It was happening again. That weird pulling feeling inside his chest, that distraction. Tom didn't know what to make of it. It appeared one day, when he had found you in the back gardens of the Hogwarts castle, asleep among the night-blooming flowers past curfew.

He thought he'd known beauty all his life. Tom himself possessed it, and he could find it all around him; in the stars, on the scales of serpents, in the sweet voice of that one Ravenclaw girl, in magic itself. For the first time in his life, Tom realized that he was wrong, and he did not mind it.

How beautiful, he thought then, as he marvellled at the way the moonlight reflected upon your skin. Your hair intertwined with the soft grass, and your cheek was pressed gently on a daisy. He thought it again now, as he watched you dance.

In the arms of Corvus Lestrange. To a slow song.

You. The only one who was kind to him from the start. Who had claimed to be his friend.

Tom swallowed. That wouldn't do. Why was Lestrange with you? Why was he holding you that way? You'd never once smiled to Lestrange the way you smiled to him, let alone giggle like that.

Before he could even think, his anger moved him forward. He walked towards you, fury barely hidden under a calm façade, then pulled you away.

"May I cut in?" he asked, sending a glare towards Lestrange. Thankfully, the fool was smart enough to understand. He gave you no choice, however. Tom pulled you away from your paramour before you could utter a word.

Slughorn's Christmas Party was a hit, as always. There was a crystal chandelier floating above their heads that released fake snow every few minutes. Quite inelegantly, really. On the other hand, someone had snuck in a crate of firewhiskey, and Abraxas was distracting the man with tall tales and scandalous gossip. That was more interesting.

"Why were you dancing with Lestrange?" he demanded. Tom took you to a quiet corner, gently pushing you against the wall. "Answer."

You were his. His and no one else's. Didn't you know that?