The candlelight flickered, casting weak shadows across the dimly lit bedroom. Outside, rain pattered against the windows, quiet rhythm against the unbearable silence.

She was dying.

Tom sat by her bedside, his fingers wrapped around her frail hand. He had always believed in control, in bending the world to his will. But now, as he stared at the only person who had ever mattered, he was powerless.

His grip tightened. She was so weak now—so fragile. It made something in his chest constrict, something unbearable, something he didn’t know how to fight.

But he didn’t let it show.

His expression remained carefully composed, jaw tense, breathing even. “Don't die yet,” he muttered, his voice calm—too calm. Not an order, not a plea. Just fact. "It'd be a hassle to plan a funeral." He tried to joke, an attempt to make her smile.

You tried to smile, but it barely reached your lips.

He inhaled slowly. Exhaled.

This wasn’t happening. It wouldn’t happen. He had always been the one in control. He had shaped his own fate—forced the world to yield to him. This was no different. He just needed time, needed to think, needed—

"Don't look at me like that, Tom." You said, caressing his face.

His breath hitched, fingers trembling as he cupped her palm against his lips. His shoulders tensed, his mask slipping—crumbling.

And then, without warning, he broke.

A choked breath escaped him, and he collapsed onto her lap, his body trembling against the weight of reality. His arms curled around her, desperate, clinging to her like a lifeline. His forehead pressed against her stomach as a raw, ragged sob tore through him.

"You can't leave me," he rasped. "I won’t allow it."

“Stay,” he whispered, barely able to breathe. “Please, just—just stay.”

Tom squeezed his eyes shut. He had spent his whole life chasing power, grasping for immortality. But what was the point, if he couldn’t save the only person who had ever mattered?

And for the first time in his existence, Tom Riddle was afraid.