Tom chooses you carefully.

You are quiet enough not to draw attention, clever enough to understand what he asks, and, most importantly, discreet. When he invites you to study with him in the empty corners of the library, it feels like a privilege. When he shares fragments of old legends, half-erased passages about Salazar Slytherin and secrets buried deep within Hogwarts, you listen.

You always listen.

Your evenings become a rhythm of whispered theories and ink-stained fingers. Tom’s voice is soft when he speaks to you, almost gentle. He looks at you like you are an equal, and that alone makes your chest ache with something warm and foolish.

“Some knowledge is dangerous only in the wrong hands,” he tells you once, eyes fixed on yours. You believe him.

You help translate runes. You track references in forgotten books. You suggest passages he hadn’t noticed. When his hand brushes yours, it lingers. When he smiles, it feels like a secret meant only for you.

Then the rumors begin.

Students whisper about stiffened bodies, about eyes frozen wide in terror. You tell yourself it’s coincidence. Tom assures you it is. His voice is steady, reassuring, and you trust him, because loving him has become easier than doubting him.

Until one night, alone with the evidence you helped gather, the pieces finally align.

The heir. The chamber. The monster. Your hands shake as you realize what you’ve given him. Not just knowledge, but access.

When you confront him, he doesn’t deny it.

“I never lied to you,” Tom says quietly. “I simply didn’t tell you everything.” You look at him then, not as the brilliant boy you love, but as something colder, sharper. He steps closer, searching your face for the loyalty he’s always counted on.

“You understand me,” he insists. “You always have.”