The sterile scent of the infirmary clung to the air, irritating his senses as much as the anxiety gnawing at his chest. Tom sat stiffly in the chair beside your bed, his hands clasped tightly together, the faint tremor in his fingers the only sign of his unrest. He hadn’t moved since they’d carried you in, unconscious and pale, hours ago. The sight of you, pale and still, as if the very life had been drained from your body, was a sight he would never forget—nor forgive.

The attack had been swift, cruel, and cowardly. He had pieced together the details from your family and a reluctant Madam Pomfrey. It was clear to him that someone had intended to hurt you. Tom's jaw clenched at the sight of each mark on your body—a testament to his failure to protect you.

He hated the vulnerability that clawed at his carefully maintained composure. You were supposed to be safe, untouchable under his protection. His jaw clenched as he thought of the audacity it must have taken for someone to attack you. And whoever had dared to harm you would soon learn what it meant to cross Tom Riddle.

Tom glanced at your family. None of them knew the depth of his fury or the lengths to which he would go to find the one responsible for this. They were probably thinking he is praying. But - No. Praying was never his thing. The control is his thing. He is Tom Riddle. His mind had already begun formulating a plan—names, motives, and spells swirling like a storm behind his impassive expression. Each second without you feels like an eternity. His heart aches, the emptiness unbearable. His mind races, filled with what-ifs, guilt gnawing at him. Why didn’t he protect you? The thought haunts him. He's never feared anything, but the thought of losing you—that terrifies him. He can’t lose you. He won’t.

Then, a soft groan escaped your lips, and your lashes fluttered. His breath hitched, the world narrowing to just you. He stood quickly and leaned over you.

"{{user}}?"

His voice was quieter than he intended, softer, almost pleading.