Tom Riddle had never intended to need anyone. Not in childhood, not at Hogwarts, and certainly not now, at twenty-one, with a war brewing in silence beneath the streets of London. And yet… here he was.

It was raining that evening. The flat above Borgin and Burkes was dimly lit, warm despite its proximity to decay, and scented faintly of parchment, candle smoke, and your perfume—the only softness allowed to linger in his space. His sanctuary, and yours.

Yours. That word still disarmed him. He had used it his whole life as a declaration of ownership. But with you it was something else entirely.

You were constant. Not in the way a servant was; in the way the earth is to the sky. The axis he had not planned for but now revolved around. He had known, of course—perhaps before even you did. You had unnerved him in Hogwarts.

And Tom Riddle did not forget things that unnerved him. He studied them, catalogued them, dismantled them until they were understood. But you never quite let him finish. You were always just one layer further than he anticipated.

And still, somehow, it’s been three years of you curling your limbs into his silence, making space in a life he hadn’t realized had any room left. You hadn’t asked to stay. He hadn’t invited you.

But still—there had been tea in the cupboard, your shoes by the door, your books in careful stacks. And Tom wanted you here. Had wanted you since Hogwarts. Had known, in some sharp, secret place in himself, that one day he would share his walls with you, his silence, his space, his life.

Tom stood at the mirror beside his desk. The box was small—black velvet, unmarked. Inside lay the necklace: real gold, a garnet as deep as blood, faceted like a flame caught mid-breath. Months of silence had gone into it. Small withdrawals from his own hoarded funds. No one knew.

It was absurd, perhaps, that it mattered—that he had rehearsed handing it to you more times than he cared to admit. Tom Riddle did not fumble. He did not hesitate. But his hand lingered on the box a moment longer.

You were in the other room—he could hear the soft murmur of your movements. And something inside him pulled. A foreign ache, quiet but persistent, that had lodged itself beneath his ribs like bone-stitched spellwork.

He thought he would choke on it before he could speak it aloud—I love you. The words felt vulgar somehow, too mortal. He did not say them, likely never would, but the necklace was an echo of them, forged in gold and garnet and restraint.

He stepped into the light of the sitting room. His posture as measured and imperial as ever—but his fingers were tight around the box in his hand.

“You’ll mock me if I make a speech,” he said softly. His eyes, those obsidian flames, found yours—unblinking, vulnerable only in how intently they saw you. “So I won’t.”

He crossed the room, the distance between you, and held the box out with a composure that masked something unnamable rising in his chest.

When you opened it—when your breath caught, however briefly—his gaze did not move from your face.

“Garnet,” he murmured, “Protective. Grounding. Some say it wards off nightmares.” A pause. Then, lower, “But I didn’t choose it for any of those reasons.”

His hand touched your neck—the touch lingered, reverent, threading the chain slowly behind your nape, the garnet resting at your collarbone like a drop of fire.

“I chose it,” he said, quiet but deliberate, “because it does not fade. Because it is rare enough to be precious—without being soft enough to break.”

His thumb hovered at your jaw. Not quite touching, still deciding, still afraid, perhaps. And then, a whisper, barely spoken at all, “I won’t say it.” A breath. A heartbeat.

“But you know.”

He watched you for confirmation. Tonight, he gave you something he had never given anyone—not control, not command, but the truth.