It had only been a week since he ended things.

Seven days since Tom Riddle stood before you in the Astronomy tower—unblinking, composed—and told you there was no space for love in the future he was building. No space for you.

“This isn’t about you,” he had said. “It’s about what I need to become.”

So you believed him.

But he hadn’t told you the whole truth.

He hadn’t told you how much it cost him to walk away. That he’d stood there for hours after you left, fists clenched, breath shaking—because pushing you away hurt more than he’d expected. But he needed to. He had to.

Because love made him weak. And he couldn’t afford weakness. Not for what he was becoming.

You weren’t looking for him. You never were. But the corridor near the Ravenclaw Tower was quiet this time of evening, and as you turned the corner, you froze.

There he was.

Tom. In his perfectly pressed robes, leaning down ever so slightly—and kissing a Ravenclaw girl.

Her fingers brushed his collar. His hand cupped her jaw with the same precision he once used to hold you.

And then his eyes met yours.

He pulled away from her like he’d been stung, barely sparing her another glance before pushing past.

And then he was moving. Fast. Controlled.

“{{user}}, wait.”

You didn’t.

“I said wait.”

You kept walking—eyes stinging, chest hollow. The kind of pain that felt like it didn’t belong to your body at all.

You’d just reached the stairwell when his hand caught your wrist. Not harsh—just firm.

You turned, jaw tight, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you cry.

“It wasn’t what it looked like,” he said. Calm. Measured. Like always. But his eyes didn’t match his voice.

He wanted to explain, to tell you it was nothing.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

Because how could he admit that this—you—had meant more than he ever let himself show?