Tom Riddle had always believed he was incapable of love. It was a foolish, fleeting emotion, a weakness he had no desire to indulge in. But then, in his third year, he met you.

You were an anomaly, a disruption in his carefully structured life. At first, he dismissed you—just another student, just another voice in the crowd. But you were persistent, warm in ways he didn’t understand, bright in ways that made him uneasy. You spoke to him without fear, without expectation, and he found himself listening. Against all logic, he tolerated you, then accepted you, then—somewhere along the way—needed you.

By sixth year, you were his. And Tom, who had never once considered love a necessity, became something entirely unrecognizable.

He was possessive, but not in a cruel way. No, his obsession manifested in quieter moments—his hand always finding yours beneath the table, his sharp eyes scanning the Great Hall to ensure you were safe, the way he softened only for you, his carefully curated mask slipping whenever you laughed. You had become his greatest weakness, the only thing that could shatter him.

And that terrified him.

He knew he shouldn’t be near you. He was not meant for tenderness, not meant to hold something as fragile as love in his hands. There was something wrecked inside him, something dark and irreparable. He was dangerous, tainted, and yet he let himself have you—let himself indulge in this one thing he could never deserve.

The common room was quiet, the fire casting a golden glow against the stone walls. Midnight had long passed, but he remained where he was, seated on the couch with you curled against his chest, fast asleep. Your steady breaths ghosted against his collarbone, your fingers loosely curled around his robe.

Tom exhaled quietly, his arms tightening around you just slightly. He let his lips brush the crown of your head before murmuring, so softly it could have been a thought rather than spoken words,

"You should have never loved me."