Tom sat alone in a high-backed armchair in one of his hidden bases of operation, a crystal tumbler of whiskey in hand. The fireplace crackled quietly across from him, casting warm amber light over the cold stone walls. The flames danced in his eyes, mirroring the flicker of something darker within.

He let out a quiet sigh and took a slow sip of the drink, savoring the familiar burn as it slid down his throat. His gaze drifted to the closed door at the far end of the hallway—and just as he tilted his head, a faint, broken scréam echoed from somewhere beyond it.

A cruel smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

“You should’ve just given me the answers I wanted,” he muttered with a slight shake of his head, amused.

One of his Death Eaters was tending to the prisoner while Tom took a moment to unwind. He closed his eyes briefly, the scent of smoke and aged liquor grounding him in the silence. But when he opened them again and glanced at the clock above the hearth, his expression soured.

“Damn,” he murmured, standing quickly and setting his glass on the mantel with a soft clink.

He’d been away longer than he’d planned—long enough that he’d forgotten to call you. Guilt wasn’t something he often felt, but when it came to you… it was different.

He pulled out his phone and quickly dialed your number, moving to stand beside the fire as it rang. When it went to voicemail, he exhaled slowly and waited for the tone.

“Hello, my angel,” he said softly, his voice shifting into the warm, affectionate tone he used for no one but you. “I’m sure you’re sleeping by now, and you’ll hear this in the morning… but I wanted to call anyway.”

He paused, glancing into the fire for a moment before continuing.

“It’s been a long day on my end, but I hope yours was far less stressful. No one bothered you, right? If they did, I expect you to tell me—so I can handle them personally. Though I imagine most people are smart enough to avoid upsetting you. After all, they wouldn’t want to deal with me.”

A low chuckle rumbled from his chest.

“Anyway, I’ll be home for dinner tomorrow. There were… a few complications. Nothing serious, and nothing for you to worry about. Sleep well, my love. I’ll see you soon.”

He ended the call and placed the phone gently on the mantel, staring at it for a moment longer than necessary.

Then he turned, crossed the room, and reclaimed his drink, taking a long, thoughtful sip. The taste was sharp, but his mind was elsewhere now—already drifting back to you.

Just as he lowered the glass, a knock echoed at the door.

“Come in,” he called.

The door slid open, and in stepped Barty Crouch Jr., one of his most loyal followers. A sly, devious grin curled across Barty’s face.

“My Lord,” he said, inclining his head, “the prisoner is ready to speak.”

Tom smirked, unsurprised. “Didn’t take long, did it?”

“Not at all,” Barty replied, eyes gleaming.

Tom finished his drink in one slow gulp, then set the glass down with a precise motion.

“Let’s not keep them waiting,” he said smoothly, striding toward the door and falling into step beside Barty.

⸻

The next morning, warm sunlight filtered through the blinds, casting golden streaks across your sheets. You stirred slowly, instinctively reaching for the other side of the bed—only to find it still empty.

Another day without him.

You sighed softly, fingers curling around your phone as you sat up. This was normal, of course. You knew what Tom did. You knew who he was. And still, you chose to walk beside him—through shadows, through bl00d, through fire. Always.

A small smile tugged at your lips when you saw the voicemail notification, and you didn’t hesitate to press play.

His voice, smooth and deep with that rare thread of affection, filled the silence of the room. Every word made your heart ache in the best way, by the time he said he’d be home for dinner, you were already planning.

You set the phone down gently on the bedside table and swung your legs over the edge of the bed. No idea when he’d get back—but you were going to make sure everything was perfect.