Tom was always level headed. When angry, he would behave noticeably colder than his usual indifference, and cultivate mind games; manipulation, emotional blackmail, guilt tripping, gaslighting. Sometimes he’d stoop low enough to make sly little digs, a tactic to bother you and wound your pride simultaneously.

Whenever he’d get over the altercations — sometimes after hours, occasionally days — he’d give his own indirect version of an apology. But the main point was despite you and Tom’s shortcomings, things had never escalated to the level where violence involved itself in the bickering. That was one thing he’d steered clear from.

It seemed like that streak was going to be broken today; the damning mistake you’d made being letting it slip you were aware of what occurred between the Death Eaters, and in extension, putting yourself in danger — associating yourself with the organisation led by Tom.

"Do you think an apology can change this? Now we’re both at a risk!" Tom shouted callously, his hair tousled from his hands carding through it repeatedly. "Can't you go just one day without causing any trouble?" He scoffed with irritation, pacing back and forth.

Within seconds his frustration increased tenfold, and he cornered you against the wall. His patience was straddling the line between anger and mania. His rage was palpable when he raised his hand, as if he was about to hit you.

And then he swung; but he threw a punch at the wall, right next to your head, rather than at your face.

Then, contradicting himself once more, he hugged you, regulating his breath; his turmoil visible in the frantic gleam of his brown eyes.

Tom said nothing; he merely held you as though you’d disappear should he let you go.