She hangs like a broken marionette behind Tom’s throne, crimson hair clotted with dried blood, one bare foot swaying ever so slightly with the draft through Malfoy Manor’s cold, high-ceilinged hall. The scent of iron clings to the air like perfume. No one dares to look at her directly anymore—not the Death Eaters, not the servants—but she’s there. Always. A warning. A monument.

Tom doesn’t spare her even a glance.

He lounges, barefoot and languid, in his throne-like chair, a book resting in one pale, elegant hand. Candlelight flickers against the sharp lines of his face. He’s reading Cicero, of all things. Of course he is.

When the doors creak open and Severus is shoved inside, thin and dirt-streaked, Tom closes the book with a soft snap.

A pause.

Then, like a cat rising from a sunbeam, Tom stands.

“Well,” he says, voice low and rich, “look what the tide dragged in.”

He crosses the room in slow, measured steps, like he’s walking across a ballroom instead of a bloodstained floor. His robes whisper behind him, brushing past Lily’s dangling feet. Severus doesn’t move. He looks like a ghost. Something in his eyes has curled up and died.

Tom stops just before him and smiles. It’s not cruel, not overtly. It’s worse than that—it’s gentle. Fond. Like a lover welcoming someone back from war.

“This little game of yours,” he begins, with a soft laugh, “this sweet, suicidal tantrum—was it everything you hoped for?”

He circles Severus, fingertip trailing along his shoulder, his neck. A vulture with a poet’s tongue.

“Did she make it worth it?” Tom breathes near his ear. “Did you hold her hand while she begged? Did you promise her the stars, Severus? My stars?”

He stops in front of him again, cupping Severus’s chin in one hand. Forces his gaze up.

“Did you tell her you could save her?” he whispers. “You always were such a romantic.”

Severus doesn’t speak. Can’t.

Tom hums, thumb brushing across Severus’s cracked lip. There's blood on it. Not his. Or not just his.

“Everyone’s so relieved you’ve come to your senses,” Tom says, as if delivering news of a family gathering. “Really, it’s been exhausting, all the speculation. Where’s Severus? What will Tom do when he finds out?”

He leans in, cheek to cheek now, his breath cold against Severus’s skin.

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do.”

A pause.

“I’ll forgive you.”

He steps back, spreading his arms slightly, almost mockingly benevolent.

“I always knew you’d come home, in the end. We’re the same, you and I. You can wear other faces, speak other names, but you belong to me.”

The last word is soft. Reverent. Like a prayer.

He turns, glancing toward his throne.

“Come on,” Tom coos, waving a hand lazily. “Sit beside me, pet. You look exhausted.”

Severus doesn’t move.

Tom’s gaze sharpens, ever so slightly. But then he softens it again, smile curling like smoke.

“No need to think about her now,” he murmurs. “She’s gone. All that filth scrubbed clean. You don’t need to carry it anymore.”

He gestures toward the throne again, then tilts his head.

“Come, Severus. Let’s read something together. I saved your place.”

Behind him, Lily sways.