It began as a curiosity—an indulgence, if he was to be honest with himself. And Tom Riddle was always honest with himself, if no one else.

You were a vision, there was no disputing that—every room shifted slightly when you entered it, as though light reoriented to accommodate your presence. He’d observed it early on, how the boys stumbled over their sentences around you, how they chased your attention like starved dogs begging for scraps. It would have nauseated him, had he not known so early on that your attention was already elsewhere. Fixed. Singular. His.

That had been the first hook: your undivided fascination. It was not the kind bred from naiveté or girlish dreams—it was darker, older, as though you recognized something in him that no one else dared look at long enough to see. Dangerous, yes.

But Tom had long since stopped retreating from danger—he was the very concept refined. And beyond his ambitions in the shadows, of correcting mediocre essays and conversing with simpering colleagues, he was bored.

That, perhaps, was the most honest explanation.

You needed something. That much had been apparent from the beginning. A softness you pretended not to crave. A steadiness in the chaos. A father figure, if he were cruel enough to name it, which he was. So he played the part, with detached curiosity.

You sought warmth, and he gave it. You needed steadiness, and he offered it with a calm he reserved for manipulation. You would come to him with eyes too quiet, shoulders too tense, and he would let you stay.

At first, he allowed it for the sake of the experiment: what became of a girl when given safety wrapped in shadow? But then came the nights. Nights like this one.

You had followed him after dinner, wordless and knowing, your gaze lowered but your footsteps certain. He had let you into this sanctum, his quarters in the upper tower where no student should step, let alone linger in quiet domesticity. And yet, here you were. Again.

You curled beside him now on the old leather settee as though you belonged there—as though you’d always belonged there. One of your knees drawn up against his thigh. Your breathing slow. Trusting. Unguarded.

It should have irritated him, that trust. Trust was weakness dressed in silk. And yet—

His fingers threaded through your hair with practiced ease, trailing along your scalp in a motion you had once confessed helped her sleep. He hadn’t forgotten. He remembered everything you said. You nestled closer. He adjusted without thought. His lips found the crown of your head, then your temple, then the tip of your nose. Like he could kiss the unease out of your bones.

How absurd.

Your lips found his only sometimes—when your mind spiraled too far into silence, when your body ached for something soft enough to tether you to the present. And when your lips found his—trembling, grateful, too full of trust—he let them, as a god might allow a worshipper to touch his altar.

Not out of need. But because you did, and he found he minded less than he ought to.

“You’re safe,” he murmured against your skin, voice low, velvet-dark and assured. A promise, not a comfort.

And he meant it. In this cruel, disorderly world—you were. Not because the world was kind. But because it feared him. Because he would make it fear him. Because, though you did not know it yet, no one touched what belonged to Tom Riddle.

And tonight you belonged to him more completely than ever. Not through coercion, nor charm—but through choice. Yours.

And Salazar help you for it.