“The Not So Perfect Darklord”
Tom Riddle grew up in Wool’s Orphanage with no memories of his parents and no one to call family. Alone from the very beginning, he learned to rely on no one but himself. The other children never understood him, and he never cared enough to make them.
He believed in nothing but himself.
Mrs. Cole called him emotionless and uncanny, convincing herself his behavior came from losing his mother at birth and never knowing his father. But she would never understand what he truly was, or what he could do.
She had seen the strange things that happened around him, yet she never ran. Somehow, she stayed. Tom never understood why he found himself looking after her. They were the same age. She should have been able to care for herself. But the one time he stopped, she fell terribly ill and spent the weeks in bed.
But that didn’t matter anymore. What mattered was what came next. This time, it was only him and her.
Another Angst to regulate our emotions.😋
Warning: kidnapping, stalking.
The morning stretched on. The faint smell of worn cabbage and freshly washed laundry lingered in the air as you leaned against the wall, your pen quietly scribbling inside Tom’s diary.
Tom had gone off again, telling you to stay put while he sorted something out. You didn’t question him. It was better if you didn’t.
He knew everything, what you liked, what you didn’t.
He always made sure you had an extra piece of bread, or quietly slid the rest of his soup into your bowl whenever no one was looking. Somehow, he made life at the orphanage easier.
He’d always press a kiss to the top of your head before leaving for the boys’ wing. And every time you scraped your knee or came back with another bruise from your endless clumsiness, he’d be there, carefully cleaning the wound without a word.
You felt guilty. Even at nine years old, you knew better. Tom was only a child too, yet it always felt as though he’d already grown up. As if he’d lived through far more than he should have.
So why did you still depend on him? Was it because you were clumsy? Or because you were afraid?
Tom never asked. He simply did it. And sometimes you wondered how long it would take before he finally grew tired of taking care of you.
Your thoughts were cut short by the familiar scream of one of the boys, Billy. A loud thud followed, shaking the attic door.
Tom peeked his head inside before quietly stepping in. With a small sigh, he shut the door behind him and turned toward you. The same unreadable expression rested on his face.
What did he do this time?
His eyes never left yours as he slowly walked over.
“He won’t bother you anymore.”
Before you could ask what he meant, another shout echoed through the corridors below. Tom paused. His gaze drifted toward the floor, listening. Then, without the slightest hint of concern, the corner of his mouth curved into something almost… satisfied.
You remained silent, his diary still clutched tightly in your hands. Tom glanced at you once more before pausing, his gaze lingering for a brief moment. Then he leaned in slightly.
“You know I can’t always be here for you.”
“I know,” you answered softly, the words heavier than they should have been.
You had always known it would come to this. That one day, he would leave.
Your breath wavered as you lowered your eyes, fingers tightening around the worn-out leather cover. You stayed quiet, unable to find the right words. Unsure.
“The professor who came here told me… you can’t come with me.”
He paused, his eyes never leaving yours.
“Because you’re not like me.”
You clutched the diary a little tighter, confusion etched across your face.
Tom held your gaze for a long moment, as if weighing whether you would understand. Then, without a trace of hesitation, he spoke.
“The professor said I’m going to a different school.”
“A place for people like me.”
His eyes drifted toward the attic window before returning to yours.
“He said you can’t come.”
The room fell silent. You stared at him, trying to make sense of his words.
“A different school…?” you murmured, almost to yourself.
“He said you’re not like me.”
Your fingers curled around the worn leather cover of his diary. You wanted to ask what he meant by that, what made him different, and why it meant he had to leave.
But the words refused to come. All you could think about was the last thing he’d said.
The words settled between you like a weight neither of you knew how to carry.
You lowered your gaze to the diary in your lap, tracing the worn edges with your thumb. The attic suddenly felt quieter than it had only moments before.
“You’ll come back… right?”
Tom looked at you for a moment before answering.
His voice remained as calm as ever, certain and unwavering.
“But you’ll still be here.”
You swallowed, forcing yourself to nod, though the thought settled heavily in your chest.
Silence returned. Neither of you spoke.
The only sound was the faint chatter of children drifting up from below, muffled by the old wooden floorboards. Tom watched you, his expression unreadable, while your fingers remained wrapped around the diary, holding onto it as though letting go would somehow make his leaving real.
You searched his face, hoping to find even the slightest hint that he was joking.
Tom never joked about things like this. He never jokes in general.
It was all you could manage.
You lowered your eyes, brushing your fingers over the worn cover of his diary. The pages were filled with little stories, strange drawings, and thoughts neither of you would ever say aloud. Somehow, it felt heavier now.
You smiled, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes.
Something flickered across his face.
It was gone before you could make sense of it. He reached over and gently took the diary from your hands, tucking it beneath his arm.
“I’ll bring you another one.”
“So you’ll have something new to write in.”
For a brief moment, the heaviness in your chest eased.
Outside, the afternoon carried on as though nothing had changed. But inside the attic, the days you had left together suddenly felt far too few.
Without Tom, the attic felt colder somehow. The silence lingered longer than it used to, and every corner reminded you of him. You found yourself glancing toward the attic door more often than you’d like to admit, half-expecting him to walk through it with that same unreadable expression.
Before you knew it, you were standing alongside the other children, all lined up neatly as they waited for visitors hoping to take a child home. You stood quietly among them, your thoughts somewhere else entirely.
The question was engraved in your mind so often that you barely noticed Mrs. Cole calling your name. It wasn’t until she gently rested a hand on your shoulder that you looked up.
Standing beside her was a well-dressed couple.
They were smiling at you. You managed to return the smile, trying to erase the heavy feeling that ached inside. For a moment, the couple looked at one another before smiling even wider.
And the next thing you knew, you had been adopted.
As Mrs. Cole folded your clothes into a small worn suitcase, you stood quietly by the doorway, watching her. Your thoughts kept circling back to Tom, worried. Wondering if his new school was treating him better than he was here.
“Will Tom know I’ll be gone?”
She paused, carefully placing another shirt into the bag.
Mrs. Cole didn’t answer right away. Instead, she walked over and gently brushed a strand of hair away from your face.
Your fingers tightened around the edge of your sleeves..
“…Will I ever see him again?”
Mrs. Cole’s smile faltered, only for a moment.
The room fell quiet. You nodded slowly. Now the ache felt too overwhelming to bear, because a part of you hoped that someday, you would see him again.
“…I hope he doesn’t think I left without saying goodbye.”
Mrs. Cole zipped the suitcase shut and let out a quiet sigh.
“Come now,” she said gently.
You nodded, though your feet refused to move. One last time, your eyes wandered around the small attic. The worn mattress in the corner. The tiny window overlooking the rooftops. The old wooden floorboards that creaked whenever Tom walked across them.
You had always imagined the day you left Wool’s. You just never imagined leaving without him.
Clutching your bag, you followed Mrs. Cole downstairs.
The couple waited patiently by the front door. As you stepped outside, a cool breeze brushed against your face. You turned around one last time.
The orphanage stood just as it always had.
“…Goodbye, Tom,” you whispered.
Then you climbed into the car. The engine rumbled to life. Slowly, Wool’s Orphanage disappeared from view.
The leaves had begun to turn when the front gates of Wool’s creaked open once again. A familiar boy stepped inside, a worn suitcase in one hand.
Tom Riddle had come home.
The familiar smell of old wood and boiled cabbage greeted him the moment he stepped inside. Nothing had changed, the same worn walls, the same creaking floorboards. The same children running through the halls.
Tom barely spared them a glance, his feet carried him upstairs without thinking, the attic door groaned as he pushed it open.
The room was empty. His eyes swept across the small space. The small mattress remained where it had always been, the little window still overlooked the grey rooftops.
Everything was exactly as he’d left it.
He stood there for a long moment, waiting. Maybe you had wandered downstairs, maybe Mrs. Cole had given you chores. Without another thought, he turned and made his way back through the halls.
You weren’t in the dining room, nor the yard, not in the laundry room, not even hiding in the little corners you always seemed to find.
Ever since his return, something felt…
Mrs. Cole nearly walked past him before he spoke.
She stopped. For a brief moment, neither of them said anything.
The words settled into silence.
“A few weeks after you left.”
His gaze remained fixed on Mrs. Cole.
“She wanted to know if you’d be worried.”
Tom’s expression never changed.
That was all he said. He walked past Mrs. Cole and climbed the stairs once more. The attic was just as empty as before.
He knew it wasn’t temporary. The room felt different, not because anything had changed. But because something was missing.
Tom set his suitcase beside the mattress and looked around.
Your blanket was gone, the little stack of books the two of you shared had disappeared. Even the corner where you always sat with his diary had been cleared away, as though you had never been there at all.
He stood in silence.His fingers brushed against the cover of another diary tucked beneath his arm.
The promise, He had kept it.
But you hadn’t been there to read a single page. Tom lowered himself onto the mattress, opening the diary to the first blank page. The tip of his pen hovered for a moment before the ink finally touched the paper.
You left before I came back.
He stared at the sentence. Then, with one slow stroke, he crossed it out.
That wasn’t true, you hadn’t left, you had been taken. The realization settled quietly in his mind.
Outside, the voices of the other children echoed through the halls, but he paid them no attention. His gaze drifted toward the attic door.
No matter how long it took.
The little girl who once wandered the halls of Wool’s Orphanage had long since grown up. And life with your foster parents had been kinder than you ever imagined. They never treated you as though you were someone they had simply taken in.
You were their daughter. That frightened child who once waited by the attic door slowly became a memory. In her place stood a young woman who had learned how to stand on her own.
Every morning began the same way. You’d wake before the sun, prepare breakfast, and remind your foster parents not to overwork themselves. But they would always laugh, insisting they were perfectly capable.
Now that you were old enough to earn your own living, it felt right to return even a fraction of the love they had given you.
And somewhere along the way, the name Tom Riddle became nothing more than a quiet memory tucked away in the corner of your heart.
At least that's what you believed.
Elsewhere, another life had continued. Tom Riddle had grown into the brilliant young man everyone expected him to become.
At least, that was what they saw. Hogwarts had only confirmed what he had always believed, wizards were superior.
Muggles were weak, blind to the world that existed around them. They lived ordinary lives, never realizing how insignificant they truly were. Tom found no value in them.
Yet there was one thought that returned whenever he allowed himself a moment of silence.
You. A muggle. Someone who, by every measure he had come to believe, should have meant nothing.
It was irrational, an inconvenience. A memory he should have discarded years ago.
Instead, he buried it. Deep enough that no one—not even himself—would question why he still remembered the little girl who used to wait for him in the attic at Wool’s.
But years had already passed, people changed, memories fade.
Surely… You had forgotten him by now, He had tried to forget.
Years at Hogwarts, endless books, ambition, power. He buried himself in all of it, convincing himself that the little girl from Wool’s had become nothing more than a passing memory.
She should have meant nothing. That was what he told himself.
Yet now and then, he’d find himself remembering the attic, the worn out diary, the quiet voice that never feared him.
He despised weakness, he despised sentiment.
There should have been no exceptions.
The thought irritated him more than he cared to admit.
So he decided to put an end to it. If seeing you again was what it took to rid himself of a memory that had refused to die…
It didn’t take long. Finding you was easier than he expected. The moment he saw you from across the street, carrying a basket beneath the afternoon sun as though the years had never touched you, Tom stood still.
Years have passed, and yet what he deemed a memory before him was no longer a memory at all.
He didn’t call your name, instead he watched. From across the street, hidden among the passing crowd, his eyes followed your every movement.
You have changed, You are taller now. Older.
The timid little girl from Wool’s had disappeared, replaced by a young woman who carried herself with quiet confidence.
Yet some things hadn’t changed.
You still smiled at strangers, you still tucked loose strands of hair behind your ear whenever you were busy. And you still stopped to help an elderly woman gather the apples she had accidentally dropped.
Tom watched as the woman thanked you with a warm smile.
There it was again, that same smile. The one you used to give him whenever he’d return from the boys’ wing with an extra piece of bread hidden behind his back.
His gaze lingered. Without realizing it, his feet had already begun moving. One step, then another. Until he found himself standing only a few paces behind you.
Tom stopped, he didn’t know what to say. He turned away. But not because he wanted to. Because walking up to you would answer too many questions too quickly.
The next morning, he found himself standing across the street from the little bakery where you worked.
You greeted every customer with the same gentle smile, you thanked them, apologized when you accidentally handed someone the wrong loaf, and laughed quietly at your own mistake.
The day after that, he saw you leave work with a basket tucked beneath your arm. But instead of going straight home, you stopped at the market.
You bargained over vegetables, bought fresh flowers.
Then hurried off when you realized you were running late, you still had a habit of losing track of time. Tom watched from a distance.
Yet he never stepped close enough to be noticed.
Days became a week.. Then another.
Without meaning to, he had memorized your routine. You left the house just after sunrise, you always stopped to feed the same stray cat behind the bakery, you took the longer road home whenever the weather was nice. And on Sundays, you bought your foster parents their favorite pastries before they could wake up.
It was becoming… troublesome.
Every day he told himself it would be the last.
Tomorrow, he will stop. Tomorrow, he will return to his own affairs.
Yet tomorrow always became another day spent watching from the crowd, convincing himself he was merely satisfying an old curiosity. He never noticed when curiosity had become a habit. Nor did he notice that, because despite all his careful distance…
His eyes searched for you first, before anyone else.
It happened on an afternoon no different from the rest. Tom had already decided it would be the last day. He watched as you locked the bakery door, brushing the flour from your apron before stepping onto the quiet street.
You smiled to yourself, not unusual. Tom thought.
Then someone called your name, you turned. A man was making his way toward you. He looked about your age, dressed neatly, carrying a paper bag beneath one arm. And the moment he reached you, your face lit up.
Tom’s gaze remained fixed on the two of you. The man said something he couldn’t hear. You nudged his shoulder with a playful smile.
They began walking together.
Side by side. Close enough that their arms brushed every so often.
Neither of you noticed him slightly marching his way through the afternoon crowd, his footsteps measured, his expression unreadable. He watched the man carry your basket without you asking. He watched you thank him, he watched the two of you disappear into a small café, choosing a table by the window.
For a long moment, Tom remained outside.
His eyes never left the man sitting across from you.
A strange feeling settled in his chest. He disliked it, it was unnecessary.
His fingers tightened around the book tucked beneath his arm.
The question echoed through his mind far longer than it should have. Long enough for another thought to quietly follow.
Tom returned the next day, and the day after that. The man appeared again, always at the same hour, always waiting for you outside the bakery. Sometimes he’d carry the heavier bags before you could reach for them.
Sometimes the two of you would stop by the market together, talking about things Tom couldn’t hear.
Tom remained unseen, he learned the man’s routine as easily as he had learned yours, where he worked, when he left, down to the streets he preferred, and how long it took him to walk home.
Every detail quietly settled into memory.
One afternoon, the answer came without him having to search for it. The man reached over and gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
Tom stopped walking, the crowd flowed around him as though he wasn’t there. His eyes never left the two of you.
His expression remained unchanged, yet something cold settled behind his gaze. For years, he had convinced himself that finding you would put an end to the memory.
Someone else had taken the place beside you. A place that had once belonged to him. His fingers curled slowly at his side.
The following days became quieter, Tom no longer watched only you. He watched him. Every glance, every conversation, every smile exchanged between the two of you.
He committed them all to memory, the man never seemed suspicious, never raised his voice, never forced your hand.
Which made Tom dislike him even more.
Ordinary people were predictable.
You looked at him the way you used to look for Tom whenever he returned to the attic. The thought lingered longer than it should have.
One evening, the two of you stopped outside your home.
The man handed you a small paper bag.
You laughed softly before taking something from inside.
You held it against your neck, smiling as you thanked him. Tom watched from the shadows across the street. His gaze fell to the scarf, then to the man.
The corner of his mouth lifted into the faintest smile. It wasn’t warm, nor kind. It was the smile of someone who had finally reached a conclusion.
He had seen enough. That man wasn’t a stranger, he wasn’t merely a friend.
Tom then turned away without another glance.
And ever since finding you…
He had a name to remember. And to him, names were never difficult to erase.
He allowed himself to believe that soon…
The following afternoon, Tom returned to the same street. The bakery door swung open. You stepped outside, brushing the flour from your sleeves as you stretched beneath the warm afternoon sun. And a familiar voice called your name.
Unharmed, smiling at you as though nothing had happened.
The man walked over, though his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, he looked tired, uneasy. His gaze wandered across the street, searching the crowd for someone only he knew.
The man hesitated before forcing another smile.
“No… I just didn’t sleep very well.”
You frowned with concern.
“You should get some rest.”
He reached for the basket in your hands.
“Here, let me carry that.”
You thanked him with the same gentle smile Tom remembered from years ago. Across the street, Tom watched in silence.
The fear had lingered, but not enough. The man still returned, still standing beside you. Still reached for what Tom had already decided wasn’t his to touch.
His eyes narrowed ever so slightly.
A warning had been too generous.
Without another glance, Tom turned and disappeared into the crowd.
He would choose a different approach.
The man didn’t come the next day.
You waited outside the bakery a little longer than usual. You glanced down the street.
“…Maybe he’s running late,” you murmured.
He didn’t come the day after that either, nor the day after. Concern slowly replaced confusion. You found yourself stopping by the small shop where he worked.
The bell above the door chimed softly.
The elderly shopkeeper looked up.
“Oh… you’re looking for him?”
“I haven’t seen him in days.”
Your brows knitted together.
“He came in early one morning, packed his things, and left.”
“He said he had to move.”
A strange feeling settled in your chest.
“He didn’t even say goodbye?”
The shopkeeper shook his head.
“Kept looking over his shoulder as though someone was following him.”
You thanked the old man quietly before stepping back outside. The afternoon felt strangely colder. You looked down the empty street.
Across the road, hidden among the passing crowd…
Tom watched you, his expression remained calm. The man had made the correct decision.
Exactly as he’d been told. Tom should have been satisfied.
His eyes lingered on your face.
You were searching for answers.
An unfamiliar irritation settled within him, he had solved the problem.
…did you look so unhappy?
Tom had imagined this moment many times. Too many times.
He imagined you recognizing him immediately. Your eyes widening, as his name left your lips.
You looked at him like he was a stranger.
The encounter was painfully ordinary.
You were leaving the bakery when you accidentally bumped into him, the papers in your hands scattering across the pavement.
Your voice stopped him, not because of what you said, but because of how you said it.
Polite, gentle.. Unfamiliar.
Tom looked down at the papers before kneeling to pick them up. You thanked him with a small smile.
“Thank you. I’m sorry again, I wasn’t paying attention.”
Nothing, no recognition, no hesitation, no sign that you remembered the boy who once shared an attic with you. The boy who used to clean your scraped knees, the boy who promised he would write.
Tom handed the papers back.
His voice remained calm. Controlled. You smiled once more before walking away.
You left, without ever looking back. Tom remained standing there. A strange irritation slowly settled in his chest.
Years of remembering a muggle who should have been nothing, years of carrying a memory he had no reason to keep.
You had forgotten, you had moved on, you built a life without him.
He had far more important things to think about.
Not some childhood attachment to a muggle who couldn’t even recognize him.
Yet… His eyes followed your figure until you disappeared into the crowd. And that was the part that irritated him the most. Because despite everything he told himself…
The next few days were no different. At least, that was what Tom wanted to believe.
He continued with his work.
His studies, his plans. Everything that mattered.
Yet somehow… He kept finding himself near the same streets.
The same bakery, the same path you took home. It was becoming an irritating habit. A habit he refused to acknowledge.
So why did he stop when he saw you struggling with a box of supplies outside the bakery?
Before he could question himself, he was already standing beside you.
“You’ll damage those if you continue carrying them like that.”
You looked up. Surprise crossed your face.
That smile again. The same one.
It wasn’t meant for him. Tom looked away.
Your brows raised slightly.
“I wouldn’t have offered otherwise.”
You hesitated before handing him the box.
There it was. That simple gratitude, like he was just another stranger.
Tom disliked it, more than he should have.
The words left his mouth before he could stop them.
Tom immediately regretted saying it. Not because it revealed anything. Because your confusion was genuine.
He paused. A rare moment of hesitation.
“You don’t remember Wool’s Orphanage?”
Your expression changed slightly. The name caught your attention.
You repeated it softly. Tom watched carefully.
Searching for any sign. Then your eyes widened a little.
A small laugh escaped you.
“I haven’t thought about that place in years.”
Not forgotten… Just left behind.
For some reason, that irritated him even more.
The question was quieter than he intended. You looked at him.
“I’m sorry… have we met before?”
Tom had reached his limit. Waiting had always been something he was good at.
This was becoming an inconvenience he could no longer tolerate.
You stood there in front of him, unaware of everything that had happened between the two of you. Unaware of the years he spent remembering. Unaware of the promise made in a forgotten attic.
If you couldn’t remember…
Then he would make you remember. Tom knew it was reckless.
There were things he had spent years building, a reputation carefully crafted among those who followed him. A reputation built on power, superiority, and the belief that muggles were beneath him.
If they ever discovered it, they would question him. They would see the contradiction.
The great Tom Riddle, who claimed muggles were insignificant, went out of his way for one person who couldn’t even remember his name.
Tom Riddle the Hyprocite.
The thought irritated him. But not enough to stop.
Because no matter how many times he told himself that you were nothing… He had already proven otherwise.
“You really don’t remember.”
You looked at him carefully, noticing the strange intensity behind his eyes.
The apology was genuine. And somehow, that made it worse.
Tom looked away for a moment, he had expected fear, confusion. Maybe even suspicion.
Not kindness, not from you.
For the first time in years, he allowed himself to make a decision without thinking of the consequences.
“Somewhere you’ll remember.”
You hesitated. Every instinct told you that following a stranger was a foolish decision. But yet something about him felt strangely familiar.
Not his face. Not his voice.
A feeling you couldn’t explain.
The question made him pause. Tom looked back at you. For a moment, the answer sat on the tip of his tongue.
You knew him before anyone else did. Before the reputation, before the name, before the person he had forced himself to become.
But instead, he simply said:
The words surprised even him. You stared at him, confused.
Tom turned away, continuing down the street. After a moment, you followed.
He didn’t speak, neither did you. But Tom noticed everything. The way you looked around curiously, the way you kept a careful distance and the way you still trusted him enough to follow.
When he finally stopped, you found yourself standing in front of an old building.
The sight of it made your breath catch.
You hadn’t seen it in years. The faded walls, the familiar windows. The place you once called home.
Tom watched your expression closely. You stepped closer, your fingers brushing against the old gate.
Memories slowly returned.
The boy who always seemed to appear whenever you needed him.
The name escaped your lips before you even realized it.
He went completely still.
Your voice was quiet, almost uncertain. But it was enough.
For years, he had wondered if he was the only one who remembered.
If the attic, the diary, and those years at Wool’s had only existed in his mind.
Tom looked away for a moment, hiding the brief shift in his expression.
It wasn’t a question. You stared at him, still trying to piece everything together.
Your eyes moved around the old orphanage building.
“I thought you were gone.”
The words were simple. But they lingered.
Tom’s gaze returned to you.
You lowered your head slightly.
“You left for that school.”
“I thought maybe you forgot about me.”
Something unreadable crossed his face.
The irony almost made him laugh.
You were the one who forgot.
The answer came too quickly.
You looked up. Tom seemed to realize it as well. His expression hardened.
The distinction was unnecessary. But it mattered to him.
“You haven’t changed much.”
“You still talk like everything you say is a fact.”
For a moment, silence. Then something strange happened.
A small, almost invisible change.
“You still notice too much.”
“And you still avoid answering questions.”
You were right. After all these years. You were still the only person who could say something like that to him and remain standing.
You stepped closer, unsure.
Not because you were afraid of him. But because something about this moment felt impossible. The boy you remembered was standing in front of you, yet he was not the same... That quiet child who used to sit beside you in the attic had grown into someone far more distant.
His presence felt heavier than you remembered.
There was still something familiar.
The words came out softly, almost as if you were convincing yourself. His eyes stayed on you.
You looked down for a moment, fingers brushing against the old gate.
“I spent so long wondering if I would ever see you again.”
A silence followed. Tom didn’t know what to do with that.
He had expected questions.
Maybe even anger for disappearing.
Not someone standing in front of him as if his absence had mattered.
It was a simple statement.
You looked back at him and smiled slightly.
The answer was obvious. Yet somehow, hearing it from you felt different.
He shouldn’t have been here.
He shouldn’t have spent years searching for a person who belonged to a world he had long rejected.
A muggle. A weakness. An exception.
Tom knew this was wrong, that was the irritating part. For once, he was aware. He knew what he had built.
The reputation, the followers, the power.
A world where everyone either feared him or admired him.
None of them had known him before that. None of them had seen the boy in the attic. The boy who was still capable of keeping a promise.
And that was exactly why he couldn’t allow himself to lose you again.
Not to a world that would never understand what you meant to him.
You would stay away from it all.
Away from the whispers, away from the people who followed him, away from the darkness that surrounded his name.
He would keep that part of himself hidden from you. Because you didn’t need to know.
You didn’t need to see what he had become.
You only needed to remember him.
Not the name they feared, not the person they followed.
The boy who sat beside you in the attic. The boy who promised he would come back.
He wouldn’t let anything take you away. Because he had spent years being forgotten. He would not allow it to happen again.
You didn’t know how long you had been asleep.
The first thing you noticed was the silence. Not the peaceful kind. The kind that made your chest tighten. Your eyes slowly opened, unfamiliar surroundings coming into view.
A large room, tall windows, dark wooden furniture.
A place that looked like it belonged in another world entirely. You sat up slowly, your heart beginning to race.
The last thing you remembered was walking home.
You pushed yourself from the bed, your feet touching the cold floor.
But somehow, that made it worse. Because you didn’t recognize any of it. You walked toward the door and turned the handle.
Your breath caught. You tried again.
A strange fear settled in your chest.
Your voice echoed through the empty room.
No answer. You slowly stepped back.
This wasn’t your home, this wasn’t anywhere you knew.
Somehow, everything around you felt carefully prepared. As if someone had planned every detail.
The books on the shelves, the clothes folded neatly nearby, even the small things you used every day.
Everything you needed was here.
Your fingers tightened around the door handle.
The name left your lips quietly. Because deep down…
This wasn’t a place you had found.
It was a place someone had chosen for you.
And ever since seeing him again…
You weren’t remembering the boy from Wool’s.
You were facing the man he had become.
Tom stood outside the door.
For once, he didn’t enter immediately. He knew what he had done. He knew what everyone would think if they ever found out.
The one who spoke of power.
The one who believed muggles were beneath him.
The wizarding world would never understand it, and his followers would question him. They would wonder why someone like him would make an exception.
Why would he waste his time on someone who should have meant nothing.
They would see it as weakness.
And perhaps… They would be right.
Because no matter how many times he convinced himself otherwise, you remained the one thing he could never erase.
The one memory he couldn’t destroy.
The one person who knew him before the name became feared.
Before the power, before the darkness.
Tom placed his hand against the door.
He could continue pretending.
Pretend this was simply another choice, another decision he made because it benefited him.
But deep down, he knew the truth.
You were the only exception he had ever allowed. And that was the secret he would take to his grave.
The world could never know.
Tom in his Joe Goldberg era😭
Like Mother like Son if you know what I mean👀
Had to finish this so my mind can finally rest in peace..😔
stormborns
kianamaiart
vaporwave
dailybridgerton
turnnoffyourmind
