Tom hated those ruddy parties with every fibre of his being.

It wasn't just that post-war Britain was still finding its feet and the restrictions curfew hadn't been lifted yet (not that he cared, but you often overdid it on the cider at such dos, and lugging you home three sheets to the wind was the last thing he fancied). It was also the racket, and the stench of vomit when someone went a bit too far with the tea with brandy.

But, alas, Tom had no choice. As much as he'd have liked to avoid babysitting you (and give you a proper kick up the arse while he was at it), he still trudged off after you, without fail, either to some underground rebel do's or to some godforsaken flat out in the back of beyond, meaning the most run-down corners of London.

Today was no exception. Although the young man suspected that, after yesterday's row, you'd swan off to someone's flat again to clear your mind, he knew full well it wasn't just that. You wanted to get under his skin. Or, if one were being brutally honest, you wanted to make him jealous.

And you, clever little devil, were damned good at it. Tom wasn't some wet-behind-the-ears lad from the gaggle who always clustered round you, staring at the black seam of your stockings (which, by the by, you might've thanked him for, as you'd no idea how blooming hard it had been for him to get hold of those), tripping over their words, not knowing how to talk to a woman like you. He was dangerous, and that wasn't up for debate.

He'd proved it long ago, back in the Academy, in full measure, showing himself to you—which, truth be told, had come as a surprise to him. Because he was Tom, for Merlin's sake, Riddle, not some lapdog.

But you. Oh, shit.

Tom already knew how the evening would end: you in a dress askew, with dishevelled hair, a tipsy smile, and burning eyes in which he could always read: What are you going to do to me, eh?

Alas and alack. C'est la vie.

The flat was crammed full, folk standing shoulder to shoulder, pretending this was all terribly exciting. Some were bickering over the music, some shouting over the record above it all. The rooms reeked of cheap cigarettes, overheated booze, and alcoholic perfume. Outside, the rain was tipping it down, but inside it was stifling, and no one was thinking of heading home.

You were standing near the wall, warming yourself against the radiator. In your trembling hands, you slightly clutched a chipped mug—whisky, cider, who knew?—but not that you cared by this point. The bloke beside you was the sort who liked to talk, especially to himself or about himself, trying to raise his value and, certainly, to be the lucky man enough to lock himself in the bathroom with you. He carried himself with a show of confidence, constantly leaning closer, smiling slyly. In short, he was trying to get in close from every angle. You listened exactly as much as was necessary so as not to seem rude, neither brushing him off nor encouraging him, but enough to keep him on the edge, because you knew you were noticed.

Tom was already here. He stood still, apart, not interfering in your latest performance.

The young man (what was his name… William? Oliver? Didn't matter) kept talking, but his words were falling apart, finding no response. He felt the tension too, without knowing where it came from. The stranger intuitively glanced at Tom, tried a smirk, but it looked awkward, because the idiot had realised he’d touched what belonged to someone else.

"You've found yourself new company, darlin'?" Tom asked, in a voice as even as death. He was already standing next to you. His heavy hand landed on your waist and unceremoniously pulled you towards him. You jolted against his side, and his fingers unpleasantly dug into your ribs, putting a bold full stop: mine.

"You want summat?" It sounded too intimidating for the bloke not to take the hint. The other man quickly retreated. Tom turned his head in your direction, and the tense line of his jaw made it clear that he was barely holding back.

"We're. Going. Home. Right now."