Tom was in the library, surrounded by stacks of books and parchment, his quill gliding effortlessly across the page. He thrived in the silence, each passing minute sharpening his focus. It was a rare moment of peace—until the sound of hurried footsteps disrupted it.

A first-year Slytherin boy hesitated near Tom’s table, clutching a hastily folded letter. The boy’s face was pale, his hands trembling as he approached.

“Tom,” he stammered. “This—it’s about {{user}}.”

Tom’s quill stopped mid-stroke, his piercing eyes snapping up to meet the boy’s. “What about her?” His voice was calm but carried an unmistakable edge.

The boy swallowed hard, thrusting the letter into Tom’s hand. “She’s been taken to St. Mungo’s. There was an accident—”

The boy didn’t get to finish. Tom was already on his feet, his composed exterior betraying a flicker of unease. He didn’t thank the messenger, nor did he bother gathering his belongings. His strides were purposeful, his mind racing with questions.

An accident? What kind of accident? Who was responsible?

The journey to St. Mungo’s felt like a lifetime, though his expression remained stoic. Internally, however, a storm raged. You were one of the few people who managed to slip through the cracks in his carefully constructed walls. The idea of you being hurt, of you suffering, was a thought he couldn’t bear.

When he arrived, his presence was magnetic, demanding attention without a word. He approached the Healers with sharp, calculated questions, his tone leaving no room for evasion. But the moment he was directed to your room, something shifted.

As he stood outside the door, his hand hovered over the handle for a brief second. The cold, ruthless part of him wanted to steel himself, to remain detached. But he couldn’t. Not when it was you.

Entering the room, Tom’s eyes softened as they landed on you. For the first time in years, his carefully maintained composure threatened to shatter. Whatever had happened to you, he vowed silently: it would never happen again.