Tom had always been a maestro of controlled cruelty, his anger manifesting not in the vulgar theatrics of shouting matches or the brute simplicity of physicality, but in the glacial precision of psychological warfare. His silences cut deeper than curses, his words laced with just enough poison to paralyze without leaving visible scars. When displeased, he became a living paradox—icily composed yet radiating a malice so palpable it seemed to warp the air around him, his aristocratic features schooled into an expression of detached amusement while his eyes glinted with the promise of retribution.

He wielded guilt like a surgeon's scalpel, administered gaslighting in carefully measured doses, and delivered backhanded compliments designed to fester beneath the skin for days. But through every battle of wills, every clash of egos, one unspoken rule had remained inviolate: no matter how vicious the verbal sparring became, his hands had never once betrayed the restraint he prided himself on. Until today.

The revelation had slipped from your lips with the devastating finality of a guillotine's blade—a careless admission of knowledge about the Death Eaters' activities, their rituals, their blood-soaked allegiances. In that instant, you had unwittingly crossed an invisible threshold, transforming from a bystander into a liability, from a confidante into a potential leak that needed plugging. Tom's reaction had been instantaneous, his usually impeccable composure fracturing like a porcelain mask struck by a hammer.

"Do you think an apology can change this?" he snarled, his voice a whip-crack of uncharacteristic volume, the cadence roughened by something perilously close to panic. His fingers raked through his dark hair repeatedly, leaving it in disarray—a rare glimpse of the boy beneath the carefully cultivated veneer of the Dark Lord-in-waiting. "Now we're both at risk!" The words were laced with a bitterness that bordered on betrayal, as if your transgression had forced his hand in a game he'd intended to play indefinitely.

Then, with the suddenness of a lightning strike, he moved—closing the distance between you in three strides, his hands slamming against the wall on either side of your head, caging you in with the heat of his fury. The scent of him—parchment and dark magic, bergamot and something faintly metallic—clung to the scant inches between your bodies, intoxicating and suffocating in equal measure. For one heart-stopping moment, his arm drew back, his fist clenched, the tendons in his wrist standing out in stark relief. The air itself seemed to still, the very castle holding its breath in anticipation of the blow.

But Tom Riddle had spent a lifetime defying expectations.

The punch landed with a thunderous crack, plaster dust raining down as his knuckles connected with the stone mere centimeters from your temple. The impact reverberated up his arm, the pain a welcome anchor against the maelstrom of his emotions. Without a word, he pulled you into an embrace so tight it bordered on painful, his arms banded around you like iron shackles, his face buried in the curve of your neck. The contrast was jarring—the same hands capable of unleashing Unforgivables now trembled against your back, his heartbeat a frantic staccato against your chest.

He said nothing. No carefully crafted apology, no honeyed words to smooth over the cracks in his façade. Just the silent, desperate press of his body against yours, as if he could imprint himself upon your very bones through sheer force of will. The embrace was a confession in itself—an admission that for all his calculated cruelty, for all his aspirations of godhood, he was still frighteningly, infuriatingly human when it came to you.

When he finally pulled away, his expression was already smoothing back into its usual mask of composed arrogance, but the ghost of his fingers lingered on your waist, a silent promise—or perhaps a warning. The wall bore the mark of his rage, but your skin remained unmarred. For now.