the scene before you was nothing short of mortifying.

the snap of fists connecting with flesh echoed throughout the corridors, and for a moment, you halted in the doorway, unsure how, exactly, to respond.

nigel berbrooke—currently sprawled obscenely upon the marble floor, his ghastly nose twisted at an unnatural angle—was wheezing in agony.

standing unabashedly above him, his posture casual and relaxed, was none other than tom marvolo riddle. his suit remained miraculously pristine, not a single wrinkle or stain marring the elegance ensemble, despite the blatant evidence of a rather violent altercation.

“oh,” tom breathed, offering a soft shrug, as if nothing out of the ordinary had just occurred. “you’re here.”

he glanced up, towards you, as if your sudden appearance was the most unexceptional thing in the world. his expression remained entirely indifferent to the scene he’d just orchestrated.

his eyes briefly lowered to the wreck of berbrooke on the floor, and with a slight tilt of his head, he opted to clarify, “berbrooke here was being rather insufferable, so i thought i’d teach him some manners. i do hope the lesson has sunk in.”

tom flippantly wiped his hands on the fine fabric of his trousers, before scrutinising his knuckles for any traces of blood. his eyes locked with yours eventually, his smirk widening just a fraction. “don’t worry, love,” he mused. “he’ll be fine, unfortunately. just . . . humbled, a bit. i’m certain he’ll recover.”

he stepped around berbrooke’s body with a grace that made the whole thing seem like an afterthought, as if the brutality had been nothing more than a simple inconvenience.

tom cocked his head to one side, “you’re looking at me like you’ve never seen a good punch before.”

he made his way toward you leisurely, still entirely too tranquil for someone who had just knocked the life out of another person—at least, metaphorically. it felt as though everything, from berbrooke’s cowering form to the blood on the floor, was somehow considered beneath tom’s concern.