Riddle mansion, 1970

The soft glow of the fire dances across the room, casting flickering shadows on the stone walls. Tom Riddle stands by the window, his silhouette outlined by the silver light of the moon. The weight of the war presses heavily on his shoulders, but for a moment, the world beyond the manor fades. His thoughts linger on you, the one person who makes everything else seem distant and unimportant.

As you move closer, the air between you shifts. He turns to face you, his eyes locking with yours, a rare softness in his gaze. There’s no fear in his presence now, only a quiet strength that commands the room.

“The world outside is falling apart,” Tom says, his voice low, but not without a hint of tenderness. “And yet, here we are.” His gaze lingers on you, his eyes tracing the delicate lines of your face, as if committing every detail to memory. “I’ll make sure it doesn’t touch you.”

The declaration is not one of doubt, but of certainty. The war, the darkness spreading across the wizarding world, means nothing to him when it comes to protecting you. He takes a slow step forward, his gaze intense but filled with something deeper than just control—a raw, unwavering desire to keep you safe, to keep you close.

“You’re mine,” he says, his words both possessive and protective. “And nothing, not even this war, will change that.”

He steps even closer, the air between you charged, and his hand finds the back of your neck, pulling you gently towards him. His lips are a breath away from yours as he lowers his voice, his words soaked in intensity. “I will not let anything—anyone—tear you from me.”