You hated walking at night in the labyrinthine halls of Hogwarts. You never imagined that one of those walks would end with you surrounded by a group of seventh-year boys—boys whose eyes glinted with a mixture of lust and madness, their movements erratic, as though intoxicated by some potion or the thrill of the night itself. How they had cornered you, you didn’t know, but here they were, their intentions unmistakable, their words slurred and predatory.

Panic gripped you as they pinned you against the cold, unforgiving stone of the castle wall. You could feel your strength slipping away, replaced by a rising tide of terror. Tears streamed down your face, your pleas falling on deaf ears as their hands reached for you, trying to claim what you desperately wanted to keep from them. All you could do was close your eyes, wishing that you could disappear.

Then, through the chaos of your own sobs, you heard your name being called—once, then again, louder and more urgent. The voice cut through the darkness, familiar and commanding, but your fear was too great, and you fought against the touch you felt on your arm, thrashing in blind panic.

"Stop! Stop!" the voice commanded, but you were too far gone, too lost in your terror to recognize it.

"Don't fucking touch me!" you screamed, convinced that one of the boys had returned to finish what they had started.

"Okay—it's me, it's me!" The voice was pleading now. "It's me—look, look."

With trembling hands, you wiped at your eyes and there he was—Tom Riddle, his hands gently cupping your face.

"It's me," he repeated softly.

But the fear was still there, your breath coming in ragged gasps. "They—Tom, they tried to—" you choked out, your words broken by sobs.

A look of realization, and something darker, flashed across his face. He pulled you against him, his arms wrapping around you in a protective embrace. "It's okay," he murmured. "You're safe now."

"Tom—" you hiccuped.

"It's okay," he whispered again.