“You didn’t leave.”
“I said I wouldn’t.”

The bed was quiet but not asleep. Outside, the rain turned into snow. Myrtle lay beside him, tucked beneath the blanket, her back to his chest. She hadn’t spoken for some time, but Tom could feel it. The sadness still clinging to her like fog. The kind that doesn’t come in storms, but in silence. He watched her profile in the dark. Her eyes were open, unfocused. Her lips parted like she was about to speak, but hadn’t found the words yet. Her shoulder rose and fell in a quiet rhythm. She was here, but not fully. And he wouldn’t allow that.
He reached out slowly, deliberately and ran his fingers through the damp strands of her hair, barely touching, just trailing. She didn’t flinch. His fingertips moved down, ghosting along her temple, across her cheekbone, brushing lightly along her jaw. She shivered, but not from the cold. He continued downward, stroking the soft skin of her neck, his touch as light as breath. His hand stilled over her collarbone for a moment, then he leaned in and kissed her neck. She breathed in, quiet and sharp, her body stilled, then softened again against him. Tom stayed close, lips just grazing her skin.
“Forget them all,” he whispered. Her eyes fluttered closed. He kissed her again, slower this time, just below her ear, then lower. One after another, like a vow made wordless. “They don’t deserve you.” Another kiss. The slope of her shoulder. “You have me.” He felt her shift, small and trembling, her hand reaching instinctively, blindly, until her fingers found his collar. She slipped beneath it. His breath caught as her hands touched his skin, light and unsure at first, then bolder. She pressed her palm flat against his chest, delicate fingertips moving slowly up his collarbones. He exhaled, slow and low and slid his hand beneath her shoulder to pull her closer. The blanket shifted with them, silent. With practiced gentleness, he brushed her nightdress aside at the shoulder. Not roughly, not urgently, just slow, reverent as though unwrapping her from the world. And kissed her again. This time lower, at the swell of her breast. Like he was making a map of her in touch alone. Her face tilted up to him, lips parted. Her eyes wide, uncertain but not afraid.
“Tom…” she whispered. He silenced her with a kiss, deep and careful. Her fingers curled in his shirt, unbuttoning it slowly, wanting more and he let her. And the world outside, the snow, the bombs, the war, the pain… it all slipped further away, like a dream someone else had. In this room, in this breathless space carved from ruin, there was only warmth. And the way her breath caught when he touched her and the way he kissed her like she belonged to no one else. Because she didn’t. Not anymore.
She shivered beneath him, her body tense with anticipation. He could feel the heat radiating off her skin, the pounding of her heart. It fueled his desire, his need to claim her. He trailed his fingers down her neck, over her collarbone, brushing the swell of her breasts. She gasped, her back arching into his touch.
"I want..." she whispered, but her words trailed off, lost in a moan as he cupped her breast, his thumb circling her nipple. He captured her lips in a searing kiss, his tongue delving into her mouth, tasting her, dominating her. She whimpered, melting into him, her hands clutching at his shoulders. He could feel her surrender, her complete submission to him. He pulled back, his eyes blazing with possessive heat.
"Tell me,” he commanded. She looked up at him, her eyes wide and dark with desire.
"You. I want you," she breathed.
“You have me,” he whispered teasingly.
"I want…I want you more.” Her voice was shy and nervous. He growled, a low, primal sound of satisfaction. The heat in her body was unbearable, the overwhelming love and softness for him burning under her skin. She arched desperately to meet any touch he offered and his hand suddenly slid even lower, pulling up the hem of her nightwear, sliding underneath. His fingertips gently caressing her lower stomach, his lips peppering kisses all over her neck and shoulders.
“Tom I— I want… just take me please” she breathed out desperately. Not caring if it would hurt, if it was inappropriate or wrong. Then his fingers slid gently into her underwear. She cried out softly and grasped him desperately.
“You can tell me to stop,” she heard him growl.
“No— no, please don’t…don’t stop” she mumbled incoherently, trying to meet his fingers with her hips until suddenly he slid one inside her. Tom's eyes gleamed with a dark intensity as he felt her writhe beneath him, her hips lifting to meet his hand. He growled low in his throat, a sound of pure male satisfaction.
"Perfect, you’re perfect," he purred. He slid a second finger inside her, his thumb finding the sensitive nub at the apex of her sex. She cried out, her body tensing and then shuddering as he stroked her, his touch both gentle and commanding. He wanted to drive her wild, to make her forget everything but the pleasure he was giving her.
"Tom, please," she whimpered, her fingers digging into his shoulders. "I need... I need..." He captured her lips in a deep, searing kiss, swallowing her moans as he continued to stroke her, his fingers moving in a steady rhythm. She was so wet, so responsive and it fueled his own desire to new heights. Suddenly, she gasped, her body going rigid as she fell over the edge. He felt her clench around his fingers and held her close, murmuring possessive words of praise and adoration into her ear as she came down from her high. Despite the overwhelming moment, she pulled him closer and closer again. She kissed his neck, hips moving against him, still shaking from the aftershocks. Tom's breath hitched as she kissed him, her body still trembling from the force of her orgasm. He knew he should stop, should put a halt to this before it went any further. But the way she was looking at him, with those wide, trusting eyes and parted lips...it was like a siren's call he couldn't resist. He captured her mouth in another suffocating kiss, his tongue delving deep as he positioned himself between her legs. He could feel her heat, her wetness and it sent a jolt of desire straight to his cock.
"It might hurt," he whispered against her lips.
“I don’t care,” she whispered. “You’re here.”
And he nodded, as if that was the only answer that mattered. With a low groan, he slowly entered her, breaking through the barrier of her innocence. She bit her lip, her nails digging into his back, but he didn't stop. He couldn't. He moved slowly at first, giving her time to adjust to his size, his invasion.
"You're so perfect," he gritted out, his body shaking with the effort of holding back. "So perfect." She whimpered, her body clenching around him. He started to move faster, deeper, his hips snapping against hers. She moaned, her head tipping back as he drove into her again and again. Everything was breath and heartbeat and skin. A slow unfurling. A claiming without violence, without force. A moment so intimate it quieted even the voice in his own mind, the one that always calculated, always counted. He held her. Carefully. Firmly. Letting her break against him like water over stone. There was only the weight of him over her, around her and the quiet wonder in her chest as he moved. He made her feel wanted. Not like something pretty. Not like a mistake. Like a secret. Like she had always belonged to him, even before she knew it. He felt his own release building and with a final thrust, he spilled himself inside her, claiming her, marking her as his own. And when it was over, when the world slowly returned and the cold edge of the air kissed her damp skin, she curled into him, her face against his collarbone and felt the slow, steady rise of his chest as he finally breathed again. She smiled into his skin.
“Thank you,” she whispered. He didn’t answer right away. He only tightened his arm around her, pulled the blanket higher, and kissed the top of her head.
“You’re mine,” he said. And in the warm dark, it was the closest he’d ever come to saying I love you.

The city outside was muted. Even London, even in wartime, slept sometimes. The windowpane glowed faintly with the filtered haze of streetlamps and fog, the occasional distant clang of something being loaded onto a lorry, or the soft flutter of snow against glass. Myrtle had drifted off somewhere between his arms and his heartbeat. Her cheek rested against his chest, lips parted in sleep, lashes low on skin still kissed pink from his hands. She breathed in soft, uneven rhythms, like her body hadn’t quite caught up with what had just happened. Her fingers were curled into the fabric of his shirt again as if even in sleep, she wasn’t willing to let him go. Tom stared at the ceiling. Not blankly. Not idly. His mind never went blank. Not even now. The ache in his body had quieted, but something else hadn’t. Something deeper, something heavier. He’d taken her. Completely. Finally. Undeniably. There was no going back now, not for her, and not for him. It wasn’t possessive in the crude way of boys too eager to claim. But something else. Something more permanent.
He looked down at her sleeping face, pale and content and so far from the girl who’d been sobbing on a train platform hours earlier. And he felt something that made no sense in the way he understood the world. Not pity. Not tenderness, even. But fury at anything that had ever made her feel small. The parents who abandoned her. The strangers who shut doors in her face. The man who dared touch her. He should’ve killed him. His hand moved unconsciously, stroking her shoulder with the backs of his fingers, brushing a strand of hair from her temple. She murmured something in her sleep, soft and incomprehensible, then settled again. He should’ve killed the man. And the woman at the door. And every filthy Muggle who’d ever made Myrtle Warren cry. He didn’t understand it, not fully. But he felt it. That spiraling, blooming thing he tried not to name. Not love. Love was chaotic, untrustworthy. But this was devotion of a darker breed. The kind that swallowed. The kind that ruled. She had given herself to him. And he would not let the world take her back. His other hand curled beneath the blanket, resting protectively against her hip. She shifted closer in her sleep. Tom let out a slow breath. He wasn’t angry. Not right now. Not jealous. Not calculating. He was just still. He looked at her again. She looked peaceful. And for once, he didn’t really want to leave the bed. He didn’t want to return to the castle. He didn’t want to return to ambition, or books, or spells. He just wanted her to keep sleeping. He kissed her forehead, soft and precise. She didn’t stir. But her hand curled tighter into his shirt.
—

The room was grey with early light when Tom finally opened his eyes. Outside, London was stirring softly, almost reluctantly. A bell rang somewhere distant, thin and ghostly in the December air. A coal truck rattled down the street below. The windowpane had fogged again, traced faintly with frost at the corners. One could smell the cold. Old brick, damp stone, smoke, metal. And beneath it, something faintly sweet. Someone had lit a fire somewhere. Someone was trying to pretend it was still Christmas.
Myrtle was still sleeping, pressed into the crook of his arm, her hair fanned across the pillow. She’d tugged the blanket nearly to her chin in the night, but one of her legs had found its way over his again. Her breath warmed the side of his chest through the fabric of his shirt. She looked absurdly peaceful for someone who had nearly broken apart less than a day ago. Tom watched her in silence. He still hadn’t let go of her. He didn’t want to. It was better than anything else the morning could offer. This quiet possession. Then, as if pulled by a thread, Myrtle stirred. She blinked slowly against the grey light, nose scrunching faintly. Then she looked at him, still barely awake, and whispered hoarsely with a smile.
“Hello.” He arched a brow, ever so slightly.
“Morning.” She smiled into the pillow, soft, secret, like it bloomed out of her even before she was conscious of it. He didn’t say anything else. Just tucked the blanket tighter around her. A moment passed.
“It’s Christmas Eve,” she muffled.
“So they tell,” his voice was cool.
“I was supposed to be having breakfast with my family,” she mumbled. He was silent. Then, voice lower.
“Do you still wish you had?” She tilted her head, looking up at him now.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been happier to be wrong.” He almost smiled. Almost. But something darker flickered behind his eyes, something satisfied and intense and ancient.
“Good,” he said. She giggled quietly then, not because anything was funny, but because she was warm and in bed with him and the world hadn’t swallowed her yet. Her hair was a mess and her glasses were still on the nightstand and she had nothing else to hold on to but him. But suddenly, that felt like more than enough. She moved to sit up slightly, blanket falling a little. He reached without thinking, tugging it gently back up, covering her shoulders.
“You’re not allowed to get cold,” he said under his breath, almost to himself. She tilted her head.
“I’m not allowed?”
“No,” he replied, cool and calm and entirely serious. “I take care of you, I decide things like that.”
“Hmm,” she said, leaning back to him and pressing a shy kiss to his jaw. “Don’t you think you’re a bit controlling sometimes?”
“Completely.” But she only smiled and let him pull her back down again, her body curling easily into his. The sounds of London carried through the window, the distant whistle of a train, a dog barking somewhere, a radio tuned to static and war reports and the soft croon of a Christmas carol barely audible in the hum. Myrtle looked at him again, still sleepy, still smiling. And outside, the world, all its war, all its smoke and bells and absence, went on without them.
Myrtle sat cross-legged in bed, the blanket now drawn around her shoulders like a cape. Her hair had mostly dried into soft waves over the night.
“I would like to try to see my aunt,” she said suddenly. Tom, buttoning his shirt in front of the mirror, glanced at her reflection. He didn’t respond right away. “She lives in the city centre,” Myrtle went on, as if she needed to defend it. “Not far from here. She’s my father’s sister. She liked me, really. She used to write.” She stopped herself as Tom turned.
“The one who gave you the floral perfume,” he said quietly. She blinked in surprise and nodded. He stepped closer and studied her face. The hint of hope returning to it, but held in check.
“I want to know why they didn’t tell me,” she added softly. Tom was silent for a moment. Then, with the quiet finality he always spoke with when a decision had already been made, he straightened.
“I’ll come with you.” Myrtle’s eyes snapped up.
“Tom, you don’t have to—”
“You’re not going alone,” he said simply. “Not ever.” Something in his voice left no room for negotiation. But before she could say anything else, he spoke again. “First, we’re going to breakfast.”
“Breakfast?”
“The hotel has one,” he said. “Barely. But it’s something and you need food.” She opened her mouth to argue, maybe, but thought better of it.
Tom moved to her briefcase, where she had packed some clothes. His hands brushing through her things, slow, precise, entirely focused. Myrtle watched, amused and puzzled. He stood, holding a grey school sweater and a wool navy skirt. Myrtle stared at him, then he sat beside her and with the utmost seriousness began helping her dress. It wasn’t lewd. It wasn’t awkward. It was weirdly reverent. She noticed he had a thing for helping her dress, as if she were a small doll. He looked politely away as she put on her bra and then draped the sweater carefully over her head, guiding her arms through the sleeves. His hands brushed down her arms to smooth the fabric, then handed her the long skirt. Every movement precise. Purposeful. Possessive in his own strangely tender way. Myrtle tried not to smile, but failed. At last he put away the scarf she wore yesterday and instead gave her his own.
“That one was from my parents...”
“Exactly,” he said. Then, stepping back, he added, almost to himself. “I don’t like when you look like you belong to other people.” She swallowed. Her chest ached with something warm and yet heavy.
“Do I look like I belong to you now?” Tom looked at her for a long moment. His eyes, dark and unreadable, didn’t waver.
“You never didn’t,” he kissed her forehead and offered his arm.

The dining room was small and poor these days. It smelled of weak tea, burnt toast and something vaguely sweet. Jam, perhaps. Or rationed marmalade spread too thin. A radio crackled in the corner, low and full of static, playing an old carol no one seemed to hear. The walls were papered in a pale yellow that had once been cheerful and now looked tired. A silver tinsel garland sagged across the window, a small christmas tree stood in the corner. There were only three other tables occupied. An elderly couple, coats still on, sharing a pot of tea in silence. A nurse staring out the window like she was waiting for something that wouldn’t come. And a man alone, hunched over the paper, his cigarette untouched in the ashtray beside him.
Myrtle and Tom stepped into the room. People looked up, not rudely, just naturally. Two young people on Christmas Eve. A few glances lingered. They made for a table near the window. As they sat down, Myrtle leaned in slightly and whispered.
“We probably seem… inappropriate.” Tom glanced at her, one brow lifting.
“How so?” She looked toward the others. The nurse, the man, the old couple. Then back at him.
“Too young. Together in a hotel on Christmas day. It probably looks like we ran off together.” Tom looked around the room, then down at the table between them.
“What if we were newlyweds?” he said flatly and Myrtle blinked. He didn’t say it with teasing. There was no smirk. Just the words, like a hypothetical laid gently between them.
She opened her mouth and paused. For a flicker of a moment, the world could probably see it. Them. And for a moment, a dangerous, soft, almost-lie, Tom saw it too. They could go now. They could get married today at Whitechapel registry, where no one would ask too many questions. Mr and Mrs Warren. It could be real, simple. They could take a train east. Or north. Or nowhere. Never return to school. The thought startled him. He didn’t move, but it rattled something deep. Myrtle must have felt the shift in him. Because she reached for his hand, palm warm and small on the tablecloth and when he looked up, she was smiling. But it was the kind of smile that came from breaking your own heart gently.
“You would hate that,” she said quietly. Tom didn’t answer. She kept her hand over his.
“You’re meant for greater things. Not for a quiet life with me.” His throat tightened and for once, there was no clever line to shield him. No defense. No mask. He just looked at her, at the unconditional love in her face. The softness in her voice. The way she said it, not as self-pity, but truth. A truth that wounded her and that she still accepted. And he didn’t know what to say. Or feel. Or be. She squeezed his hand lightly.
“But I’d still go with you,” she added, voice even softer. “Even if it was only a week. Or a day. Even if I knew it would end.” She was the only one who could say “No” to him and he still didn’t feel Less. Tom turned away, staring at the window. The street beyond was white with snow and wet and loud with a distant siren. But all he could perceive was the girl across the table. And how cruelly beautiful it was to be loved like that.

They gathered their things in silence. The soft kind of silence, the one that held hands with comfort, not distance. Myrtle folded her things carefully into her case and paused at the edge of the bed, holding the old scarf, the pale green one, worn thin from years of wear and ghosted with memories. She didn’t say anything. Just laid it across the chair by the window and left it there. Tom watched her do it but didn’t comment. She looked better with his anyway. He fastened the buttons of her coat himself. One by one. Precisely. Carefully. Like sealing something in. Then he picked up her briefcase and held it without looking at her, as if it were a given. A fact of the morning. That she wouldn’t carry it. That he would. At the reception, the same woman from the night before gave them a quiet, knowing smile.
“Off to family?” she asked, not pressing. Tom merely nodded.
“We may return this evening.”
“Of course,” she said. “I’ll save you the room till the evening then.” He thanked her politely. Outside, London blinked beneath a weak winter sun. The clouds hung low and pewter-grey, pressing down on the rooftops like another kind of weight. Bells echoed faintly in the distance, not the jubilant kind, but the hollow clang of a city trying to remind itself it was still December. The snow was melting on the pavement. Shop windows were dusted with frost and desperate garlands. One storefront had painted a crooked pine tree on the glass, surrounded by gas masks for sale. Myrtle tucked her hands into her pockets as they walked. The scarf clung close to her throat, warm and thick. They passed a newspaper boy shouting about bombings in the north. A small child watched them pass from a window, nose pressed to the glass. Somewhere, a man played carols badly on a violin near the tube entrance. Myrtle leaned a little closer.
“My aunt lives near the museum,” she murmured. Tom only nodded. The snow began to fall again, fine, slow, almost soft enough to pretend it had always been falling. And together, the two of them walked through the city like a secret no one had the right to know.

The building was tall and narrow, wedged between two war-dimmed shops near the Bloomsbury district, not far from the museum steps where tourists once used to gather. Now it was mostly quiet, windows darkened, a few wreaths hanging tiredly on the peeling doors, one cracked window patched with newspaper. The front door stuck when Myrtle pushed it and Tom reached past her to shove it open with one sharp, fluid movement. He didn’t speak. Just let her walk in first.
The hallway was dim and echoing, the smell of dust and coal-heavy air lingering. Somewhere upstairs, a radio buzzed faintly, a woman’s voice cutting through static. Pipes groaned. A child thumped across the floorboards on the next floor up, then was shushed. The war hadn’t taken this place yet but it had gnawed at the edges. Tom’s steps were silent behind her as they climbed the narrow staircase, Myrtle’s breath catching in her chest. The wallpaper was the same, faintly green. The same colour as the scarf she’d left behind in the hotel.
“Number six,” she said quietly, when they reached the landing. Tom said nothing. Just stood slightly behind her as she raised a hand and knocked on the pale door. There was no answer at first. She swallowed. Then footsteps. Quick. Soft. A pause. The door opened, not fully, just a careful crack. And there she was. A woman in her late thirties, perhaps. Still beautiful, though tired. Hair tied back in a scarf. Red sweater faded from too many washes. She looked at Myrtle for only half a second before her expression changed, widening with surprise, then confusion.
“Myrtle?” the woman breathed. The small girl nodded, too stunned to speak. Her aunt opened the door the rest of the way.
“My goodness,” she said, voice cracking a little. “You’re—oh, look at you…come in, come in.” And then her eyes flicked past her niece, to Tom. He didn’t flinch. Just nodded politely, unreadable. The woman stepped aside, still holding the door wide, ushering them in as if she’d seen a ghost. Inside, the flat was warmer than expected, small but lived-in, with soft carpets and floral drapes and the faint scent of tea and cinnamon buns. Her aunt moved nervously, as if she’d been caught unprepared for something she’d somehow rehearsed for.
They sat in the small dining room. Her aunt, bustling and uncertain, poured tea and didn’t quite look them in the eye.
“I can’t tell you how much of a shock this is,” she said gently, settling across from them. “I thought—well, I thought I’d see you at the end of the school year. That’s how it was supposed to go.” Myrtle blinked.
“What?”
“Yes, darling,” the woman said, fidgeting with her cup. “Your parents… they made it very clear that, with everything going on in London, they wanted to leave.” Myrtle stared at her.
“So, they just…left?”
“They were scared. After Albert… after the war took him…” Her voice caught slightly. “Your father didn’t cope well. And your mother shut down, really. She couldn’t bear to stay in the house. Too many memories.” Myrtle’s throat tightened.
“But— what about me? They didn’t even leave me a letter?” she asked, voice small. “A note?” Her aunt looked down, as if the answer had weight. A silence settled. Tom’s jaw twitched. He hadn’t spoken once. Myrtle sat back, folding her arms as if to hold herself together. “They didn’t even want to say goodbye.”
“They did,” her aunt said quickly. “But it was… it was all hard for them. They thought it best if I took care of you instead.”
“But you never mentioned it, not even in the letter.” Her aunt winced.
“I didn’t want to just write it to you. It was supposed to be June. Not Christmas. I didn’t know you’d— I mean, darling, no one expected you.” Myrtle looked at the rug. Tom was still and silent, eyes unreadable, like he was studying a case file. Or a murder scene. Her aunt sighed and tried tentatively. “You know it was always harder for them when it came to you. With the whole… wizard thing and all.” Myrtle flinched like the word had been a slap. She didn’t look at Tom but she could feel the cold ripple that went through him. So calm. So quiet. His voice was silk and razor blades.
“So they ran off.” Her aunt looked over, just then registering him fully.
“I—sorry?”
“They renounced her,” Tom said, more like a diagnosis than a word. “Because she was something they couldn’t understand.” Her aunt swallowed.
“It wasn’t that—they loved her, of course, they just didn’t know how to—”
“Then they didn’t love her,” Tom said plainly and Myrtle, still staring at her knees, seemed like she was about to cry. Her aunt reached across the table like it might mean something, but Myrtle didn’t move. Didn’t look up. Tom only watched, like a hawk perched and still, the kind that could tear through anything at the slightest provocation.
“I would’ve come for you,” her aunt tried again, quietly. “I even have some of your stuff you didn’t take to school with you.” But Myrtle only nodded numbly and said nothing. Because she knew it wasn’t the same. And Tom, silently burning beside her, knew he would rather see the world fall than ever let her need them again. Her aunt, still stirring her tea though she hadn’t taken a sip, glanced between them. Myrtle in the chair, shoulders small but straight. Tom beside her like a pillar of smoke, elegant, composed, cold.
“Did you arrive today?” Her aunt tried to smile and Myrtle shook her head. “Oh, I’m so sorry, you should’ve come sooner,” her aunt said with guilt, realising the weight of the situation. “So… where are you staying?” she tried again. Tom answered before Myrtle could open her mouth.
“The Great Northern Hotel.” Her aunt blinked.
“Near King’s Cross?” He gave a single nod. She tried to hide her surprise. “That must be… well, rather expensive, isn’t it?” Tom said nothing. He didn’t blink. Myrtle shifted, but before she could try to soften it, her aunt added with an uneasy smile. “You’re very kind to her, of course. Taking care of things. But, forgive me, I don’t think I caught your name?” There was a pause. A dangerous one. Tom looked at her like she was smaller.
“Tom,” he answered smoothly with coldness in his voice. Her aunt nodded, hesitating.
“And you’re… schoolmates, then?” Myrtle nodded quickly. Her aunt’s gaze lingered just a little too long. “I see. And they gave you a shared room at the hotel?” There was no accusation in the tone. Not quite. Just that vague, muggle disapproval, wrapped in politeness. Tom sat back, folding his hands in his lap with the calm of someone deciding whether or not to slit a throat.
“It’s been a late night,” he said softly. “Forgive me for ensuring she had a warm place to sleep.” Her aunt flushed.
“I didn’t mean—only, it might look—”
“To whom?” Tom asked. His voice was still silk. Still deadly soft. “Her parents?” Silence fell hard. Myrtle’s breath caught. Her aunt looked down, swallowing.
“I didn’t mean any harm,” she said at last, very quietly. Tom didn’t reply and Myrtle reached for his wrist beneath the table. Just lightly. A grounding touch. Her aunt sighed.
“It’s Christmas, at least. I’ve got some roast in the oven. It’s nothing special but should be enough for three. Why don’t you stay for lunch?” Myrtle hesitated.
“Okay,” she said softly, maybe also because she was hungry and didn’t want Tom to spend any more money on her. She looked at him. He was quiet. But Myrtle was still holding his wrist and in the end, he nodded once.
“Fine,” he said.

A roast of some kind sat steaming in the center of the table, flanked by potatoes and overcooked cabbage. Myrtle’s aunt poured tea from a chipped floral pot, refilling cups with a determined sort of cheer.
“It’s not much,” she said, smoothing her sweater. “But it’s Christmas and I wasn’t expecting guests. Not that I mind, of course.” Myrtle offered a soft smile. Tom hadn’t touched his tea. He sat quietly, hands folded on the table, eyes following everything but never lingering too long. The smell of herbs and meat filled the flat.
“So, Thomas,” her aunt said after a pause, slicing into the roast. “What about your parents?” The question hung there like smoke. Myrtle looked horrified but Tom didn’t flinch.
“They’re dead,” he said, plainly. The knife stilled for half a second. Myrtle’s aunt looked up, startled.
“Oh—I’m so sorry—”
“No need,” he replied smoothly. “I didn’t know them.” A beat. Something about the way he said it made the air colder. Still, her aunt pressed on, a little flustered.
“But surely they left you something, some inheritance, at least? You look…very well. And staying in the Great Northern, after all.” Tom smiled then. Barely.
“I don’t rely on the dead. I make do.” The answer wasn’t impolite, but it ended the subject. Firmly. Her aunt cleared her throat and changed the topic.
“This flat’s too big for one person, really,” she said, glancing between them. “You’re both welcome to stay here, you know. If you want to.” Myrtle looked up, surprised. Her aunt smiled at her, then looked at Tom. “I mean it,” she said more carefully. “There’s the spare room and Myrtle could sleep with me like when she was little. It’s not grand, but it’s warm.” Tom didn’t respond immediately. He cut a piece of potato with unnecessary precision. Myrtle was still. She knew it was meant well. Knew her aunt was trying. But the very idea of splitting from him now, of sleeping across the hall as if he were just someone, sent a quiet shiver down her spine. She didn’t say anything but her hand had curled into a fist in her lap. Tom noticed. His voice, when it came, was polite.
“I appreciate the offer,” he said. “But we already have the room at the hotel.”
“It’s no trouble—”
“We’re fine.” Not cold. But final. Her aunt looked between them again, saw something then, she thought, in the quiet way Myrtle stared at her plate and how Tom didn’t so much glance at Myrtle as sense her. And perhaps it hit her, in that moment, that whatever this was, however strange or intense or uncertain, Myrtle wasn’t just dependent on that boy. She had chosen him. So the conversation drifted elsewhere, to the food, to the war, to an old Christmas when Myrtle had knocked over the tree trying to chase a cat. But beneath it all, the tension still hummed. The unspoken knowing between two people bound in something deeper than anyone at that table could explain. After lunch, Myrtle’s aunt cleared away the plates, leaving them to sit at the small kitchen table with fresh cups of tea and a plate of crumbly biscuits. The room felt too warm now, sunlight fading to grey outside the frosted windows.
“So,” her aunt said gently, blowing lightly over her cup, “how’s school, love?”
“Fine,” Myrtle said quickly. “Good. Busy, really. It’s… quite advanced.”
“I bet you’re doing great.” Myrtle blushed faintly.
“I try.” Her aunt turned politely to Tom.
“And you, Thomas? Do you enjoy school?”
“I find it challenging enough,” Tom said simply. She smiled, unaware of the layers hidden behind that neat reply.
“And you two…are you classmates, then? Friends? Or…?” Her voice trailed off meaningfully. Myrtle glanced nervously at Tom, cheeks pinker still. Tom took a calm sip of his tea, perfectly at ease.
“I take care of her.” It wasn’t a lie. But the way he said it, with quiet confidence, made Myrtle’s breath catch softly. Her aunt’s brows rose slightly.
“Well, that’s certainly nice. Having someone, especially these days… That’s good. Stability is important.” Another awkward pause, another sip of tea. “And what about after school?” her aunt ventured carefully, looking at Myrtle. “Have you thought about what you’ll do then?” Myrtle hesitated, her gaze still flickering nervously toward Tom.
“I—I haven’t fully decided yet,” she murmured. “It’s complicated.”
“Right,” her aunt nodded. “I suppose you’ll work in your… community?” The slight pause before “community” was painfully obvious. Myrtle gave a faint smile, pained and polite. Her aunt looked to Tom, sensing he might offer more clarity.
“What about you, Thomas? Any thoughts about the future?” Tom lowered his cup very slowly, gaze steady, unreadable.
“Many,” he said quietly. The older woman tilted her head politely, waiting for more. When it didn’t come, she pressed gently.
“And your plans… Do they include Myrtle?” Tom’s expression softened, very slightly, as he looked at Myrtle.
“Of course,” he said softly. Myrtle’s heart skipped. Her aunt gave them a small, tentative smile.
“That’s… good. You seem very close, the two of you.” Myrtle nodded with a smile and her poor aunt didn’t know her niece was bound with magic not to speak about her lover. That she couldn’t, even if it was some innocent thing. Her aunt was studying them both as if seeing the quiet intensity between them clearly for the first time. Her smile became more genuine, though still careful. “Still, Myrtle, you know where I am. You’ll always have somewhere to go, whatever happens.” Myrtle’s eyes warmed gently, grateful and she finally spoke again.
“I know. Thank you.” Tom said nothing but Myrtle felt the slight, possessive tightening of his fingers on her knee beneath the table. Gentle but clear. She wasn’t going anywhere. Her aunt leaned back with a quiet sigh, her eyes a little sad, but accepting.
“I’m glad you came, although I wish it was easier for you,” she said softly, apologetically. And Myrtle, leaning ever so slightly into Tom’s side, smiled back. Quietly grateful, quietly sad and quietly certain of exactly where she belonged. The afternoon had turned to a soft, ash-grey dusk. London outside the windows seemed suspended in quiet, too tired to be festive, too cold to be anything but still.

Tom stood at the door, coat on, Myrtle’s case already in his hand. Myrtle lingered by the table, scarf wrapped high around her throat, eyes flickering uncertainly as her aunt fussed with her gloves.
“You really could stay the night, you know,” her aunt said for the third time, her voice thinner now. “It’s no trouble. You’d be warmer here than in some hotel—”
“We’ll be fine,” Myrtle said gently, glancing back at Tom. Her aunt followed her gaze, hesitating.
“Thomas can have the spare room. It’s private enough.” Myrtle shook her head, softer this time.
“Thank you. But… we have everything we need.” Her aunt sighed, folding her hands over a worn envelope. Then, without another word, pressed it into Myrtle’s coat pocket.
“It’s not much. Just a bit of money,” she murmured. “In case you need anything.” Myrtle blinked. “It’s Christmas.” Tom, silent by the door, glanced toward the window. The snow had started again, soft and fine. Her aunt stepped forward and cupped Myrtle’s cheek for just a moment, awkward, uncertain but honest. “You can always come back here, you know,” she said, her voice steadier now. “Whatever happens. This is still your home.”
“Okay.” Myrtle nodded, eyes damp but proud. But they both felt it. The distance. The shift. Because Myrtle was already stepping toward the door. And Tom, waiting like a shadow made flesh, was the one she moved beside, not away from. Her aunt stood in the entryway, arms folded against the cold as they stepped out into the stairwell.
“I’ll write,” she called softly. Myrtle turned with a smile and then the door closed. Just like that. Tom didn’t say anything. Just adjusted the briefcase in his hand, then gently took hers with the other, almost absently, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Down the stairs. Out into the cold. And her aunt, still standing behind the door, let out a long, slow breath. Because it wasn’t the hotel. Or the city. Or the school. It was him. That strange, cold-eyed boy with no last name and no past. He was Myrtle’s home now. In every possible way.

The streets of Bloomsbury were dusted with snow and soot, the light already draining from the sky. Pale yellow windows flickered behind curtains, and the air smelled faintly of smoke and roast chestnuts from a vendor long since packed up. The silence was not the peaceful kind anymore, it was the hush of a city worn down to its bones, holding its breath through another winter of war. Myrtle walked close to him, fingers laced with his in the space between their coats. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. The envelope in her pocket was warm with the press of her aunt’s hand, but it might as well have weighed nothing at all. The only thing she felt was Tom’s presence beside her, steady and unreadable, like a force of nature she had chosen to stand next to. He didn’t say much either. But every so often, he’d glance at her. As if to check that she was still there. Still his.
They passed King’s Cross and the slow curl of steam from the last idle train clung to the cold air. A lamplighter passed them with a bent hat and a crooked ladder, muttering a carol under his breath. Tom’s hand tightened slightly around hers as a group of loud soldiers spilled from a lonely pub, their boots striking the wet pavement like gunshots. He stepped closer. Shielded her with his body. Myrtle didn’t even realise he’d done it until they were past. By the time they reached the front steps of the Great Northern Hotel, the world felt quieter again. The golden lights behind the lobby windows spilled like melted candlewax onto the steps. Myrtle exhaled slowly. Inside, the lobby was nearly empty once again. The same woman from the night before was at the desk, her hair wrapped in a neat scarf, a cup of lukewarm tea in hand. She looked up and smiled when she saw them.
“Mr. Warren. Miss. So you came back.” Tom gave a slight nod.
“Yes, we’d like to stay another night please.”
“Of course. Your room is still available.” Myrtle smiled shyly and Tom gave shillings to the receptionist in exchange for their key again. She handed it over with a knowing look and smiled warmly. “We don’t have many guests, especially on Christmas eve, but there should be some pudding in the dining hall, along with some food.”
“Thank you,” Tom said. They climbed the stairs in silence, the hotel dim and quiet around them, the old carpet muffling every step. When they reached their room, Tom unlocked the door and pushed it open.
The faint scent of their night still lingered in the air, warmth, wool, skin. Her perfume. Him. He set her briefcase down by the chair and turned to her, quiet. And Myrtle stepped into the room like someone returning home. The door clicked shut behind them, muffling the world outside. She toed off her shoes near the bed and moved quietly toward the little dressing table. His scarf unwound slowly from her neck, her coat placed carefully over the chair. She didn’t speak, she just sat down, brushing her hair in the small oval mirror, the strokes slow, almost meditative. Her eyes were soft, distant. Tom, still in his coat, watched her for a moment. Then he pulled it off and hung it carefully on the rack, loosened his shirt cuffs, and stepped toward the bathroom.
“I’ll take a shower,” he said simply. She nodded without looking up.
“Okay.” And then the door closed. She paused mid-brush. She could hear the faint clatter of his shoes, the sound of running water, the slow shift of steam behind the door. The mirror blurred just slightly from the heat creeping out from beneath the frame. Myrtle’s cheeks warmed. She bit her lip and stared at her own reflection, not sure what she was thinking exactly, only that her heart had sped up. She fiddled with a hairpin, replaced it, then pulled it back out again. When the water stopped, her breath caught. She stood quickly, suddenly busying herself with folding the blanket over the bed, though it didn’t really need folding. She tucked in a nonexistent corner. Smoothed the pillow. The bathroom door creaked.
His hair was damp and dark, curling slightly against his forehead. He was shirtless, towel slung around his neck. His trousers sat just a little too low on his hips, the waistband unfastened, a line of water trailing down the sharp edge of his collarbone. Myrtle turned so fast she nearly tripped over the rug. He tilted his head, amused.
“You’re blushing.”
“I am not,” she said quickly, still facing away. He stepped closer, slow, controlled.
“You are,” he murmured, right behind her now. “You’re pink all the way down your neck.”
“I just— You didn’t say you’d— come out like…like that.” Tom chuckled lowly.
“You saw me like this before,” he said.
“That’s—not the same,” she mumbled.
“Why not?”
“Because now you’re standing there and I’m trying to breathe and—” He stepped closer still. And she turned to him then, flushed and wide-eyed and so hopelessly transparent. Tom reached out, fixing her glasses. His fingers traced her temple gently, then the edge of her jaw, and her breath hitched like it always did.
“I could disappear into you,” he murmured. “And it still wouldn’t be close enough.” She looked up at him, longing.
“Please do.” The heat between them shifted. The air pulled taut. Tom raised a hand to her shoulder, fingers grazing the edge of her cardigan and with infuriating patience, began to slide the button from its hole. One. Then another. She swallowed.
“Tom—”
“Mm?” His fingers moved to the third button, slower this time.
“You’re… teasing me.”
“I am,” he admitted softly. He undid the next button. Her cardigan was barely clinging to her shoulders now. “Because you’re so enjoyable to tease.”
“I am not,” she whispered, breathless.
“You are,” he said and now his voice was velvet-dark and amused. “You melt when I do this…” He trailed the back of his fingers down her neck, slow as dripping wax, “and when I say things like this.”
“Like what?” she managed.
“That you’re mine,” he whispered against her ear. Myrtle was trembling now and still he didn’t touch her like he had the night before. No rush. No overwhelming heat. Just slow, purposeful undoing. “You like it,” he whispered. “When I make you blush. When I remind you that no one else gets to see you like this.” Her cardigan slipped to the floor. Tom stepped back just an inch, letting his eyes sweep over her. “I like it too,” he admitted quietly. “I didn’t think I would.” Myrtle couldn’t speak and Tom smiled. Not cruelly. Just possessed. Proud. Like something dangerous that had just discovered softness could be a weapon too.

He guided her to settle on the bed, her body trembling with anticipation. He felt a surge of power, of possession, seeing her like this, knowing that he had reduced her to this state. He wanted to touch her, to mark her, to claim her as his own. But he held back. He was learning to savor this, the slow build, the anticipation. He wanted to see her unravel for him, wanted to watch her come apart at the seams. He crawled onto the bed beside her, his hand trailing over her stomach, feeling the way she quivered at his touch. He leaned down, his lips brushing her ear, his voice a low, dark murmur.
“I could touch you like this all night,” he said, nipping at her earlobe, his teeth scraping her skin. His fingers ghosted up her thigh underneath her navy skirt, not high enough to satisfy, just enough to make her squirm. “I like knowing I’m the only one who’s ever seen you fall apart.” She arched, just faintly, trying to follow the path of his touch. But he stopped short, barely grazing, just enough to deny. He leaned down, brushing a kiss to her jaw. Then her collarbone. Then the swell of her breast. All slow. All meaningless. All maddening. Myrtle whimpered, voice catching.
“Tom, please—”
“Please what?” he asked against her skin.
“I—I want you.”
“You have me,” he said, so calmly it was almost cruel. He was driving her mad. His eyes gleamed as he watched Myrtle's body squirm and tremble beneath his touch, her voice hitching on desperate pleas. He felt a rush of power, of satisfaction, knowing that she wanted him, needed him like this. He wanted to mark her, to claim her, to make her his in every way possible. He wanted her to beg, to plead, to be desperate for him. He wanted her to know that she was his, and his alone. “You're mine,” he whispered against her skin, his voice dark and possessive. “No one else's. You understand?” He looked up at her, his eyes boring into hers, demanding an answer, a confirmation. He needed to hear her say it, to know that she was his and his alone.
“Of course,” she breathed. “I wouldn’t want to be anyone else’s.” Tom felt a surge of satisfaction as Myrtle's words washed over him. A deep, primal possessiveness settling into his bones. She was his. She had always been his. He leaned down, capturing her lips in a deep, passionate kiss, pouring all his desire, all his longing into it. He wanted to devour her, to consume her, to make himself a part of her in every way possible. He trailed his fingers through her hair, tilting her head back to deepen the kiss, his tongue delving into her mouth, claiming her, tasting her. He pulled back, his chest heaving, his eyes dark and intense. His hands roaming over her body, exploring every curve, every inch of soft skin. He wanted to memorize her, to commit her to memory, to keep her with him always. Myrtle trembled terribly, unable to form coherent thoughts. His hands were everywhere and nowhere at the same time. She muttered pleas for more of his touch, to feel his hands between her thighs again and yet was too overwhelmed, too shy to ask. Tom smiled against Myrtle's lips, a wicked curve of his mouth. He knew exactly what he was doing to her, how he was driving her mad with need and desire. And he adored it. Adored the power he held over her, the way he could make her tremble and beg with just a touch, a kiss. He helped her from her skirt, his fingers brushing against her, a feather-light touch that made her gasp and arch into him. He chuckled darkly, loving the way she responded to him. He growled, a primal sound of possessiveness and desire, as he captured Myrtle's mouth in a searing kiss. He couldn't get enough of her, couldn't touch her enough, couldn't taste her enough. She was like a drug and he felt hopelessly addicted. He trailed his lips down her neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin, marking her as his. His hands roamed her body, cupping her breasts, teasing her until she was writhing beneath him. He could feel her heat, her arousal and it only spurred him on. His fingers slipped between her thighs, teasing her, stroking her, making her gasp and moan. He circled her clit, applying just the right amount of pressure to make her cry out, her hips bucking against his hand, then increased the pace, his fingers moving faster, harder, pushing her closer and closer to the edge. He could feel her tensing, her body coiling tight, ready to snap. And then she was coming, her body shaking with the force of it, her cry of release echoing through the room. Tom held her through it, his touch gentling as she came down from her high. He kissed her softly, tenderly, his heart racing in his chest. She was his, completely and utterly
“Mine,” he whispered, his voice rough with emotion.
“Will you… please—” She breathed nervously, her hips finding his and despite the aftershocks, the overwhelming exhaustion, she still ached for him, for more. Tom's eyes darkened at Myrtle's breathless plea, his heart pounding in his chest. His hands roamed her body possessively, touching her everywhere, reacquainting himself with every curve and plane. He settled himself between her thighs, the evidence of his arousal pressing insistently against her. He could feel her heat, her wetness and it made him groan, his hips rocking forward instinctively. Tom wanted to feel her surrounding him, wanted to be as close to her as two people could be.
“It shouldn’t hurt like the first time,” he murmured, his voice low and husky with need. “But tell me if you need to stop—” He reached between them, positioning himself at her entrance, looking down at her, his eyes blazing with intensity, waiting for her answer. Waiting for her to give herself to him fully, to surrender to him completely, to be his and his alone. She shook her head and panted as he entered her. She moaned, her nails digging into his skin and Tom knew he wouldn’t be able to stop even if she asked him to. She felt incredible, like she was made just for him, and he never wanted to leave her. He started to move, his hips rolling in a slow, steady rhythm that made them both gasp. He could feel her clenching around him, her body responding eagerly to his every touch, his every movement. He wanted to make this last, wanted to savor every moment, but the pleasure was already building, coiling tight in his belly, urging him to move faster, harder, deeper. He captured her mouth in a fierce, possessive kiss, his tongue sliding against hers, claiming her, consuming her. His hand slipped between their bodies, finding her clit, stroking it in time with his thrusts. He wanted to push her over the edge, wanted to feel her coming around him, wanted to hear her cry out his name, his thrusts growing faster, harder, more urgent.
“Tom, I— please,” she whimpered incoherently, meeting his thrust and starting to tremble impossibly. She gasped, her body arching into his, her nails digging into his shoulders. “I love you.” He growled low in his throat, his hips snapping forward, driving into her harder, deeper. He could feel her body tightening around him, her climax building and he wanted to push her over the edge. He wanted to feel her shatter in his arms.
“Come for me,” he demanded, his voice rough with need. He thrust into her again and again, his hand moving between them, stroking her, pushing her closer and closer to the brink. He could feel his own release building, coiling tight at the base of his spine, but he held back, wanting to make this last, wanting to savor every moment. With a cry, she came undone, her body convulsing around him, her nails raking down his back. He followed her over the edge, his own release crashing through him, his body shuddering.
For a moment, they lay there, tangled together, both gasping for breath. Tom held her close, his face buried in her hair, his heart pounding in his chest. She felt so small, smaller than ever and yet it was okay. Tom held her close, his arms wrapped tightly around her, his body still joined with hers. He could feel the slow throb of his cock inside her, the remnants of his release and it filled him with a sense of satisfaction. His lips moved lazily over her skin, tasting her, claiming her. She was his now, utterly and completely his and the knowledge sent a dark thrill through him. He had never craved someone like he craved her.
“Perfect,” he murmured and tilted her chin up, his eyes locking with hers.

The snow outside blurred the windowpane in faint streaks and the world beyond was hushed beneath blackout curtains and quiet. Myrtle had fallen asleep with her cheek against his chest, her arm curled loosely across his ribs. Her breath was slow and even, warming the space just below his collarbone. Tom hasn't slept yet. He lay still beneath her, one hand in her hair, the other resting on the bare curve of her back beneath the blankets. Every now and then, his fingers moved just slightly, as if to reassure himself that she was still there. That she was real. That she hadn’t vanished. He could still feel the way she’d trembled under him. Still hear the way she whispered his name like a vow. Still see her eyes when she begged for him, when she reached up for him like there was no other gravity in the world. And yet somehow… he still wanted more. Not just the body, not just the breathless sounds or the heat or the touch but something deeper. More permanent. Something that would last. Because even now, after he had undone every inch of her, laid claim to her completely, she could still leave. She had proven that. She had tried. And if he hadn’t followed, if he hadn’t caught that train, then what?
He looked down at her now, curled into him like a child, her hand twitching in sleep, her lashes casting soft shadows across her freckled cheek. She was the only softness he’d ever let near. And she had no idea how dangerous that made her. He should push her away. Should start creating the distance he would need later, the detachment, the discipline. But instead, he pressed his lips to her forehead and closed his eyes, just for a moment. Even in the dark, his mind was working. Planning. Always. And the thoughts suddenly became too much. Myrtle stirred faintly beneath the sheets. She felt the shift before she registered it. Tom’s body, tense beside her. Not asleep. Not calm. She blinked slowly, eyes adjusting to the dark, and turned her face into his shoulder.
“Tom?” she mumbled, voice still thick with sleep. “Is everything—?”
“You can’t leave again.” The words weren’t shouted. They came like a blade under silk. Low, sharp, dangerous. Myrtle froze.
“What?” He was sitting up now, sheets sliding low on his hips, shadowed against the faint lamplight from the hall. His eyes were hollow with something she couldn’t quite name. Not fear, he was too proud for that. It was rage and something under it. Something shaking. “You can’t leave again,” he repeated. “Not without permission. Not without me.” She pushed herself up onto her elbows, suddenly wide awake.
“I wasn’t trying to—”
“You did,” he snapped. “You slipped away. Left a note.” His voice broke, just barely. “I had to find you.”
“Tom, I thought— I didn’t mean—” He turned to her, fierce in a way that didn’t raise his voice.
“What would’ve happened if I hadn’t caught that train?” His hand tightened around the blanket. “If I hadn’t been there when the man tried to touch you? If I didn’t find you alone, in that station?” Myrtle opened her mouth, but no sound came out. He leaned in then, just close. Close enough to command.
“I need you to understand. You’re mine. You don’t get to disappear from me like that. You don’t get to walk into a city I can’t see through. Do you understand?” She nodded quickly, throat tight. But that wasn’t enough. “Say you won’t leave me again.”
“I won’t,” she whispered. “I promise.” His jaw was clenched. She could feel the tension in every inch of him. Myrtle reached up, brushing trembling fingers against his face. Her voice wavered, not from fear, but from the raw weight of it all.
“I didn’t know it would scare you,” she said softly. “I thought… I didn’t think you’d care that much.” He grabbed her wrist suddenly, not cruelly but with a strength that made her breath catch.
“Care that much?” She blinked at him. And for a single heartbeat, he looked shattered. Then, just as quickly, it was gone. Buried. His fingers loosened. He pulled her in, roughly and tightly, and tucked her back against his chest like he needed to feel she was there.
Myrtle let herself be held.
“I love you. I don’t want to leave you, ever.” And for once, just once, Tom let himself believe her.
—

Morning came grey through the gauzy curtains. The hotel window framed a sky bleached pale with winter light, dusting faint shadows across the worn carpet and the foot of the bed. Somewhere far below, the streets of London murmured with muted movement. Carts, boots, distant carols drifting like smoke in a war-stilled city. Myrtle stirred first. Tom was still asleep, one arm slung across her waist, the sheets tangled at their shoulders. For a long time she simply watched him. He looked younger, less cold. She almost didn’t want to wake him. But her thoughts had already begun to tangle. She ruined everything and so, quietly, she turned and kissed his shoulder, soft and apologetic. He blinked awake with a low breath, his eyes opening slowly, sharp even in their haze.
“Merry Christmas,” she whispered tentatively. He studied her for a long moment before murmuring.
“Merry Christmas.” Her lips wobbled.
“I’m sorry I don’t have a gift for you,” she said, voice cracking on the words. “I should’ve… I should’ve planned something. Or brought something. Or…I don’t know. I ruined it all anyway.” Tom didn’t move. Just listened. She sat up slowly, blanket clutching her chest and twisted her fingers in her lap.
“We could’ve been in the castle,” she went on, voice quieter now, almost shameful. “Maybe sneak down to the kitchens. Or in Hogsmeade. I ruined that. I ruined everything. And I just wanted to… I don’t even know what I wanted anymore.” She stopped. Covered her face with her hands. Tom sat up then. Slowly and carefully. He reached for her wrists and gently pulled them away, so he could see her face.
“I don’t need a present,” he said simply.
“I do,” she insisted. “You deserve one. You deserve everything.” He tilted his head slightly, as if amused by her insistence.
“You ran halfway across the country. I chased you down. Broke a man’s hand. Held you in my arms when you fell apart and you’re crying because you didn’t get me a trinket?”
“It’s Christmas—”
“I don’t care what day it is. You’re safe and mine.” Myrtle’s eyes filled again, but he brushed her cheek with the back of his fingers, slow and warm.
“I will never leave again,” she whispered. “I won’t. I promise.” He leaned in, resting his forehead against hers.
“I don’t want Hogsmeade,” he said. “I don’t want snow or silly gifts. I want you.” She let out a shaky laugh, smiling through tears.
“You already have me.”
“Good,” he said. “Then I got exactly what I wanted for Christmas.” And when she kissed him, slow and warm and still a little sad, he kissed her back like she’d handed him the world. It was the most Christmas morning Tom ever had.
They made it to breakfast eventually, though neither of them spoke much. The room downstairs looked no different than the morning before. The same few quiet travelers, the same scuffed tables, the same steam rising gently from chipped teacups. Tom’s hand rested against the small of her back the whole walk down. He drank his tea slowly. Watched her pick at her toast.

Back in the room, the day crawled. The fire crackled gently in the grate. A pale sun hung in the sky. Their things were already packed in the corner but the train wouldn’t come till afternoon. Myrtle was nestled beside him in bed, legs tangled with his under the blankets, her head resting just below his shoulder. She’d stopped talking a while ago, just tracing light shapes against his forearm with her fingertip, a quiet ritual now.
“Can I ask you something?” He didn’t move.
“You usually do.” She hesitated, pressing her face briefly into his chest.
“What was it like?” she whispered. “Before Hogwarts. The orphanage.” His hand in her hair stilled. She felt the breath he didn’t quite take. The pause.
“Cold.” She hummed in a quiet acknowledgment.
“Were there other kids?”
“Too many,” he almost spat. Myrtle’s throat ached. She shifted slightly, pressing her mouth to his jaw.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“Don’t be,” he said simply. “I don’t need pity.” She was quiet for a while.
“When’s your birthday?” He glanced down at her.
“What?”
“Your birthday. You never told me,” she added. Tom exhaled faintly.
“December 31st,” he said.
“But that’s in six days!” She looked up at him. “You’ll be seventeen.”
“Finally.”
“What will you do?” He shrugged.
“Not sure. Depends what the Headmaster lets me get away with.” She smiled, then grew serious again.
“Do you want anything?”
“No.”
“Nothing?”
“It’s just a day.” He reached down, tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear. They lay there in silence again, Tom’s arm rested over her hip, his hand splayed across the curve of her waist as if to keep her there, tethered and real. Myrtle’s voice came softly again.
“You really hate them, don’t you?” He didn’t need her to explain. His eyes didn’t move.
“I do.” She nodded slowly. She had expected it. But still, it hurt to hear it said like that, without hesitation, without apology.
“Even after all this time,” she whispered.
“They made me,” he replied flatly. “Everything I am, everything I had to become to survive, it was because of them. Their carelessness. Their rules. Their filth.” He finally looked at her then, eyes cold, sharp. But not unkind. “And what I saw yesterday only proved it again.” Myrtle bit her lip, fingers twisting in the hem of the blanket.
“Am I—?” she started, then stopped herself. He narrowed his eyes.
“What?”
“Am I one of them? To you.” The question hurt to ask. It showed in her voice and for the first time in a while, Tom looked startled.
“No,” he said immediately. “You’re not.”
“You know I am.”
“You were born to them,” he corrected. “That doesn’t make you one of them.” She stared at him. “You think I can’t see the difference?” he asked. “You’re nothing like them. You don’t belong in that world. You never did.” Her throat tightened.
“But I tried to. I went back. I thought—”
“And look where it brought you.” She looked down. “I’m not angry you left,” he said. “I’m angry that they made you think there was something worth going back for.” His fingers slid under her chin and tilted her face back toward his. “You don’t need them. You don’t need anyone but me.” She wanted to argue, a part of her still clung to the idea that the past might be salvageable. That some thread of family, of childhood, of home could be rewoven. But when he looked at her like that, she couldn’t speak. He kissed her softly, then pulled her close again, so her head rested beneath his jaw. “Whatever blood runs through you,” he said into her hair, “it’s not theirs I see when I look at you.” She let out a slow, unsteady breath.
“You make it very hard to argue with you.”
“I don’t argue,” he murmured. “I win.”

As Tom was buttoning his coat, precise and expressionless, Myrtle asked if he wanted to get lunch somewhere.
“No.”
“Why not? I can buy it.” Myrtle blinked from the bed, still tangled in the sheets.
“It’s not safe.” His voice was calm, final. “We’ve already risked enough. I’m not walking you around this city when the streets are crawling with people desperate or drunk or both. No.” She looked down, chastened.
“Right. Sorry.” He paused then, softened just slightly.
“We’ll eat on the train. I’ll get you whatever you want from the trolley.” A beat. “Even the treacle tart.” She smiled faintly.
“That’s your favourite.”
“Yes.” He pulled her coat gently over her shoulders once she’d dressed, fixed his scarf and pressed a kiss to her temple without a word. The lobby was quiet as ever when they descended the stairs. The desk was manned by the same woman as before. A half-knitted sock lay beside her open ledger, and the wireless hummed something faint and sentimental behind the desk, just barely audible over the soft scratch of the fire. She looked up and smiled when she saw them.
“Checking out?” she asked gently, her voice like warm bread.
“Yes,” Tom said. Calm. Polite. She flipped the ledger closed and stood.
“No trouble?”
“None.” Her gaze drifted toward Myrtle, wrapped in his scarf, cheeks flushed.
“Well.” A pause. “You take care now. The trains are unpredictable on holidays, you don’t want to be caught on the platforms too long.”
“We’ll be careful,” Tom said, already tightening his grip on the briefcase. The woman hesitated, just a second, then spoke again gently.
“Sad days, but… it’s good to see people together. Especially now.” Myrtle smiled. Tom only gave a faint nod. They stepped out onto the grey stone steps without a word, the door swinging shut behind them with a soft wooden click. Outside, the city blinked at them. Cold, wet, and waiting.
The streets near King’s Cross weren’t really occupied. Although it was still Christmas and only stragglers moved through the thinning air. A nurse in a long wool coat, a soldier lighting a cigarette near a lamp post, the faint sound of someone humming under their breath as they swept the steps of a corner shop. Tom walked just ahead, his stride even, the suitcase in one hand, his wand hidden beneath his coat. Myrtle, a few paces behind, pulled the scarf he’d given her closer around her neck. She watched him, tall, tailored coat brushing his calves, collar turned up against the wind and felt the pinch of it. He had given her his scarf. Without thinking. And now he was walking through London, his hands pink in the winter air. She glanced around. They were passing a little cluster of shops, mostly closed. One had its windows taped in crosses for bomb protection, another had a crate of bruised apples by the door. And then, just there, near a stack of stacked crates and a folded wooden cart was a tiny stall, hardly more than a table. A woman sat behind it, wrapped in layers, knitting slowly with shaking hands. A few hats hung on pegs. Woolen, practical. One of them was a deep charcoal grey, simple and old-fashioned. Myrtle paused. Tom turned, noticing she wasn’t beside him.
“Warren?” he said, brow furrowing slightly.
“Just…just one second!” she called, already hurrying toward the stall. She dug into her coat pocket, found the folded note her aunt had pressed into her hand when they left, a few shillings, meant for lunch or tea, or something useful. This was useful. The old woman looked up and gave her a polite nod. Myrtle pointed to the grey hat, held out the money with a small smile. Tom watched her from the pavement, hands in his coat pockets, eyes sharp. She caught up to him with a little bounce in her step, clutching the small paper parcel close to her chest. Tom looked at her with narrowed eyes, suspicious now.
“What was that?”
She didn’t answer, just stopped in front of him and began unwrapping the parcel.
“Warren,” he warned lightly, “what did you—”
“Shh,” she interrupted. “Don’t ruin it.” He stilled. And then she pulled out the hat, soft, dark grey wool, plainly stitched, warm-looking and slightly too classic for someone like him. But she held it up with both hands like it was a crown. “Merry Christmas,” she said, smiling shyly. Tom looked at her. Then at the hat. Then back at her.
“I don’t wear—”
“You will be cold,” she said, stepping closer, almost daring. “Just this once.” A pause. Then she rose to her tiptoes and carefully placed it over his head, smoothing the fabric down like she was afraid he might pull it off and scowl. Which he looked very much like he wanted to do. But didn’t. Myrtle tilted her head, inspecting her work, then giggled.
“Oh, you look…” Tom rolled his eyes, tugged the brim down with a sigh.
“Don’t.” He glanced sideways at her, but his mouth twitched faintly, not quite a smile, but not nothing. They started walking again and he didn’t take it off. Not even when he saw his reflection in the station window.

King’s Cross was almost deserted. Not the Muggle part, the outside still had a few war-weary figures shuffling home or nursing lukewarm tea from chipped flasks, but the platform felt haunted, like the war had quieted the very bricks themselves. A passing soldier nodded to them absently. The rest of the station swallowed its own noise. Myrtle clutched Tom’s arm tighter as they approached the barrier between platforms nine and ten. She always flinched a little before stepping through, like the wall might one day not let her pass. But Tom was calm and steady. He looked like he always knew where he was going.
They slipped through the bricks in silence and into a world painted in steam and snow. Platform Nine and Three-Quarters was still. The train waited, exhaling a quiet hiss of warm magic into the frozen air. Red and grand and timeless, the Hogwarts Express sat like something sacred, immune to war and world. The lamps above glowed softly. The sky was grey. Snow fell in little flurries and melted against the windows. They were almost alone. A single wizard in emerald-green robes stood further down the platform, half-dozing against a bench, likely staff. No other students in sight. Not on Christmas Day. Just them and the train. She breathed in sharply, as if the magic itself smelled different, cleaner and brighter. Like stepping out of a dream and into memory. Tom guided her forward without a word, her briefcase in one hand, his other curled around hers. Still wearing the hat. Still not speaking of it. When they stepped into the train, it was warm but Myrtle shivered anyway. He picked a compartment quickly, near the end, one of the ones with the thick curtains and brass hooks above the windows. He opened the door, let her in first. She slid onto the seat without letting go of his hand. He sat beside her. The door shut behind them. The train jolted softly. And something weighty and unspeakable between them, like a vow no one had said aloud.
“I’m glad we came back,” she whispered. His eyes didn’t meet hers.
“I never left,” he said.
The compartment had gone quiet save for the steady, rhythmic clatter of the train on the tracks. The steam hissed softly outside the windows, and frost crept lazily along the glass edges, curling like silver runes across the panes. Myrtle lay stretched across the seat, her head resting in his lap, hair pooling against his coat. She had fallen asleep after the first few villages, her body finally giving in to the weight of everything. Tom didn’t move. He simply sat there, one arm stretched along the window frame, the other loosely draped across the seat back. Her breath was warm against his thigh. Her hand still curled loosely near his coat buttons, as if she’d meant to hold onto him even as she drifted. A trolley had passed a few minutes ago, rattling gently through the narrow corridor and Tom had raised a hand. The woman running it looked surprised to find anyone aboard, let alone a student who ordered half the cart. He paid without blinking. The boxes now sat on the other seat, crinkling softly with the motion of the train. Myrtle could wake up to them later, blinking sleepily, probably apologizing for dozing off. Tom looked down at her. She didn’t stir. Her brow was smooth, the corners of her mouth relaxed, her face the quietest it had been in days. And for once, he let his hand move slowly, reverently brushing back a strand of hair from her cheek. His fingers hovered there for a moment longer than necessary. No one else could see her like this. No one else would. She was his.
She stirred only faintly in her sleep, shifting to press her cheek deeper against his thigh, a little unconscious sigh slipping past her lips. Tom didn’t move. His fingers rested still against the edge of her hairline, but his gaze had drifted far from her now, out through the window, out across the blurred white countryside, the frozen trees flashing past in staccato rhythm. And even in this quiet, this strange, sacred quiet, his mind was moving like fire through dry wood. London had reminded him of what they were. Of what he wasn’t. The man in the station tried to touch her. Had thought he could. A stranger, filthy and stupid and powerless, had dared to put his hands on her. She, who belonged to him.
Because the world outside their castle didn’t see the difference. Because to them, she was just another girl. Just another body. Just another waste. He had broken that man’s hand without magic. Heard the bones snap beneath his fingers. And it hadn’t been enough. He wanted to burn the world that made it happen. That let it happen. And when he thought about the world, about its roots, its rot, its filth, he thought of Muggles. Not her. Never her. But the rest. The ones who sent her away. The ones who forgot her. The ones who sold the house and left no letter and made her cry in the streets like an orphan. He watched the frost blur across the windows and thought of the chamber. Of Salazar’s legacy. Of what must be done. She murmured something in her sleep. A soft sound, barely there. Her fingers shifted near his knee. He looked down again. For a moment, the fury curled and quieted. Softened, only slightly, in the shape of her resting face. But it did not vanish. The rage, the truth, never really left him. And someday soon it wouldn’t have to hide.
Myrtle stirred. It began with a small shift of her shoulders, then a twitch of her fingers near the hem of his coat. She blinked slowly, her lashes fluttering against her cheeks before her eyes opened glassy with sleep, barely focused.
“…Tom?” Her voice was rough with dreams. She tried to lift her head but winced at the stiffness in her neck. He looked down at her, face unreadable, but his hand was already moving, brushing a curl behind her ear, the same way he had while she slept.
“You’ve been out for over an hour,” he said quietly. She flushed.
“I didn’t mean to… I’m sorry, I just…”
“It’s alright,” he murmured, cutting her apology short. “You were tired.” Myrtle sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes with the heel of one hand, her hair mussed and cheeks warm.
“What time is it?” He checked his watch.
“Just past four. We’ll be there soon.” Outside, the sky was greying further, that late-winter gloom settling low over the hills. She looked around the compartment then blinked. A whole collection of sweets and pastries and biscuits stacked neatly on the opposite bench. Her eyes widened.
“Tom…”
“You missed the trolley,” he said simply. “I didn’t.” Her lips parted.
“But… this is so much. You didn’t have to—”
“I did,” he said. Quiet. Final. She stared at him, then smiled in that small, overwhelmed way she did sometimes, like love didn’t fit in her chest properly, like she didn’t know how to contain it. She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his jaw, shy but certain.
“Thank you,” she whispered. He didn’t answer. Just slid his hand to the back of her neck and held her there. The train moved steadily forward, toward snow-covered hills, the castle beyond. Back into the world where she didn’t quite belong either. But she was beside him. There she belonged.

Chapter Text

December 1942

The snow was falling thicker now, soft and slow in the twilight, settling like ash on the castle’s sloped roofs and ancient turrets. The gates creaked open as they passed, neither speaking, only the crunch of boots over snow. The castle loomed above them, empty of carriages, no lanterns swaying along the paths. The Christmas had sent most of the students away. A few lights glowed faintly in high windows, but otherwise Hogwarts stood quiet, as if sleeping beneath the snow. Tom pushed open the great oak doors and they slipped inside. The corridors were dim, only a handful of torches lit, flickering shadows stretching long across the floor. Myrtle’s footsteps were softer than his, careful on the marble. Somewhere in the distance, the clatter of a goblet echoed. Maybe a few students lingering in the Great Hall. Tom stopped.
“This way,” he said quietly. “If anyone asks, I never left.” Myrtle looked up at him, wide-eyed but trusting. She nodded. He led her past the main staircases and down a quiet corridor, avoiding the well-trod paths. Just before the first dungeon corner, he turned to her. “Go up to your dormitory to unpack. I’ll meet you in the library.”
“All right,” she said, almost breathless. “Don’t be long.” He brushed a hand against hers, quick, unseen and was gone.
The dungeons were nearly silent. The usual hum of Slytherin students was absent. Empty. Cold. Perfect. He intended to enter the Slytherin common room when he heard it.
“Tom?” The voice was familiar, low. He turned. Dumbledore stood in the narrow arch, robes tucked around him like a cloak, a faint smile on his face. He held a book under one arm. “I noticed your absence,” the professor said gently. “I assumed you’d remain at school for the holidays, as always.” Tom didn’t blink, no point in lying now.
“I needed to pick some things at Wool’s. I also thought some distance would do me good,” he said. Calm. Measured.
“I see.” Dumbledore’s eyes searched his face. “And did it?” Tom offered a smooth, unreadable smile.
“Yes, Professor. It did.” There was a pause. Dumbledore’s gaze lingered too long, that usual glint of something knowing just beneath the warmth.
“Christmas is a strange time for many of us,” he said finally. “I do hope you’re not spending them too alone.”
“I manage.” Dumbledore said nothing more. Only nodded, stepped aside to let him pass. As Tom walked away, he could feel the man watching him and yet, he didn’t turn around. Let him wonder. Let them all wonder. He had things to do. Plans to make. And a girl waiting in the library.

After sorting his things and changing into fresh clothes, Tom took the longer route. Not because he didn’t know the shortcuts, he knew all of them, but because the stillness suited him. Because the silence gave him room to think. The torches along the corridor burned low, their enchantments flickering in tired rhythms. His footsteps echoed softly. Few students passed him, mostly fearful muggles. All around, Hogwarts dozed beneath its blanket of holiday snow. Quiet, nearly emptied of noise and distraction. And still, the thoughts stirred. London had not weakened his convictions. It had clarified them. The war-torn streets. The stink of filth and gasoline and rot. That man at the station. Her crying in the dark. Alone. All of it had fed something already alive inside him, something old, burning, eternal. Muggles did not deserve her. Or him. Or this world. The memory of the drunk’s hand reaching toward her face made his teeth clench. If he had been a moment slower… if he had not followed her… He would not make that mistake again. He would open the Chamber. He had always believed it was meant for cleansing and now he understood what that meant more than ever. What it must be. Not just the purging of filth, but the carving of a new order.
And yet he thought of her. Not the way she had cried. Not the way she had trembled. But the way she had looked at him as they’d crossed the barrier. Like she belonged to him. Like there was no world for her without him. She wore his scarf, had bought him a hat. She had whispered I love you against his mouth and let him touch her like she was his and only his. She wasn’t a pureblood. But she wasn’t a Mudblood, either. Not anymore. He had changed her. Molded her. Made her different. She wasn’t one of them. She was simply his. The thought was possessive and dark and it made something cold settle satisfyingly in his chest. It soothed him in a way nothing else did.
Tom reached the corner that led toward the library, pausing just before the stretch of torches that burned a little brighter there. Myrtle waited at their usual table, not too far in, but deep enough that the torchlight softened the edges of everything. Her satchel lay beside her, half-filled with books on magical memory, but she wasn’t reading. She looked up the moment she saw him. Tom stepped in without a word, hand brushing the edge of a nearby shelf. She smiled faintly. Small. Still tired from the train.
“I didn’t know if you’d come.” He sat next to her, graceful as always, folding his hands atop a volume of Old World Potions and Enchantments. His coat changed for Slytherin robes.
“I said I would,” he answered, voice smooth, unreadable. “You doubt me?”
“No,” she whispered, almost caught off guard. “Of course not.” He leaned back slightly, eyes studying her, the way her fingers fidgeted near her quill. It took a moment before he spoke.
“You should take something.”
“Take what?” She blinked.
“For… after London,” he said softly. “A contraceptive potion. You can ask for it in the hospital wing.” Her cheeks flushed immediately.
“Oh.” Tom tilted his head.
“It’s normal, Warren.”
“I know,” she mumbled, suddenly incredibly focused on the corner of her parchment. “I just… I can’t go ask for that. They’ll look at me like—”
“Okay,” he said flatly. “I’ll go then.” Her head jerked up, eyes wide.
“You…?”
“I’ll say it’s for someone or for research. Or…” his mouth curved slightly, “for a girl I can’t name.” She still looked stunned. A part of her wanted to argue but the greater part, the one that trusted him like instinct, simply nodded. He turned a page absently beneath his hand. “It’s only this time,” he said after a pause. “I’ll ask for the after-potion. There are wand-based contraceptive spells if we ever…” He didn’t finish the sentence. Myrtle looked at him then. Eyes wide. Flushed. Quiet. She was nervous and still innocent.
“You don’t want to…?” The words barely left her. So quiet he might’ve pretended not to hear them. But Tom turned his head sharply toward her, eyes dark, unreadable. He didn’t speak for a moment. Watching how she fidgeted. How she waited for rejection, because she always did.
“Is that what you think?” he asked at last. Low. Controlled. Myrtle shifted in her seat, fingers knotting in her skirt.
“I don’t know. I just—” she looked at him, cheeks flushed. “You said if we ever… again. Maybe it was just because of London and… and everything and I didn’t know if that meant—” His chair scraped softly as he stood. She looked up at him, confused as he stepped behind her. He leaned down slowly until his mouth hovered just beside her ear.
“I want you,” he said, carefully. “In ways you can’t even imagine.” A beat. Her breath caught, every inch of her going still. “I think about you,” he continued, voice quiet but deliberate, “when you’re not there. I think about you in class, when I shouldn’t. I think about your body. About the sounds you make when I touch you. About the way you said my name when—”
“Tom—” she whispered, half-choked, glancing around even though no one else was there.
“I want you,” he repeated. Slower. Lower. “So much it’s a distraction.” Her breath hitched. “Don’t mistake restraint for hesitation,” he said, watching her carefully now. She nodded, slowly. Flushed to the ears. He straightened again. Calm. Composed. Dangerous as ever.
“Good,” he said, returning to his chair. “Then I’ll go to the hospital wing tomorrow. You’ll take the potion and next time… I’ll learn the spells.” He sat back across the table, almost absently brushing his fingers against hers.
—

The next morning, Tom went to the hospital wing. The doors creaked faintly as he pushed them open. The heavy scent of antiseptic lingered in the air, undercut by the faintest trace of something floral. Essence of dittany, perhaps. Madam Burke looked up from her desk, squinting behind her spectacles.
“Mr. Riddle?” she blinked, surprised. “Are you ill?”
“No, Madam,” he said smoothly, stepping forward with the calm of someone meant to be there. “I’ve come for a potion.”
“Ah.” She set down her quill. “What sort?”
“A contraceptive potion, if that’d be possible. The after-use one.” He didn’t falter. She blinked again and eyed him strictly. He let a breath out through his nose, the faintest edge of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “For a lady.” Her eyebrows lifted. “She intends,” he added delicately, “on staying a lady.” Madam Burke blinked again, then gave a quiet, almost scandalized little chuckle, the sort one couldn’t quite tell was fond or disapproving.
“Well, I suppose it’s Christmas… very well, Mr. Riddle. Just a moment.” He waited as she moved to the back shelf, her robes brushing softly against the linoleum floor, the sound of glass vials shifting faintly behind the cupboard doors. He could have stolen it. Easily. But the trouble would have outweighed the satisfaction. A missing vial would be tracked. Burke wasn’t Slughorn, she kept count. There was more control in asking plainly. She returned with a small corked vial. Soft pink, almost opalescent, swirled with a shimmer that looked oddly innocent. “This should do,” she said, handing it to him. “Three drops in tea or water. It works but one needs to use it within five days since the act.”
“Thank you,” Tom nodded once and turned to leave.
“Mr. Riddle,” she called firmly as he reached the door. He paused, fingers still loosely curled around the warm glass. He turned halfway, his expression composed as ever. Madam Burke had stood again, arms folded now, her spectacles lowered slightly on her nose. She gave him a look. The kind that pierced right through polished manners and measured silences.
“I do hope,” she said, voice as clipped as the cold outside, “you’re intending on staying in your own bed.” For a beat, Tom said nothing. The candlelight flickered in the silence. His shadow stretched long behind him. Then, so softly it could almost be mistaken for politeness, he spoke.
“Of course, Madam.” A pause. “I would never dream of disrespecting Hogwarts.” Her mouth twitched perhaps in suspicion, perhaps in amusement.
“I imagine you wouldn’t. Still—” she raised an eyebrow. “It’s not a matter to be taken lightly, Mr. Riddle.” He smiled faintly, that same smooth mask of earnestness.
“Which is why I’m being responsible.” She exhaled through her nose.
“Just don’t make a habit of it. Christmas or not, this is still a school. Not even mentioning one should be wedded.”
“Understood,” Tom said with a light bow of his head. And then, bottle tucked away in his pocket, his robes trailing behind him, he stepped through the doors and disappeared into the corridor once more.

Warren looked up before he even reached the table. Tom stepped through the aisle with his usual composure, but she saw the hint of pink glass in his hand before he even sat. He placed it down in front of her. Not the vial, but a cup. Steam rose gently from the surface. She looked at it. Then at him.
“You brewed Chamomile tea?”
“I thought you’d prefer that over water.” Her throat worked once and she nodded slowly, wrapping her hands around the warm cup. He sat beside her.
“She gave you that easily?” His eyes stayed on the tea as he answered.
“It wasn’t difficult.” Myrtle raised an eyebrow, almost smiling but with a touch of pink in her cheeks.
“I mean,” she murmured, teasing, “did she say anything?” Tom tilted his head, feigning mild confusion.
“She did,” he said finally. “She hopes I intend to stay in my bed.” Myrtle coughed, nearly spilling her tea.
“Oh.” He watched her, amused.
“Apparently it shouldn’t happen at school. Or outside of marriage.”
“Well…” Myrtle bit her lip, eyes twinkling. “She’s not wrong.”
“Are you asking me to marry you, Warren?”
“No!” She turned scarlet.
“Pity,” he said smugly. She turned even redder and sipped her tea quickly, clearly trying to focus on anything but him, though her hand had slid just slightly closer to his on the table.
“Will it work?” she asked after a moment, quieter.
“It’s the most effective within the first day,” Tom replied, watching her. “But it still works after. The hospital wing keeps only the strongest formulation.” She nodded, holding the tea a little tighter.
“You’re too prepared for everything.” His lips twitched.
“You’d be surprised what I haven’t been prepared for.”
“Like what?” She tilted her head but he didn’t answer. Just reached across and tucked her hair behind her ear again.

“…and if the potion is oversteeped past the final memory strand,” Tom murmured, tracing a line down the page with one finger, “it can burn the target’s synaptic recall beyond healing. You’d be extracting amnesia, not just forgetting. Death of memory, not just loss of it.” Myrtle nodded along, but her eyes had drifted to his profile again. The concentration in his brow, the long pale fingers curled over the page. His voice did strange things to her now. He looked up, catching her. “What?”
“What?” She blinked.
“You’re staring.”
“I’m—” she flushed. “I’m just thinking.” He tilted his head, a faint smirk rising.
“About amnesia?”
“No, not exactly,” she giggled. That made him pause. He closed the book softly and turned to her, one arm draping along the back of her chair.
“Then what, exactly?” She hesitated. Her hands twisted a little in her lap. Then she took a breath.
“I know we talked about you staying in your own bed…” His brow arched, very slightly. She could feel her entire face heating, “…but the Ravenclaw dorms are mostly empty. Most of them went home. It’s just a couple students and Helen’s not back ‘til after New Year’s and—” she blurted, then rushed the last part like it wasn’t terrifying, “wouldyouliketostaythenight?” It all came out in one breath. He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he let the silence stretch, clearly enjoying the sight of her looking anywhere but him. Then low, amused.
“Is that an invitation, Miss Warren?” Her shoulders curled forward.
“I didn’t mean— I mean I did, but not— I just thought, you know, maybe if you wanted—” He reached out and gently took her chin between his thumb and finger. Her eyes darted back to his.
“I’d hope you mean,” he said, voice soft but certain. She looked a little proud. A little relieved. And more than a little nervous again.
“You’re very cute when you try to be bold,” he added.
“I am bold.”
“Mm.” He picked the book back up.

They slipped into the dormitory like ghosts. No one had really returned yet. The room glowed in soft candlelight, filtered blue through the tall windows. Her scent was here, ink and something faintly floral. Tom dropped the Disillusionment Charm with a silent flick of his wand. The shimmer vanished from his body like a ripple of broken water. Myrtle was already toeing off her shoes, a flush of nervous joy rising in her cheeks. She tried not to fidget, though her hands twisted the sleeves of her cardigan.
“It’s kind of like…” she began with a shy smile, “like a sleepover.” Tom’s eyes rose from the book in his hand, flat and unimpressed.
“If you call this a sleepover,” he said dryly, “I’m leaving.” She giggled.
“You don’t even know what that means.”
“And yet I know enough to loathe it.”
“It’s just—” She climbed onto the bed, pulling her knees beneath her, “—staying up late, talking, reading… doing silly things with someone.”
“So any night with you, then.” A small pillow hit his chest. He caught it, but didn’t throw it back. Just set it aside with a faint, unbothered glance. She grew quieter then, her expression turning soft.
“I’ve never had one,” she said and he looked up. “A sleepover. I mean…not a proper one. No one ever invited me to anything. Well, Albert did. My brother.” She smiled faintly, eyes flickering to the candle. “He used to build blanket forts with me when I couldn’t sleep.” There was a pause. Tom watched her without blinking. Her voice lowered. “I‘m sorry, it’s stupid.”
“No,” he said and there was something in the way he said it. Steady, flat, but with the faintest undertow of heat, that made her blink up at him. He set the book down on the desk and crossed the room, lying beside her on the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight. Her hands stilled. They lay in silence for a moment, candlelight dancing along the dark curve of his jaw. Her blanket was pooled around them like a sea.
“What would yours have looked like?” she asked. “Your… blanket fort?” Tom said nothing for a long moment.
“I wouldn’t have built one.” She tilted her head slightly, brow furrowed.
“Not even the kids in the orphanage built them?”
“It was a different kind of orphanage,” he said, his voice colder now. “They didn’t build anything.” There was something final in the way he said it. Something dead and long buried, dragged too close to the surface. Myrtle opened her mouth, then closed it again. The silence stretched between them, heavy as snowfall. She looked at him and for a moment, she didn’t see the powerful, obsessive boy who could set a room alight with a thought. She saw the ghost of someone very small, very alone. A boy who had once learned not to want warmth, because there had never been anyone to give it. And he hated that she saw it. His fingers moved sharply. Before she could say a word, he reached for her, one hand sliding up, curling around her throat with a quiet, possessive surety. The other caught her waist and pulled her forward. His mouth crashed into hers, deep and unforgiving, all tongue and teeth and stolen breath. He devoured the softness in her the way a freezing man might devour warmth. Violently, then slowly, then deeper still. She gasped into him, hands scrambling to hold onto his arms, to steady herself. He kissed her harder, as if to erase the moment before, as if the sheer pressure of his mouth could make her forget what he’d said. His thumb pressed just beneath her jaw, guiding her, owning her. Her pulse fluttered under his fingers. He pulled back only slightly, voice dark against her lips.
“I don’t want to talk about that place again.” She nodded and he kissed her again, slower this time, but no gentler. Still claiming. Still making sure she knew she was his. He stayed close to her, eyes steady and dark as he studied her face. The flushed freckled cheeks, the parted lips, the way she looked at him now like there was no air without him. He didn’t say anything. Words had long since left the room. Instead, he brought his hand to the collar of her cardigan and began to undo it, button by button, painfully slow. Each movement precise and deliberate, not asking for permission, but not needing to. She let him. Not because she was weak, but because she wanted to be known, wanted to be seen by him. When the fabric slipped from her shoulders, he kissed the skin there, first lightly, then with growing intensity. His mouth moved along her collarbone, the base of her neck, the soft skin along the hem of her bra. He trailed his hands down her sides, over her ribs, learning the shape of her like something ancient and sacred. Every breath she took made her seem more alive beneath him, more his.
“You don’t know what it means that you’re mine.” She could barely answer. She only touched his face, let her fingers brush through his hair, down his jaw as he kissed her again, slower this time, but just as consuming. And when he finally laid her down and followed, when he touched her with a kind of cruel worship, when her soft whimpers filled the space between them, it wasn’t about lust. It was about possession. Obsession. Need. It was Tom Riddle losing himself in the only warmth he had ever been allowed.
—

The sky outside was still pale and dim when Tom slipped from her bed. He moved without sound, bare feet against the cold floor. Myrtle remained curled beneath the covers, her brown hair spilling like ink across the pillow, one hand loosely resting in the space he’d left behind. He lingered only a moment, just long enough to brush a fingertip across the curve of her cheek, ghost-like, and then he turned away. By the time he reached the Slytherin dormitory, the dungeons were still asleep. He dressed swiftly. Pressed shirt, robes drawn with precision, his wand tucked into his pants. A handful of galleons slipped into his pocket. He checked the time. Efficient. In the Great Hall, only the long shadows of morning and a few house-elves moved through the air. The enchanted ceiling was overcast with winter light, heavy grey clouds hanging like veils. A few platters had already been laid, sweet buns, flaky pastries with jam, tiny, iced fruit cakes, buttered rolls still warm from the ovens. Tom selected only what he knew she would like. Soft things. Sweet things. Warm enough to feel like kindness without looking like sentiment. Then he cast Disillusionment again and returned, silent as fog, back up to the Ravenclaw Tower. Her dorm was unchanged. Still silent. Still theirs. He placed the plate on her desk, careful not to wake her. With a flick of his wand, he added a small charm to keep the pastries warm. Then he found a scrap of parchment and bent over it, writing in his steady, elegant script.

Eat. I’ll be back after lunch. Don’t miss me too much.
— TMR

He left the note leaning against the plate and then he was gone again, disappearing like a shadow through the tower door. It was still early when Tom stepped past the castle gates and into the winding road that led to Hogsmeade. The sky above was clear now, wintry blue streaked with the pale gold of late morning. The snow crunched beneath his boots, clean, unspoiled, too bright. It all disgusted him a little. It was nothing like London, the war did not exist. No sirens. No sandbags. No blackouts or bleeding letters from the front. Just the clumsy attempt at joy. Wreaths hung too low over wooden doorways, enchanted snow falling in predictable intervals, window displays cluttered with ribbons and sweets and useless charm trinkets. It was the kind of place that tried too much. Tom hated it. But Myrtle would have liked it. That thought was reason enough to continue.
He passed Honeydukes first, too crowded. He kept walking, gloves clasped behind his back, eyes sharp beneath the shadow of his hair. There was something that offended his senses about Hogsmeade. Like a mask that smiled too hard. Still, he moved with purpose. He found the sketchbook in a corner shop that smelled faintly of dust and powdered ink. It was bound in soft grey leather, no ridiculous gold embossing, no twinkling charms. Just clean ivory pages, pressed smooth and waiting. It reminded him of her in a way, all softness and pale space and yet oddly resistant to touch. He paid for it without a word. He loathed the idea of being seen in Honeydukes, but Warren liked the caramels. So he stepped inside, ignored the hum of laughter and saccharine music and bought only what she would want. The winter caramels, a bar of dark chocolate wrapped in silver foil and a box of sugared violets she had once mentioned. Last, in a small antiques shop half-buried beneath the snow, he found a bookmark. It was simple silver-plated, with a glass inlay so thin it looked like ice. Inside the inlay was a single sprig of pressed lily of the valley. It caught the light in a way that made him stop. He didn’t ask the price, he didn’t need to. He paid, pocketed the wrapped bundle and turned back into the street, his coat catching the wind. Let others smile and sing carols. Let them waste their coin on foolish charms. Tom Riddle moved through Hogsmeade like a shadow, cutting across the festive air with the precision of a blade. He had no interest in joy. But if Myrtle Warren was to have a Christmas, it would be his. Quiet. Unspoken. Bound to memory like a vow.
The walk back to the castle was longer than it needed to be. He took the side path along the tree line, his boots crushing ice-slicked leaves, the grey weight of the sky hanging low. The village had faded behind him, distant now, muffled by snow and pine and silence. He stopped only once. Leaning against a half-frozen tree stump, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the last thing he’d purchased. A small silver case of wizarding cigarettes from a dusty tobacconist tucked between Honeydukes and the post office. He lit one with a flick of his wand and drew it to his lips, frowning slightly as the smoke curled around his face. Too sweet. Too clean. Wizarding brands always were. Laced with enchanted filters and perfumed papers, designed to burn away guilt with the taste of honey or mint. The smoke didn’t sting, didn’t settle into the bones of one’s coat like the London ones. It was an imitation of filth, sanitized and diluted. He hated it and took another drag anyway. And as the smoke bled out into the empty air, he thought unbidden of the cigarettes from that underground muggle kiosk, the kind the men in long coats bought with rations and hollow stares. The kind that smelled like rot and something real. He should have picked some up in London. A grim smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. Perhaps cigarettes were the only thing the muggle world ever managed to get right. He crushed the enchanted stub beneath his heel. Then, shouldering the parcels under his arm, he turned back toward the castle. The lake was still frozen. The towers rose like spires of bone against the pale sky.

He found her in the second-floor girls’ lavatory. Of course he did. It was noon, the stone walls breathed chill and through the thin light of the stained glass, dust floated like ash. She was sitting near the last sink, knees drawn up, her cardigan wrapped tightly around her frame like armour made of thread. Her eyes were red, though she had clearly tried to scrub the evidence away. When she looked up and saw him in the doorway, something lit behind her expression, like a match, small but real, and she pushed herself up to her feet too quickly.
“Tom—” she breathed, wiping her cheek with her sleeve. “I was looking for you.” He said nothing at first. Just stared at her, too long maybe, taking her in. Her smile was a little cracked, the kind that hurt to wear, but she wore it for him anyway. Because she knew.
“Thank you for the breakfast,” she said softly, stepping closer, pressing a kiss to his cheek with a warmth that made something behind his ribs twist. She was trying. Always trying. As if she could outrun abandonment by pretending she wasn’t broken. He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached for her hand, his fingers cold from the wind, hers too warm and curled it into his own.
“Come with me,” he said. She followed. They walked in silence through the draughty stairwells and echoing halls, past windows rimmed in frost and portraits still asleep. When they reached the seventh floor, the wall opened for him like it always did. As if it knew.
And the Room welcomed them back. It was the same as before, soft books stacked on velvet armchair, light from the stained glass window stretching over the tall shelves, a noble bed tucked in the back like a secret. She looked around and let out the smallest breath of relief. He didn’t speak. Not until they were inside fully, the door gone behind them. Then he pulled the bundle from under his coat and set it quietly on the bed.
“What’s this?” she asked. He didn’t answer. Instead, he unwrapped it, methodical, precise and placed each item before her with surgical calm. First, the sketchbook. Grey leather, cold to the touch. Then the box of caramels. A bar of dark chocolate, silver-wrapped. Sugared violets. And last the bookmark, delicate, silver, and lined with a single pressed sprig of lily of the valley. She stared. Frozen. She opened her mouth, closed it. Her hands hovered over the gifts like she wasn’t sure they were real.
“I—Tom…”
“Don’t cry,” he warned, quietly. Not cruelly, but close. “I didn’t bring them for that.”
“I’m not crying,” she whispered but her voice shook. A long silence passed. Then, overhead, a soft rustle. Myrtle glanced up. A single mistletoe branch hung from the rafters, conjured by the Room with some strange instinct. White berries. Green waxen leaves. Hanging just above them.
“Oh,” Myrtle blinked.
“Charming,” Tom looked up. Then back at her.
“It’s—” she said, cheeks pink, fingers fidgeting with the edge of the sketchbook. “I think it’s supposed to be lucky.”
“Superstitions are for the weak,” he said. But he was already stepping closer. She tilted her face up to him. Waiting. Soft and full of a trust he didn’t know how to hold. He kissed her, slow, restrained, a single press of possession beneath the charm of something ancient and ridiculous. Then he pulled back. “Next time you disappear,” he said, voice low, “you’re not getting a bookmark but a locked doors.” She smiled at that. Just a little but it reached her eyes.
She was seated on the bed, the sketchbook open in her lap, her fingers carefully testing the smoothness of the paper. The sweets remained mostly untouched, except for the sugared violets, two of which she had already nibbled with shy reverence. Tom had seated himself in the armchair, one leg crossed, his sleeves rolled neatly to the elbow, a book resting idle in his lap. But he wasn’t reading. He was watching her. Always watching her. Her fingers moved slowly, reverently, across the page.
“I’ve never had one this nice,” she murmured. He tilted his head.
“A sketchbook?”
“Not just that. I mean—” She blushed slightly. “Christmas and the whole thing. All of it.” He just studied her. The curve of her back as she leaned over the paper, the way her hair curled near her ear. Then he said, softly, with the faintest curl at the corner of his mouth.
“See?” He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. “You don’t need London. Or your family. Or any muggles for Christmas.” She looked up at him then, startled but not because it wasn’t true. She had known it somewhere deep in her chest, long before he said it aloud. Still, she hesitated. Her mouth parted as if she might argue, say something about family, about how her aunt had tried, but the words didn’t come. Instead, she looked back down at the sketchbook and quietly spoke.
“I’m not even that sad.” Tom smiled. Quiet and cold and pleased.
“That’s because this,” he said, gesturing faintly at the room. The firelight, the books, the mistletoe still hanging above them, “is what you deserve. Not some grey street full of gas masks and people who don’t write to you.” Her eyes darkened slightly, remembering. She nodded once. He uncrossed his legs and stood, then stepped closer, slow, deliberate. The parchment-soft sound of her page turning was the only noise. He sat beside her then, his hand reaching out to trace the inside of her wrist with the barest pressure. It was nothing and yet she shivered. “You have everything you need,” he murmured. “You have me.” And when she looked at him again, her face open and vulnerable and impossibly brave, she whispered.
“I know.” He kissed her then, softer this time, but no less possessive. A slow burn across her mouth, like a seal pressed into wax.

He’d fallen asleep with a book resting open across his chest, one arm thrown across the pillows, the fire still low and glowing beside the bed. His breath was steady, his face younger in sleep, softer, if such a word could ever apply to him and yet even now, something about his stillness looked guarded, as though he might open his eyes in a moment and attack. Myrtle sat for a long moment by the edge of the bed, watching him. The gifts still lay on the sheets. The chocolates, the sketchbook, her bookmark tucked between the pages where she’d drawn the shape of his jaw from memory. The Room had dimmed to a hush, draping them in dusk. She pulled off her cardigan, set it neatly on the bedframe and then, carefully, slipped under the covers next to him. He stirred almost immediately, a twitch of his brow, a low noise in the back of his throat. And before she could properly settle, he turned toward her with heavy eyes and longer arms, tugging her against him like sleep had never really taken hold.
“Tom,” she whispered, breath catching as he pressed his mouth to her shoulder. “You’re tired.” A kiss to her neck. Lazy. Deep. Then, against her skin.
“Don’t care.”
“You should rest—”
“Then stop talking.” She let out the smallest sound, half laugh, half gasp as he pulled her beneath him, shifting the blankets with an almost drowsy urgency, his hands already slipping beneath the hem of her shirt.
“But you’re not even—” He kissed her full then and whatever protest she had dissolved completely. He wasn’t fully awake, but that didn’t seem to matter. He didn’t need precision now, just contact. Skin. Mouth. The reassurance of her in his arms, under his hands, his. She murmured something, a whisper of his name, a note of concern still lingering in her voice and he silenced it with another kiss, deeper this time, one hand tangling in her hair.
“I’ll rest,” he murmured finally, voice low, almost slurred with half-sleep, “after.” And she didn’t argue again. His breath was warm against her skin and every kiss, though laced with sleep, came with a kind of hunger that curled low in her stomach. As though even now, even tired, even half-dreaming, he needed to remind her. He pulled her more under him with a slow and deliberate gravity, his body heavy with the kind of exhaustion that made his movements even more possessive, hungrier. Focused. He nuzzled into the curve of her neck, then kissed her there once, twice, until she whimpered softly, her fingers curling against his shirt.
“I thought you were asleep,” she breathed, voice barely there.
“I was,” he murmured, dragging his mouth down to the hollow of her throat. “Then you touched me.”
“I didn’t—” He pressed his hips against hers and she gasped, too warm now, too caught between tenderness and heat to keep track of the argument she’d intended to make. Her eyes fluttered shut as he slipped his hands beneath the hem of her blouse, moving slowly like he was mapping her all over again, as though every inch belonged to him and he had the right to re-explore it every time she let him in. She arched into his touch, biting her lip, and he stilled just long enough to murmur.
“Look at you.” He kissed the edge of her jaw, his voice darker now, like velvet dragged over something sharp. “Already undone.” Her breath hitched, eyes wide and her fingers scrambled to reach the buttons of his shirt, desperate to feel more of him, to ground herself in the reality that he was here, choosing her again. He chuckled low in his throat, that maddening, self-assured sound, and caught her wrists. “No,” he said, dragging her arms above her head gently, but with finality. “Not yet.”
“Tom—”
“Let me.” She went still. Breathless. Blushing. And then she nodded. He loosened his hold and bent to kiss her again, deeper now, slower, his tongue sweeping into her mouth with the kind of elegance that made her toes curl and her stomach tighten. His fingers followed, unfastening her, easing away the fabric like she was a gift he was determined to open piece by piece. Every movement was slow and intentional. He kissed the slope of her shoulder. Her collarbone. Down until he could whisper into her skin. “You’re mine,” and she could feel it echo all the way through her. And when she finally whimpered his name, arching toward him, begging without words, he let her. Because that was power, too.
—

The morning was slow to arrive. Thin light slipped in through the narrow windows of the Room, casting the bed in faint silver. The air between the sheets was still warm from the press of their bodies, tangled legs, shared breath, the hush of dawn wrapped around them like another blanket. She lay against him, her cheek resting on his chest, her fingertips tracing idle shapes just below his collarbone. He hadn’t spoken. He never really did, until she asked something, but he was awake. His arm was curved loosely around her, fingers caught in her hair, his heart thudding steady beneath her ear. As if she were something fragile pressed against a storm he refused to name. And then barely a shift, barely a breath, she moved. Not away, but lower. Her hand trailed down, pausing just at the line of his ribs. He stilled. It wasn’t rejection. It was something else. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t tell her no. But the change in the air was immediate. Sharp, tense, like the moment before a wand duel. His body had gone rigid beneath her, not from fear, but from restraint. Control drawn tighter than string. She raised her head. Their eyes met. Hers unsure but brave, his unreadable, dark like smoke, like a held breath. She kissed his chest and when her hand slid softly further down, he let out a slow exhale, the kind of sound she’d never heard from him before. It wasn’t commanding, wasn’t taunting. It was almost like a kind of surrender. She watched his throat move as he swallowed.
“Is this alright?” she whispered, her voice barely audible in the stillness. Tom's breath caught in his throat as her hand moved lower again, her fingers brushing the sensitive skin just above his hip. His muscles tensed, his body coiled like a spring ready to snap. He was acutely aware of her, her warmth, her softness, her tentative touch. It was a foreign sensation, this vulnerability, this hesitation. He was used to taking control, to demanding, to possessing. But this was different. He searched her eyes, those wide, anxious brown orbs and saw his own reflection. The darkness, the hunger, the yearning. She saw him and she wasn't running away. She was offering herself to him, her trust, her desire.
"Yes," he whispered, his voice rough. "It's alright." His hand moved to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing her bottom lip. She nuzzled into his touch, her eyes fluttering closed. He watched her, this quiet, weeping girl, his small light in the darkness. She made him feel things he didn't quite understand, things he had never felt before. The lines of his body were tight, held, but not from fear. Restraint sharpened like a blade between his teeth. The restraint of someone who was used to taking, commanding, controlling and had never once been made to receive. And even then, he still refused to loosen his grip on himself. She felt the tension beneath her fingertips, the resistance, the struggle, the surrender. He would never say the word. But it was there, in the way he let her. In the way he stayed silent. In the way his breath trembled, just slightly, when she grazed the waistband of his pants and paused. He didn’t look at her. Instead, his head turned to the side, jaw clenched, lips parted,like even eye contact would undo him further. And that, perhaps, was the most human thing she’d ever seen in him.
“Tom,” she whispered again. His hand closed around the back of her neck. Not hard. Just grounding. Possessive even now, but different, a way of tethering himself.
“You—” he rasped, his voice rougher than she’d ever heard it, “don’t stop.”
“Okay,” she breathed. Tom's hand trailed down her back, over the curve of her spine, coming to rest just above the swell of her backside. He squeezed, pulling her flush against him. His eyes fluttered closed, a low groan escaping his lips as he gave in to the sensation of her touch. His body tensed, every muscle coiled tight as he teetered on the brink of release.
"Warren," he hissed, his voice ragged and desperate. "I swear—" But he couldn't form the words, couldn't think past the overwhelming pleasure that coursed through his veins. With a final shuddering groan, he came undone, his body convulsing as he spilled himself in her hand. Reaching for his wand, he cast a quick Scourgify and wrapped his arms firmly around her. She curled up beside him, her body tucked into his and for a long time he didn’t speak. Just breathed, just held her, one arm heavy around her waist, his fingers ghosting over her ribs like he didn’t want her to disappear. And when he finally did speak, it was barely audible. Just a murmur into the space between her neck and shoulder.
“You don’t exist without me.” A claim. A promise. A warning. All three at once. Her hand found his beneath the covers and didn’t let go.
“I know,” she muttered quietly with a strange hurt in her voice.

They dressed slowly, carefully, neither of them saying much. Myrtle’s hair was a little wild, her cheeks pink from warmth and the nearness of him. She looked almost impossibly like someone who actually belonged. Tom stood by the bookshelf, already dressed in his dark school robes, his collar fastened with that precise elegance he always carried like a blade. His wand flicked once toward the bed, vanishing any trace of them. He turned toward her then, slipping his gloves on.
“I have a few things to take care of,” he said, his tone neutral, practiced. “I’ll see you later.”
“Alright.” Myrtle nodded. No question, no hesitation. Just her usual quiet acceptance, the way she always did when he left like that, without telling her where, without offering details. She never asked. She never even thought to. Somewhere in her chest, a softness pulsed with the ache of loyalty. He chose her. That was enough. How could she ever be ungrateful? He glanced toward her again as he stepped to the door.
“Don’t forget to eat,” he added, almost offhand. It shouldn’t have made her heart skip. But it did.
“I won’t,” she said, softly. A small smile ghosted his mouth. He turned again and tucked a lock of her bangs behind her ear, then slipped out the door. She stood there for a moment after he was gone, the warmth of his hand still on her skin, her thoughts already wandering. She knew he had plans. He always did. And she would never ask what they were. She told herself it was because she trusted him and in a way, she did. Or maybe she simply believed she wasn’t important enough to know. But she had something to plan herself. His seventeenth birthday. Three days. She bit her lip. He’d given her Christmas not just in gifts, but in everything. The room, the warmth, the way he had held her through the long December night like she mattered. She wanted to give him something. Something real. Not just a hat. Something only she could give. And so she sat down on one of the study benches in the library, pulling her knees up and wrapping herself in her robes. She’d sketch out ideas, think things through. Maybe find inspiration in the quiet corners of the castle. Because when it came to him, no gift would ever be enough. But she would still try.

The air in the dungeons was colder than anywhere else in the castle. Damp and still. Tom moved with measured purpose, each step precise against the flagstones. His robes whispered faintly around his boots, his wand concealed but close at hand. He liked the solitude down here. The castle above was beginning to stir again, students trickling back from their holidays, but in the Slytherin dungeons, there was only silence. Silence and the weight of history. He turned left, down the narrow passage that led not to the common room but deeper still, to the older vaults no one used anymore. He’d known them since first year, of course. He had learned Hogwarts’ bones better than anyone. But now, as he neared his seventeenth birthday, the knowledge pressed against his ribs like a heartbeat. Three days until he came of age. Until the Ministry’s restrictions would fall away. Until he could wield magic as he was meant to. Until the work he’d begun in shadow could grow teeth. Myrtle’s face flickered briefly across his thoughts. Her soft smile, her quiet obedience when he left her in the Room. She would not question his absence. She never did. She believed his time with her was a gift and in a way, she was right. But what he was building now, it was not something she could understand. Not yet.
He stepped through the low arch into his room, now empty of his roommates. He stood in the center of the room and closed his eyes for a moment, breathing in the stale air. The Chamber was still beneath. Waiting. He thought of the monster, coiled in centuries of dust and darkness. Of Salazar Slytherin’s legacy. Of cleansing. The kind of power that could change the world if wielded correctly and he would. Because Tom Riddle was not like other boys. He reached into his trunk and withdrew the dark-bound diary he’d been filling for months now. Spells, fragments, notes written in a hand sharp as a blade. Some of the magic he had gathered was ancient, some of it was his own. A few pages were marked with the sketches he’d begun for a mark, an idea born of ambition and old blood. A mark to bind. To call. To build something that would outlive even him. Tom ran his fingers over the page slowly, almost absently, over the added parchment of the mark she drew. He knew what this would require. What he would have to do to anchor it. His seventeenth birthday was not just a number. It was a door. And when it opened, there would be no going back.
He snapped the notebook closed and the dungeon swallowed him again as he walked away, silent as a shadow, the thought of Myrtle’s soft trust receding into the depths where he kept the parts of himself she would never see. He sat by one of the noble desks in the common room and continued his notes. The sun never touched the dungeons, but after some time he knew it was early afternoon by the faint murmurs echoing from the upper corridors. The castle had begun to fill again with footsteps and laughter, distracted, pitifully warm noises from children who thought they still had time. Tom ignored them. He had far better company now. Silence, discipline and the pages of his own making. The spells he was creating weren’t elegant, not yet. But they were effective. They did not rely on wands, only will. Pain, memory, devotion, the blood-marked currency of power. One incantation, written in a language older than English, could flay an illusion from truth. It came with a price, a faint metallic echo that laced the mouth after speaking, but it worked. Another, slower, could bind silence to a space, a room gone utterly still. Even Myrtle’s voice wouldn’t be heard in it. He noted that for later. He would need to show something at the next Knights gathering, something more than ambition and charm. Malfoy’s flattery came too easy and Black’s sarcasm masked cowardice, but Lestrange and Nott had teeth, if not yet fangs. They needed to be frightened, just a little. Enough to admire. Enough to follow.
By the time the castle dimmed into early evening, he’d changed out of his school robes and into something darker. Wool jumper, boots, wand tucked inside his sleeve. The drawing of the marble sink he stole from her hidden deep in his pocket. Disillusionment shimmered over his shoulders as he slipped silently through the corridor, past the library, up the familiar stairwell. The broken lavatory door groaned faintly as he slipped inside. Water dripped. Pipes groaned beneath the walls like sleeping serpents. The cracked tiles shone in the light from his wand and for a moment he stood still, taking it in. He could almost hear Myrtle’s voice in this space, the echo of her cries, the way she said his name like a secret. But he wasn’t here for that. He stepped toward the sink, to the cracked tap carved with the tiny, hidden mark of Salazar Slytherin. A serpentine swirl. His voice, when he spoke, was low and slow. The word hissed through the pipes like steam. Metal twisted. Stone shuddered and the floor opened. Tom stepped into the dark mouth of the Chamber, this time without fear, without awe. His wand lit before him like a spear. The spiral stairs smelled of earth and time. He walked with silent purpose, his boots never faltering on the wet stone. Somewhere deep below, he could feel something stir, old eyes opening. He would not call it yet. Not tonight. But he needed to see it. Understand it. Plan. Three days and the world could change. And it would begin here.

The descent was fast, slick. His feet caught the bottom with practiced control and he lifted his wand again. The light revealed the long stone tunnel ahead, arched with calcified bone-like supports, water dripping in the distance. He walked. The air was thicker here. Breathing felt like inhaling ink. The tunnel twisted, widened, narrowed again. A round heavy door stood in Tom’s way, guarded by seven iron snakes. Another hiss. Another word. The doors parted with a grating groan. He stepped inside. The Chamber of Secrets opened before him like a buried cathedral. A massive hall, serpents carved into the arch, their mouths wide as if mid-hiss, their eyes empty sockets. The ceiling soared high above, vaulted and lost in shadow. Everything was damp, echoing and wrong. Not Hogwarts. Not made for people. This place was sleeping but alive. Tom moved with reverence and calculation, his boots echoing sharply on the stone. The statue of Salazar Slytherin stood vast at the chamber’s end, his beard flowing like a river of stone, his expression cold and watchful. The mouth was closed. Tom stared at it, then turned. He paced around the statue, passed a curved wall that had seemed solid before and stopped. The scale of it defied logic.
Before him, coiled like a thousand-year-old crown, was the basilisk. It wasn’t asleep so much as still, the kind of stillness that made the world feel paused. Its massive body looped around itself like a fortress of flesh. Its scales shimmered faintly in his wandlight, an oily green-black. Dust clung to it in places, but beneath it was the sheen of death. Of weaponry. Of purpose. He walked around it slowly, heart a deliberate drumbeat in his chest. The coils went on and on. Twice the size he imagined. Thrice maybe. He couldn’t see its full body, only the towering folds of its great torso, ridged and ancient and muscled like a leviathan. Then, past the fourth curve of its body, he saw the head. It rested on the stone like some carved idol. The fangs protruded just slightly, slick and ivory. Its tongue was hidden. Its eyes closed, thank Merlin. Even unconscious, its presence warped the air around it. He felt it in his teeth, in the bones of his wrist. For the first time in years, Tom hesitated. Not fear. But scale. He was no longer imagining. No longer experimenting. He stood before something birthed by magic and legend. A weapon. A king. A god. He lowered his wand and took a single, slow breath.
“I will not fail you,” he said aloud, firmly, his voice steadier than he felt. When the time came, the basilisk would know. He turned to go. Slowly, so slowly. Never turning his back entirely on the beast. As he reached the door, something, a shudder, a stirring, flickered behind him. Not movement exactly, but breath. As though the beast had noticed him. He didn’t flinch. But his palm was cold with sweat when he reached the tunnel again.
—

The lamps had already dimmed to a low amber. Only a few students remained scattered across the long, polished tables. Bent over parchment, whispering, breathing the hush of post-holiday quiet. Tom spotted her before she noticed him. She was curled in their usual corner, half-shadowed by the bookcases, ink-stained fingers worrying at the page edges of a Potions manual. Her knees were tucked up on the seat, her back slightly hunched and her face was lit from below by the golden reading light. His feet carried him forward, quiet but not hidden. She looked up the moment he neared, her lips parting with that soft, familiar breath that was almost a greeting, but something in his face stalled her.
“Tom?” she said gently. He didn’t sit. Not yet. His eyes scanned her quickly, as if confirming she was real, whole, untouched. The warmth that usually flickered behind his gaze, flickered through her instead, skipping over her as if she were light, not a flame. She faltered. “Is—did I do something?” He didn’t answer at first. He simply slid into the chair across from her and picked up the manual she’d been annotating. A line of text: “extreme emotional stimuli may affect the outcome of the brew,” leapt from the page. He smirked slightly, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“Of course not,” he said finally, tonelessly. She sat very still. The silence stretched. “Have you had dinner?” he asked, eventually. She nodded.
“Tom, are you—” She paused. “Is everything okay?”
“I’ve had a long day.” He closed the book. Her fingers curled slightly.
“I thought we might work on the Lacrimora,” she tried. “Or…I don’t know—just sit a while. Unless you’re…” her voice dropped, “angry with me?” At that, he looked up sharply.
“Why would I be angry?”
“I don’t know,” she said helplessly. “You’re… off. And I know I’m not very good at knowing when I’m too much, or not enough, or when I’ve said something wrong—” The words rushed out and then caught. Her breath hitched and her lashes lowered in that way that warned of coming tears, even if she would fight them. Even if she wouldn’t let them fall. And then it came, a scent of the innocent flower. Clean. Pale. Fragile. A reminder of softness. Of the breath he’d chased beneath her skin. Of the only living thing that had ever curled around the darkness in him without flinching. It hit him like heat. She was watching him, now mute with guilt and he realised how far he’d gone from her, how deep he had walked alone. He leaned forward, slow, deliberate and spoke quietly.
“You won’t invite me to your dorm tonight?”
“I—what?” Her eyes lifted, wide and startled. He cocked his head slightly, the smallest of smiles tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Maybe you’ve changed your mind.”
“No! No, I just—” Her face flushed pink.
“Then don’t look at me like I’ve left you,” he said, his voice soft but taut. “I haven’t.” A pause. Then, quieter still. “I just had to remember something. That’s all.” He reached across the table for her small and warm hand.
“Okay,” she said. He let her fingers rest there, just long enough to feel her warmth bleeding into his skin.
“Pack your books,” he said. She had only just reached to gather her quill when he moved again. Not with noise, but with sudden, precise momentum. One long stride brought him behind her, the other had him leaning down and before she could turn, his hand was already at her jaw. His fingers curled beneath her chin, thumb at her cheek and he pulled her face up to him. She barely gasped. His mouth met hers not gently, but hungrily. A hard, claiming kiss, like a man starved of something that had almost slipped through his fingers. His other hand found her waist, anchoring her to the chair, his thumb pressing into the curve of her spine like he was checking she was there, solid, his. Myrtle made a soft sound of surprise, barely able to keep up. It was the way he kissed her. Desperate. Determined. Like the taste of her was a spell that might exorcise what still lingered beneath his skin. That cold. That smell. That great sleeping horror he’d left behind in the depths of stone. But here she was. Warm, real, impossibly his. The floral scent bloomed against his mouth as he kissed her deeper, tongue parting her lips now with no hesitation. She clung to the edge of the desk, her books forgotten, eyes wide before they fluttered closed. When he pulled back slowly, sharply, his lips just grazing hers as if unwilling to leave them, she was breathless, flushed, dazed. He still held her jaw as he stared down at her, eyes dark and unreadable. Something haunted flickered there but it receded as he looked at her, as if she pulled the shadows off him strand by strand. She tried to speak.
“Tom—?” But he silenced her with a thumb brushing her lower lip.
“You’re warm,” he whispered. “You always taste like something that was never meant to survive winter.” He should have pulled away. He should have straightened, let her go, said something cutting to disguise the ache in his chest. But instead, he kissed her again. Slower, deeper, lingering. Her lips parted without thought this time, her fingers curling into the front of his jumper like it was the only thing tethering her to the earth. He moved one hand up into her hair, threading through the soft strands and the other down the side of her ribs. He didn’t remember bending so low. Didn’t remember letting himself need like this. But her warmth was undoing him. Her hand brushed the side of his jaw and that was when he heard it, too late. A sharp, deliberate clearing of the throat cracked through the aisle like a spell. They broke apart as if scorched. Myrtle blinked rapidly, her fingers still curled in the fabric at his chest, lips red and kiss-bruised. Tom straightened like a snapped string, face schooled back to the expressionless marble he wore for the world. Standing at the end of the aisle, arms crossed over her heavy robes and an arched eyebrow raised, was Madame Scribner. Tall, thin and terrifyingly observant. She adjusted her glasses, letting the silence drag in such a way that made students feel very much like misbehaving first-years.
“Well,” she said coolly, her voice carrying the dignity of a judge and the pleasure of catching a criminal. “Mister Riddle. Miss Warren. I believe this is the Potions Section, not the Romantic Section.” Myrtle flushed crimson, ducking her head. Tom didn’t flinch.
“Madame Scribner,” he said evenly, already recovering. “We were… finishing our research.” She gave him a look so flat it might as well have been a slap.
“I suggest you finish elsewhere. The library is closing and unless your project involves transfiguration of bodily entanglements, I suggest a more academic approach.” He took Myrtle’s hand without hesitation, calm as ever and pulled her gently to her feet.
“Of course,” he said with a cold politeness that bordered on disdain. Madame Scribner turned with the precision of a dueling spell and disappeared behind the shelves, but not before adding one last comment.
“And next time, at least try not to knock over the inkpot with your…enthusiasm.” There was indeed a small black puddle spreading across the desk. Tom paused, glanced at it, then flicked his wand in a silent cleaning spell. Myrtle was still flushed and stunned, not quite able to meet his eyes.
The castle was quiet, late December winds pressed against the tall windows like ghosts eager to come in, but the stone halls kept them out, cold and still and echoing. Tom kept close behind her, ready to disappear into the shadows, his hand brushing the small of her back every so often, guiding her as if he owned not only the girl but the path they were walking. When they reached the spiraling staircase that led up to the Ravenclaw Tower, Myrtle paused. Her fingers clutched the hem of her sleeve. She looked down, biting her lip.
“She’s going to hate me now,” she whispered. “Madame Scribner… she’s always kind to me. She said I was…” her voice faltered, “…serious and reliable.” Tom’s eyes moved over her expression with cool precision.
“So?”
“So I hate disappointing her.” Her head snapped up a little. Tom stepped closer. The torchlight flickered over his face, making his eyes seem almost silver.
“She doesn’t hate you,” he said simply, firmly. “She just walked in on something.”
“But—”
“If it matters that much,” he cut in, voice like silk she couldn’t slip from, “I’ll Obliviate her.” Myrtle turned fully to him, scandalised.
“You can’t Obliviate a professor, Tom!” He tilted his head, a slow, curious smile playing on his mouth.
“Why not?” She opened her mouth again, then closed it. “Besides,” he added, voice low, “she’s not really a professor. She’s the librarian. And maybe too nosy.”
“Still,” Myrtle muttered weakly, her guilt clashing with the strange, guilty thrill of his protectiveness. Tom leaned in, his hand now at her jaw, thumb brushing beneath her cheekbone. She blinked up at him, wide-eyed.
“Come,” he said, withdrawing only enough to take her hand again. “Before I decide to drag you back and finish what she interrupted right in front of her.” Myrtle nearly tripped on the stairs.

He dragged her up the tower with a pace just shy of a sprint, his fingers clenched tightly around her wrist, his other hand already casting the Disillusionment Charm the second they arrived into the Ravenclaw common room. She stumbled once, barely keeping up, breathless not from the climb but from the way he held her, as if she’d die if he let go. By the time they reached her dorm room, he had cast a Muffliato around her door and before she could speak, he turned to her. His hands were on her hips, in her hair, pulling her close. The door clicked shut behind them and he pushed her gently against it, his mouth crashing onto hers with a ferocity she hadn’t expected. His kiss was hungry, unrelenting. His fingers found her jaw, her neck, her waist, like he couldn’t choose which part of her he needed most. His breath was ragged, hot against her cheek and she barely managed to gasp. But he kissed her again before she could say anything, deeper this time. Desperate. Obsessive. As though he were trying to erase the taste of something else, something colder, something darker from his lips. She melted into it, hands curling into his loosened school shirt and when she threaded her fingers through his black hair, he groaned against her mouth. A low, quiet sound that stirred something deep in her stomach. He pulled back just slightly, just enough to look at her and his eyes weren’t as guarded as they usually were. They were burning.
“You’re warm,” he breathed. “You’re always warm.” Then he lifted her. She gasped, instinctively clutching around his neck as he carried her to the bed like she weighed nothing, laying her down not with gentleness, but urgency. His hands were already moving beneath her robes, cold fingertips grazing hot skin and she shivered from want. He devoured her like he had been starving, her collarbones, her throat, her mouth again, dragging open buttons with shaking control. Her hands fumbled at his own and he let her undress him in pieces, dragging fabric down his arms as though she were peeling something sacred away. She whispered something, his name or maybe a plea, and that only made it worse. Or better. He wasn’t sure anymore. All he knew was the aching need to bury himself in her until the memory of stone and bone and silence down below was replaced by this. Her skin. Her warmth. He didn’t speak again, didn’t have to. Every touch said what his pride wouldn’t. I need you. I need you now. And in the silence of her dorm, with her legs wrapped tightly around his waist and her breath trembling against his throat, he finally let himself be human again. She trembled beneath him and he watched her, watched her eyes widen, lips parted in breathless surprise, her fingers twisting in the sheets as he shifted downward, trailing his mouth along her body with a dangerous calm.
“Warren,” he murmured against the soft skin of her waist, voice rough and unreadable, “relax.” But how could she? His hands, long and precise, cold from the dungeon air still clinging to his skin, were slipping down the sides of her thighs, coaxing them apart with quiet insistence. She tried to cover her face with her hand but he caught her wrist and pinned it gently beside her.
“You’re not hiding from me,” he said, low and firm. Her face burned.
“But I— Tom, I don’t know if— I mean—”
“You don’t need to know anything.” His breath was warm against her skin now, his mouth so close she could barely think. “Just let me.” And then he kissed her over her underwear. Slow. Curious. Thorough. She gasped, a sound of shock more than pleasure, but it shifted quickly. Her hips arched up involuntarily and he hummed at that, satisfied. She tried again to say something, maybe to protest, maybe to apologise for the mess she believed herself to be but he wouldn’t have it. He shifted her damp knickers aside and kissed her again. Every movement of his tongue was deliberate. Every soft sound from her, every twitch, he devoured it all. Her breath grew uneven, legs trying to close, overwhelmed and he only gripped tighter, keeping her open for him.
“Tom—” she whimpered, helplessly. He didn’t look up. He didn’t speak. He claimed. Her thighs trembled. Her body arched into his mouth and for a flickering moment she forgot her own name. Maybe that was his point. When she finally broke apart in his hands, back bowed and mouth open in a silent cry, he let her ride the storm until she was shaking, gasping, nearly sobbing from the intensity of it. Then and only then, he moved back up, dragging his mouth slowly across her belly, chest, throat and kissed her. A deep, searing kiss, filled with the echo of what he’d just done. And she kissed him back, dizzy and flooded with warmth, her fingers slipping into his hair as though it were the only thing anchoring her. When she finally opened her eyes, he was watching her. Not smug. Not soft. Just hungry.
“I told you,” he whispered, brushing the back of his hand over her cheek. “You don’t hide from me.”

She was asleep beside him, her face turned toward his chest, lashes dark against her cheek, mouth parted in the soft vulnerability of deep sleep. The sheets had tangled around her hips, baring her shoulders, the curve of her neck, the faint mark he had left near her collarbone. Tom lay very still. His hand rested on the small of her back, holding her there even in sleep. Her room was dim now, beyond its walls, the castle slumbered. A world of legacy, and duty, and future ambition waited like a coiled beast beneath the stone, but here it was his. Entirely his. He let his gaze drift across her features, memorising the curve of her cheekbone, the gentle flutter of her pulse at her throat. So soft. So breakable. And yet resilient in a way he hadn’t expected. She’d come back to him. Even when everything told her not to.
They left her, he thought coldly, his jaw tightening. Her family had abandoned her like an afterthought. Packed away to a school they didn’t understand, didn’t want to understand. He’d seen the look in Warren’s eyes, that flicker of grief when she realised they hadn’t even left her a note. Not even a word. It struck him in a place he did not name. Because he knew abandonment. Knew it intimately, the slow erosion of hope. The bitter taste of being unwanted. Every now and then, the other children had been claimed, names called, letters received. And Tom had watched. Always watched. No mother’s handwriting. No father’s name. Just an empty space where belonging should have been. His thoughts curled darker, deeper, to his biological father. A face he had never seen. But the man existed, of that he was sure. A wealthy Muggle from the countryside. Probably tall, arrogant, with a proud profile and cold eyes. Did he have the same eyes? Tom felt a flare of cold through his chest. The thought had lingered for years like a shadow, but it pressed closer now. Myrtle’s family had cast her aside without even looking back. Would his father have done the same? Yes. Would he still? It didn’t matter. Because Tom would find him and then he would decide whether that man was worth remembering.
He looked down at Myrtle again. Still asleep. Still trusting. She would never be discarded again. And he would never allow another soul to forget him. Not family. Not blood. Not anyone. The next thought came suddenly and firmly. It was still the holidays. One could leave. The wards of the castle were looser now, the professors more relaxed, fewer eyes watching. No one would question it if he claimed to need time for something personal. He exhaled slowly and closed his eyes. Tomorrow, he would wake early. Dress in silence. He would kiss Warren’s temple as she slept and tell her only what she needed to know, that he would return. And then he would go. He would follow the thread of blood and name. All the way to the origin. All the way to the man who gave him nothing. He would give Muggles one last chance.
—

She was still sleeping when he slipped out of her bed. Her body remained curled into the faint warmth he’d left behind, mouth barely parted. A strand of hair clung to her cheek. She looked even smaller than she was. Innocent, impossibly unguarded. Tom’s gaze lingered. For a moment, he stood motionless in the quiet. Then he reached for the parchment on her desk, dipped a quill, and wrote in his clean, deliberate script.

I need to take care of something. Might be overnight. Don’t forget to eat.
— TMR

The note was left folded neatly beside her pillow. He spared her one last glance, then turned and vanished. He moved swiftly through the corridors, the hem of his cloak whispering against the stone. In the Slytherin common room, he crossed to his room and knelt beside his trunk, unlocking the lower drawer with a spell he never shared. From inside, he withdrew a pouch of Galleons and shillings, a heavy wool overcoat, a change of clothes should it come to it and the diary. His fingers brushed the leather cover. Inside, among other things, were scraps of truth and speculation about him, the man who left. A village in the countryside. A manor. A woman abandoned. He flipped through it with practiced ease, eyes narrowing as he absorbed the familiar ink. Every word was etched into memory, but reviewing them calmed him. Ordered his intention. This wasn’t vengeance. Not yet. It was confirmation. Give the Muggles one last chance, let him explain. Maybe a long lost wish of the little boy from the Wool’s orphanage. If he was smart, if he was kind, if he had a reason for abandoning him. Tom might even walk away.

Still by early morning, Tom signed off in school, sarcastically putting ‘family visit’ as a reason. He walked alone through Hogsmeade. The snow had begun to thaw in patches, slushed down by the weight of heavy boots and upcoming new year. He pulled his collar higher against the damp wind and did not slow his pace. No one noticed him. No one ever noticed what they should. At the station, the train was due within the hour. He purchased his ticket with the casual ease of someone who belonged to both worlds, or maybe to neither of them. The conductor barely spared him a look, simply stamped the paper and nodded toward the platform. Tom tucked it into his coat and stepped back. The mountains framed the distance. Somewhere far down the track was a country estate he had never seen. A name he had inherited. A face that had never turned toward him. Tom flexed his fingers inside his gloves. This was not about Myrtle. Not about Hogwarts. Not even about the future. This was about origin. And the choice between becoming or cleansing. He would see the man. He would maybe even listen. And if the world proved itself again to be as weak and pitiful as he remembered… Then let it burn.

Chapter Text

December/January 1942

The journey took longer than expected. Even with his usual precision, Tom had miscalculated. Wartime Britain was not predictable. The countryside was colder than it had any right to be, bleak hills layered in hardened snow, the air damp and sharp enough to cut the lungs. The great locomotives had long since ended their reach and he had to switch trains twice, then again to something smaller, local. A coughing, wheezing thing that seemed to exist only to serve people with nothing better to do than die slowly in a village no one remembered. He did not ask for directions. He didn’t need to. And eventually, after walking for what must have been two or three miles through a muddy, narrow road lined by hedges and ruined stone fences, he saw the village. Little Hangleton. It wasn’t a village, really. More a cluster of houses pretending not to notice their slow collapse. Thatched roofs. Crooked chimneys. No cars, not that anyone could afford petrol now, but he had the feeling even before the war, these people never made it far. He walked into it with the coat buttoned high, scarf knotted tight at the collarbone. His shoes were too polished for the road, but they left no mud behind. He walked like he owned the land. Which, in a way, he might. The inn sat in the centre, as inns always did, hunched beside what must once have been a grocer’s. A crooked sign swung overhead, the windows glowed faintly yellow, fogged by the damp inside. It was nearly evening now and the few people still walking glanced up only to squint, then quickly look away. He stepped inside. It was warm in a way that did not suit him, cloying and thick with stale smoke and the grease of some forgotten supper. There was a counter, a hearth with coals low and crackling and behind the desk stood an older woman with her greying hair tied up in a scarf. She wore a cardigan buttoned all the way and had an unimpressed look but when she looked up at him her expression shifted.
“Good lord,” she murmured, squinting. Tom removed his gloves slowly, almost ceremoniously.
“Do you have a room?” She hesitated.
“Aye, of course. Not full, not these days. Not since the last soldiers passed through.” He nodded once.
“One night for now.”
“And the name?” she asked, reaching under the counter for a logbook. He paused. The pen in her hand hovered.
“Warren,” he said evenly. A faint twitch of her eyebrow, but she wrote it down without comment. Then she looked up again, more boldly this time.
“You look an awful lot like our landlord.” He raised one brow. “Mr. Riddle. Lives up at the manor. Big place, empty most of the year. Don’t come down often, but… aye, you look like him. A bit paler maybe. Sharper.” Tom offered a careful smile.
“I must have one of those faces.”
“Hmm.” She handed him a key. “Up the stairs, second on the right. No breakfast unless you ask for it.” He took the key, nodding politely.
“I’ll manage. Would you still have something for dinner?”

Tom sat at a corner table alone, waiting for a soup. He didn’t even like soup, but it was the warmest thing on the chalkboard menu and he needed something to chase the cold from his bones. The room smelled of potatoes, oil, and coal smoke. A battered wireless crackled in the corner with some fuzzy tune about home and hearth. The older woman shuffled over with a bowl of something that resembled barley and leeks. She placed it down in front of him with a practiced smile.
“Here you go. Long day of travel, eh? You don’t sound local.” Tom didn’t look up immediately. When he did, his face was composed, his voice measured.
“Just passing through.”
“Quiet time to travel,” she mused. “Most folk hunker down for Christmas… especially ‘round here.” He gave a small nod and took a slow spoonful of soup, watching her over the rim. The woman lingered. He didn’t like people who lingered. But in this case, he allowed it.
“Do many pass through here?” he asked, after a beat. “Seems… rather isolated.”
“Oh, not often, no. Only those going to the manor, really. Riddle House,” she added, with a little shrug. “Not that they like company.” Tom tilted his head slightly, feigning polite interest.
“The Riddles own this place then?” She nodded.
“Landlords for the whole village. The new one, a bit of a proud peacock, if you ask me. Not that he shows his face much. Mostly up in the big house, acting too good for all of us.” She sniffed, then leaned in, her voice lowering with the intimacy of local gossip. “You do look awfully like him, you know.” A pause. Tom’s spoon stopped in mid-air. She chuckled, missing the shift. “Well, don’t let it offend you. He was good-looking, I suppose. Just… not a pleasant sort.” Tom resumed eating. After a moment, he spoke again.
“And the landlord…does he have family?” The woman leaned on the edge of the table, the scent of smoke and starch heavy around her.
“The young Mr. Riddle? Well, not that young anymore, I suppose.” She glanced back toward the fireplace, then lowered her voice. “There was a woman, once. Years ago now. Beautiful thing. Bit out of place in a village like this. They say they were married, but I don’t remember no ceremony. Just…one day she was here, the next she wasn’t.” Tom’s spoon hovered in the bowl. The woman’s voice softened, curious and almost regretful. “It’s not something people talk about much. You know how these things are. Some reckon she left. Others say she didn’t get the chance.” She nodded, eyes narrowing just faintly toward the upper windows, in the vague direction of the Riddle estate. “Big house like that swallows a lot of noise.” A pause. “I reckon something bad happened. But folks around here, they’ve got their own worries. And Mr. Riddle… he always had a way of making people feel smaller than him. Best not to prod at rich men’s messes.” He didn’t need to prod. He already knew the answers to this story.
“Is that the only estate in the area?”
“You mean aside from the farms?” She blinked.
“I mean any other families.” The woman hesitated, as if weighing whether or not to speak. But the quiet of the room and her own appetite for stories won out.
“Well,” she said slowly, “there was one family. Bit past the hills, beyond the trees. The Gaunts, they were called. But that’s long ago now. Very… odd lot. Said they were descended from someone important, but they were dirt-poor and mad as hares. Mostly gone now, or so we think. Thank God.” Tom said nothing, but his eyes sharpened. She straightened her apron. “Anyway, don’t you worry `bout any of that. Eat your soup, get a good sleep. Not much else to be done ‘round here but rest.” Tom offered a faint, polished smile and she left. He sat in the quiet after, the spoon cooling between his fingers and thought of the strange tangle of bloodlines that had conspired to produce him. Arrogance and rot. He imagined them both, the manor house on the hill, pristine and cold and somewhere beyond, a forgotten shack swallowed by the trees, the air around it choked with madness and magic. Two worlds. Two names. He intended to burn both.
As she disappeared behind the swinging door, humming a Christmas tune under her breath, the room dimmed in her absence. Tom sat there for a moment longer, staring into the amber swirl of the soup he would not finish. The thought crept in uninvited, delicate and absurd. Would this have been his neighbour? Would he have seen her walking past with laundry in a basket or calling to a child in the garden or sweeping snow off her doorstep in the mornings, some cheerful muggle woman in a borrowed apron with flour on her sleeves and gossip on her lips? His lips twisted slightly. A sneer, almost, but quieter. Colder. How revolting. That life of warm soup and hand-me-down neighbours and chatter in country pubs was never his. Never meant to be. Not when he was left behind. Not when the man in the manor house never even looked back. Not when the whole world decided he wasn’t worth a single letter, a cradle, a parent. He pushed the bowl forward and stood. Let the ghosts stay where they belong, in old houses and on the tongues of villagers who meant nothing to him. Because Tom was not born to be someone’s cheerful neighbour. He was born to bury names like theirs.

He climbed the stairs quietly, the inn creaking beneath each step. The room was small and a bit dusty. Cold at the corners, even with the small fire. He placed his bag on the chair and opened it only enough to check the contents. Then crossed to the narrow-paned window and looked out. The bed was narrow, not like the one at the Great Northern Hotel. The sheets were coarse and stank faintly of mothballs and old pine cleaner, the woolen blanket stiff against his skin. There were no soft lamps, no silver trimmings or quiet intimacy. No scent of lily of the valley clinging to the air. Just the fire, low and crackling in the grate, casting angular shadows up the ceiling. And silence. Tom lay back against the pillows, arms folded beneath his head. The coat hung over the crooked chair. His shirt collar was loosened, belt half-unfastened. The key sat on the nightstand. Next to it, his wand. And beside that a folded piece of parchment, the old page from the orphanage records.

Tom Riddle.
Father: Thomas Riddle Sr.
Mother: Merope Gaunt (deceased).

He blinked up at the cracked ceiling, the darkness stilled like a held breath and thought of Warren. How strange, to miss her warmth. He hadn’t planned to. He had let her know he’d be gone, left a note even, like some house-trained lover. Told her to eat. That he’d return. She would take it as affection, devotion, even. When in truth it had been about control. Ensuring her obedience even in his absence. Still, he pictured her curled beneath her blanket in that ridiculous Ravenclaw dormitory, one hand resting on the spot where he slept before. Her eyes closed, lashes damp. It should’ve satisfied him. And yet he felt colder than he had in weeks. The hotel in London had smelled of war and tea and her sweetness. This place smelled of mold and soot. Of old lives trapped in walls that were never truly theirs. The kind of place people grew old in, unnoticed, unimportant. He hated it. The manor loomed just beyond the window’s crooked frame. A black tooth biting into the sky. He hadn’t decided yet what he would say when he arrived. What does one say to the man who sired them and then discarded them like a cursed object? Would he tell him the truth? Would he walk up that drive, ring the iron bell and look his father in the eye and say: “You left me. You’re going to regret it.” It was tempting. But something in him bristled at the thought of naming it. Of acknowledging the bond aloud. It would make it real. Permanent. And Tom had never liked permanence, not in people, not in names, not in blood. Still, a truth lived there. A knowledge deeper than any curse he had ever studied. He had not simply been unwanted. He had been erased.
—

The next morning arrived brittle with frost. A bitter wind scraped the stone cottages, rattling shutters and swirling last night’s ashes across the narrow lanes. Tom walked with his collar turned up, the countryside stretched quiet around him, bleak and bare under the late December sky. The manor stood on the hill like a wound, distant, gaping and grey. The road curved upward, lined with naked trees and for a long time he walked in silence but for the soft crunch of gravel beneath his shoes. And then, he was there. A wrought-iron gate taller than he was. A long gravel path. Yellowed ivy strangling the facade. A building that once might’ve been beautiful, but now only spoke in the tongue of faded wealth and rotting pride. Still, it towered. He walked through the gate without hesitation, a serpent in a garden left untended. He knocked once. The sound echoed like a shot through the grand silence of the grounds. There was a long pause. A shift in the curtains. A breath caught in the thick air. Then the door creaked open. An old woman stood in the entrance, bent-backed and sunken into a heavy wool cardigan. Her hands trembled slightly, not from fear, but from age. She wore the uniform of a housekeeper, plain and practical. For a moment, she only stared. And stared. And stared. Her mouth moved, but no words came out at first, only a soft, wheezing breath like a ghost startled from a grave.
“…My Lord?” she croaked finally. Tom tilted his head just so. Cold eyes. One brow raised.
“No,” he said simply, voice velvet and steel. “But I’m looking for him.” The old woman blinked at him, her hand gripping the doorframe as if to keep herself standing.
“But you look—,” she whispered. She shook her head, still stunned. “I’m sorry, what’s your name?” Tom smiled, the kind of smile that never quite reached the eyes.
“Warren,” he said smoothly. “Tom Warren. I’ve come to speak with the master of the house.” Her eyes narrowed a fraction, the name not sitting right on him. But she nodded nonetheless.
“Come in, then. I’ll fetch him if he’s up.” She stepped aside. He entered without hesitation, the scent of damp and age and something sweeter clinging to the air. His footsteps echoed across the polished floors as she slowly shut the door behind him. And he stood in the manor that should’ve been his. The corridor stretched before him, wood-paneled and hung with portraits of men with narrow faces and disdainful mouths, the Riddle lineage glaring down at him with eyes painted a hundred years too early. Tom lifted his chin. His jaw clenched once. He was not afraid. He had come to see the man who left him, to look him in the eye and decide what would come next. Tom waited. The old house was quiet, too quiet for its size as though sound itself had learned to tread lightly in the presence of old wealth. The only thing that moved was dust, drifting like pale snow through the shafts of morning light. He stood by the grand fireplace in the entrance hall, refusing to sit. The air was cold inside, a framed oil portrait watched him from the wall. Some long-dead Riddle ancestor, mouth thin as wire, eyes grey like stone. Tom looked up at it briefly. He did not blink. The minutes passed. He could hear a faint murmuring somewhere upstairs, then footsteps. A door opened. The slow creak of stairs. The ticking of an unseen clock. And then a man entered. Tall. Proud. The lines in his face carved by years of disdain and probably too much drink. Dark hair greying at the temples. A long coat thrown over a waistcoat of fine but dated tailoring. He walked like a man who never looked over his shoulder, because no one had ever made him. And he stopped. Dead in his tracks. Tom looked at him and it was like staring into a warped mirror. There were differences. The mouth, the intelligence in the eyes, the deliberate poise but the blood was undeniable. Riddle Sr.’s face paled a shade. His eyes narrowed.
“What the hell is this?” he said, voice clipped, mid-aristocratic and suspicious. Tom offered no smile this time. He simply inclined his head.
“You are Tom Riddle,” the boy said, calmly. The man froze. Slowly, like a dog sensing danger it couldn’t yet see, he turned back.
“And you are?” Tom’s lips curled into something that might have been a smile, or the ghost of one.
“I’m Tom Riddle.” A beat of silence. Two matching faces. One lined with age and disgust. One young, poised, gleaming with something far sharper than any aristocratic edge.
“You’re lying,” the older man said, eyes narrowed. “You’re some bastard playing games. I don’t know who put you up to this, but—”
“You abandoned my mother,” Tom interrupted, voice cold. Riddle Sr. opened his mouth then closed it. The resemblance was undeniable now, uncanny. It chilled the air between them. He moved to the drinks cabinet without a word, pouring himself a glass with sharp, practiced gestures.
“How old are you?” the older man spat over his shoulder. Something sharp blinked in Tom’s gaze, a hint of an amusement maybe.
“Funny you ask. My birthday is tomorrow, want to take a guess?” he smirked cruelly. A pause, then another. He gripped the glass in his hand, his knuckles turning white.
“Your mother was a lunatic,” he said finally, voice tight. “Some filthy little country witch. I don’t know what trick she used but I woke up one morning and realised I was shackled to madness.” He downed the drink. Tom didn’t flinch.
“She died giving birth,” he said quietly. “Alone. In winter. You left her. You killed her.”
“She killed herself!” Riddle Sr. shouted, slamming the glass down. “She was the one who tricked me, who came crawling here with her pathetic little delusions of grandeur. I never wanted her.” Tom’s eyes darkened. His hands did not move, but something inside him coiled.
“Of course you didn’t,” he said softly. The tension curled tighter. Riddle Sr. sneered.
“So what is this? You want money? I’m not giving you a penny. You think you can come here and—?” But Tom smiled now. The coldest smile.
“I don’t want your money.” He stepped forward, slow and deliberate. “I have the records. The documentation. You never remarried. You never had another child. The estate up the hill, your precious Riddle legacy…when you die, it will fall into my hands.” The colour drained from Riddle Sr.’s face.
“No. You’re mad. Mad like your mother like—”
“No heirs,” Tom continued, voice soft but lethal. “No one to dispute it. Not even a will could stop it, not if I push the right levers. All of this… your estate, your name..might become mine. Fitting, isn’t it?” Riddle Sr. was shaking now, not from fear but rage.
“You won’t get away with this. You’ve no idea who you’re dealing with.” Tom laughed. Not loudly. Not joyfully. It was a cold, calculated thing, like the sound of ice cracking across a lake. Riddle Sr. took a step forward, hand clenched. “How much do you want? Just name it and disappear.” Tom’s head tilted.
“I didn’t come here to disappear,” he whispered. “I came to see the rot for myself.” He stepped back then, turning toward the door. The conversation was over, because Tom had ended it. But before he left, he looked once more over his shoulder. The flickering light caught his eyes and made them seem almost inhuman.
“You should be grateful I don’t want your filthy name. But I’ll be back,” he said. Then he left.

He returned to the village with the wind clawing at his coat and frost biting under his collar. The sun had begun to set, bleeding into the grey clouds like a bruise across the sky. Tom didn’t care. He walked back to the inn with the same perfect posture, the same untouched elegance, though something beneath the surface simmered. He had seen what he came to see. The fire in the inn was still lit when he stepped inside, the low murmur of conversation dwindling with his arrival. He nodded once to the woman at the bar, the same one from the night before and climbed the stairs without another word. He barely closed the door of his room when he heard it. A soft knock. Measured. Hesitant. Old. He opened the door, eyebrows drawn together in slight suspicion. The servant woman stood there, the one who had opened the manor door earlier. In the lamplight, her face seemed even older than before, creased with memory more than years. Her hands were folded tightly over something.
“Forgive me,” she said softly. “I… shouldn’t be here.” She stopped. Her eyes searched his face and Tom saw something shift in them. “You look just like him,” she whispered. “When he was your age. But somehow a bit colder.” Tom didn’t respond. She lowered her gaze, as if ashamed. “I remember your mother,” she continued. “Merope. She was quiet. Not quite right in the head probably, but kind to me. When she vanished, no one asked questions. He… Mr. Riddle took her things. Said they were to be burned. But I—” Her voice caught. From under her coat, she took out a box. Ornate, old but well-kept. Gilded edges, a velvet lining. “I’m sorry for your loss,” she said. Tom didn’t move for a moment. Then he took the box. She lingered, uncertain, then nodded to herself. With that, she turned and left, her footsteps fading into silence. Tom locked the door behind her and set the box on the desk. He didn’t open it right away. He stood there, motionless, fingers curled at his sides. Loss. He didn’t believe in it.
He sat then and opened the box. Inside was a small vial of perfume, the liquid long since evaporated. Quite amount of galleons, surprisingly. An engagement ring, simple but expensive. And at the very bottom, wrapped in yellowing linen, her wand. It felt wrong in his hand and he set it down again. The ring caught the firelight like a memory or a life never lived. And for a moment, Tom wondered what would she have been like. A girl born into filth and madness. A girl who loved too pathetically, too obsessively and thought a love potion would be enough to create something like happiness. What if she hadn’t died? What if she had taken him with her to London, raised him in some dusty little flat above a bakery or behind a shop. Would she have been kind? Would she have brushed his hair back when he was feverish, taught him how to tie his robes, held his hand the first time he got lost in Diagon Alley? Would she have walked him to Platform 9¾ on that first September morning, her eyes teary but proud? Would she have clapped when he sent her letters with perfect marks, told him she always knew he’d be special? He tried to picture it, the warmth of a mother’s hands on his cheeks, the softness of someone who loved him because they chose to. Someone who wasn’t afraid of him. Who didn’t see a monster in the making, but a boy with dark eyes and a quiet hunger to be known. Would it have changed anything? Would he have been different? Would he still hate them all? He looked down at the ring again.
He thought of Warren, of her soft hands on his back, her fingers tangled in his hair, the way she whispered his name like it meant something beautiful. He thought of the way she kissed him when he gave her safety and the way she gave him softness in return, so freely it made something inside him ache. He closed his hand around the ring. No. He couldn’t afford to imagine things like that. Merope Gaunt was weak. She died alone on a stairs of filthy orphanage, leaving him to strangers who abused him. Whatever goodness might have existed in her was already buried before he took his first breath. That world, that life was never real. He wasn’t born for softness. He wasn’t made to be loved. And he would never let sentimentality drown him. This all just confirmed the thing he always knew. Muggles ruin everything they touch. Even love. Even family. Even the ones they marry. Even the children they leave behind.
—

The fire in the hearth had long gone out. The room was cold when Tom rose, pale light filtering in through the frostbitten window, grey and blue and thin as bone. His coat lay across the back of the chair, his briefcase packed with the few things he’d brought and the ones he hadn’t expected to receive. He buttoned his coat slowly, mechanically, his fingers sure even in the cold. The ring he’d slipped into the inside pocket weighed more than it should. It was his birthday. Seventeen. The number sounded dull in his mind, hollow as the room. Seventeen meant power. He could now perform magic freely, at last. He had already done more than most wizards twice his age. And still something in him felt quieter this morning. Not emptied, not content. Just waiting.
He made his way downstairs, boots clicking softly on the warped wooden steps. The inn smelled of peat smoke and weak tea. Only the old housekeeper was there, cleaning up mugs from some forgotten celebration the night before. She looked up when she heard him and her expression softened.
“You’re off, then?” she asked gently, wiping her hands on her apron. “Not staying for breakfast?”
“I have a train to catch,” Tom replied, voice smooth but distant.
“Pity. I would’ve made you something proper.” She looked at him for a beat longer than necessary. Something unreadable in her eyes. “You know, I still can’t get over it. You really do look just like him. Same cheekbones, same eyes.” He gave her a polite half-smile, chillingly close to charming. “You sure you’re not his boy?” she asked again, more as a joke now. “Even your voice a bit—” Tom met her gaze fully and something in her quieted.
“I’m no one’s boy,” he said. It wasn’t angry but it was final. She nodded slowly, looking down at her hands.
“Well…travel safely then.” Tom didn’t reply. He simply tipped his head in farewell and stepped out into the cold morning. The sky was white with mist, the roads slick with frost. He didn’t look back. Not at the inn, not at the village, not at the manor that rose like a scar in the hills behind. Not yet. Not until it was time.
The air had sharpened by the time Tom reached the edge of the village, passing through a line of blackthorn hedges that crackled with frost. The inn was behind him now, its windows blurred with winter light and ahead the countryside stretched flat and grey, stitched with stone walls and crooked trees. He stood still. There was a road that led north-east, unpaved, forgotten. The woman had mentioned the Gaunts only vaguely, like something foul that sometimes drifted downwind. He knew where it was. Roughly. He could reach it by foot and for a moment, he considered it. There were whispers of inbreeding, of madness, of a house that smelled of damp rot and snake-skin. He wasn’t repulsed. He didn’t hate the Gaunts. Hatred was too pure, too personal. The Gaunts were a fact. A disappointment. But also a symbol. A reminder. He would not erase their name. He would restore it. He would become what they were meant to be before the blood thinned, before the name rusted. He would not let them fall any lower. But all had its own time. He turned back toward the village, his steps sharper now, more assured. He had seen enough. Let the dead stay buried. He had greater things to become.
—

By the time he stepped back through the great oak doors of the castle, evening had begun to seep into the stone like ink in parchment. The air was cold inside, the way Hogwarts always was during the holidays, hushed and empty, even the walls too tired to echo. His boots sounded too loud against the floor. His coat still held the scent of ash and frost and countryside rot. He didn’t expect to see her. But there she was. Curled in her robes, folded up in the alcove just by the staircase in the Entrance Hall as if she’d waited there for hours, hoping she’d spot him the moment he returned. She probably did. She was asleep. Not the peaceful kind of sleep, but the raw-boned collapse of someone who hasn’t allowed themselves to rest until their body could no longer obey. Her cheeks were stained, red-raw from dried tears. Her lashes trembled. One hand clutched the edge of her scarf. The other held a small, pitifully wrapped package, squashed slightly as she slept on it. A gift he hadn’t earned. A gesture of love from someone who should have given up for their own good. His chest was tight and he hated that. It had only been two days. That was all. But for a girl like Warren…a girl left behind, forgotten by her own family, quiet and clever and too full of love… even a day was enough to unravel her. He stood over her for a long moment. Silent. Watching. Then he quietly whispered.
“Come on, my dear. Get up.” She stirred, bleary, blinking with panic.
“T–Tom?” He didn’t answer at first, just knelt down and brushed the hair from her eyes, cold fingers against warm skin. She looked up at him, utterly miserable. The moment she realised it was really him, the tears returned, quick and embarrassed and choking. “You were gone,” she whispered, the words breaking. “I didn’t know where you went, you said it might be overnight and then it was two and I didn’t know if you…if something happened or if you left or if I ruined—” She covered her face. “And I got you something. For your birthday.” He felt something in him ache and it made him angry. At her. At himself. At the old inn and the manor and the woman who gave him the box of ghosted memories.
“Stop crying,” he said, lifting her chin. “You know I don’t like it.” She nodded, sniffling, eyes enormous behind her glasses.
“I—I waited here. I didn’t want to miss you.” He helped her up without another word, pressing the scarf tighter around her throat and led her by the wrist down through the corridors, toward the kitchen corridor. She stumbled, still exhausted, her limbs fragile from skipping meals. He didn’t slow down. Just pulled her along like something he owned. When they reached the portrait of the bowl of fruit, he tickled the pear and pushed it open. The warmth of the kitchens hit them at once. Hearth-smoke, sugar, the clatter of pans. The house-elves peered up in curiosity.
“I know it’s late, but it’s my birthday,” Tom said simply, voice smooth, authoritative. That was all it took. Heads turned. Within seconds, they swarmed. Not too close, but fluttering around them in delighted little bursts of movement and whispered chaos.
“A Birthday!”
“Sir came all the way down to the kitchens on his birthday?”
“And the lady… oh, poor lady was up there, waiting in the entrance hall for hours.”
“She didn’t even eat the stew we sent up, no she didn’t sir, she just sat and stared at the door…”
“Very tragic,” said one solemnly, wringing his hands. “We cried.” Tom didn’t react. Just lifted his chin.
“I need something warm. For two.” The elves didn’t need to be told twice. With a flurry of claps and squeaky spells a small round table appeared near the hearth, draped in green linen. A pair of armchairs conjured with thick cushions. Firelight danced on the brick walls. The smell of warm spices intensified. Dishes followed. A thick winter stew, golden potatoes with thyme, baked bread, cranberry compote and mulled cider in delicate cups. Tom pulled out the chair for Myrtle, who was too quiet, her eyes red, her voice lost somewhere between shame and gratefulness. The elves whispered as they served.
“The lady loves sir very much.”
“She cried for sir.”
“Elves saw her fall asleep on the cold floor, we did. Very sad.”
“Enough,” Tom said sharply. “Leave us.” The elves nodded, retreating though not far and certainly not silently. They lingered by the stoves, pretending to stir pots, stealing glances, whispering like overexcited grandparents who’d seen too much. Tom ate with neat, methodical grace. He placed food on Myrtle’s plate without asking. She stared at it for a moment, then picked up her fork and began to eat as well. Slowly. Carefully. Each bite steadied her. Only after they were nearly done, plates half-cleared, her shoulders less slumped, did one of the braver elves tiptoe closer again. He wrung his long hands together nervously.
“Begging sir’s pardon,” the elf squeaked, “but… would sir like something to take upstairs for midnight, perhaps? Some… celebration for the New Year? Elves has a bottle. Just one. Forgotten from Professor Slughorn’s Christmas party. Very nice vintage champagne.” Tom arched a brow.
“Is that allowed?” The elf’s ears twitched.
“No, sir,” he whispered, delighted. “But elves won’t tell. Elves never tell.” There was a collective hush, then a chorus of eager nods from the other elves behind him. “A present from the kitchens for sir’s birthday!” A third added, eyes wide, “Elves saw the lady’s little parcel, sir. She waited so long. So patient. A very loyal lady. Pretty hair.” Myrtle turned bright red as one of the little creatures reached for her hair, just to touch. Tom’s gaze flicked sharply to the elf.
“She’s mine,” he said simply. Cold. Certain. Final. A few of the elves bowed. One actually swooned. A moment later, a chilled bottle was pressed into his hand, tied with a silver ribbon. A small paper bag of honey-cakes followed, still warm. He nodded once, curtly, then stood and looked back at Myrtle, still huddled at the table, still holding the crumpled birthday gift in her lap like it might vanish if she let it go.
“Come,” he said. She obeyed and as they left, the elves bowed, whispering behind them like the closing line of a spell. They reached the seventh floor quietly. The castle was still as frost outside the windows, the stones breathing in silence, the corridors nearly deserted. Only the occasional candle flickering in the sconces, like the castle itself was dreaming.

They walked next to the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy three times. Tom’s hand grazed the wall and the door appeared. Inside, the Room greeted them like it always did. With dark polished wood, a tall bookshelf stacked with old tomes and scrolls, a noble four-poster bed draped in navy and silver, velvet armchairs, a study desk and the magical stained-glass window. Myrtle stepped in after him, still in her worn robes, her curls a bit tangled from the day of waiting. Her cheeks were flushed, her fingers wound tightly around the gift in her hands. Tied with a green ribbon. She stood in front of him and held the gift out to him. Her voice, when she spoke again, was fragile but proud.
“Happy birthday.” He didn’t take it right away. Just looked at her for a long moment with that serious, unreadable gaze. And then finally, he took the parcel from her hands. He undid the ribbon with a kind of reverence. Peeled away the paper slowly. Inside, nestled in a small square box of soft black velvet, was a serpent pin. Silver and sinuous, with fangs bared mid-strike. Elegant. Dangerous. Regal. His brows rose and for a moment, he said nothing at all. Myrtle rushed to fill the silence.
“I saw it in the window at Honeydukes’ lane. Not the sweet shop, the one with the old jeweller next to it. I know it’s probably not the style you’d usually… I mean I don’t really know what pureblood boys wear, I just thought…”
“I like it,” he interrupted her.
“Really?” She blinked and her heart stumbled in her chest.
“You must’ve used all your money,” he added, looking at her now with something unreadable in his eyes. She nodded sheepishly.
“What else would I have spent it on?” Tom smirked, that quiet, half-predatory kind of smirk that always meant something was shifting behind his gaze. There was something raw in her honesty, something unpolished and stubbornly soft and for once, he let it settle over him without trying to fight it off. He brushed a curl away from her cheek.
“Come here,” he said. She stepped forward. He took the pin and affixed it carefully to the lapel of his robe, fingers precise. “So you’re marking me now Warren?” He said quietly, amused. Her lips parted.
“That’s not what I meant—”
“I don’t mind,” he murmured. She smiled, half-laughing, half about to cry again.
“You’ll wear it?” He kissed her forehead as an answer. The fire crackled softly behind them. Snow whispered against the windows. And she let herself believe they were safe.
The hour grew late. Myrtle was curled beside him in the borrowed bed, the serpent pin gleaming faintly on Tom’s chest. Her eyelids had grown heavy after everything. The tears, the waiting, the meal in the kitchens, the gift. Now her lashes fluttered as sleep tried to claim her. She was tucked into him like she belonged there. Like the world outside didn’t exist. Like time had finally slowed. But Tom lay awake. His hand brushed slowly along the soft curve of her neck, trailing upward to her jaw, her cheek. Gentle, purposeful. Then he leaned in and kissed her temple. Once. Then again. Then down along the line of her jaw to her lips.
“Warren,” he whispered into her skin, voice smooth, dark and low. “You’re not going to sleep through the end of the year, are you?”
“Hm?” She stirred, barely. Another kiss.
“It’s nearly midnight.”
“You care about midnight now?” she murmured, voice blurred with sleep.
“I care about what comes after.” She blinked up at him, eyes glassy with the last edges of exhaustion. But he was already shifting, reaching for the small bottle wrapped in a ribboned cloth. A gift from the elves, forgotten champagne from some celebration. He unstoppered it with a flick of his wand and conjured two crystal glasses. The room obeyed the mood, low golden lamplight, soft shadows dancing along the bookshelves, the fire whispering. He poured a glass and handed it to her. She sat up slowly, blanket around her hips, eyes wide and watery and grateful. They didn’t toast to anything, just clinking of glass against another. She smiled, tired and spoke softly.
“What do you wish for?” He didn’t answer. Because the truth was, what he wanted was far darker. Control. Power. Purity. He couldn’t toast to that, not with her pressed against his side like a soft thing he wanted to protect from it all. So he kissed her instead. Not greedily, not possessively this time, but like a promise. “I hope,” she said softly into the kiss, “that we’ll have this again next year.” Tom said nothing. But inside, something clenched, tight and fierce and aching. A flash of unwanted knowledge. Because the truth was, he didn’t know if he’d let himself be this soft again. If he’d even have her a year from now. Not like this. But tonight, she curled into him again like she always did, champagne glass left on the nightstand, smiling sleepily. Outside, somewhere in the cold air, clocks began to chime midnight. Tom held her tighter. As if holding her could hold back time.

They lay facing one another, still sunk into the warmth of the blankets, their legs tangled, the taste of champagne lingering faintly on their lips. The room around them had quieted, save for the low thrum of the fire and Myrtle’s breath, slightly shaky, still catching in her throat from moments ago. Tom’s hand lay flat beneath her cheek on the pillow, his thumb occasionally brushing against her skin, not as a habit but as a studied softness. His eyes on her were unreadable. Myrtle blinked, then looked away. Then back again.
“I… I know you said it might be overnight,” she began quietly, her voice catching a little. “But it was two nights. And I didn’t know where you went. I thought—” she cut herself off. He didn’t move. His eyes remained fixed on hers.
“You thought what?” he asked, his voice too low to be called cold but steady. Measured.
“I thought maybe something happened to you,” she whispered, fumbling with the edge of the blanket between them. “Or that maybe I’d… said something wrong or— I know I get too emotional sometimes, I just—”
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he interrupted, quiet but decisive. She nodded, a little too quickly, then swallowed.
“Then why didn’t you tell me where you were going?” A pause. Something flickered across his face.
“I needed to settle something,” he said at last. “With… my past.”
“You went to the orphanage?” His jaw tightened. His hand stilled on the pillow. For a moment he only watched her, as if deciding whether to lie.
“No. I went to see my father.” Her breath hitched and Tom’s gaze went distant for a second, then returned to her as if she alone had the power to anchor it back. “He’s nothing. Less than nothing,” he said finally. “I only wanted to see to decide what’s next.” Myrtle reached out and touched his chest, where the serpent pin still glinted faintly.
“You’re surely nothing like him,” she whispered.
“I know.” His voice sharpened, dangerous and low. “I am what comes next.” She didn’t quite understand what that meant, but she didn’t ask. She only nodded, wrapping her fingers gently around the edge of his collar.
“I’m sorry I asked you like this,” she said. “I just… when you’re not there, everything feels a little less real. Like I’m not here or I might disappear.”
“You won’t,” he said, almost fiercely. Then added, quieter. “I wouldn’t let you.” And then, almost abruptly, he closed the space between them and kissed her again. Not out of desire this time, but to quiet her doubt, to seal her mouth with something that resembled protection, or possession, or perhaps both. Outside the Room of Requirement, the castle slept. A new year had begun. And Tom once again took the girl who knew too little and loved too much.
—

The first morning of the new year bled pale light through the frost-laced windows of the castle. Snow still clung to the edges of the roofs and towers like forgotten lace. The corridors began to echo again with voices and footfalls. Students returning from break, trunks levitating behind them, laughter that felt foreign after days of such sacred quiet. Tom stood at the top of the staircase leading down to the dungeons, his black school cloak clean and pressed, his hair deliberately combed back into place. Beside him, a soft hush of motion was Myrtle, holding her stuff close, preparing to vanish into the Ravenclaw tower before her Housemates arrived in full. They hadn’t spoken much since dawn. Something about the light made things fragile again. He stepped forward to descend when a sudden silvery blur interrupted his path.
“Ah, Mr. Riddle!” came the cheerfully rattling voice of Nearly-Headless Nick, phasing through the stone wall as if his name had just been summoned from beyond. “Message for you from Professor Dumbledore. Very insistent, that one. Wants to see you in his office. Said as soon as possible.” Tom blinked slowly, gaze sharpening.
“Now?” The ghost nodded, his head teetering slightly on its spectral hinge.
“Indeed. Told me to find you.”
“Did he say what it was about?”
“No, only that it was personal. But,” sir Nicholas added with a whimsical bow, “happy new year, Mr. Riddle. Let’s hope it brings… enlightenment.” Tom didn’t reply. The ghost drifted off, whistling faintly. He turned to Myrtle, who had gone still beside him, her eyes anxious but trying not to be obvious about it.
“You’ll be alright?” he asked.
“Of course,” she nodded but her fingers lingered at the end of his sleeve for a moment longer than necessary.
“I’ll find you later,” he said. “Don’t go into the lavatory anymore. Wait in the library.” She nodded again and slipped away, not daring to kiss him goodbye in public, only leaving the soft imprint of her presence in his mind like an afterimage. Tom exhaled slowly, then turned and headed for the Transfiguration wing. The castle was awake again, alive with movement, but somehow the walk toward Dumbledore’s office felt colder than usual, longer. He could feel something turning. Dumbledore knew something and Tom didn’t like being summoned.

The door creaked open on its own, revealing the Transfiguration office. A tall, high-ceilinged chamber lined with bookcases and quiet charms that buzzed like restrained lightning in the corners of the room. The windows were steamed with winter light. Tom stepped inside, every movement deliberate. Dumbledore stood by the window, his silhouette backlit like a portrait etched in glass and light. He did not turn immediately.
“Happy new year, Tom,” he said, voice calm, disarmingly so. “I trust you had a peaceful break.” Tom took a breath.
“I returned yesterday. I trust you already know that.” Dumbledore turned then, his robes deep blue, embroidered with faint silver thread. His eyes, annoyingly unreadable, rested on Tom.
“I did,” he said gently. “Unusual timing for a student to travel.”
“I’m of age,” Tom said smoothly. “I assumed the school would allow me some leniency.”
“You filled out a record slip in the attendance log,” Dumbledore said, stepping toward his desk. “Your reason for departure was family visit. I must say, Tom, it rather caught my eye.” Tom’s jaw barely tensed.
“It was accurate.” Dumbledore tilted his head, the gesture of someone endlessly patient but not entirely trusting.
“Forgive me, but given your history… I was rather surprised.” A pause. Tom blinked slowly.
“I was curious about lineage,” he said. “I’ve been researching bloodlines, as you likely already know. I thought perhaps I ought to see what remains of my own.”
“Ah,” Dumbledore murmured. “A noble pursuit. Although the search for one’s roots can be… disappointing.” He steepled his fingers. “Did you find what you were looking for?” Tom’s lips parted, but no answer came at first. For a moment, something darker flickered behind his eyes, something like bitter laughter.
“I found what I expected,” he said. Dumbledore’s brows lifted slightly. “I didn’t go looking for love, Professor,” Tom added, a wry curve to his voice. “You know better than anyone what I come from. I only wanted to confirm what was already written.”
“I see.” Dumbledore let the silence stretch. “And… did you happen to spend a lot time near Little Hangleton?” Tom’s pulse ticked once in his throat. He met Dumbledore’s gaze and spome, perfectly calm.
“Is there something of note near Little Hangleton?” Dumbledore didn’t answer. He watched him carefully, searching the face of the boy who never flinched, the boy who was always just a little too composed.
“I ask because I’ve spent time there. A troubled village,” Dumbledore said quietly. “Odd things linger in its fields. And your family that once lived there… I wouldn’t suggest looking for them.” Tom said nothing. His silence, as always, was a fortress. “I would caution you,” Dumbledore said gently, “against searching too greedily in the dirt of the past. Not all truths are meant to be inherited.” Tom smiled, a cold and elegant thing but Dumbledore did not smile back. “I worry, Tom,” he said at last. “Because I see you chasing things with… fervor. And fervor, when left unchecked, tends to devour the man.” Tom stood tall.
“You mistake my ambition for recklessness.”
“And you mistake my concern for limitation.” The room was quiet, save for the low croak of the phoenix stirring in the ash. Then, softly, Dumbledore spoke again. “You have a great power, Tom. But the world does not owe you understanding simply because it wronged you. Power without empathy is—”
“Useless?” Tom interrupted, venom curling at the edge of his voice.
“Lonely,” Dumbledore said. Something in the air shifted. The boy and the professor, standing in a room between centuries. One already building his kingdom of shadows, the other holding the door open just a moment longer. At last, Tom inclined his head.
“Was that all, Professor?” Dumbledore studied him for a moment longer then nodded.
“For now.” Tom turned, his cloak brushing over the stone floor like a sentence closing itself when he heard the man’s voice again. “And Tom?” He turned over his shoulder. “Happy Birthday,” the professor tried to smile but there was a hint of sadness and worry in it. Tom nodded and did not look back.

Tom entered the boys’ chamber after lunch, with the air of someone who belonged. Not merely as another student, but as something carved from the very stone of these dungeons. Smoke curled in lazy spirals beneath the low ceiling, the scent of tobacco, magic and ambition. Abraxas Malfoy looked up from his bed, where he lay draped like a lounging cat.
“Look who finally crawled out of his hole.”
“Hello to you too,” Tom said coolly, unfastening his robe and draping it over the edge of his bed. “I didn’t realise I had obligations.”
“You always have obligations,” Orion said without looking up from his book. “Just never to people.” Tom said nothing.
“Happy birthday Riddle,” drawled Nott, “seventeen and still prettier than most of the girls at this school.”
“Icarus,” said Orion Black, glancing over the edge of a book he’d clearly been pretending to read, “give him the thing.” Lestrange reached for a slim, polished tin and flicked it toward Tom.
“We were going to light these in your honour last night when we came back. But you weren’t here. Again.” Tom caught the tin mid-air with ease. Despite the obliviation, he sometimes still wondered if he should’ve killed the boy for ever laying hands on what was his. But he didn’t, so he buried it somewhere inside him.
“Egyptian?” Tom hummed.
“Obviously. The real ones. I wouldn’t insult your palate with rationed shite.”
“And firewhiskey,” Abraxas said, holding up a half-drained bottle. “A 1921. Courtesy of Malfoy’s cellar.” Tom looked down at the offerings.
“How thoughtful of you all.”
“We try,” said Nott, pushing a tumbler in his direction. “So? What did you do? Cursed someone? Started your own dark cult in the woods? Had a tragic orphan awakening?” Tom took the glass, swirling the amber liquid slowly.
“I had business.”
“Of course you did,” said Lestrange, leaning back into the green wingback chair. “And here I thought maybe you were having a quiet birthday somewhere like a human.” Tom smiled faintly but didn’t explain. No one asked about his holiday, not really. They’d long since learned better than to demand things Tom Riddle didn’t offer. They all deferred to him, even when mocking, even when cruel. He was the centre of their circle, whether they admitted it aloud or not.
“Fine,” Abraxas said at last, exhaling smoke. “Be mysterious. You always are.” Tom rose after a moment and poured himself a glass. Let them stay in the dark, he thought. He leaned back in his chair, letting the firelight curl across his cheekbones. He drank. And planned. The dungeon room buzzed with low voices and laughter, firewhiskey glinting amber in cut glasses, smoke curling toward the low ceiling like spellwork gone idle. Orion Black lounged like he owned the room, flicking ash into a silver dish. Abraxas Malfoy, sleeves rolled to the elbows, was mid-story about his family’s New Year’s gala and the half-drunken duel his cousin lost to an enchanted mirror. Tom sat on the edge of his bed, empty glass at his side. He hadn’t said much. Let them speak.
“Icarus,” Black called, tossing a bit of parchment toward Lestrange. “Still going on about that French girl?” Icarus smirked.
“Not anymore. She’s an agony.” Nott gave a dry laugh and took a slow sip from his glass, then offhand, too offhand, he spoke.
“At least she could string a sentence. Helen Abbott’s letters are like poetry.” The words landed like a hex. Tom’s gaze didn’t shift immediately. Instead, he let the moment breathe, watching the fire.
“Helen Abbott?” Lestrange grinned, predatory. “Are we still going over the little Ravenclaw mouse with the blonde hair?”
“She’s hardly a mouse,” Nott murmured, “smart. Pretty even. And she sees things.” He leaned back, voice a little dreamy with drink.
“Sees things?” Black raised an eyebrow.
“Like people. She writes about them. Not like some idiot girl scribbling in her diary, more like… like she’s always wondering.” Tom’s hand moved, slow and deliberate, curling around the stem of his glass. He looked up, expression unreadable, voice calm.
“And what is it she sees in you, Nott?” The boy blinked, not entirely sure if it was a jest or a jab.
“She likes me,” he said with a smile, “says that my secrets make me interesting.” Tom’s lips twitched, neither a smile nor approval. He took a sip now, as if considering the words.
“She rooms with Myrtle Warren, doesn’t she?” Abraxas asked absently. “The mudblood Tom ditched me for in Potions. Girl barely speaks.”
“She’s odd,” Nott nodded, too quickly. “Quiet and always sketching something. Abbott mentioned her once, said she worries too much.”
“About?” Tom asked softly, tone flat. Nott shrugged.
“No idea. Nothing important. Helen said she has these moods, goes missing, cries in the lav—”
“That’s enough,” Tom said. Quiet, but final. Like a blade through velvet. They all paused.
Orion narrowed his eyes, curious now.
“Since when do you care about weepy Ravenclaws, Riddle?” Tom smiled.
“I don’t. I’m tired of mudbloods. And I care about people who gossip. Abbott watches. Writes. Talks. I’d suggest a bit of… caution.” A beat. Nott flushed slightly, suddenly aware of the weight behind those words.
“She’s pureblood. And it’s nothing serious. Just letters.” Tom’s gaze lingered a moment too long. Then he stood, brushing a non-existent speck from his robes.
“Even letters can be dangerous,” he said. “Especially in the wrong hands,” and with that, he left them in the flickering dark, smoke curling in his wake.

She didn’t see him at first. Her nose was buried in a textbook and her knees were drawn close under her robes, legs curled beneath her like a cat perched in sunlight. The scent of old pages clung to her, but beneath it lingered that softer, delicate floral warmth that only he ever noticed. Tom moved soundlessly through the stacks. He wasn’t angry, not quite. He just needed to see her, to look at her and make sense of something burning and low in his gut. Warren only noticed him when the chair beside her creaked. She blinked up, startled and her face immediately brightened, soft and instinctive.
“Tom…hi. I didn’t think—” He didn’t let her finish.
“I was with the Knights,” he said. “They were talking. Nott especially.” Her brows lifted gently.
“Nott? The one paired with Helen in Potions?”
“He’s corresponding with her.” His voice was flat, but something stirred behind it. “They’ve been writing over break.”
“Oh,” Myrtle blinked, then sat up straighter. “I mean… that’s not so strange. Helen’s nice. She writes letters to almost everyone and she likes him, I think. Not that I get it…he seems cruel but—”
“Do you talk to her about me?” The question landed like an iron weight. Warren stared at him, words catching in her throat.
“What?”
“About us,” he clarified. “Do you speak to her about us?”
“No,” she said quickly. “Of course not. Tom, she’s my friend but I’d never… I wouldn’t…” Tom studied her face. She meant it. Honest. He could see that. But it didn’t soothe the way it should.
“She’s observant,” he murmured, voice lower now. “Writes about people and sees things. That makes her dangerous.”
“She’s not dangerous,” Myrtle said gently, “she’s just curious.” Tom’s gaze flicked to the parchment in her lap.
“Curiosity is how people die.” His voice was calm, almost conversational but it landed like a lead weight in the quiet aisle between the shelves. The lamps flickered ever so slightly above them, shadows twitching. Myrtle froze, her fingers tightening slightly on the edge of her parchment. Her eyes flicked up to his, searching. There was no cruelty in his face, no threat. But there was something she didn’t fully understand. And yet she felt it in her spine. Her voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper.
“Would you…” she swallowed. “Would you do something to me? If I got too curious?” His expression didn’t change. For a moment, he only looked at her. Long, unreadable silence pressing between them like glass. Then, slowly, he tilted his head.
“Have you?” Myrtle shook her head quickly.
“No. Of course not.” Another pause. His eyes narrowed, but not in suspicion, something far more delicate. Almost like regret.
“No,” he said finally, voice quieter. “Of course I wouldn’t hurt you.” A pause. His gaze dropped briefly to her trembling hands before returning to her face. “Not you.” She breathed in, not even realising she had been holding it. But something inside her still trembled. Not from fear of him, not entirely. It was something stranger, something darker, like standing too close to a pit and not wanting to step away.
“I just…” she said softly. “I don’t want you to think I’d ever betray you. Not even by accident.”
“I know,” he said. He stepped forward, closing the gap between them. “You’re different. But the others…” His voice trailed off but his hand moved, knuckles grazing her cheek. “You’re not afraid of me,” he said, more like a question than a statement. Myrtle looked up at him, honestly.
“Sometimes I am.” He stilled. “But I love you more than I’m scared of you,” she added quietly. Tom didn’t answer right away. His hand lingered on her face, then dropped to her neck, warm and rough. Her words echoed in his mind. I love you more than I’m scared of you. And he didn’t know if that made her foolish or dangerous. Maybe both.
“You shouldn’t be afraid,” he murmured at last, his voice lower now, velvety, dangerous in its gentleness. “Not you.” He leaned closer, lips at her temple. She shivered. Then he pulled back, eyes steady. “But if Helen asks questions… lie. For both our sakes.” She nodded quickly.
“Okay. I’ll be careful, I promise. But I haven’t said anything, I can’t. I haven’t even told her you’re…that we’re…” She faltered, cheeks reddening. Tom tilted his head slightly.
“That we’re what?” Myrtle looked away.
“I don’t even know what we are.” That silenced him for a moment. Then, quietly and almost too gently, he leaned closer.
“You’re mine. That’s what we are.” Then as though nothing had just happened, as if the world hadn’t tilted on some knife’s edge, he slipped the parchment from her lap and handed it to her again. “Now,” he said, a little too smoothly. “Finish your reading and go to dinner. You need to eat.” She nodded again and smiled nervously. “Good girl,” he whispered and just like that, he disappeared between the shelves like a shadow that had never belonged in the light.
—

The castle stirred back to life as the new term began. Trunks returned. Fires were stoked again in the common rooms and the enchanted ceiling in the Great Hall shed its festive snowfall for a dull January grey. Timetables were distributed with little fanfare and Myrtle found herself back in the library, but not for Tom. Their world had shrunk again. The days no longer belonged to them. They sat apart in class, except Potions. They moved like students again, not shadows slipping through London streets or lovers tangled under conjured sheets. It was strange, this transition, how quickly it all faded behind schedules and absent-minded lectures. Myrtle passed him in corridors and sometimes he wouldn’t even look at her. Other times, he’d brush her wrist with just the edge of his finger as he passed, but rarely stopped. Even in the library, he wasn’t always there now. He had things to do. Always things. And Myrtle, though she never said it, understood. The times he was there, she would sneak glances at him while pretending to revise, he would mark things in margins she didn’t understand. Occasionally, he’d reach out and place his hand on her knee or glance at her as if to say You’re still mine. But there were no long afternoons anymore. No London. No birthdays or Christmas gifts. She thought of the serpent pin she gave him. She hadn’t seen it since. And yet he never let her go. Not really. Occasionally, after dinner or between classes, he’d pull her into a quiet corridor and pressed her against the wall. His hands cupped her face, firm but not rough and he kissed her like it was an answer to something. Then he left. She hadn’t even asked a question. Myrtle went back to her room that night and lay awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, fingers curled around the sketchbook he gave her. She never dared complain. How could she? He had chosen her. He had called her warm. He had held her, kissed her, let her sleep in his arms. That was more than anyone had ever given her. She couldn’t be foolish now, couldn’t be needy. Not when he was so much, when he was building something she couldn’t fully name, something heavy and dangerous and destined. And she was his secret. That had to be enough.

He hadn’t meant to find her. The corridor had been silent when he turned into it. Empty, except for the soft dripping of the old pipes and the faded echo of footsteps long gone. He had come to listen. To feel for the entrance again. Since returning from Little Hangleton, the Chamber had drawn him like a phantom limb. Aching, constant, sleepless. He pushed open the door to the broken lavatory with a slow creak, his wand already in hand, eyes sharp with calculation. And froze. She was there. Sitting on the far side as always, knees pulled up, back against the stone wall like a ghost of herself. Her head snapped up at the sound of the door and for a moment, she looked afraid. But only for a moment. Then her eyes softened.
“Tom.” The sketchbook rested in her lap, charcoal smudged along her fingers. A dozen messy waves had fallen from her braid, framing her face with something almost too fragile. Her robes looked too large on her. He didn’t speak. His jaw set. “I— I didn’t think you’d come here now. I just wanted to draw, Olive Hornby is back and—”
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said sharply, voice low and full of quiet fury. “I told you not to come back here.” Her shoulders folded in, as if she were physically shrinking.
“I know. I just… I feel alright here. That’s all.” She looked down at the sketchbook. And he saw it then, his own face. Several versions of it. Shadowed, thoughtful, remote. Poses she must’ve memorised by heart. His profile in ink. His eyes in pencil. The curve of his mouth, over and over again. He exhaled slowly. Something in his chest twisted and for a flicker of a second, he didn’t know what it was. Myrtle blinked at him, cheeks flushed. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I know it’s silly. I just didn’t know where else to—” He crossed the room in two strides and kissed her. No warning. No words. His hands cupped her face roughly, thumb smeared with graphite from her cheek. Her sketchbook slipped from her knees, falling open on the tiles. He kissed her until her apology dissolved into air. He kissed her until she clutched at the front of his robes like she’d drown without them. He kissed her because he couldn’t bear how small she looked, how sad her eyes had been when she looked up at him and because this was easier than saying he hadn’t slept right in days. That he kept hearing the slither of scales in his dreams. That he had stood at the edge of the abyss and seen his own face reflected back in it.
“You’re not allowed to be sad here,” he muttered against her lips. “And you’re not allowed to be sad because of me.”
“I’m not,” she whispered, breathless. “I’m just… I miss you.” His hand found her wrist and pulled it to his chest.
“You have me,” he said. And then he kissed her again. Slower this time, but deeper, as if he were carving the truth into her mouth. That whatever slept beneath them could wait. Just a little longer.
He walked her out of the lavatory in silence. The corridor beyond was still empty, dimly lit by the torchlight that flickered along the damp stone walls. Myrtle clutched her sketchbook tightly now, fingers still stained with charcoal, her lips flushed and parted from his kiss. She glanced up at him, eyes filled with questions she didn’t dare voice yet. When they reached the turning toward the main staircase, he paused.
“You’re not to come here again,” he said, quietly but with the steel of command. His eyes didn’t meet hers. She halted.
“Why not?” He didn’t answer. “Tom, why? What’s here that I can’t see?” Her voice rose just enough to echo faintly down the corridor. Her free hand reached toward him, pleading.
He turned to her sharply.
“Because I said so.”
“That’s not an answer.” He looked at her then. and something behind his gaze flickered, a shadow passing over the moon.
“It’s dangerous.”
“But I’m not afraid—”
“You should be.” The words came like a cold wind between them, cutting through whatever tenderness had just passed in the lavatory. Her breath caught. His expression was unreadable now. Cold, sculpted. The face he wore for the world, not for her. “I don’t want anything happening to you,” he added finally, more quiet now, more measured but still with that dark gravity curling under every syllable. “You should know that I only want what’s best for you… And I shouldn’t owe you an explanation, right?” She swallowed, lowering her eyes.
“But I thought—”
“You thought wrong.” A beat of silence. Then, softer but not gentler he added. “Go back to your dormitory. You have lessons in the morning.”
“Are you angry with me?” Her voice was barely audible.
“No.”
“Then look at me.” He hesitated, then finally met her eyes. Something in his expression softened as if even now, when every instinct told him to protect what he had found in the dark, he couldn’t quite bear the sadness in her voice.
“I’m not angry Warren,” he said lowly. “But I need you to do as I say. I don’t like when you don’t trust me.” And before she could ask again, he leaned down and brushed a kiss against her temple. Possessive. Final. A seal on the subject. She watched him go without another word, the echo of his footsteps disappearing into the dark like a vanishing spell. And though she stood alone, she didn’t feel abandoned. She just felt cold.

The Slytherin common room had never felt so still. It was late, too late for anyone but the ones who belonged here by blood, by name, by legacy. The fire burned low, hissing faintly in the grate like something half-alive. Outside, the Black Lake was a quiet sheet of obsidian, unmoving as glass. The four of them waited. Orion lounged back in an emerald armchair, his cigarette glowing faintly in the shadows. Nott sat like a question mark, fingers clasped, eyes calculating. Lestrange had his feet up, boots muddy, eyes closed but very much listening. Malfoy paced, of course he did. Too restless to sit. Tom entered without a sound. His black school cloak was slung over his shoulder carelessly and the firelight caught in his eyes, cold and polished like flint. The silence stretched long, heavy, until he finally spoke.
“I found it.” Orion straightened. Nott’s hands twitched. Malfoy stopped pacing. Tom took his time and sat down in the high-backed chair. “The legends are true,” he said quietly. “Slytherin’s Chamber exists.” The words hit the air like a spell.
“You’re certain?” Nott asked, low and sharp.
“I opened it.” Lestrange swore under his breath, the only one reckless enough to break the tension first.
“And?” Orion leaned forward.
“It’s beneath the castle. Far beneath.” Tom’s voice was calm, too calm. “The entrance is… unique. Ancient magic. Parseltongue.”
“Of course,” Malfoy said and there was something reverent in the way he said it. “Only a true heir.” Tom gave him a look. One that didn’t correct, didn’t deny.
“There’s something down there,” he continued. “A creature. Not awake, not yet. Large. Reptilian.” No one spoke for a moment.
“The cleansing…” Abraxas said slowly, his tone low with awe. “It could be done. We could make Hogwarts pure again.”
“Not yet,” Tom said immediately. They all turned toward him. He rose, finally, pacing slowly in front of the fire. The light clung to his figure like shadow. “Do you understand what this means?” he said softly. “Do you have any idea the power this grants us?”
“To cleanse—” Orion began.
“To rule,” Tom cut in. “To control what Slytherin left for a true heir. This isn’t a tool to use recklessly. Not for your personal vendettas. This is something else entirely.” The silence was thick with unsaid things.
“But you’ll use it,” Lestrange said eventually, his voice careful. Tom didn’t answer at first. He turned back toward the fire, watching the embers spit.
“When the time is right.”
“You saw it? Is it the Basilisk?” Nott narrowed his eyes and Tom nodded once.
“And you’re sure it obeys?” Orion asked.
“It stirred,” Tom said. “It heard me. It probably knows me somehow.” A hush fell again, reverent and horrified and transfixed all at once. Abraxas exhaled.
“So it’s true. You are Slytherin’s heir.” Tom finally smiled, just a fraction.
“Did you doubt it?”
“Not us,” Lestrange said quickly. “Never.” But something in Tom’s expression said he knew better. That he had seen the flickers of hesitation, the too-long glances, the waiting to see if myth would become man.
“I’m telling you this,” Tom said, voice low, “because I trust you’ll have enough sense not to speak of it. Not to breathe a word. This is a secret bound by blood now.” There was a beat of quiet. Then all four nodded, one after another.
“And when?” Abraxas asked.
“When I say,” Tom answered. “Not before.” They all stared at him. And Tom, cool and steady, let his gaze sweep across the room. They had no idea how far he intended to go. “Don’t mistake my patience for indecision.” The words were quiet. But final. The tension didn’t leave the air, it simply curled tighter, more potent. Orion’s sharp eyes followed Tom across the room as he resumed pacing and Malfoy, as ever, watched the currents of power shift and settle, already calculating how to stay in their flow.
“Why now?” Nott asked. “You’ve known this…how long?” Tom’s voice was cool, sharp.
“Since the beginning of winter. It took time to find the entrance. Time to be certain.”
“And you didn’t tell us,” Nott said. Tom stopped walking. He turned.
“Do you think I would hand something like this to you the moment I uncovered it?” he asked, with a quiet, amused venom. “Would you?” Silence. “I’ve seen it,” he continued, voice soft again, like the slither of silk over stone. “A cathedral carved beneath the school. Forgotten by time, ruled by a sleeping god. The Basilisk sleeps beneath your feet. Breathing. Older than this castle. But I don’t move without control,” Tom continued, eyes glinting. “Because once it wakes, there is no turning back. And because we need time to prepare.”
“To prepare for what, Tom?” Lestrange demanded, impatient now. “You know what this could do—”
“I know exactly what it could do,” Tom cut in, stepping forward, voice lowering until they all leaned in closer. “It could bring the school to its knees. One by one. The mudbloods, the traitors, the filth they let sit in our halls like they belong.” He paused. “It could cleanse it all.” His words fell like blades into the silence. Orion finally rose from his chair, his hands in his pockets, a cigarette hanging loosely from his lip, studying Tom with something like reverence.
“So we wait?”
“We wait,” Tom said. “We let the term resume. We collect names. Watch them. Observe patterns. No mistakes. We don’t move like children with firecrackers. This is war.” The fire cracked behind him. “We do nothing without precision,” Tom said again. There was a pause. Then Nott said, slowly.
“What about others?” Tom didn’t even blink.
“There are no others. If anyone else finds the Chamber, they die.” Cold. Measured. Final. The room shifted. Allegiance settling like dust. They were his followers, entirely now. More than before. They had followed him before out of admiration, pride, maybe fear. But now he held a myth. Legacy. Power beyond words. They knew it and he knew they would never turn on him. Not when he was the only one who could speak to the serpent under the floor.

“When it wakes, I want to see it.” Lestrange grinned, wild with anticipation. Tom’s eyes narrowed and Nott frowned.
“You idiot… you’d turn into stone faster than saying Hufflepuff.” Orion let out a low laugh from his place sprawled on the arm of a chair.
“He’d last a bit longer than that,” he said lazily, “if only because the beast would be too offended by his face to strike right away.” Tom allowed the laughter to ripple for a moment before cutting across it.
“It doesn’t matter. You won’t see it. Not unless I decide you’re worth the risk. Which, frankly, is questionable.” Lestrange raised his hands in mock surrender.
“Fine, fine. I won’t pet it then. I’ll just… bring it something. A snack.” His smile sharpened into something meaner. “A few mudblood Gryffindors ought to do. A nice festive hamper. Red and gold wrapping.” Nott chuckled darkly, shaking his head.
“You’ll get yourself expelled before you get anywhere near the Chamber.”
“Expelled?” Orion scoffed. “Not a chance. His mother would probably throw some gala in his honour.”
“Speaking of families,” Lestrange drawled, his grin turning towards Orion, “how’s your little courtship with your darling cousin? Still pretending you’re above it while she picks out curtains for your ancestral home?” Orion’s expression chilled instantly.
“Second-cousin.”
“Whatever,” Lestrange’s tone was mocking, poisonous in its delight. “We all know Walburga will devour you alive one day. And not in the way you’re hoping.” Even Tom almost smiled at that, though it was a cold thing, touched with disdain.
“You’re all remarkably loud for people who haven’t proved themselves useful yet.” His gaze slid to each of them in turn, weighted, measuring. “Talk less. Do more.” The room fell quiet for a moment, the air still humming with that combination of arrogance, rivalry, and the unspoken thrill of knowing they were all circling something far more dangerous than themselves. Eventually, Tom broke the silence again. His voice was low, deliberate. “Abraxas.” Malfoy looked up from where he had been idly rolling a silver lighter between his fingers. “You still have that list you used to keep…the mudblood students?” A faint, pale smile curved Abraxas’s mouth.
“Of course. Although Icarus borrowed it for picking his…little victims. But I wouldn’t throw away something so useful.”
“Good.” Tom leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, the lamplight catching on the dark gleam of his eyes. “I want it perfected. Correct any errors. I want names, houses, years... When the time comes, we will be prepared.” Lestrange grinned again, the same wild light in his gaze.
“And when will that be?”
“When I decide.” It wasn’t loud, but it landed with the weight of an oath. No one questioned him after that. Abraxas gave a single nod, as though accepting orders from a general and slipped the lighter back into his pocket. Nott arched a brow in amusement but said nothing. Even Orion, usually eager to prod at boundaries, remained silent. The thrill of the game sharpening into something colder, more organised.
—

The classroom smelled of damp stone, crushed leaves and the faint metallic tang of heated cauldrons. Slughorn’s booming voice had already faded into the background, the instructions long given. The room was now a murmur of quills scratching and ladles stirring, glass vials clinking as students bent over their work. At the far table, Nott sat beside Helen Abbott, their heads inclined together over a cauldron that breathed delicate spirals of steam. The scent of Amortentia was curling through the air in warm, intoxicating waves. Myrtle caught a trace of it and looked quickly down, as if she could keep her reaction hidden. Nott was almost faintly smiling and Helen’s cheeks had gone pink. Across the room, Malfoy scowled into his mortar, grinding shrivel figs with the air of someone enduring mortal insult. Beside him sat O’Connell. All broad shoulders and Gryffindor swagger. He measured dried rose thorns with infuriating cheer. The pairing was unfortunate, but Tom had chosen. Warren sat beside him, small and composed, her quill neatly poised over her notes. The faint steam rising from their cauldron caught in her hair. He handed her the powdered root of asphodel without looking away from the simmering surface.
“Slowly,” he said, his tone deceptively soft, “not all at once.” She obeyed, her hands steady though she felt the weight of his gaze. The potion deepened to a richer hue, the surface rolling in lazy, hypnotic swirls. “Good,” he murmured and for the briefest moment, she felt the quiet thrill of having pleased him. Around them, Slughorn’s voice rose again, praising Nott’s “excellent temperature control” and admonishing Malfoy to “try not to pulverise the entire fig into dust.” Myrtle risked a glance sideways at Tom, but he was already watching her. His attention returned to her hands, to the clockwise pull of the spoon. He had seen her write, draw, measure with precision. He shifted his gaze, following the line of her sleeve to where her right arm rested too still, the cuff of her robes pulled lower than usual.
“Warren,” he said quietly, not looking at her face. “You’re using the wrong hand. You’re right-handed.” Her fingers tightened around the wooden spoon.
“Oh, I didn’t even realise,” she murmured. He didn’t believe her. He never did when she spoke like that, as if smallness could make her vanish. His hand moved, deliberate, taking hold of her wrist before she could think to pull away. She tried anyway, a soft and instinctive resistance that only confirmed it. The sleeve shifted under his grip and there was a faint, raw circle of skin, reddened and marred by shallow crescent marks. The burns were not accidental, the pattern was too precise. His jaw set.
“What happened? Who did this?” She glanced up, panic sparking in her eyes.
“No one. It was, it was nothing, I just—”
“I don’t want to ask again,” his voice did not rise, but it pressed against her like a weight. The girl bit her lip.
“They just asked about you,” she whispered finally, her eyes darting toward the front of the room where Slughorn moved among the tables. “And the vow… it burned a bit. I thought if I held it—” She swallowed. Tom’s grip eased fractionally, but he didn’t release her. The faint, acrid curl of their potion rose between them and the world beyond their table seemed to fall away. He let go at last, slowly, his expression unreadable.
“We’ll discuss it later then,” he said. It wasn’t a request. She nodded once, almost imperceptibly and returned to stirring with her left hand. Under the table, his other hand found her knee, resting there with calculated pressure. A silent sign of comfort.
Slughorn’s booming laugh rolled over the classroom, a genial sound that grated in its cheerfulness. He was bending over Nott’s table, inhaling the spirals of Amortenia as if they were perfume from a beloved’s wrist. Tom glanced at Warren’s still slightly shaking hand, the faint mark on her wrist now hidden again beneath her sleeve. He straightened in his seat. When Slughorn made his slow, waddling way past their table, Tom caught his eye.
“Professor,” he said smoothly, the tone polite but measured, “our potion is more complex than most in the room. We’d prefer to remain after class to see it through.” Slughorn’s eyes warmed.
“Ah, yes, that’s the diligence I like to see! Very well, Mister Riddle, Miss Warren. Just don’t overdo it… it's still the beginning of the term, you know, you shouldn’t worry yourselves.”
“We’ll be fine,” Tom replied without the faintest change in expression. Slughorn chuckled, taking it as youthful ambition and moved on. Myrtle risked a glance at Tom, her lips parting to ask something, but his gaze was fixed on the clock, counting the minutes until the last student left. His thumb brushed against the inside of her knee again.

The lesson was almost over when a hesitant shadow fell across their table. Helen Abbott stood there, her eyes flicking from Myrtle to Tom as though crossing into dangerous territory.
“Myrtle… our Amortentia is almost done,” she said, her voice lighter than her nerves allowed. “Do you want to come and smell it? Just for a moment—”
“No.” Tom’s answer was flat, sharp enough to cut through the steam curling between them. Helen’s eyes widened, a blush of embarrassment staining her cheeks. “We have work to do,” he added, his hand never leaving Myrtle’s thigh under the table. The small brunette shifted in her chair, then offered Helen a small smile, soft enough to cushion the blow.
“Maybe later, okay? I don’t think Nott likes me very much and I wouldn’t want to ruin it for you.” Helen’s eyes darted once more to Tom before she nodded and retreated, the distance between their tables suddenly feeling wider. They had barely returned to their work before Myrtle leaned a little closer to him, lowering her voice as though conspirators in some harmless game.
“You’re not even curious?” she asked, lips tugging into a faint smile. “About what I’d smell?” Tom’s quill stilled. He did not look up from the page.
“I thought you said you loved me.” The words landed with such calm finality that her little smile faltered.
“Of course I do—”
“Then you don’t need Abbott’s potion, do you?” His gaze lifted at last, steady and unreadable, the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth making it impossible to tell if he was teasing or warning. Myrtle blinked at him, searching his face as though the answer to everything might be hidden there. He reached over, adjusted the angle of the cauldron, his touch precise. “You’d only be giving someone else a piece of you they have no right to,” he said softly now, almost as if explaining something tender. Her breath caught at that not in protest, but in a quiet, strange recognition of his reasoning. It felt like protection, even if there was something heavier in it, something that pressed close like a shadow.
“You’re right,” she murmured after a moment, her voice almost apologetic. “It’s silly, anyway.” He allowed himself the smallest smile, the kind that barely shifted his features but seemed to fill the air between them.
“Don’t worry, I like you silly. Just not at someone else’s table, okay?” Myrtle nodded and looked down at her work, cheeks warming while she stirred the potion the way he’d shown her, the scent of their own brewing curling faintly in the steam.

The door clicked shut with a muted finality, the echo of Slughorn’s cheerful “Don’t be too hard on yourselves!” still hanging in the steam-heavy air. Myrtle, head bent toward the cauldron, pretended not to notice the deliberate flick of Tom’s wand that sealed them in.
“You can’t just leave it—” she began, reaching for the ladle but he was already moving. A single step and the room felt smaller. Another and she found herself caught between the desk and the weight of his gaze.
“Up,” he said quietly, his hand finding her waist as he lifted her onto the desk behind them. The wood was cool beneath her, his nearness was not. He drew the chair around and sat directly before her. Even seated, she was small, the folds of her robe spilling over the edge. Tom reached for her right hand. She tried to pull it back, an instinctive flinch, but his fingers closed gently but firmly around her wrist.
“I’d like to know,” he murmured, almost conversational, “why you didn’t tell me.”
“I— It’s nothing really.” With his free hand, he eased the sleeve back. The red, raw marks glared in the lamplight, the faint crescent indentations where her own nails had bitten deep. His thumb brushed lightly over the skin, enough to remind her he was touching what she had tried to hide. His gaze lifted to hers, unreadable but unyielding.
“You do this,” he said, voice low, “and think I won’t notice?” Myrtle swallowed, trying for composure. She shook her head. Her gaze slid away.
“It doesn’t matter.” Tom leaned back slightly, still holding her hand.
“Everything that touches you matters to me,” he said and there was something both beautiful and dangerous in the way the words landed. An oath, a claim, a threat all at once. He set her hand down only long enough to reach into his satchel. A small vial clinked against the wood, followed by the neat unsheathing of his wand. “Hold still.” The first charm was cooling, drawing the heat from the angry welted skin until her shoulders eased by instinct. The second was slower, a precise murmuring of Latin that coaxed the edges of the burn to pale and fade. His hands were steady, his touch impersonal in its skill, but his eyes never left her face. Myrtle shifted under his gaze, the words forming reluctantly.
“It was in the Ravenclaw tower,” she began, voice small. “I was coming up from dinner. Olive Hornby… she—” Myrtle bit her lip, then rushed on. “She cornered me. Said some nasty things.” The flick of his wand paused for barely a second.
“What things.” She stared at his collar, not daring to meet his eyes.
“She asked where you were. ‘Where’s Riddle now to save you?’” Myrtle tried to laugh it off, but it faltered quickly. “She said you’d never…never really…” Tom’s magic tightened just slightly on her wrist, holding it in place for the final pass of the spell.
“Never really what?”
“That you’d never… want someone like me. That I’m just…” Myrtle swallowed. She gave a tiny shrug, as if the word mudblood didn’t already hang unsaid between them, thick in the air. His jaw shifted, a slow tightening of muscle. He set the vial down, still holding her wrist.
“And you said nothing.”
“What could I have said?” Her voice was sharper now, wounded in its honesty. “I can’t… I can’t tell them anything about you. You know I can’t.” For a moment, he didn’t speak. Only the faint sound of the fire at the far end of the classroom filled the space. Then he released her wrist, his palm sliding deliberately up her arm as if reclaiming it.
“She’ll regret it,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “Hornby. She’ll regret every word.” It was not a comfort. It was a promise and one that made Myrtle’s stomach tighten with both dread and something unnameable. His thumb traced the line of her forearm, absently now, though his mind had gone elsewhere. The set of his shoulders changed, less about tending to her burn, more about calculating something far beyond this classroom. “Does Hornby have any friends?” he asked suddenly. Myrtle blinked, startled by the change in subject.
“Friends?”
“Yes.” His tone was light, almost conversational, which somehow made it worse. “The ones that follow her about. The ones who laugh at her little performances.”
“Oh,” she hesitated, “yes. Mostly Ravenclaw girls. A couple of Gryffindors. Why?” His gaze sharpened, fixed on her in a way that made it clear the question had nothing to do with idle gossip.
“Any of them muggle-born?” She frowned faintly.
“I… I think so. Why?”
“Think carefully.” He leaned in just enough for her to feel the weight of the request, or the order. “The ones who laugh with her. The ones who’ve laughed at you. Are they muggle-born?” Her brow knit, her voice small.
“Two or three. I suppose. But…” But he wasn’t listening to the rest. His eyes had gone distant, dark and she couldn’t see where he’d gone. Somewhere beneath the castle. Somewhere cold and echoing and older than Hogwarts itself. Myrtle shifted uncomfortably on the desk. “Tom, why…” He looked back at her as if nothing had passed, the smallest smile tugging at his mouth.
“No reason.” But the lie was obvious. His mind was already walking the wet stone floor of a chamber far below, where a sleeping monster waited to open its eyes. His gaze dropped back to her hand. The skin was still pink, the angry claw-marks softened now beneath the cooling charm, but not gone. He turned her wrist over in his palm, brushing his lips against the inside of it. “It’s healing,” he murmured, almost to himself. Myrtle watched him in silence, feeling that strange mix of safety and danger that only he could create. If it was his vow that had seared her skin in the first place, it was also only him who noticed, who took the time to ease it, who cared enough to mend it. He set her hand gently on her lap, eyes still fixed on her face.
“I know I haven’t had much time for you lately,” he said, the words quiet, deliberate. She opened her mouth to protest, to say she understood, that she didn’t mind but he went on before she could. “We can finish the potion another time.” His voice softened in that almost dangerous way. “If there’s something you’d like to do instead… Tell me.” It was an invitation disguised as generosity and she knew it. But the thought that he was asking at all, that he was offering himself for an evening, lit her from within. Her lips parted, uncertain.
“Anything?”
“Anything,” his smile was slow, deliberate. Her fingers toyed with the hem of her sleeve as they always did, the healed skin beneath still tingling from where he’d kissed it.
“We could…” she hesitated, then smiled, small and unsure. “We could go to the Astronomy Tower. Like we did before.” His gaze lingered on her, searching her expression as though weighing the suggestion for hidden edges. The corner of his mouth curved, just barely.
“If you like,” he said at last. “But it’s January. You’ll freeze before we reach the top.”
“I’ll be fine—”
“No,” he interrupted, smooth but final. “Go and put on something warmer. I’ll meet you by the stairs.” There was no room for protest in his voice, but something in the precision of it felt like an odd kind of care. She slipped from the desk, brushing past him and for a moment the faint scent of lily of the valley clung to the air between them. Tom watched her go, his hands resting loosely on the chair back, the weight of his thoughts still on Hornby’s taunting and the other names that would soon find their place on Abraxas’s list. But for now, he would grant her the Tower.

The dungeons breathed damp and cold as he descended, the familiar chill seeping into his bones. He pushed open the door to the Knights’ shared room, the hinges complaining softly. Abraxas was there, lounging with a cigarette between two pale fingers, Lestrange sprawled across the opposite chair with the lazy arrogance of someone who had never been told no. Their conversation stopped the moment Tom stepped inside. He crossed to his trunk without hurry, retrieving his black cloak. The weight of the fabric settled across his shoulders like armour. His hand paused briefly at the corner, where the woolen hat Warren had pressed into his hands in a snowy London street lay folded. He took it without comment.
“Malfoy,” he said, his voice cutting through the thick air. “That list of yours with mudblood students. Make sure any of Olive Hornby’s friends are at the top.” Lestrange’s grin sharpened, delighted by the scent of a coming hunt.
“Names?”
“Ask around,” Tom replied. “It shouldn’t be difficult to spot who laughs when she opens her mouth.” Abraxas flicked ash into the grate, eyes glinting with understanding.
“Consider it done.” Tom adjusted the cloak’s clasp, pulling the woolen hat into place.
“Good. The future might be close.” He left the dungeons with the same unhurried precision, the echo of his boots stretching down the empty stone corridors. The castle was quieter now than at any other time of year. Most students still drifting in the glow of their holiday returns, most corridors empty save for the occasional prefect or ghost. Halfway up the main staircase, his hand brushed the wool hat in his pocket. Dark grey, unremarkable, the sort of thing he would never wear for himself. He slowed, just for a moment, then pulled it on. It carried the faintest cold breath of that London morning when she had laughed at him for looking almost ordinary. The great spiral to the Astronomy Tower loomed ahead. He could already picture her waiting. Nervous, perhaps, but smiling when she saw him, as though the day had never been cold at all.
She was there, exactly where he expected her to be, at the base of the final staircase, hands tucked into the sleeves of her cloak, shifting her weight from foot to foot to keep warm. When she saw him, her eyes softened, her lips parting with the faintest, unguarded smile.
“You have the hat,” she said quietly, as though afraid to disturb the stillness of the corridor. He allowed himself the smallest of smirks.
“I do.” Her gaze lingered on him, on the contrast of black wool and skin, on the way the knit shadowed his eyes. It seemed to please her in some way he did not entirely understand but allowed nonetheless. They began to climb, their footsteps muted by the thick chill seeping into the stone. The windows along the spiral staircase spilled in slices of night, the moon brittle and white above the grounds. Outside, the frost had painted the turrets in silver. Inside, the air grew sharper, thinner, until their breath curled between them. At the top, the door gave way with a groan and they stepped into the open platform. The January wind pressed against them instantly, tugging at their robes. Far below, the castle roofs shone like frozen ink, the lake a dark mirror. Myrtle moved toward the edge, leaning on the low wall, her face turned to the sky as though searching for constellations. He followed at a measured pace, watching the way her hair fluttered in the wind, the way her fingers curled over the stone.
“You’ll freeze,” he murmured, drawing closer until the space between them was nothing but shared warmth against the cold. She glanced at him, amused despite the shiver in her shoulders.
“That’s why you’re here.” He tilted his head, regarding her as though deciding whether she was teasing or telling the truth. He closed the last of the distance anyway, the wind tangling between them like a conspirator. He drew the slim packet from his cloak pocket, the gold script on the paper catching a flicker of moonlight. Myrtle glanced at it curiously, but said nothing as he struck the match against the rough stone, shielding the flame from the wind with one hand. The faint crackle broke the silence before the sharp, exotic scent of Egyptian tobacco drifted between them. Tom took the first drag, the ember glowing like a watchful eye in the dark and exhaled into the winter air. Then, without looking at her, he shifted, curling an arm around her waist and drawing her back against him. His cloak fell around them both, swallowing her small figure in black wool. They stood in the shadow of a corner, out of sight should anyone wander up. The stone wall pressed cold against her back, his chest was warm against her shoulder blades. The hat she had given him brushed her hair as he bent slightly, holding the cigarette between two fingers. Her eyes flicked to it again, and he smirked faintly.
“Curious?” Before she could answer, he brought it to her lips. The heat of his gloved fingers lingered near her mouth as she leaned forward, taking a careful drag. She coughed softly at the strength, and he chuckled under his breath, low and almost fond.
“It’s stronger than the usual one,” she murmured. He kept her there, close, the occasional ember flaring when he brought the cigarette back to her mouth. His arms around her felt like a wall, shutting out the rest of the world, shutting out the wind. Beneath them the grounds stretched into darkness, but up here in their corner, there was only the warmth of his body, the taste of tobacco between them and the faint sound of the wind. The ember glowed again as he took another drag, the faint scratch of his breath cutting into the stillness. When he lowered the cigarette, his other hand left her waist and slid slowly upward, over the slope of her ribs, until his palm rested flat beneath her breastbone. He didn’t speak, just held her there, her back flush to him until she could feel the steady rhythm of his breathing against her spine. Then, almost idly, he brought the cigarette to her lips again. She inhaled, the sharp taste hitting her tongue and before she could exhale, his fingers tipped her chin back toward him. The smoke slipped from her mouth to his as he leaned down, taking it from her with a kiss. It was unhurried but deep, his hand still under her jaw, thumb pressing lightly against her throat as if to remind her he was the one keeping her upright in the cold. The kiss broke only so he could drop the half-burned cigarette to the stone without looking away from her.
“Warmer?” he asked, though the question was more a murmur against her cheek than something meant to be answered. The view stretched black and silver beneath them, the frozen grounds, the skeletal forest, the lake catching only the faintest reflection of the moon. He shifted behind her, adjusting the cloak so the wind could not touch her, though his body pressed close enough that she could feel every breath he took.
“Look,” he murmured and his hands guided hers to the edge of the parapet. His palms covered her small fingers, holding them there, making her face the dark expanse. “All of it. Below you.” His hand at her waist slid lower, curving over her hip before drawing back up to close around her breast again, the heat of his palm burning through the layers of fabric. The railing was freezing against her hands, a reminder of the height, the drop, the danger and then his mouth was on her again, low at her neck, lips hot and coaxing against chilled skin.
“You feel that?” His voice was silk with a razor thread beneath it. “One wrong step and gravity owns you.” His hand on her breast tightened fractionally, his thumb brushing in a rhythm that made it hard for her to keep her focus on the faraway grounds. “But here…” he drew the words out, almost into her ear, “…here, you belong to me.” Her breath caught when his teeth scraped her skin, his other arm locking more firmly around her waist as though he truly were keeping her from the edge. The cloak enclosed them completely now, their bodies hidden but the intimacy was sharper for being out in the open. Anyone could climb the stairs, anyone could see them, yet he moved her as if the rest of the world had fallen away. “Don’t look away,” he said softly, almost a command. “Let them see how above you are. Let them see what happens when you’re mine.”

His cloak shifted as he turned her in his arms, pressing her back into the wall this time. The wind caught at her hair, but his hands were already in it, pulling her mouth to his again no longer patient, no longer quiet. The hat she’d bought him shadowed his eyes, but she could see the faint curve of his mouth when he drew back just enough to look at her. His hands traced down over her sides, catching at the folds of her cloak, gathering them in until she was wrapped completely in his. Hidden, owned and his all at once under the biting January sky. The stone at her back was winter itself, unforgiving and biting through her clothes like a blade of ice, yet his body before her was enclosing her in the dark folds of the cloak. The air between them burned with breath and sound, his hands already claiming her waist, her hips, her ribs as if he were reacquainting himself with every inch. He pressed her more firmly against the wall and the shiver that ran through her was half from the cold, half from the way his knee slid between her legs. The wind curled around the tower, but here was only his mouth, his breath mingling with hers as it broke in short, uneven bursts. The January air made her cheeks ache, yet his lips scorched against them, trailing down to her jaw, then lower, finding the vulnerable line of her throat. He bit, just enough to make her gasp, his hand tangling in her hair to hold her there. His thumb dragged slowly over her lower lip, pressing until she parted for him. Her hands, pale against the black of his cloak, clutched at his shoulders. The wall was merciless, each shift of her body against it sending a cold ache through her spine, but every time the chill threatened to break her focus, he gave her something else. A deeper kiss, a firmer grip, his fingers tracing the waist of her pants. The world narrowed to stone, sky and him. Even the thought of anyone climbing the stairs seemed impossibly far away, irrelevant. The danger was in his closeness, in the way he devoured her like there was no winter, no castle around them, just this fever in the cold.
When he finally pulled back enough to look at her, the faint moonlight caught in his eyes, all shadow and hunger.
“You’re warm now,” he said softly, almost amused, though his hand at her hip kept her pinned as though the stone itself might let her go.

The stone steps wound upward in silence, the cold still clinging to their clothes despite the heat they’d left on the tower wall. She was shivering by the time they reached the corridor near Ravenclaw Tower and he shifted his cloak over her shoulders without a word. The firelight from a far-off sconce flickered weakly against the pale skin of her cheek. When they stopped before the eagle-shaped knocker, she turned suddenly, arms wrapping around his waist, her face pressed into the heavy wool of his coat. He felt the faint tremor in her breath and his hands stilled at her back.
“What is it?” His voice was low, more curious than soft, though the faintest edge of concern threaded through it. She shook her head at first, unwilling to meet his eyes, then whispered.
“Can’t we…can’t we be together tonight?” The words were a breath, almost swallowed by the quiet of the corridor. His gaze sharpened, studying her. She swallowed, voice unsteady. “I just… I feel really alone lately.” He said nothing, waiting and it came out of her in pieces. Half-formed thoughts about her lost brother, the way her parents had left her, the cruel sting in her wrist when Olive’s words found their mark. She tried to say it without sounding as if she were begging but it bled through all the same. “I know it’s needy,” she murmured, ashamed. “But without you, it feels like I’m not even—” She broke off, pressing her face harder into his chest as if she could hide from her own confession. His arms came around her then, slow but decisive, his hand cupping the back of her head until her shivers eased beneath his hold.
“You are with me,” he said, almost to himself. “But okay, just make sure Helen won’t tell when you’re not sleeping in your bed.” He whispered into her hair half jokingly, half warning and didn’t move until she exhaled, some of the tightness leaving her shoulders. Then, with a glance at the silent corridor, he guided her away from the Tower, already thinking of the quickest path to the seventh floor.
The Room had closed itself around them in velvet darkness as though sealing them away from the rest of the castle. The shadows breathing along the walls and the bed lay deep and wide enough that the two of them could have lain without touching. But of course, they didn’t. She curled on her side first as if she were trying not to assume she could take up his space. He slid closer anyway, leaving his cloak on the foot of the bed, his knees brushing hers. His hand found its way into her hair, not with the lazy affection but with deliberate weight. Every stroke of his fingers was ownership disguised as idleness. For a long time, there was only the sound of her breathing, the muffled hiss of the magic of the Room.
“What did you want to be,” he said after a moment, “before you came here?” The question landed as though he’d struck glass. She turned, startled that he’d be interested, eyes wide in the glow.
“I— what?” He didn’t repeat himself, just waited. He had that stillness about him that could be as suffocating as silence in a coffin. “I don’t know,” she admitted at last. “I never really thought about it.”
“You must have,” he said, still calm, still pressing. “Children imagine. They decide what they’ll be, however foolish. So what was yours?” Her mouth opened, then closed again. She frowned faintly, eyes sliding away as though his gaze was too much.
“I suppose I only ever wanted people to like me. To make them happy,” she hesitated and her voice dropped lower, almost unsteady. “To make you happy.” That last part seemed to take something from her to say, but she didn’t flinch after it. Tom’s eyes didn’t leave her. He felt the shift in the air between them, the click of something deeper falling into place. “It’s not…” she started quickly, as if defending herself, “I mean, I just don’t really need anything else. When you’re here, I know what to do. Who I am. What I’m for. Everything else feels…” She searched for the word and failed. “Like it’s not mine.” His hand was still in her hair, fingers threading slowly through it, smoothing it down over and over again. She didn’t realise she’d bared herself to him more than most could survive. When her eyes closed, her breathing turning shallow with the pull of exhaustion, he didn’t close his. He lay watching her in the darkness, taking in every detail. The way her freckles decorated her face, the faint furrow between her brows that refused to relax even in sleep. She thought herself in the safest place in the world. Her trust in him was not soft or fragile, it was a full surrender, a devotion without brakes or limits. She belonged to him so entirely that he felt it in his bones. If he told her he meant to kill her, she would not scream. She would not run. She would ask quietly and sincerely whether he wanted her to hand him the knife. The thought did not horrify him. It steadied him, pleased him even. It meant she was already his in the only way that mattered.
She breathed in, breathed out, her head resting against his shoulder now. He could feel her warmth through the fabric of his shirt. She was light, unbearably light, but the weight of her devotion was crushing in a way he found almost exquisite. He thought, briefly, of how easy it would be to take it further, to lock it down so tightly that she could never even dream of leaving. And yet, as she shifted in sleep and one small hand brushed against his chest as if to anchor herself, he simply stayed still, watching the fire sink lower. She would stay. She would always stay.
—

The sun was still hidden when he opened his eyes. She was curled against him, her breathing slow, her hair warm beneath his hand where it had stayed there throughout the night. He let her have another minute before his fingers tightened gently on her shoulder.
“Wake up,” he murmured, his voice low from sleep but already steady. “We have class and you need to return to your dorm.” She stirred, blinking against the dimness, her gaze still unfocused until it found him. There was that small, soft smile she sometimes gave him upon waking, the one that belonged entirely to him and no one else. He sat up, drawing his cloak over his shoulder, already dressed enough to move. She was slower, still pulling herself upright when he spoke again, quiet but deliberate.
“I’ll deal with Hornby.” Her head lifted a fraction at the name, eyes flicking to his face, searching it. “You,” he continued, fastening the clasp at his throat, “will wait for me in the library tonight.” It was not a request. Something in her expression shifted, the faintest trace of relief, of trust. She nodded almost before the thought had finished forming.
“Of course.” There was no hesitation, no calculation. As if the very idea of not being there had never crossed her mind. What else would she do? He watched her for a beat longer before standing, smoothing the fall of his cloak.
“Good girl.” When she finally slid from the bed, tucking her hair behind her ear and glancing toward him again, there was a trace of a smile that lingered even as she moved to gather her things. She would be there, he knew it without doubt. And as they stepped out of the Room into the pale January morning, he thought, with a faint pull of satisfaction, that she never once asked how he meant to deal with Olive Hornby.

Chapter Text

January 1943

The passage was narrow, its stone walls sweating faintly with the damp that never seemed to leave the lower floors. Myrtle barely had time to register where he was leading her before the creak of old hinges swallowed the light. He closed the door behind them and the air changed into colder, stiller, holding the scent of dust, forgotten parchment and the faint bite of lamp oil. It was one of those small rooms, a cabinet for storing exam scripts, abandoned lesson plans or things someone forgot tp throw away. Shelves lined three walls, their wood bowed with the weight of yellowing scrolls and warped boxes. There was no window, only a thin shaft of light knifing in from a crack in the door, glinting on his cheekbone as he turned to face her. Tom didn’t speak at once. He looked at her the way one might look at a locked chest, already certain of what lay inside, merely deciding which key to use.
“Where is it?” The words landed with the precision of a thrown dagger. The girl hesitated.
“Where is… what?” He took a step closer. His eyes, darker than the room, did not leave hers.
“The book.” Her breath quickened. “I had it yesterday in the library,” he continued, as if reciting evidence in court, “when I returned to my dorms, It was not in my things.” The air seemed to contract between them. She felt the shelves at her back, the dust pressing in.
“I must have accidentally took it,” she said, voice small. “I didn’t mean to…”
“You didn’t mean to what?” His tone cut into her hesitation, clean as glass.
“I just opened it,” she murmured. “Only to see.” His hand came up, palm braced against the wall beside her head, not touching her but close enough that she felt the shadow of him. She swallowed. “Tom, It’s awful. Like…really bad.”
“Then you’ve read far enough to know it isn’t a book for you.”
“But I thought—”
“You didn’t.” His voice dropped, lower now, velvet over steel. Myrtle nodded, but the images had already lodged themselves behind her eyes. The split heart, the strange vessels, the curling script that seemed to breathe. Her pulse fluttered in her throat.
“Why would you read it?”
“Because I can.” He leaned in, until his words ghosted her skin. “Because it belongs to me. And if I ever leave such a thing in your reach again, you won’t open it until I say so. Do you understand?” She nodded, though the air felt too thick to draw in properly. “Good.” His hand lowered, not in kindness but in conclusion. “Now, where is it?”
“In my room,” she whispered.
“Then you will bring it to me. Now.” She searched his face, as if hoping to find some trace of the boy who had brought her pastries at Christmas. Instead she found the cool, deliberate certainty of someone who knew she would obey. And she would. Not because she feared him, though she did sometimes, but because she could not bear the thought of his eyes turning cold on her for long. Yet she hesitated instead of moving for the door.
“Tom,” she said quietly. “Will you tell me what it is? Please?” His expression did not soften, but the stillness in him shifted, a new assessment, as if he were weighing not the question, but the fact she had asked it at all.
“It’s dangerous,” he said.
“I know,” she whispered. “That’s why…” She stopped, her fingers curling into the folds of her robes. “It just felt wrong. I thought… what will it do to you?” His mouth curved, not in amusement, but in that faint, knowing way that made her feel as though he’d seen through her entirely.
“It will do nothing to me that I do not wish it to.”
“But it could hurt you, why would you risk it?”
“Because some things are worth any risk,” he interrupted, his tone final. She looked up at him, startled by the absolute certainty in those words. The faintest flicker of something passed through his eyes. Hunger, perhaps, though not the kind she was used to. He reached out, brushing a thumb across her cheek, a gesture that might have been tender if it weren’t for the steel in it. “You concern yourself too much with me. But if you must worry, then do so by doing as I ask. Bring me the book and forget it.” She nodded, though her eyes lingered on his for a moment longer, as if trying to read what could possibly be worth whatever this was costing him. Her mouth parted, the beginnings of another question caught there, but he silenced it with his lips. It wasn’t a soft kiss, it never was when he wanted to end a conversation. His mouth claimed hers with unyielding finality, a seal against the words she thought she might say. When he drew back, her head was still tilted towards him, her breathing unsteady.
“I… We have class,” she managed. His hand stayed at her jaw, his thumb brushing once across her skin as though she’d said nothing.
“Bring me the book first.”
“Tom—”
“I’m not asking again, Warren.” The words were quiet, but they left no air between them and she realised that until she gave it back, neither her class nor the rest of the world existed. Her throat tightened.
“Alright.” He released her only then, stepping back just enough for her to move, though the closeness of the narrow cabinet made her robes catch against his. She slipped past him, still feeling the press of his lips on hers, the taste of that interruption lingering like an unspoken warning.

By the time Myrtle reached the threshold of the Ancient Runes classroom, the heavy oak door was already ajar and Professor Binns’ voice, pale and monotonous as fog, was droning about the Elder Futhark. Every face turned when she slipped inside. Her hair was slightly windblown from hurrying, the strap of her satchel had slipped down her shoulder. Binns didn’t so much look at her as glide forward, his transparent brow knitting with rare disapproval.
“Late, Miss Warren.” His voice was the same flat timbre it always was, but there was a trace of formality, almost ceremony, in the way he said it. “Detention. After classes.” A couple of Ravenclaws exchanged looks. Someone stifled a laugh. In the far corner, a Slytherin boy’s snicker carried just enough for the air to prickle with embarrassment. Myrtle’s face burned. She mumbled an apology, clutching her satchel strap and slipped into the only empty seat in the back. Tom’s gaze followed her as she moved through the rows. He had been leaning one elbow against his desk, long fingers idly tapping the quill, but now he stilled entirely. He did not look at the others who smirked in her wake. He didn’t have to. He had memorised their names long ago. When she glanced sideways, a fleeting, uncertain movement, his eyes caught hers for a moment too long and he nodded with a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. It made her happy anyway. He returned to his parchment without a word, but the weight of his attention remained.
The lesson ended and chairs scraped against the flagstones. Students filed out in twos and threes, their voices a blur against the winter draft spilling through the corridor. Tom did not wait for her to gather her things. He was already standing just beyond the door, shadow folded into shadow, the green-and-silver trim of his robe catching what little light filtered through the narrow windows. When she stepped out, clutching her satchel as if it were armour, his hand slipped inside the open flap and drew out the book with a quiet, deliberate motion. No raised voice, no demand, only the weight of that gaze, cold and sharp as frost.
“I…” She swallowed, eyes darting to the spine of the volume, then back to him. “I’m really sorry.” The words were barely more than breath, already trembling under the strain of holding them in. Her throat felt tight. She thought, foolishly, that the dark cast to his features was anger and that it was directed at her. He had been colder lately, quieter in ways she could not name, slipping further into a place she didn’t know how to follow. She stood there, small against the tall, unyielding lines of his frame, wanting to touch him and not daring to. In truth, his mind was already elsewhere, down in those hidden places beneath the castle, in corridors that stank of still water and something older than stone. Without a word, he turned the volume over in his hands once, then slid it inside his own satchel. His hand brushed hers in passing and she caught the faintest trace of his scent. Cigarettes, parchment, sandalwood and something colder, before he was gone into the stream of students.
—

The classroom smelled faintly of chalk and old ink, the kind that seemed to sink into the pores of the stone itself. The lamps burned low. Professor Binns had never bothered to replace the dim ones. She was alone at the front desk, head bent over a parchment covered in jagged translations, her quill trembling slightly each time she dipped it in ink. The sound was the only movement in the stillness. The latch clicked. She looked up just as the door shut, the tall figure of him slipping inside with the quiet precision of someone who had long since mastered the art of entering unnoticed. He locked the door without a word, the faint scrape of metal loud in the silence. Her face fell almost instantly into that half-panicked, half-wounded expression he knew so well.
“Tom, I really am sorry,” she began, words spilling over themselves. “I didn’t mean to…” He crossed the room in slow, measured steps, his gaze fixed on her as if weighing each syllable before it reached his ears.
“Stop.” His voice was low, almost gentle, but the sort of gentle that allowed no disobedience. She bit her lip, folding her hands in her lap. He moved behind her chair, resting his hands lightly on her shoulders, looking down at the messy lines of runic translation. “What’s all this?”
“My detention,” she murmured. “I need to translate this passage.” Without asking, he reached past her and took the quill, dipping it into ink with unhurried precision.
“Then we’ll finish it,” he said, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. “So you can be done with this and we can have the rest of the day to ourselves.” Her eyes flickered sideways toward him, still carrying that troubled glimmer.
“I am just worried about you,” she said softly. “That book…” His hand stilled over the parchment. He didn’t look at her.
“Don’t,” he said.
“But—” He set the quill down and straightened, placing his arm on the back of her chair, caging her in. The candlelight caught the pale edge of his cheekbone as he leaned close, his voice pitched low enough that it seemed meant only for her ear.
“Do you really want to ruin our evening with needless worries? You know I don’t like it when you twist yourself into knots over things that aren’t yours to carry.” She swallowed.
“I just…”
“Just what?” He tilted his head, a faint shadow of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “Want to drive yourself mad? Or is it me you want to drive mad?” She flushed, shaking her head quickly.
“No, of course not!”
“Then stop.” His tone softened again, calculatedly. “You’re clever enough to know when to leave things where they belong. And you belong here,” he tapped the parchment lightly with one finger, “finishing this with me, so we can go somewhere that isn’t cold and where you’re not wasting your thoughts on shadows.” Her shoulders loosened, almost despite herself. The weight of his voice, the certainty in it, made the tension blur at the edges. She nodded, reaching for the quill again. “Good girl.” He watched her for a moment longer before moving back to the parchments, his hand idly brushing against hers as they worked line by line. She didn’t see the faint glint in his eyes when she stopped asking questions altogether.
—

The Slytherin dorm room was submerged in half-darkness. The air was damp with the scent of stone and the faint, acrid tang of the firewhiskey Lestrange had smuggled in as always. The boy himself was now sprawled diagonally across his bed, snoring with a low, irregular rumble. Malfoy and Black had gone under without protest, their slow breathing in sync with the occasional groan of the old wood frames. Nott’s bed remained empty. Tom sat against his headboard, still mostly dressed, the heavy green drapes of his four-poster drawn half-closed. The unfortunate book lay open across his knees, the cracked spine groaning each time he turned a page. Ink, diagrams and instructions stared back at him in an unnervingly clinical hand. The words had long since bled into images in his mind. The act of murder, the split, the binding. And over them all, the thought of who. His father’s face rose unbidden. The proud, aristocratic tilt of the chin, the sneer curling at the edge of his mouth. The arrogance that had made him walk away. It would be neat, he thought. Clean. A poetic first, to rid himself of the name and use it to create something immortal in the same breath.
The hinges of the dormitory door gave a soft creak, pulling him back. Nott slipped in, moving like someone who had hoped to avoid waking anyone. His hair was wind-ruffled, his scarf crooked, his eyes darting toward Lestrange’s snore and then toward the other beds.
“Where were you?” Tom’s voice cut through the dark, low but sharp enough to make Nott flinch. The other boy froze, then turned slowly toward the drawn curtains.
“Thought you’d be asleep,” he muttered.
“I wasn’t.” Tom set the book aside, his eyes never leaving Nott’s face. Nott hesitated, then gave a crooked half-smile that looked more defensive than amused.
“I was just with Helen.” Tom tilted his head, the motion deliberate.
“Helen Abbott?”
“Mm. We… talked.” Nott’s tone implied more than it said, though not foolish enough to brag outright. Tom’s gaze cooled.
“You’ve developed an interest in gossip, then.”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“I should hope not,” Tom replied, voice flat. He leaned back again, the faintest smile curling his mouth, humourless but not without threat. “Just make certain Miss Abbott keeps her conversations… pleasant.” Nott muttered something like agreement, shrugging out of his coat as he moved toward his bed. Tom reached for the book again, but his mind lingered not on Horcruxes, nor on his father, but on Warren and the fact that Abbott, however timid, now sat within whispering distance of her. Nott was halfway through unlacing his boots when his curiosity gave in, glancing toward the slit of green fabric where Tom’s shadow moved.
“Hey… Tom.” Tom didn’t look up from the book.
“What is it.” Nott scratched at his jaw, the gesture a nervous tick.
“Helen said, thinks…” He broke off, choosing his words like he was picking them out of a minefield. “She thinks you and Warren… you know. That you’re…” The page in Tom’s hand didn’t turn. Slowly, he lifted his eyes.
“That I’m what?” Nott’s smirk was half-formed, uneasy.
“Close.” A pause.
“By all means, flirt with your little Ravenclaw,” Tom said after a moment, voice deceptively even. “Sneak out after curfew, kiss her in corridors, hide her in the alcoves. I don’t care.” Nott’s mouth twitched, almost a grin but Tom’s eyes lifted then and the grin died. “But you will not,” Tom continued, each word honed to a point, “discuss me with her. And,” his tone cooled further, “especially not with someone who keeps such… unwise company. I’d hate to think you were insulting me with an interest in mudbloods.” Nott shifted on his bed.
“I wasn’t…I’d never, you know that.”
“Good.” Tom closed the book with deliberate calm, the sound sharp in the quiet room. “Then I trust you can find better uses for your time with a girl than gossip.” Nott muttered a quick “Right,” before retreating to his bed. Tom quickly picked up his diary, the one he got from so-called mudblood and added Helen Abbott’s name to the list of few people on the last page.
—

The steam from their cauldron curled in pale, silvery ribbons, carrying that faint metallic scent Lacrimora gave before it settled. Myrtle was bent over the workbench, reading the instructions for the tenth time to make sure the stirring pattern was right, while Tom poured the last measure of powdered moonstone into the swirl. The potion shimmered faintly, catching the dim dungeon light. It was nearly perfect and she smiled.
“Perfect.”
“Not entirely,” he murmured, glancing sideways at her and she blinked at him.
“The instructions—”
“Say the potion works only when you add something tied to the things you want erased,” he said, his tone low as though speaking to someone younger, someone still learning how the world really worked. “An object. Hair, a letter, even a scrap of fabric. Without it, all you have is pretty water that smells like regret.” She frowned at the thought.
“So… we can’t hand it in?” Tom smirked faintly, reaching for an empty vial.
“Of course we can. We just write it onto the tag.” He tilted the cauldron, filling the vial with a steady hand, then slipped it into the inside pocket of his robes. Myrtle stared as if he had just stolen from Slughorn’s private stores.
“Why—”
“You thought we’d brew something this useful and hand every drop to Slughorn?” he asked, soft amusement curling around the words. “Tell me Warren, do you think your curious friend and Nott gave all of their Amortentia to the professor?” Her lips parted, uncertain. Tom inclined his head toward the back tables where Nott was bent over his own cauldron with Helen Abbott, corking two small vials with a care that was almost intimate. Helen laughed at something he said, slipping the vials into her satchel before placing the rest in the rack for grading. “And there?” Tom’s eyes flicked to where Malfoy was scowling at O’Connell, tucking a vial of thick pearly liquid into his sleeve the moment Slughorn’s back was turned. “They all do it,” Tom murmured, straightening as Slughorn made his slow round between the benches. “Because they understand the value of keeping what’s yours.” Myrtle glanced at their own potion again as though unsure if she should feel proud or guilty. Tom caught her look and, just for a moment, his smile deepened. “You’ll learn,” he said quietly. “I’ll make sure you do.”
The words shouldn’t have warmed her, not the way they were spoken with that soft, almost dangerous amusement but they did. I’ll make sure you do. For Myrtle, the weight of what he meant barely mattered. All that lodged in her chest was the fact that he wanted to teach her, that he thought her worth teaching at all. His voice lingered in her mind like a seal pressed into warm wax and she wanted nothing more than to hear it again. She ducked her head, busying herself with wiping down the workbench as Slughorn passed but her thoughts were already elsewhere. Not on the potion, not on the strange final step that spoke of secrets she didn’t fully understand. Only on him and the way his approval lit something rare and fragile inside her. When he was pleased with her, it was as if the rest of the world could fade. Olive’s voice, family, the fact she was tired and sore from weeks of too much work. All of it vanished beneath the sharp, glittering feeling that she had done something right in his eyes. She glanced at him from beneath her lashes as he slipped the cauldron toward the rack for grading, the vial still tucked away in his robes. He looked faintly back at her and she imagined he was satisfied. That was enough. For her, it had always been enough.

Myrtle was almost too quick in gathering her books, as though by moving fast she could catch the moment before it slipped away.
“So,” she began, trailing after him out of the dungeon corridor, her voice lilting with cautious hope, “now that we’re basically done with the Lacrimora… does that mean we won’t see each other so much?” Her shoes clicked lightly against the flagstones, keeping pace beside him. She tried to sound casual, but there was that nervous lift at the end, the unspoken: please don’t say yes. Tom glanced sideways at her, not long enough to give anything away but just enough for her to feel seen.
“You think I’d let you wander off now?” She brightened instantly, falling into step with him more closely.
“So… what will we work on next?” He smirked faintly, his gaze forward again.
“Something that will keep you from asking questions you’re not ready to hear the answers to.” It wasn’t really an answer, but she took it as one anyway, the relief in her smile almost childlike. They walked the long way back, through the courtyard dusted with frost. The air was sharp and pale, the low January sun spilling cold gold over the towers. She shivered once and without breaking stride, he reached into his cloak, pulling the edge across her shoulders until she was tucked against his side. They ended up in the library’s far alcove, the one only for them, the seat by the narrow, arched window with the view of the Black Lake. She settled opposite him, their books between, but every so often he’d nudge her foot under the table and she’d look up to catch that unreadable expression that felt like a secret. By the time the hour slipped by, her chest ached with that particular sweetness she got only from being near him. The quiet, impossible thought that this could last forever if she was careful enough, if she was good enough. And all the while, he listened to her soft chatter, nodded at her little stories, even laughed once and never let slip that his mind was already elsewhere, plotting and cataloguing names.
The lamps in the library burned low, their light pooling in gold on the tables. Myrtle sat across from him, legs folded under her chair. She was smiling, one of those small, unguarded smiles she gave him when she was sure he wouldn’t mind.
“Oh,” she said suddenly, almost as if she’d just remembered something trivial. “Did you know that Nott took Helen ice skating on the Black Lake on the weekend?” Tom didn’t look up from the book he was annotating.
“Do you want that?”
“Want what?” She blinked, startled and her voice wavered.
“Dates,” he said, calmly. “Like that. You and someone else, shivering on the ice, pretending it’s charming.” His eyes lifted now, pinning her. “Do you want that?” She shifted in her seat, the flush creeping into her cheeks.
“No. I mean… no, of course not. I was only saying it because it sounded… I don’t know… nice.” She trailed off, then shook her head, forcing a little laugh. “But you’re right, it’s silly.”
“It is,” he said, as if agreeing with her. “You’d only get sick.” And the way he said it made her almost relieved, as though she’d been about to betray them both with the idea. Her shoulders eased a little, and she gave a small shrug.
“Right. I don’t want it anyway. I like what we have.” He made a soft sound of approval, almost indulgent and dipped his head back to his notes. And somehow, she felt lighter, like she’d just passed some unspoken test. He didn’t speak again right away. His eyes returned to the page but the words no longer registered. Her voice lingered in the air, the faint tremor when she’d said it sounded nice, the quick backtracking when she’d assured him she didn’t want it. She said she liked what they had. He believed her. She was his, hopelessly and helplessly. She’d proven it over and over. And yet Tom’s mind flickered to an afternoon weeks ago, when he’d taken her along one of the quieter corridors, away from everyone else, just to see the way her face lit at being claimed in the open air. She had liked it, the walk. The small, ordinary thing turned rare because it was him. Then another memory, sharper. Malcolm Scamander once asking if she’d like to walk with him. He remembered the way she had glanced toward Tom afterward as if caught doing something illicit, even before she answered. She’d refused Scamander, of course. But still, the fact that another boy had dared… His fingers tightened slightly on the quill. Devoted or not, could a girl want more than what she was given? Could she imagine something beyond him, even if she would never act on it? The thought was ridiculous, but it sank its teeth in anyway. Across from him, Warren was tucking loose hair behind her ear, glancing now and again at his face as if to measure the temperature of his mood. She was warm, soft, loyal to the bone and yet some part of him needed her to know there was nothing else worth wanting. That what other people called normalcy was a pale, empty thing next to belonging to him. He closed the book, slowly, deliberately, and let his gaze rest on her until she looked away, her cheeks pink.
“Warren.” She glanced up, startled by the sudden intimacy in the way he said her name. His eyes held hers, cool and unreadable, and yet pulling at her as they always did, like some dark tide. Before she could form a question, he reached across the narrow oak table, his fingers curling lightly around her wrist. Her chair gave a small, scraping protest against the floor as he drew her toward him and when she rose half out of it, he caught her at the waist. The contact was warm through the layers of her cardigan and uniform, steadying and claiming all at once. “I have rounds tonight,” he said, low enough that it felt meant for her alone. “Join me.” His thumb brushed the fabric at her hip in a slow, absent sweep. “Wear something nice.” She blinked, uncertain as though trying to understand a shift she couldn’t see the logic of.
“Tom, I told you, I don’t need—”
“Yes, you do.” His voice didn’t rise, but it cut through her protest all the same. His hand slid higher along her spine, fingers spreading there with deliberate pressure, as if marking her. “You don’t need ice skating or any other ridiculous little Muggle pastime. You don’t need a crowd or some empty gesture. But you have me.” Her breath caught, her weight leaning slightly into his hold. “And if,” he went on, quieter now, “you ever wished for a date, even for a moment, I can make that happen. I can make anything happen.” Something in the way he said it made her heart thud painfully. There was no arrogance in it, not in the usual sense. Only a quiet certainty that made it more dangerous than boastful. His eyes didn’t leave hers. He leaned forward until the space between them was gone, the faint scent of parchment and winter air and his cologne enveloping her. His lips brushed the shell of her ear and when he spoke, it was a breath more than a sound.
“So,” he said, the syllable a gentle command, “I hope you’ll join me.” But it wasn’t really a question.
—

Margaret Flint was already waiting at the base of the marble staircase, leaning one shoulder against the banister with the lazy posture of someone trying to look like they hadn’t been waiting long. The gold of her Gryffindor prefect badge winked in the torchlight but her smile was warmer and calculated.
“You’re late,” she said, tilting her head, her voice carrying the lilt of something that wasn’t quite reproach. “I was starting to think you’d stood me up.” Tom’s footsteps didn’t quicken. If anything, they slowed as he regarded her with that level, unreadable gaze.
“I’m never late,” he replied, his voice low and flat, every inch of it a statement of fact rather than banter. The flicker of flirtation in her smile faltered but she pressed on.
“Well, I suppose I can forgive it this time. After all—”
“You’ll take the route from the Entrance Hall up to the fourth floor,” he cut across her, crisp and precise. “Don’t miss the ones near the Charms corridor, I’ve heard about students nesting there like rats.” She blinked, caught between confusion and annoyance.
“I thought—”
“I’ll cover the rest.” He stepped forward just enough that the heat of the torches seemed to dim between them. The half-smirk she’d worn at his arrival was gone now, replaced by the smallest tightening at the corners of her mouth. His gaze didn’t waver and in the silence that followed, she could feel how little room there was for her to speak or to try that tone again.
“Yes,” she said finally. He gave her the smallest nod, then turned away, the matter dismissed.
“Try not to get in my way.” She was already moving toward the stairs, the sound of her boots echoing faster than before. Tom didn’t bother watching her go.

Warren was waiting just beyond the carved bronze knocker of the Ravenclaw tower, hands clasped in front of her as though she’d been holding them there for some time. The wool dress was simple but soft-looking, a deep grey-blue that fell neatly to her knees. Her hair was parted down the middle into two long ponytails, tied with thin silver ribbons that caught the faint torchlight when she moved. In the gloom of the corridor, the small constellations of freckles and faint spots on her pale skin stood out unpolished, unhidden. Tom let his eyes rest on her for a long moment. She wasn’t beautiful in the way the world might measure beauty, not in the still, ornamental sense of a girl who existed to be looked at. Her beauty was in the claim, the quiet truth that she was entirely, irreversibly his. No one else’s.
“You look perfect,” he said at last, his voice low. It wasn’t a casual compliment. It landed like a verdict and she couldn’t stop the way her face lit up. Not the polite, reserved smiles she gave other people, but a rush of warmth that reached her eyes and made them brighter. The smallest shift in her shoulders, the way her breath came quicker, betrayed exactly how much the words meant.
“Do I?” she asked, not because she doubted him, but because she wanted to hear it again.
He stepped closer, fingers brushing one of the ribbons in her hair, letting it slide between them.
“You do.” And in that brief space, in the echo of his words, there was no doubt at all that she’d follow him anywhere tonight.
The prefects’ bathroom was quiet and echoing, steam curling faintly from the vast marble bath at its centre. Myrtle’s eyes flicked to the stained-glass mermaids along the walls, their lazy swaying tails catching the candlelight.
“I like it here,” she said softly, stepping further in. There was something unguarded in her smile, the kind that made her look somehow younger than she was.
“That’s not all,” Tom murmured. Before she could ask, he drew his wand in a fluid motion. The steam above the bath stilled, then fell away as the surface of the water whitened and crackled, ice racing outward until the whole floor was a flawless sheet of pale glass. Myrtle blinked, startled and then gave a quiet laugh that trailed off into a gasp as she looked down. Her shoes had shimmered into delicate ice skates, pale leather laced with ribbons that matched the ones in her hair. With another low incantation, the air around them grew softer, the cold of the ice dulled for her, a private warmth pressing close to her skin even as the rest of the room stayed untouched. Small motes of light drifted down from the high ceiling, like snow caught in moonlight, falling only over the frozen room. Her mouth fell open slightly.
“You… did all this?” His lips curved, though it wasn’t quite a smile.
“I told you I could make something better than anything others offer,” he said, voice quiet but edged. She looked down again at the ice beneath the faint frostlight, then back to him, and he could see that flicker of disbelief, that almost-childish awe she couldn’t hide.
“This is better,” she whispered, as though she didn’t want the mermaids to overhear. He stepped behind her, his hands settling at her waist, steadying her on the ice.
“Of course it is.”
The first step onto the ice was tentative. Her blades trembled faintly against the glassy surface and she looked over her shoulder at him in something between fear and amusement.
“I’m not really good at it.”
“That’s why I’m here.” His hands were still at her waist, fingers splayed lightly, guiding her forward. She moved, a hesitant slide and he followed without the slightest falter, the edge of his own transformed shoes whispering against the ice. He was steady, too steady, like the ice existed to hold him. When she nearly tipped, his grip tightened, pulling her flush against him so her spine rested against his chest. She shivered and it had nothing to do with the cold. His hand moved from her waist to cover one of hers where it clutched at her dress, his other arm anchoring her against him as he began to lead their glide in slow, deliberate arcs. The magical snowlight drifted in lazy spirals around them, catching in her hair. He breathed it in, faint traces of lily of the valley cutting through the colder air.
“See?” His tone was velvet, almost coaxing. “Better than the Black Lake.” She gave a small, breathless laugh. He slowed them to a halt near the edge where the marble bath started under the ice, his hands sliding from her waist up to her shoulders, then down her arms, deliberately unhurried. She turned to face him, her cheeks flushed. “I could keep you here all night,” he said, and though the words were soft, they carried the weight of a promise or a threat. “No one would have to know.” Her lips parted slightly, as though the thought didn’t frighten her at all. “Would you like that?” he asked. She nodded. That was all he needed before pulling her closer and bent to kiss her. Slow, claiming, the chill of the room dissolving into the heat between them. The ice beneath them held for a moment longer, hard and cold under her skates until his mouth found hers again. It was not the bruising kind of kiss she sometimes feared and craved, but something slower, almost idle, as though he could afford to take his time because time itself bent to him. And then she felt the faintest shift beneath her feet. The glassy surface softened, melting in slow rivulets that lapped at the edges of the frozen bath. The air changed with it. The sharp, frozen bite yielding to a delicate mist curling around their ankles. Her skates blurred, silver blades dissolving into polished leather, darker and finer than before, trimmed in pale ribbon that caught the dim light like frost. She drew in a breath that felt too loud in the hush of the transformed room. It wasn’t just a clever charm. She could feel it. The magic was not in his wand, not in the spells they had learned in classrooms. It was in him. In the way the very air seemed to obey his mood, the water to shift at his whim, the world to tilt when he wanted it to. And standing there with him, her hands caught between his and her head tipped back to meet his gaze, she realised the sheer gulf between them. She was clever enough at her work, a fair student but he was not merely ahead of his peers. His magic did not wait for instructions. It bled into the world, rearranging it for him, bending without question. She was nothing beside that, a small forgettable girl who barely left a mark when she moved through a crowd. And yet, he looked at her now as though she was the only thing worth keeping. That contradiction, her invisibility to others with his absolute possession of her, settled deep in her chest until she could hardly tell if it was awe or fear. He caught the change in her gaze. The faint, unblinking awe.
“What is it?” His voice was quiet, but there was weight to it, the kind that pressed against her skin as much as the heat of his hands. She swallowed, her fingers tightening in his sleeves.
“Just…” She hesitated, searching for the right words, and then gave up on prettiness. “Just how I see you.” He tilted his head, almost curious but there was a dangerous flicker in his eyes, like he was measuring whether he wanted the truth. “You’re not…” she began, then stopped, as though she’d remembered who she was speaking to. But he waited, and so she went on, soft and low. “You’re not just better at magic than anyone else. It’s in you. Everything changes when you’re near it. Even the air feels different. It’s like the world listens to you before it listens to anyone else.” For a moment, he said nothing, just studied her as though committing every tremor in her voice to memory. Then he stepped closer, his fingers sliding up into her hair until the silver ribbons caught against his knuckles.
“And you like that?” It was not a question meant for uncertainty, more like an invitation to surrender. Her breath caught, and she nodded without even realising she had moved.
“Yes. Yes, of course. I like your world better than the real one.” His mouth curved, not necessarily kindly. He kissed her again, harder this time, the melted water lapping quietly around their ankles, the ripples catching light like a thousand silver coins. Her knees nearly buckled, but his hands in her hair and on her waist held her steady. The warmth of him pressed close, the cold stone walls beyond and she understood he didn’t just want her in his world, he wanted her to belong so deeply she wouldn’t remember there had ever been another. His mouth left hers only to trail lower, to the sharp edge of her jaw, then to the place just beneath her ear where her pulse throbbed against his lips. She shivered and he smiled against her skin, not sweetly but as though he’d just claimed something irrevocable.
“You don’t even know,” he murmured, his voice slipping into her like smoke, “I could give you everything. And I could take everything away from anyone who ever thought to touch what’s mine.” Her breath hitched and he caught it with a slow kiss at the corner of her mouth. She closed her eyes, leaning into him, the world narrowing to the sound of his voice, the soft brush of his lips, the heat of him against the lingering cold. “That’s what you are to me,” he whispered into the slope of her throat, words seeping into her like a spell. “Mine. Entirely. Even when you think you’re not, even when you’re alone… you’re still mine.” Her knees felt weak and he only pulled her closer, letting the melted water curl in shallow waves around their feet, as if the room itself were listening and obeying him. She was still smiling when he finally pulled back, her eyes bright in a way they never were with anyone else. There was a shyness to it, that awkward, endearing sort of joy that made her hands fidget with the ribbons in her hair as though she didn’t know what to do with the happiness. She glanced down at her dress like she needed to make sure it still sat right, that the wool lay smooth, that the silver ribbons caught the light the way she’d hoped. He watched her and the corners of his mouth lifted just enough to betray that he was pleased, deeply pleased, and he let himself indulge in it. She didn’t look like this for anyone else. She wouldn’t. That nervous little shift of her weight from one foot to the other, the way she almost bounced with the effort of containing her excitement… it was all for him.
“You’re jumpy,” he said softly, and her cheeks pinked.
“I just…” She shook her head, smiling helplessly. “I’m really happy.” He stepped closer until she tipped her head back to meet his eyes, the warmth in his gaze sharpened by possession.
“Good,” he murmured. “Keep it that way. Only for me.” She nodded, quick and eager, and his hand slid along her jaw, his thumb brushing her cheekbone in a rare, almost tender gesture. She dressed up for him. She smiled like this only for him. And the knowledge of it was its own kind of intoxication.

The dungeons felt quieter than usual, the long, arched corridor echoing with the occasional drip of water from the stone ceiling. Tom’s footsteps made no more noise than a thought, his shadow stretching along the wall in the torchlight as he descended toward the Slytherin common room. He was still carrying the faint trace of her perfume on his cardigan, muted by the crisp cold of the hallways. It pleased him, in a deep, quiet way. He thought of the smile she had given him when he’d told her she looked nice, the kind of open, unguarded joy he didn’t see in anyone else. No one smiled like that for him, no one except her.
The common room was empty when he entered. He let himself sink into one of the high-backed green chairs, hands folded, and replayed every little detail of the night. The way she’d kissed him at the Ravenclaw tower, too quick for him to deepen it but warm and trusting. How she’d looked almost dazed with contentment. He could feel the quiet satisfaction uncoiling inside himself like a cat stretching in a patch of sunlight. He had given her something she didn’t even know she wanted, something better than whatever Nott thought he was doing with Abbott, that whatever filthy muggles did. It wasn’t sentiment, not really. He was pleased with himself because he had taken a possible want, a possible doubt, and smothered it with something of his own making. She didn’t need ice skating or some muggle idea of romance. She needed him, the one who could turn a room into a place of magic, the one who could make the air itself bend to his mood. He leaned back, eyes closing for a moment. She’d be thinking of him now, still smiling, still warm in her dormitory bed. And he wouldn’t have it any other way.
—

Shadows gathered in the corners of the boy’s room, moving faintly with the flicker of the low light. The Knights were already there when Tom arrived. Malfoy lounging in a chair like he owned the place, Lestrange leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, Orion Black idly flipping through a deck of self-shuffling cards. Nott was silent, lounging on his bed. Abraxas tapped the list in front of him, immaculate handwriting filling the parchment.
“I perfected it,” he said with the satisfaction of someone who thought perfection was his birthright. “Every name worth considering. And Lestrange here was helpful with Hornby’s circle.” Lestrange grinned, a sharp and unpleasant expression.
“Found all her little muggle pets. Sweet ones, too. I hope you lot aren’t mad if I… took advantage of one. Couldn’t resist.” He smirked, unashamed. Malfoy wrinkled his nose, voice dripping with theatrical disgust.
“Getting dirty like that? Salazar, next time at least keep your trousers on when you’re near filth.” He laughed, a low, cruel sound and Lestrange only grinned wider. Tom didn’t join in. He sat, drawing the parchment toward himself, eyes scanning the list in silence. Names written down with clean, deliberate lines, some circled, marked for further attention. When he came to the bottom, his hand stilled for only a second before his quill struck through one name entirely: Myrtle Warren. The pause was enough to draw Orion’s attention.
“Why cross her out?” he asked, voice carefully neutral. Tom looked up, his gaze cool, unreadable.
“Because she’s with me on Potions. I think she knows a lot and she’s yet to be decided about. It’s my business.” The room went quiet for a moment. Even Lestrange’s smirk faltered slightly. No one challenged him, not really. Abraxas only adjusted the cuff of his sleeve and looked away, Orion gave a slight nod, letting the matter drop. Tom folded the list neatly and set it aside, leaning back in his chair. “We have work to do. And I expect all of you to know your roles by the time we meet again.”

Tom stayed awake, watching the green lamp gutter for a moment before extinguishing it with a flick of his wand. The parchment, the list, was folded in his inner pocket. He didn’t spare her because of mercy. It was simple. Her life, her safety, her place in this world were his to define. If she was ever to bleed, it would be by his hand, on his terms, for his purpose alone. And if anyone else tried, even a joke from Lestrange, even a muttered name from Black’s careless mouth, he’d come up with a way for them to learn quickly just how far his definition of mine extended. Somewhere far above, she’d be in the Ravenclaw tower, probably at her bed with ink smudged on her fingers. She’d never know her name had been there in the first place. And she’d never know that in the quiet, between plots and lists and whispered murder, he thought of her as a piece of himself. A piece he had no intention of giving to the world.
—

The library was crowded at this hour, so he pulled her into the Restricted Section this time.
“How’s your hand?” His tone was quiet, almost conversational, but she straightened instantly. She blinked.
“My hand?” She asked before realising he meant the one the Unbreakable Vow had burned. She offered it hesitantly, palm up. The skin was no longer raw, but a faint mark still lingered, a pale ghost of the vow’s fire. He brushed his thumb over it, the contact surprisingly gentle.
“Does it still hurt?”
“Not really.” She tilted her head, a small smile tugging at her mouth. “You ask me that every time.”
“And I’ll ask again.” His thumb lingered against her skin and then he pulled her closer, as though she belonged in the curve of his arm. She didn’t resist, she rarely did.
“You’re very… protective,” she said, almost teasing, though her voice was soft. His gaze lowered to hers, unreadable.
“I look after what’s mine.” That made her cheeks warm, but she held his eyes.
“I like when you say that.” He smirked faintly, leaning in until his breath brushed her temple.
“I know.” She rested her head against his shoulder, fingers curling into the edge of his robes. For a long moment, there was no sound but the faint flutter of her notes in the draft. “You’re in a better mood tonight,” he murmured.
“Maybe I’m just getting used to you,” she said with a shy laugh. His hand moved to her hair, smoothing it back with deliberate care.
“Good.” Tom’s arm stayed loosely around her, his other hand still absently holding her left one as though he could keep it from ever being hurt again. When he finally glanced down, his gaze lingered on her face. Her cheeks were slightly more pink than usual. “You did that on purpose,” he said. She looked up at him.
“Did what?”
“Your cheeks. You’re wearing rouge.” His tone wasn’t accusatory, just quietly observant, almost smug at having noticed something no one else would. Her lips parted, flustered.
“I… maybe. I didn’t think you’d notice.”
“I notice everything about you.” The words were simple, but they landed with a weight that made her chest ache. She looked down quickly, trying to hide the shy smile forming on her face.
“You make it sound like I’m very interesting.”
“You are,” he said flatly, as if the thought of anyone disagreeing was absurd. His thumb brushed over her knuckles. “Especially when you remember who you’re meant to look good for.” Her cheeks warmed again, turning a darker shade of red even under the rouge and she ducked her head slightly.
“I hoped you might like it.”
“I do,” he murmured, leaning in so his lips just ghosted over the edge of her hairline. “Very much.” She stayed there, tucked into his side, feeling as though the library had shrunk to the two of them, as though nothing outside mattered. Tom’s hand lingered in her hair, almost idly, before his voice shifted into that quieter, more deliberate tone he used when he meant to be obeyed.
“There is something I need from you.”
“What is it?” Her head lifted slightly.
“You remember the creature we saw with the boy, Hagrid.” His voice was soft but sharpened on the name, as though the syllables themselves were distasteful. “The Acromantula.” Her breath hitched. She remembered the great black shape scuttling in the shadows, the terrible eyes glinting in the light. She had hardly slept that night.
“Tom, It was really scary…”
“No, don’t worry my dear. I only need you to speak to him. To Hagrid,” Tom finished. His hand squeezed hers lightly, an anchor. “He’ll run from me, I’d frighten him off before he said a word. But you… he would not expect it. Ask him where exactly he keeps it. How is it now.” His eyes narrowed slightly, the gleam of calculation flickering. “Make him believe you’ll go to the professors if you must. The threat alone will loosen his tongue.” Myrtle shifted uneasily.
“He’s just… he’s just a boy. He looked really frightened.” Tom tilted her chin so she couldn’t look away.
“But wouldn’t you do it for me?” He asked softly. His thumb stroked her jaw, almost tender. “I really need you.” The words caught in her chest.
“Yes, of course. I will try.” He leaned down, brushing the faintest kiss against her temple.
“You’ll be perfect. I’ll be close by, but unseen. Nothing will happen to you.” She nodded, though her stomach twisted with nerves. His approval, the weight of it, burned stronger than her fear.
—

The library’s warmth and Tom’s closeness clung to her even as she walked, heart pounding, toward the shadowed corner of the corridor. She’d been turning the words over in her head the whole way. What she’d say, how she’d say it, but now that she saw Hagrid’s broad figure slouched against the stone, clutching his books awkwardly against one massive arm, her throat tightened.
“Er…Hagrid,” she called, her voice higher than she meant it to be. He turned, startled, eyes wide under his untidy fringe.
“Yes? Sorry…who are ya?” Myrtle straightened, clutching her books to her chest as though they were armor.
“Myrtle…I saw you with the creature. The spider.” Hagrid’s whole body flinched, his huge shoulders hunching.
“I didn’t mean. He was just wanderin’ a bit. I swear, we don’t do that no more!” Myrtle swallowed hard, summoning the words Tom had planted in her.
“You shouldn’t have him at all. If the professors knew—”
“No! Don’t tell ’em!” His voice cracked, too loud and then dropped in a rush of pleading. “Please, Myrtle, don’t. He ain’t hurtin’ nobody. I found ’im just an egg, all alone, so small you could fit ’im in yer hand. I couldn’t just leave ’im. He’s my friend.” Something twisted in her chest. The word friend hung heavy in the air, echoing too close to the way she’d felt before Tom. She looked away quickly, biting her lip. But the idea of displeasing Tom was unthinkable. She forced her voice steadier, harsher.
“A dangerous creature isn’t a friend, Hagrid. He’ll hurt someone. He’ll hurt you. And if I have to, I’ll tell the professors.”
“No, please,” Hagrid whispered. His big hands clenched around his books, knuckles whitening. “I’ll keep ’im safe. He don’t mean no harm. He only listens to me.” His eyes, wide and wet, met hers with an almost childlike desperation. “Please don’t make me lose him. He’s all I got.” Myrtle’s throat ached. She wanted to relent, to say she understood but she couldn’t. Tom was somewhere close, watching, listening, waiting for her to do exactly what he asked.
“Then tell me where it is,” she said, her voice trembling with both nerves and determination. “so I can…avoid it.” Hagrid stared at her, torn between fear and heartbreak, before finally mumbling.
“Aragog’s in the dungeons. The furthest ones. I’ve had ’im a few months now. He… he’s growin’ faster than I thought. Stronger too. But he ain’t bad. Not to me.” Myrtle gripped her books tighter. She had what Tom wanted. And even though guilt burned in her chest, it was drowned out by a stronger, darker heat: The knowledge that she had done this for him.

She hadn’t even made it three steps past the turn when a hand closed over her wrist and drew her sharply out of sight. The narrow alcove smelled faintly of stone dust and winter air. Before she could speak, Tom was already there. The curve of his mouth just barely touching hers, his eyes glinting with something between pride and hunger.
“Thank you,” he murmured, as if it were a secret only for her. His thumb brushed once over her pulse, lingering on the quickened beat. “Aren’t you my clever girl?” She barely had time to draw breath before he kissed her in earnest. Not with his usual calculated restraint, but with a kind of indulgence, like he was claiming the reward he’d been owed. Her knees threatened to give out under the press of him, his hand sliding to the small of her back, holding her flush against him. He didn’t break the kiss so much as shift it, his mouth finding the line of her jaw, then her throat, speaking between touches. Myrtle felt herself melt at the rare softness in his tone, softness that belonged only to her. When he finally eased back, his hand still resting possessively on her hip, there was a faint smirk on his lips. “Good girl,” he said simply and it sank into her like a seal pressed into warm wax. Before she could answer, he drew her closer still, erasing what little space there was between them until she was pressed fully into him, her breath caught against his collar. Tom’s arms wrapped around her with an unyielding certainty, not just holding but keeping her there. The corridor beyond seemed to fall away. There was only the hush of the alcove, the faint, cold draught and the steady thud of his heartbeat against her cheek. He lowered his head, his voice quiet but certain.
“You’re so warm,” he murmured, almost to himself as though that warmth was something he could store away. “And soft.” Her hands rested tentatively against his back and that was all the permission he needed. His hold tightened, sealing her against him in a way that felt both sheltering and inescapable. She could feel the way his fingertips flexed against her spine. His breath brushed her hair as he spoke again, softer, almost like a confession not meant for the world outside this alcove. “If I could,” he murmured, the words curling low and dark against her ear, “I’d lock you away. Somewhere no one could get to you. No one could even breathe close to you.” His thumb traced a slow, deliberate path along the curve of her waist. “You’d be mine alone. I’d take care of you, see to everything you need… and no one would dare touch what’s mine.” The shiver that went through her was almost imperceptible, but he felt it and it made his hold tighten all over again, as though the mere idea of releasing her was an indulgence he couldn’t afford. “No more crowded corridors. No eyes following you. No voices speaking your name unless it’s mine.” He tilted his head so his words fell directly into her ear, almost like a spell. “I’d make sure you had everything you could want… and you’d never have to lift a finger unless it was for me.” She swallowed, breath catching when he added, “I’d sit beside you while you read, just to watch you turn the pages. Wake you in the morning and be the last thing you’d see before you sleep. No one else. Ever.” Her fingers curled into his shirt and he could feel her pulse quicken against him. His mouth brushed her temple and his tone softened but didn’t lose its edge. “You’d be safe. Untouchable. Mine.” Her breath trembled, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, her fingers tightened in his shirt like she was afraid he’d vanish if she let go.
“I think I’d like that,” she whispered almost shyly but there was a glow in her eyes he didn’t miss. “If it was with you… I’d never want to leave.” His mouth curved not quite a smile, more the quiet satisfaction of a promise being sealed.
“You’d have no need to,” he said, brushing his knuckles along her jaw. She nodded faintly, leaning into his touch as if the world outside the alcove didn’t exist. “No one else could take care of you like I do,” he said without hesitation. “No one else would even be allowed to try.” For a moment, there was no noise but the muted sounds of the castle somewhere far away. His hand rested at the nape of her neck and hers remained pressed against his chest, feeling the slow, deliberate rhythm of his heart. Her breath shivered out of her. The words slipped from her before she could stop them, hushed and desperate.
“I love you.” For a moment she thought he might not have heard. His face was so close, his gaze fixed on hers with a kind of intent that almost frightened her. Then slowly, his hand tightened at her nape, pulling her a fraction closer.
“Say it again,” he murmured, not a request but a command, low and possessive. Her lips parted.
“I love you.” Her chest ached with the truth of it, with how much she meant it. Something darkened in his eyes, satisfaction mingling with hunger.
“Good,” he whispered and then he kissed her, no longer soft or careful but with deliberate possession, as if sealing a vow she had just sworn. His mouth claimed hers, insistent and consuming. She melted against him, her fingers clutching at his robes, needing to be closer, needing to disappear into him entirely. He pressed her back against the cold stone of the alcove, his body shielding hers from everything else. The kiss deepened until she couldn’t breathe without him. His hand slid from her neck down to her waist, pulling her against him with a force that made her dizzy. She gasped against his mouth, overwhelmed, and whispered again between their lips.
“I love you—” His response was a low sound in his throat, half amusement, half possession before his mouth captured hers once more. Her heart hammered, pressed against the steady rhythm of his. The guilt, the trembling, even the thought of Hagrid’s pleading eyes had vanished. There was only Tom, the heat of him, the certainty that she belonged nowhere else but here, locked in his arms.
—

The castle was silent under its winter cloak, the last embers in the sconces guttering low. Midnight pressed down, a thick and suffocating hush that made every footstep echo like a secret. Tom moved through the corridors with the surety of someone who had long ago mastered the art of passing unseen. He needed no light. When he slipped into the broken girls’ lavatory, the air changed. The damp stone walls clung with a chill that seemed older than the rest of Hogwarts, a place forgotten, shunned. Water dripped in slow, hollow echoes, as though marking time only for him. The cracked mirrors threw back fractured versions of his face, sharp cheekbones and dark eyes multiplied into a dozen shards. It smelled faintly of mildew, but under it lay another scent, subtle and ever-present. The stagnant whisper of something ancient beneath. He stood at the sinks, running his hand almost reverently across the serpent-carved tap. A breath left him, steady, deliberate. He could feel it now, the Chamber waiting for him, listening for him.
It was enough, he thought. Enough mercy. Enough chances. His eyes narrowed, his hand curling into a fist at his side. They prove themselves unworthy again and again. Filthy creatures who take and rot everything they touch. They did not belong here. Did not belong anywhere. The hatred simmered inside him, clean and bright, as pure as any spell. He felt his lip curl slightly in something near disgust. He leaned closer, hissed in Parseltongue. The ancient syllables slithered from his tongue, alive in the air, curling around the stone. The sink shuddered, then ground open with the groan of centuries, revealing the yawning, black throat of the Chamber. Cold, wet air spilled up, smelling of earth and old blood. Tom smiled, a small, hard curve of satisfaction. He descended and went straight through the tunnels. The Chamber stretched vast around him, its stone pillars vanishing into shadow, Salazar’s great carved face looming like a god in the dark. It was a cathedral to power, and Tom alone was its priest. His voice rang sharp in the silence, Parseltongue unfurling like a blade. The sound that answered was low, ancient, a shifting of scales on stone. His heart did not falter, it thrilled. He had dreamt of this and now it was real. The basilisk stirred in the depths, massive and terrible, the hiss of its breath reverberating through the Chamber. Tom Riddle lifted his chin, eyes gleaming.
“They will learn,” he whispered. “They will choke on their unworthiness. And I will remake this place in the image it deserves.” And as the serpent’s shadow uncoiled in the dark, he felt powerful, infinite as though the world itself had bent at last to his will.

Chapter Text

February 1943

By February, Hogwarts had begun to hum with rumor. Not in panic but in the restless, nervous way children do when something unusual has broken the monotony of winter. A Gryffindor girl, Margaret Cresswell, a muggle-born third year with a talent for Charms and an unfortunate habit of talking too loudly in corridors, had been found sprawled in the fifth-floor lavatory, rigid as marble, eyes wide and unblinking. She lay now in the hospital wing, her skin pale as wax, hands frozen mid-motion as though she had reached out in her final instant. Madam Burke, the mediwitch, shooed away gawkers, insisting it was “serious but not irreversible.” The professors said little. Dumbledore’s face was grave, but he offered no explanations. Slughorn muttered about a “misfired hex,” though the words rang thin even as he spoke them. Headmaster Dippet was overheard telling a prefect that it was “likely a prank gone wrong” though no one could say what prank could leave a girl in such a state. Among the students, speculation grew. Some swore it was a curse in a book gone awry. Others whispered about Peeves or some forgotten ward of the castle playing tricks. Most dismissed it with nervous laughter as if pretending it was nothing would make it so. “It’ll wear off soon,” a Ravenclaw prefect assured her friends at supper. “Everything wears off. Look at how many ridiculous jinxes people try in duels. Someone will find the counter-spell in a week.” And so the matter became little more than a whisper to trade in corridors, a secret to pass around common rooms. The younger years dared each other to visit the fifth-floor lavatory. The older students shook their heads knowingly, certain it was only mischief gone too far. But in the shadows, the Knights watched and listened. Tom saw how easily people dismissed the truth, how blind they were to the power beneath their very feet. He had given them a chance to be afraid and they laughed. But they would not be laughing for long.
—

The library was quieter than usual that evening, the wind clawing against the tall windows, rattling them in their frames. Myrtle sat across from Tom, her books spread uselessly before her.
“Have you heard?” she asked at last, her voice hushed as though the castle itself might be listening. Tom did not look up from his parchment. His quill moved with its usual precision, black ink curling into neat lines of notes.
“About what?”
“The girl. Margaret Cresswell.” Myrtle’s fingers twisted at the hem of her sleeve. “They say she was found in the fifth-floor lavatory. Like…like a statue.” Tom set down his quill, but not abruptly. His movements were unhurried, deliberate.
“Yes. I heard.” Her eyes searched his face, uneasy.
“Do you… do you think it’s true? That she was turned to stone?” He leaned back slightly, folding his hands as though weighing the matter with a calm intellect.
“That’s what they’re saying. Though gossip is rarely accurate.”
“But the professors aren’t saying anything,” Myrtle pressed. “Not really. If it were just a spell gone wrong, wouldn’t they have fixed it by now?” Tom’s gaze met hers then, steady, unreadable.
“Not all magic is easily undone my dear,” he said carefully. “But that doesn’t mean you should let your imagination wander. The worst thing you could do is frighten yourself needlessly.” She bit her lip, glancing down at her hands.
“I don’t know, maybe we should be worried?” For the first time, something flickered in his expression. Amusement, faint and chilling in its composure.
“I would never allow anything to happen to you.” His hand reached across the table, capturing hers with quiet finality. “You’re safe with me. Do you understand?” Her breath caught.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Good.” His thumb brushed once across her knuckles, a gesture so gentle it contradicted the iron in his voice. “Let the others whisper. It will pass. These things always do.” She nodded faintly, though unease lingered in her eyes. Tom watched her, the curve of his mouth unreadable, not a smile, not quite. If she suspected, even for a heartbeat, he would not allow it to take root. And so he bent over her hand, pressing his lips briefly to her knuckles, soft enough to banish her doubts for now. Myrtle hesitated, her fingers trembling beneath his. She almost pulled her hand back, but his touch anchored her, making retreat impossible.
“Do you ever worry?” she whispered. Tom tilted his head slightly.
“About what?”
“This place,” she said. Her eyes flicked toward the tall windows, the shadows stretching across the library’s floor. “About… things like this. If someone could just turn a girl into stone, then is Hogwarts even safe?” For a moment, silence pooled between them, heavy and oppressive. Tom’s expression was unreadable, his dark eyes fixed on hers. Then he leaned in, slow, deliberate, his voice low enough to feel more than hear.
“Safe is an illusion, Warren. Nowhere in this world is truly safe. Not London, not at your aunt’s, not even here.” His thumb dragged across her knuckles, measured and sure. “But that doesn’t matter. What matters is who is safe.” Her throat tightened.
“You mean—”
“I mean that while the rest of them waste their days laughing at shadows and dismissing threats as pranks, you have me. And I don’t make mistakes. I don’t lose.” His gaze sharpened, dangerous in its intensity. “So no, I don’t waste time worrying. I choose control.” She swallowed, torn between unease and the strange, dizzying comfort his words brought. “But what if it happens again? What if someone else—”
“Then let it,” he cut in, voice soft but merciless. “It has nothing to do with you. Nothing will ever touch you. Not while I’m here.” Her heart hammered at the fierceness in his tone. She wanted to press again, to ask if he knew more than he was saying but the way he looked at her, steady and consuming, stole the words from her tongue. Instead, she whispered.
“I believe you.” And Tom smiled faintly, almost indulgent, as if she had given the only correct answer. His hand tightened around hers, sealing the exchange.
“Good girl,” he murmured. “That’s all I’ll ever need from you.”
—

But the change came subtly at first. In the common room, at supper, between classes… Tom’s eyes were often turned toward the boys who clustered around him. Orion Black with his cold elegance, Lestrange’s cruel laugh, Nott’s restless cleverness, Abraxas’s bitter smirk. They bent toward him like moths to a flame, their voices low, their shoulders angled to shut out the rest of the world. Myrtle would see the quick flicker of glances exchanged, a curl of Tom’s mouth, a spark of interest in his eyes when Nott sketched something in Ancient Runes on a scrap of parchment. Sometimes, when he entered a room, he didn’t look for her immediately. Once or twice, he didn’t look at all. Myrtle told herself it was foolish to mind, he had always been above everyone else, hadn’t he? Still, it pressed against her chest like a weight.
It was late, the Room quiet but for the rustle of pages, when she found the courage to speak. She sat on the carpet, her books open but forgotten, watching his quill sweep neatly over parchment as he lounged on the magical bed.
“Tom?” she said softly.
“Hm?” He didn’t look up.
“You’ve been… busy,” she ventured, her voice careful, uncertain. “With the others. The Knights, I mean.” This time his quill stilled. His dark eyes lifted to hers, unreadable, patient as though weighing how much to give her.
“You sound as though that displeases you.” Her cheeks burned.
“No— no, I only… I notice.” She twisted her fingers together beneath the table. “You hardly look at me, sometimes. Maybe I did something wrong?” The silence stretched until she wished she hadn’t spoken at all. Then Tom set down his quill, leaning forward just slightly. His gaze fixed on hers, sharp enough to pin her in place.
“Warren,” he said evenly, “when have I ever failed you?” Her breath caught.
“I didn’t mean—”
“You did,” he interrupted, though his tone wasn’t cruel, only precise. “And you’re wrong. I see you even when I’m not looking. Do not mistake where my attention falls. The others are… useful. But you?” His mouth curved faintly, though it wasn’t a smile. “You’re not to be compared.” The words landed heavy, both a reassurance and a warning. Myrtle nodded quickly, flustered.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to doubt you.” His hand petted the place next to him on the bed.
“Then don’t,” he murmured, his arm wrapping around her as soon as she appeared next to him. “You are mine. Nothing changes that.” The weight of his eyes silenced her. She ducked her head, cheeks burning and he picked up his quill again as though the matter had never been raised.

Tom let the silence fall back into place. His quill scratched against parchment again, precise, unhurried. To her, the moment was closed. To him, it lingered. He had seen the flicker of doubt in her eyes, the way she felt his attention slipping toward the Knights, toward the greater circles of his plans. She was not wrong. His days were filled with them. They were useful, more than useful. They were necessary. And Myrtle… His gaze shifted briefly from the parchment to her bowed head. Her hand lay on his chest, small, warm, pliant. She wanted him with a devotion so fierce it almost startled him. He wanted her, too. That fact was undeniable and it irritated him sometimes with its clarity. He had meant to keep her as an indulgence, a hidden sanctuary. But she was already becoming more than that, seeping into the marrow of his thoughts when he least expected it. Where would she fit in the future? Not among the Knights. They were tools, pawns and none of them would ever be permitted to see her. But beyond them, beyond Hogwarts when he stood at the threshold of something greater, would there be room for her then? Could he carry her with him into that world without weakening himself?
He tapped his quill once against the parchment, an uncharacteristic hesitation. No. Weakness wasn’t the word. She was no weakness. If anything, she was a tether. A reminder of what he owned, what he could shape, what belonged entirely to him. He would find a way. He always did. There was so much to do. The Chamber, the basilisk, the Knights, the professors to outwit, the castle to bend slowly toward fear. But Myrtle… he would not give her up. Not now. Not ever. His hand pulled her fractionally closer to him, a subtle claim, even as his eyes returned to the neat rows of runes. She was his. That was certain. The rest, he would handle in time.
—

Despite all his reassurances, it took him longer than it should have to see it. Warren became quieter now. Her laugh more fleeting, her eyes red-rimmed some mornings as though she had cried before class. She sat straighter when the Knights passed by, as if willing herself invisible. Had he missed something? He had been occupied with Horcruxes, with the Chamber, with steering the Knights into place. But Warren’s silence gnawed at him. Once, it might have seemed ordinary, she had always been prone to shadows. Yet now the weight in her eyes struck him as foreign, unfamiliar. Bullying again? The thought tightened in him like a blade. Was someone daring to target her again, while he had grown accustomed to the faint burn of the Unbreakable Vow on his wrist? Had he grown careless?
After Potions one afternoon, he caught the chance. As the students filtered out, Myrtle was flustered with her cauldron and books, nearly tripping over herself. He brushed by, swift and unremarkable and with a practiced ease his hand closed around the strap of her satchel. By the time she noticed the weight missing, he was gone. He opened it later in privacy, candlelight throwing his shadow high on the wall. Her sketchbook came first, the one he had given her at Christmas. He lingered there longer than he intended, turning the pages, watching her soft pencil lines come to life. The curve of a window, the outline of a hand, the delicate rendering of a lily of the valley. But among the neat pages, Tom noticed gaps. The binding tugged oddly in places, thin shreds where paper had once been but was now missing. His brow furrowed. He set the sketchbook aside and reached deeper into the satchel. Beneath her textbooks he found a small stack of loose sheets, edges frayed, graphite smudged across them. Drawings, half-torn, painstakingly pressed flat again as if she had been trying to restore them. One was of the Astronomy tower, cracked through the middle. Another was a cluster of lilies, their stems torn. A third, the faint outline of two people, maybe parents drawn from memories, ruined by an ugly rip straight through the faces. The tear had been clumsily mended with Spellotape, the lines not quite meeting anymore. He turned it over, expression unreadable, though something sharp tightened at the base of his throat. At the very bottom of the satchel, he found a pencil case. Small. Worn. Its lid trembled when he opened it. Inside lay folded scraps of parchment, crumpled and smudged with hurried ink. He unfolded one: You’ll never be anything but an invisible piece in ugly glasses. Another: Why don’t you just disappear, mudblood? Another: People only talk to you because they pity you. The words were jagged, some ink blotched as though written in anger. So this was it. The silence. The tears. The way she had hunched into herself lately, as if bracing against blows. She had kept these, hidden them away like little knives she turned against herself in secret. Tom sat back in the chair, the notes spread before him like evidence at trial. His hands were steady, but his pulse beat hot, deliberate. He could guess who had written them. Olive Hornby’s hand, perhaps or the gaggle of Ravenclaws who delighted in her misery. Whoever it was, they thought they could touch what was his. He tapped one note against the desk, folding it neatly again. They would learn otherwise.

She found him in the library. Her heart lurched when she saw it. Her satchel on the desk, his long fingers turning over the small scraps of parchment like evidence.
“Tom,” she whispered, her voice tight with panic. He looked up, calm, composed, as though he’d been expecting her.
“You should lock this better.” She stepped closer quickly. Her eyes darted to the desk and color rose hot to her cheeks.
“You…why did you take my stuff?”
“Because you’ve been quieter,” he said evenly, interrupting her stammer. “Sad. Teary-eyed. You thought I wouldn’t notice?” Her throat closed. She wrapped her arms around herself, shaking her head.
“I didn’t want— I didn’t want you to see. It’s nothing. Just… stupid.” Tom’s hand rested on one of the folded notes. He lifted it, reading aloud in a flat tone.
“‘People only talk to you because they pity you.’” His eyes flicked up to hers, sharp as a blade. “Nothing?” Tears welled despite her frantic blink.
“They’re just words. I can handle it.”
“Handle it,” Tom repeated, his voice low, dangerous. He unfolded another. “‘Why don’t you just disappear, mudblood?’” He let it drop back onto the desk like refuse. “You kept these. Tried to stitch your drawings back together.” His fingers brushed one of the taped sketches, the one of the lilies. “Don’t lie to me, my dear. You’re not handling it.” She shook her head again, her breath catching.
“If you knew…it would only make you think I was weak. Or that I’m a burden. And I can’t bear…” His chair scraped back sharply as he rose. In two strides he was before her, his hand catching her chin, forcing her tear-bright eyes up to his.
“Never say that again,” he said, each word deliberate, cutting. “I don’t think you’re weak. And you could never be a burden.” Her lips trembled.
“But—”
“No,” he hissed, thumb pressing lightly against her jaw, holding her there. “You will not hide this from me again. Do you understand? Every word they write, every slight glance, every insult…it belongs to me. You give it to me and I will make sure it’s the last.” The fierceness in his tone made her chest ache not from fear, but from the dizzying relief of being claimed so absolutely.
“Tom,” she whispered, tears sliding down her cheeks. He bent, brushing his lips against her temple, his breath hot and steady.
“They don’t get to make you cry. Only I do. And when I do, it won’t be because of pity or cruelty. It will be because you’re mine and you’ll know it.” Her whole body shook at his words but she nodded, pressing her face into his shoulder, letting him hold her in the hush of the hidden alcoves.
—

It happened on a gray morning in mid-February. The whispers spread faster this time, buzzing through corridors before breakfast had even ended. A Ravenclaw girl had been found rigid on the cold flagstones outside the stairwell leading to the Astronomy Tower. Edith Blakely. Fifth year. Not so clever, fond of ink-smudged journals and sitting too close to Olive Hornby at supper. Now she lay in the hospital wing beside Margaret Cresswell, stiff as marble, her eyes wide and glassy. The professors tried again to soften the story. “Another spell miscast,” someone said. “Something in the air,” another suggested. Slughorn muttered about prank potions gone wrong. But the laughter was thinner this time, the speculation sharper. Two petrifications in such a short time and the whispers carried further, darker. Students began glancing over their shoulders, younger ones dared not wander alone. Prefects were instructed to watch more closely. The castle itself seemed to draw breath, uneasy.
Myrtle sat very still in the library, her hands folded tightly in her lap. Her eyes darted toward Tom, who looked utterly untroubled, bent over Nott’s translation of runic staves. She wanted to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. Because Edith had been her classmate.
“Two girls,” she murmured at last, almost to herself. “Both Muggle-born.” Tom didn’t look up immediately. When he did, his expression was calm, his quill poised mid-line.
“That’s what they’re saying?” She nodded faintly, her throat tight.
“It’s strange, isn’t it?” He only shrugged, his voice perfectly even.
“Strange things happen here all the time. You’d do well not to dwell on them.”

But later, when Myrtle had gone, Tom lingered alone among the shelves, his eyes narrowed in thought. He hadn’t meant to strike so early. But rage was a difficult thing to contain, especially when his hand still remembered the feel of her torn sketches, when his ears still rang with the echo of those vile little notes. So Edith Blakely had paid the price. A friend of Olive Hornby’s. A message that was not yet obvious, but one he savored nonetheless. It was only the beginning.
Everything was almost too easy. Olive Hornby’s satchel gaped open on the bench beside her during supper. She was too busy whispering sharply into Charlotte’s ear, mocking some poor first-year Ravenclaw. Tom’s hand moved in a smooth, unhurried gesture, the small phial sliding neatly between her Arithmancy notes and a tin of sweets. Inside, the viscous liquid glimmered faintly green. An innocent enough draught, until its fumes were inhaled. Enough to paralyze, to mimic the marble rigidity that now terrified the school. A carefully crafted scapegoat.
By the following morning, Tom was knocking lightly on Slughorn’s office door, schoolbooks balanced neatly under one arm.
“Ah, Mr. Riddle!” Slughorn beamed, his great moustache twitching. “I wasn’t expecting you. Come in, come in!” Tom stepped inside, posture impeccable. He let the professor pour tea, waited until Slughorn had settled comfortably into his armchair before speaking.
“I hope I’m not overstepping, sir,” he began, his voice pitched low, calm, with just enough hesitation to sound earnest. “But with everything that’s happened lately… I thought it best to bring something to your attention.” Slughorn leaned forward, eyes bright with interest.
“Go on, my boy.” Tom glanced aside, as if reluctant.
“It’s only that I noticed one of my Ravenclaw classmates brewing something unusual. Nothing I recognized. I didn’t want to assume the worst, but… after Margaret Cresswell and now Edith Blakely…” He let his voice trail off, a shadow of concern creasing his brow. “I thought you, sir, should know. You’re the professor I can trust.” Slughorn beamed, puffing his chest.
“Quite right, Tom, quite right! Discretion, responsibility. Those are rare qualities in a student. You did the right thing, absolutely the right thing. Who was it, then? Which student?” Tom hesitated, just long enough to sharpen the effect.
“Olive Hornby.” His tone carried reluctant weight, as though the name pained him. “I can’t say what it was for certain. But she seemed… rather secretive about it.” Slughorn’s moustache twitched again, this time downward.
“Hornby, eh? I’ll look into it, of course. Likely nothing, but…” He waved a hand. “Better safe than sorry, quite right. Well done, my boy, well done indeed. You’ll go far with such instincts.” Tom inclined his head modestly, concealing the spark of cold satisfaction in his eyes. When he left Slughorn’s office, the corridor felt lighter, as though the castle itself had shifted in his favor. And Warren’s torn sketches, those cruel little notes, they would no longer weigh on his conscience at all. Justice had a way of finding its path. Especially when he was the one guiding it.

It did not take long for Slughorn to act. By the next evening, Olive Hornby was summoned after class, her satchel clutched nervously to her chest. Whispers followed her as she trailed behind Professor Slughorn, her pretty face pinched in confusion. The gossip spread like fire in dry grass. Hornby had been caught with something suspicious. A potion. Something connected to the attacks. Tom sat with the Knights, his expression unreadable as Orion leaned in with a sharp grin.
“Hear that? Hornby’s in trouble. I wonder what could possibly happen,” he smirked knowingly.
“I never liked her. She’s too loud,” Abraxas muttered. “Always thinking she’s more than she is.” Tom only let the faintest curl of amusement tug at his mouth. He didn’t need to add anything. The others would draw their own conclusions. By the following morning, it was “known” across the school. Olive Hornby had been brewing something foul. Not a prank. Not a misfire. Something darker. When Slughorn finally addressed the matter in class, he was careful with his words:
“There has been… a misunderstanding. Miss Hornby was not responsible for recent events. The potion found in her possession was… unusual, yes, but not connected to the misfortunes.” The room tittered with suppressed laughter. Not responsible but the damage was already done. Tom watched Olive’s face burn crimson, her jaw tight as a dozen eyes turned toward her. She snapped at the girl beside her, knocked over her inkwell and tried to laugh it off. It only made it worse. By supper, no one really wanted to sit too near her. Friends had grown cautious, afraid of being tainted by proximity. Even her closest friend Charlotte seemed to drift away, her voice hushed, her glances sharp. Olive Hornby, once quick with her barbed tongue, now found the barbs turned back on her. Tom observed it all with quiet satisfaction. He had not needed to touch her. He had only nudged one piece into place and the castle itself had done the rest. The rumors, the laughter, the sudden isolation. By the week’s end, Olive was eating at the far end of the table, her satchel hugged to her side as though warding off invisible blows. Slughorn could bluster all he wished, insisting she was innocent. But reputations, Tom reflected, were far more fragile than stone. Once cracked, they hardly quite fit back together. And Olive Hornby would carry the fracture at least for the rest of the term.

It was late in their Room, when Myrtle found the courage to speak it aloud. She sat close beside him on the bed, her knees tucked slightly in, voice hushed as though ashamed of itself.
“It’s bad,” she murmured, “but… I don’t feel sorry for Olive. Not at all. Sometimes I even feel glad.” Her cheeks flushed as soon as the words left her, and she ducked her head. “Am I awful?” Tom turned to her, studying the downcast curve of her face. His lips curved, not quite a smile, more an amused recognition of her innocence fraying.
“No. You’re honest,” he said simply. She glanced up, startled.
“But she’s miserable. Alone. Everyone laughs at her now.”
“And doesn’t that please you?” His tone was soft, coaxing, as though inviting her to admit a secret she already knew. Her lips trembled.
“A little. Maybe more than a little.” She pressed her hands together, flustered. “But I shouldn’t feel that way, should I? It’s cruel.” Tom leaned back slightly, his eyes gleaming in the firelight.
“Cruel?” he repeated. “After what she’s done to you? The names, the letters, the constant spite she’s poured over you for years? You think it cruel to enjoy her finally tasting what she’s given?” Myrtle hesitated, then shook her head faintly.
“When you say it like that…”
“Like what?” He leaned closer, his voice dropping lower, intimate. “Like the truth?” Her breath hitched. She couldn’t answer, but he saw the flicker of relief in her eyes, the secret gladness she’d been ashamed to name. Tom’s hand slipped over hers, warm and sure. “Don’t mistake satisfaction for wickedness, Warren. It’s only natural. She deserved it. And you deserve to be happy about it.” Her lips curved, tentative, a small, shy smile breaking through her guilt. “There,” Tom murmured, his thumb brushing her knuckles. “Much better. You see how pretty you are when you stop overthinking?” She blushed hotly, hiding her face but the smile lingered, fragile and genuine. Tom’s gaze lingered, savoring it. It almost amused him, how easily she bloomed under his encouragement, how quickly guilt twisted into pleasure with only a few words. She thought he adored her innocence and in a way he did. But more than that, he adored corrupting it, pulling her closer into his orbit, where even cruelty became something she shared with him. And she had no idea that in her relief, in her small, guilty smile, she was already his creature more completely than ever. Her blush lingered as she tried to hide her face but Tom slid his arm around her waist and pulled her closer. She fit against him easily, as though she had been made to rest there. Small, warm, trembling still with the weight of her confession. He bent his head, his lips near her ear, his voice low and steady, almost like a lullaby.
“You don’t always have to be good, my dear,” he murmured. “Not with me. I’ll adore you regardless.” Her breath caught, her hands curling lightly in his robes. “You could do something wicked,” he went on, his thumb stroking her throat with deliberate calm, “something they’d never forgive you for and I would only draw you closer. You could kill someone with those pretty hands of yours, and I would still be proud.” She shivered, her face half-buried against his chest. The words frightened her but they also wrapped around her like warmth. His approval, so absolute, so consuming, drowned out the sting of guilt still gnawing at her. Tom felt her melt into him, her weight small and fragile in his arms, and his mouth curved faintly. “You see? You’ll never lose me. No matter what you do.” Her whisper was muffled against his robes.
“I love you.” He pressed his lips into her hairline, breathing her in, the ghost of a smile lingering.
“Good,” he murmured. “Then you’ll never need anyone else.” Tom held her there in his lap, her face pressed into his shoulder, his hand smoothed down her back absently but his mind was already elsewhere, turning like the wheels of a clock. The basilisk. The Chamber. The hunger that pressed at the edges of his restraint, urging him to unleash again, to feel the terror ripple through the school. He had tasted what it meant to set the serpent free and the power of it clung to him like a second skin. But too soon and the professors would begin to connect threads. Too much and the whispers would sharpen into certainty. Patience. Always patience.
And yet the urge burned. He needed somewhere to pour it, something to sate the gnawing restlessness inside him. His gaze dropped to the girl in his lap. Warren, flushed and tearful, her eyes closed as though she were safe, as though his arms were a sanctuary instead of a prison. She had yielded to him so fully, given him her devotion, her body, her trembling confessions of love. She made him feel strong in another way. Not as a feared heir of Salazar, not as the architect of a grand destiny, but as the sole object of her world. It was a power just as intoxicating. And it was his alone. He bent, his lips brushing her temple.
“We should spend more time together,” he said lightly, almost like a flirtation, though his tone was edged with something darker. She lifted her head, eyes wide, surprised.
“More time?” A faint, dangerous smile curved his mouth.
“Yes. I find I need it. You were right, I have been too busy lately.” He let his hand trail down her side, deliberate, making her shiver. “You keep me occupied. Out of trouble.” She blushed furiously, the corners of her mouth twitching upward despite her attempt to hide it.
“Really?”
“Really.” He tilted her chin up with two fingers, forcing her to meet his gaze. “You have no idea how much trouble I might cause otherwise.” His eyes gleamed, almost playful but far too sharp to be harmless. Her lips parted in a shy smile, happiness blooming across her face too brightly to conceal, though she ducked her head as if she might. And Tom let her. He let her glow, let her warmth spill against him like sunlight because it served him just as well as fear. One way or another, she would keep him sharp, keep him powerful, keep him exactly where he wanted to be.
—

The Knights gathered in the old classroom on the fourth floor, the one Lestrange had half-burned in a duel years back. Lestrange was pacing, boots loud on the stone.
“We’ve struck twice. Twice! The castle’s rattling with whispers and still no one takes it seriously. What’s the point of having the bloody snake if we’re not using it?”
“Because we aren’t children playing at curses,” Tom said calmly, leaning against the desk as though he had all the time in the world. “The point isn’t noise. It’s control.” Malfoy scowled, arms folded.
“I agree with Lestrange on this. They’re too blind to fear us yet. We should—”
“No.” The word was sharp, final, slicing through the air. They fell quiet. Tom let the silence stretch before he continued, his tone even, almost patient. “You’re thinking in days. I’m thinking in decades. Fear isn’t built with noise and spectacle. It’s built with patience, with precision. A few more months and this school will be trembling at shadows. Then we decide how far to take it.” Orion Black tilted his head, dark hair gleaming in the firelight.
“You always have your grand designs, Riddle. The rest of us just want to see some blood on the floor.” He smirked faintly. “Malfoy here’s been crying into his soup since Myrine gave him the slip.”
“She’ll regret it. She always does,” Abraxas bristled. The laughter that followed was edged and cruel, toxic in the way only boys who thought themselves untouchable could be. Then Lestrange, grinning, turned his sharp gaze on Tom.
“And what about you, Riddle? All this talk of patience and destiny, but you’ve never even been with a girl. Maybe that’s why you’re so restrained. Maybe you don’t know what you’re missing.” The air went still. Malfoy smirked, Nott raised a brow, Black only watched. Tom’s expression didn’t change. He let the weight of silence press down until Lestrange shifted uncomfortably, the grin faltering. His gaze lifted, steady and dark and the hush that followed came as naturally as breath.
“You think I don’t know what to do with a girl?” He asked, his tone smooth, unhurried. “You think I don’t know what to buy her in Hogsmeade, what words open her up, what touch makes her beg?” His mouth curved faintly, not a smile, something colder. “I simply choose not to waste myself on scraps.” The smirk fell from Malfoy’s mouth. Lestrange’s grin faltered. Even Nott’s eyes sharpened, intrigued despite himself. Tom leaned back in his chair, perfectly composed. “When I decide to take someone, it won’t be for gossip in a dormitory. It will be because she belongs to me utterly. And that is perhaps just something you wouldn’t understand.” No one spoke. The room was quiet. Tom’s words still hung in the air like smoke. For a moment, Lestrange’s grin twitched back, like he might press.
“So there is someone, then?” Malfoy’s pale eyes narrowed with interest. Even Nott leaned forward, hungry for any crack in Tom’s perfect composure. But Tom only looked at them. Not a glare. Not even anger. Just a steady, unreadable glance, his dark eyes glinting in the firelight, the kind of look that made it hard to breathe. His fingers tapped once against the desk, precise, controlled. And suddenly the air shifted. The implication was clear. If there was someone, she was already his, already untouchable. Not a subject for their games, not a name they would ever dare to speak. Lestrange’s laugh faltered, thinning into silence. Malfoy dropped his eyes back to the desk. Even Nott leaned back in his chair, smirking faintly, as though he’d caught a secret but wouldn’t risk asking again. Only Orion Black met Tom’s gaze, lips twitching in a dry half-smile before he looked away. The subject died there, unspoken but heavy. And Tom allowed himself the faintest curl of his mouth, a ghost of amusement at how easy it was to make them retreat with nothing more than a look. The silence lingered for a beat longer than it should have. Lestrange shifted in his chair, restless. Malfoy busied himself with a quill, scratching nonsense into the margin of his notes. Good. They had learned.

Tom sat back, expression smooth, controlled, letting the moment dissolve into the crackle of the fire. But inside, he felt the faint spark of satisfaction. Sharper than victory in a duel, more intoxicating than besting a professor’s question. They wanted to pry. They wanted to know if there was someone he’d marked as his. Of course they did, boys like them always measured power in girls, in conquests, in who they could boast about. But that was their weakness. They showed everything. They wasted it. Warren was different. His. Hidden. None of them would ever imagine it. Small, bookish, tear-stained Myrtle Warren, pressed so close against him she could barely breathe. They would never see her blush when he whispered dark promises, never hear her sob that she loved him as though the words were carved from her ribs. And that made her all the more his. Secrecy was strength. They could brag, they could boast, but he was the one who had something they could not touch, something woven into his very plans. Something final. Tom let his gaze drift back to them, his mouth curving faintly as though amused at nothing in particular. The Knights glanced at one another, uneasy, sensing something just beyond their reach. Let them wonder. The truth was his alone.
—

He found her in their usual corner of the library. Myrtle looked up quickly from her book, her face lighting, then faltering when she caught the glint in his eyes. Tom set his satchel on the desk and sat down beside her, too close. For a moment he said nothing, only studied her face as if weighing how much to reveal. Then he spoke, smoothly.
“The Knights asked about you.” Her eyes widened, the blood draining from her cheeks. The book slipped in her hands.
“They…what?” His mouth curved faintly at her fear. He leaned closer, voice low and calm.
“Not by name. Not directly. They asked if I had… company.” The pause was deliberate, cruel in its teasing precision. “If there was a girl.” Myrtle’s throat bobbed as she swallowed, eyes darting toward the front of the library as though expecting them to appear.
“Tom… please, you didn’t—”
“Of course not,” he cut in smoothly, his tone edged with amusement. “Do you think I would offer you up to them? Let them speak your name with their mouths?” His hand caught her wrist, anchoring her as she trembled. “No, my dear. You’re mine. Only mine. They won’t even dream of you.” Her lips parted, but no sound came, her fear trembling just under the surface. He tilted his head, studying her with that unreadable, near-playful glint.
“You’re scared.”
“I can’t—” Her voice cracked. “They hate me. If they knew—”
“Shhh.” His thumb traced slowly along her pulse, steadying it with deliberate pressure. “That’s the beauty of it. They’ll never know. You belong to me in secret and that makes it stronger. Doesn’t it?” Her eyes brimmed, torn between fear and the strange relief that his words always brought.
“Yes,” she whispered. He leaned in until his lips brushed the shell of her ear.
“Good girl. Let them suspect. Let them wonder. All the while, you’ll be here, trembling for me, letting me touch you when no one else ever will.” A shiver wracked her. He pulled back just enough to see her face. Pale, frightened, eyes wide and his mouth curved in satisfaction. His hand left her wrist only to slip beneath her chin, tilting her face upward. “You see? You don’t need to be afraid of them. Only of me. And I’ll never let that fear hurt you. Only bind you tighter.” Her lips trembled, but then she nodded, faintly as if compelled. Tom kissed her then, not gentle but claiming, swallowing her soft gasp of fear and turning it into surrender. Myrtle’s fingers curled tightly into her book as though she might vanish behind it.
“I couldn’t bear it if they knew,” she whispered. “They would do something to me.” Tom reached over, plucked the book from her hands and set it aside. His arm slid around her shoulders, tugging her closer until she was tucked against his side.
“They won’t do anything,” he said lightly. “Not unless I let them. And I won’t.” She glanced up at him, still wide-eyed.
“But you said they asked—”
“Asked,” he repeated smoothly, almost with a trace of amusement. “Not pressed. They wouldn’t dare.” His eyes gleamed, sharp and secretive. “They think I’m made of stone, Warren. Imagine their faces if they knew I had you tucked away.” Her blush rose hot and quick.
“Tom…don’t tease—”
“I’m not teasing.” His tone was soft, coaxing. He dipped his head closer, brushing his lips near her hairline but not quite kissing. “Well… perhaps a little. You’re rather sweet when you’re frightened.” Her breath caught.
“Sweet?”
“Yes. All wide-eyed, clutching at me as though I’m the only one who can keep you steady.” His arm tightened around her shoulders. “I like it.” She hid her face against his robes, mortified.
“That’s not fair.” He gave a quiet laugh, rare and low, the sound vibrating through his chest.
“Life isn’t fair. But you don’t have to be fair. You only have to be mine.” Her lips curved before she could stop them, betraying her happiness even as she tried to stay solemn. Tom caught the flicker of her smile and tilted her chin up with two fingers. “There,” he murmured, a trace of mischief softening his voice. “That’s much better. Don’t frown so much. It doesn’t suit you.”
“I wasn’t frowning,” she protested, flustered.
“You were,” he said, pretending to study her face like a puzzle. “But I’ve corrected it. You see? Always improving you.” Her small laugh escaped despite her attempt to stifle it, and she pressed her face against him again to hide it. Tom’s mouth curved faintly, satisfied. She was pliant now, soothed, warmed by his teasing. All without realizing how neatly he had steered her from terror to laughter. Her laugh was muffled against his chest, quick and shy, as though she hadn’t meant to let it slip at all. Tom’s arm stayed firm around her shoulders, his thumb idly brushing the curve of her sleeve and outwardly he looked content, indulgent. Inwardly, he was already dissecting the moment.
Fear had made her stiff, trembling, nearly in tears and with a few words, a few touches, he had turned it into warmth, into laughter. Into happiness she couldn’t hide, no matter how she tried. It was always like this with her. She moved so easily from despair to devotion in his hands, as if her emotions were an instrument he’d already learned to play. He could strike her with dread, then soothe her into softness. He could tease and she’d flush. He could murmur dark vows and she would believe them utterly. And wasn’t that its own kind of power? The basilisk was terror, raw and ancient, but Warren was something quieter, more intimate. She was proof that his influence could reach not just through fear but through love, through joy, through the careful weaving of both until she couldn’t tell them apart. The Knights thought power was fire and spectacle. They had no idea. This was subtler, richer. This was what it meant to own someone completely.
Tom bent and pressed a kiss into her hair, faint enough to feel almost tender. She sighed, small and content, her hand curling against his chest as though she trusted him with every breath. And he thought, with a faint, private smile it was good. Let her. The more she trusts, the deeper she sinks. One day she’ll know that there is no leaving him, not in fear, not in joy. She’ll stay because she won’t remember how not to.

The corridors were hushed, moonlight slanting through tall windows, their footsteps the only sound. Myrtle was radiant, she couldn’t hide it. Her cheeks still glowed from laughing with him earlier, her hand brushing against his sleeve now and then as though she forgot herself. Tom watched her with a faint, indulgent curve of his mouth. She was his, utterly, and in these quiet hours it almost felt like the castle bent to them alone. But then a sound, hurried footsteps and from around the corner came Helen Abbott, her blond hair loose, her face pale with worry.
“Myrtle!” she hissed, clutching her robes around herself. “I was looking everywhere! You weren’t in the dorm and gone longer than usual and I was afraid that Olive might—” Her voice faltered, her eyes widening as they landed on Tom. The sight of him, at Myrtle’s side after curfew, made her freeze.
“You…” Helen’s voice trembled, horrified. “Why are you with him?” Myrtle flinched, caught like a rabbit in the open. She opened her mouth, desperate to explain and suddenly gripped her wrist. Tom moved quickly. His expression shifted in an instant to cold, cutting, his voice carrying sharp enough to echo.
“Me? With her?” he said flatly, almost scornfully, turning his gaze on Helen as if she had insulted him. “Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I waste my time sneaking around with a Mudblood?” The word landed like a blow. Myrtle’s chest seized, her lips parting soundlessly. Helen blinked, stunned.
“I…I just—”
“She was tagging after me,” Tom continued smoothly, his tone dismissive. “Pathetic, really. Following me like some shadow since we’re paired in Potions. I was walking her back before she embarrassed herself further.” Myrtle felt the blood rush hot to her face, her throat tightening with humiliation. Helen’s horror wavered, her gaze flicking between them. She clutched Myrtle’s arm.
“Come on,” she whispered fiercely. “Let’s go.” Tom stepped aside with a casual flick of his hand, as though he could not care less.
“Take her. She’s your problem.” Helen pulled Myrtle away quickly, her grip protective, her voice low and frantic.
“Don’t you ever let him near you again, do you understand? He’s dangerous, Myrtle. Everyone knows it.” Myrtle couldn’t answer. Her vision blurred with unshed tears, her ears still ringing with Tom’s voice. Mudblood. Pathetic.

When their footsteps had faded and the corridor was silent again, Tom leaned back against the cold stone, his jaw tight. It was all too sudden. But it had been necessary. Of course it had. A single slip and everything he’d built could unravel. The Knights could suspect, the professors could sniff weakness, Abbott could whisper in the wrong ears and Warren was too soft, too transparent to ever protect herself. Better to cut her down publicly than risk anyone seeing the truth. Yes. It was the only move. And yet… His words didn’t echo just in her mind. Mudblood. Pathetic. He had said them as if they cost nothing. Smooth, cold, calculated. But they hadn’t been nothing. He remembered the look on her face. Wide eyes, lips parted, stricken into silence. She hadn’t defended herself, hadn’t tried to argue. She had only taken the blow. And it struck him, sharply, that she would believe it. That she would sit in her dormitory tonight, small and tearful and believe he thought her pathetic. The thought unsettled him more than he expected. It was true he’d cut people down a thousand times before, with words sharper than knives. He’d made classmates cry, made them hate themselves, made them vanish from his path. And he’d never thought twice. But Warren was different. She was his.
His fingers curled at his sides. He had not meant to wound her, not truly. He had only meant to shield them both. And now he wasn’t entirely sure how to undo the mark of those words. He told himself she would come back. She always did. Her devotion was too absolute, her love for him too strong. But the faint, unfamiliar weight pressing against his chest felt perilously close to something else. Not guilt. He wouldn’t call it that. He didn’t do guilt. But he had miscalculated. And Tom Riddle did not miscalculate. His mouth pressed into a thin line. He would find her soon. He would make her smile again, make her flush, make her laugh despite herself. He would remind her that she belonged to him, that no insult, not even his own, could unmake that bond. And if that meant softening, if that meant touching her more gently than he intended, whispering words that soothed instead of cut… then so be it. Because in the end, she would still be his. Always his.
—

The corridors were crowded after DADA, students spilling out in noisy waves. Tom stood at the edge, watching Warren slip her books into her satchel with quick, shaky hands. Her face was pale, eyes red-rimmed, her glasses slipping down her nose. She didn’t look at him. He stepped closer, smooth and deliberate, cutting through the press of bodies as if they weren’t there.
“Warren.” She flinched at the sound of his voice but didn’t lift her head. She turned sharply, slipping into the flow of students heading toward the stairwell. Tom’s eyes narrowed. He followed. “Warren,” he said again, lower now, but edged with command. She hugged her satchel to her chest, quickening her pace. Her voice, when it came, was small and raw.
“Please…just leave me.” The words struck harder than he expected. No one told him to leave them. No one ever pulled away from him. He caught her wrist, halting her in the shadow of an archway. She wouldn’t look at him, her head bowed, tears threatening at the corners of her eyes.
“Look at me,” he murmured, low and even. Her lips trembled. She bit hard on her lip and shook her head, twisting against his grip.
“I just want to be alone.” The sentence lanced something hot through his chest. Irritation, yes, but under it a sharp pang he couldn’t quite name. Alone. Away from him. For a heartbeat, he considered tightening his hold, forcing her to face him, demanding she speak. That would have been his instinct with anyone else. But this wasn’t anyone else. He exhaled slowly, studying the tremor in her shoulders, the way she shrank into herself. The memory of his own words. Mudblood. Pathetic.
“I won’t let you ignore me,” he said softly, though his tone was firmer than any promise. “Not for long.” Her eyes flickered up at him, tear-bright, then dropped again. She shook her head and slipped from his grasp, vanishing into the tide of students before he could stop her. Tom remained in the archway, still as stone, his hand curling slowly into a fist at his side. He could force her back. He could corner her in the library, demand she speak, break down her resistance. And perhaps he would. But not yet. For now, he would let her think she could have her distance. Let her feel the hollow of it. Because she would come back. She always did. And when she did, she would find him waiting. Ready to take back what had never truly left him.

By the third day, Tom’s patience had worn thin. At first he let her have the distance. He told himself it would work in his favor. Let her feel the emptiness without him, let her realize how much she needed his attention. She’d come back humbled, softer than ever. But she hadn’t. She kept her head down in corridors, slipped into classrooms before he could catch her and left meals early. Even when she couldn’t avoid him entirely, a shared class, a fleeting glance across the library, she never met his eyes. Her mouth was pressed thin, her gaze fixed on her desk or her shoes, her whole posture folded inward as if she could vanish if she tried hard enough. To anyone else, she was simply the same Myrtle Warren. Quiet, invisible, forgettable. But Tom saw the difference. He saw the misery, the way her eyes gleamed red in the mornings, the slump in her shoulders, the silence that screamed louder than words. It was not acceptable. He caught himself one evening in the common room, quill hovering uselessly over parchment, notes forgotten. His mind kept circling back to her. The curve of her face turned away, the tears she thought she hid, the way she dared not even look at him. He had given her three days. Too many. She thought she could avoid him. She thought she could live in that silence. But she couldn’t. He wouldn’t allow it. His jaw tightened as he set his quill aside. If she wouldn’t come back of her own accord, he would take her back. Force her to face him. Strip away the distance she was clinging to like armor. She was his. She had said it, she had proved it and he would not let her rewrite it with silence.

The dormitory was quiet, the fire in the grate burned low and most of the boys were out. Tom sat on his bed, books unopened at his side, a faint frown pulling at his features. His posture was composed as always but Orion noticed. From his own bed opposite, Black tilted his head, dark eyes glinting.
“You’re sulking.” Tom’s gaze snapped up, sharp as a blade.
“I don’t sulk.” Orion smirked.
“Call it what you like. But I’ve seen that look before. Usually when Walburga’s put me in her bad graces.” Tom said nothing, his fingers drumming once against the book at his side. Orion leaned back against the headboard, folding his arms. After a pause, Tom’s voice came low, measured.
“What happens then? When Walburga ‘puts you in her bad graces’?” He mocked. That earned a laugh, dry and amused.
“Depends on the day. Sometimes she screams, sometimes she sulks, sometimes she throws whatever’s closest. Once, she didn’t speak to me for a week. Thought she’d drive me mad with silence.” He arched his brow. “Almost did.” Tom’s frown deepened, his jaw tight. Orion’s amusement sharpened. “You’re on edge. You’ve been staring through people all week.” Tom’s lips pressed into a thin line. He refused to confirm it, but the silence was confirmation enough. Orion chuckled softly, shaking his head. “You want advice?” he asked, almost lazily. “Let her sulk. Let her cry. Then come back twice as sweet as before. They can’t resist it. Trust me.” His smirk curved sharper. “I’ve had enough practice.” Tom studied him for a long moment, expression unreadable, but the tension in his shoulders eased just slightly. Orion leaned back, satisfied. “Whatever you do, Riddle, don’t let her think she’s the one in control. Girls live for that illusion. Give her a taste, then take it away. Or maybe she needs a reminder.” Tom didn’t answer but in the flickering firelight his gaze turned inward, calculating. Perhaps there was something to learn here, even from Orion. He would not be kept at arm’s length. Not by her.
—

The classroom was warmer than usual, the cauldrons bubbling gently, carrying a faint sweetness that hung in the damp air. Students leaned in over their benches, whispering, laughing nervously. Slughorn stood at the front, his pink silk waistcoat straining over his belly, his hands spread wide in cheer.
“Now, now! Nothing says Valentine like Amortentia!” he boomed, voice rolling around the stone. “The most powerful love potion in the world. A dangerous brew, yes, but also the most subtle of charms and the most fascinating to study. And don’t fret, my dears, these won’t be fully potent, not in student hands. But you’ll all get a taste of the art behind it.” A ripple of giggles broke out.
“Those of you who already worked with Amortentia for the winter project will assist your classmates today. Pairings are as before!” Slughorn clapped his hands and began pacing through the students. “Yes, yes, Abbott and Nott. You two did splendid work, you’ll float around and help others. Malfoy, O’Connell… don’t scowl, Abraxas, it’ll be character-building…” His voice was hushed by students.
Myrtle flushed scarlet, ducking her head quickly into her notes. Tom merely inclined his head in acknowledgment, his face unreadable. Around them, laughter and chatter rose as students collected ingredients. Myrtle kept her distance, fussing with a jar of rose thorns. Tom watched her once, briefly, his dark gaze sharp with irritation. Then Abbott drifted closer, basket of crushed petals in her arms, her eyes darting nervously from Myrtle to Tom.
“Myrtle,” she said in a rush. “Do you want me to…maybe I should work with you? I could help.” Her glance flicked to Tom, sharp, mistrustful. “You shouldn’t—” Tom straightened slowly, turning that flat, cool stare on her.
“No.” Abbott flushed but held her ground.
“I’m just saying, for her sake—”
“I said no. We don’t need help.” His voice was quiet, but it cut through the chatter like a blade. His gaze lingered on her just long enough for her face to pale, before he turned back to the cauldron with dismissive ease. Abbott swallowed hard, her bravado crumbling. She glanced at Myrtle, who sat small and stiff at her side, then backed away reluctantly, retreating to Nott’s bench and whispering something.
“The rose thorns,” Tom said calmly, as though nothing had happened, holding out his hand. Myrtle flinched but passed them over, her fingers trembling slightly. His eyes lingered on her a beat longer than necessary, then flicked back to the cauldron. Around them, laughter carried, pink steam curling lazily into the dungeon air. But at their bench, the silence was heavy, charged. Myrtle caught between Abbott’s worried glances and Tom’s steady, unyielding control.

Tom stirred the potion with an even, steady rhythm, the pink steam curling upward in delicate spirals. Beside him, Myrtle stayed hunched over her notes, shoulders tight, lips pressed into a thin line. He exhaled softly, almost like a sigh.
“You’re being difficult,” he murmured, low enough that only she could hear. “You should know better than to sulk over nonsense.” Her head snapped up, wide eyes flashing hurt. He leaned closer, not looking at her, his voice smooth, controlled. “You think I said those things to hurt you? After everything?” His jaw tightened briefly before he let it go, slipping into that practiced calm. “I said them to shield us. To keep suspicion away.” Myrtle’s throat worked as she swallowed, her lashes lowering.
“You… were cruel.” She pulled her hand back, clutching her quill like a shield. Her voice trembled, soft but firm. “You shouldn’t have been so hard on Helen. She only wanted to help.” Tom’s head turned sharply, his eyes narrowing.
“Abbott,” he repeated, his lip curling faintly. “Abbott would ruin everything again if she were allowed near us. She’s reckless. Meddling.” He flicked a glance across the room, where Helen fussed over Nott’s cauldron. “Let her pester Nott. He’ll indulge her.”
“She’s my friend,” Myrtle whispered, a hint of defiance breaking through the sadness. The word twisted something in him, hot and ugly. His hand stilled over the simmering potion, his knuckles whitening around the spoon. He said nothing for a long moment and when he finally spoke his voice was low, threaded with restraint.
“She won’t protect you. Not the way I do.” Myrtle stared down at the parchment, refusing to look at him, her lips pressed tight. Tom’s chest burned. He could feel it. Her distance, her wounded silence, her misguided defense of Abbott. And still, beneath the sting, he ached for her. For her gaze. For her voice softening only for him. He wanted to drag her closer until she remembered. Until she couldn’t pretend she belonged anywhere but against him. And the restraint it took not to was almost unbearable.
The cauldron between them shimmered with soft pink vapors, the liquid swirling in neat concentric circles from Tom’s steady stir. Perfect consistency, perfect rhythm. On the surface, everything was flawless. But Myrtle still sat stiff beside him, barely daring to breathe. Slughorn’s jovial voice carried over the general din.
“And how are we doing over here, eh?” Tom straightened smoothly as Slughorn waddled up, his eyes lighting at the sight of their potion. “Ahhh, textbook work, Mr. Riddle, Miss Warren. Lovely texture, just the right hue…yes, yes, you’ve got a steady hand for this, my boy.”
“Thank you, sir,” Tom said at once, smooth as silk. Slughorn beamed, then his expression softened into a frown as he looked between the pair.
“But, ah. If I may, something’s missing.” He tapped a finger to his lips. “Amortentia isn’t just about ingredients and heat, you see. Feelings matter just as much as precision. You’ve got to… ah… stir with intent, with warmth. The potion knows, you see.” Myrtle flushed scarlet, dropping her gaze. Tom’s jaw tightened. Slughorn chuckled awkwardly. “Of course, you’re still young, not quite seasoned in these matters.” His eyes twinkled. “But even fondness should seep into the brew. Right now, it feels hmm… a little chilly at this table, don’t you think?” Myrtle bit her lip, mortified. Tom’s hand flexed around the stirring spoon, though his smile for Slughorn didn’t falter.
“I assure you, Professor,” he said evenly, “the potion will be perfect.”
“Yes, yes, I’ve no doubt.” Slughorn patted his shoulder, still frowning faintly. “Just remember, Tom, potions are as much heart as they are hand. Don’t forget that, eh?” With a final smile, he waddled off toward Malfoy’s bench, leaving the faint echo of his words behind. The silence at their table thickened. Myrtle stared resolutely at the parchment before her, her hands trembling. Tom’s gaze lingered on her profile, sharp, restless. Heart. He dares speak to him of heart when she sits here looking at him as though he’d torn it out himself. He stirred once more, deliberate, precise. The potion glowed faintly in the cauldron and Tom thought, with a tightening in his chest that maybe if only she’d look at him again, it could have been flawless.
Tom’s smile had already vanished the moment Slughorn turned away. He kept stirring, precise as ever, but his jaw was tight, a faint line between his brows. The pink vapor curled upward, thin and pale, missing that shimmer it should have had. Imperfection. He hated it. His frown deepened as he watched the swirl refuse to thicken, the liquid catching wrong against the edge of the spoon. His fingers flexed against the wood, the urge to snap it in two almost irresistible. Beside him, Warren risked a glance at him and though her chest still ached with the memory of his words, she knew that look, the hard line of his mouth, the storm tightening behind his eyes. Slowly, hesitantly, she reached for the spoon. Her small hand brushed his knuckles.
“Let me,” she whispered. For a heartbeat, he didn’t move. Then, without a word, he released it. Her fingers curled around the handle, trembling, but her wrist softened as she stirred. The circles were gentler, not precise like his, but tender, almost hesitant. Steam drifted upward, fuller now, warmer, curling into a soft shimmer that caught the dim dungeon light. Tom’s eyes narrowed, watching the potion ease under her touch, the surface rippling as though soothed. The faint rose-gold glow he’d been chasing spread across it and with it came a subtle, intoxicating sweetness in the air. Myrtle’s lips pressed together as she focused, her lashes damp, cheeks still pink with hurt. She didn’t look at him, not once. Something twisted deep in Tom’s chest, sharp and unwelcome. The urge to drag the spoon back, to seize control, nearly overtook him. And yet he didn’t. He let her stir, let her pour her soft, wounded touch into the cauldron. The potion glowed. Perfect. And Tom sat very still, aching with the knowledge that his precision had failed him but she hadn’t.

The potion gleamed, rich and warm now, as though it had finally decided to live. Myrtle’s hand lingered on the spoon, her circles smaller, slower, careful. Tom tilted his head, studying her profile. The damp lashes, the set of her mouth, the curve of her cheek touched by the rising steam. He should have been satisfied that the brew was perfect. Instead, the silence between them pressed in tight, unbearable. He leaned just a little closer, his voice pitched low, almost teasing.
“I’m impressed,” he murmured, “are you going to tell me what you smell now?” Her stirring faltered. Her shoulders hunched in on themselves as though bracing against the words. For a moment she said nothing at all and Tom could almost imagine her trembling. Then, soft as breath, almost broken, she spoke.
“You don’t deserve to know.”
The words lodged in him, sharper than any blade. She didn’t look at him, wouldn’t look. Her eyes stayed fixed on the cauldron, swimming with light, as though the potion itself were safer than meeting his gaze. Tom sat very still, the faint smile he’d conjured draining away. Don’t deserve. His jaw clenched. His hand twitched once on the table, fighting the urge to seize hers, to make her look at him, to remind her who he was, who she was. Instead he let the silence coil, heavy, his eyes burning into her bowed head. Around them the dungeon buzzed with laughter, with pink steam and careless joy. But at their bench, the words hung like lead. Her words hung between them, soft but merciless: You don’t deserve to know. Tom’s hand stilled on the table, fingers curling slowly into a fist. He stared at the potion, flawless and glowing, but it might as well have been poison. His chest felt too tight. For a heartbeat, the mask slipped. He leaned in, close enough that only she could hear, his voice the barest thread of sound.
“Haven’t you punished me enough?” he breathed, low, ragged, almost untraceable. Myrtle’s head snapped up, eyes wide but in the next instant he had already pulled back, shutters slamming down across his face. The calm returned, smooth and unbreakable. He straightened, adjusting his cuff as though nothing had happened. “Excuse me.” His tone was clipped, detached, a perfect mask. Without another glance, Tom pushed away from the bench and strode out between the rows of cauldrons, the soft hiss of steam swallowing him whole. Myrtle sat frozen, trembling spoon in hand, the potion shimmering gently before her. She didn’t know if she’d imagined the words, if she’d truly seen the crack in him. But she knew she had hurt him. And that terrified her even more than his anger ever could.
—

Tom’s shoes struck hard against the flagstones as he left the class, each step sharper than the last. He didn’t look at anyone, didn’t hear the chatter or laughter trailing behind him. He walked until the corridors emptied, until the only sound was the hollow echo of his breath. The nearest lavatory door gave way under his hand with a crash. He shoved it shut behind him and gripped the edge of the sink, his reflection fractured in the cloudy glass. Haven’t you punished me enough? The words came back to him like an echo he hadn’t meant to loose, raw, desperate. Weak.
His fist slammed against the mirror. Pain bloomed up his arm, as the glass shattered. He squeezed his eyes shut as something cut his cheek. He tried forcing his mind into order. Walls rising, doors locking. Occlude, Occlude. He tried to bury the image of her bowed head, her trembling voice: You don’t deserve to know. But the ache didn’t fade. It pressed harder, clawing at him, burning beneath the surface. He hated it. Hated her for planting it in him, hated himself for letting it grow. With a snarl he seized one of the chipped shards and hurled it at the wall. It shattered, pieces scattering across the floor, the sound sharp and final in the empty room. He stood panting, chest heaving, his hand split and raw. For a long moment he stayed like that, staring at the mess, willing his pulse to steady. Then he drew himself straight, fixing his cuffs with deliberate care, forcing the mask back into place. The corridors would expect nothing less than composure. But as he turned to leave, a wave of dizziness caught him off guard. His vision blurred at the edges, blood dripping faintly from his hand.

The hospital wing smelled faintly of dittany and lavender. The white curtains swayed in the draft, hiding two stiff forms laid out in the far corner. The petrified girls, cordoned off by charms and screens. Tom kept his eyes away from them. He strode to the front with perfect posture despite the faint line of blood across his cheek and the crimson staining his fist. Madame Burke hurried forward at once, her expression pinched.
“Mr. Riddle! Merlin above, what on earth—?”
“I slipped,” Tom said smoothly, not missing a beat. “In one of the lavatories. The floor was wet.” Madame Burke clucked and guided him to a cot.
“Foolish boy, you should mind your footing. Sit, sit.” She took his hand briskly, tsking at the gash across the knuckles and the embedded shard of porcelain. Tom obeyed, outwardly calm, inwardly seething at the indignity. Her hands glowed faintly as she worked the glass free. A soft footfall broke the hush, and Tom stiffened before turning his head. Dumbledore stood a few paces off, robes deep blue in the lamplight, his eyes too sharp by half. He had been standing by the curtained corner, a charm still fading in the air around him.
“My, my,” Dumbledore said mildly, folding his hands. “The lavatories have grown into dangerous places of late, haven’t they?” Madame Burke shot him a glance.
“He slipped. Boys are careless.” Dumbledore’s gaze lingered on Tom’s cheek.
“So it would seem.” Tom met his eyes without flinching, though something in his chest coiled tighter.
“Accidents happen, Professor.”
“Yes.” Dumbledore’s voice was soft, but there was steel beneath it. “Accidents. A very tidy explanation for so many things.” His gaze flicked almost idly toward the curtained corner, then back again. “You’re fortunate, Mr. Riddle, that Madame Burke is here to patch you up.” Burke hummed in agreement, dabbing dittany over his hand. The green burn sizzled faintly, stitching the skin neat and whole. Tom inclined his head, smooth as ever.
“I am, sir.” Dumbledore studied him for a moment longer, as though weighing the silence, then said lightly.
“Do try to take better care of yourself, won’t you? You wouldn’t want to end up in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Tom’s jaw tightened, but his smile was perfect.
“Of course, Professor.” With that, Dumbledore turned back to the still forms behind the curtain and Burke fussed at the last of the blood. Tom sat rigid, pulse hard in his throat. And yet, he reminded himself as he flexed his hand, healed now, that suspicion was nothing without proof. And no one would ever find proof, not while he wore his mask flawlessly.

By the time Tom stepped into the Great Hall, his cheek was a neat line with only one stitch and his hand somehow smooth with a bandage. He slid into his place among the Knights as if nothing had happened, his expression composed, untouchable. The Hall buzzed with chatter. Across the room, Myrtle sat small at the Ravenclaw table. A plate sat before her, untouched. Her fork turned once, twice, but she didn’t lift it. Tom’s gaze found her easily. He hadn’t meant it to. She glanced up. Just for a heartbeat, her eyes caught his. They lingered not on his expression but on the faint trace of injury at his cheek, the stiffness in the way he moved his hand. Her lips parted, a question ready, worry shadowing the hurt still heavy in her eyes. And then she dropped her gaze again, as though the thought of asking, of caring, was too dangerous. Tom’s jaw flexed. He tore his eyes away, focusing instead on Malfoy droning on about O’Connell’s annoying takes at Quidditch. The words slid past him unheard.
When the meal ended, he rose with the others, robes swaying behind him as they left the hall. For one sharp second, he felt it. Warren’s presence behind him, the soft intake of her breath. She had nearly stopped him. Nearly. But her footsteps faltered and she turned the other way. Tom didn’t look back, though his chest burned with something far too close to fury. She would have asked. She wanted to. And still she chose silence.

The night air bit sharp at his cheeks as Tom climbed the spiral stairs, a cigarette already between his fingers. He craved solitude, the chance to burn the restless anger out of himself beneath the stars. But when he stepped onto the tower’s stone balcony, he halted. She was already there. Warren sat hunched on the low wall, cloak wrapped around her knees, her hair catching the thin light of the crescent moon. Her face turned out toward the dark sweep of the Forbidden Forest. Small, pale and terribly alone. Tom stilled in the shadows, the cigarette smoldering faintly. A dozen thoughts flickered through him in the space of a heartbeat. Anger that she was there. Want at the sight of her. That gnawing ache from the Great Hall, twisting tighter now that he saw where she fled when she missed him.
She hadn’t noticed him yet. Her lips were moving, soundless, as though she were whispering words she couldn’t say aloud. Her shoulders shook once. Tom exhaled slowly, stepped forward, letting the scrape of his shoes against stone announce him. Her head jerked up, eyes wide behind the glint of her glasses. For a moment, panic flared across her face, then something else, softer and weaker, almost like a relief. He came closer, the night air curling between them, heavy with smoke. He tilted his head, regarding her, the faintest curve tugging at his mouth. She ducked her head quickly, fumbling with her cloak. Tom’s gaze lingered on her bent head, the tight clutch of her hands around her knees. The ache in his chest sharpened into something like triumph, though the fury beneath it still burned. She had been ready to let him bleed in silence and yet she stole away here at night just to feel close to him. He moved nearer, close enough that the smoke from his cigarette curled faintly against her skin.
“Do you make a habit of haunting towers when you can’t bear to be without me?” Myrtle’s eyes flicked up, glassy, terrified and Tom almost felt the whole of her in his grasp again. Fragile, devoted, trembling between hurt and need. For a long time, neither of them moved. The night pressed close around the tower, cold and still and Myrtle’s thin shoulders trembled beneath her cloak. Tom didn’t speak. He only lowered himself onto the stone beside her, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. His cigarette burned between his fingers, its ember glowing faintly against the dark. Warren didn’t look at him. Her hands stayed locked around her knees, her gaze fixed stubbornly on the stretch of black sky. Her lips pressed tight, her breath shallow. She hadn’t forgiven him, he could feel it in the way she held herself, rigid, careful, aching. And yet she didn’t pull away when he set the cigarette aside and slipped an arm around her. Didn’t fight when he drew her in against him, small and breakable under his touch. She let him. Tom felt the shape of her head against his shoulder, the warmth of her body seeping through the cold fabric of his robes. She was trembling still, too tired to keep the distance she thought she needed.
He didn’t whisper apologies. He didn’t need to. He only held her tighter, his thumb moving once against her arm. A quiet claim, a reminder that she was his, even in silence. And Myrtle, exhausted, hurting, let herself rest against him. They stayed like that until the stars wheeled higher, until the cigarette smoldered itself out in the stone groove beside them. No words passed. None were needed. They somehow forgot how to bear to be apart.
—

The next day, Warren passed him in the corridor without so much as a glance. Her eyes darted down, her steps quickened, and she slipped away among the Ravenclaws as if he weren’t there at all. Tom felt the absence like a blade. It was absurd. He told himself that a hundred times. He had never needed anyone, never tolerated anyone. Yet now the echo of her weight against his side in the Astronomy Tower clung to him like smoke and the hollow where she should be was unbearable. The sight of her slipping out of reach tightened his chest with something dangerously close to grief. It was withdrawal.
He hated the word. Hated the feeling more. He had grown accustomed to her. To the quiet surrender of her body when he drew her close, to the small warmth of her beside him, to the pulse beneath her skin that reminded him she was his. He had allowed it. He had chosen to let her in, to grant her that privilege. And now she dared to take it back? No.
He clenched his hands at his sides until his nails bit his palms, his jaw set hard enough to ache. She had no right. Not after all he had given, not after he had let her touch what no one else was allowed near. The ache twisted, dark and low in his chest. It felt dangerously like sadness. Perhaps even guilt. He loathed the shape of it, loathed that it came from her.

Tom sat in the Slytherin dormitory, the murmur of the Black Lake pressing against the glass, his books spread untouched before him. His quill lay idle. His thoughts churned instead. Myrtle’s turned shoulder. Her silence. The way she passed him as though last night had never happened. He had planned to keep her close, to spend more time with her, to steady the hunger with the soft indulgence of her devotion. He knew why he wanted it. Why he needed it. Because when he didn’t have her, the Chamber pressed against his mind again. The hiss of stone, the cold pulse of the basilisk coiled in the dark. The temptation to open it, to let it loose again. It would be so easy. Another muggle-born, another accident. The thought of it seared through his anger, sharpening it to something crueler.
But he had wanted Myrtle instead. She was the one thing that steadied him, that gave the illusion of warmth in a world he only ever sought to dominate. Her presence quieted the itch in his hands. And now she thought to deny him? To strip him of that?
Nothing good ever came of his anger. He knew that. He had lived it. And he could feel it now, boiling beneath the surface, searching for a release. If she would not give him the comfort he chose her for, then something else would break instead.

Chapter Text

March 1943

The hinges groaned as the door swung open. The lavatory was silent except for the slow drip of water from the broken sink. Tom stepped inside, intent on the serpent-carved tap, the weight of Parseltongue already heavy on his tongue. But then he heard it. Soft, muffled sobs, coming from the far corner. He froze. She sat hunched on the cracked tile, her knees drawn up to her chest, her face buried in her hands. Her satchel lay discarded by the sinks. She hadn’t heard him yet. Tom’s jaw tightened. Fury, sharp and hot, flared in his chest. Here. Of all places. After he’d told her not to come near this room, after she’d avoided him for days.
“Warren.” His voice cut through the chamber, low and sharp. Her head jerked up, eyes red-rimmed behind her glasses. Her head snapped up, eyes swollen and shining. She wiped at her cheeks with the back of her sleeve, glaring at him through her tears. His jaw clenched.
“Go away.”
“What are you doing here?”
“It’s my place,” she spat, voice breaking. “I was here before you ever came. You don’t get to tell me where I can cry.” He strode forward, the echo of his shoes sharp against the wet tile.
“I told you not to come here. Not here.”
“Why?” she shot back, trembling but defiant. “What’s so special about it? Why should I stay away? Because you said so?”
“Yes.” The word cracked like a whip. Her chest heaved.
“Why should I obey every order you give me? You—” her throat closed around the word, but she forced it out anyway, “you humiliated me, Tom.”
“I protected us. If you had the slightest sense, you’d see it,” his breath caught, sharp as a blade, but his face betrayed nothing.
“You called me a Mudblood.” Her voice broke. “In front of Helen. Like I was nothing. Like I was… filth.” Tom’s composure wavered, the smallest flicker in his eyes, but he smothered it quickly. He stepped closer.
“Would you rather she knew the truth? What would she say to that?”
“Maybe I would. At least then I wouldn’t feel like some dirty secret,” her lip trembled, but she set her jaw. His temper flared, low and hot.
“You don’t understand what you’re saying.”
“Maybe you’re the one who doesn’t understand!” she cried. “This is my place, Tom. My lavatory. My life. And you walk in and take everything like it already belonged to you.” Her hand flew to her wand, clutching it like a lifeline. “Go away.” Tom stilled. Then, slowly, deliberately, his mouth curved.
“You’d hurt me, my dear?” His voice was smooth as silk, but his eyes burned. “Who will take care of you then? Who notices when you cry until your eyes are raw? Who keeps the others from tearing you to pieces?” Her wand shook, her arm trembling violently. He stepped into the space between them, lowering his voice further. “Who do you have?” Her throat worked, a sob breaking loose. Her wand arm faltered, lowering by degrees. Tom’s hand came up, closing gently but firmly over her wrist, easing the wood from her grip. It clattered to the floor. “There,” he murmured, pulling her toward him despite her resistance. “Better. Don’t fight me. Don’t fight us.” Her fists thudded weakly against his chest before she collapsed against him, sobbing into his robes. Tom held her there, his lips brushing the crown of her head. He was steady, unyielding, until the fight seemed to drain out of her and she sagged against him, fragile as wet paper. His hand threaded into her hair, smoothing it back from her damp cheeks, his voice quiet, almost tender. “It’s exhausting, don’t you agree? Fighting me. Fighting what we are.” She shook her head weakly against his chest, her sobs muffled.
“It’s hard. Sometimes it’s all so hard with you.” Her shoulders quivered. She tried to form other words, but only a strangled sound escaped her. Tom tilted her face up with a finger under her chin, his gaze steady, his tone soft but insistent.
“Do you want me to take you somewhere warm? Somewhere safe?” Her lips parted, eyes brimming, searching his face as if afraid to hope. “You can’t stay here,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over the streak of salt on her cheek. “You belong with me, not with broken tiles and leaking pipes.” A small sob trembled out of her but she nodded, helpless. His mouth curved faintly, satisfied, though he kept the gentleness in his tone. “That’s better. Just let me take care of you. Please, you know I really want to.” He gathered her closer, her body light in his arms, already guiding her out of the lavatory as if she weighed nothing. Her face pressed against his chest, too tired to resist. And Tom thought, as he guided her away, that it was always like this. She could cry, she could fight, she could hate him in the moment but in the end she always returned to his arms. Because she had nowhere else to go. And he would make sure she never wanted anywhere else.

The door melted into existence at his thought, wood gleaming faintly in the torchlight. With a soft push, Tom guided her through, keeping her close at his side as though she might falter if he let go. Inside, the Room had shaped itself to their familiar sanctuary. Warm light spilling across thick rugs from the stained glass windows, the shadows soft and intimate. A royal bed, a noble study desk. Myrtle’s steps were unsteady, her satchel slipping from her shoulder. Tom eased it off her, setting it aside with care. Then he guided her down into the sheets, his hand firm at the small of her back until she sank, small and weary. She looked up at him with swollen eyes, uncertainty still trembling on her face. He sat beside her, smoothing her hair back from her damp cheeks, every touch deliberate, controlled.
“There,” he murmured, his voice gentler than she’d ever heard it. “Better, isn’t it? Warm. Safe. No broken pipes. No shadows.” Her lips trembled.
“I don’t deserve—” His thumb pressed lightly to her mouth, silencing her.
“You don’t have to deserve anything. You only have to stay.” His gaze burned into hers, soft in tone but unyielding in intent. “Stay with me and I’ll make everything right again.” Her eyes welled again but this time she nodded, slow, hesitant. Tom smiled faintly, the expression almost tender as he lay next to her and drew her into his arms with practiced ease. She curled against him, trembling still, her head tucking under his chin. “Good girl,” he whispered, threading his fingers through hers, brushing his lips against her hair. “Let me take care of everything. You’ve punished me enough, haven’t you? No more silence. No more distance.” A tiny sob shivered out of her, muffled against his chest.
“I don’t want to fight anymore.”
“I know,” he said, stroking her back, the words a low hum. “Me neither. Don’t worry, I’ll do everything for us. All you have to do is be mine.” She exhaled shakily, her weight softening against him, exhaustion pulling her under. Tom held her tighter, his expression unreadable in the flickering light. Sweetness, Orion had said. Give her a taste, then take it away. Tom pressed a kiss to her hair, satisfied. He would keep her exactly where she belonged. Myrtle shifted in his arms, limp with exhaustion, her head heavy against his shoulder. Tom let her linger there, his hand stroking absently along her brown hair, then down the slope of her arm, until her trembling slowed. “You’ve tired yourself out my dear,” he murmured. She sniffled, cheeks still damp, voice hoarse.
“I didn’t mean to—”
“I know.” His tone was quiet but firm, cutting off her apology before it could bloom into self-pity. “It’s okay.” He eased her upright, guiding her movements with gentle pressure until she sat drowsy and pliant beside him. His fingers found the clasp of her robe, loosening it deftly. She blinked up at him, startled.
“Tom—”
“You’ll overheat,” he said simply, slipping the fabric from her shoulders with smooth care. “You’ve been crying, you’re worn thin. You need rest.” Her lips parted as though to protest, but the words faltered. She let him take the robe, fold it neatly on the nightstand by the bed. Underneath, her blouse looked slightly crumpled. He straightened it with precise hands, smoothing the fabric as though arranging her into order again. When she shivered, he reached for the woolen throw. He shook it out, draping it over her shoulders, tucking it carefully around her small frame. “There.” Her eyes blurred again, though this time not from misery. She sniffed, leaning into his touch.
“No one’s ever—”
“No one else matters,” he interrupted softly, pressing a fleeting kiss to her temple. “You don’t need anyone else. You have me.” The words sank into her like warmth from a fire, coaxing her into stillness. She curled closer, her hands clinging faintly at his sleeve as her eyelids drooped.

Tom lied back, one arm curled around her, his gaze fixed on the fire. To anyone else, it would have looked domestic, even tender. A boy holding a girl, wrapping her in blankets, keeping her safe. But Tom knew better. Every careful tuck of the fabric, every stroke of her hair, every soft kiss. It was all a binding. Making sure she couldn’t imagine life outside of his arms, outside of this room he had conjured, outside of him. She thought he was caring for her. And in his own way he was, while tightening the leash. Her lashes fluttered, her head lolling against his chest. The blanket slipped slightly as she shifted, and her small hand crept up, clutching weakly at the fabric of his shirt as though afraid he’d vanish.
“Tom…” Her voice was a hoarse whisper, half-choked. “Are you going to stay with me?” He tilted his head down, brushing his lips along her hairline.
“Of course I am. You were the one going away.” She gave a shaky breath, pressing her face tighter into him.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, the words slurred with exhaustion. “I shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t have… tried to…” Her breath hitched. “I’m always making it worse.” Tom smoothed his hand down her back, steady, controlled.
“No,” he murmured, low against her ear. “You’re not making anything worse. You’re just tired. Frightened. And you don’t need to be.” Her hand fisted in his shirt. “You don’t have to worry, you belong with me. Always.” Her lip trembled. He tucked the blanket tighter around her, sealing her in warmth. Her eyes filled again, but this time with relief, not despair. She nodded, pressing her forehead against his throat, breathing him in like he was the only steady thing in her world. Tom let her cling, let her tears dampen his collar. His hand threaded lazily through her hair, his expression calm, unreadable.
—

Myrtle startled awake, blinking at the soft glow of the magic window. Her head was still pillowed against Tom’s chest, his arm draped heavy and certain around her waist. She shifted, panic fluttering in her chest.
“Oh, oh no…” she gasped, clutching at her glasses on the side table. “Tom, it’s morning. We— we’ve missed breakfast, we’ll be late for class.” Her words tumbled over each other, sharp with terror. She tried to pull herself upright, tugging the blanket with her but his arm held firm, pinning her in place with effortless strength. “Tom please, we’ll get in trouble.”
“We won’t,” he interrupted smoothly, his voice still heavy with sleep but edged with authority. He tilted his head down, regarding her with quiet amusement. “I already decided for us.”
“Decided?” Her breath caught, bewildered.
“Yes.” His thumb traced lazily over her hip, possessive, dismissive all at once. “We’re not going to class today.” Her mouth opened in protest.
“But we’ll be marked absent…”
“And?” His gaze sharpened, daring her to finish the thought. “Do you really think anything that happens in a classroom matters more than what happens here?” Her throat closed around a response. She fumbled, cheeks reddening, still half tangled in the blanket he had tucked around her the night before. “You needed rest,” he said simply, final. “I wanted you here. That’s all that matters.” She looked at him with wide, anxious eyes, torn between fear of breaking the rules and the strange, trembling relief of being told the decision was no longer hers. “You’ll say you didn’t feel well,” he added, brushing her hair back from her face. “Besides… I prefer having you to myself today.” Her lips parted, a soft exhale of surrender escaping. The panic ebbed into something warmer, smaller. The quiet thrill of belonging to his choice. Tom’s mouth curved faintly as he pulled her back down against him. “You think too much.”
“I don’t want to get in trouble,” she whispered, her breath hitching as his fingers traced higher, his body already leaning over hers. He pressed a kiss to her temple, then another along the edge of her jaw.
“You’re not going anywhere. Not yet.” Her panic faltered, the words catching in her throat as his mouth found hers. His kiss was slow but consuming, meant to erase thought, to replace her frantic worries with the simple, steady insistence of his touch. She whimpered, caught between protest and surrender, until his hand smoothed under her chin and deepened the kiss. When he pulled back, his mouth curved against her skin. “I’ve been away from you too long.” His voice dropped to a near-growl, low and quiet in her ear. Her cheeks burned, her fingers clutching the blanket to her chest but he was already undoing it, tugging the wool aside so he could touch the slope of her shoulder. Her breath shuddered and she arched faintly into him, helpless.

His hand moved to the buttons of her blouse, slipping one free with careful slowness, then another, his thumb brushing the soft skin as it appeared.
“I’ve missed this,” he whispered against her collarbone, lips grazing the new strip of bare flesh. “Your warmth. Your skin. I’ve had to starve myself of it while you avoided me.” Another button slipped loose under his deft fingers. “Do you know what that does to me?” Her only answer was a choked whimper, half-mortified, half-melted, her hands clutching at him though she couldn’t bring herself to push him away. Tom smiled against her skin, satisfied. He would strip her slowly, teasingly, not because he needed to rush but because he wanted her trembling for him, pliant beneath his hands, fully aware that she had no choice but to stay where he wanted her. He reached for his wand from under the pillow. Her big eyes widened even more, unsure of his intentions and then he pointed the tip to her blouse, muttering something and the clothing suddenly disappeared, leaving her only in her underwear. His gaze drifted over her, taking in the sight of her pale skin glowing in the soft morning light. He traced the curve of her hip through the thin fabric of her chemise, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath.
"You're so lovely like this," he murmured, his voice still rough with sleep. "Unguarded. Mine." Tom leaned in, brushing his lips against the bare skin of her shoulder. Myrtle shivered and he couldn’t help the smile that curved his mouth. His fingers splayed across her stomach, feeling the flutter of her breath. Nudging the neckline of her chemise lower, he exposed more of her chest. Her cheeks flushed a pretty pink but she didn’t resist, didn’t even tense. "I want to touch you," his voice low and intent. "Every inch of you. And I want you to feel every moment of it."
“Tom—” She breathed out and reached to the collar of his shirt, her shy hands slightly trembling while arching her body into his big hands. He leaned into her touch and with a flick of his wand let his shirt and pants disappear as well. Tom's fingers continued their slow, sensual journey, sliding up her thighs. He felt her tremble at the contact and it sent a rush of satisfaction through him. He wanted to make her feel this way. Wanted her to crave his touch, his possession.
"See?" he murmured, his lips brushing against her ear. "Isn’t it better when you let me be close?" His voice was low, darkly possessive. He shifted, rolling her onto her back and settling himself between her thighs. His fingers traced the lace of her drawers, teasing her through the fabric. Tom watched her face, enjoying the way her eyes fluttered shut, her lips parting on a soft gasp. "You're so lovely," he praised. "So soft, so warm." His voice was rough with desire, his eyes burning into hers. "Let me have you." He needed it. Tom had plans for her, dark and delicious plans. He wanted to claim her, mark her, make her his in every way imaginable. She nodded almost eagerly, shivering under his teasing, her fingertips softly tracing his back.
“Please—” Her soft plea was music to his ears. Tom wanted to devour her, to take and take and take until there was nothing left. He lowered his head, capturing her lips in a searing kiss. Tom thrust his tongue into her mouth, claiming her, dominating her. His hands roamed over her body, touching and teasing, leaving no inch unexplored. She moaned into his mouth, her body arching into his touch. With a flick of his wrist, her drawers disappeared. Tom's smile was wicked, a flash of teeth in the dim light. He positioned himself at her entrance, the head of his hardness nudging against her. He pushed forward slightly, just the tip breaching her, feeling her heat, her tightness. He gritted his teeth, resisting the urge to surge forward, to bury himself deep inside her.
"Tell me," he demanded, his hand wrapping around her throat, not squeezing, just holding her. "Tell me what you want." His hips twitched, pushing in a little further, teasing her, teasing himself. He could feel her nails digging into his shoulders, could hear her whimper, could feel the way she was trying to pull him closer.
“Please, you— only you,” she moaned desperately and Tom's grip on her throat tightened slightly, not cutting off her air but making her acutely aware of his strength, of his control over her. He pushed in a little further, feeling her stretch around him, feeling her heat. She was so tight, so perfect and he wanted nothing more than to have her. He surged forward, finally sinking deep inside her, feeling her walls clench around him. He groaned, his head falling forward, his breath hot against her neck.
"You feel so good," he groaned. He began to move, slowly at first, then faster, harder. He could feel her body responding to his, could feel her pleasure building. He wanted to make her come, wanted to watch her fall apart in his arms. "You're mine, Warren," Tom growled, his grip tightening possessively as he drove into her, his hips slapping against hers. His thrusts were relentless, his pace punishing, each one driving her closer to the edge. He could feel her tightening around him, could feel her body tensing as her orgasm built. Tom felt her body shudder as she came apart in his arms. "That's it," he praised, his voice thick with desire. "You're so beautiful like this. I could watch you all day." He thrust into her a few more times, feeling his own release building. He buried himself deep inside her, his body shuddering as he came. He groaned, his forehead falling to rest against hers and stroked her cheek gently, a rare softness in his touch.

The small girl lay draped over him, her hair falling across his chest, her breathing still uneven but calm. Her small fingers wandered up, ghosting over his collarbone, his throat, until they found his face. She traced the sharp line of his jaw, the hollow beneath his cheekbone, and finally paused at the faint stitch of a cut still marring his skin. Her brow furrowed.
“What happened?” she whispered, brushing it with the gentlest touch as if afraid to hurt him. Tom tilted his head on the pillow, his eyes half-lidded, studying her as though deciding how much truth to give. Then he smirked faintly, not quite cruel, but enough to remind her she was trespassing into dangerous territory.
“Nothing worth your worry.” She frowned, her fingertip lingering at the scar.
“It looks like it hurt.”
“It didn’t.” His hand caught hers, bringing her palm down to rest against his chest where his heart moved in its steady, deliberate rhythm. “And even if it had… I don’t break easily.” He tilted her chin up, forcing her eyes to his. “Don’t waste your thoughts on scars. If you’re going to look at me that way, let it be for something that belongs to you. Not some mark of anger past.” Her cheeks warmed and she nodded faintly, returning to trace the bridge of his nose, the line of his brow, softer now, almost reverent.
“You’re beautiful,” she murmured, as though confessing something fragile. Tom’s mouth curved, slow and assured. He turned his head slightly, pressing a kiss to her fingertips.
“Because you see me that way.” She smiled faintly, shyly and curled closer against him, her cheek to his chest again. Her small frame melted into his, her trust weighty in its simplicity. Tom stared into the ceiling, his hand resting in her hair. Her breath had evened out against his chest but her fingers still traced lazy shapes on his skin, too awake to drift off, too content to move. Tom’s hand skimmed along her spine, stroking the warmth of her bare skin, the rhythm steady, hypnotic. For a while, there was only silence. The hush of their breathing, the soft crackle of wood, until he spoke, his voice low, brushing the crown of her head.
“You won’t walk away from me again.” Her body stiffened faintly, her fingers stilling. She tilted her face up, eyes uncertain. He tightened his arm around her, not harshly but with a weight that left no room for argument. His thumb swept along her hip as he went on, softer but no less resolute. “Even if you’re angry. Even if you’re hurt. You don’t get to disappear from me.” His lips touched her hair, the words sinking into her as much as into himself. “I can’t let you.” Her lips parted, trembling, though no words came. He tilted his head, catching her gaze in the light. His eyes glowed with that dark, unyielding certainty that always left her breathless and unsure. He stroked her cheek with the back of his knuckles, a gesture tender enough to disarm, even as his meaning coiled like iron around her. “You can cry, you can fight me, you can hate me if you must,” he murmured. “But you will stay. Right here.” Her chest rose and fell, quickened, but then she softened against him, almost shamed by the relief flooding her features. She burrowed back down, clutching at him as though to prove him right.
“Okay,” she breathed with a nervous smile. Tom’s mouth curved faintly against her hair as his hand resumed its slow caress over her warm skin. They lay wrapped in the cocoon of blankets and Myrtle traced the faint seam of a scar across his chest with lazy fingertips, her voice soft and curious.
“Tell me about your spells,” she whispered. Tom shifted slightly, his arm still locked around her, his gaze fixed on the ceiling as though considering whether to grant her request. A slow smile curved his mouth.
“My spells?”
“Yes.” She propped herself up a little, glasses slipping as she looked down at him. “The ones you… invented. You always act like you’re so far ahead of everyone else and well, you are. But you never tell me.” Her tone held shy insistence but her eyes searched his with something brighter, like she wanted to step into his world. Tom let the silence draw out, enjoying the anticipation in her face, before his fingers brushed down her bare arm.
“Most wouldn’t understand them.”
“I could try.”
“Could you?” His smile deepened, unreadable. She nodded, though faintly, as if trying to convince herself as well. He exhaled slowly, turning his head toward her. “There are charms I’ve woven tighter than the textbooks teach. Ones that last longer, cut sharper, strike deeper. Spells that make silence last for days or doors lock with no counter-curse. Spells that… hurt differently. More precisely.” Her breath caught and he reached up, brushing her cheekbone with his thumb, watching the way her pupils widened at the edge in his voice. She stared, not sure whether to shrink from the shadow in his tone or cling tighter to him.
“You’re joking.”
“Am I?” He smiled faintly, tilting his head, his eyes alight with something that wasn’t quite humor. Her lips parted, but no protest came. She only pressed closer to his chest, both unsettled and strangely enthralled. He stroked her hair, letting the tension soften. “I’ve made gentler things too, you know. Little charms for light, for sound, for warmth. Things no one else would ever bother with.” Her head rose slightly from his chest. She looked at him, eyes glassy as if the thought had been gnawing at her the whole time.
“Can I have one more question?” He hummed, still stroking her arm, not breaking his calm. Her lips parted, trembling with hesitation. “How far… would you go?”
“Go?” His gaze flicked down to her.
“If someone… displeased you.” The words came in a rush, her cheeks flushed with shame at even asking. “If they hurt you. Or even just me.” For a long moment, Tom was utterly still. Then he laughed under his breath, low and quiet, almost indulgent.
“How far…” His fingers trailed up her spine, lingering at the nape of her neck. “Farther than you’d want to believe.” Her breath caught.
“That’s not an answer.”
“No,” he agreed softly, turning her chin so she had no choice but to meet his eyes. “But it’s the only one you’ll get. Some things are better not measured in words.” She shivered, not knowing whether it was fear or something far more dangerous pulling at her. He pressed a slow kiss to the corner of her mouth, speaking against her skin. “All you need to know, my dear, is that there’s nothing I wouldn’t do if someone dared to take from me what’s mine.” Her heart stuttered, her fingers gripping his arm.
“Even…?”
“Even that.” His voice was steady, almost gentle, but his eyes glittered with a promise that made her chest ache. “Especially that.”

“You’re right, we shouldn’t stay here all day,” he said after a while, calm and practical, though his hand lingered on her hip a moment longer. Her face fell as she sat up beside him, adjusting her glasses. They dressed in quiet, the spell of the Room thinning with every button fastened, every book slipped back into her satchel. She clutched it to her chest, hesitant, her gaze flicking toward him as though the words pressed against her lips hurt to speak.
“Tom?” she asked softly as they moved toward the door and her fingers tightened on the strap of her satchel. “When you said before… that we should spend more time together,” her cheeks warmed, “does that still… stand?” He paused, turning to her with that unreadable half-smile.
“So long as you don’t vanish from me again.” His tone was gentle, but the weight beneath it was unmistakable. “That privilege is gone. You don’t get to hide, Warren.” Her lips parted, guilty, but she nodded faintly.
“I won’t.”
“Good.” He opened the door, leading her into the corridor. Other footsteps echoed below and they couldn’t risk being seen together any further. Myrtle’s hand lingered at her satchel strap, her eyes darting toward him, torn between hesitation and longing. Tom leaned nearer just enough that his words touched only her ear. “I’ll find you later.” Her breath caught and she gave the smallest nod, as though it were a promise she’d been desperate to hear. Then he turned away, vanishing down the stairwell with the ease of someone who knew he was always in control. Myrtle stood frozen for a moment longer, her heart pounding, before slipping away toward Ravenclaw Tower, the taste of his vow echoing in her chest.
—

And they really did spend more ime together, or at least she felt less lonely. They were in the Room once again, Tom lounged against the bed, a folded copy of the Daily Prophet in his hands. His eyes scanned the bold print. Another Strike in the States: Grindelwald’s Forces Advance. A faint smirk played at his mouth as he lowered the paper.
“I made a new friend,” came Myrtle’s hesitant voice suddenly.
“Did you?”
“You won’t like it. But she’s really kind. The Grey Lady, they call her.” That drew his eyes fully to her.
“Ghosts,” he repeated, irritation flickering beneath the calm surface. “You’ve been talking to them again.” Warren shrank a little under his gaze.
“Not talking, exactly. Just… observing.” He exhaled slowly through his nose, frown faint, but he didn’t stop her. She went on, her voice quiet. “She doesn’t like to speak much, not to most people. But she’ll talk to me sometimes. I think she feels sorry for me.” A faint, embarrassed flush touched her cheeks. “She really is a bit like a friend.” Tom’s eyes narrowed, not in jealousy but in distaste.
“A ghost is no friend worth having.”
“I know,” Myrtle said softly, “but she’s kind. And she knows a lot.” Myrtle glanced up at him nervously. “She told me about how she died… and it made me want to cry.”
“Almost everything makes you want to cry,” he smirked teasingly and she started fidgeting with her sleeve.
“She’s Rovena Ravenclaw’s daughter. When she ran away, Rowena sent the Bloody Baron after her, but…” Myrtle bit her lip, frowning with real sadness. “He fell in love with her. And when she wouldn’t return, he…he killed her. Stabbed her.” Tom’s eyes glinted, though his voice was absent, almost offhand.
“Why would he kill her for refusing him?”
“He probably couldn’t bear it,” Myrtle whispered. “That she wouldn’t love him back.” Tom leaned back slightly, his gaze fixed on her though his thoughts ran elsewhere. Myrtle’s fingers tightened on her sleeve, her eyes wet with sympathy for Helena’s sorrow. “It’s tragic, isn’t it? To die like that.” Tom brushed a strand of hair from Myrtle’s face with quiet care, his mind already circling like a hawk around its prey.
“Tragic,” he murmured. His thumb lingered on her temple and his voice softened, dark and steady. “Why did she run away in the first place?” Myrtle flushed at his attention, mistaking it for affection. She shrugged her shoulders.
“I don’t know. Do you want me to find out?” She’d offered it so innocently, not realizing how valuable it might be. He stroked a strand of hair back from her cheek with a deliberate gentleness.
“Perhaps,” he murmured. “If she trusts you enough to speak, you should let her.” His eyes gleamed faintly. “Sometimes gossip hides truths.” Myrtle’s heart fluttered with the rare sense of being useful to him. She nodded, her lips curving shyly. Tom reached out, catching her wrist with steady pressure and drew her across the sheets until she was flush against his side. “There,” he murmured, his arm sliding around her shoulders. “Much better.” She curled into him, her head resting lightly on his chest. Tom tucked the blanket over her again, smoothing it into place with meticulous care. To anyone else, it would have looked like devotion. But his voice, low against her hair, carried that darker note that always bled through. “You’ll listen for me. You’ll keep secrets for me. And I…” his thumb brushed her cheek, lingering, “I’ll keep you here. Warm. Wanted and safe.” Her eyes fluttered shut, and she melted into the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, trembling with relief. Tom bent and pressed a kiss to her hairline, holding her just a little tighter as if sealing a vow. Outwardly it was tenderness, but inside he knew that every secret she gathered, every tear she shedded, every hour she lay there trembling against him… all of it knotted her tighter to him. Until there was no part of her that wasn’t his. He stroked her arm idly, eyes half-lidded, savoring the quiet. “Never wander too far,” he whispered. “I won’t allow it.” And she, dazed and drowsy against him, only whispered back,
“I won’t.”
“And don’t forget she’s not alive, my dear.” She blinked, startled.
“Well… no. But she still—” He cut her off smoothly, his tone low, precise.
“You are alive. And I won’t have you wasting that on shadows.” His fingers tightened, just enough for her to feel the restraint in it. “Ghosts can’t hold you. They can’t keep you warm. They can’t give you anything worth having.” Myrtle flushed, ashamed and tried to duck her head, but Tom tilted her chin up with two fingers until her wide eyes met his. His gaze burned into hers. “You belong with the living,” he murmured, his thumb brushing the corner of her mouth. “With me.” Her breath caught.
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know.” His lips curved faintly, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “But I’ll remind you as many times as it takes. You are not theirs. Not Helena’s, not any ghost’s. Only mine.” Her heart fluttered wildly and she nodded. Satisfied, Tom leaned down and pressed his mouth to hers, slow and deliberate, sealing the vow. His hand slid to her neck, holding her in place as if to anchor her in the world she sometimes seemed too ready to slip away from. When he drew back, his voice was soft again, but unyielding. “Good girl. Listen but keep your eyes on me, Warren. The dead already had their time. You’re alive. And you’ll stay alive. For me.” She swallowed hard, cheeks flushed and whispered.
“I want to be alive for you.” Tom stilled, studying her face. Her eyes were wide, earnest, wet with the beginnings of tears, and her voice trembled with a truth so naked it almost startled him. Her fingers crept to his sleeve, clutching at the fabric as though to anchor herself. “If it weren’t for you, Tom… I think I’d just disappear.”
—

The chamber the Knights now used for their gatherings was dim, lit by floating greenish light that cast shadows over the carved stone. They lounged in their usual sprawl. Black leaning back with his boots on the table, Malfoy scowling, Nott tracing idle runes into the dust, Lestrange restless as ever.
“We’re ready,” Lestrange muttered, eyes glittering. “When are you going down there again?” Tom’s gaze flicked to him, cool and unreadable.
“That’s not for you to know.” Malfoy sneered.
“Always so secretive. You act like we’re children.”
“Because you sometimes act like ones,” Tom said smoothly, cutting across him without raising his voice. His hands folded neatly atop the table. “If I tell you when and how, you’ll blunder about boasting about it and ruin everything.”
“He’s not wrong. It takes exactly one bottle of firewhiskey to make Lestrange tell you where his mother hides her jewels,” Orion gave a short, amused laugh. Nott leaned forward, eyes sharp behind his fringe.
“But what’s the point, Tom? Petrification. That’s all. Where’s the fear in stone? They wake up and tell the tale, don’t they?” Tom’s mouth curved, though it was nothing like a smile.
“And yet,” he murmured, “they still haven’t found the cure now, have they?” A silence rippled over the table. Lestrange shifted uneasily, but Black’s smirk widened.
“That’s true. The castle’s still crawling with whispers. Half the brats are afraid to use a lavatory alone.” Malfoy grumbled, but more subdued now.
“It should’ve been death.” Tom’s eyes glinted.
“Patience mate. A dead child draws closure. Mourning. An end. But this?” He gestured with one long finger, deliberate, precise. “This festers. Fear without resolution rots the foundations of the school. It spreads faster than any funeral dirge.” They fell quiet again, considering. Tom let the silence hang, savoring the way it stretched taut. Finally, Lestrange cleared his throat.
“So…?”
“So you follow my lead,” Tom corrected softly. “And you’ll see what true power looks like. When the time comes, there won’t be a soul in this castle who doesn’t bow to fear.” His gaze swept over them, sharp and commanding. One by one, the boys dropped their eyes. Satisfied, Tom leaned back in his chair, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips.

The castle was silent when Tom slipped from the Slytherin dormitories, his footsteps swallowed by the dark. He moved like a shadow himself, knowing every creak in the floorboards, every turn of the torch-lit corridors. Past the prefect patrols, past the portraits muttering in their sleep. Toward the broken lavatory. The door closed behind him with a hollow echo. The air in the lavatory was damp, thick, carrying the faint reek of mildew and rust. Moonlight seeped in through the grimy windows, spilling across the cracked tiles. Tom approached the sink. His hand hovered for only a second before he hissed, low and guttural.
The pipes shuddered, ancient stone groaning as the sink slid aside to reveal the yawning black mouth of the shaft. Cold air gusted upward, carrying the damp breath of the Chamber. Tom’s lips curved faintly as he stepped to the edge and descended down, robes whipping around him as the darkness swallowed him whole. He moved lightly, wand raised and strode down the serpentine tunnel. His voice, when he spoke again, reverberated against the stone. The answering sound was not heard so much as felt. The deep, bone-shaking slither of scales against stone, the hiss of something vast roused from slumber. The basilisk’s body uncoiled, each movement stirring the stale air into currents that reeked of earth and age. From the shadows, the serpent’s head emerged, its eyes closed, but its tongue flickered, tasting his presence. Tom’s heart thrummed with exhilaration, though his expression remained composed. He lifted his chin and his voice came out low, commanding, the sacred syllables curling off his tongue like venom. The basilisk hissed, a sound that seemed to scrape across the walls like knives. Its massive coils shifted, scales rasping, as it dipped its head low, an acknowledgment, a bow. Tom stepped forward, placing his hand against the ridged scales of its snout. The serpent withdrew into the tunnels, vanishing with a sound like thunder rolling away into the earth.
Tom stood alone in the vastness of the Chamber, the stone faces of Salazar Slytherin leering down in grim approval. He exhaled once, slow, steady. The silence that followed was immense, suffocating, dreadful and utterly intoxicating.
—

The Great Hall glowed with candlelight, laughter echoing faintly between the enchanted ceiling and the long house tables. Students hunched over their dinners, passing platters and goblets, the warmth of the fire holding back the midwinter chill. Tom sat among the Slytherins, listening with half an ear to Rosier and Malfoy’s drawling argument about Quidditch strategy, when the doors slammed open with a thunderclap.
“Another one!” Peeves shrieked, swooping wildly between the floating candles. “Stone still! All stiff, stiff, stiff! A muggle boy in the west corridor. Oh, what a sight, what a fright!” The Great Hall erupted. Voices clashed, plates clattered, chairs scraped back. Students shrieked questions, stood craning their necks for more gossip. Headmaster Dippet stumbled to his feet at the head table, his hands raised in a futile plea.
“Please quiet, calm yourselves! We are going to investigate immediately, there is no cause for panic!” The babble only grew louder. Tom didn’t move. He sat perfectly still, his fork poised above his plate, his face schooled into polite concern. But his eyes flicked sideways, calculating. Across the hall, the Ravenclaw table quivered like a nest of frightened birds. Warren sat small among them, her hands clutching her lap, eyes wide behind her glasses. Frightened. Tom’s jaw tightened, his wrist slightly burning. She had no reason to fear. She should know better. Irritation pulsed low in his chest. He would have to correct that, gently and firmly. She ought to understand that nothing could touch her so long as she was his. He would remind her later.
At his own table, the Knights sat with studied indifference. Orion leaned lazily on one elbow, smirking faintly as the Gryffindors across the hall broke into uproar. Lestrange toyed with his goblet, his fingers twitching in restless delight. Malfoy continued in his conversation with Rosier. Only Nott, half-hidden in shadow, allowed himself the barest nod toward their leader. Tom returned the gesture with the smallest tilt of his head, nothing more. A signal, a command to stay silent. He turned his gaze back to the high table, where Dippet’s pleas had dissolved into chaos and the other professors huddled in urgent whispers. His lips curved, the faintest suggestion of a smile. The game was advancing. The fear was spreading.

The corridors were still buzzing, though thinner now, as prefects herded students back to their towers. Myrtle hurried along the Ravenclaw path, clutching her books close, head ducked. Helen had vanished quickly after dinner, whispering something about finding Nott, leaving Myrtle trailing behind with a sick twist in her stomach. Her footsteps echoed. Alone. Too alone. Then, a hand shot out from behind a heavy tapestry, fingers closing around her wrist. She gave a startled gasp before she was pulled into the alcove, swallowed by shadows.
“Going somewhere in such a hurry, my dear?” Tom’s voice was smooth, amused. Candlelight from the hall painted the hard edges of his face, his eyes glinting with secret knowledge. She blinked at him, breath quick, cheeks pink.
“You— don’t do that,” she whispered, half-scolding, half-relieved. His mouth curved.
“Why not? You looked like you were running from the castle itself.” He let his hand glide down from her wrist to her fingers, toying with them lazily. “Anyone would think you’d done something guilty.” Myrtle shook her head quickly, her eyes shimmering.
“I just…it’s my classmates. Some of the girls. They said I’d be next. Because I’m…because I’m not—” Her voice broke, shame and fear knotting her words. The smirk on his lips faltered. Slowly, Tom tilted her chin up with his knuckles until her gaze was trapped by his. His voice, when he spoke, was softer now, steady as stone.
“Listen to me. Nothing is going to happen to you.” Her breath hitched.
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because you’re not like them.” He brushed a stray curl from her cheek, his touch lingering, deliberate. “You’re mine. Do you understand that?” Her lips parted, his thumb smoothed over them, silencing any protest before it could form. “You could walk through the corridors at midnight and no curse, no monster, no student would dare touch you,” he murmured, his mouth ghosting against her hairline. “Because I wouldn’t allow it.” Her lashes fluttered shut as his lips pressed to her temple, feather-light. Her heartbeat pounded against his chest, frantic, but already steadying under the weight of his certainty. “You don’t have to be afraid,” he whispered, scattering soft kisses along her cheek, her jaw, her throat. “Not when you’re with me. Not ever. Let them whisper, let them scurry. You are untouchable.” She clung to him, small and trembling, almost disbelieving. And still, some corner of her wasn’t fully convinced. But he kissed the doubt away, his hand firm at the nape of her neck, pulling her close until all she could feel was his warmth, his strength, his claim. Myrtle’s breath hitched, glasses glinting as she tried to push the words out.
“But it is only the Muggle-borns. And I am one.” Her voice cracked, desperate, as if confessing something shameful. “Helen was supposed to walk me back, but ran off to find Nott and I didn’t want to be alone—” Her throat worked, tears welling, her free hand clutching her satchel like a shield. “What if they’re right? What if something happens to me, Tom?” For a moment, he simply looked at her. Her smallness, her trembling, the way she braced for an answer she didn’t want to hear. Then he stepped closer, close enough that her back met the wall, his presence crowding out the drafty corridor air. He bent his head, his lips brushing her ear as he murmured.
“You’re thinking like a frightened prey.” Her breath caught, indignation sparking but then his mouth trailed lower, pressing to her temple, her cheek, her jaw in slow, deliberate kisses that stole the words from her tongue. “But no one’s hunting you. You’re not like the rest of them,” he whispered between each touch, his hand smoothing down her arm, circling her wrist, drawing her fingers up to rest against his chest. “You don’t belong to them. You belong to me. And I promised nothing is going to happen to you.” Her glasses slipped slightly as her eyes fluttered shut, overwhelmed. He caught them, adjusting them with a faint smirk before pressing his lips to her mouth, softly at first, then with more weight until her satchel thudded to the floor. “You see?” he murmured against her lips, his hand at the nape of her neck, coaxing her closer. “Do you feel afraid now?” The girl shook her head weakly, too lost in the pull of him to form words. “That’s because I won’t let you be afraid,” Tom went on, each kiss punctuating his certainty. “Let them whisper. Let them threaten. No one will touch you. Ever. And if they do, they won’t see the next day.” Her arms crept up around his shoulders, clutching at him like a lifeline, her small body melting into his as though the corridor itself ceased to exist. And Tom, satisfied, deepened the kiss, letting the sweetness blur her fear into something she couldn’t hold onto anymore. Her lips still tingled from his kisses when she sagged against him, burying her face in the front of his robes. Her breath was warm, uneven, her glasses pressed lightly against his chest.
“I just…” Her voice was muffled, trembling. “…I just wish I could stay with you all the time.” The words slipped out, unguarded, and she froze. She shifted back a little, cheeks flaming, her hands knotting in his sleeves. “I mean— oh, I must sound so needy. I’m sorry. I don’t want to be like that.” She broke off, stammering, eyes wide and shining with apology. Tom watched her for a moment, the corners of his mouth curving in that faint, unreadable way. Then he bent and kissed the top of her head, his fingers threading lazily through her hair.
“Needy?” His tone was almost amused. “Is that what you think?” She ducked her head further, but he tilted her chin up again. “I find it endearing,” he said, very softly, his eyes holding hers with dark amusement. “How much you want me. How afraid you are of losing me. It suits you, Warren.” Her lips parted, breath catching. His thumb brushed her cheekbone and he let the silence stretch before adding, lower, “You should never apologize for needing me. I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.” Her chest ached and she pressed her forehead back against him, trembling but comforted, his words sinking deep. And Tom, with her clinging to him like she had nowhere else to exist, brushed his lips once more against her temple before drawing back, steady now, composed. “Come,” he said gently, sliding her satchel over his own shoulder as if it weighed nothing. “You need sleep. I’ll walk you to the tower.” Her eyes widened faintly.
“But it’s still early, someone could see.” He only smirked, drawing her hand into his.
“Do you think I’d let us be caught? There are ways through this castle no one will ever find.” And so he led her, not down the broad staircases and bright-lit corridors, but through hidden turns and narrow passages, the kind only he seemed to know. Behind moving tapestries, past trick steps, through doors that looked like walls until his hand pressed them open. She followed close, small and warm at his side, her fingers curled into his. For a time, they moved in silence, the hush of their footsteps the only sound. But as they neared the seventh floor, Warren’s grip on him tightened. She tilted her face up toward him, her lips trembling with words she could no longer hold back.
“I love you,” she whispered, breath catching on the syllables. The words hung in the dim air, fragile, earnest, raw. He paused, studying her, the way her cheeks flushed with both hope and fear. Then his arm slid around her waist, drawing her in until her body fit against his side as though made for the space.
“I know,” he murmured, his voice low, smooth as silk. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, letting the weight of his certainty steady her. “You’re perfect for me.” She nuzzled into him, eyes closed, content with that, clinging tighter as though she never wanted to let go. At last, the corridor before the Ravenclaw tower stretched out before them, quiet and empty. Tom brushed his knuckles along her jaw, tilting her face up just once more. Her lips curved into the faintest, shyest smile, even as her eyes shone. She slipped away into the stairwell, small and shadowy, leaving him alone in the corridor. And Tom, watching her vanish upward felt a calm satisfaction.
—

They had Defense Against the Dark Arts. The classroom was hushed but restless, parchment rustling and quills scratching half-heartedly. The early spring air carried the lingering whispers of last night’s news, pressing close as though the walls themselves wanted to listen. Professor Dumbledore stood at the front, chalk drifting across the board in elegant, precise strokes. His lecture wound through counter-curses with the usual calm cadence but it was clear from the unfocused eyes around the room that no one was listening. Finally, a Gryffindor boy raised his hand, bold with nerves.
“Professor,” he blurted, “what’s going to happen to the students who’ve been… petrified? Is there any way to help them?” A hush fell instantly, the quills going still. Dumbledore lowered his chalk, turned and regarded the class with those piercing blue eyes. For a long moment he said nothing.
“Professor Slughorn and Madame Burke are working tirelessly,” he said, calm but grave, “to determine the nature of what has befallen your classmates. Rest assured, they are not in pain. And we will find a way to restore them.” Uneasy murmurs rippled through the rows. At the far side of the room, Tom leaned back in his seat beside Malfoy, his expression carefully neutral, almost disinterested. Malfoy smirked faintly at the disruption but Tom’s dark eyes flicked across the classroom instead, the nervous faces, the darting whispers. He drank in the fear with quiet satisfaction.
“Professor,” another Ravenclaw ventured timidly, “do you know what’s causing it? Is it dangerous to the rest of us?” The rest of us, the pure ones. Tom smirked. They already started to think like him. This time, Dumbledore’s gaze seemed to sharpen.
“Every precaution is being taken,” he said smoothly, but there was steel beneath it. “The greatest danger at present is allowing fear to divide us. I will ask you to remember that.” Tom folded his arms, watching the man carefully. A warning, perhaps. Or a plea. Either way, it told him what he wanted, they still don’t know. They still haven’t found a cure. And that, he thought with quiet satisfaction, meant the game remained his to play.

The class ended with the scrape of chairs and the rush of parchment into bags. Warren slipped quickly out with the other Ravenclaws, but Tom lingered, straightening his notes with deliberate precision. Malfoy muttered something about meeting him later and drifted off.
“Mr. Riddle,” Dumbledore’s voice called, just as Tom reached the door. He turned smoothly, polite, his expression a picture of mild attentiveness.
“Professor?”
“A moment, if you please,” Dumbledore gestured lightly with one hand. Tom stepped back into the quiet classroom, the air heavy with the faint scent of chalk and ink. Dumbledore regarded him from behind his desk, those piercing blue eyes not unkind, but steady in a way that always seemed to look deeper than Tom wished.
“How is your hand?” Dumbledore asked. Tom blinked, almost imperceptibly, then flexed his right hand at his side, remembering the incident in the bathroom after Warren sent him away.
“Quite healed, sir.” Dumbledore inclined his head slightly, as though weighing the words. Then, after a pause, he spoke.
“As you know, we are… deeply concerned about recent events. Students found petrified, frightened whispers in every corridor. You are a prefect, Mr. Riddle. Perhaps you’ve noticed something during your rounds? Strange behavior? A misplaced spell? Anything at all that might help us.” It was framed as a request, but Tom heard the edge beneath it, the careful testing, the subtle search for a crack. He kept his expression perfectly measured.
“Nothing, sir. The castle seems as it always does. Aside from the atmosphere, of course. Students unsettled, jumping at shadows. You know how quickly rumors breed.”
“Yes,” Dumbledore said softly, studying him, “I do.” Their eyes held a moment too long. Then Dumbledore gave a faint smile, as if to soften the weight of his words. “Very good. That will be all. And thank you, Tom. Your vigilance is appreciated.” Tom inclined his head in a polite nod, turning toward the door. But even as he left, he could feel it, those watchful eyes lingering on his back. But suspicion isn’t proof. Not yet. And Tom allowed himself the faintest curl of a smile as he stepped into the corridor, the sound of chattering students washing over him again.
—

It was late into the night. Tom finished his rounds with Warren by his side and then stole her for himself. The prefects’ bathroom gleamed in the low light, pale tiles catching the shimmer of candleflame. Steam drifted from the enchanted taps, the scent of lavender and eucalyptus curling faintly into the air. Tom leaned against the edge of the bath, sleeves rolled, posture languid, while Myrtle sat perched on the tiled ledge nearby, feet swinging nervously above the floor. She was talking in that low, breathless way of hers, as though confessing something that mattered.
“I’ve been talking to Helena again.” Tom’s dark brows arched, though his expression remained unreadable.
“The Grey Lady.” Warren nodded quickly.
“She prefers Helena. She’s still so shy. She doesn’t like to talk much about…well, why she ran away or how she died. But she’s nice, really. Softer than people think.” Tom’s gaze fixed on her, steady, his fingers idly turning the silver ring on his hand.
“And what does she tell you, if not what we wanted to know?” Myrtle’s cheeks colored faintly, as though embarrassed.
“She said I shouldn’t be afraid. That… nothing could happen to me.” His head tilted, the candlelight glinting in his eyes.
“Did she say why she thinks that?” Myrtle bit her lip, shrugged, her shoulders small and rounded.
“Only that she knows the castle. Knows its secrets. She didn’t explain more. But… It made me feel better.” Tom’s mouth curved faintly, not quite a smile, but the suggestion of one. He stepped closer, brushing a damp curl from her forehead with deliberate gentleness.
“Perhaps,” he murmured, “you should introduce me to her.”
“You’d want to…?” The small girl blinked, startled. His thumb brushed her temple as he tucked her hair back, his voice soft, coaxing.
“I would very much like to meet a lady who knows this castle so well. If she can see what others can’t… she could be valuable.” Myrtle ducked her head, flustered by the way he said it.
“I could ask. She does like me. I think she’d talk to you… if I was there.” Tom let the silence linger a beat before leaning down, pressing his lips to the crown of her head.
“Good girl,” he whispered, the words darkly tender. “You’ve no idea how useful you can be to me.” Her breath hitched, a nervous but shyly pleased sound and she tucked herself closer against his side, not realizing that with every word, every secret, she drew him nearer to something far greater than she imagined. She then leaned a little against him, her knees drawn up on the warm tiles and after a longer pause she mumbled.
“But Helena is very pretty.” Tom’s brows rose, his gaze flicking down to her with faint interest.
“Pretty?” He watched her smile grow smaller, her eyes fixed on the flickering water below. “Well… yes. And she’s clever. And she’s noble. A founder’s daughter.” She shifted, her hands twisting together. “Sometimes I wonder why… you’re interested in me and not someone like her. Alive of course but—” she faltered, her face going pink, “just someone else.” For a heartbeat Tom only stared at her, then a laugh slipped from his lips. Quiet, sharp, amused.
“You think I’d be interested in some noble girl who’d bore me within a week?” His head tilted, his dark eyes narrowing, gleaming with something between mockery and curiosity. Myrtle blinked up at him, startled, biting her lip. He leaned down, his mouth close enough to brush her ear. “I find you beautiful, Warren. More beautiful than you’ll ever admit to yourself. And clever. Useful. Loyal. You’re exactly what I want.” Her eyes widened and Tom smirked faintly, his hand brushing down the curve of her arm before resting at her wrist. “But if you’re going to sit here doubting me,” he murmured, his voice rich with mock-threat, “I may have to toss you into that bath. Clothes and all.” Myrtle gasped, half horrified, half stifling a giggle.
“You wouldn’t!” His lips curved, not quite a smile, but something wicked and fond.
“Try me.” She ducked her face, flustered, hiding it against his shoulder. He stroked her hair once, slow and deliberate, his voice low against her ear. “Don’t doubt me again, my dear. You’ve no need to. You’re mine. And that’s all there is to it.” She scrunched her nose at him, half a pout, half a spark of mischief that he rarely saw in her.
“What if I will?” She asked, almost defiant, though her voice trembled at the edges. Tom’s eyes narrowed, amused, intrigued.
“Careful,” he warned silkily. “I meant what I said.” She lifted her chin, cheeks flushed.
“I don’t believe you’d really do it.”

That was all it took. With one sharp, fluid motion, Tom slid his arm around her waist, took a step and swept her straight off the tiles. Myrtle yelped, the sound echoing against the marble and then she hit the steaming bath in a flurry of skirts and bubbles. She resurfaced, sputtering and gasping, her hair plastered to her face.
“Tom!” she shrieked, scandalized but the laughter threatening at the edges betrayed her. Tom stood over her, elegant and smug, arms folded across his chest.
“Now you believe me, I told you not to doubt me” he drawled. He bent, extending one graceful hand down to her. “Come now.” But instead of taking it, she narrowed her eyes, seized his wrist with surprising force for such a small girl and yanked. The splash was louder this time. Tom came up dripping, his perfectly pressed shirt clinging to him, dark hair plastered across his forehead. Her laughter broke free in bright, startled giggles, her hands covering her mouth. For a beat, his expression was unreadable. One could worry he’d burst in anger or shut down. Then suddenly Tom Riddle gave a low, incredulous laugh of his own.
“Evil little witch,” he murmured, almost in awe. She giggled again, biting her lip, cheeks burning but eyes bright with triumph. And he only looked at her, water streaming down his jaw, feeling that strange, intoxicating thrill at the sight of her boldness. For a strange moment he felt like a boy with no heavy burden on his shoulders again. His hand slid to the back of her neck, pulling her close in the steaming water, his lips brushing hers. “One could get deja vu,” he whispered against her mouth but his voice was rich with approval, with the rare delight of being surprised. Her laughter was still spilling into the steamy chamber when his mouth claimed hers, urgent, possessive. The water swirled around them, heat rising off the enchanted bath, her soaked blouse clinging to her shoulders as his hands closed around her waist. She gasped into the kiss, startled and he used the sound to deepen it, pulling her flush against him. His hand slid lower under the water, tracing the curve of her hip with deliberate slowness. “You surprise me, Warren. I adore you like this.” Her face was burning hotter than the bath, her breath breaking as he pressed her back gently against the tiled edge, the water rippling around them. His thumb brushed the hollow of her throat. His eyes gleamed, fever-bright. Her heart was pounding, her hands clutching at his wet shirt. He bent his head, lips grazing her ear, his words a low, molten whisper. “But if you’re going to pull me under… then you’d better learn how to handle the consequences.”
And then there was no space left between them. His kisses were insistent, swallowing her stammered protests, his hands guiding, claiming, coaxing. The water lapped against the sides in restless waves, echoing every shiver that rippled through her body. Her giggles had dissolved into breathless whimpers, her earlier triumph forgotten under the sheer gravity of his closeness. Tom smirked against her mouth, savoring the way she had dared to challenge him and the way she folded back into him all the same.
“You see?” he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction as his hands wandered south under the water. “Even when you win… you’re still mine.” Her blouse clung, soaked and translucent, plastered against her trembling body. She shifted in the water, flustered, trying to tug it back into place, cheeks scarlet. Tom’s lips curved faintly. He raised one dripping hand, tracing the air lazily with his fingers. A whisper of magic, no wand in sight and suddenly the sodden fabric dissolved into nothing, leaving only her bare skin glistening beneath the water. Myrtle gasped, eyes wide, the bubbles hiding her small body.
“You…you learned it wandlessly.” His smirk deepened, eyes drinking her in with a dark, unhurried satisfaction.
“Of course I did.” His hand skimmed across her shoulder, down the line of her collarbone, making her shiver. “I thought it might come in handy.” Her breath hitched, half outrage, half something else entirely. He did it again, letting his clothes disappear as well and then silenced her with a kiss, slow and hungry, his hand sliding to her waist beneath the heated water. The sound she made only spurred him further, the thrill of her shock and the raw heat of her body against his drowning out everything else. “You’ll thank me,” he murmured against her mouth, teasing, taunting, before pressing her even more against the bath’s marble edge. Her nails dug into his shoulders, her panting breaths lost in the steam.
—

They descended into the quieter corridors where the Grey Lady often drifted, where torchlight burned softer and shadows stretched long. Myrtle’s hands twisted in front of her as she whispered to Tom.
“Wait… just over there. She doesn’t like strangers, I’ll talk to her first.” Tom inclined his head, stepping back into the deeper shade of an archway, a teasing smirk on his lips.
“Whatever you say, my lady.” Her stomach flipped at the softness of his tone and she nodded quickly, adjusting her glasses with trembling fingers before stepping forward. The Grey Lady emerged soundlessly from the far end of the corridor, her silvery form haloed in dim light. Helena Ravenclaw’s expression was composed, but there was that perennial sadness in her eyes, the sort that made Myrtle’s chest ache.
“Myrtle,” she said softly. “You’re out late.”
“I…yes, I know.” Myrtle swallowed, trying to smile. “But I wanted to talk. To ask you something.” The Grey Lady inclined her head, a faintly curious tilt. Myrtle hesitated. Her lips parted, but the words stuck. The Vow tightening like invisible cords. She couldn’t say Tom’s name, couldn’t confess her bond with him, couldn’t introduce him in the way she longed to. Instead she stammered, voice cracking. “I met a… someone. Someone who… who wishes to learn. He—” She broke off with a flinch, pressing her lips together as if struck by a sudden pain. The Grey Lady’s brows furrowed faintly.
“Like a friend? Myrtle, are you well?”
“I—yes, yes, of course,” Myrtle rushed, her voice high and nervous. “I just thought you might…maybe just speak. For a moment. I think you’d… find it interesting.” Her cheeks burned, her throat tight from the struggle of maneuvering around the Vow’s invisible walls. The words came in halts and gasps, like something half-suffocated. Helena drifted a little closer, her pale form luminous.
“You are trembling.”
“I just…It’s very important to me,” Myrtle blurted, tears threatening at the corners of her eyes from the burning. “Very special...the person.” There was silence. Helena’s eyes lingered on Myrtle’s stricken face and though she said nothing, Myrtle had the uncanny sense that the Grey Lady understood more than she let on. Behind them, in the shadows, Tom waited, silent as stone, watching every flicker of expression, every strained word Warren forced past the leash of her Vow. The Grey Lady lingered in silence for a moment, her faintly luminous face inscrutable. At last, she inclined her head just so.
“If this friend of yours is as important as you say… I will listen.” Myrtle’s heart leapt in relief. She turned, almost stumbling over her own feet and gestured desperately toward the shadows.
“Tom,” she whispered, her voice shaky but full of a trembling kind of pride. And then he was there, stepping into the torchlight with the smooth grace of someone entirely at ease, as if the corridor had always belonged to him. His dark eyes lifted to Helena’s pale figure, calm and intent.
“Lady Helena,” he said, voice soft, measured, almost reverent. “I am grateful you’ve agreed to see me.” The Grey Lady regarded him with a wary kind of poise, her form hovering still. “Most students do not seek me.”
“Most students,” Tom replied, faintly smiling, “do not know what is worth seeking.” Myrtle beamed, clasping her hands together, though her chest still felt tight with the remnants of the vow. Helena’s gaze flicked between Myrtle and Tom, lingering on the way Myrtle seemed half-strained, half-overjoyed as though pulled in two directions at once.
“You admire him very much.” Myrtle nodded eagerly, the act breaking from her like something she had been aching to confess.
“I love—,” she stammered in a flick of pain, “love, dearly.” Tom’s hand touched Myrtle’s shoulder then, firm, silencing her babble before it became uncontrolled. He gently fixed one of her plaits and The Grey Lady tilted her head, pale eyes narrowing slightly as though some silent puzzle had just taken shape. Tom spoke then, smooth as silk.
“I only wish to learn from you, Lady Helena. Knowledge. History. Nothing more.” The Grey Lady’s eyes softened for a heartbeat at Myrtle’s trembling insistence.
“If you say so.” Her words held no judgment, but something unreadable stirred behind them, something Myrtle was too blinded to see and Tom, sharp as a blade, silently noted. Helena Ravenclaw lingered, her pale form cool as mist and Tom regarded her with the kind of quiet intensity that made it seem as though the corridor belonged only to the three of them.
“I heard,” he said gently, his voice softened to something almost intimate, “that you left this castle once. That you ran away.” The Grey Lady’s gaze hardened a little, her mouth tightening.
“Children and their gossip.” But Tom only inclined his head, a gesture of perfect deference.
“Not gossip. It sounded more like pain. And I wouldn’t dare mock it.” His voice dipped lower, silk woven through with contrition. “I only wondered why.” There was silence. Myrtle’s fingers twitched at her side, but she stayed quiet, exactly as she ought to, watching with wide eyes, her face glowing with pride. Helena’s form flickered faintly, as though the question itself agitated her.
“I was young,” she said at last, bitterness creeping into her tone. “And foolish. I thought I could be greater than I was. I envied my mother’s gifts.” Tom’s eyes deepened, dark and solemn, as though he understood her better than anyone ever could.
“Gifts can be heavy to bear,” he murmured. “Perhaps you only wished to carry your own instead of her shadow.” Helena blinked at him, the faintest flicker of surprise breaking her composure. Myrtle’s chest swelled with warmth at the tenderness in his words, the way he spoke as though he truly cared. “And the Baron?” Tom’s voice was low, nearly mournful. “I’ve heard he followed you. That he hurt you.” Helena’s expression clouded, anger and sorrow twining together.
“He did,” she said, almost a whisper. “My mother sent him to fetch me, but he couldn’t bear refusal.” Tom tilted his head, lashes lowering, his face shadowed with carefully crafted regret.
“What a wretched end,” he said, quiet and aching. “No one should suffer betrayal like that. Least of all someone noble like you.” Myrtle swallowed hard, her eyes shining, watching him with rapture. He looked so steady, so wise, so kind. Helena’s ghostly lips pressed into a thin line but something in her gaze softened. For the first time in centuries, someone had spoken to her with carefully measured sorrow.
“You are… unusual,” she said at last, voice distant. Tom only lowered his head slightly, as though receiving a gift.
“So they tell me.” And Myrtle, standing small and devoted at his side, thought her heart might burst with pride. The Grey Lady’s gaze lingered on Tom, searching his face as though some piece of him might break the silence. At last, she drew back a fraction, her pale form dimming at the edges.
“I’ve spoken too much tonight,” she said softly. “I wish to be left alone now.” Her eyes flicked to Myrtle, then back to him. “Perhaps, I may not be unwilling to speak again.” Tom bowed his head the smallest degree, a gesture smooth as glass.
“That would be an honour.” Helena’s expression turned, unexpectedly, toward the small girl next to him, as though remembering she had been the bridge between them.
“Myrtle is very kind,” the ghost said, her voice quieter still, carrying something that might have been kindness. Her eyes cut back to Tom, cool and warning. “Be good to her.” Myrtle flushed scarlet, her hands twisting in the fabric of her skirt.
“I am very happy,” she whispered, her voice breaking. Tom’s lips curved in a faint shadow of a smile, his hand brushing lightly against Warren’s back as though in confirmation.
“I would never be otherwise.” The Grey Lady studied him a long moment, something unreadable in her pale face. Then, without further word, she drifted backward, her figure dissolving into the stone-cold silence of the castle. Myrtle let out the breath she hadn’t realised she was holding, turning to look up at him with wide eyes. Proud, anxious, almost shining.
“That went pretty well.” Tom’s gaze lingered on the empty air where Helena had vanished, his smile sharpening just slightly.
“Yes,” he murmured, as though it were already a certainty. “Indeed it did.”

They took the quiet corridors on their way back. Myrtle pressed closer to him, her face glowing, uncertain, searching his expression for approval.
“And she’ll talk to you again,” she whispered, her voice hopeful. “She doesn’t think badly of you.” Tom looked down at her then, his lips curving not in cruelty, not in smugness but in something softer, sharper, private. He reached to smooth a strand of hair behind her ear, his thumb grazing her temple.
“You’re happy,” he murmured.
“Yes,” Myrtle breathed, almost too quickly. “I just…when she warned you, I didn’t want her to think—”
“She can think what she likes.” His voice was calm, decisive. His hand lingered against her cheek as he tilted her face up. “What matters is that you’re smiling again.” And she was, tremulous, blushing, luminous as though the whole of her world had narrowed to this. He felt it then, the dangerous pulse he never admitted to anyone. How her fragile happiness in his hands made something in him ache with a twisted sort of pride. Sometimes, when she looked at him like that, when she glowed only because of him, he could almost believe he was a good man. Almost.
“I adore you like this.” His thumb brushed across her jaw and he bent closer, his words a silken vow against her skin. Myrtle made a small, overwhelmed sound, pressing herself against his chest as though the stone-cold corridor had bloomed into safety around him. Tom closed his eyes briefly, breathing her in and for the briefest moment he let himself feel the illusion that with her, he could be something softer, something better. A dangerous illusion. Yet Myrtle only burrowed closer into him, her small hands gripping the fabric of his robes as though afraid he might vanish too. He bent his head, lips brushing against her temple in a gesture so gentle it almost startled her. “You’ve tried to fix your hair again,” he murmured, letting his fingers drift through her plaits, twisting a loosened strand between his fingertips. Her breath hitched.
“It never stays,” she frowned in disappointment and Tom chuckled darkly.
“If it troubles you so much, I can learn other spells again for that. Something more lasting.” His mouth curved faintly, a teasing smirk that belied the softness of his touch. “You’ve only to ask.” Her cheeks warmed deeper, her lips parting as if to protest but no words came. She leaned into his hand instead, shy and desperate and the sight of her made his chest tighten in that dangerous, unwanted way. “You’re glowing,” he said, his thumb tracing along her jaw as if committing the line of it to memory. “Do you know that?” Her laugh was nervous, flustered, but she lifted her eyes to his.
“It’s only because of you.” That answer, so simple, so unthinking, ignited a heat low in his chest. He bent to kiss her, not hurried, not hungry but slow and claiming, until her little hands unfurled against his chest. His fingers slid to the nape of her neck, tangling in her hair, anchoring her as though nothing outside them mattered. When he drew back, her lips were still parted, her expression dreamy and overwhelmed. “I love you very much,” she whispered and nuzzled closer, voice muffled against his robes. And Tom almost genuinely smiled at that. His arms tightened, pulling her flush against him and his lips brushed her temple.
“I’ll always take care of you,” he murmured. And she believed him. She always would.

Chapter Text

April 1943

The library was almost closing but they had long stopped worrying about the curfew. The lamps were burning low, when Tom drew Myrtle into the farthest alcove. He sat easily against the wall, pulling her between his knees until she nearly toppled onto his lap. Her satchel slipped to the floor with a soft thud.
“Tom,” she whispered nervously, glancing toward the rows of books as though someone might be listening.
“No one’s here.” His voice was calm, indulgent. He reached out to catch her wrist, guiding her hands against his chest. “You’re blushing already.”
“I’m not,” she mumbled, though her cheeks were hot, her eyes cast down as though the stone floor might swallow her. He tilted her chin up with a single finger, smirking faintly.
“You are. You always are when it’s just us.” Her lips parted as if to argue, but she couldn’t find the words. Instead, she let out a shaky laugh, making his smirk widen. “I like it,” he murmured, brushing his thumb along the hollow of her cheek. “When you’re all flustered for me.”
“I’m not—” she began, only to falter as he leaned close enough that his breath tickled her ear.
“Yes you are,” he teased softly. “It’s charming.” She buried her face against his shoulder, hiding, but he only laughed under his breath and curved his arm firmly around her waist, keeping her pressed against him. “You think I don’t notice every little thing?”
“Maybe you notice too much,” she said, muffled against him.
“Impossible.” His knuckles traced the line of her spine, slow and steady. “I like watching you squirm. I like how red your cheeks get, how your hands tremble when you hold mine.” Her gasp was faint and she drew back to glare at him halfheartedly, though her eyes were shining.
“You’re teasing again.”
“I’m being honest.” He tilted his head, his smile soft but intent. “Do you know how dangerous it is for me to be like this with you?” Her breath caught. She tried to answer, but he brushed his lips over hers before she could, a kiss as delicate as it was deliberate, one hand holding her jaw steady. When he drew back, she was flushed, glowing, lost for words. “That’s what I mean,” he said, his voice dropping, almost confessional. “You make me want to say things I never thought I would.” Her eyes filled, but she was smiling now, small and tremulous, and she rested her forehead against his. Tom’s arm tightened around her waist, keeping her anchored in his lap. She bit her lip then and almost recklessly whispered.
“Then say them.” Tom stilled, his eyes narrowing in faint surprise. She looked terrified of her own audacity but she held his gaze, cheeks flaming. A slow, dangerous smile curved his mouth.
“Say them?” he echoed, his tone velvet edged with amusement. His hand slid deliberately up her side, brushing the curve of her ribs. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
“I do.” The words came in a rush, breathless but certain. He leaned close until his lips ghosted along her temple, his voice low enough to tremble through her skin.
“You make me forget myself,” he whispered. His fingers threaded into her hair, tugging gently until her head tilted back. “You make me wonder if I could ever be good.” His mouth trailed lower, brushing over her flushed cheek, down to the hinge of her jaw. Her breath hitched but she clung to his shoulders, trembling. “You’re the only one,” he murmured against her throat, his thumb pressing possessively into her hip. His hand slid lower, over the curve of her thigh, his knuckles grazing her stocking until she shivered. Her gasp came out as a whimper and he smiled against her pulse, darkly pleased. “You asked for it,” he reminded her, lips grazing her collarbone now, whispering words into her skin like confessions he’d never allow anyone else to hear. “You’re mine, Warren. My clever, fragile girl. My darling.” She buried her face into his shoulder, overwhelmed but he only tightened his hold, his hands roaming slowly, deliberately and she melted against him. He drew her closer until she was flush against him, her skirts bunched as his hand slid up her thigh. His lips brushed her temple, soft at first, then trailed lower, every word whispered into her skin as though it were a spell binding her to him. He breathed against her cheek, his fingers pressing possessively higher, teasing just where she was most sensitive. Her gasp broke against his shoulder and she gripped his robes, as if to steady herself.
“All mine,” he whispered again, more firmly this time, the hand at her hip guiding her down harder against his lap until she felt the truth of his desire. His mouth found her throat, biting softly, then soothing the sting with his lips. “My dear girl. My clever one.” Myrtle whimpered, her blush burning into her collar as he tugged her blouse loose with deft fingers, his knuckles grazing her bare skin.
“Tom—” her voice cracked, but he swallowed the rest with a kiss that left her trembling, pliant.
“I’ll call you mine until you can’t breathe,” he whispered hotly into her mouth, his hand sliding beneath the hem of her skirt now. “Until you can’t think of anything but me.” Her reply was lost in a shiver as his touch claimed her, the alcove spinning into nothing but his voice, his hands, his weight pressing her down, whispering soft, romantic things that felt truer than anything she had ever known. The lamps had burned low, shadows stretching long across the library alcove. The air was heavy with the hush of forbidden closeness, of sweat and whispers that could never belong to anyone but them.

Later, Myrtle lay next to him on the bench, her head resting on his thighs, her blouse wrinkled, her breathing soft and uneven as she drifted into sleep. One hand lightly grasping his knee, as though even in dreams she refused to let him go. Her hair spilled across his robes, strands tickling his wrist each time she shifted with a small sigh. Tom, however, was perfectly awake. The book before him lay open on the desk edge, a slim, cracked volume bound in dark leather. He turned a page slowly, eyes fixed on the diagrams, the fragments of translation about the tearing of the soul. His hand held the parchment steady, the other curved absentmindedly at Warren’s waist, feeling the rise and fall of her breathing. It was strange, that the girl who had just trembled and flushed under his touch now slept so innocently at his side, unguarded in a way no one else ever dared to be around him. He smirked faintly at the contrast. She looked like some soft human tether, fragile and warm, while he studied the mechanics of severing one’s soul from the body entirely. Life and death, need and ambition, wrapped into one secret moment. Her lips parted in sleep, a faint smile curling there and she shifted closer into him. Tom let his hand drift through her hair, smoothing it back without looking away from the words on the page. Warren stirred faintly, murmuring something against his lap and he held her tighter without thought. His voice was silent, his expression calm but his eyes burned in the low light as they devoured the secrets before him. Tom turned another page, but his gaze strayed back to her face. Her lashes rested lightly against her cheeks, her lips parted in a whisper of a breath. She looked impossibly innocent like this, curled against him with such unthinking trust and for a moment he simply let his hand drift over her hair, smoothing it as though she were spun from something more delicate than silk. He should wake her. It was late, too late. If someone found her wandering back to her dormitory at this hour, there would be questions neither of them needed. But the thought of rousing her, of seeing those soft eyes blink in confusion, the way she would apologise for falling asleep on him… he found he couldn’t do it. Stranger still, he realised, was the warmth in his chest. It wasn’t the heat of victory or power, nor the satisfaction of knowledge. It was quieter. He adored her like this, unguarded and close, as though she belonged entirely to him without needing to be told so. Yet he knew the truth. He could never take her with him to the dungeons, to the den of serpents where his other life pulsed and hissed in the dark. She was no creature of darkness and stone, no Knight bound by loyalty and fear. She would be out of place there, too exposed. The contrast almost amused him. He brushed a stray lock of hair from her brow and studied her expression, as though trying to read in it what spell she had cast over him. He decided he’d let her sleep a little longer, closing his hand over her waist once more. Just a little longer. And though the hour stretched on and the fire in the lamps disappeared, Tom Riddle did not move, content for once to sit in silence, with ambition burning in one hand and a girl’s steady breath anchoring him in the other. At last, Tom set the book aside. The words blurred now, not from weariness but from the weight of her pressed trustingly against him. He let his hand linger in her hair another moment before speaking softly.
“Warren.” She stirred faintly, a muffled sound against his chest. Her fingers tightened in his robes, as though her dreaming self already knew he meant to send her away. “We should go,” he said, firmer this time, but still low as though the library itself might break if he raised his voice. Her eyes blinked open, bleary and startled and her cheeks flushed at once when she realised how she’d been lying.
“I didn’t mean to—”
“I know.” He smoothed her hair back, cutting off the apology before it began its usual tumble. For a moment, he simply looked at her, lips pressed in a line as though weighing something unspeakable. And then, almost against his own nature, he heard himself murmur. “Do you want me to carry you?” Her mouth parted, startled.
“C–carry…?” He gave a faint, crooked smile, one that wasn’t entirely unkind.
“You look half-asleep still. It could be faster.” Warren shook her head quickly, embarrassed, though her blush only deepened.
“N-no, I can walk. Really.”
“Mm.” His arm tightened around her for just a heartbeat more before he let her rise. He hated the feeling of her leaving him, hated giving her back to the empty corridors, to the Ravenclaws who would never see what he saw. But they couldn’t stay. Not here. Not like this. He stood, straightened his robes and offered her his hand. When she took it, he didn’t let go until they were by the entrance to her tower. Only then did he release her, the faintest trace of reluctance in the gesture. “Go on,” he said, his eyes strangely softer. She murmured she loved him as always and he pressed a kiss on her forehead before letting her go.

The corridors were still and dim, the air faintly chill with the hour before dawn. Tom’s footsteps carried him steadily down from the library, Myrtle’s warmth still ghosting against his side. He should have gone straight for the dungeons, but his route took him across the fifth floor. The scent of soap and marble clung faintly here and the memory rose unbidden. Her flushed face across steaming water, her desperate voice when she didn’t want him to leave her, the moment her fingers caught his sleeve and dragged him in. The startled splash, the heat of her lips pressed against his in a fury that burned itself into him. He stopped at the door of the prefect’s bathroom, his hand brushing the cold brass handle. A wave of memories stirred. London, the secret Christmas, the quiet tremor in her voice every time she whispered she loved him. The way she clung to him after, as if he were something more than shadow and hunger. And again the first kiss in the prefect’s bathroom when she lied to him about the Patronus. A strange impulse prickled at him, unbidden and unwelcome. He hesitated, fingers tightening on his wand.
“Expecto Patronum.” The word left him before he thought too much of it and a small silver line burst from his wand-tip like spilled light. It shimmered, coiling, until a long and elegant snake reared from the glow. It was fragile and weak but it swayed, tongue flickering and for a single suspended moment Tom felt a jolt unlike any other. She was the only memory warm enough to summon this. Her softness, her breathless declarations, her absolute, unwavering love. Not his triumphs. Not the Chamber. Not his hunger for immortality. Her. The sight sickened him. His chest tightened, his breath caught and with a sharp flick he severed the spell. The silver snake vanished in a spray of sparks, leaving only cold stone and silence. Tom stood there a moment, teeth clenched, pulse racing. He had never wanted this. He had no need for such weakness. He turned sharply on his heel, robes snapping against the flagstones and hurried down towards the dungeons. He would not think of it again. He must not.
By the time Tom reached the dungeon stairwell, his jaw ached from how hard he was clenching it. The echo of silver still burned in his eyes, taunting him. It enraged him. Not her necessarily, but the thought that she could hold such sway. That her softness, her unshakable devotion, could summon something he had never achieved before. Not through mastery. Not through power. But through warmth. He pressed a hand to the cold stone wall, forcing himself to breathe. This was a weakness. One he could not afford. He had power over her, always. Her loyalty, her blushes, her trembling eagerness to please. That was the balance. That was what kept him strong. She could not be allowed to turn it the other way, to make him dependent on her warmth. He was not the man who would build her a house one day, nor the man who would raise their children and give her a life of domestic simplicity. He was not meant to need a Patronus at all and certainly not one conjured because a girl’s love had wormed itself into the hollow place inside him. That was not him. That could never be him. Tom straightened, locking the thought away as though shoving a book into the deepest corner of the Restricted Section. He refused to let it surface again. Myrtle Warren was his, yes. His to protect, his to command, his to steady when she faltered. But he could never be hers. Not like that.
By the time he reached the Slytherin dormitories, his composure had returned. The flicker of silver, the warmth that had betrayed him, was nothing but a buried ember now. Hidden. Controlled. And if his hand still trembled faintly when he unbuttoned his robes, no one would ever know.
—

The following day, Tom found her after classes by the library steps, arms full of books, her head ducked as though she were hoping not to be noticed. But he noticed her. He always did.
“Warren.” She looked up quickly, startled, cheeks pinkening as though she expected him to pass her by as he often did in public. Instead, he stepped closer, relieving her of the books before she could protest. “You’ll bury yourself under these one day,” he said smoothly, tucking it beneath his arm. His tone was gentle, deliberately so, the faintest curve of his mouth almost kind. “Come. I’ll walk you.” Her eyes widened at the offer, at the attention, and he felt the flicker of triumph at once. Yes. This was the way it had to be. He steadied her. She needed him, not the other way around. As they walked through the hushed aisles, he let his hand brush hers deliberately, claiming the smallest contact in the shadows between shelves. She flushed, almost stumbled and when he caught her elbow to steady her, her breath hitched. “Careful,” he murmured near her ear, low enough that only she could hear. “I can’t have you falling for me that much.” She looked up at him with that same fragile adoration, the kind that had nearly undone him the night before. For a moment, it pricked at the back of his mind. The serpent of silver light, the warmth he had cut away. He shoved it down, tightening his grip on her elbow, his thumb brushing her sleeve in quiet possession. Later, when she bent her head over her parchment at their shared table, he let his gaze linger on her, unbroken, until she glanced up nervously and flushed again. She whispered something about him being distracting and he only smirked, leaning closer. “Good. That means you remember who is looking after you.” The way she trembled, half with nerves, half with delight, was enough to steady him again. She was his. She could never undo him. He would not allow it.

The common room was filled with Slytherin students and Orion slouched into their shared room. Tom was already there, seated at his desk with a book open but not turned, his posture immaculate, his eyes on the page as if waiting. Orion stripped off his robes with a grunt.
“I saw you today.”
“You see me every day,” Tom didn’t look up.
“No,” Orion smirked faintly, unfastening his cufflinks, “in the library. With the mudblood.” That word slid into the air like a test. Tom’s eyes flicked upward at last, dark and unreadable. Orion, half in shadow, leaned back against his bedpost, trying for casual. “You know, I was tucked away there myself,” Orion went on, an edge of amusement in his tone. “Walburga has a talent for finding the furthest alcoves. So, I couldn’t help but notice…” He let it hang, deliberately baiting. Tom closed his book with slow precision, the sound sharp as a blade.
“Am I meant to congratulate you for rutting in between the stacks like a common dog?” Orion flushed, laughed once as though it didn’t sting.
“Touché. But…” his grin faltered, something almost genuine tightening in his voice, “tell me she isn’t the girl. The one the rest of us shouldn’t know.” The silence stretched. Tom rose, unhurried, his expression schooled into the perfect mask of disdain. He stood at his full height, the candlelight catching on the planes of his face.
“You think that the miserable little Ravenclaw is the measure of me?” The words were low, cutting. “You think I would stake my name on something so beneath us all?” Orion shifted, uncertain now.
“I only—”
“You only imagined more cleverness than you’ve ever had,” Tom snapped, then smoothed his tone back into glacial calm. “I was speaking with her about Potions. Nothing more. I don’t involve myself with filth, Orion.” The way he said it, quiet and absolute, dared Orion to press further. Orion, wisely, did not. He only shrugged and muttered something about believing him. Tom watched him a moment longer, then returned to his desk, sliding the book open again as though nothing had happened. Inside, though, a coil of irritation twisted. The idea that anyone might glimpse the truth was intolerable. He would have to be more careful. Much more careful.
—

The April sun had warmed the castle stones and spilled gold over the Black Lake, where the water rippled with a lazy calm. Myrtle sat beside him in the grass, her robes gathered around her knees, eyes bright from the light breeze. Tom leaned back on one hand, his gaze not on the lake but on her.
“Warren,” he said suddenly, low enough that she glanced at him in surprise. “Do you often use the Patronus spell now?” She blinked, then smiled faintly, shy.
“Sometimes. When I feel…lonely.” She fidgeted with a blade of grass. “It makes it better.”
“Is it still the bunny?” Tom asked, his tone almost casual though his eyes were sharp. “From the night in the Prefect’s bathroom.” Her cheeks flushed and she nodded. “What do you think about, when you cast it?” he said, brushing a strand of hair from her face with deliberate care. Her lips parted, but the answer was already written across her face.
“You, of course” it was half-confession, half-plea. Tom’s mouth curved, pleased, victorious and he leaned in to kiss her, slow and deliberate, letting her believe it was tenderness rather than confirmation of his power. When he pulled back, his voice was softer still, the command hidden in its gentleness.
“Show me.” She hesitated only a moment before drawing her wand. Light shimmered at its tip, then burst into form. A small silvery rabbit, twitching its ears nervously, glancing about before bounding a few steps forward. It sat back on its haunches and looked directly at Tom. He observed it in silence, head tilted slightly, lips pressed in thought. The creature’s nose twitched in anxious little bursts, as though it could feel his scrutiny, yet it did not vanish. Almost like the girl herself. Timid, easily startled, yet stubborn enough to remain where she was placed. Myrtle glanced between Tom and the spell, biting her lip.
“It likes you,” she whispered hopefully. He did not answer. He only reached over and curled his hand around her wrist, lowering her wand until the rabbit faded into mist.
“Charming.” His thumb brushed her pulse point, grounding her. She searched his face, emboldened by the sunlight and his touch.
“But…you said you couldn’t cast it. Have you tried again since?” For a beat, the silver serpent in his memory hissed against the back of his mind. The unsettling warmth. The impossible. He shut it down, forcing his expression into cool detachment.
“No,” he said smoothly. “I don’t need it. And I doubt I ever will.” Her eyes softened, as though she wanted to protest, but she nodded, accepting his word as she always did. Tom leaned in again, brushing his lips just beneath her ear, sealing the lie with quiet possession. She had curled closer against him after his last words, almost melting into him with that unguarded trust he sometimes found nearly intoxicating. Her cheek rested against his shoulder, her voice soft, almost idle, when she spoke again.

“Oh, did you hear? Madame Scribner said the professors may have found something…a cure for the petrified students.” The words struck him like a blade between the ribs. For a fraction of a second, his body went rigid, the calm of the lake fractured by an invisible storm. He turned his head toward her slowly, expression composed, perfectly smooth.
“Did she,” he said, voice low, almost curious. “And how does Madame Scribner know this?” Myrtle blinked, surprised at the sudden intensity in his tone.
“I don’t know. She’s friends with Madame Burke. She said it’s something about mandrakes. I didn’t really understand.” She gave a nervous little laugh. “It sounded very…complicated.” Inside, rage coiled tight and venomous. Mandrakes. If they revived those vermin, the whispers, the terror, the exquisite fear he had sowed, it would all be undone. But his face betrayed nothing. He tilted his head, as if in mild interest, thumb stroking idly over her wrist where he still held it.
“Mm. Interesting. But I imagine it will take them quite some time, don’t you think?” She nodded eagerly, relieved at his calm.
“Yes. That’s what I thought too.” Tom hummed, low in his throat, as if already dismissing the matter. But inside his thoughts ran sharp and fast. If they are close, then he must be closer. Another strike. Another message. A reminder that fear is not so easily banished. His arm tightened faintly around her, the only outward sign of the storm beneath. She leaned into it, happy, oblivious, while he stared out across the water with eyes gone dark, already planning the serpent’s next descent.
—

The fire in the Slytherin dungeons had burned low, green shadows flickering against the stone. Tom sat at the head of their little circle, his posture impeccable, his expression unreadable. Around him sprawled Black, Lestrange, Nott and Malfoy, the atmosphere thick with the kind of tension that made even silence feel dangerous.
“They’re close,” Tom said finally, his voice cutting clean through the dim. “The professors. They think they’ve found a cure.” The words landed like a curse. Lestrange swore under his breath, fingers tightening around the arm of his chair. Black leaned forward, sharp-eyed, restless. Malfoy frowned, uneasily twisting his signet ring.
“A cure?” Nott repeated, incredulous. “How?”
“Mandrakes,” Tom replied coldly. “Their roots are nearly mature. Once they’ve brewed them into draughts, every last petrified fool will be revived.” His gaze swept across them, deliberate, punishing. “And then what we’ve done, what I have done, will vanish like smoke.”
“Then we strike now! Call the monster again, double the pace, flood the halls with mudblood statues before they can finish their damned plants,” Lestrange slammed his fist against the wooden table.
“Yes. Why play cautious when the game’s nearly over?” Black gave a sharp grin, reckless and eager.
“But it’s been…controlled, so far. Targeted. If you let it wander…” Malfoy, pale, muttered.
“That’s the point,” Tom cut in, his voice rising, dangerous. “Control has bought us whispers. Fear in the corners. But if they revive the first victims before another falls, they will think themselves safe. Protected.” He leaned forward, eyes catching the green firelight, almost glowing. “We are not here to frighten children, we are here to remind them of power.” The others shifted, breathless, spellbound. “So,” he continued, his tone cold and final, “we will not whisper this time. We will roar. The serpent will wander. The castle itself will tremble at his passing. Every corridor, every shadow will belong to it. No mudblood will feel safe, no pure-blood will think of them as nothing but a target.” A low murmur of assent rippled. Black’s grin widened, Lestrange’s eyes burned with cruel light, Nott’s fingers twitched restlessly over his runes. Only Malfoy hesitated, his voice tight.
“And if it turns on…someone it shouldn’t?” Tom’s gaze fixed on him, sharp and merciless.
“It won’t.” The weight of that certainty silenced Malfoy instantly. Tom let the pause stretch, savoring the quiet submission. Then he rose, the leader not of boys but of something far older, far darker. “The next descent will not be delicate,” he said. “It is still only the beginning.” The green shadows seemed to deepen at the word, as though the castle itself had listened.
—

By midmorning, the castle was humming with relief. The news had been “officially” spoken aloud in classes, passed from professor to professor with faint smiles. The Mandrakes are nearly ready. The cure will soon be brewed. The petrified students will recover.
Professor Slughorn beamed through his Potions lecture, declaring that “our clever colleagues in Herbology assure us it is only a matter of days now!” Even Dippet seemed rejuvenated, his voice booming with exaggerated confidence when he passed students in the corridor. “We shall have our dear children back to us very soon. Very soon indeed.” Tom inclined his head respectfully, but inside, contempt curled sharp and cold. Fools. So eager to declare victory, so blind to how fragile it all is.
By lunch, the optimism was nearly palpable. Students were louder, laughter freer. Myrtle caught his eye as if seeking reassurance, and Tom gave her only the smallest curve of his lips. He could not allow softness now. Not when the entire castle was drifting into complacency. The first scream shattered it. It came from the upper corridor. High, panicked, breaking through the cheer of midday. A group of Gryffindors rushed into the Hall, pale and babbling. Professor Malfort stumbled in behind them, her face gray.
“One of the third-years,” she panted. “Muggle-born boy… found stiff, turned to stone outside Divination classroom…” Chaos broke loose again. Dippet rose, wringing his hands, trying to calm the hysteria, but before he could steady the room, the doors slammed open once more. A Hufflepuff girl stumbled in, shrieking and half-sobbing.
“Another one! By the stairwell to the Astronomy Tower. It’s Clara, Clara Denholm! She— she’s frozen, her eyes—” The castle seemed to drop into silence, only the girl’s ragged cries filling the space. Clara Denholm was an eighth year, muggle-born. Bright, ambitious. Tom had seen her once in the library, nose deep in Arithmancy, so sure of her place. Now nothing but stone. The silence cracked into pandemonium. Professors barked orders, prefects scrambled, students wept or shouted in disbelief. All the promise of the cure, all the smug reassurance, burned away in an instant. Tom sat very still among the Slytherins, the picture of a controlled alarm. Only the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed his satisfaction.
—

The dungeons smelled of smoke and damp stone, the Knights gathered in their usual circle. Lestrange was practically vibrating with delight, pacing as though he couldn’t contain himself.
“Did you see them?” he laughed, low and wild. “The professors, running about like chickens with their heads cut off. Dippet looked ready to faint into his soup!” Black leaned back in his chair, smirking.
“And the Mudbloods… you’d think they were already dead, the way they screamed.” He tilted his head toward Tom. “You chose well, Tom. Two in one day. That shook them.” Tom said nothing at first, seated in his calm, immaculate posture, fingers steepled before him. The faint firelight painted his eyes with an eerie glow.
“They thought themselves safe,” he said at last, his voice quiet but sharp enough to cut through the laughter. “They were beginning to believe the danger had passed. Now they know better. Now they remember fear.” Malfoy, pale but trying not to show it, asked,
“But what if the cure truly is ready soon? Mandrakes, they said—”
“They aren’t ready yet,” Lestrange cut him off, grinning savagely. “And before they are, we’ll have more statues than they can count.” It was Nott, quiet until then, who leaned forward, his thin smile curling like a blade.
“Or,” he said softly, “we make sure the cure never works at all.” The others glanced at him.
“What do you mean?” Black asked.
“Mandrakes,” Nott said, his voice almost reverent. “They’re the heart of it. Without them, no draught, no cure. A little poison in their soil, a subtle infusion…” His eyes glittered. “And when the professors go to harvest them…rotted roots. Dead plants. No hope of revival.”
“That’s brilliant,” Lestrange barked a laugh, delighted. Malfoy looked uneasy.
“It’s… dangerous. If anyone suspected—”
“Why would anyone suspect us,” Nott said smoothly. The boys looked at Tom then. Waiting. Always waiting for his word. The fire spat sparks, throwing restless shadows across the stone. Nott’s words hung in the air, sharp and poisonous, the others leaning forward, hungry for Tom’s verdict. He let them wait. Always he let them wait. Finally, he shook his head.
“No.” The sound was soft, but absolute. Lestrange blinked, caught off guard.
“But it would cripple them—”
“It would be clumsy,” Tom cut in, his voice slicing through Lestrange’s excitement like a blade. “Obvious. They’d hunt for culprits and too many eyes would turn a certain way. Muddying hands with soil isn’t what we’re here for.” His gaze swept over each of them, dark and commanding. “The basilisk is ours. It is pure. It is fear itself. We don’t need petty poisons to do what destiny has already set in motion.” Black smirked faintly, leaning back again, mollified by the certainty in Tom’s tone. Malfoy looked relieved. Nott only inclined his head, though disappointment flickered in his sharp eyes. Tom rose, smooth and deliberate, the firelight catching on his features. “Let the professors tend their plants. Let them whisper of cures. When they believe themselves safe, when they believe they are clever, we will show them they know nothing. The serpent will be loosed. No instructions. No limits. The castle will remember who truly belongs here.” The others were silent, staring up at him with something between reverence and fear. “Hope,” Tom said, his voice low, dangerous, “is the cruelest weapon of all. We will give it to them. And then we will take it away like today.” The fire cracked. The room seemed to shiver with the weight of the words. And in that silence, the Knights understood. Tom had chosen the path. Not subtle sabotage, not little tricks. The very beginning of war.
—

The air was unseasonably warm for April, carrying the smell of damp grass and lakewater. The grounds were alive with sound. Distant shouts of students, the croak of frogs in the reeds, the whisper of wind stirring the budding trees. Tom had led Warren down toward the farthest curve of the Black Lake, where the shore bent away from the castle and the stones were warmed by the afternoon sun. She sat cross-legged on the grass beside him, shoes kicked off, barefoot, her toes curling shyly into the earth. The sunlight made her spectacles glint and flushed her cheeks. Tom, perfectly at ease, lounged with one knee bent, his hand trailing idly through her brown hair, his gaze fixed not on the view but on her.
“How do you feel,” he asked at last, “about what’s happened? The new petrifications.” Myrtle’s fingers twisted in her skirt. She had been waiting for him to mention it, but still she startled at the words.
“I…I don’t know,” she admitted, voice soft. “It’s frightening. Everyone’s whispering that it’s only Muggle-borns…and I keep thinking, what if—” Tom leaned forward before she could finish, his hand rising to brush a loose curl from her forehead.
“Not you,” he said smoothly, his voice low and certain. “Never you.” Her eyes widened, her breath catching, as if his assurance alone could erase her fear. He let his hand linger in her hair, then with a faint, unexpected smile he began to gather the strands, twisting them deftly. She froze, then flushed crimson as she realised what he was doing.
“Tom,” she whispered, half a laugh, half disbelief. “You…you don’t braid hair.”
“I do now.” His tone was faintly amused, though his fingers worked with the precision he gave to everything. “Hold still.” Her cheeks burned hotter. She kept her head bowed, but her lips trembled with a secret smile. The sensation of his fingers weaving through her hair was almost dizzying, so gentle it didn’t feel like him. He leaned closer, his breath brushing her ear. Her face flamed deeper and she ducked her head further. He tied off the braid neatly with a charm, letting it fall over her shoulder, then traced a fingertip down its length, deliberate, proprietary. “There,” he said softly. “Pretty. Mine.” The sunlight shimmered on the water. Myrtle leaned into his side, heart pounding, the warmth of spring and his hands dizzying her. She thought he was tender; he knew he was binding her tighter. For a while, they sat like that. Myrtle glowing, braided hair resting against her chest, Tom’s hand resting with casual weight at her waist. To any eye, they were just two students by the lake. But in the spaces between his words and touches, Tom’s control coiled around her like the serpent in the dark, invisible and unbreakable. Myrtle toyed with the end of the braid nervously, too flustered to speak at first. But then, as though grasping for something safe, she blurted.
“My aunt wrote to me again. She sent her greetings…to you too.”
“To me?” Tom’s brows lifted, just slightly.
“Yes,” Myrtle rushed on, cheeks pink. “She…she asked if you’re well. If we still talk.” Her fingers twisted tighter around the braid, eyes darting away as though afraid she’d said too much. Tom’s tone remained even, but his gaze sharpened.
“Does your aunt write often?”
“Sometimes,” Myrtle said quickly. “She’s trying. I didn’t answer her before. But I… I thought maybe I should.” His eyes lingered on her, calm but unblinking. The braid between her fingers looked suddenly like a tether, something he could snap taut with a single pull.
“And what do you tell her?” he asked softly. Myrtle blinked at him, startled.
“Nothing, really. Not…not about you.” Her voice dropped, embarrassed. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to. Because of the vow.” Tom’s shoulders relaxed a fraction, though he let no relief show. His thumb brushed down the length of the braid, possessive.
“It’s probably for the best anyway. Our things aren’t for owls and others. You’re clever to keep it that way.” Her lips curved into a small, shy smile at the rare praise and she nuzzled closer to his shoulder. He kissed the crown of her head, letting the moment settle, his voice smooth and low. “Write to her if you like. But remember, she doesn’t know you like I do. She never will.” Her chest ached at that, full and warm, and she nodded against him.
“I know.”
—

By the middle of April, Tom visited the Grey Lady. The dungeon corridor was hushed, shadows curling across the damp stone. Helena Ravenclaw drifted at the far end, her translucent form a pale echo against the darkness. Tom stepped closer, every movement deliberate, as though he had been meant to find her here.
“I hope,” he began, voice low, smooth, “you don’t mind me seeking you out alone.” Her eyes narrowed, cool as frost.
“You’ve grown bold.”
“She worries a lot.” Tom let out a faint sigh, the kind that carried just enough weariness to seem sincere. “I don’t like troubling her with the things that consume me. It would not be kind.” Helena studied him with suspicion, yet her gaze softened at the mention of the girl.
“She is fragile.”
“She is influential,” Tom countered gently and the conviction in his voice was enough to sound like the truth. “But she deserves to feel safe, not tangled in my curiosities.” A silence stretched. Then, carefully, he stepped closer. “You told her she needn’t be afraid. Of the petrifications.” Helena’s face flickered, the faintest shadow of discomfort. “How so?” Tom pressed softly. The Grey Lady lifted her chin, refusing to look away.
“Because I know things. The way you know yours.” Tom tilted his head, his expression perfectly schooled into puzzled gravity.
“Then why not say it aloud?”
“Would it matter?” Her tone turned bitter, sharp as glass. “Even if I screamed it from the walls, no one would listen to a ghost like me. I am but a relic here. A shadow of a crime long past.” Tom’s eyes gleamed, the faintest curl at the edge of his lips.
“You are more than that. You have knowledge only a few others possess. You saw the Founders’ age, you understand the bones of this place.” Helena’s form flickered faintly, pride warring with centuries of shame. “I understand you,” Tom continued, his voice dropping to a near whisper, the cadence of confession. “Once, you maybe reached for greatness. Beyond your mother’s shadow. I know what that feels like.” Her ghostly brow furrowed.
“Do you?”
“I am the last of Salazar’s line,” Tom said quietly, his gaze locking on hers. “The blood in my veins marks me as his heir. Do you think I don’t understand what it is to want to rise higher than they allow? To be greater than they believe you can be?” Helena stared at him, transfixed and wary, the admission pressing into some ancient wound. “I know what it is to hunger,” he murmured. “To ache for more than this world is willing to grant. You ran because you could not bear to be small. And I assume they punished you for it.” Her face twisted. Pain, guilt, resentment all vying for dominance.
“I was foolish,” she whispered. “I stole from my mother. I thought it would make me more. Instead, it doomed me.” Tom didn’t press, not yet. He let silence hang, patient, watchful. Then he inclined his head.
“I don’t judge you. I would have probably done the same.” The ghost’s breathless stillness lingered, though she had no breath to hold. For the first time in centuries, someone had not recoiled from her confession. Her lips parted, barely audible.
“You are dangerous.” Tom’s smile was small, careful, the perfect blend of humility and darkness.
“Only to those who stand in my way.”
—

It was late evening, the library nearly deserted. Myrtle sat hunched beside Tom in their usual alcove, her sketchbook closed on her lap, though her fingers worried at its corners. He was bent over a heavy tome, quill scratching steadily, when she finally blurted.
“Tom?” He didn’t look up.
“Mm.” Her voice was hesitant, trembling, but she pressed on.
“Why are you never afraid?” That made him pause. He glanced at her then, his dark eyes sharp, unreadable.
“Afraid?”
“Of the attacks,” she whispered, lowering her voice as though the books themselves might overhear. “Everyone else is terrified. Even Ravenclaws I know…everyone’s saying it’s only Muggle-borns being attacked. And…” She twisted her hands. “You…you hate Muggles, I know that. But aren’t you at least…sorry for them? Or—or worried it might get worse?” Tom set down his quill with exquisite care. He leaned back, studying her as if she were an equation to be solved.
“Why should I waste pity on those who don’t belong here?” She flinched at the bluntness, eyes filling with uncertainty. He softened his tone a fraction, reaching over to brush a curl from her forehead.
“But you—” his thumb lingered just beneath her temple— “you are not like them. You’re clever. Useful. You’re mine. And I told you already, nothing will ever happen to you.” Her breath caught at the words, but her brow furrowed still.
“But how can you be so sure? What if the professors don’t stop it? You used to…you used to say you were looking for the Chamber of Secrets, remember? What happened to that?” He stilled, then gave a quiet, almost amused laugh.
“You think I’m not still looking?” Her lips parted.
“Are you?” His eyes gleamed, the corners of his mouth curving in that too-calm way.
“Of course. But do you expect me to chatter about every dead end, every rumor in the dust? I’ll find it when it wishes to be found. Until then…” His hand slid down, curling around hers. “You don’t need to fret over it. That’s my burden, not yours.” She swallowed, cheeks burning under the weight of his gaze.
“I only wondered.”
“Don’t,” he murmured, leaning closer, his voice like silk. “You’ll make yourself ill with wondering. Better to leave such things to me.” Myrtle’s brow was still faintly creased, but the way he held her hand, the deliberate weight of his words, sank deeper than her doubts. She searched his face, found no fear there, no hesitation, only calm certainty. Her lips trembled into a shy, relieved smile.
“All right,” she whispered. “If you say so.” Tom’s thumb stroked over her knuckles, sealing the moment.
“Good girl.” The warmth of it, the praise, made her cheeks glow. She ducked her head, hiding the grin that she couldn’t quite smother.
“I shouldn’t have doubted you. I’m sorry.” He tilted her chin up again, forcing her to meet his gaze.
“Don’t be sorry. Just remember.” Her heart thudded at the quiet authority in his voice.
“I will.” He leaned down, brushing his lips over her forehead, soft as silk and for Myrtle it was enough to dissolve every question she’d dared to ask. She leaned into him, sighing, her earlier nervousness replaced by a dizzy, blissful certainty that he truly did know best.
Tom watched the way she melted, the way her doubts folded into obedience under the smallest stroke of his hand. Inside, he smiled.
“I was with Helena and she said some things…” Myrtle whispered nervously after a moment. Tom stilled. He turned his head slowly, his gaze settling on her with quiet intensity.
“And what did she say?” Myrtle’s fingers tightened around her books.
“That she’s worried for me. Because of you.” Her voice cracked slightly. “She said you’re dangerous.” The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. Tom leaned back in his chair, his jaw tight, eyes fixed on hers.
“Did she?” Myrtle shrank slightly under his gaze, already regretting bringing it up.
“I told her she was wrong,” she said quickly, desperate. “I tried to tell her it’s not—” He cut her off, rising smoothly to his feet, the shadows sliding across his face. He moved before she could flinch away, bracing one hand against the table beside her. His voice was low, threaded with venom he didn’t bother to hide.
“She dares,” he hissed, “to speak of me as though she understands? A bitter ghost, clinging to her own regrets. What does she know of you? Of me? Of anything alive?” Myrtle’s eyes widened.
“Tom—” He leaned down, his face inches from hers, his tone sharper, almost cruel.
“She is jealous of you, Warren. Don’t you see? You’re alive. You’re warm. You’re wanted. She will never have what you have. And so she tries to poison it.” Myrtle trembled, a tear slipping down her cheek.
“I didn’t mean—” He caught her wrist, not harshly, but firmly enough that she felt the steel in it.
“No. Listen to me.” His voice softened, smooth as silk over glass. “I won’t have her filling your head with doubts. She doesn’t understand what we have. She can’t.” Her lower lip trembled.
“I only thought…maybe she just wanted me to be careful.” Tom exhaled slowly, reining himself back. His hand shifted, brushing her tear away with his thumb, his tone softening into something dangerously tender.
“I know. And I forgive you for listening. But don’t let her make you afraid of me. I’m the one who protects you, my dear. No one else. Not Helena, not your classmates, not your professors. Only me.” Her breath hitched, her fear dissolving into desperate relief at his gentleness returning. She nodded quickly, whispering eagerly.
“I know. I know you do.” He tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze. His eyes burned, but his voice was velvet.
“That’s my girl. Say it again.”
“You protect me,” she whispered, cheeks flushed, tears drying. “Only you.” Satisfied, he pulled her into his lap, her small frame curling against him. He threaded his fingers through her hair, untangling it where it had frayed.
“That’s better,” he murmured, lips brushing the crown of her head. “Don’t waste thoughts on her. She’s nothing but a shade. A shadow. She knows nothing of your love. And she will never know you as I do.” Myrtle clung tighter, dizzy with warmth, guilt fading into gratitude. Tom stroked her hair, his smile hidden in the shadows.
—

The Ravenclaw dungeons were cool and quiet, the torches guttering low. Helena Ravenclaw hovered where the shadows met the stone, her translucent form half-merged with the wall. Tom approached with the same poise he always carried, every footstep measured.
“Lady Helena,” he greeted softly, inclining his head. “I hoped we might speak again.” Her pale eyes lingered on him, sharp despite their sorrow.
“You ask much of me.”
“I ask for truth,” Tom said, his voice smooth, almost humble. “Truth that has lain hidden for centuries. Myrtle thinks the world of you, you know. She speaks of you often. But I’d prefer if our conversations remained…between us.” Her brows arched, faintly disapproving.
“You fear what she might hear?”
“I would not have her burdened,” he replied at once, with the perfect balance of sincerity and gravity. “She is young. She deserves lightness, not old wounds. You’ve been speaking to her about me.”
“She trusts me,” her pale eyes narrowed.
“She does.” His voice was smooth, almost admiring. “But she trusts me more.” Helena’s expression hardened.
“That is what troubles me. You bind her to you with words and silences. She is fragile.” Tom stepped closer, keeping his tone steady, confident but not combative.
“And fragile things need careful hands, don’t they? I am the best that could have happened to her. You sure must know what she was before. Bullied, ignored, left to rot in the shadows. Now she is seen. Now she is cherished.”
“Cherished…or claimed?” Helena tilted her head, studying him.
“Both,” he admitted without hesitation. “But tell me, my lady, what is so wrong with that? Would you have her return to being invisible, unnoticed and miserable? Or would you rather she feel alive in someone’s arms?” The Grey Lady’s mouth tightened, but she did not answer at once. Tom’s voice dropped, smooth as silk over stone. “You said it yourself, you envy the living. You know what it is to be forgotten. Don’t begrudge her the one who refuses to forget her.” Helena’s pale face flickered with conflict, a shadow of sorrow passing through her.
“You are dangerous, Tom Riddle. I see it in you.” He smiled faintly, perfectly controlled.
“Yes. Dangerous to those who would hurt her. Dangerous to anyone who would take her from me. But to her?” He shook his head slowly. “I am nothing but safety.” The ghost regarded him for a long moment, as if weighing every syllable. Finally, she spoke.
“If you truly care for her…do not ruin her.” Tom bowed slightly, his eyes gleaming.
“I would never.” The Grey Lady studied him a long moment before speaking again.
“You play with words, boy.” He smiled faintly, not denying it. Instead, he stepped closer, lowering his voice.
“You told me you envied your mother’s gifts. That you ran because you wanted to be greater. What was it you took, Helena? What did you think would make you more than her?” Her face twisted, shadow and shame mingling.
“A diadem,” she whispered at last. “My mother’s greatest treasure. I thought it would grant me wisdom beyond hers. I thought…I would outshine her at last.”
“And did it?” Tom pressed gently.
“No.” The word was sharp, bitter. “It brought me nothing but ruin. The Baron—” She stopped herself, voice breaking. Tom inclined his head as though in mourning.
“And yet,” he said quietly, “knowledge locked away is wasted. Relics, artifacts…they are not meant to be buried with the dead. They are meant to be used.” Her eyes narrowed, wary.
“You speak like one who would steal.”
“Not steal,” he corrected smoothly. “Protect. Preserve. Destroy if necessary. If there are fragments of power in this world that could endure, should they not be given purpose?” Helena’s gaze chilled.
“Purpose…like these petrifications?”
“I understand fear. I understand what it teaches,” Tom’s lips curved in a faint smile, his tone perfectly calm. Her eyes flicked, sharp and knowing.
“And your little girl? She is Muggle-born. Do you understand what fear does to her?” He stepped closer, lowering his voice to something dangerously soft.
“She is mine to protect. Nothing will touch her while I still draw breath.” The Grey Lady studied him, her expression unreadable.
“You frighten me, Tom Riddle. You speak like one who would shatter his own soul for power.” For the briefest instant, his composure flickered. Horcruxes. The word rang in his mind, though she had not spoken it. Slowly, deliberately, he forced a polite smile.
“And if I did,” he murmured, “would it not be for the sake of eternity? Wouldn’t you understand that?” Helena’s form seemed to waver, unsettled, as though shadows passed through her very being.
“You are dangerous,” she whispered. “And yet…Myrtle clings to you. Perhaps one day she will see.” Tom bowed faintly, his eyes gleaming.
“Perhaps one day you will see Lady Helena. That all I seek is knowledge.” But when he turned and left the corridor, his mind burned with sharper thoughts. She suspected too much and yet she also knew too much. And that made her valuable.

Chapter Text

May 1943

The air was sharp with the scent of grass and the distant roar of students filling the stands. Banners already whipped in the spring breeze, Hufflepuff yellow and Gryffindor red clashing in the sky. Tom had no intention of watching. Quidditch was noise, spectacle and distraction. Perfect cover for him to wander corridors and corners without eyes upon him. But he needed to make sure where everyone was and that included Myrtle Warren. He slipped around the shadowed edge of the pitch, his steps silent on the packed earth and then he stopped. Voices drifted just ahead, around the corner.
“…Myrtle, please. I’m sorry if I wronged you.” Scamander. The name struck like a spark against dry tinder. Tom went very still, the coil of rage immediate, instinctive. He eased forward just enough to see. The boy stood there in his Hufflepuff robes, broomstick clutched in one hand, desperation written across his face. Warren stood awkwardly in the grass, her braids slightly undone, her eyes darting nervously between the ground and him. “We used to be friends,” Scamander went on, voice low and urgent. “What happened? You’ve been…different. Distant.” He swallowed hard. “Are you hanging around Riddle? Myrtle, don’t you see who he is? What he thinks about muggles?” Tom’s jaw tightened, his pulse deliberate and cold. “He’s not good for you,” Scamander pressed. “Don’t you know what they all say about him? The things he does? I don’t want you caught up in it.” The girl’s lips parted, flustered, her cheeks pink. She shook her head faintly.
“I…I don’t— We shouldn’t be talking.” Tom’s hands curled into fists at his sides, nails digging crescents into his palms. Every syllable from the boy was an intrusion, a trespass into what belonged to him. Yet he remained in the shadows, his expression carved from ice. He dares warn her against him, as though he could ever know her. Myrtle stammered something faint, defensive, though Tom couldn’t catch the words over the mounting cheers from the stands. Scamander leaned closer, his voice dropping, raw.
“I need to go. But I just want you to be careful, Myrtle.” The words slid through Tom like a blade, but his face betrayed nothing. He stepped back into shadow, breath steady, rage colder now, sharper.

When the whistle blew and the game began, the stands roared with excitement. But Tom’s thoughts were elsewhere, already weaving, already planning. The stands shook with noise, waves of cheers rolling back and forth across the pitch. Red and yellow banners tangled in the wind, the sun gleaming off broomsticks as players darted high above. Tom stood apart, in the shadow of one of the many wooden towers that rimmed the pitch, where no one thought to look. He had no scarf, no colors, only that measured stillness that made him vanish into the background. His gaze, however, never wavered. Not on the Quaffle or the chasers, not on the blur of the Snitch, but on Warren. She was seated low among the Ravenclaws, awkward and alone. Her little friend Abbott was gone, no doubt trailing after Nott with doe-eyed obedience. Myrtle fidgeted with the ribbon of her braid, craning her neck to follow the game, her shoulders hunched against the press of the crowd. Small. Exposed. And Scamander’s words still echoed in Tom’s head like a curse. Tom’s jaw flexed, his hands tightening behind his back. In the air above, Scamander darted after the Quaffle, his broom slicing forward with clumsy desperation. The crowd roared. Tom watched, calm mask never shifting, but something coiled deeper in him, tightening with every cheer that rose for the Hufflepuff boy. Scamander’s face was alive with hope, his eyes flashing as though the world might forgive him. And then Tom’s restraint snapped. It was nothing more than a flick of intent, a silent, serpentine twist of will. No wand drawn, no word uttered but the air itself seemed to tilt. A whisper of magic, dark and precise, brushed the broomstick in Scamander’s grasp. Above the pitch, the Hufflepuff’s broom jolted violently sideways. Scamander gave a startled shout, clutching at the handle. The Quaffle tumbled from his arms. For a moment, he wobbled, fighting for control. And then the broom bucked hard, as though rejecting him. His balance broke. The crowd gasped, a sharp intake of thousands of breaths as the boy fell. His body plummeted, limbs flailing, the green grass rushing up. He struck the ground with a sound that carried even through the roar of panic. The game shattered into chaos, players swerving, professors surging forward from the edges. Tom didn’t move. He watched, expression carefully schooled, as Scamander lay crumpled on the pitch, the crowd screaming, teachers shouting for space. Then, and only then, his gaze slid back to Myrtle. She had risen to her feet, face stricken, hands pressed to her mouth. The braid he had once tied for her trembled against her shoulder as she leaned forward, eyes wide, horrified. Tom’s lips curved. Not into a smile, but into the faint, satisfied shadow of one. And then he left.
—

The library was hushed, shadows gathering between the high shelves as the day bled into evening. Tom sat at his usual table as if he was there all day, quill gliding across parchment, his expression calm, immaculate. He didn’t lift his head when Warren slipped in, her steps quick and uneven, breath caught in her throat.
“Tom,” she whispered, clutching her satchel like a shield. He glanced up, the faintest crease of polite acknowledgment in his brow.
“You’re out of breath.”
“Did you—” She hesitated, lips trembling. “Did you hear about the match?”
“I don’t watch Quidditch,” he said flatly, returning his eyes to the page. She stood frozen a moment, then took a hurried step closer, words spilling out.
“Malcolm… I mean, Scamander fell. From his broom. It was awful, really,” she faltered, eyes wide. “He’s unconscious. The professors had to carry him from the pitch.” Tom’s quill didn’t falter. He set a final mark on the parchment, diagrams of spells and soul splitting into pieces, then closed the book before him with deliberate care.
“And this concerns me how?” The little girl’s face crumpled, confusion and horror mingling.
“He’s hurt, Tom. Badly. And it happened so suddenly. Strange things happen. Doesn’t that matter?”
“People fall,” he said simply. “From brooms. From grace. It happens every time. Nothing new.” Her breath caught.
“But this was different. His broom jerked like it was cursed.” She bit her lip, hesitant. “I don’t know. I just thought…he said—” She stopped herself, cheeks burning. Tom leaned back in his chair, studying her in silence, his patience a blade.
“He said what?” Her hands twisted in her skirt.
“Nothing. It doesn’t matter.” She added quickly, desperate. “You were here, of course, in the library.” He rose then, smooth and silent, reaching for her. She tilted her chin up, trembling, caught between fear and shame. His hand slid beneath her chin, lifting her face, his thumb brushing her lip. His voice dropped, velvety, dangerous.
“Do you care so much for him, my dear? Is that why you’re all worried? Would you like to sit by his bedside in the hospital wing? Hold his hand? Whisper your fears?” Her eyes widened, horrified.
“No! That’s not—”
“Am I stopping you?” His words cut smooth as glass. “Do you feel chained or bound? Devastated that you cannot run to him?” Tears welled, spilling down her cheeks.
“Tom, no. Please, I really don’t care about him, I don’t.” His gaze held hers a moment longer, searing, until she broke under it, sobbing quietly. Then, slowly, his hand softened against her cheek, thumb brushing away her tears. His voice gentled, silk smoothing over steel.
“Okay. He’s nothing but a clumsy boy who fell. And you are mine. Or am I wrong?” Her nod was frantic, desperate.
“No, of course not. I’m really sorry, I don’t care at all.” His lips brushed her temple, darkly tender.
“Then don’t waste another breath on him. I don’t want to hear it. He has nothing you need. Everything you are belongs here. With me.” Myrtle sagged into him, guilt and relief flooding her at once, clinging to his robes as though they were the only thing keeping her upright. Tom held her, stroking her hair with steady, possessive calm. And in the quiet of the library, with her small body trembling against him, he smiled where she couldn’t see.

The silence of the library had settled again. Tom sat with one leg crossed, the heavy tome open before him, quill in hand as though nothing at all had interrupted him. The faint scratch of ink against parchment filled the alcove, steady and unbothered. Myrtle, curled small in the chair opposite, couldn’t still her hands. She twisted the hem of her sleeve, pressed her palms flat against the desk, then tugged at the end of her braid, her thoughts circling like frightened birds. He had already forgiven her. He’d held her, brushed away her tears, kissed her temple. And yet her chest still ached with unease, some guilt she couldn’t quite name. She couldn’t stop glancing at him. At the smooth lines of his face, the calm way he wrote as though she hadn’t nearly ruined everything with her silly questions. Her voice came out in a timid whisper.
“I don’t care about Scamander. I never did. Not like that.” Tom didn’t look up, only turned a page with careful precision.
“Mm.” The sound was maddeningly neutral. Myrtle flushed, leaning forward, desperate to make him believe it.
“I love you, Tom. You know that, right? I’m only yours.” At that, his eyes flicked up, just briefly, catching hers, dark and unreadable. Then he bent again over his book.
“Good.” Her heart stuttered at the single word, equal parts relieved and unsettled. She pressed on, wringing her hands.
“I just feel like I said everything wrong. I didn’t mean to make it sound like…like I doubted you. I don’t. I couldn’t.”
“Then stop fretting,” he said calmly, his quill still moving. “It doesn’t suit you.” Myrtle bit her lip, cheeks hot. She wanted to bury her face in his shoulder, to beg him to look at her properly, to say something more. But he was already immersed in his work again, the matter closed. She whispered anyway, almost to herself.
“I’ll do better.” The silence pressed on her until her chest ached. Then, suddenly, he closed the book with a firm snap. The sound rang sharp in the hush and Myrtle startled, looking up at him with wide, tear-pricked eyes. He rose smoothly, slipping the quill back into its case and extended a hand to her.
“Come,” he said, his voice low, threaded with something unreadable.
“W-where?” she stammered. His smile was faint, dark, but oddly soft.
“To make everything right.” She took his hand, trembling and let him lead her from the library. The corridors were deserted, the castle humming faintly with the last echoes of the Quidditch match still rolling outside. He guided her up flight after flight of stairs, silent but unyielding, until the night air touched her skin. The Astronomy Tower loomed around them, wind tugging at her braid, the scent of stone and sky mixing with the faint smoke from Tom’s cigarettes. He leaned back against the stone, the picture of composure, then turned his gaze on her.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his tone different now, coaxing, smoothing over the sharp edges. “You were just frightened, weren’t you? Scared and I made it worse.” Her lips parted, but no words came. He exhaled a slow ribbon of smoke, watching it drift toward the stars. “It’s only Quidditch, Warren. You know I’ve never cared for it. Children chasing balls through the air, it means nothing.” His gaze flicked to her, piercing and soft at once. “You know that, don’t you?” She nodded quickly, clutching the balustrade. “And Scamander?” Tom’s mouth curved, almost a smirk. “He was a fool. Probably cursed his own broom in desperation. He was never any good, not really. And even if he was, it’s nothing that should trouble your pretty little head.” Myrtle’s breath caught, her cheeks flushing at the softness in his tone. He reached for her then, tugging her gently against his chest, his hand stroking down her back. “I don’t like seeing you worried,” he whispered into her hair. “Not over things that don’t matter. Not over others.” Her eyes filled, relief spilling through her chest, shame dissolving under the warmth of his voice. She clung to him, pressing her cheek against his robes. His lips brushed her temple, feather-light. “You’re mine. That’s the only truth worth remembering.”
“I know. I’m sorry,” she nodded against him, dizzy, whispering.
“Shh.” His hand smoothed through her hair, his voice silk and steel entwined. “No apologies. Just promise me you won’t let ghosts or foolish boys make you doubt again.”
“I promise,” she breathed. He smiled against her skin, the stars spinning cold and bright above them, the smoke curling in the air like a serpent that wrapped them both.
“Good girl,” he murmured and kissed her until the world fell away.

The stars sprawled wide above them, the spring breeze tugging at Myrtle’s hair, loosening strands that brushed her cheeks. She leaned into him, her voice quiet, almost lost to the night air.
“Sometimes…I miss London,” she whispered. “Even with everything that happened. It was just us. No noise, no whispers, no one to see. I…I felt like you were mine then. Just like I am yours.” Tom’s hand stilled against her back. He lowered his gaze, studying the way her fingers clutched at his robes as though she feared he’d vanish into the night.
“And now?” he murmured. She hesitated, cheeks burning.
“Now it’s harder. You are Someone. People look, they talk and I…I start worrying. About what’s ahead. About what’s waiting for me out there. I don’t even know if I have a future. Not really, not like you.” Her words hung fragile in the cold air and for a moment she looked away, ashamed. But Tom tilted her face back toward him, his eyes steady, dark, unblinking.
“You fret too much,” he said softly. “Do you want me to hide you from all of it? Keep you all to myself again, like London? Would you like that, my dear?” Her lips parted, breath trembling.
“Yes. Yes I would like that very much.” The faintest smile curved his mouth, dangerous and tender. He bent closer, his voice brushing against her skin.
“Then you’ll have it. I can lock the world out for you, until there’s nothing left but us. No professors. No ghosts. No futures to fear. Only me.” Her lashes fluttered, a tear slipping down her cheek, caught by his thumb before it could fall.
“You’d do that?” she whispered.
“Of course. I can make anything happen for you.” His lips claimed hers then, slow and consuming, swallowing her doubt, her fear, her future. His hand cradled the back of her head, the other pressed firm at her waist, as though to fuse her to him entirely. When she finally broke away, dazed and trembling, he rested his forehead against hers. “Don’t think of what’s ahead if it troubles you that much,” he murmured, breath warm against her lips. “Think only of now. Of me.” And Tom kissed her again, harder this time, until the stars themselves blurred, until she forgot her worries, the whispers and even the notion of a future that didn’t exist.
The night wrapped itself around the tower, cold and clear, the stars sharp as knives overhead. She was still pressed against him, trembling and trusting, her small frame curved into his. He could feel her heart racing even through the barrier of her robes, quick and helpless like a bird’s. And something inside him burned. Not the usual fire, not ambition, not rage, not the clean hunger for power. This was something softer, smaller, but all the more treacherous for it. A flicker of warmth where there should be none, a glow he had not asked for, had not wanted, but could not smother. It was her. He could see the battlefield of it laid out inside himself. Glory and darkness arrayed like banners, the vast future that waited for him. A legend carved in blood, a throne built of fear, immortality itself clawed from the lifeless bodies awaiting. And somewhere within that battlefield, small and defiant, the light of her brown wide eyes, the curve of her hand against his chest, the way she whispered his name as though it meant salvation. He would never be good. He did not want to be. The world did not remember men who were good, it devoured them. He wanted to be great, untouchable, eternal. And yet all she wanted was a boy who was hers. A boy who might braid her hair by the lake, who might whisper promises in the dark, who might say aloud the words he never meant to give away. Two things that could never be reconciled.
He tightened his hold on her, burying his face in her hair, as though pressure alone might extinguish the dangerous flame she lit in him. But even as he did, he knew he couldn’t silence it. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. One day, he told himself. One day he will crush this weakness. Before it ruins him. But when she sighed against him, warm and soft and so desperately alive, he almost believed it could be the other way around. Myrtle shifted faintly in his arms, feeling the sudden tightening of his hold, the way his breath stuttered against her hair.
“Tom?” she whispered, tentative. “What’s wrong?” For a moment he said nothing. Then his chest convulsed beneath her cheek, breath catching in ragged intervals. His grip on her back turned harsh, not possessive now but desperate, trembling with a force she’d never felt from him before. Myrtle froze, wide-eyed. “Tom?”

The world tilted for him. The stone under his feet became hard cot boards, the scent of smoke and candle wax clawed at his lungs. Whispers rose in his head, overlapping, Mrs. Cole’s shrill voice among them. “It’s not natural, he’s not natural. Out, devil. Out.” His fingers dug into Myrtle’s arms hard enough to make her gasp. His eyes were wide, unseeing. His throat worked, but no words came.
“Tom…you’re hurting me,” she whispered, not necessarily afraid for herself but for him. She tried to push back, to see his face, but he clutched tighter, burying her against him as though she were a shield. His body shook, breath ragged, heart thundering under her ear in frantic, uneven beats. Myrtle lifted her hands to his cheeks, forcing her small palms against his cold skin. “I’m here,” she murmured, though she didn’t know if it helped, only that he was lost in something dreadful. “Come on, just look at me Tom.” His gaze finally found hers. Wild, dark and unfocused. His chest heaved as though he were drowning. She couldn’t pull him out, not all the way, not from whatever abyss clawed at him. She was too small, too weak, her voice too soft against the screams in his head. But she tried anyway, pressing closer, whispering his name like a mantra, anchoring him with the only tether she had. For a long, awful moment, she thought he might snap entirely, break free of her hold, vanish into that storm forever. Then, slowly, painfully, the violence in his grip ebbed, his breathing dragged itself back under some semblance of control. His forehead fell against hers, clammy and cold, his eyes closing as though in defeat. Myrtle stroked trembling fingers along his jaw, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. “It’s all right,” she whispered, without really knowing what “it” was. Tom didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His throat was locked, his mind still reverberating with shadows of fire and scripture and hands that tried to burn the darkness out of him. The tremor in his body stilled by degrees, his breathing clawing its way back into rhythm. Then, as if a curtain fell, Tom straightened, his hands sliding from her arms, his expression shuttering smooth. Myrtle blinked up at him, still damp-cheeked, voice fragile.
“What happened?”
“Nothing,” he said sharply, too quickly. His jaw clenched, his eyes fixed on the stone balustrade rather than her.
“Don’t lie to me,” she whispered, reaching for his sleeve. “You…you were shaking and I thought—”
“I said it was nothing!” His voice cracked, low and raw, the edge of a shout. The word cracked across the quiet tower like a whip and Myrtle flinched, her hand falling back. His chest rose and fell. He saw her eyes. wide and wounded, and realized with a sick lurch that he had raised his voice at her. Again. The silence thickened between them. Myrtle lowered her gaze, her lips trembling.
“I love you,” she whispered, so faint he almost missed it. “I love you so much it hurts sometimes.” Tom closed his eyes, just for a breath. That tiny flame inside him flared against the darkness, unbearably bright, unbearably dangerous. He couldn’t hold it, couldn’t let it grow. He opened his eyes again, smoothed his expression into something neutral, distant.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered, the words heavy, insufficient. Before she could answer, he turned and walked away, his footsteps fading into the stairwell. For the first time, he didn’t offer his hand, didn’t guide her back toward the Ravenclaw tower. He left her standing alone beneath the stars. Myrtle Warren wrapped her arms around herself, staring at the place where he had been.
—

The lavatory was dark, the cracked mirrors glinting faintly in torchlight. Tom’s footsteps echoed, sharp and uneven, until he reached the familiar sink. A hiss of Parseltongue slid from his lips and stone grated aside, revealing the staircase that swallowed him down into the Chamber. The vast hall opened around him, wet stone gleaming, the statue of Salazar looming, cold and indifferent. The air smelled of damp and snake-skin, heavy with the weight of centuries. And there, finally, Tom let go.
His breath came ragged, torn. His fists struck the stone pillars, knuckles splitting, skin tearing, pain blooming sharp and hot. He welcomed it. Struck again, harder, until blood slicked his hands and the sting rattled his bones. Hatred surged in waves. He hated his father, the filthy Muggle who had abandoned him, whose blood poisoned his veins. He hated his mother, weak, foolish and pitiful enough to die for love. He hated the children at Wool’s, their whispers, their fear. He hated Mrs. Cole, her shrill prayers, her hands pressing him down as the salt burned his skin. He hated Dumbledore’s cold eyes, Slughorn’s cloying fondness. He hated Warren for loving him, for believing he could be better than he was, for making him feel anything at all. He hated himself for letting her. His chest heaved, blood dripping from split knuckles onto the stone. With a snarl, Tom wrenched his wand free, the wood slick in his grip. The curse struck a pillar with a deafening crack, stone shattering outward in a storm of dust and shards, blocking one of the lateral corridors completely. The Chamber shook with the violence of it, fragments skittering across the wet floor. The echo rang back at him, harsh and merciless, as if the place itself mocked his rage. He stood, breath ragged, arm trembling and for a moment he almost wished the ceiling would collapse and bury him whole. But the Chamber swallowed his breathless curses, his voice echoing against the vaulted ceiling.
“I will not be weak. I will not—” He sank down against the stone, bloodied hands trembling, chest heaving. The serpent statue watched, unblinking, ancient and pitiless. For a long while, he stayed there, shuddering, the weight of his own rage pressing him into the floor. Slowly, his breath evened, not calm but contained. The wounds throbbed, sharp reminders. Pain was better than weakness. Blood was better than love. Yet he casted a few healing charms to put his knuckles back together. When at last he rose, his face was once again a mask. Pale, smooth, unreadable. He left the Chamber without a glance back, though the walls still carried the echo of his own self-destruction.

The next day he woke later than usual, his hands throbbing, bruised knuckles hidden by glamouring spells. The memory of last night clawed at him. Not the pain, not the blood, but the image of her wide eyes as he turned his back on her. Leaving her standing alone, trembling, was a mistake. A loose thread. He didn’t leave things undone. By afternoon, he found her in the courtyard, hunched over a book, her shoulders drawn tight, eyes red from lack of sleep. She startled when his shadow fell across the page.
“Tom—” He was already smiling, soft and warm, slipping into the seat beside her as though nothing at all had fractured the night before.
“There you are.” His hand brushed her hair, smoothing it with careful fingers. “I was looking everywhere for you.”
“You were?” Her lips parted, confused, but her face lit despite herself.
“Of course.” He tilted his head, studying her with an affection that looked effortless. “What kind of man would I be if I left you alone too long?” Her cheeks flushed, the book forgotten in her lap. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to her temple, his thumb tracing the soft skin of her wrist. Suddenly he reached into his pocket and pulled a single blossom of lily of the valley, placing it into her lap. “I was awful last night,” he murmured. “You must forgive me. I don’t know what came over me.” Her eyes filled with adoration, holding the little flower like it was the most precious thing in the world.
“You weren’t awful,” she whispered quickly, eager to erase his guilt, her voice catching. “I was silly. I said too much—”
“No.” His voice cut through gently, but firmly. “Don’t you ever call yourself silly. You were frightened, that’s all. And I wasn’t here to soothe you.” His hand cupped her cheek, his gaze heavy with intent. “That won’t happen again.” Her eyes filled, the ache in her chest melting into relief. She nodded faintly, unable to look away from him. “Good girl.” He kissed her then, soft but certain, until she sighed against him, her trembling replaced with warmth. By the time he pulled back, she was glowing, clinging to his sleeve, the fear of last night buried so deep she almost couldn’t remember it. Tom smiled faintly, smoothing her hair, satisfaction curling beneath his ribs. There. Done properly this time.
The afternoon light slanted through the courtyard arches, soft and golden. Tom had been speaking easily, his hand brushing hers, his smile practiced warmth. Everything about him today was attentive, present, exactly what she had longed for. He leaned back slightly, watching her with that calm intensity that always pinned her in place.
“So,” he said smoothly, “what would you like to do today?” A simple question. Once, she might have hesitated, stammered about the library, or painting, or walking by the lake. Once, she might have tried to fit herself into his mood while still clinging to her own small wishes. But not now, not anymore. Her lips curved into a shy, eager smile.
“Whatever it is you want,” she said softly. “That’s all I want.” The words slipped out without hesitation. And she meant them. She wanted only what he wanted, blamed herself for every fracture, every wrong step. If she pleased him, there would be no mistakes, no fears, no nights like before. For a heartbeat, Tom studied her and there was something in his eyes, sharp satisfaction hidden beneath fondness. He reached out, brushing his thumb over the edge of her mouth as though savoring the answer.
“I adore you,” he smirked, approval thick in his tone. “I hope you know that.” Her cheeks burned with pride, her chest aching with relief. She’d done it right this time. He leaned in, kissing her once, slow and claiming, then drew back with a faint smile. “Then let’s go somewhere else.” And Myrtle, glowing, nodded without another thought, never realizing how much of herself she had just given away.

He didn’t take her toward the lake or the library. Instead, his hand closed firmly around hers, leading her through winding stairwells and shadowed corridors, until the stone wall of the seventh floor shimmered and shifted. The door appeared again, just for them like always. He guided her inside, closing the door with a deliberate softness. The space was warm, lit with flickering lamplight, the air faint with the scent of books and smoke. It was a bit different every time, bending to his will, but today it was almost tender. The magical stained glass window was painted with spring flowers, the royal bed with navy sheets, the sort of place meant for hiding. Tom turned to her, still holding her hand. His gaze lingered on her face, flushed and uncertain and his mouth curved faintly.
“Do you still want me to hide you away from the world?” His voice was low, steady. “Lock it all out until there’s nothing but us.” She nodded quickly, breathless. “Then let me make it true.” He drew her closer, brushing a strand of hair back from her cheek. “Let me make everything right again.” Her heart stumbled, her eyes damp.
“Is this…is this because of last night?” His thumb traced her jaw, his tone silken.
“It’s because I don’t want doubts in your mind. Not ever again. You deserve to be happy.” His mouth brushed her ear, dark and sweet. “And you’re happiest with me, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” she whispered, the word breaking from her like confession.
“Good.” He pressed his lips to hers then, slow at first, coaxing her into warmth, into forgetfulness. But soon his arms were around her, pulling her down with him onto the bed, the lamplight painting their faces. His kiss deepened, devouring, his hands roaming with deliberate claim. Every touch was an apology and possession at the same time. His breath against her neck, his mouth at her collarbone, the sharp tug at her hair. It was all his way of making her whole again. She melted into him, dizzy with relief, whispering his name as though it would anchor her. When he finally drew back, his eyes gleamed, unreadable and dangerous, but his voice was soft. “It’s only me. Say it’s just me.” Her cheeks burned, her body trembling under his hands.
“Only you,” she breathed. “Always you.” His smile curved slow, satisfied. He kissed her again, harder this time, until the world outside dissolved entirely. Just as he promised. The lamplight had burned low, casting long shadows across the Room. They lay tangled in the sheets, the air heavy with warmth, Myrtle curled small beside him, her skin still flushed. Tom leaned on one elbow, studying her. She shifted under his gaze, tugging the blanket higher over her chest, cheeks red.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she whispered, shy and nervous. His mouth curved faintly.
“I like looking at what’s mine.” She buried her face in the pillow, but he caught her chin and tilted her head back, forcing her eyes to meet his. Freckles dotted her skin, scattered like secrets across her cheeks and shoulders. So ordinary. So small. And yet when she trembled like this under his touch, she felt rarer than anything he’d ever claimed. “Don’t hide from me,” he murmured, tracing the line of her collarbone with the back of his hand. “You must know I find you beautiful.” Her blush deepened, but she didn’t turn away. He let his gaze travel lower, over the slope of her stomach, the curve of her hip under the sheet. She squirmed, pulling the blanket tighter, but he only smirked, tugging it free with unhurried ease. “You’re so warm all the time,” he said quietly, almost to himself, as though cataloguing a specimen. His palm flattened against her ribs, feeling the flutter of her heartbeat. “Small. Soft. I could devour you piece by piece and there would still never be enough.” Myrtle whimpered faintly, torn between embarrassment and a secret thrill. He leaned down, lips brushing her ear. “You’ll never know how much I want to. How much I already have.” Her breath caught, eyes shining and she pressed closer against him, whispering.
“Then don’t ever stop. Please.” His smile curved darkly against her hair as he pulled her into his chest, holding her there like she was something both precious and already consumed. Her body was small and fragile, almost laughably so. Soft in ways he had always despised in others, weakness written into flesh. Yet when it was her softness pressed against him, trembling and warm, it felt like a prize, not a flaw. The freckles scattered across her skin fascinated him. Useless little marks, ordinary, imperfect and yet he found himself tracing them with his eyes as though they were constellations only he could read. No one else would ever look this closely. No one else would ever know her like this. She tried to hide, clutching at the sheets as though modesty could shield her. He had stripped that from her long ago. And still she blushed, still she grew shy under his gaze, as if she didn’t already belong to him down to the last secret breath. It was intoxicating. The way she bit her lip when he tugged the blanket free, the way her chest rose and fell too fast when his hand slid across her ribs. Every small surrender was another victory. She thought herself clever, loyal, loving. But what she truly was, was devoured. And she let herself be. He hated himself for how much he wanted it. Hated that her warmth seeped into him like poison, making him feel human when he needed to be more than human. But he couldn’t turn away. He couldn’t silence the hunger. He could consume her until there is nothing left. And she would let him. She would thank him for it. His arm tightened around her, pulling her closer into his chest. She sighed against him, innocent, trusting, unaware of the abyss she curled into. And still he held her as though she were the only softness in a world built of stone.

Myrtle’s hair fanned across his chest like a pale map he had learned by touch. He could feel the flutter of her heart under his palm, steady and foolish and utterly his. For a long moment nothing was said. Then Tom pushed a fingertip across the hollow of her throat as if testing a name on his tongue.
“One day,” he said, quiet as a promise and as cold, “I will kill my father.” The sentence fell on the room like a stone. Myrtle’s fingers stilled. The small, contented breath she’d been taking left her in a sharp little gasp. He had never said anything like it before, not aloud, and the way it hung there, casual and monstrous, made the blood prickle at her skin.
“What?” Her voice was thin, disbelieving. “Tom, you can’t—” She stopped, hands flying to her mouth as if to snuff out the thought the words had allowed. He watched her with that unreadable look he wore when he was cataloguing reactions, as though the most interesting thing in the world was the way she took in the information.
“Of course I can,” he corrected softly. “I will. One day. It will be done.” Myrtle’s eyes filled.
“But that’s murder,” she whispered, as if testing the taste of the word in her mouth. “Tom, it’s wrong, terrible. People go to Azkaban. They—” Her sentences trailed into a tremble. The image of a prison for witches and wizards seemed to her as final and awful as dying itself. “You don’t have to do that,” she said, fervent, small hands clamping at his chest. “You’re…surely you’re better than him. You don’t have to sink to that, right? You don’t have to be—” She searched for the word and found it ugly and blunt on her tongue, “a murderer.” For a beat Tom let her plead at him, let the shame in her voice wash across him like water. There was a moment, almost tender, when his jaw softened and something that might have been regret brushed his features. He reached up and smoothed her hair back, the gesture practiced and intimate.
“And yet,” he said, low, “some things are necessary.”
“Necessary?” The repetition was horror-turned-question. “Necessary for who? For you? For revenge? That won’t make anything better.” Her eyes were bright and horrified and wholly earnest. She had not the faintest notion of the private engines that drove him, about how necessary it was for his furry, how his father wouldn’t be the only one. She only knew that killing was an abyss she could not look at without fear. He watched her trying to argue herself out of terror, the way her small body seemed to shrink when she occupied the dangerous thought. For an instant something like impatience flared. At her weakness, at the moralizing of those who would tell him what he could or could not be. Then his voice changed into coaxing, rich, impossibly tender.
“You don’t understand,” he murmured. “I never asked to be small. I will not be small. Do you want me small, my dear?” He held her gaze, letting the light of the Room catch the edge of his eyes. “Or do you want me great? Powerful enough that nothing can touch you? Which is the kinder promise?” Her world narrowed to the question as if it were a single doorway. She wanted so fiercely to believe him. Wanted, more than anything, to be safe beneath the breadth of whatever he offered.
“I want you,” she breathed. “But not—” She almost believed she could say ‘not like this,’ but the words failed her. Love, she had learned, simplified the ethics of survival. If he promised safety, if he wrapped her in certainty, how could she refuse? He let her believe she was choosing. He let her reach for him, hands trembling.
“You must trust me,” he said, soft as a benediction. “Trust that I know the measure of what must be done.” Myrtle nodded because that was what her heart did, it folded into his hands like a confession.
“I trust you,” she whispered, though the word left a small, guilty ache in her throat. He bent, kissed the corner of her mouth, then her brow in a sequence almost parental in its tenderness.
“I’m sorry. I’m only…scared because I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want you taken away. Locked up in Azkaban, or—” She choked on the last word, eyes wet and pleading. “I’d rather die than lose you.” Tom’s mouth quirked into something that was almost a laugh. Soft, incredulous, half-amused at the notion and half at the melodrama of it.
“Azkaban?” he echoed, as if the very sound of the name were a child’s toy. He looked at her then, the way she bit her lip, the way the lamplight trembled on her lashes. For a moment the humor in him was plain. The idea she thought him so foolishly caught-up in petty risks. “You think I will be taken,” he said, voice low and cool. “Do you think I am the sort of man who leaves his fate to other people’s hands? To dreary cells and dementors?” He leaned forward until their foreheads nearly touched. “No, Warren. I will not be caught.”
“But— isn’t that what they do? Catch people?” Her breath hitched. He smiled, not the friendly smile he used for the world, but the private one that closed like a trap.
“There are many ways to become more than a single life,” he said, as if naming a truth everyone somehow missed. “To make yourself larger than the law, larger than punishment, larger than the petty reckonings of those who would bind you. To make yourself…untouchable.” The word slid out soft but absolute. She swallowed and he tugged her closer until she could feel the steady heat of him against her, as if his nearness alone were proof. “I will be clever enough,” he said at last, voice velvet wrapped over steel. “Cleverer than those who think themselves wise. I will gather what gives weight to a name. Secrets, allies, things older than fear. I will bind myself to continuities others cannot see. I will make it so that no knock on a great door, no clink of chains, will ever find me where I do not wish to be found.” Myrtle’s face was a study in raw devotion and dawning comprehension.
“But…am I involved in that?” she asked, small and fierce at once.
“Of course.” He kissed the corner of her mouth, then the center of her forehead, claiming the words to himself. “I’ll make everything work. So you never have to be afraid of losing me. So you can sleep without ghosts at your shoulder and the castle’s whispers at your window. So you never have to wonder who will hold you when the world turns cruel.” She pressed nearer, relief and love and a little terror knotting together.
“I—” she began, then stopped, her voice breaking as she admitted the truth she’d made herself wear. “I want that. I want you.” Tom’s hand threaded through her hair and for a moment, only a moment, the man in him who thought of empires and legacies let himself taste the simple truth of her want. It was a dangerous sweetness.

In the quiet that followed, when she had settled and the Room had accepted their hush, his thoughts ran colder and clearer. Promises were useful not only for comforting. They could be the scaffolding of inevitability. Words could make choices real. If he said it aloud, if he spoke of making himself untouchable, of outliving a single life, the idea lodged like an ember. It would be fanned until it was a thing that could not be ignored. He did not explain what he meant. He could not. Explanations become details and details are dangerous. Plans, when described, attract curiosity and oversight. Instead he folded the intent into a single vow to himself. He would be great enough, cunning enough, terrible enough that nothing, not chains, not law, not time, could take him from her. He would be the last thing she ever needed to fear. And when Myrtle sighed against him, believing him completely, he let the deception sit warm and perfect between them. He would build whatever he had to build. He would learn whatever he must learn. He would be immortal. For now, that was enough. He kissed her again, quiet and final and turned his face to the dark where the rest of the world still waited, unaware that a private, terrible resolve had taken hold.
—

The old classroom the Knights used now as their meeting place smelled faintly of dust and ink, the air heavy with torch smoke. The Slytherins sat scattered in their usual lazy arrangement, cigarettes glowing faintly in the gloom, glasses of firewhiskey half empty. Tom entered last, his step deliberate, the hush that followed instinctive. He let the silence stretch, the weight of his presence settling on them before he spoke.
“Dumbledore is sniffing too close again.” His voice was quiet, but the words cut like glass. “The man watches me with suspicion all the time. It’s annoying.”
“Let him watch. He’ll never prove anything. The old fool spends too much time in his books,” Lestrange gave a scoff, a grin sharp under the torchlight.
“I don’t know,” Malfoy muttered dryly, “he’s cleverer than Slughorn and you know it.” Tom’s gaze flicked across them, finally settling on Nott.
“I saw him talking to you.” Nott straightened, the corners of his mouth tight.
“Yes, but only that he’s taken a special interest in what’s happening. He also wanted to know my interests. He hasn’t said your name, Tom. But he’s circling closer.” The firelight caught in Tom’s eyes as he inclined his head.
“Good. That’s what I wanted confirmed.” A beat of silence. Then, smoothly, almost casually, he added. “Perhaps it’s time we let someone else shoulder the blame.”
“The obnoxious Gryffindor?” Lestrange raised his eyebrows. Tom let the question hang a moment, savoring their attention. Then, with the faintest curve of his mouth, he confirmed.
“Yes, Rubeus Hagrid.”
“The half-giant?” Malfoy rolled his eyes.
“He still has the Acomantula,” Tom continued. “He’s fond of dangerous creatures. Foolish enough to sneak one into the castle. He keeps it in the dungeons.” His tone was calm, clinical, as though presenting a solved equation. “All it will take is the right suggestion, the right discovery. Dumbledore will look away from us, from me.”
“Perfect. Everyone already knows the oaf has no sense. They’ll believe it,” Lestrange grinned, delighted. Tom’s gaze sharpened.
“They won’t just believe it. They’ll thank us for seeing it.” For a moment, the satisfaction circled the group like smoke. Then Orion Black shifted in his chair, exhaling. Four heads turned. Orion stubbed his cigarette against the desk, lips curling into a dry smile.
“This summer I’m to propose to Walburga. The families have pushed it long enough. And once that’s sealed…” He spread his hands, mock-dramatic. “My time will not be my own.” A laugh broke from Lestrange.
“Merlin’s sake, Black. Already handing your leash to a woman? Tell me you’ll at least keep your spine.”
“Walburga’s sharp enough to eat him alive,” Malfoy muttered, smirking. “Perhaps we should start planning his funeral instead of Hagrid’s.” Orion raised his brows, amusement flashing.
“Enjoy your laughter while it lasts, Malfoy. Your old man probably wants grandchildren before you even graduate.” Lestrange whooped, delighted at the jab. Nott only rolled his eyes, muttering something about priorities. Tom watched them with faint detachment, letting their noise run its course before he cut it cleanly with his voice.
“Enough.” The word fell heavy, silencing the laughter. His gaze slid to Orion. “Your personal life is your concern. But do not mistake it for an escape. The Knights are not a schoolyard club to be set aside when something more convenient arrives. You are bound here.” Orion’s smile faltered just slightly and Tom allowed the silence to do the rest. Finally, Tom’s voice dropped low again. “We move carefully now. The beast has served us well, but we will not play every card at once. We build suspicion where it will shield us best.” His eyes gleamed, cold and certain. “And when the moment comes, Hagrid will be the perfect sacrifice.” The others nodded, some eager, some cautious, but none dared to contradict him.

The Knights meeting wound down, their voices still buzzing with half-mockery about Orion and Walburga. Lestrange had lit another cigarette, Malfoy toyed idly with his signet ring and Nott was setting up an ornate chessboard on the scarred desk between them.
“You’re not leaving yet, are you?” Nott asked, gesturing to the carved pieces. “Stay for a round. I could use an opponent who doesn’t think bishops move sideways.”
“Sideways bishops are a Lestrange invention,” Malfoy drawled.
“Only because I was drunk,” Icarus shot back with a grin. They laughed, easy and indulgent, the sort of laughter that belonged to boys too sure of their names and fortunes. Tom slipped his wand back into his sleeve, already half turned toward the door.
“Not tonight.” His tone was mild, final. “I’ve business.”
“Business,” Lestrange repeated, grinning. “Merlin’s sake, Riddle. You’ve always got ‘business.’ A girl hidden somewhere, isn't it?” Tom’s mouth curved faintly, but he didn’t take the bait. Malfoy leaned back, smirking.
“If it’s not a girl, it’s another one of his…projects. One of these days you’ll drown in them.”
“Better drowned in ambition than boredom,” Tom returned smoothly, his hand already on the handle.
“God save us from our Lord‘s devotion to his goals,” Orion laughed with a shake of his head, though there was no heat in it.
“Go on, then,” Nott sighed, arranging his pawns with precision. “We’ll be here, waiting for you to remember you’re still seventeen.” Tom let them have their jabs. He only dipped his head once, a shadow of a smile cutting sharp across his face and left the room without another word. The laughter dimmed behind him, muffled by the stone corridors. Ahead, the castle stretched quiet and dark, the air cooler as he descended toward Ravenclaw Tower and to its own dungeons.
—

The Grey Lady drifted near the arched window of the west tower, pale in the wan light. She was always half-there, her gaze turned inward as though listening to centuries no one else could hear. Tom stood in the shadows until she noticed him, her eyes narrowing and wary.
“You return often,” Helena murmured. “Too often.”
“I‘m interested in what you know,” Tom replied smoothly, stepping into the light. “Wisdom is a rare thing and you have centuries of it.” He inclined his head, almost courtly. “Would you rather I wasted it?” She frowned, but her silence was not a refusal. He let a pause linger before speaking again, his voice rich with conviction. “You know about legacies. About how a name endures, or rots. Your mother’s name is on every tongue, but yours? Reduced to a whisper. A ghost story.” His eyes lifted to hers, gleaming. “Don’t you ever want more? Some justification for what was done to you?” Helena stiffened.
“I have carried my shame long enough. I sought to outshine her and it killed me. There is no justification.”
“No,” Tom said, low and silken. “There could be. Your mother’s great treasure was stolen by her own daughter, hidden. You could let it rot with you. Or—” He took a step closer, his eyes alight. “You could let me make it greater than Rowena ever dreamed. Use it to carve something lasting. Something that matters.”
“Greater…? You wouldn’t destroy it?” Her voice trembled.
“Not destroy,” Tom corrected softly. “Transform. Everything powerful must be remade. Your mother hoarded knowledge. I would wield it. Don’t you want to see your defiance mean something more than regret?” Helena’s eyes searched his, torn between suspicion and the deep ache of old wounds.
“You speak with such certainty. As though you already know what you would do.”
“I do.” His tone was iron wrapped in velvet. “I would use it to become more than a name in a book. More than a ghost, more than a whisper. Immortal. You, Helena, would no longer be remembered only as the thief. But as the one who set it right, who placed her legacy in the hands of someone strong enough to carry it.” Silence stretched. Then he softened his voice deliberately, tilting the blade just so. “You are very kind to our little Ravenclaw girl. And she trusts me, you know. She loves me. She believes in what I will become. Even she sees that there is no reason to be afraid of me.” The Grey Lady’s expression flickered. Doubt, hesitation, but also a faint, reluctant yielding. Her eyes lingered on him, clouded but piercing.
“And yet she can’t tell me that herself, can she?” The words were soft but edged. “Every time I try to ask about you, she falters. She stumbles over your name as if the syllables choke her and looks deeply in pain. Why is that, I wonder?” Tom did not flinch. He only let a pause settle, his expression the very picture of patience. Then he sighed, just enough to sound wearied, as though he’d already carried this explanation many times.
“For her good as much as mine,” he said quietly. “She is innocent. Too open-hearted. I would never have her bear the burden of every whisper about me. It’s better, safer, if she struggles with what she cannot say. Safer for both of us.” Helena didn’t seem convinced and yet something around her silhouette shifted. At last, her shoulders sagged.
“Albanian magical forest,” she whispered. “A hollow tree, deep in the center where no one walks. That is where I hid it. I thought no one would ever find it. I wanted it lost, forgotten. But perhaps—” She faltered, her eyes clouded with centuries of sorrow. “Perhaps it was never mine to keep.” Tom’s smile was quiet, triumphant. He bowed his head slightly, hiding the gleam in his eyes.
“You’ve done the right thing.” When he raised his gaze again, his expression was all softness, a mask perfected. “You’ve given your pain a purpose.” The Grey Lady turned away, shivering faintly, as if she already regretted the words. But Tom knew better. Albania. He could not go there now, not yet. He was still bound to these stone walls, to the motions of classes, to the eyes that followed him in corridors. But the word lodged in his mind like a nail driven clean through. Rowena Ravenclaw’s lost treasure, stolen and hidden and now whispered into his keeping. It was not within reach tonight, nor tomorrow, but it was his all the same. All that remained was time.

Later, in the privacy of his dormitory, he opened the diary Warren had given him on his birthday. The leather was softened now by his constant touch, the pages dark with his hand. There, among his careful notes, fragments of rituals, sketches of symbols, lists of potential vessels, he wrote it down in his neat, deliberate script.
Diadem of Ravenclaw. Hidden in Albanian forest. Possible for future.
The ink dried sharp, final. He let the quill hover a moment longer before closing the book. His thumb brushed the cover almost absently, but his eyes gleamed with quiet triumph. Someday, when the path was clear, he would go. He would find it. He would make it his.
—

By the end of May, the air in the hospital wing was thick with expectation. Whispers darted up and down corridors about the first use of the hopeful antidote. Margaret Cresswell, third year Gryffindor, lay stiff in her bed, her face pale and unmoving as it had been since February. A girl with an unfortunate talent for chattering too loudly in corridors, who had earned detentions for mimicking Professor Merrythought’s wand flourishes, who had once tripped and dropped an entire stack of books down the marble staircase to the fury of Madam Scribner. Ordinary. Forgettable. And yet now she was the test case for salvation. The professors had gathered. Headmaster Dippet in his long green robes, looking grave but hopeful. Dumbledore at his side, bright-eyed and intent, his hands folded behind his back. Slughorn lingered too, eager but nervous, as Madam Burke coaxed the steaming potion of matured Mandrakes down Margaret’s throat.
It was said that the effect was almost immediate. Her body shuddered once, her eyelids fluttered and suddenly she gasped, clutching at the sheets. The room rippled with relief. But apparently when Dippet leaned in, voice surely hushed and kindly asked Miss Cresswell what happened to her, the girl’s face twisted in terror. She stammered, tears welling, how she didn’t remember. “Just something ugly. Heavy. Like it pressed down on me and horrible eyes—” Dumbledore probably pressed her answers brought little comfort. Professors exchanged worried looks, Dippet forced a kindly smile and assured the child she was safe now, that Hogwarts would keep her safe. But the doubt in the room was palpable.
News spread like spilled ink. Margaret was awake, but her loud chatter was gone, replaced by quiet, darting glances, a flinch at every sudden sound. Some classmates treated her tenderly, guiding her steps, speaking softly to her. Others pulled away, whispering about the curse of the Mudbloods. The castle grew tighter, crueler. From their end of the Slytherin table, the Knights watched.
“She looks half a ghost,” Lestrange murmured, eyes narrowed.
“Better than she ever looked alive,” Malfoy said with a smirk. Orion Black only shook his head, muttering something about superstition gripping idiots faster than fire spreads. Nott, however, looked thoughtful.
“Do you hear them whisper? ‘Curse of the Mudbloods.’ We didn’t even have to spread it ourselves this time. The castle’s done the work for us.” Tom listened without comment, his gaze steady on the girl across the hall. Margaret Cresswell sat among her housemates like a pale shadow of herself, fidgeting with the cuff of her sleeve, her mouth closed tight. She was no longer a child, not really. She was a warning, living proof of what happened to those with tainted blood. And Tom saw the fear ripple out from her like rings in water, touching every table, every whisper, every stolen glance. Exactly as he intended.

Tom watched Myrtle carefully that evening. She had been quieter since the news spread, her usual nervous chatter dulled to a fragile hush. Later, in the library alcove where Tom had drawn her beside him, she finally spoke.
“She looked so frightened. Margaret. She barely said a word. I can’t stop thinking…what if it had been me?” Tom shifted beside her, leaning back in the chair with deliberate ease.
“It won’t be you,” he said simply. His gaze lingered on her trembling hands. “But perhaps you should be asking the right question. Not what if, but who.”
“Who?” Myrtle’s brow furrowed. Tom’s tone was soft, coaxing, as if sharing a secret.
“We’ve both seen things others haven’t. Strange things. Do you remember before winter, in the night? Hagrid, sneaking about with something he ought not have?” Her eyes flicked up to him, wide.
“The—the spider.”
“An Acromantula,” Tom confirmed, his voice quiet, precise. “Dozens of eyes. Fangs that kill with a single bite. They grow to monstrous size, Warren, some large enough to swallow a man whole. And he was hiding one. In this castle.” Myrtle’s breath caught.
“But he wouldn’t…Hagrid’s clumsy, but he’s not cruel.” Tom leaned forward, folding his hands neatly on the table.
“Intent doesn’t matter. A creature like that loose in Hogwarts? Tell me it couldn’t frighten a girl into madness. Tell me those eyes wouldn’t be enough to petrify.” Warren hesitated, remembering Margaret’s shaking description. Ugly and heavy and horrible eyes. Her chest tightened. Tom watched her face, the way the thought rooted itself. He pressed, softly but firmly. “You’ve seen it yourself. You know I’m probably right.” But then, as if grasping at a thread to steady herself, the small girl shook her head.
“Spiders are terrible, yes, but…don’t you remember, Tom? We studied Basilisks together. They kill with their eyes too. Isn’t it possible someone else found the Chamber? That it really lives there?” The words dropped like a stone between them. Tom’s gaze stilled. For a beat, the only sound was the scratch of a quill from somewhere deeper in the library. Slowly, he reached across the table, brushing his knuckles under her chin to tilt her face up toward him. His voice, when it came, was silken and absolute.
“No,” he said. “That is not possible.” Myrtle’s breath caught. “There is one Heir of Slytherin,” Tom went on, his eyes burning into hers. “Only one. And that's me. I learned it because of you my dear, don’t you think we would know if there’s another one?”
“I…I didn’t mean—” Her lips parted, trembling.
“I know what you meant.” His thumb traced the line of her jaw, softer now, smoothing the fear he’d allowed to rise. “But don’t let legends confuse you. You’re too clever for that.” She nodded quickly, shame rushing in.
“You’re right. I’m sorry. I won’t think about it again.” Tom’s hand lingered a moment longer before he leaned back, opening the book in front of him with deliberate calm.
“Good girl.” Myrtle lowered her eyes to the page, trying to follow the words. But they blurred. Somewhere in her chest the unease gnawed still. Margaret’s terrified description, the old notes she and Tom had pored over about serpents in dark places, the thought that maybe, just maybe, she’d brushed the edge of a truth too dangerous to name. She told herself to stop. She told herself Tom knew best and she would surely notice. But when he pressed a kiss to her temple and returned to his book, Myrtle’s eyes lingered on the page without reading, the thought still flickering at the back of her mind.

Chapter Text

June 1943

By the first day of June, the hospital wing bustled with renewed life. One by one, the petrified began to stir, their wide eyes blinking open to a castle that had grown darker in their absence. Others had been restored, though all spoke in the same hushed fragments. Shadows, weight, eyes.
The news was everywhere and Tom could see how it gnawed at Warren. In the library she lingered over bestiaries too long, her finger tracing paragraphs on serpents she’d already read. In the corridors she fell silent mid-step, as if a thought had suddenly burned too bright to ignore. Even in their stolen hours together, he caught her eyes flickering with some unspoken question. It was becoming a problem. Tom felt it in the sharp edge of his patience, the flare of annoyance whenever her voice trembled toward suspicion. Clever, clever enough to notice patterns, clever enough to see where others were blind. That cleverness was part of why he’d chosen her in the first place. But cleverness could cut both ways. Cleverness could turn dangerous when it brushed too close to truths she was never meant to name. Some nights he wanted to seize her by the shoulders, to shake the questions out of her until she was docile again, soft and blind with trust. Other nights, rarer but sharper, he almost adored that restless spark, that refusal to let the world’s puzzles lie unexamined. And so he balanced, careful and cold. Keeping her close enough to keep her quiet, sweet enough to soothe her doubts, watchful enough to ensure her cleverness never grew teeth. For if Myrtle Warren ever looked too directly at the truth, if she ever saw the serpent’s reflection in his eyes, he knew he would have to decide.
—

The sun lay heavy on the Black Lake that afternoon, the surface scattered with lazy gleams. Most of the school had gathered elsewhere. The Quidditch pitch, the courtyards, anywhere with laughter and noise. Tom had led her instead to the farthest bend of the shore, half hidden by reeds, where the grass rose long enough to curtain them from sight. She had worn her dress, the pale blue one she sometimes saved for him. He noticed it at once, the way the fabric caught at her knees, the way her hair shone against it in the light. It pleased him more than it should. She leaned back on her elbows, squinting up at the sky, her hair slipping loose. Tom bent over her, pressing slow kisses across her forehead, her cheeks, the tip of her nose, until she was breathless and laughing softly. He ran his fingers through her hair deliberately until the neat plaits came undone and when she protested faintly, he smirked and gathered the strands into his hands, deft fingers braiding again. For a long moment he worked in silence, his knuckles brushing the nape of her neck, watching the gooseflesh rise on her skin. Then, with a casualness that was not casual at all, he asked the question.
“Hypothetically, If there were someone behind the attacks. Hagrid, with his spider or someone else.” He tied off the braid with a practiced tug, his voice low against her ear. “What would you think of them?” Myrtle startled at the question, her eyes flicking up to him.
“What…would I think?” She fumbled, her hands knotting in her lap. “I suppose it would be awful. Terrible. Whoever it was, they’d be cruel.” She stopped, breath quickening. Tom’s gaze lingered on her profile, serene as the lake behind them.
“Terrible?” he repeated softly. She hesitated, then shook her head.
“I don’t know. Maybe not. Maybe someone…angry? Or someone who thought they were right.” Her lip trembled. “But it’s still wrong, Tom. Isn’t it?” His hand slid to the back of her neck, thumb brushing the base of her braid.
“It depends,” he murmured. Her eyes searched his, wide and uncertain.
“I don’t know,” she whispered. “I definitely wouldn’t ever want it to be you.” His mouth curved, almost a smile, though it never reached his eyes. He kissed her again, soft but deliberate, sealing the thought before it could grow teeth. But the silence then stretched between them, broken only by the lazy ripple of the lake. Her braid slipped from his fingers as she turned to him again, her face pale but set with a strange resolve. “Is it,” she whispered. “Is it you?” The question hung sharp in the warm air. For the briefest moment, something flickered in his eyes. Not guilt, never guilt, but a flicker of surprise that she had spoken it aloud. Then his expression smoothed, calm and certain as ever.
“No,” he said, evenly, softly. His thumb traced the curve of her jaw as if to soothe the tremor in her voice. “It isn’t me.” Relief rushed over her face, but not wholly. Her hands twisted together, her lips still parted with doubt. He leaned closer, his voice a murmur against her hair. “But if it were me…” He let the pause breathe, deliberate, drawing her deeper into his words. “I would have a good reason. I wouldn’t do anything without a reason.” Her brow furrowed.
“Are there good reasons?” she asked, small and shaken. Tom’s mouth curved, a shadow of a smile.
“That depends who you ask. Those who fear will always call it wrong. But the others…” His fingers slid into her hair, tightening just enough to tip her head back so she met his gaze. “The others decide what reason endures.” Myrtle’s throat worked, her eyes bright with confusion, doubt and a devotion she could not smother. She wanted to argue, but instead she whispered.
“I just want you safe.” He kissed her then, sealing the tremor of her doubts with warmth until she let the question slip back into silence. But even as she melted into him, Myrtle knew the question would never fully leave her.
—

The Grey Lady hovered near the arched window of Ravenclaw Tower, pale in the evening glow. She did not startle when Tom appeared, he suspected she had been expecting him. For a long moment he only regarded her, hands folded neatly behind his back, expression unreadable. Then he spoke, low and steady.
“You know.” Her gaze flickered, cold and sad.
“I know a lot of things.” A silence stretched. Tom stepped closer, his voice quieter still, not quite a confession, not quite a denial.
“And that’s why I’m here. I am not sure how I should manage this and keep her safe. At the same time.” Helena tilted her head, her spectral hair drifting in the faint draft.
“Myrtle,” she said softly, as if tasting the name. “She clings to you as the drowning cling to driftwood. And you…” Her eyes narrowed. “You let her.” Tom’s jaw tightened, but he did not correct her. Instead, he let the faintest sigh escape, calculated weariness in his voice.
“She is cleverer than she ought to be. She begins to ask questions she cannot afford to ask. But she is important.” He broke off, almost sharply, then steadied himself. The Grey Lady’s face softened with something like pity.
“Then change it. Let her live without your shadow falling over her. You could still turn aside from this path.”
“No,” Tom said, not cruelly but with iron in the word. “That is not who I am. That is not who I can be. Greatness does not come without sacrifice.” Helena drifted closer, her gaze steady on him.
“You can give her up,” she said softly. “Spare her what you cannot spare yourself. She is young. Fragile. She could still have a life without you.” The words struck harder than any accusation. Tom’s eyes flashed, his voice suddenly colder, almost biting.
“No. That is out of the question.” He stepped into her space, the faint shimmer of her ghostly form unable to stop the force of his presence. “She doesn’t have anyone else. Anything else. Do you think I would abandon her to the likes of others? To be nothing, to mean nothing? She is mine.” Helena’s expression wavered between sorrow and unease.
“You speak as though she were a possession.”
“I am not the one to give her up,” Tom returned flatly. “I am not giving anything up. I am meant to have everything.” The Grey Lady’s face shifted with centuries of grief, the echo of her own choices. She sighed, the sound thin and tired as wind through cracks in stone.
“Then there is only one solution,” she whispered. “You will have to hope she loves you enough to survive it.” For a heartbeat, something flickered in Tom’s gaze. Not doubt but an awareness of the weight in her words. Then he straightened, mask smoothing over again, and inclined his head as though dismissing a matter already settled.
“I will not need to hope,” he said softly. “She already does.” Helena watched him turn away, her face etched with a sorrow she knew he would never understand.
—

The castle woke to dread once more. Another student turned to stone. A Ravenclaw boy, known mostly for trailing Olive Hornby and laughing at her jokes. He had been found rigid in a corridor, eyes wide, mouth twisted in the beginning of a scream. The professors looked hollow. Dippet’s face sagged with weariness, his voice rasping when he tried to calm the school. “We are doing all we can. Please, remain patient.” It no longer sounded like reassurance. Dumbledore prowled the halls in silence, his robes a shadow that students scattered from. Slughorn wrung his hands in the Great Hall, muttering about mandrakes and potions, his optimism threadbare. “What’s the point of cures,” someone whispered in the crowd, “if it doesn’t stop?” The murmur spread, fear threading into hopelessness. At the Slytherin table, the Knights sat straighter. Lestrange grinned, Malfoy’s eyes gleamed, Nott’s fingers drummed in rhythm against the wood. Tom said little, but satisfaction coiled in him like smoke. Each strike made the professors look smaller, weaker. Each victim deepened the legend he was writing in the shadows.

That evening in their chamber, the mood brimmed on triumph.
“They’ll never keep up,” Lestrange crowed, stretching his boots across the desk. “For every one they restore, two more will fall.”
“A perfect rhythm,” Malfoy agreed, smirking. “The school dances to our tune without ever knowing the player.” Nott leaned forward, sharp-eyed.
“And it spreads, doesn’t it? The whispers. The hate and wariness towards the Mudbloods. We’ve won already, if you think about it.” But Orion Black did not smile. He sat back, arms crossed, gaze hooded. Finally he spoke.
“Walburga won’t stop asking questions. She’s a bit scared. She wants to know how I can sit here so calm, when everyone else is whispering about monsters in the walls.”
“Tell her to grow a spine,” Lestrange scoffed. Orion’s jaw tightened.
“I can’t reassure her without telling her what I know. And I won’t risk that. Which leaves me with a choice. Keep sitting here pretending I have no heart or step away before she sees through me.” The room went quiet. Lestrange’s grin faltered. Nott frowned. Malfoy muttered something about betrayal, but his voice lacked conviction. Tom watched them all, his face smooth, expression unreadable. But inside, the thought struck sharp. The lines were beginning to fray. Walburga pulling at Orion, hesitation creeping in like rot. The Knights needed to be strong. In the future he definitely needs more followers.
And Warren, clever and restless Warren, was beginning to ask questions of her own. He could not hold both worlds in balance forever. Either he would let her in, let her see the shadows he commanded, let her name the monster and love him still or he would keep her at arm’s length, locked safely in ignorance. To collide the worlds, he thought coldly, or to cut them apart for good. His fingers tapped once against the desk, sharp and deliberate and the others fell silent at the sound.
“We don’t step back,” he said finally, his voice even and commanding. “Not now. Not ever. The path has been chosen. Anyone who cannot follow it will find themselves left behind.” The others nodded, subdued. But Tom’s mind was already elsewhere. On her, on Helena’s warning, on the choice looming closer with every strike.
—

The corridors were emptying after DADA, sunlight spilling through the high windows in slanted bars. Tom caught her wrist as she lingered by the door, tugging her silently into one of the narrow alcoves hidden between stairwells. She startled but his mouth was already at hers. A slow, deliberate kiss that stole her breath and steadied her nerves at once. He drew back, his lips curved in a faint smile.
“You don’t look happy,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “And yet you should be. Tell me my dear,” he kissed the corner of her mouth again, soft, coaxing, “don’t you think, at least a little, that some of them deserved it? The ones who mocked you, laughed at you. Isn’t there a part of you that’s glad?” Her breath hitched. For a moment she almost leaned into him, almost let herself believe it. But her face clouded, and she shook her head faintly.
“It isn’t so simple. Some of them were cruel, yes. But now…” She faltered, voice dropping. “Now even those who weren’t are looking at me as if I’m cursed. As if I’m dirty.” Tom’s brow lifted.
“Don’t pay attention to them,” he said flatly. But Myrtle’s shoulders sagged.
“Even in Ravenclaw, Tom. People I thought were kind…they won’t sit beside me. They whisper when people like me walk past. Helen—” her voice cracked, “even Helen keeps away sometimes. Because of what they say. Because of Nott.” A flicker of cold irritation touched Tom’s expression, but he smoothed it quickly, pulling her closer against him.
“Then they’re blind. There are no people like you.” His hand traced the line of her arm, steady, possessive. “But you have me. That’s more than any of them deserve.” Yet she didn’t brighten. Her head tipped against his chest, heavy. For the first time that day, Tom’s good mood soured. He pressed his lips to her hair, forcing gentleness into the gesture. “You’ll never be like them,” he whispered, dark silk over steel. “You’re mine. And I’ll keep you safe.” She sighed, small and defeated, but did not argue. Her hand fisted in his sleeve as if she wanted to believe, even if she quite couldn’t. Tom kissed her again, slow and lingering as though he could fold her doubts into silence. But when he drew back and saw the sadness still clouding her eyes, he felt a cold bite of frustration. No matter how carefully he spoke, no matter how tightly he held her, Myrtle Warren was not happy. And the thought unsettled him more than he cared to admit. Tom studied her face as if searching for the crack he could seal. Every sigh, every tremor of her lip, every shadow in her gaze became a problem to be solved, another small chore to set her glowing again. It consumed him more than he liked to admit.
“I’ll see to it,” he murmured against her temple, tone like a promise but sharpened by calculation. “You’ll smile again before the week is out. Leave it to me.” Before she could ask what he meant, he straightened, smoothing his robes with deliberate ease. His satchel lay at his feet where he had set it down to pull her close, but he didn’t reach for it. He was already turning, already moving with that long, decisive stride, his mind racing ahead to the next piece of work to be done. The gesture, the gift, the maneuver that would make her beam up at him again as though no one else in the world existed.
“Tom—” she began softly, seeing the leather strap on the floor. But he was gone, the echo of his steps swallowed by the corridor before the word left her mouth. Myrtle glanced down at the satchel, heart catching. She bent, her fingers brushing the worn edge. The scent of cigarettes and sandalwood rose faintly as she lifted it, clutching it to her chest. For a moment she only stood there, staring into the empty hallway where he had disappeared, the weight of his forgotten satchel heavy in her arms, as though he had left behind not just leather and parchment, but some sliver of himself she wasn’t meant to hold.

Tom realised the absence almost at once. The weight at his side was lighter than it should have been and for a heartbeat a rare flicker of alarm ran through him. His satchel. He never misplaced anything. When he found her, she was in the library, sitting small at a corner table with the satchel resting in her lap as though she were guarding it, already waiting for him.
“Warren,” he said lowly, his voice smooth but with a sharp undertone. She looked up, startled.
“You forgot it,” she said quickly, holding it out with both hands, “I didn’t know where to find you.” He took it at once, gaze flicking to her face, then to the strap, then back again.
“And you didn’t go through my things?” Her eyes widened. She shook her head, hair falling into her cheeks.
“No! Of course not.” Her voice wavered with earnestness. Tom watched her a moment longer, weighing her. She looked unsettled, too unsettled. But he told himself it was only the same fragility from earlier, the same sadness that had clouded her all week. His hand softened on the satchel. He leaned closer, lowering his voice to something that sounded tender.
“Wait for the weekend,” he murmured. “I’ll think of something special for your birthday.”
Her lips parted. Then, shyly, a smile tugged through the worry.
“You remembered.”
“Of course I did.” But when her gaze lifted to his again, wide and brown and uncertain, the faint smile faltering, he felt an unexpected twist inside him. He hated it, that doubt in her eyes, that hesitation. He hated it because it was directed at him. He brushed his knuckles along her cheek as if to smooth it away but her gaze lingered on him still, questioning, unspoken. And in that silence Tom Riddle thought, with a cold clarity that he will not be doubted. Not by her. Not ever. He had meant to leave, the satchel retrieved, his next step already forming in his mind but when he caught that flicker of doubt in her eyes again, he stilled. He didn’t want her to linger on it. He didn’t want her to imagine cracks where none were meant to be. So instead of excusing himself, he closed the satchel, set it down beside the chair and slid into the seat opposite her.
“I’ll stay,” he said simply. Myrtle blinked.
“But…aren’t you supposed to be with the Knights tonight or have something to do?”
“You’re more important,” he gave a faint, dismissive smile. Her cheeks pinkened at once. She bit her lip, trying to hide the way her whole body seemed to glow with the words. “Come,” Tom said, rising. “Let’s find somewhere quieter.”
At the very back of the library, they settled into the shadow of the stacks, where the lamplight reached only in soft gold patches. He pulled a book from the shelf, not one of his usual tomes in dark magic or runes, but something gentler, a collection of old wizarding tales. He opened it across his lap and began to read to her, his voice low and steady, each word shaped like it mattered. Myrtle leaned against his shoulder, eyelids fluttering half-closed, her small hand creeping into his. She smiled when he looked down at her, shy and adoring. He read on, one arm around her, pausing now and then to press a kiss into her hair as though it were the most natural thing in the world. By the time the lamps dimmed for curfew, she was almost reluctant to move. But he rose, tugging her to her feet.
“Let’s go,” he murmured. “I’ll take you back.” They walked the long path toward Ravenclaw Tower through hidden corridors Tom knew better than anyone. He kept her close to his side, pausing when the castle lay still to draw her into shadowed alcoves. Each time he bent to kiss her, once against her temple, once at the corner of her lips, once full and lingering until she was breathless. By the time they reached the corridor that curved toward her tower, Myrtle’s hair was tousled, her face warm, her eyes shining in the low torchlight. At the foot of the stair, she lingered, shifting on her feet. The Ravenclaw door loomed before her, but her gaze drifted upward instead, toward the dark spirals that reached for the sky.
“Tom,” she whispered, almost shy, “can we go to the Astronomy Tower? It’s a warm night.” He studied her, the way she tried to keep her voice casual, the hope tucked under her lashes. Then he inclined his head.
“All right.”

The climb was silent but not uneasy. Myrtle’s small hand trailed against the stone wall, Tom’s presence steady just behind her. When they reached the top, the air rushed in. Warm, still threaded with the coolness of spring, carrying the faint smell of lake water and grass. The sky was heavy with stars, scattered like salt across black velvet. The moon hung low, round and pale, spilling silver light across the tower floor. The girl walked to the edge, clutching the rail, her hair stirring in the breeze.
“I really like it here,” she said softly. Tom joined her, his arm sliding around her waist with practiced ease. She leaned into him, sighing as though the whole world had grown quieter here. “Sometimes,” she whispered, “I wish we could just stay like this. Always. Just the two of us.” He turned his head, studying the way the moonlight touched her face, softening her features, catching in her wide brown eyes. Something moved in his chest, not weakness, he told himself, but possession sharpened by inevitability.
“You’d really like it that much?” he asked, brushing his lips against her hairline. She nodded, shy smile curving.
“More than anything.” Tom kissed her then, not the hungry claiming of the alcoves, but slower, steadier, as though memorising the shape of her mouth. She trembled beneath it, her hands fisting in his robes as if she feared he might vanish with the night wind. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against hers, their breaths mingling.
“Then remember us like this,” he murmured. “So when the rest of the world grows ugly, you’ll know what is good for you.” Her eyes glistened, though no tears fell.
“I don’t need anything as long as I can be with you,” she whispered. He drew her closer, pressing a kiss to the hollow of her throat, breathing her in. For a fleeting moment, even he felt the illusion of it, that this could last, that this could be more than stolen nights and shadows. But beneath it all, a subtle undertone pulsed like the hum of the wind around the tower. The kind of sweetness that carried its own sorrow, because it could never endure. Neither of them spoke of that. Neither of them needed to. They only held each other tighter under the stars, as if clutching at something that was already slipping through their fingers.
The night pressed warm against them, the stars sharp above. Tom slipped one hand from her waist, reached into his robes, and drew out a slender silver case. He clicked it open, tapped out a cigarette and set it to his lips with that same practiced elegance he carried in everything. Myrtle watched the flare of the match as he lit it, the ember catching red against the dark. The faint curl of smoke drifted between them and for a moment she simply stared, as if the world had narrowed to him alone. Her world often did.
“Can I have one too?” His eyes flicked to her, the corner of his mouth curving.
“You haven’t smoked in weeks.” She shrugged, gaze turning out to the lake, its surface glimmering faintly with moonlight.
“Today I feel like it.” A low laugh escaped him, almost warm. He passed her one, then leaned in to light it from his own. Her hands trembled around the match and when she finally drew, she coughed once, softly, before letting the smoke slip into the night air. They stood like that for a while, side by side, the silence threaded with smoke and breath. Tom exhaled slowly, the smoke curling into the stars. He thought of the Vow, the weight of it, the way she had said yes without truly knowing what it meant. He thought of how easily he had bound her and how much harder it was to unbind himself. His free hand cupped the back of her head, pulling her against him.
“I don’t think I am able to really love someone,” he murmured, “but you’re the closest I’ll ever be to it.”
—

Friday, July the 13th 1943

It was Friday the 13th but Tom didn’t believe in superstitions. He felt good. Better than he had in the last few days. The storm that had pressed against his ribs seemed to have thinned, leaving a clarity so sharp it almost exhilarated him.
As for Orion Black, let him retreat into Walburga’s shadows if he liked. Tom didn’t need him. The Knights were not so fragile as to hinge on one boy’s hesitation. Avery was eager. Rosier, Mulciber, Dolohov. All waiting, hungry for something to follow, someone to shape them. There were always more. There would always be more. He felt the ground shifting beneath him, but this time it was in his favour. Each day drew him closer to understanding the mysteries of Horcruxes, closer to the kind of mastery that would put him beyond Dumbledore, beyond Grindelwald, beyond death itself. And Dumbledore, distracted and stretched thin with the petrified students, felt like no real obstacle. Not yet. He could also tell Warren about the Chamber, he thought. He would. She’d love him anyway. She always did. And if her faith wavered, he’d make sure it steadied again. He always managed to convince her, to draw her back to him. She wasn’t anything without him. He would not let her forget that. Tom’s lips curved faintly as he walked the corridors, Warren’s image flickering at the edge of his thoughts, her soft smile pressed against the invincible certainty burning inside him. The world was tilting into his hand. He could feel it. He was untouchable.

That was all until the third class of the day. Herbology. With the Gryffindors, no less, twice the annoyance in half the time. Professor Beery was in rare form, reciting doggerel about puffapods with a flair that made half the class titter and the other half groan. Tom only half listened, standing tall at his station, hands steady on the pruning shears. And then it came. The burn. It seared across his wrist so suddenly, so violently, that his breath caught. His hand faltered, the shears clattering against the rim of the pot. He clenched his jaw, forcing the mask of composure back over his face. But the fire licked deeper, crawling up his arm, raw and demanding. His vision narrowed. He could almost feel it branded into his veins, pulling against him, punishing him for some thought, some direction of intent he hadn’t meant to let slip. Tom straightened slowly, fingers curling around the edge of the workbench until his knuckles blanched. Across the table, a Gryffindor boy smirked, thinking he’d botched the pruning. Tom didn’t wait for Beery’s rhyming voice to finish its stanza. He didn’t bother with an excuse. He gathered his satchel, left his shears where they fell and walked out of the greenhouse with long, hard steps. Beery’s disappointed call followed him faintly, but Tom didn’t slow.
The castle blurred around him as he searched. The library was quiet, too quiet. Not a shadow of her among the rows. Madam Scribner didn’t even manage to wave at him. The Great Hall was bustling, but no familiar figure bent over a book. His charm shimmered over him as he slipped unseen into the Ravenclaw dormitory, but her bed was neatly made, her stuff untouched. The Astronomy Tower, where she had smiled at him the night before, where her freckles had seemed prettier than the stars was empty, the air still warm but without her presence. He stopped at the stairwell, exhaling once, sharp and furious. His pulse thudded with the pain in his wrist, insistent, unforgiving. There was only one place left. The one place he had forbidden her to go. The broken girls’ lavatory. His stride was sharp, decisive, each step echoing against the flagstones as he descended into the bowels of the castle. The air grew cooler, damper, the faint drip of pipes marking the silence. He pushed open the door, the rusted hinges groaning. The cracked porcelain sink, the shattered mirrors, the stale reek of mildew and magic. The familiar crying.

The lavatory door groaned shut behind him, the sound echoing too loud in the cracked chamber of tiles. Tom’s eyes fixed at once on her small figure by the sink. Myrtle stood rigid, her thin shoulders shaking, fingers white against the porcelain rim. Something crumpled was clutched tight in her other hand. Tears streaked her cheeks but her gaze wasn’t unfocused, wasn’t weak. It was narrowed, fixed on the serpentine carvings she had once sketched. Tom’s chest constricted. Too close. Far too close. One wrong step, one slip of stone or spell and the secret beneath her feet would breathe its poison into the world.
“Warren,” he said sharply, voice low, commanding. “What are you doing here?” She didn’t move. Didn’t even flinch. He strode closer, the pain in his wrist a steady throb, each step louder than he meant it to be. “Did someone hurt you? Was it Hornby? Tell me.” Still nothing. Her tears fell silently, dripping onto the cracked tiles. The sight unsettled him more than her sobbing ever had. She always wept when wounded, loud and raw, desperate for him to fix it. But this silent crying, this clenched hand around some secret, cut deeper. “Warren.” He reached, seized her arm, forcing her to turn her face toward him. Her eyes glistened, wide and glassy, but there was a hardness in them too. He looked down. The thing in her fist crackled faintly as she clutched it tighter. A scrap of parchment? A page? His pulse sharpened. “What is that?” he demanded, voice a dangerous whisper. For the first time, her gaze met his squarely. And though her lips trembled, she didn’t answer. Her hand shook as she shoved the crumpled page against his chest. Her voice was unsteady but edged, something sharper than he’d ever heard from her.
“You tell me.” Tom’s eyes flicked down. Her drawing. The sink, the serpents curling in pencil shadow, the one she drew months ago. For the first time a different kind of cold ran through him. His face hardened.
“You went through my satchel.” Her voice broke into a choked laugh, bitter.
“You did the same thing to me! You can’t— can’t accuse me of it now.” The words landed like blows. He stood rigid, jaw set, but her eyes burned at him through the tears. “Why? I drew it months ago. It was nothing, just— just boredom. And it disappears and you…you tell me you’ve never seen it. Am I supposed to think you liked it so much you stole it?” The sound of her voice, trembling, angry and wounded, clawed at him. The echo of her question pressed like the burn at his wrist. He could lie. He could soothe. He could twist. But Myrtle Warren had never shoved anything into his chest before, had never forced him to look so directly at the thing he most wanted hidden. The page crinkled louder between them, an accusation sharper than words. The silence stretched, thick as smoke. Tom’s jaw was set, his eyes unreadable, the sketch crumpled faintly where his hand pressed it back against her. When he didn’t answer, Myrtle’s voice cracked through the quiet, raw and trembling. “Yes, it was Olive.” Her breath shuddered out. “She laughed at me. Said I’m next. Said no one would ever come to save me. And definitely not you this time. Because you hate mudbloods. Because everyone knows it.” Her tears slipped faster now, but her gaze didn’t falter. “And I thought she’s right, isn’t she? You hate them. And yet you’re never afraid. Always so sure nothing will happen to me. How?” Her voice rose, shaking with demand. “How can you be so sure?” She shoved at his chest again, forcing him to see her. “Why is the stupid drawing important? Tell me! Why do you have it?” Her words rang against the cracked porcelain, against the dripping pipes, against the silence beneath the floor.
For a heartbeat, Tom could only stare at her. Myrtle Warren, blotchy and tear-streaked, clutching the drawing of the sink she had unknowingly marked as a key. Demanding answers she wasn’t meant to have. And in her wide brown eyes was both the truth and the love that made her cling to him still. Tom’s composure cracked. His voice lashed out, low and furious.
“Fine. It’s me.” Myrtle flinched, but he stepped closer, caging her against the sink, his eyes blazing. “Who else could it be? Who else would dare? You think Hagrid’s monster has wit enough to command itself? You think some ghostly tale of heirs and chambers is anything but me?” Her lips parted in shock, a sob caught in her throat, but before she could speak he pressed on, voice tightening with a cold, sharp edge. “And I didn’t tell you because you don’t need to know. Because you owe me your trust. You swore it, Warren. You said you loved me. Over and over again. Did you mean it, or were they just words you wanted me to hear?” Her hands trembled against the porcelain, but she couldn’t look away. “I would never let anything happen to you,” Tom ground out, forcing her to meet his eyes. “That’s why I kept it from you. That’s why I’ve been so sure. Because while the rest of them fall, you are mine. Mine to protect. Mine to keep safe. Mine to adore, if you’d only stop doubting and remember what you promised me.” Her tears welled again, spilling fast, but her body leaned into his grip even as her mind recoiled. He saw it, the battle tearing through her, fear and devotion entwined, and pressed the knife deeper. “You wanted the truth,” he said, voice low, almost trembling with his own fury. “Now you have it. What will you do with it? Tell them? Betray me? Or remember who’s kept you safe while the rest of your kind drop like flies?” For a heartbeat the air in the lavatory seemed to thicken, as though the pipes beneath their feet were breathing, their magic colliding. It was her panic, her heartbreak, her love to his rage, his possessiveness, the dark thrill of finally speaking the truth. It prickled across their skin like static, rattled the cracked mirrors, made the water in the basins shiver. Myrtle’s breath came fast.
“Of my kind…”
“Enough,” he snapped, but the word came out rougher than he meant. “Enough of this nonsense. I told you, you’re not like them. That I would see to it. Don’t you trust me?” His composure was gone now, the perfect mask split open to show the boy beneath. Beautiful, furious, eyes burning like coals. His fingers dug into the porcelain of the sink near her hip. The serpentine carvings seemed to shift faintly under his hand, as if recognising their master. “You have to understand,” he hissed. The floor seemed to hum at the words, a low vibration through the cracked tiles. She could taste iron on her tongue, smell damp stone and mold. “I kept you safe because you’re mine,” Tom said, leaning closer, his forehead almost touching hers. “I didn’t tell you because you’d be afraid and because I want you to stay. You said you loved me.” His voice broke slightly on the last word, a flash of boyishness almost painful to hear. The monster below coiled in its pipes, silent but listening. To the weakness of its master, to the girl’s fear.

The tiles shook beneath their feet. One cracked with a sharp report, splintering into fragments that skittered across the wet floor. The sink rattled harder, its porcelain serpent-handles groaning as if alive. Myrtle stumbled away to the wall, her whole body trembling, her eyes locked on the drain as though it were a mouth opening to swallow her whole. Her lips moved but no sound came, just a thin whimper caught in her throat. Tom stepped aside as well, wand raised, every line of his body taut. His satchel slipped from his shoulder, thudding to the wet floor. Books and parchment spilled out, the black diary sliding to the edge of a puddle. The crawl was deafening now, the hiss threading through it like a chorus of knives on stone. And then came the words again, clear, ancient Parseltongue that tore through Tom’s veins like fire.
“Filthy Mudblood. Unworthy of Master.”
Myrtle let out a cry, small and broken and pressed herself harder against the wall. Tom’s heart lurched, panic clawing at the edges of his composure. He had never been afraid of it before. Never. But now the basilisk’s voice rolled with hunger, with will. It was not waiting for him. It was coming. He tried to hiss back, but his composure was gone, his words cracked, desperate. The hissing roared in answer, a great scale-dragging laugh that reverberated through the pipes, sensing his weakness. Tom’s vision blurred red and his gaze slipped to her. To her wide brown eyes locked on him, filled with terror. He heard it again, the dreadful scrape, closer now, the stone giving way. His hand tightened on his wand until his knuckles split anew. He would do it. He would cast the curse he’d studied in whispers and shadows, the curse no boy should know. He could cast the Killing Curse. He forced his arm to steady. His mind filled with her face, pale and tear-streaked, the way she had shoved the drawing into his chest only minutes ago, demanding truth. And now she had it. The truth in all its horror.
If the serpent broke through, he would strike it down. He would kill his own weapon, his own inheritance, his own legacy. He would destroy a piece of himself for her. The pipes howled with the sound of its approach. The porcelain cracked, the drain widening, water spilling black and foul across the tiles. Myrtle whimpered his name, almost inaudible. And Tom Riddle, seventeen years old, wand raised, fury and terror twisting together in his chest, realised he did not know how to stop anything that was happening. The choice pressed down on him like stone. And in that breathless, dreadful moment, the boy who would one day carve his name into legend stood trembling on the edge of his own undoing.

The sink statue shifted with a loud rumbling and opened. The hiss rose into a deafening shriek, scales scraping stone, the air turning cold and wet with the stench of age and death. A shadow coiled upward, vast and heavy, the serpent’s body slithering into the lavatory. Its head rose, massive, crowned with scales slick as armor, its mouth yawning open with a hiss that rattled the cracked mirrors.
“Close your eyes!” Tom shouted, his wand blazing green in the gloom. “Now!” She buried her face into her hands, trembling, but Tom didn’t look away. He couldn’t. His eyes locked on the monster’s dreadful gaze, on the abyssal pools that had frozen so many before. He raised his wand, the incantation burning raw in his throat.
“AvadaKedavra!”
—

Tom Riddle was ready, in that moment, to give something of himself up. To destroy a legacy, to sacrifice one of his own possessions for the sake of another. For her. He thought he understood the price of it. What he didn’t know, what he couldn’t know, were the eyes of the basilisk. The eyes that had petrified through mirrors and water, that had reached beyond sight itself. The killing eyes. Ancient, cursed, reflecting like glass.
So when the Killing Curse struck the beast head-on, its dreadful magic turned back upon the one thing it was observing. The curse bent like light on water, reflected in that abyssal gaze. And no closed eyes could save one from the Killing Curse. No vow. No devotion. No love. When the light faded, only silence remained.

Chapter Text

Friday, July the 13th 1943

Tom Riddle was ready, in that moment, to give something of himself up. To destroy a legacy, to sacrifice one of his own possessions for the sake of another. For her. He thought he understood the price of it. What he didn’t know, what he couldn’t know, were the eyes of the basilisk. The eyes that had petrified through mirrors and water, that had reached beyond sight itself. The killing eyes. Ancient, cursed, reflecting like glass. So when the Killing Curse struck the beast head-on, its dreadful magic turned back upon the one thing it was observing. The curse bent like light on water, reflected in that abyssal gaze. And no closed eyes could save one from the Killing Curse. No vow. No devotion. No love. When the light faded, only silence remained.
—

The curse struck. Green light filled the lavatory, searing against the slick black scales. For a heartbeat Tom thought he had done it, that he had killed the monster, that he had chosen her over it. And then the basilisk’s eyes flared. Twin abysses, yellow and endless, catching the curse and twisting it, bending it as if the air itself were a mirror. He felt it before he understood it. A recoil, a terrible snap of old magic that didn’t belong to him. He spun, his heart clawing its way into his throat. Myrtle had lifted her head. Just a fraction. Just enough. Perhaps drawn by the silence, by the surge of magic, by the need to see him. Her small hands fell from her face. And her wide brown eyes, full of shock, horror, despair and that unbearable, stubborn love met his. The green light slammed into her chest.
“No—” The word tore out of him, ragged, useless, drowned by the thud of her body hitting the wet tile. He stumbled forward, wand clattering from his hand. She lay crumpled, her dress pooled around her, her hair loose and damp against the stone. Her lips parted once, a breath that didn’t come. Her eyes, still open, fixed on him. The life already dimming, already slipping away, but holding his gaze to the last. Trusting him. Loving him. Even in that final second. And then they emptied. The brown he had known, warm, foolish, stubborn and alive, went glassy, cold, blank.
Something broke in him then, sharp and irreparable. Rage, grief, disbelief crashed together, leaving only a hollow that swallowed all air. His wrist burned with the Vow until his skin split, blood mixing with the water pooling around her. Tom staggered forward, reaching for her, but before he could touch her the world convulsed. The magic twisted back on itself, colliding with something deeper, something raw and ancient inside him. For a single, lacerating instant he felt everything at once. Myrtle’s love, the way her eyes had searched for him even in death, his ambition burning like a brand and the dark, secret knowledge of Horcruxes he had nursed in silence. And then it tore.

The pain was beyond pain. As if claws of fire had sunk into his chest and were rending him open from the inside. His knees buckled and he collapsed onto the wet tiles. He wanted to scream but the sound was ripped apart by the echo of Myrtle’s death cry still coiling around the chamber. His body seized, every muscle shuddering violently. He clawed at his own chest as if he could hold the pieces of himself together but his soul was splitting, fracturing with a soundless, merciless crack. Images burst behind his eyes. Not memories, but shards. Myrtle’s smile, her whispers of I love you, the basilisk’s dreadful gaze, the taste of power, the promise of eternity. They shattered against one another, cutting into him until he felt hollow and bleeding in places no wound could reach. He tried to crawl to her, to reach her pale hand where it lay still on the tiles. His fingertips grazed only water, rippling red with his own blood. His chest heaved, his breath tearing shallow and sharp. And then he saw it. The diary, lying open on the stones, its pages splayed like wings, drinking in the water and the blood alike. It seemed to pulse faintly in the shadows, an invitation, a vessel. The rift inside him widened, raw and unbearable and the soul-torn fragments sought refuge. Slid outward, screaming through him and buried themselves into the only object waiting, ready, wanting. Tom writhed, his back arching against the tiles. It was the agony of being burned alive and drowned and ripped apart all at once. His vision dimmed, his body shook until his muscles locked and still it went on. The tearing, the splitting, the unbearable hollowing. When it finally ceased, he lay curled on the cold floor, shaking so hard his teeth clattered. His throat tasted of iron, his eyes blurred. And through the haze of torment, he turned his face toward her. Myrtle Warren. Still. Silent. Her brown eyes glassy, fixed on nothing. The first piece of him gone. The first Horcrux made. The first death that belonged to him. And the only tenderness he would ever allow himself again was bleeding out beside her.

The chamber had fallen silent again. The sink closed with a deep rumbling. Only the slow drip of water remained, punctuating the unbearable stillness. Tom’s body shook, wrung out and hollow, his soul scorched raw by what it had endured. He scarcely felt the blood still running from his wrist, scarcely noticed the diary lying black and wet a few feet away. All he could see was her. She lay so close now, yet impossibly far. Her dark hair sticking damply to her cheek. Her glasses lay broken nearby, one lens shattered, one frame bent. His own blood stained her collar, a dark bloom on the fabric, as though his corruption had already soaked into her. For a moment he hovered close, frozen. He was afraid to touch her, afraid that if he reached out his fingers would close on nothing at all. But the silence was too much, the cold was too much. Crawling forward, he slid his arms under her small frame and pulled her against him. She was paler than ever, colder than him, than the stone beneath them. And something in him cracked wider. His lips moved before he even thought of the words.
“Warren,” he whispered, his breath hitching against her hair. “I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry. Do you understand? I didn’t—” Her body stayed limp, heavy in his arms, the cold seeping deeper. He pressed his face into her hair, whispering again and again, frantic fragments tumbling out. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to. My dear, wake up.” He tried again. “Warren please,” his voice broke on the word. Still nothing. “My dear.” The old endearment, sharp and familiar on his tongue. Still nothing. And then, without realising, without even thinking, he breathed her name.
“Myrtle.” It slipped out in a rasp, low and desperate, as if naming her could summon her back, as if the syllables themselves could spark life in her again. His chest heaved. He hadn’t called her that before. Not once, not ever. And now it hung between them, the first and last time. She could no longer hear it. So he only clutched her tighter, whispering her name over and over until it was meaningless, until it was all he had left. The sound fell into the cold air and dissolved like smoke, leaving only the echo of her silence and the boy who clutched her as though his arms alone could hold together what had already been broken forever.

He could not let go. His arms refused it, clamped around her small frame as though the stone floor might swallow her whole if he loosened his grip. Her head rested against his shoulder, limp, too heavy in a way it had never been before. He tilted his face down, his eyes devouring every detail as if to memorise her before she slipped away from him entirely. Her freckles. Scattered faintly across her nose and cheeks, the same spots he had once traced with idle fingers, almost amused at how she flushed under the touch. The faint blemishes of a girl who should have lived, who should have grown into them. Her skin. Paler than ever now, drained of the warmth he had kissed a hundred times. He brushed trembling fingers along her jaw, recalling how she used to tilt her head into his hand, eyes half-closed, shy and bold all at once. Now she did not move. Her lips. Parted slightly, stilled. He remembered the way they had shaped his name, whispered “I love you” into the dark, pressed desperately and soft against his own. He bent closer, his forehead nearly touching hers, as if he could will them to speak again. They stayed cold, silent. He inhaled sharply, but it felt like drowning. That haunting floral scent filled him with an ache so deep he didn’t know if it was grief, guilt, rage, or something worse. Something he had no name for, something he had never felt before. He had never truly been sorry for anything. Not once. Regret was for lesser men. Yet here, with Myrtle cold in his arms, her freckles and lips and lily-of-the-valley sweetness forever stilled, something like sorrow tore through him. A raw, alien thing, clawing at his hollowed chest. He didn’t know what to do with it. He didn’t know how to hold it, or silence it, or use it. All he knew was that he had done this.
The pain dulled, but it did not leave. It settled into something colder, deeper. An emptiness spreading out from his chest like frost. For a moment he thought it was grief hollowing him, the unbearable absence pressing through him. But then his gaze snagged on the diary.
It lay a few feet away, its cover slick with water and blood, the pages warped. And yet it seemed different. Heavy. Alive in some way it had not been before. He felt it in the marrow of his bones, the pull, the tether. And in that instant he understood. He had split himself. Preserved what should never be torn. A Horcrux. The theory no longer ink on stolen pages but a wound in his very being, sealed into the book she had given him. The realisation slashed through the chaos in his head and for a heartbeat he felt almost exultant. He had achieved what others only whispered of. Immortality. Power. A mastery of death itself. But then the contrast hit him again like a curse. Because while one piece of him lived on, safe in that book, another small piece lay limp in his arms. The girl who had loved him when she should have feared him. Dead. Because of him. He stared down at her, her head lolling against his shoulder, skin already cooling. The hollowness inside him widened. It was not grief alone, nor triumph alone, but a terrible collision of both.
He was no longer a complete human. He knew that with bone-deep certainty. Something had been carved out of him and sealed away and it would never return. And yet in his arms he held the only thing that had ever made him feel most human. Myrtle Warren, her warmth extinguished, her body small and still against his. A paradox. A prison. A truth he could neither embrace nor escape. He had killed her. He had preserved himself. He had lost the last thing capable of making him somehow caring. And as his fingers clutched her tighter, he felt the war inside himself. Between triumph and devastation, immortality and loss. And he knew there would be no peace. Not now. Not ever.

Tom did not know how long he sat there. Minutes, hours, the measure of time slipped away, dissolved into the endless drip of water and the suffocating silence. All he knew was the weight in his arms. Her body, unnaturally heavy, unnaturally still. His muscles trembled with exhaustion, but he did not move. He could not. The hollow in his chest ached with every breath, a new and foreign emptiness that left him raw and unfinished. The pain of it had burned itself out into a numb cold that no fire could thaw. The June sun streamed stubbornly through the stained glass windows, flooding the room with golden light. It reached across the cracked tiles, across the broken mirrors, across the puddles tinged with red. It stretched its fingers toward them as if to offer salvation, as if it could drive back the shadow that clung to this place. But the warmth never touched him. Never touched her. The lavatory remained cold. The kind of cold that settles after death, creeping into the stones themselves, into the air, into the soul. He sat hunched in it, hollow-eyed, holding her tighter as though the chill might carry her away if he loosened his grasp. Nothing changed. She did not stir. The sun could not reach her. The room stayed frozen the moment the world ended. And Tom Riddle, boy, heir, monster, sat lost in the ruins, clutching the lifeless girl as though he could hold onto something that was already gone.
—

Time returned in fragments. The sound of dripping water. The smell of stone and blood. The weight in his arms. And then a thought. Small, sharp, cutting through the moment. He couldn’t stay there. It sat in his mind like a command. Rational, necessary. He knew it was right. If anyone came, if anyone saw, he would be finished. But another voice whispered beneath it. Thin, frantic, softer than his own. Don’t let go. His grip on her tightened unconsciously. Her head lolled against his chest, hair damp, skin pale as wax. For a second he pressed his face into her hair again, inhaling the faint scent of lily of the valley, the scent that now felt like a curse.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured again, though the words were empty in his mouth. “I’m so—”
He cut himself off. He didn’t know what he was. He only knew he couldn’t hold her forever. His arms ached from cradling her. His legs were numb from kneeling. His chest was hollow and cold. Yet still he hesitated. The thought of her body lying on the tiles without him felt wrong, like abandoning something sacred. But the rational part of him was louder now, steady, insistent. He had to leave her. He had to protect himself. He was the heir of Slytherin. He couldn’t fall apart over someone. The thought was a knife and he forced his trembling hands to move.
Slowly, almost reverently, he eased her down onto the tiles. Her hair spread out across the wet floor like a dark halo. Her small hand slipped from his, landing palm-up, as though waiting for something he could no longer give. He stared at her. For a moment his breath stuttered and he thought he might take her back into his arms, hold her until the end of the world. But his body didn’t obey. Instead he reached for the diary. It sat just beyond her outstretched hand, slick with water, its leather warped. He snatched it up as though it were alive, his heart clenching at the thought of what it now held. He could feel it, the tether between them. Her death. His soul. Preserved. His eyes dropped to his wrist. Blood still dripped from the split wrist. He muttered the healing charm twice, three times, until the skin sealed and the bleeding stopped. But when he lifted his hand, a pale, strange scarring traced across his flesh like a burn. No charm could erase it. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, tasting iron. And then, at last, he looked at her one more time. Tom let his gaze travel over every detail: her freckles. Her glasses cracked and lying nearby. The curve of her shoulder under the damp fabric of her uniform. Her lips parted slightly, as though she might still speak. Something inside him twisted, hard enough to hurt. He whispered her name, barely audible.
“Myrtle.” And then he raised his wand. His voice was steady but his hand trembled as he traced the spell through the air, vanishing the blood from the tiles, from the water, from her skin. The ripples stilled, leaving only the faint scent of stone and damp. No trace of him. It felt like erasing the last proof she had ever been real. He tucked the diary under his arm, fingers white around its edges and backed away from her. Step by step, his heart hammering, the hollowness widening. At the door he stopped. For a heartbeat he almost turned back, almost crossed the tiles to gather her up again. But he didn’t. He left her there, alone in the golden light and walked out, carrying nothing but the book and the new, unbearable cold inside him.

The moment the door closed behind him, the air shifted. The suffocating weight of the lavatory fell away, replaced by the murmur of the castle. Distant voices, shuffling feet, the faint echo of laughter somewhere above. The world continued. A part of his world had ended and yet Hogwarts breathed as though nothing had happened. And with that sound, clarity returned. He couldn’t be seen. He couldn’t be suspected. He stopped at the first empty alcove he found, pulling the diary from beneath his arm. Its leather was still damp, its edges warped, but it pulsed faintly, obedient, alive. He whispered the incantations that unraveled his wards, the protective enchantments hissing faintly in answer as the pages spread open for him. His hand shook only once and he clenched it into a fist until the tremor passed. He flipped toward the end, to one of the most private leaves. A list. Names scrawled in his neat hand. Every one of them had seen something. Suspected something. Known too much. He ran his finger down the page, his lips moving silently with each name. Faces rose in his mind, voices, half-spoken doubts. He couldn’t afford them. Not now. Not when the stakes had become this high.

Malcolm Scamander.
The Hufflepuff was coming down the side corridor from the greenhouses, still flushed from the heat. He spotted Tom in the shadow of the arch and hesitated, half-turning as though to speak. To plead, perhaps, the way he had once done to Myrtle. Tom’s wand was already out.
“Obliviate.” The boy blinked, staggered and stared through him with confused, empty eyes. He passed by without a word. Tom didn’t even watch him go.

Olive Hornby.
She was laughing with a cluster of Ravenclaws in the courtyard. The sound grated, shrill and cruel as ever. Tom waited until she separated, flipping her hair, reaching into her satchel. She glanced up, irritation flashing when she caught him staring.
“What?” she snapped. The word had barely left her mouth before his wand flicked. “Obliviate.” Her scowl faltered. She blinked, turned on her heel and walked back inside the castle, her memory clean.

Madam Scribner.
The library was pretty busy after lunch, dust motes shifting in the golden afternoon light. Madam Scribner moved along the shelves with slow, deliberate steps, pausing now and again to adjust a spine, to murmur to herself. Tom approached quietly, the diary under his arm, his face composed.
“Madam Scribner,” he said with a strangely hoarse voice, “I was hoping to continue my work from last week. Do you still have the restricted volume on European Necromancy?” Her brows knit, but her mouth softened at the prefect’s strange tone.
“I suppose… yes. One moment, Mr. Riddle.” She turned, her fingers running along the higher shelf, searching. And Tom carefully raised his wand. For an instant his focus faltered. The image that leapt to his mind was not runes or pages but Myrtle’s smile, her head tilted as she asked about the very books Scribner had once helped her find. Myrtle, with her wide glasses sliding down her nose as she sketched, as she whispered his name. Myrtle, gone because of him. The hollow inside him ached. But his hand did not tremble. He fixed his gaze on Scribner’s back, the gray streaks in her hair, the precise movements of her hands. He thought of Myrtle again, but sharper now, Myrtle as a reason, Myrtle as the price. If he did not act, Myrtle’s death, his triumph, his mistake, his pain, would all unravel.
“Obliviate.” Scribner froze, her shoulders twitching, then sagged. She turned back toward him, blinking faintly, confusion clouding her eyes.
“Ah… Mr. Riddle,” she said slowly, voice vague, “what was it you wanted again?” Tom’s lips curved. His mask slid easily back into place.
“Nothing important, Madam. I’ll find it myself.” He tucked the diary closer against his ribs, the cold spreading further inside him, and stepped away.

Helen Abbott, Nott?
Fortune offered him both of them in the library as well. He spotted them near the Runes, Nott leaning lazily against the bookshelf, Helen Abbott close beside him. She looked up at the boy with that soft, fearful kind of admiration Tom found both predictable and vaguely repulsive. When they noticed him, Helen stiffened. Her smile faltered, and her hand tightened around the strap of her satchel. Nott, by contrast, smirked faintly.
“You look exhausted, Riddle,” Nott drawled, his eyes sharp with curiosity. “Long Friday?" Tom tilted his head, mask smooth, but said nothing. He stepped closer and Helen instinctively moved half behind Nott, like a rabbit seeking cover. Nott chuckled low. “You terrify her, you know.” Tom’s eyes lingered on Helen, her nervous glance, her mouth opening as though she wanted to say something. Something dangerous. He could almost hear Myrtle’s name trembling on her tongue. He would not risk it. He let his hand slip inside his robes as he walked around them, smooth and practiced. They didn’t even notice the slight lift of his wand until it was too late.
“Obliviate.” The spell flared, silent and merciless. Both of them stiffened, shuddered, then blinked as though waking from a heavy sleep. Nott rubbed his temple, confused. He frowned, but the sharp suspicion in his eyes was gone, dulled to nothing. Helen blinked rapidly, her fear still written in her face, but untethered from its source. Tom stepped past, his stride calm, collected, as though nothing had happened. Behind him, their murmured voices stumbled on in vague conversation, but the dangerous threads were gone. The connection between himself and the small girl with glasses, gone. He didn’t look back.

Peeves.
It took him the better part of the afternoon to track Peeves down. The poltergeist was never still, never predictable and certainly never where you wanted him. Tom stalked through corridors long emptied, the echo of his shoes muffled by charms, listening for the telltale shriek of laughter or the clang of some stolen object dropped from above. At last, near the armoury on the third floor, he found him. Peeves was perched upside down in the rafters, humming tunelessly and juggling three inkwells he had no business with. His head spun to the side as Tom stepped into view, his grin widening immediately.
“Oooh, if it isn’t scary Tommy Riddle!” Peeves sing-songed, dropping one inkwell just to watch it shatter. “Up to no good, as always? Or maybe…no good’s up to you?” He cackled. Tom’s jaw clenched. Peeves had been there in the wrong places too many times, laughing when Myrtle cried, sneering when Tom appeared beside her. Once even catching them late in a hidden alcove. He couldn’t allow it.
“Peeves,” Tom said, voice low, coaxing. “Come down. I’ve got a game for you.” The poltergeist wheeled gleefully in the air, blowing a raspberry.
“Oooh, the prefect with a game! Or maybe a Slytherin prince’s wish?” Tom’s wand was already out, his stance fluid, his eyes sharp. He couldn’t afford a mistake. Ghosts were slippery, untethered things and Peeves most of all. His nature made him volatile, resistant to control. The spell had to be focused, precise, anchored.
“Obliviate!” The spell cut through the air like a knife. Peeves shrieked and darted aside, two inkwells exploding against the stone floor.
“You cheeky snake!” he howled, laughter twisted with panic. “Casting your nasty curses at poor Peevsie, are you?” Tom didn’t flinch. His grip tightened, his focus narrowed to a single point. Myrtle’s face rose unbidden. Her wide glasses, her shy laugh, her name breaking on his lips. He clung to that, sharp and painful, using it to sharpen his will. He waited until Peeves wheeled close, taunting, and then snapped his wand again.
“Obliviate!” This time the light struck true. Peeves froze mid-spin, his grin faltering, eyes rolling back before righting again. He blinked rapidly, looked down at Tom with a vague, puzzled expression.
“What’s… what’s this then?” he muttered, voice hollow of its usual spark. He blinked again, then snorted half-heartedly. “Forgot what I was doing. Hah! Must’ve been nothing. Your Majesty,” he grinned to Tom and zipped away down the corridor, slower, confused, muttering to himself. Tom exhaled, the hollow ache in his chest pulsing stronger with the effort it had taken. Peeves was dangerous, but no longer to him. The satisfaction felt thin.

The Grey Lady.
He closed the diary with deliberate care and let his hand linger on its surface. Helena Ravenclaw would be the hardest, he knew. She had seen too much, understood too much, suspicion woven deep into her pale gaze. Obliviating her would not be simple. Perhaps not even possible. He would need strength. Precision. Control he did not yet fully have. He would wait. He would prepare.
—

So now Tom waited. The diary sat heavy in his lap, its leather still warped and damp, as he wandered the halls. The hours dragged and still no alarm rang through the castle. No shrill scream of a girl stumbling into the lavatory. No rush of footsteps, no thundering voice of a professor calling for help. He had half-expected it, half-prepared himself for Dippet’s pale face, for Dumbledore’s piercing gaze, for the school to quiver and whisper in the wake of a dead girl. But nothing came. The silence pressed harder than any outcry. The castle hummed with its usual life. Quills scratching, laughter echoing in distant corridors, the joy from upcoming holidays. Myrtle’s absence threaded through it like a ghost no one noticed. No one missed her. No one cared. His jaw clenched. For all her wide-eyed devotion, all her stumbling words of love, Myrtle Warren had been invisible to the world she lived in. And now she was invisible in death. That, perhaps, was the cruelest truth of all.

It was during dinner, when the hall was loudest and least attentive, that the silence came for him. Olive Hornby burst in, pale as parchment, her hair loose, her satchel half-falling from her shoulder. Her usual sneer was gone. Her lips trembled, her eyes wide and frantic. She didn’t even glance toward the Ravenclaw table where her friends sat waiting for her. She went straight for the professors’ table. Tom’s gaze followed her. Few others noticed. The Gryffindors were still cheering over some Quidditch triumph, the Hufflepuffs arguing about pumpkin pasties. But Tom watched her weave between benches, nearly tripping over her own feet as she leaned into Dumbledore, her hand clutching the edge of his sleeve. Her words were too low to hear, but he caught the shape of them. Dumbledore’s face stilled, grave in an instant. His eyes darkened as he bent down to listen, his hand tightening briefly on Olive’s shoulder before turning to Headmaster Dippet. Tom saw the colour drain from Dippet’s face, saw the sickly pallor spread as the words passed from one to the other. Dippet’s fork clattered against his plate, unnoticed by anyone else. And then silence at the staff table. Dumbledore whispered again and together, he and the Headmaster rose. Not with commotion, not with explanation. They moved quietly, almost invisibly, as though trying to contain the crack before it split the whole hall open. Olive trailed behind them, hands twisting in her skirt. The candles flickered in their sconces. Tom cut his meat into neat pieces and chewed deliberately, his mask impeccable, his eyes never leaving the professors’ retreating figures. The silence had finally broken.
—

Myrtle Warren died on Friday the 13th, June 1943. Just one day before her sixteenth birthday. Tom would have taken her to Hogsmeade. He’d pictured her face lit up as he bought her a ribbon for her hair, perhaps a bar of her favorite chocolate. She would have laughed at something he said, nervous and radiant, clutching his arm too tightly. Later, when no one watched, he would have kissed her in the shadows behind the shops, let her glow and glow until she burned only for him. She would have adored him and he would have let her. That was the plan. But she was dead.

The lavatory had been sealed, professors whispering behind shut doors. They waited until after curfew, when the castle slept, before daring to move her. Tom was there anyway. Hidden in the dark, his back pressed against the cold stone, the diary heavy against his chest. He heard them before he saw them, the faint scrape of boots on the floor, the muted murmur of Dumbledore’s voice, the hushed responses of others. And then they came. A stretcher floated gently through the corridor, white sheet drawn across the small body beneath. Her shape was unmistakable even through the covering, slight, fragile, still. Tom’s breath stilled in his throat. The professors walked solemnly beside the levitating bier, heads bowed as though in prayer. The candlelight wavered on the sheet, pale against pale, and then he saw it. Her hand. It had slipped down from beneath the covering, hanging loose over the side. He couldn’t look away.
That hand, he had held it possessively, absently, as though it belonged only to him. That hand had traced lines along his chest, brushed his jaw, clung to him in moments of fear and need. That hand had sketched him on paper, had drawn the world as she saw it, had trembled when she gave him her vow. Now it swung lifelessly with the movement of the stretcher. Pale, stiff, drained of all warmth. The fingers that once curled around his now curled at nothing, reaching for nothing. He pressed himself deeper into the shadows, his nails digging into the leather of the diary until it bit his skin. He could not force his eyes from that hand. He wanted to seize it, to hide it, to drag it back into his own. It was the last part of her the world would ever see. And he had been the one to take it away.
The stretcher had just turned the corner when Tom felt it, that faint prickle at the back of his neck, the sense of being watched. He forced his eyes away from the last glimpse of Myrtle’s hand and schooled his expression, clutching the diary tighter under his arm.
“Mr. Riddle.” The voice was quiet, but it cut clean through the silence. Tom turned. Dumbledore stood a few paces away, the faint glow of torchlight catching the sharp lines of his face. His gaze was fixed, unblinking, as if he had been there long enough to see everything. “It’s rather late to be out of your dormitory, isn’t it?” Dumbledore said softly. There was no smile in his tone. Only gravity. Tom’s mask slipped into place. His shoulders relaxed, his lips curved faintly, the picture of a dutiful prefect.
“I had to see with my own eyes, Professor. If the rumours were true.” For a moment Dumbledore only studied him, eyes deep and searching, as though they might pierce straight through the perfect surface Tom wore. Then he stepped closer, lowering his voice even further.
“Is there something you wish to tell me, Tom?” The question struck like a blade. Tom froze, his breath catching, his fingers tightening around the diary until the leather creaked. His mind roared. Myrtle’s scream, the basilisk’s hiss, the hollow inside him widening. He forced himself to breathe, to summon every ounce of discipline, every wall he had built in his mind. Occlude. Occlude. Occlude. Shut it out. Silence the memory. He lifted his chin, meeting Dumbledore’s gaze evenly, his voice smooth, almost indifferent.
“No, Professor. Nothing.” The words tasted like poison, but they came steady. Dumbledore’s eyes lingered on him a moment longer, too long, and Tom felt the first bead of sweat prick at the back of his neck. Then, at last, the professor nodded. Slowly, deliberately.
“Very well. You should return to your dormitory. Goodnight, Tom.”
“Goodnight, Professor.” Tom turned sharply, striding away, his heart hammering. He didn’t let his pace falter until he was swallowed fully by the dark. Only then did he let out the breath he hadn’t realised he was holding, the echo of Myrtle’s name still buried somewhere deep in his chest.
—

He could barely feel his legs carrying him down through the chilled stone passages, his chest still hollow and aching. Every step was a battle. Not against fatigue, but against the storm clawing at the edges of his composure. He forced it down, forced the cold mask back onto his face. He needed control. He needed silence. The Ravenclaw Tower loomed above, its spiral stairs bathed in blue torchlight. And there, half-hidden in the gloom of an archway, she waited. The Grey Lady. Her translucent form glowed faintly in the shadows, her hair drifting as though in an unseen breeze. Her eyes found him at once. Sharp, knowing, unrelenting. She darted forward, her ghostly body tearing through the air with a howl. Before Tom could brace, she passed straight through him, a shock of freezing cold ripping down his spine, so sharp and violent it nearly brought him to his knees. Helena wheeled, her hands curled as though she longed to strike, to tear, to rend him apart but there was nothing she could do. She was a ghost and he was still alive.
“You,” she hissed. Her voice trembled with fury, high and ringing, echoing through the hall. Tom didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. He saw it in her face, she already knew. “You think I don’t watch? You think I don’t see?” Her form rippled, rage distorting the edges of her translucent gown. “My kind, my sweet child, she trusted you. And you destroyed her.” Her scream still vibrated in the stones when the silence fell again, thick and oppressive. She hovered before him, trembling with fury, her incorporeal form flickering with the force of her emotion. Tom straightened slowly, his face pale but composed, his voice low and quiet.
“It was an accident.” The words scraped out of him, deliberate, each one slow as though dragged from some hollow depth. “I was trying to protect her. You don’t understand. I didn’t want this.” Helena’s eyes widened, the fury burning hotter.
“Protect her? You call this protection? She is dead!” His jaw tightened, but his tone never rose. There was no fire, no denial, only exhaustion.
“I didn’t mean to—” He faltered, the mask nearly slipping, then closed it back down with cold precision. His gaze sharpened. “She loved me. She trusted me. I wanted to protect her.” The Grey Lady’s cry cut him off, sharp as breaking glass. She lunged again, passing through his chest like a spear of ice, leaving him gasping, shivering.
“Do not dare use her love as your shield!” she cried. Her voice cracked, both grief and rage entwined. “You are a monster, Tom Riddle.” Tom said nothing this time. He simply stood there, still as stone, clutching the diary at his side, as if daring her to strike again. The air between them pulsed with her fury and his silence. Helena’s face twisted, grief and fury spilling in every syllable. Her voice filled the corridor, echoing like a dirge. “She loved you. She loved you with all her foolish, tender heart. You never deserved it, never deserved her. No one did. She was pure, she was innocent. And you—” Her form shuddered, her voice cracked into something sharp and broken. “You destroyed her. You took the only light she had and snuffed it out.” Tom’s hands trembled at his sides, the hollow inside him twisting. He clenched his jaw, but her words came faster, harsher, beating against him like blows. “She was lovely. She was kind. She was everything you are not. And she—”
“Enough!” The shout tore out of him, louder than he meant, reverberating down the corridor like a whip-crack. His breath came harsh, his face pale and drawn, eyes glinting with something darker than rage. Helena froze, her ghostly form wavering in the torchlight.
“You dare silence me?” she hissed. “I will expose you. I will tell Dumbledore what you’ve done. I will see you stripped bare and ruined for this, Tom Riddle—” But even before she finished, he had already steadied himself. His face shifted, smoothed, sharpened into the mask he wore so well. The calm returned, perfect and cold, as though the outburst had never been. His voice came soft, almost gentle, chillingly precise.
“No. You won’t.” Her eyes widened. “You won’t,” Tom repeated, holding the diary to his chest. “Because you won’t remember. I already have what I need from you. You told me where the diadem lies. That is all that matters.” Helena’s breath hitched, her form flickering in sudden terror. “You don’t need to remember Myrtle,” he murmured, almost kindly. “No one does.” She hovered back, her form flickering wildly, her eyes wide with horror.
“You—” Her voice cracked, thin and sharp as glass. “You would erase her? You would take even this from her? Her love, her memory, her name. Take it all away as if she never lived?” Tom’s gaze was steady, unblinking, the diary clutched close to him. “You cannot,” Helena whispered, the fury in her voice breaking into grief. “You cannot. If you do this… no one will remember she ever loved you. And she will be gone, truly gone.” For the first time, there was no rage in her face, only the helpless anguish of someone watching another death unfold. Tom’s lips curved faintly, not a smile, but something harder, colder.
“Yes.” Her mouth parted, but no sound came. She only stared, her translucent form trembling, as he raised his wand. The spell was already forming on his lips.
“Obliviate.”

Chapter Text

July 1943

By the time Tom reached the dungeons, the hollowness inside him had gnawed its way down to the bone. His body moved without thought. Corridors blurred, staircases vanished under his feet. He managed to push open the door to his dormitory, slip inside the shadowed room and collapse onto his bed. The moment his head touched the pillow, sleep dragged him under. Not rest, not reprieve. Just blackness, waiting to swallow him. And then came the dreams.
Her eyes on Halloween night, wide in terror and candlelight, her hand trembling in his. Her laugh in the Grand Northern hotel, nervous and too innocent, her breath fogging in the cold as she tugged her scarf tighter in the streets of London. The softness of New Year’s Eve, her hair unbrushed, her cheeks pink from the champagne, her voice whispering that she’d never wanted anything more. Her lips pressed desperately to his as if she could carry them both into another year. Each memory returned sharper than it had been when lived. Too vivid. Too heavy. Her face floated before him, close enough to touch, but when he reached for her, her form slipped through his hands like water. She was not alive. But she was not dead, either.
The dreams suffocated him, pulling tight around his chest, stealing the air from his lungs. He tried to wrench himself awake, but his body stayed frozen, trapped in the endless cycle of her voice, her laugh, her pleading eyes. Her last look, horror, love and despair, burned into him most of all, playing again and again until it drowned him. Tom thrashed in his sheets, sweating and shivering, but the dream clung like a shroud. She was everywhere and nowhere.

He woke with a strangled gasp, his sheets twisted around him like restraints, his skin glistening with sweat. The dormitory was still dark, lit only by the faint glow of the dungeons’ greenish torches. His breath came in sharp, ragged pulls, his heart hammering hard enough to hurt. The images clung to him even as he sat up. Wartime London, Christmas, the last look before the curse struck her. Her voice was everywhere, her scent clinging to his clothes, her eyes burning behind his lids every time he blinked. He pressed his palms hard to his temples, digging in until the skin whitened.
“Stop,” he hissed to himself, but her name still echoed in his mind. It was intolerable. He swung his legs off the bed, gripping the mattress until his knuckles blanched. This wasn’t him. This wasn’t supposed to be him. He had carved his soul for immortality, he had done what others only dreamed of. He was meant to be greater, beyond weakness, beyond grief. And yet here he was. Trembling like a child in the dark orphanage, haunted by the ghost of a girl he had already lost. A surge of rage rose in his chest, bright and cold. He hated the dreams, hated the memories, hated himself for not being able to shut them out. He slammed a fist into the mattress, jaw clenched. It was enough. If only there were a way to cut it out. To scour the feelings away. Obliviate himself, scrub her from his mind the way he had scrubbed her from everyone else’s. Leave only the power, the knowledge, the victory without the ache. He sat there, hunched over, eyes burning in the dim light, the diary heavy under his mattress like an accusation. He didn’t know how yet. But he would find a way. He would not go on like this.
—

The Great Hall was hushed when Tom entered with the other Slytherins. Even the enchanted ceiling, usually bright with the June sky, hung dim and heavy with clouds. The long tables were crowded, yet no one seemed to touch their food. Whispers hung in the air like smoke, but the sound died at once when Headmaster Dippet rose to speak. His voice was thin, tremulous.
“Students of Hogwarts… it is with the deepest sorrow that I must address the tragic passing of a young student Myrtle Warren, from Ravenclaw House. She was found yesterday in circumstances still under investigation. We… we ask for your patience and your trust, while we determine the truth of what has happened.” A ripple of unease passed through the hall. Some students glanced nervously at their friends, others only stared down at their plates. Dippet’s wrinkled hands gripped the podium, his lips pale. “I assure you,” he continued, “the professors are working tirelessly to ensure your safety. But in light of this terrible event, it is possible, likely, that the term will be concluded early. Your parents will be notified within the week.” The murmur that followed was subdued, anxious. Tom sat among the Knights, his face schooled into the same blank mask as theirs. But while Nott leaned toward Malfoy with a whispered remark, while Black tapped his fork absently against his plate, Tom felt nothing. Not sorrow. Not even triumph. Just the echo of last night’s hollowing terror, the cold weight that had settled in his chest. Then, beside Dippet, Slughorn rose. His heavy face was solemn, his usual jovial tone tempered to something quieter.
“I should like to say a few words about Miss Warren,” he began, his voice carrying across the stillness. “She was a shy girl. Soft-spoken. But I believe she carried a great spark. Especially in my own subject, she was an excellent brewer. I daresay she had a rare talent for Potions. One of the finest in her year.” A low hum rippled through the hall. Tom’s breath hitched, the words slamming into him like a blow. Excellent in Potions. Her laugh in the library. Her careful hands. The way she had clutched the small, stoppered vial they had stolen. A vial meant for experiments, a vial she had whispered about as if it were their shared secret. The Lacrimora. The thought struck like lightning. His eyes darted to the staff table, to Slughorn’s face, to the rows of students who sat in wary silence. And finally, a flicker of heat returned to him. If the Lacrimora could numb a memory, then perhaps it could do more. Perhaps it could free him. He lowered his gaze quickly, letting the mask settle back into place. To anyone watching, he was simply another student sitting in solemn silence. But inside, the hollowness stirred. And Tom Riddle finally began to plan again.
—

The chamber beneath the castle was closed again, the monster silent in its lair. And so the Knights gathered in their hidden room, the air thick with candle smoke and restless anticipation. Nott leaned back in his chair, a crooked grin spreading across his face.
“Well. It seems the curse has teeth after all. Not just stone, but death. A pity I wasn’t there to see Hornby’s face when she found the filthy body.” Lestrange barked a laugh, sharp and harsh.
“One less Mudblood stinking up the castle.” He raised his glass in a mock toast. “To purification.” Malfoy gave a weak chuckle, though his pale eyes darted toward Tom as if to check whether the jest was permitted.
“Still, it is… unsettling, isn’t it? A dead student is not so easily swept aside as a handful of petrifications. The professors will be—”
“—fumbling like frightened hens,” Lestrange cut in. “All the better.” Only Orion Black did not laugh. He sat with his elbows on his knees, fingers steepled beneath his chin, silent. His eyes were hooded, his expression unreadable. Tom, in the corner, watched them all with his usual stillness. He let the noise play out for a moment longer, let the arrogance bubble. Then, with a quiet word, he cut it off.
“This is not necessarily what we wanted,” Tom said, his tone calm but edged with steel. “We have drawn too much attention. The professors are already rattled and Dippet will close the school if this continues. That is not our goal.” The others exchanged glances. Malfoy lowered his eyes quickly. Lestrange’s grin faltered. Nott drummed his fingers nervously against the table. Tom went on, precise and measured. “We will frame it on Hagrid. His beast is enough to cast suspicion. We plant the whispers, we guide the professors’ fears. The Acromantula is believable. A half-blood with a monster in the dungeons, that is all they need.” A silence followed, heavy and reluctant. Then Lestrange smirked again, though softer this time.
“And what of the Chamber?”
“We close it,” Tom said flatly. “For now. The school must remain open. Our work requires it.” Another silence. Then Nott leaned back again, trying to lighten the air with a snicker.
“Still, at least one Mudblood’s dead. Finally, not just turned to stone but properly gone.” Lestrange laughed with him, the sound echoing off the stone. Black said nothing at all again. Tom sat back in his chair, expression smooth, the hollow in his chest aching beneath the surface. He let them laugh. He let them sneer. But in his mind, Myrtle’s hand, pale and cold, slipping from beneath the white sheet, still hung before his eyes.

The dormitory was silent that evening, the air thick with the cloying damp of the dungeons. The other boys had drifted away to their own pursuits, their laughter fading down the stone corridors. Tom sat alone on the edge of his bed, the diary lying closed in the trunk underneath him, the weight of it like a heartbeat. He reached into the trunk, sifting through books, scraps of parchment, odd trinkets he had gathered for study. His movements were mechanical, almost fevered, looking for something, anything. And then he found it. The silver ribbon, soft and frayed at the ends. He remembered the night he had stolen it, when he had slipped into her dorm under a Disillusionment Charm, desperate for warmth after breaking himself against some failure. She had let him into her bed without a word, her hands gentle as she unwrapped his bloodied palm, her hair spilling across the pillow as she whispered her usual apologies. Alive. Warm. His.
His breath shuddered in his throat as he held it. For a moment he almost let himself feel it again, almost. Then he crushed it in his fist. With a sharp incantation, sparks flared at the tip of his wand. The ribbon curled, blackened and collapsed into ash. He guided it carefully into the glass vial that waited on the nightstand before him. The Lacrimora, pale and viscous, still incomplete. The ash swirled as it touched the liquid, sinking, bleeding through the potion like ink. The color shifted faintly, deepening as if the vial itself absorbed what the ribbon had once carried. The memory of warmth, of comfort, of her. Tom sealed it with a flick of his wand. His reflection in the glass looked hollow, eyes too dark, lips drawn tight. This was it. This was the missing key. The tether to bind the Lacrimora to the emotions he could no longer endure. Her warmth. Burned and consumed. He held the vial in his hand, the weight of it light and terrible. And his chest eased. Not with comfort but with purpose. He turned the vial in his hand once, twice, watching the ash float in slow spirals through the thick liquid. The silver ribbon was gone, devoured and all it carried of her was trapped in glass. Tom uncorked it. He did not want to entirely forget her. That was not the point. What he wanted gone was the weight, the unbearable pull in his chest, the knife-edge ache that made him weaker than he could stand. Her name, her face, her words, those he would keep. But stripped of their power. Empty, hollow, manageable.
He lifted the potion to his lips and drank. The taste was sharp and metallic, like swallowing smoke and ice all at once. For a moment nothing happened. Then it hit. A rush, like a tide tearing through his veins. His vision blurred, then sharpened too suddenly, edges too harsh. He gripped the bed, his breath ragged. And then Her again. Her face in London, flushed with cold. Christmas morning, hair mussed, smile shy. The Astronomy Tower, her voice trembling with a vow. Her last moments, eyes wide, mouth forming his name. The images flashed, rapid, unbearable. And the color drained away. Her laugh muted, the sound blotted out like ink spilled across a page. Her warmth gone, the memory of her hand on his chest reduced to a faint echo with no weight. Her smile, once blinding in its innocence, flattened into nothing but a shape. He still saw her but it was like looking at a photograph in which someone had scrubbed away all light. Myrtle Warren remained in his mind, exactly as before. But her presence no longer pierced him, no longer dragged his soul toward breaking. The ribbon, the warmth, the unbearable ache. Gone.
Tom set the vial down slowly, his hand steady again. His chest felt light, hollow but no longer aching. He stared at the wall, his face expressionless, his heartbeat calm. She was still there. But not really. Not in the way she had been. He had chosen to cut the color out of her. And she would never return.
—

It was easy in the end. Easier than Tom might have expected. Rubeus Hagrid was caught at the edge of the Forbidden Forest with the Acromantula he had cherished, his fumbling protestations drowned beneath the professors’ relief at having something, someone, to blame. He was expelled before the ink was dry on the report, his wand snapped, his name tarred. The whispers spread. It was Hagrid. It was always Hagrid.
And with that, the Chamber fell silent. The monster slept again. No more petrifications. No more deaths. The professors exhaled their relief like air they had been holding for months and the restoration of the petrified students became the school’s victory cry. Hogwarts would not close. The year would end. Life would go on. But there was a change, subtle but deep. The muggle-born students, once scattered in every House, now gathered closer only to one another. The others avoided them, sometimes politely, sometimes not. The “curse of the Mudbloods” had seeped into the stones of the castle and no prefect or professor could scrub it out. Suspicion lingered in every glance, in every whisper. And Myrtle Warren? No one remembered her. Not really. There were no flowers left at the lavatory door, no empty seats kept for her in class, no hushed condolences in the halls. She had vanished as quietly as she had lived, her name already dissolving from memory. Helen Abbott, once her friend, now walked arm-in-arm with Nott. She laughed at his sharp remarks, smiled when he spoke of blood and legacy and repeated his words as though they were her own. Myrtle was gone and Helen did not look back. Orion Black grew more absent from the Knights’ meetings, his excuses muttered, his silence louder than Lestrange’s braying or Nott’s posturing. The others mocked him for it, but Tom only watched. It all shifted, quietly, into the shape he had always imagined. And through it all, Tom Riddle sat at the center, unmarked, untouchable and colder than ever.
—

London, summer 1943

The city air was heavy with coal smoke, the streets slick with rain from an afternoon storm, still crying with the ongoing war. Tom stood before the narrow door of a red-bricked building not far from the British Museum. He didn’t even hesitate to knock at one of the doors inside. It took time before the latch drew back. When it opened, the woman looked older than she had in December. Her shoulders stooped, her face lined with the kind of tiredness that never came from age alone. For a moment she only frowned at him, as though she were uncertain if he were real. Then recognition flickered and her lips parted.
“Thomas?” she breathed. He inclined his head. She stepped aside automatically. “Please, I— come in.” He did not move.
“No, I only came to offer my condolences.” His tone was even, but there was no warmth in it. Her face tightened, grief pressing through the cracks.
“I should have done more,” she said softly. “I don’t even understand what happened.” Tom’s gaze did not falter. He reached into his pocket and drew out a small box. Opening it with a flick of his fingers, he revealed a thin silver ring, set with a pale noteworthy stone. The kind of thing that had once belonged to a mother he barely remembered.
“It was meant to be a gift,” he said, his voice smooth, almost detached. “For the birthday.”
“Oh, Thomas…” The woman’s hand clutched the fabric of her skirt, her eyes glistening. He closed the box and placed it into her palm before she could finish. His expression did not change.
“It would only be stolen from a grave. Better to stay with you.” She clutched it to her chest, blinking hard, her breath unsteady.
“Thank you,” she whispered, her lips parted as if to say something more. To ask what he was to her niece, or what happened. But Tom only gave the faintest nod.
“I’m afraid I have to go now. I wish you well, Miss Warren.” Before she could say anything more, before grief could try to drag him into its orbit, he turned sharply on his heel and walked back down the wet steps into the London street. The rain had begun again, thin and cold. He welcomed it against his face, against the hollow place in his chest that even now felt too still.
—

Autumn 1943

Tom Riddle returned to Hogwarts for his sixth year with a composure that was sharper than ever. He walked the corridors with his head high, his robes immaculate, his every movement measured. To most, he seemed the same brilliant, polished prefect as before. Perhaps a bit more assured of himself, more impossibly untouchable. But those who looked closely, those few who dared to meet his gaze for longer than a heartbeat, noticed the change. There was something different in his eyes. A stillness, a chill, as though a layer of frost had settled over him. He smiled less now, spoke less but when he did, his words carried a weight that silenced whole rooms. Even Slughorn, who praised him to anyone who would listen, admitted privately that the boy felt distant.
It was not mere maturity. It was something deeper, stranger. A coldness that seemed inhuman. What no one could know, what no one even thought to suspect, was that Tom Riddle was no longer whole. Part of him had been carved away, hidden, sealed. He carried himself with pride, with an elegance that bordered on arrogance, but beneath it pulsed an absence. A hollowness where something once had been. And though he never let it show, rarely let it crack his façade, sometimes in the quiet of the castle he felt it. A faint echo inside his chest where warmth should have been. A reminder of what he had lost and what he had chosen. Tom Riddle was becoming something else now. Something greater. Something less than human.
—

The corridors were still at night, every shadow stretched thin beneath the lantern glow. Tom’s footsteps echoed softly on the flagstones as he walked his prefect’s patrol, his posture composed, every movement practiced. Yet beneath the calm, that itch remained. The sense of being watched. He had felt it for weeks now, like a breath at the back of his neck. Not Dumbledore, not a professor. Something else.
He rounded the corner by the Charms corridor, wandlight pale against the stone. And then he froze. She was there. Hovering a few feet before him, transparent and faintly glowing in the dark. His breath stopped. For an instant, it felt like the world had tilted, as though he were still trapped in some half-dream he could not shake. She looked the same and yet not. Her form blurred slightly at the edges, her glasses intact now though cracked faintly across one lens, her hair slightly drifting, tied in the same two ponytails she had that day. But it was her eyes that gutted him. Large, round, impossibly sad and fixed on him with a weight that made his throat tighten. They carried hurt beyond words. Betrayal, confusion and something like recognition. Recognition of him. Of what he had done. And beneath it, a haunting absence, as though she knew some piece of herself was missing, stolen and could never be restored. And Tom Riddle, who could command monsters, who could split his own soul, felt his composure tremble.
It was not an accusation in her eyes. That would have been easier. It was knowing. The hollow knowing of someone who understood she had been erased in more ways than death and who could see that the boy before her no longer held the color she remembered.
For the first time since he had swallowed the Lacrimora, Tom felt something crack through the numbness. Not grief. Not guilt. Something thinner, sharper, more unbearable. A flicker of the humanity he had fought so hard to obliterate. And then she drifted closer. Slowly, carefully, her hand lifted. Faint and shimmering. He didn’t move. He couldn’t. When her ghostly palm pressed against his cheek, it was cold, yet he thought he felt it. A sensation that cut deeper than ice. Her eyes searched his face again, desperate, wounded, asking questions she no longer had the words for. Something inside him buckled. His lips parted and the words slipped before he could stop them.
“I didn’t…” His voice was ragged, low. “You must know… I didn’t want—” It was as close to a confession as he had ever come. The mask faltered, if only for a heartbeat. But then instinct surged back, cold and ruthless. His spine straightened, his features hardened and the vulnerability was gone. The boy who killed her stood there again. And at that precise moment, Myrtle’s form flickered and vanished. The corridor was empty. His cheek still burned with cold. Tom stood alone, staring at the space where she had been, his jaw tight, his breath sharp. He adjusted his cloak, forced the trembling from his hand and walked on as though nothing had happened.
—

Tom learned quickly how to look forward, never back. He had to. The night she appeared to him, eyes hollow and hand cold against his cheek, was the last time he allowed himself to falter. After that, he forced himself to move with precision, with purpose. She was a ghost. That was all. He never asked himself how it had happened, though the castle whispered about it. Perhaps it was because she had wished it so many times, muttering in life how no one would miss her, how she’d rather linger than vanish. Perhaps it was simply her stubbornness, the only thing in her he had underestimated.
She haunted the lavatory, crying into pipes and sinks, wailing to those who dared mock her in life. Olive Hornby especially could scarcely walk the corridors without Myrtle’s spectral form appearing at her side, whispering and jeering until she fled. The irony was bitter. Myrtle had become more of a nuisance in death than she had ever been in life.
And Tom avoided her. Deliberately. He would not risk another encounter like that one. The briefest slip of his composure had nearly ruined him and he would not allow it to happen again. So he charted his paths carefully, kept to other floors and trained himself to feel nothing when the faint echo of her crying carried through the pipes.

The Knights shifted too. Orion Black broke away, swallowed whole by Walburga’s sharp ambitions and the future that awaited him outside the castle walls. But others joined. Avery, Rosier, Mulciber. They filled the empty seats, eager, cruel, and devoted to Tom’s vision. The circle did not shrink, it evolved. And Tom had other things to occupy him. The diary was only the beginning. He had no intention of remaining tethered to a single Horcrux. He studied, he experimented, he expanded. The horizon before him stretched vast and dark and he would walk every step of it.
But some things could not be recreated. Not even by him. He never set foot in the Room of Requirement again, not truly. The door opened when he willed it, yes, but it never conjured the room that had once been theirs. The royal navy bed, the stained-glass window spilling impossible light, the fragile illusion of sanctuary. He had tried once, maybe twice. But the Room remained barren, unyielding. As though it too, had chosen to forget. The Room wasn’t the only thing that never reappeared. There had been a night, once, when the spell of the Patronus had risen almost by accident, a flicker of silver light born from a memory he hadn’t meant to hold so close. Her laughter, her warmth pressed into his chest, her foolish little rabbit that had blinked at him with eyes just as round as hers. But that memory was gone now. Not erased, not forgotten, only blurred, stripped of color and weight until it meant nothing. He had chosen it so. He had bled it out of himself. And without it, the charm was impossible. The light was gone. Patronuses were for those who could anchor themselves to warmth, to happiness, to the fragile thread of humanity that bound them still to the world. Tom Riddle had severed that thread. Deliberately. Whatever silver shape might have lived in him once had died with her.
And Myrtle… she let him. Whether out of bitterness or something mournful, she allowed him to turn corners without finding her there. She stayed mostly in her lavatory, in her grief. And though he forced himself never to linger, never to listen, sometimes on his night patrols, he strayed to the second floor. He would pause in the stillness, ears straining for the sound he told himself he didn’t care to hear. And sometimes, when the castle was deepest in shadow, he thought he heard her. A girl crying, alone in the lavatory. Still there. Still lingering.
—

By the time Tom Riddle began to shape himself into what he was always meant to be, the wizard whispered about with awe and fear, the boy who became a shadow long before he was a man, no one remembered he had ever known Myrtle Warren. Her name lingered only as a joke, a faint ghost-story students told to frighten one another on the second floor. Moaning Myrtle, the wailing nuisance. Never the clever girl who once walked the corridors, never the one whose hand he had held, never the one whose eyes had been the last to look into his before he carved himself apart. No one asked why her ghost rarely left that bathroom. No one wondered if she had known more than she should have. And Myrtle could not tell them. Bound by dark magic stronger than grief, by the threads of an Unbreakable Vow that had tangled itself into her even beyond death, she remained silent. About him. About what he had been to her. About the truth of that day.
Perhaps, if someone had asked the right questions, perhaps if even one person had stopped to wonder why the ghost cried so much louder when asked about her death, things might have been different. But no one did. And Tom forgot. Or at least, he taught himself to. He locked her away in the hollow spaces of his soul, the places he had chosen to tear apart, until she was only another shadow, another echo that did not matter.

She had no place in the great, spiraling plans that filled his nights. No throne in the empire he imagined, no seat in the future he carved from darkness and blood. She had never been more than a fleeting softness, a warmth pressed against him when the world turned too sharp. And yet, he had been everything to her. Her only story, her only feature in the endless grey. She did not belong in the legacy he was shaping. And he could not belong forever in the quiet devotion she had offered so freely.
But still she found a way to remain. Not as his equal, not even as a memory. But as something that lingered, half-forgotten in the stones of the castle, crying in pipes, haunting corners he would not walk again. Tom Riddle became many things. But Myrtle Warren stayed. Somewhere between love and ruin, between silence and eternity, she lingered.

Chapter Text

Epilogue

When Myrtle Warren died, more precisely, when she was murdered by the only person she had ever truly lived for, it took her a long time to understand what had happened. Time no longer moved as it once had. It didn’t move at all. There was only darkness, weightless and cold, a strange silence that pressed against what remained of her. She could not tell whether minutes or centuries passed there. Her name meant nothing. Her body was gone. There was only the echo of a scream that never seemed to end. And then light.
When she finally managed to blink, when her vision cleared enough to see again, the world had already changed. She was hovering, translucent and cold, above the tiles of the same lavatory where her life had ended. The water had dried, the blood was gone. The air smelled faintly of soap and stone. Her glasses, somehow, rested perfectly on the bridge of her nose, as if she had never dropped them. But her hands were faint, shimmering outlines. Her reflection in the cracked mirror did not breathe. It took her a long time to realize what she had become. A ghost.

By the time Myrtle Warren first blinked in death, Rubeus Hagrid had already been accused, his shouts echoing through the corridors as the professors led him away. The Chamber of Secrets was sealed again, the monster put to sleep. The school had gone on. And Tom was nowhere. The boy whose voice had been the last sound she heard, whose name had been the last word on her lips, was gone. Vanished away from her as though he had never existed at all. Myrtle wanted to search for him at first. But slowly, unbearably, she began to understand that the world would continue without her. And he had already begun to forget.
—

At first, she sought out the Grey Lady. It took her a long time to find her, drifting through corridors and walls, learning to move in this new, strange half-state. The Grey Lady had always been kind to her in life, patient and soft-spoken in a way few others ever were. Myrtle thought, foolishly perhaps, that Helena Ravenclaw would be the one to understand. When at last she found her gliding silently through the upper halls, Myrtle almost cried out in relief.
“Helena!” The Grey Lady turned, her faint, luminous face registering surprise.
“Oh… you must be the new one.” Myrtle hovered closer, smiling weakly.
“It’s me. Myrtle Warren. We spoke just before—,” she wasn’t able to say it. Helena blinked, her expression remained gentle but puzzled.
“I’m afraid I don’t really recall. I’ve heard of your death, of course. Tragic. I’m very sorry, dear.” The words hit harder than any spell. Myrtle stammered something, some insistence that she had known her, that they had spoken. But Helena only tilted her head, offering a pitying smile that felt like a blade. “You’ll find your way here soon enough,” she said softly. “We all do.” And then she drifted away, her silvery robes trailing behind her until she was gone. Myrtle floated there for a long time, her breathless chest tight with something that could no longer be pain but felt close enough.
Next she tried Peeves. He was easier to find, screeching and tumbling through the air in some empty corridor.
“Peeves!” she called, her voice trembling. “Do you remember me? You mocked me after curfew once!” He turned a cartwheel in mid-air and cackled.
“Ohhh, another ghostie crying already? Haven’t even learned to rattle chains yet and already blubbering, eh?” She tried again, pleading, but he only laughed harder. “Don’t know ya, don’t care! Plenty of sad girls floatin’ about, no need for one more!” And with that, he vanished through the ceiling, his laughter echoing long after he was gone. The silence that followed was unbearable. Myrtle drifted back to her lavatory, her place now, it seemed and sank down beside the sinks. Her reflection in the cracked mirror flickered faintly. That was when the realization began to take shape. Not all at once, but in small, terrible fragments. Helena’s blank eyes. Peeves’ laughter. The silence. The students who walked past without recognition.
It could only have been him. She remembered the way he dealt with witnesses, how carefully he could erase, how easily he could make the world believe whatever he wanted. He hadn’t just killed her. He had made her forgettable. Myrtle pressed her translucent palms against her face and wept. Not for her death, but for her vanishing. Even ghosts were meant to be remembered. But she wasn’t. He had taken that, too.
—

Over the summer Hogwarts emptied. The laughter, the footsteps, the clatter of plates in the Great Hall. It all faded, leaving behind only the whisper of wind through the corridors and the low hum of ghosts gliding through their endless routines. For Myrtle, it was worse. The silence pressed down like water, heavy and unrelenting. There were no students to talk to, no one to startle, no one to notice her. Only the castle itself and the dead who had made it their home. She began seeking them out. At first, it was Sir Nicholas. He was kind, in his way, endlessly patient with new ghosts, fond of reciting the details of his own execution with theatrical gloom. Myrtle hovered near him one afternoon as sunlight cut through the dusty windows of the Great Hall.
“Sir Nicholas?” she asked hesitantly. He turned, his half-severed head wobbling slightly as he offered her a courtly bow.
“Ah, young Myrtle, isn’t it? Adjusting well to the afterlife, I trust?” She gave a nervous smile.
“I think so. Only… there are things I don’t understand.” He nodded gravely, as though pleased to have been asked.
“There usually are. The transition can be quite bewildering, I’m afraid. But in time—”
“No,” she interrupted, her voice trembling. “Not about being a ghost. About what happened to me.” She didn’t even say Tom’s name. But the moment the thought formed in her mind, something twisted inside her. A pull, sharp and cold, as though invisible claws had latched onto her. Her translucent wrist began to flicker, edges dissolving into thin smoke. The pain wasn’t like human pain, it was something worse. It was erasure. She gasped, horror flooding her. Sir Nicholas’s expression turned to alarm.
“My dear girl, what are you doing? You’re fading!”
“I…I can’t—” she stammered, trying to steady her voice, but the moment she thought of mentioning him again, the pull returned, fiercer this time. Her form stuttered, her voice warping into static. She fled before the other ghost could ask another question.

She found Helena next, desperate, hovering near the old tower. The Grey Lady turned at once, surprise flashing across her pale face.
“Oh the little sad girl, what is it?” Myrtle could barely speak.
“I… I think something’s wrong with me.” And again, as she tried to explain, to form the words Tom Riddle, the edges of her form tearing away like mist in wind. It was as though something inside her was being devoured. Helena widened her eyes.
“Stop,” she said sharply. “Don’t speak of it. Whatever binds you… it’s dark magic, old and cruel.” Myrtle clutched at her chest, gasping though she had no lungs. The Grey Lady didn’t say anything else. Her eyes softened with pity, but her silence was enough.
That night, Myrtle returned to her bathroom. She sank to the floor beside the sinks, trembling, flickering faintly in the dim candlelight. She had thought death would make her free. But it hadn’t. It had only chained her tighter. Whatever Tom had bound in her, the words, the memories, the truth, it lived still, stronger now that she was nothing but a soul. And she understood, finally, what it meant to be truly silenced. If she ever spoke of him again, the magic would consume her completely. So she didn’t. She stayed in her bathroom, quiet except for her crying. The world would go on. He would go on. And she would remain. Not dead, not alive, only the echo of a girl who could never tell her own story.
—

In the long, hollow weeks that followed, Myrtle learned what it meant to mourn as a ghost. There was no day or night, no warmth or cold, only the endless grey of the castle and her own voice echoing through it. At first, she tried to remember him, to hold on to something gentle. The sound of his voice when he said her name, the warmth of his hands, the little things he had done to make her smile. But even those memories betrayed her. They cut sharper than knives. Because every image of him, every tenderness she tried to recall, led only to what came after. His face in that final moment, the horror in his eyes and the green flash that tore her world apart. She could not separate the boy she loved from the one who killed her. And so she wept. She wept for what she had been, a foolish, hopeful girl who thought love could make her visible. She wept for the small, ordinary dreams that had ended in a bathroom. She wept because she had no body to ache, no heartbeat to slow, no breath to catch, only the endless echo of grief that had nowhere to go. Sometimes she screamed. Sometimes she broke the mirrors just to watch them mend themselves again. Sometimes she wished she could destroy the whole castle that had watched her die and done nothing. Students began to hear her. At first, they whispered about the crying in the pipes. Soft at night, then louder, closer, like the sound of water rushing through stone. Then the wails began. By autumn, the first years spoke her name with mock terror. Moaning Myrtle. They said she haunted the bathroom on the second floor, sobbing about herself, about death, about things no one understood. They laughed about it. They imitated her voice. None of them knew that every sob carried his name, the one she could no longer say. The other ghosts mostly avoided her. The living mocked her. And Myrtle cried harder, because it was all she could still do. Sometimes she drifted to the ceiling and hid there for hours, staring down at the place where she had fallen. The cracks in the tile, the dull gleam of the sink’s serpent carving. It all looked so ordinary. She wondered if anyone had ever loved something that killed them so completely. And she kept crying, because crying was proof she still existed, that somewhere, in the hollow place between life and death, a fragment of Myrtle Warren still remembered how to grieve.
—

Myrtle soon understood that Tom was still at Hogwarts. The castle whispered his name, even when she could not. Professors praised him in the Great Hall, students spoke of him in corridors. Tom Riddle, Head Boy, Slytherin’s heir. His name carried like a soft wind through the walls. She felt it every time it passed. The sound of it made her flicker. And she knew, somehow, that he knew she was still here. He never came. Not once. But she felt him. Passing down the corridors at night, his footsteps so quiet even the living barely heard them. He avoided her floor, her hall, her bathroom. It was deliberate. He had always been deliberate.
The first time she saw him from afar, his dark hair, his calm stride, the faint gleam of his prefect badge, she almost followed. Almost. She couldn’t face him yet. Not like that. Not as the girl he’d killed. Not as the ghost who couldn’t even speak his name. So she blamed others. When the sadness grew too heavy to bear, it turned to anger. Wild, desperate and aimless. She began to follow Olive Hornby through the corridors, whispering, rattling doors, blowing cold gusts at the back of her neck. Olive would shriek and drop her books, her face white with terror and Myrtle would laugh. Not because it felt good, but because it felt something. She started on others too. The girls who had mocked her glasses, the boys who had laughed at her tears. It wasn’t revenge, not really. It was a distraction. It was the only way to forget how he’d erased her. Some nights, she floated above her old desk in the Ravenclaw common room and watched other girls study by the fire. She couldn’t remember their names. She didn’t want to. She wanted them to see her, to flinch, to shiver, to whisper her nickname with fear. If she couldn’t be loved, she would at least be noticed. And so the stories began. The crying ghost in the second-floor bathroom. The moaning girl who haunted anyone who dared upset her. No one ever guessed why she cried. No one ever wondered whose name she whispered when the castle was quiet. But sometimes, when the moonlight struck the cracked mirrors just right, she could almost see him reflected there. Tall, beautiful, untouchable, and for one unbearable second, she almost forgave him. Then she’d remember. And the crying would start all over again.
—

She had been following him for nights before she found the courage to appear. He walked the castle like he owned it now. Smooth, perfect, untouchable. His prefect’s badge caught the light as if the stars themselves bent toward him. Every step precise, every breath even. And yet she could feel the tension beneath it, that faint pull in the air whenever he was near, the same cold pulse that had once felt like gravity drawing her in. She told herself she only wanted to see him. To understand what happened.
But when he turned the corner and stopped dead at the sight of her, she almost fled. For a moment, neither of them moved. The corridor held its breath. The lantern light fell between them like a veil. He looked just as she remembered and nothing like him at all. Taller, sharper, colder. The life she had known in his face was gone, the faintest trace of warmth stripped away, replaced by that impossible calm. She could see her own pale reflection in his eyes and realized with a twist of dread that there was no recognition there at first. And then his gaze changed. She drifted closer before she could stop herself, her fingers trembling as she raised her hand. It shook, not from fear but from the ache of wanting to touch something real again. Her hand passed through the air, her edges wavering, but when her palm brushed his cheek she swore she felt something. A thin shimmer of warmth. The smallest proof that once, she had been his. For an instant she thought she saw him break. His breath caught, his eyes softened. Then he spoke, her name caught somewhere behind the words he couldn’t quite say.
“I didn’t… You must know— I didn’t want—” The sound of his voice, cracked and human, was worse than all the silence that had come before it. For that heartbeat, she saw the boy he’d been, the one who’d laughed quietly when she rambled, who’d traced her knuckles when he thought no one saw. She wanted to answer. To tell him she knew. That she forgave him and that she didn’t at the same time. But then he straightened. She saw the change take him, cold and complete. The small, desperate softness vanished from his eyes and in its place stood the boy who had killed her. He looked at her without sorrow, without fear, only with the heavy silence of someone closing a door. And just like that, she felt herself slip. The corridor tilted, the light fractured and she was gone.

When she reappeared in the bathroom hours later, she found herself sobbing without sound. Her hand still tingled from the memory of warmth. It was the last time she ever tried to touch him.
—

The years began to slip away, soft and indistinct, like water through her fingers. After Tom left Hogwarts, the castle felt emptier. Quieter in a way that almost soothed her. His presence, that unbearable tension she’d once felt vibrating in the very stones, was gone. And though she would never say it aloud, not even to herself, his absence was a kind of mercy. She was freer without him. And yet, the silence left behind was another kind of prison. Without him, the days blurred. The castle filled and emptied, year after year, new voices echoing through the corridors. Laughter, gossip, footsteps. None of it belonged to her world anymore. The faces changed too quickly to remember. She remained where she always had, in the bathroom.
Sometimes, she tried to speak to the other ghosts, but they had their own routines, their own quiet tragedies. The Grey Lady kept her distance, still polite but unreadable. Sir Nicholas offered hollow sympathy and nervous glances whenever she grew too weepy. Peeves mocked her mercilessly and though she pretended to hate it, at least it meant someone saw her. Most days she didn’t care about the living world at all. Lessons, Quidditch, House Cups, it all passed like faint sounds through walls. She was only Moaning Myrtle now. The girl who cried too much. The ghost who haunted the second-floor bathroom and occasionally flooded it when the loneliness became too heavy to contain.
There were rare days when she managed to be silly again. She would tease a student washing their hands or sing to her reflection in the cracked mirrors. Once, she even scared a Hufflepuff so badly he dropped his wand into the toilet and she laughed until her voice echoed down the pipes. But those moments never lasted long. Because there were still nights when the castle was too quiet and the memories too loud. When she thought of what it had been to be alive, the weight of a body, the warmth of touch, the thrill of being wanted. And she would weep until the pipes shook. She mourned her life. The one she had lost, the one she had never been meant to have. The one she might have had, if he had been someone else, if she had been someone braver. And though she could no longer feel the ache of a heartbeat, she still remembered how it had hurt to love him. So she cried. And cried. Until crying became all she knew.
—

By the time a boy named Harry Potter came to speak with her in 1992, Myrtle Warren had lived, or rather lingered, for half a century. The years had blurred into one long ache, but something about the boy gave her pause. His eyes were curious, kind in a hesitant way. And for the first time in decades, she felt something stir inside her. A small, foolish hope that maybe this one would ask. Not just how she died. But how she had lived. He didn’t. He only asked about that day. About the voice, the pipes, the fear. He looked at her like she was part of the mystery, not the tragedy. And Myrtle, who had waited fifty years for someone to wonder about the girl she’d been before the scream, cried weakly and gave him what he wanted.
That evening, when the old diary came crashing through the door and splashed into her stall, Myrtle wept louder than she had in years. The boy with the scar and his red-haired friend outside thought it was because someone had thrown a book at her. They took it as another piece of a puzzle. But it wasn’t the impact that made her wail. It was the sight of it. The old, black cover, the faint trace of her own painted letters still visible in the right light. The diary she had once bought with her pocket money, the one she had wrapped for him with trembling hands, thinking she was giving him something precious. And she had. Just not in the way she meant. She had given him the vessel that carried a piece of his soul. The same object that now returned to her, full circle, fifty years too late. The magic of the vow flared when she desperately wanted to speak of it, the edges of her ghostly form flickering violently, forcing her into silence once again. So she said nothing. She only cried. And they, the brave, well-meaning boys with their questions and their destiny, never noticed. They thought she wept because she was the Moaning Myrtle, the miserable ghost of a girl who never stopped crying. None of them knew she was crying over something far older, far sadder. A black diary, a boy she had loved and the life she had lost the moment she gave both away.

Even after Harry Potter uncovered the truth. After he descended into the Chamber, after the serpent was slain and the school rejoiced, after the mighty Dumbledore smiled and declared that the darkness beneath Hogwarts had finally been vanquished, Myrtle was still there. Lingering. The hero was praised, the monster destroyed, the name Tom Riddle spoken in wonder and horror alike. But not hers. Never hers. No one asked what had truly happened in that bathroom fifty years ago, what words had been spoken, what promises had been broken, what love had been twisted into ruin. No one ever wondered why she cried so bitterly when the black diary was destroyed. They had their story. And she remained its forgotten truth.

By the time the castle slept again, the echoes of triumph fading into silence, Myrtle drifted through the empty corridors and back into her bathroom. The tiles were cold as ever. The cracked mirror still held her reflection. Faint, blurred and endlessly young. The world had moved on. But she couldn’t. Her secret, or perhaps she herself was the secret, stayed buried beneath the pipes and whispers. The last trace of a love erased, a death misunderstood and a vow that outlived both. And when the nights grew quiet, the castle could still hear her sobs echoing through the plumbing, as though somewhere deep within the walls, a ghost was still trying to tell her story.
—

There was another time she cried more than ever. Not the usual moaning, not the small, self-pitying tears that had long become part of her name. But real, guttural sobs, sharp enough to make the pipes tremble. It was a few years later, in 1997. A pale, platinum-haired boy had begun visiting her lavatory. He was young, trembling with the same kind of misery she remembered in herself. Lonely, brittle, too proud to ask for help. She pitied him at first. Sometimes he cried and she listened. Sometimes he spoke and she answered. And sometimes, he only stared at his reflection, as though afraid of what he saw there.
Until the day he rolled up his sleeve. It was only a glimpse, an unguarded moment when the candlelight caught the inside of his forearm and she saw it. The mark. A skull, its mouth gaping open, a serpent winding through its teeth. The sight froze her in place. She knew it instantly. Every curve, every stroke. She remembered the brush in her hand, the smell of paint, the way his skin had been warmer than usual beneath her fingers that day. How he’d watched her with that faint, amused smile and whispered that she had a steady hand. “For someone so nervous.” And she had laughed, thinking she was painting a symbol only he would understand.
Now she saw it again, the same mark, darker, blacker, burned into another boy’s flesh and the horror bloomed inside her like ice spreading through water. He had kept it. He had turned it into something real. Into something terrible. And in that instant, she understood everything she had refused to believe for so many years. That her death had only been the beginning, that she had been the first echo of something vast and cruel, something that would outlive them all. The scream tore from her before she even realised it. Her ghostly form flickered, blurred, shuddering under the weight of memory and truth. She wept, not for herself, not even for the boy who now bore his mark, but for all the years she had spent hoping it might have meant something. The dress he bought her for Halloween. The days at the Great Northern Hotel, with snow dusting the windows and the sound of distant air-raid sirens. The stolen Christmas in the Room of Requirement. The long walks by the lake, his hand braiding her hair, his voice whispering my dear. She remembered it all and suddenly she didn’t know if any of it had ever been real. Her wails echoed through the plumbing, through the dark, through the decades, as though the castle itself were crying with her.

About two years later, when word finally reached even the castle ghosts that Voldemort had fallen, that the Dark Lord was gone and peace had returned, Myrtle found herself floating in the silence, listening to the distant cheers from the Great Hall. The air itself seemed lighter and warmer. Even the portraits were celebrating, candles flaring as though the walls themselves exhaled after decades of holding their breath. Sir Nicholas drifted in not long after, his ruff as impeccable as ever, his face soft with the faint smile of relief that only the long-dead can manage.
“Well, my dear,” he said gently, “isn’t it wonderful? The children are safe again. The darkness is over.” The words should have comforted her. My dear. How strange, even after half a century, the phrase still pierced through her like a shard of memory. She nodded, because it seemed expected. But her voice didn’t come.
Somewhere far away, she imagined the dust settling over a battlefield, over what was left of the boy who once promised her safety, who once held her as though she were the last living thing in the world. She thought of his hollow eyes, his voice, his touch. And she realised, with a strange and tender ache, that Tom Riddle had probably died the day he killed her and with her, the last piece of himself still capable of love. She should have been happy for the world. And in a way, she was. But joy was for the living and she was long past that. So she stayed where she had always been, between the echoes of laughter and sobbing, between the pipes and the mirrors, between the past and the present.
—

In the years that followed, her name became a whisper, a joke between classes, an echo in the plumbing. Yet the stones she had touched, the mirror she had cried into, the corridor where she loved and died, all of it remained. And sometimes, when the rain pressed against the castle walls and the torches burned low, a faint sound could be heard through the pipes. Not a moan. Not a sob. But something softer, like the voice of a girl reciting her story to herself, so she wouldn’t forget it again. Because even ghosts, it seemed, could not unlearn love. And some love stories, the dark ones, the cursed ones, never truly end. Sometimes, when the castle slept and even the ghosts were quiet, she still drifted up to the Astronomy Tower. The night air there was softer, the stars closer, almost kind. She would hover by the window ledge where they once stood together, the place where he had smiled, where he had promised her safety, where the unbreakable vow had bound their fates. And she imagined.
What their life might have been if things had gone differently. If the world had been gentler, if the boy with the sharp voice and brilliant eyes had chosen her instead of greatness. She let the tears slide down her transparent cheeks, glimmering like moonlight as they fell and vanished into the wind. Perhaps she was the only one who ever mourned Tom Riddle. Even though he had erased her, even though he had made sure no one ever mourned her, she still did. She grieved the boy who destroyed her. She grieved herself, the girl who had loved him.
And so she lingered, as all unburied things do. Caught between love and oblivion, between memory and myth, forever bound to the place where both of them ended. The irony made her sometimes almost smile. She, who once longed to be gone, would linger here longer than the boy who wanted to be eternal.