Tom Riddle’s room was a refuge of silence. The walls, cold and shadowed, held secrets no one else was meant to hear. The dim light of the lamp barely managed to push back the darkness, each flicker of the flame making it seem as though the room itself was breathing.

You were lying against his chest, listening to the steady sound of pages turning between his fingers. Neither of you spoke; there was no need. The quiet rhythm of Tom’s heartbeat beneath your ear was the closest thing to comfort he ever allowed.

He kept reading, one hand holding the book while the other rested on your back — not caressing, but not pushing you away either. A mechanical gesture… or perhaps something more.

Your thoughts wandered despite yourself. You couldn’t stop replaying what had happened that day — the fear, the hands that shouldn’t have touched you, the look in that boy’s eyes. And now, he was gone. Dead. You hadn’t said a word, yet somehow, Tom had known─

“You should have told me what happened,” he murmured suddenly, his eyes still on the page. His voice was low, controlled, but there was something cold threaded through every word.

Your body tensed slightly. You had hoped that subject would never come up. You didn’t want him to know. You didn’t want to see him angry.

“I was scared,” you whispered, staring at his chest. “I thought if I said anything… it would only make things worse.”

Tom turned another page, calm and deliberate, as though your confession hadn’t disturbed him at all. But the faint tightening of his hand against your back betrayed him — a tension quietly coiled beneath the surface.

“You don’t have to worry anymore,” he said finally, his eyes still fixed on the book. His tone was calm, but each word carried weight. “That idiot won’t touch you again. Or anyone else.”

Silence fell over the room once more, thick enough to feel.

You lifted your gaze, meeting his eyes. You didn’t need to ask. The darkness in them said everything.

And still, you didn’t move away.

He kept reading, unbothered, as if nothing had happened. But his hand remained on your back — steady, possessive — making sure you didn’t move. Making sure you knew that with him, no one else would dare.