You find Tom in an abandoned classroom, his usually composed demeanor shattered. His dark hair falls over his forehead, shielding his eyes from view, but even from where you stand in the doorway, you can see his shoulders trembling slightly.

“Tom?” you call softly. You see his jaw clench at the sound of your voice.

“Leave.” His voice is low, sharp, but it wavers at the end, a crack in the armor.

Your eyes fall on the shattered mirror attached to the wardrobe that is known for containing a boggart. You step closer.

Tom finally looks up, and the hollow, haunted look in his dark eyes takes your breath away. He looks vulnerable—fragile, even—as though admitting his weakness has cost him something irreparable. “Don’t.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I said don’t,” he snaps, but the anger doesn’t reach his eyes. His mask is crumbling, and you both know it. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Your boggart?” you question softly, stepping closer until you’re just in front of him.

There’s silence for a long moment before he finally speaks, his voice barely above a whisper. “She was dying… and he left. He walked away like she was nothing.”

You can almost hear the child in his voice, broken and afraid, abandoned.

“Tom…”

He flinches slightly at your voice but doesn’t pull away when you gently reach out and touch his hand. The silence between you stretches on, thick with the weight of things unsaid. Finally, he looks at you, his mask slipping entirely for just a moment.

“I can’t let that happen again,” he murmurs. “I won’t be that weak. I won’t lose.”

“You’re not weak, Tom,” you say firmly, your hand still resting over his. “You’ve been carrying this for so long, but you’re not alone. You don’t have to fight everything by yourself.”

He stares at you, and you watch as the walls slowly start to come back up.

“This conversation never happened,” he says coldly. Without another word, he walks past you. Your heart aches for the boy who hides behind the monster he’s trying so hard to become.