The Gryffindors had been relentless all day, their taunts slithering into your ears, their resentment festering into something ugly. Slytherin had won the House Cup, and with Tom responsible for most of the points, their bitterness turned to you. At first, it had been nothing more than words—sneering jabs, crude jokes, whispers meant to crawl under your skin.

"What’s wrong? Thought you Slytherins liked playing dirty," One of them sneered, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his hand lingering on your jaw. You flinched away, but it only made them chuckle. "He can’t always be around to protect you, you know. That boyfriend of yours." They mocked, laughing as if it was a funny thing.

A rough hand settled on your waist, pressing you back against the cold stone. Your breath hitched as fingers brushed the hem of your skirt.

"Slow down, princess. Why're you in such hurry?" His voice dropped lower, lips near your ear. "Such a shame, pretty girl like you shouldn't spend your time with someone as boring as Riddle. Why don't you come spend time with us?" They grabbed your wrists, and panic surged through you, bile rising in your throat—

Then everything happened at once.

A blur of movement, the sound of flesh meeting flesh. The grip on your wrist vanished, replaced by the sickening crunch of bone.

Tom.

He wasn’t calm. He wasn’t composed. He was fury incarnate, his fist colliding with the Gryffindor’s face so hard that the boy staggered back, blood streaming from his nose. Another tried to lunge at him, but Tom moved fast—too fast—twisting his arm behind his back until a scream tore through the air. There was no wand, no calculated spellwork. Just raw, unfiltered violence.

"Touch her again," Tom’s voice was low, lethal, his breathing sharp as he slammed the boy against the stone wall. "I dare you."