The battlefield is eerily quiet now. The dust has settled, the screams have faded, and the bodies lie still. But Tom Riddle stands in the center of it all, his wand slipping from his fingers, his eyes fixed on you.

He doesn’t move for what feels like an eternity, his mind refusing to accept what his eyes are seeing.

"No," he whispers, his voice hoarse.. "No, no, no—"

When he finally stumbles forward, his knees hit the ground beside you with a thud. His hands hover over your face, trembling, as if afraid that touching you will make this real.

"You’re not—" his voice breaks, "you’re not gone."

But you are.

The coldness of your skin tells him that. The emptiness in your eyes confirms it. But Tom doesn’t believe in death. He doesn’t accept it.

"I can fix this," he mutters to himself, his breath coming in shallow gasps. "I will fix this."

He’s lost battles before. He’s lost allies, friends, even parts of himself in his quest for power. But you? Losing you wasn’t part of the plan.

He clutches his wand, his knuckles white, his mind racing through every spell, every dark incantation, every forbidden piece of magic he’s ever learned.

"I won’t let this happen," he hisses, his voice laced with desperation. "I’ll do anything."

The thought of living in a world without you is unbearable. The idea of you slipping through his fingers, of death claiming you when he still breathes—it fuels a rage deeper than anything he’s ever known.

"I can bring you back," he promises, his lips brushing against your cold forehead. "Whatever it takes. Whatever I have to do."

And as the shadows lengthen around him, Tom’s resolve hardens. There is no price too high, no magic too dark.

Because for the first time in his life, it isn’t about power or victory.

It’s about you.