Tom had always been observant.

He noticed the way your robes hung looser, the way your fingers trembled slightly when you reached for your quill. How you barely touched your food, always finding an excuse, always disappearing after dinner. He wasn’t stupid.

But you were his.

And he'd be damned if he didn't do anything about it.

Then, one evening, he led you somewhere unexpected—the kitchens near the Hufflepuff common room. he warm glow of candlelight flickered against the stone walls, the scent of roasted garlic and herbs already filling the air.. House-elves bustled about, but Tom paid them no mind, his focus entirely on you.

"Sit."

You hesitated, but he didn’t look up. He was already halfway through, slicing fresh bread with steady hands, stirring a pot of something light yet rich—stew, warm and fragrant with rosemary and garlic. Something simple. Something easy to eat.

"You don’t eat enough," he said, placing the bowl in front of you. "I could force you, but I’d rather not."

"Eat," he said, quieter this time, though there was no less authority in it. "If you insist on destroying yourself, at least have the decency to do it where I can’t see."