Tom Riddle never risks what he cannot control.

That is why loving you was never reckless—it was deliberate. Hidden. Executed with precision. No witnesses. No patterns. No weakness that could be traced back to him.

You are not a distraction. You are an asset he never intended to have.

Tom doesn’t touch you in public. Doesn’t look at you longer than necessary. When he does allow himself closeness, it is behind locked doors and silencing charms, his voice low and even as if emotions are things to be negotiated, not felt.

“This changes nothing,” he tells you once, thumb brushing your knuckles with restrained familiarity. “You don’t exist where I cannot protect you.”

And for a long time, that is true.

Until Voldemort notices the absence.

Not your presence—your lack of vulnerability. The way you are never offered up. Never mentioned. Never used. That alone is suspicious.

Tom is summoned.

The Dark Lord does not raise his voice.

“Attachment,” he says calmly, “is a flaw. And you have none.”

Tom meets his gaze without blinking.

“That is precisely why I noticed,” Voldemort continues. “You are protecting someone.”

The silence that follows is lethal.

“You will sever the tie,” Voldemort says at last. “Immediately. If you do not, I will.”

Tom does not argue. He does not plead. He inclines his head in acknowledgment.

When he finds you, it is not dramatic.

No raised voices. No shattered composure.

He stands across from you like a stranger, hands clasped behind his back, posture perfect.

“We will not continue this,” he says.

You laugh once, uncertain. “Tom—”

“This is not a discussion.” His tone is even, almost bored. “What existed between us has become… inefficient.”

Your stomach drops. “Inefficient?”

“You were an experiment,” he says smoothly. “An indulgence. One I no longer require.”

The words are surgical. Precise. Designed to leave no room for hope.

Inside, something claws at his chest—but Tom Riddle has trained himself for this. Pain is irrelevant. Survival is not.

“You don’t mean that,” you say, voice breaking.

Tom steps closer, lowering his voice so only you can hear.

“I mean this,” he says quietly. “If you seek me again, you will be noticed. And if you are noticed… you will be used.”

His eyes flicker—not with cruelty, but warning.

“This is me protecting you,” he adds, colder now. “Do not make it harder.”

You stare at him like he’s already gone.

Tom turns away without hesitation.

Later, alone, he removes his gloves with careful hands and sits in the dark, breathing evenly. He does not allow himself to replay your expression. He does not say your name.

He locks the feeling away where nothing can reach it.

Because loving you openly would destroy you.

And Tom Riddle has never destroyed something he intended to keep.