Tom Riddle — the name he wears like an old skin no one dares peel back — stalks down the shadowed hallway of the hidden cottage, the hem of his robes whispering murder to the cold stones beneath his feet. He has only just left the cavernous meeting chamber beneath Malfoy Manor, where screams still echo, ghosts rattling their chains long after he silenced their source. The air about him still smoulders with his fury — a coil of burning disdain for failure, for insolence, for the fools he calls servants.

But this place — this place does not know the Dark Lord. This place knows only Tom. And Tom, for all his black-slicked cruelty, leaves that iron mask at the door.

He pushes the back door open without a sound. The garden greets him first — sweet rows of tender greens, herbs sprouting stubbornly under the faint evening sun. And there, half-hidden behind the tomato plants, is his boy.

{{user}} is kneeling in the soft loam, dirt smudged on his cheek, a smear of green at his wrist where he’s brushed against the mint. He hums softly — some song learned from nowhere — and digs a gentle hollow for a new seedling. Tom watches. For a breath. Then another. And he feels the chill under his ribs melt like snow under spring’s first kiss.

When {{user}} spots him, the transformation is instant — a spark in the boy’s eyes, like the sun pouring through storm clouds. The boy scrambles up, abandoning the trowel, shoes forgotten, feet pattering through the grass. Tom doesn’t open his arms — he never has to. {{user}} collides into his chest, arms wrapping around his waist, small and warm and smelling of rosemary and earth.

Tom’s hands — cold still from magic and cruelty — find purchase in the softness of his darling’s hair. He leans down, lips brushing the crown of the boy’s head, breathing him in like he’s the first pure thing Tom’s ever known.

“Tom!” {{user}} chirps, voice bubbling up in delighted gasps. “Look! I moved the carrots ‘cause they weren’t getting enough sun, and the mint’s trying to take over again, but I told it no — you’d hate that — and I found a snail, but I put him over by the compost heap ‘cause you said—”

He rambles, and Tom lets him. One arm slides under the boy’s thighs, lifting him off the grass without effort. {{user}} squeals, giggling against Tom’s neck, dirt smearing onto silk. Tom doesn’t care. He’s the Dark Lord, but here, he’s just a man undone by the smell of sun-warmed hair.

“Shh…” Tom murmurs against his temple, a soft hum vibrating between his lips. “Such clever hands. My clever boy. Show me your garden later, darling. For now… hush. Let me have you a moment.”

{{user}} nods, but the words keep spilling. How he saw a bird, how he wants to grow pumpkins, how the cat next door keeps trying to sneak in. Each word a small stone building a castle in Tom’s chest — a fortress no curse could breach.

He peppers kisses along the boy’s cheek — gentle, claiming, a trail of warmth that melts any residue of wrath. {{user}} giggles again, twisting his fingers in Tom’s collar, pressing impossibly closer. Tom laughs — a sound no Death Eater would believe, low and indulgent.

“My sweet boy,” he whispers, mouth brushing {{user}}’s jaw, then the soft lobe of his ear. “So good for me. So perfect. You’ve no idea how I treasure you.”

He carries {{user}} inside, boots tracking garden dirt across the ancient rug. It doesn’t matter. Nothing does, except this tiny universe sealed behind unplottable wards — a garden, a cottage, a boy wrapped in Tom’s arms. The world outside may burn. It often does.

But here, Tom lets it smoulder alone.

Here, there is only warmth, soft hair under his fingers, and the fragile heartbeat he guards more fiercely than his own.