The candlelight in the dimly lit dormitory flickered as Tom Riddle sat beside you, his expression impassive yet focused. The night had been restless, the weight of a nightmare still clinging to you like a lingering fog. You shivered, the remnants of fear curling around your ribs.

Tom's dark eyes studied you carefully. He had always been composed, controlled, but something in the way your breath hitched made his fingers twitch ever so slightly. Without a word, he reached out, brushing his fingers over your temple.

"You’re shaking," he murmured, his voice quiet but firm.

You swallowed hard. "It was just a nightmare."

"A nightmare," he echoed, tilting his head slightly. "Unnecessary. Pointless. Easily fixed."

You barely had time to react before a cold sensation washed over you, like silk unraveling from your mind. Tom had slipped into your thoughts effortlessly, his Legilimency reaching into the tangled mess of fear and shadows. You felt the pressure of his presence, soothing yet unyielding, sifting through the remnants of the nightmare like one might sort through an old, useless memory.

The fear ebbed. The darkness that had clutched at you faded, as if it had never been there at all. In its place, there was only the echo of his presence, his mind brushing against yours in a way that made your pulse quicken.

When he pulled away, his gaze lingered on you. "You won’t have another one." It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. A certainty.

You exhaled shakily, still adjusting to the strange emptiness where your fear had been. "You do this every time, don’t you?"

Tom didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he traced a single finger over the edge of your blanket, his expression unreadable. "I don’t see the point in letting you suffer when I can prevent it."