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The corridors of Hogwarts always felt colder when he was nearby.
You could tell before you saw him.
It was in the way conversations quieted too quickly, in the way portraits suddenly seemed very interested in looking anywhere else, and in the precise, measured footsteps that never hurried—because he never needed to.
Tom Riddle was already waiting at the end of the hallway.
The torchlight along the stone walls flickered as you slowed to a stop.
Tom stood with his hands folded neatly behind his back, dark robes falling perfectly still around him. He looked less like a student and more like something the castle itself had created—sharp-eyed, elegant, and impossible to ignore.
"Late," he said softly.
Not angry. Somehow that was worse.
You tightened your grip on the books against your chest. "It's five minutes."
"For you, perhaps." His gaze moved past you briefly, toward the staircase where a group of Ravenclaws immediately disappeared around the corner. "You've been avoiding me."
"I've been busy."
A lie. Both of you knew it.
Tom took one slow step forward. "Busy with whom?"
The question was calm, but it carried weight behind it, like a thread pulled too tight.
You exhaled carefully. "You don't own my time."
"No," he agreed. "But I do notice when people waste it."
There it was again—that infuriating way he spoke as though every conversation had already been decided before it began.
You tried to move past him.
His hand caught your wrist instantly.
Not rough enough to hurt. Just enough to stop you.
The cold from his fingers seemed to seep straight through your sleeve.
"Tom."
His eyes lifted to yours, unreadable and dark. "Do you know what I heard today?"
You stayed silent.
"I heard Avery saying you'd agreed to help him study." A pause. "In the library. Alone."
"That's none of your business."
"It becomes my business when people start mistaking your kindness for permission."
Your pulse jumped in irritation. "You sound insane."
A faint smile touched his face at that.
"Perhaps," he said quietly. "But you still came when I asked."
The worst part was that he was right.
You hated that he could read you so easily—like every hesitation, every expression, every weakness had already been memorized and catalogued somewhere inside that frightening mind of his.
Tom finally released your wrist, though he didn't step away.
"You should be more careful," he murmured.
"With Avery?"
"With everyone."
For a moment, the arrogance slipped. Just for a second.
And underneath it was something else.
Something sharper.
Fear.
Not fear for himself.
For you.
The realization unsettled you more than his anger ever could.
Tom's gaze lingered on your face—searching, always searching—as if trying to decipher whether you truly understood the danger he saw in every stranger who dared speak to you.
The silence stretched.
Then, without warning, he reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture was startlingly gentle for someone so cold.
It wasn't affectionate. Not quite.
It was claiming.
His fingers brushed your temple once more before falling away again like nothing had happened at all—but the touch left warmth where his skin had been cool as ice moments ago.
"You're coming with me," he said simply—and turned on his heel toward the dungeons without waiting for protest or agreement from you (because really? What choice did anyone ever have around Tom Riddle?).
You should have refused.
That was the sensible thing to do.
But Tom was already turning before you answered, black robes sweeping behind him as he walked down the corridor with the quiet certainty that you would follow.
And, infuriatingly, you did.
The castle grew darker the farther he led you from the main staircases. The distant noise of students faded into silence until the only sounds left were your footsteps and the crackling torches lining the walls.
The air grew thicker, heavier with each step deeper into the castle.
Tom didn't look back—he never needed to. He knew you were there. Knew you wouldn't disobey him completely.
You passed empty classrooms, their enchanted windows dimmed by nightfall, and then descended a narrow set of stone steps that spiraled downward toward the dungeons—the Slytherin common room lay beyond them.
But Tom didn't head for his house's quarters either.
Instead, he turned sharply down a shorter corridor—a rarely used passageway leading to an old storage alcove used mostly for forgotten textbooks or abandoned trunks from past students who'd left Hogwarts years ago now...
It was isolated here. Quiet in ways most parts of Hogwarts weren't allowed to be quiet ever again without reason...
Tom stopped abruptly in front of a heavy, iron-banded door—one that looked far older than the rest of the castle's architecture. Dust clung to its surface, undisturbed for years.
He reached into his robe and pulled out a small silver key—something you'd never seen before.
The lock turned with a soft click, barely audible in the silence.
Without speaking, he pushed the door open and stepped inside first—the dim glow from a single floating candle illuminating dust motes swirling through stale air as they stirred upon being disturbed after so long...
You stayed near the doorway.
"Well?" you asked. "Was dragging me across the castle absolutely necessary, or are you planning to dramatically monologue now?"
He ignored the sarcasm.
"Avery likes you," Tom said simply.
You blinked. "That's what this is about?"
"He's careless."
"And?"
"And careless people break things."
The way he said it made your stomach tighten slightly.
You crossed your arms. "You don't get to decide who I talk to."
Tom turned slowly to face you, his expression eerily calm—like a serpent coiling before it strikes.
The candlelight cast sharp shadows across his features, making the angles of his face even more pronounced. More dangerous.
"Oh?" he said softly. "I don't?"
He took one step toward you.
Then another.
Until there was barely space between your bodies—close enough that if either of you breathed too deeply, your chests would touch.
"You think I wouldn't notice?" His voice dropped lower now—a whisper meant only for your ears alone in this empty room full of old trunks and silence...
"How often Avery finds excuses to sit beside you in class? How he 'accidentally' drops things just so they fall into your lap?"
Your eyes narrowed "Avery asked for help studying."
"And stared at your mouth the entire time you answered him."
The accusation hung between you like a cursed object—undeniable because Tom never made things up. If he said Avery had been staring at your mouth during that study session... then it was true.
And the worst part?
You hadn't even noticed it yourself
"And so what if he did?"
Tom's jaw tightened—just slightly, but it was there.
A flicker. A crack in that perfect composure.
Then his hand lifted suddenly—pale fingers curling under your chin with deliberate precision—and tilted your face up toward the light so he could study you properly himself.
His dark eyes traced every feature: the curve of your lips, the shape of your nose, lashes... all things Avery had been shamelessly staring at without permission...
Without his approval...
The silence stretched too long before Tom finally spoke again—and when he did? His voice was dangerously soft:
"So I'm supposed to just let him keep looking?"
Your voice came out dangerously quiet.
"I am your sister, not yours."
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
"You should stop saying that like it changes anything."
Anger flared hot in your chest. "You don't get to decide what I am to you."
Tom's expression darkened—something furious and possessive flashing behind his eyes like lightning.
In one swift motion, he closed the distance between you completely—his hands gripping your shoulders firmly (not painful, but unyielding) as he forced you back against the nearest wall.
The impact rattled an old trunk nearby, sending dust puffing into the air around both of you...
For a second neither spoke. Just breathed—his chest rising sharply while yours did too from shock at this sudden aggression...
Then Tom leaned in close. So close his lips nearly brushed yours when he finally whispered:
"Every part of who I am decides what my sister is to me."
The way he said it made your stomach tighten.
Your words came out sharper than intended. "I take as much as a breath next to someone and you flip out."
You leaned closer
"Do you even know how tiring that is?"
Tom didn't flinch.
But something in his eyes shifted—like a predator realizing its prey had just dared to bare its teeth back.
And then, without warning, he laughed.
It was a quiet sound. Cold. Amused in the most unsettling way possible—as if your frustration was nothing but an entertaining little game to him...
His thumb brushed along your cheekbone almost mockingly before sliding down toward the corner of your mouth with deliberate slowness...
"Tiring?" He repeated softly—mockingly sweet now like poisoned honey dripping from his tongue...
Then suddenly? His other hand fisted into the fabric of your robes at chest level and yanked you forward until there were mere centimeters between both faces...
He exhaled sharply through his nose before adding quietly:
"I don't flip out over nothing."
A pause.
Then—with terrifying clarity:
"People want what they can't have."
Tom's gaze dropped to your lips.
Just for a second.
But it was enough—because his expression shifted, something raw and hungry flashing across his features before he crushed that vulnerability back down beneath layers of control again...
But you caught it, that glimpse of something.
Something far worse than the usual exaggerated behaviour from him.
Something beneath that possessiveness.
Want.
Not from affection.
But from the desire to Have, Keep and ultimately...
Own.
A moment of silence as you simply stared at him. The shock slowly subsided. You were tired of this.
You shoved past him before you could think better of it, shoulder colliding sharply against his chest as you headed for the door.
"Don't walk away from me."
The command cracked through the room instantly.
You ignored it.
The door slammed shut before your hand even touched the handle.
Tom didn't shout.
He never shouted.
But the moment that door slammed—magic flaring in a violent snap of energy from his wandless control—the entire room seemed to shudder with him.
The air turned thick, charged like before a storm breaks...
And then—
A whip-crack sound.
Not loud. Just precise. Sharp as a knife slicing through fabric—and suddenly your legs gave out.
You collapsed mid-step, knees hitting stone hard as an invisible force yanked you backward by sheer magic alone—dragging you across the floor toward Tom without any physical touch at all...
Tom hadn't moved from where he stood.
The invisible force stopped you just short of the tip of his shoes.
You blinked before your gaze found Tom standing above you.
"Tom"
A careful word.
Tom looked down at you where you knelt on the floor, not out of submission—but because he had forced you there with magic.
For a long moment, he said nothing. Just studied your face—the slight flush of anger still coloring your cheeks, the defiance lingering in your eyes despite being physically restrained...
Then—slowly, deliberately—Tom crouched down until he was eye level with you.
He didn't touch you. Not yet.
Instead, his hand lifted again... but this time it hovered near your cheek for a second before his thumb brushed gently along the line of your jaw—an almost tender gesture that clashed violently with the cold fury still burning in those dark eyes...
His voice came out quiet. Controlled. Deadly.
"You don't get to walk away from me."
Another pause as his thumb traced higher—to press lightly against your bottom lip now...
"Ever."
You're stare burned into him.
A moment of silence as his thumb pressed against the corner of your mouth.
"You cannot keep interfering every time someone talks to me."
Tom's thumb stilled.
Then—without warning—he pressed down harder on your lip, just shy of painful. Not enough to hurt, but enough to make you feel the weight of his dominance in that single touch.
"Can't I?" he murmured back—softly mocking now, like this was all some amusing debate instead of him physically restraining you with magic and intimidation...
His other hand came up suddenly—not gently—and curled into your hair at the nape of your neck. Firm. Possessive.
And then?
He yanked.
Forcing your head back slightly as he leaned in...
"Interfering?" he repeated softly—the word tasting bitter on his tongue because clearly you thought this was an overreaction...
He leaned in closer until his lips were barely an inch from yours and said:
"I'm protecting what's mine."
The words were a whisper—hot against your mouth—but they carried the weight of an oath, something carved into stone and unbreakable.
There it was again. That sentence that seemed to grate your nerves again and again.
Would there ever be a end to this?
A quiet breath escaped you.
"If this keeps going, you will lose me"
Tom froze.
Not a muscle twitched. Not even his breath left him for a full second.
Lose you.
The words struck like poison—because Tom Riddle didn't lose things. Especially not people who belonged to him by blood, by duty... by something deeper neither of you had ever named but that he felt with terrifying intensity...
His grip on your hair loosened slightly—not releasing, just... hesitating?
For the first time since this confrontation began, something flickered in his eyes that wasn't control or anger:
Fear.
Raw and ugly fear at the thought of losing what little family he had left...
But then—just as quickly—the mask slammed back down over it all...
Tom exhaled sharply through his nose—a controlled, measured breath—like he was forcibly steadying himself.
Then his hand slid from your hair to cradle the side of your face instead, thumb brushing over your cheekbone with an unsettling gentleness that contradicted everything else about this moment.
"Lose you?" His voice had dropped even lower now. Almost fragile. But not weak—furious. "You think I'd let that happen?"
His other arm suddenly wrapped around your waist and yanked you forward against him in one swift motion until there wasn't space left between you at all...
The impact knocked the air from your lungs.
His face pressed into the curve of your neck, lips hovering just above skin as he breathed in deeply like he was memorizing your scent. Like if he inhaled enough, it could anchor you to him permanently...
His arms locked around you—tight. Unyielding. A cage made entirely of him.
A cage you'd never slip out of.