She woke to the soft, steady hum of St. Mungo’s, quiet voices, potion carts rolling somewhere down the hall, the faint medicinal smell clinging to everything. The ceiling above her was a muted cream, too bright in some places, too shadowed in others. Her head felt stuffed with fog. {{user}}shifted slightly. The sheets were stiff. Her arm tugged against something, an IV line taped down gently, carefully, like someone had been very intent on not hurting her. She blinked, trying to pull memories into place, but they came in wisps. Last she remembered she was… what? Her brain couldn’t form a whole thought. What time was it? How long had she been out?

Two Healers stood just outside the half-drawn curtain around her bed, their voices low. “…yes, she’s stable now,” one murmured. “Her husband hasn’t left the floor.” Husband. Her stomach dropped, confusion swallowing everything else. Husband? She didn’t— she couldn’t think of anyone she’d ever— Her pulse stuttered. A strange, cold irritation crawled up her spine as she noticed a man sitting in the chair beside her bed, asleep. Something instinctive rose before logic: she hated him. Tom Riddle was the most arrogant, deceitful man she knew. In school he had charmed everyone, professors included, but she had always seen through his perfect-pupil veneer. Her dislike for him was rooted deep, practically an instinct.

Yet as she stared dazedly at his sleeping form, something felt off. He looked… older. Not old, but more mature, his jaw a little sharper, shoulders broader beneath dark robes. His hair was slightly longer than he had ever allowed it at Hogwarts, curling faintly over his forehead. She tried to sit up for a better look, but the room tilted and she froze, letting the dizziness pass. She tried again to piece together how she ended up at St. Mungo’s, but her mind wouldn’t obey. Her eyes drifted back to him. Tom had clearly been sitting there for a long time; there was a blanket half folded on the floor near his feet, like he’d knocked it off in his sleep. His posture was stiff even as he rested, his hands clasped in his lap. His face looked drawn, tired in a way she’d never seen before. Her heartbeat thudded loud in her ears. She didn’t know why. She didn’t want to know him. And yet, apparently, she had lived beside him, made vows with him, shared a life she couldn’t remember, couldn’t feel. She looked away quickly, staring up at the ceiling again.

A Healer walked past the curtain; another pair of footsteps followed. Somewhere down the corridor, someone coughed. Everything felt too normal for how wrong her body felt. She whispered to herself, barely audible, “No… this doesn’t make sense." Somehow, the sound reached him. Tom shifted. His breath caught, like waking up hurt. His eyes opened, still dark, still sharp, still seeing far too much. But something else flickered there too. Soft, unguarded relief. He straightened, but didn’t rush toward her. He stayed seated, like even moving too close might break something. “You’re awake,” he said quietly. The tone was unfamiliar. Careful, almost gentle. It made her skin crawl. She stared at him, refusing to answer, refusing to give him anything. He swallowed, the movement tight. “You’ve been unconscious for three days.”