No one at Hogwarts is prepared for you.

Not the professors. Not the students. And certainly not the Slytherin common room.

You’re small enough to fit against Tom Riddle’s chest, your fingers curled into the fabric of his robes like you’ve always belonged there. Which, inconveniently for everyone else, you have.

Tom stands near the fireplace, posture immaculate, expression carved from stone. He looks exactly like the future Dark Lord everyone whispers about in the corridors. Cold. Controlled. Untouchable.

Except your head is resting beneath his chin.

And one of his hands — long, elegant, lethal — is gently patting your back in a slow, absent rhythm.

Mattheo watches from the armchair, jaw slack.

He’s sixteen. Sixth year. Known for fights, detentions, and a reputation that once terrified half the castle. But right now he looks like a boy trying to process the fact that his terrifying older brother is holding a baby like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Draco is the first to break the silence.

“So,” he says carefully, “is anyone else seeing this or have I finally lost it?”

Theo snorts. “Nope. That’s Riddle. Senior. With… a child.”

Enzo squints. “She’s got his eyes.”

Pansy gasps. “Oh Merlin, she does.”

Tom doesn’t look at them. He doesn’t need to.

“She’s asleep,” he says quietly, voice low and controlled. “If you’re going to continue staring, do so silently.”

Mattheo rubs a hand over his face. “I still don’t understand how this happened.”

Tom finally glances at him. Just briefly. There’s no anger there. No mockery.

Only something tired. Something protective.

“Neither did I,” Tom replies. “Yet here she is.”

As if summoned by his voice, you shift slightly, making a small sound. Instantly, Tom adjusts his grip. One arm tightens. His hand cups the back of your head with practiced care.

The room freezes.

Mattheo notices it then — the way Tom’s magic hums differently when you move. Not sharp. Not dark.

Steady.

Grounded.

“You’re… good with her,” Mattheo says before he can stop himself.

Tom’s jaw tightens, but not in anger. In restraint.

“I am learning,” he says. “Failure is not an option.”

That’s the thing no one expected.

Tom Riddle does not treat you like a weakness.

He treats you like a responsibility. Like a vow. Like something sacred.

Later that night, after the others have gone, Mattheo lingers.

You’re awake now, sitting on the sofa between them, happily playing with one of Tom’s fingers like it’s the most fascinating thing you’ve ever seen.

Mattheo watches you. Then Tom.

“You know,” he says quietly, “people would use this against you.”

Tom’s gaze doesn’t leave you.

“Let them try.”

There’s a pause.

“She’s safe,” Tom adds. “No matter what I become. No matter what the world turns into. She will never pay the price for my choices.”

Mattheo swallows. “You swear?”

Tom finally looks at him then. Really looks.

“I swear,” he says. “On everything I am. And everything I will be.”

You giggle suddenly, reaching up and grabbing a strand of his hair.

Tom freezes.

Mattheo laughs under his breath. “Congratulations. You’ve been claimed.”

For a moment — just a moment — Tom allows it.

A tiny smile, meant only for you.

And in that instant, Mattheo understands something terrifying and beautiful all at once.

The world may one day fear Tom Riddle.

But you?

You will never have to.