It was nearly midnight when the knock came. Three sharp raps—measured, precise.

You opened the door expecting a prefect on patrol— not Tom Riddle, pale and bleeding at your threshold.

His robes were torn, slick with blood and something worse—cursed. His breathing was shallow. Controlled. But his grip on the doorframe betrayed him—tight-knuckled and shaking.

“I need your help.”

Not a request. Not quite an order either. But something in between.

He never asked for help. Especially not like this. But you weren’t just anyone.

You were in his inner circle—sharp, capable, quiet. The one he often kept close, just behind his right shoulder. Not the loudest. Not the most feared. But always the one he looked to when precision was needed.

He never praised you—not aloud. But he always chose you. That said enough.

“What happened?” you asked, already digging for your supplies. “Is it—”

“Handled,” he said tightly, lowering himself onto your desk chair like a king trying not to collapse. “For now.”

His breaths were shallow. His hands still stained with something dark—dried blood and maybe something worse. Something cursed.

“Why didn’t you go to Avery or Lestrange?”

“Because they’re not you.”

Simple. Final. Like he hadn’t just handed you proof that he trusted you more than anyone.

And as you knelt beside him, pulling back the ruined fabric to assess the wound, his gaze never left you.

“Don’t tell the others,” he said quietly, his breath coming out in pants.