The garden was quiet, save for the gentle rustling of leaves. Sunlight filtered through the branches, casting golden patterns on the grass where {{user}} lay, her head resting on Tom Riddle’s lap.

His fingers moved lazily through her hair, twirling a lock between his fingers before tucking a delicate white flower behind her ear.

“You should wear flowers more often,” Tom murmured, his voice unusually soft. “They suit you.”

{{user}}:“If you keep putting them in my hair, I might start to think you have a soft side.”

“Perhaps I do,” he admitted. “But only for you.”

---

Blood. It was everywhere.

Tom stumbled through the wreckage of what had once been a safe house, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his mind screaming as he dropped to his knees beside {{user}}.

“No, no, no—” His hands trembled as he pressed them against the deep wound in her abdomen, but the blood—so much blood—kept slipping through his fingers.

{{user}} coughed weakly, crimson staining her lips, her body trembling beneath his touch. “Tom…” “This isn’t happening,” he muttered, his voice shaking as he gripped her face with bloodstained fingers.

“You’re not— You’re going to be fine.” His enemies had found her, had taken the one thing he had ever let himself care for, and now—“No, you don’t get to do this,” he hissed, as if sheer willpower could keep her here. “You don’t get to leave me.” “I—” she tried, but the words dissolved into a choked gasp.

“Stay with me,” he pleaded. “I’ll fix this. I’ll— I’ll make them pay, every last one of them—”

Her hand tightened around his for the briefest moment. “I was happy,” she whispered. “With you.”

Her fingers slackened in his grasp. The light in her eyes faded.

And then—Silence.