The Yule Ball was never supposed to be like this.

The dress you wore—soft, flowing, chosen with care—was meant for someone else’s eyes. The warmth in your chest, the anticipation buzzing beneath your skin, it had all belonged to him. To Mattheo.

But Mattheo had never belonged to you.

You had been a game. A wager between friends. A bet that he could make you fall, wrap you around his finger, dangle love before your eyes like a cruel illusion. And he had played the part so well—soft smiles, protective hands on your waist, whispered promises in dimly lit corridors.

Perfect. Gentle. A liar.

So here you were, standing at the edge of the ballroom, and beside you, silent and still as a shadow, stood Tom Riddle.

His presence was heavy, suffocating in a way that made your skin prickle. He didn’t speak, didn’t offer meaningless reassurances or honeyed words of comfort. He had simply been there when you needed him, when the truth had unraveled around you like a cruel joke.

Mattheo’s brother. The cold one. The dangerous one.

And yet, his hand hovered near yours, not touching but close enough that you could feel the heat of it, a silent promise that you weren’t alone.

Across the room, Mattheo stood with his friends. His laughter was quieter tonight. His smirk faltered when his eyes found you, lingering on the way you stood next to Tom, on the way Tom leaned ever so slightly toward you, like a barrier, like a warning.

Pansy whispered something to Theodore, and their eyes flicked between you and Mattheo, something knowing, something sharp.

Tom finally spoke, his voice low and edged with something unreadable.

“He’s watching.”

You swallowed hard, resisting the urge to turn.

Then, quieter—almost amused— he said “Let him.”