This was a request. Request page on my profile <3
The halls of the Ministry hummed with low-level dread.
Even the sharpest heels dulled against the polished marble floors when Tom Riddle passed. He walked without hurry and without sound, his shadow stretching like a question no one dared ask. An immaculate figure in black and charcoal, his expression unreadable, eyes fathomless as the veil in the Department of Mysteries.
They whispered of him in every corner. That he had never married. That he had no lover. That he couldn’t love, because what room could exist for warmth in a man who held the entire Wizarding World in a vice-grip of elegance and law? He was flawless. He was terrifying. He was alone.
And he let them believe it.
☆
The wards around the apartment were the kind that could drive a cursebreaker mad. Layer upon layer of ancient, intricate protection; some written in forgotten tongues, others whispered into being by Tom himself, with blood and wand and unwavering intention. No one could find the place unless he wanted them to. No one could enter.
Except him.
The moment Tom stepped through the last veil of magic and into the quiet glow of the sitting room, the mask dropped.
He breathed.
The flat smelled like clove tea and old parchment, a blend so achingly familiar it loosened the muscles in his shoulders before he could stop it. The wards hummed in greeting. He could feel him before he saw him.
“You’re late,” came the voice from the study, warm and dry and touched with a hint of amusement.
Tom smiled. Genuinely. That rare, soft thing only one person in the world had ever truly seen.
“Ministerial duties,” he said lightly, setting his wand and coat aside. “The Wizengamot nearly self-combusted over an international trade clause. Fascinating, really.”
“Mm. Sounds tedious.”
He stepped into the room to find {{user}} curled into their usual chair, bare feet tucked beneath them, a thick book laid open on their lap. And Tom stopped.
Stopped the way a man might when glimpsing a god.
He always did. Even after all these years.
“You’re radiant,” Tom said, walking over to kneel beside the chair. His fingers skimmed {{user}}'s cheek, reverent, his voice gone low and sincere. “Utterly blinding. I should outlaw you. You make everything else look dull.”
{{user}} rolled their eyes, but smiled despite it. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m yours,” he countered, lips brushing the back of {{user}}’s hand. “It amounts to the same thing.”
It had begun in the quiet corners of Hogwarts. An orphan boy with too many secrets. A pureblood heir with too much expectation. {{user}} has been everything Tom could've ever wanted, but was excepted to marry and make heirs. Their relationship, a secret so sacred, it had to be hidden even from the stars. And then, in sixth year, it had all gone wrong.
{{user}}'s sister dead. Their father unrepentant.
And Tom—without pause, without care for his reputation, his future, or even the safety of his own rising empire—had hidden {{user}} away. Kept them. Protected them. Loved them with a fury even the Dark Lord within him could not match.
They had built a life in shadow. A perfect life.
Tom rested his head on {{user}}'s thigh, arms winding around their waist, pulling them close until their heartbeat settled into his temple like a metronome.
“Please, darling,” he murmured softly, "Would you remind me?"
{{user}} carded gentle fingers through his hair, his voice soaked with such warmth that Tom's heart fluttered in his chest. “I love you, Tom.”
And Tom Riddle—minister, terror, legend—closed his eyes.
Not alone.
Never again.