Chapter Text
The Great Hall was still buzzing, voices ricocheting off stone walls, when Tom rose.
Not abruptly—never that. His movements were measured, deliberate, every line of him honed into precision. He carried himself like a blade sheathed in flesh, the kind of presence that made people flinch from looking too long, as if their very notice might invite destruction.
He did not look at anyone. Not at the ring gleaming coldly in his palm, not at his inner circle who stared after him with the unease of moths trapped near flame—and certainly not at Hadrian. Each step was sharp, decisive, a retreat so controlled it felt like dominance.
Students moved aside without thought, Slytherins falling silent with a reverence born of loyalty and of awe. Only those closest—Orion, Walburga, Abraxas—noticed the faint twitch of his jaw, the storm caged just beneath his mask of indifference.
Minutes later, Hadrian stood.
Where Tom’s exit had been a storm contained, Hadrian’s was inevitable as the tide. He gave no words to the professors watching him from the table, no excuses, no explanations. He simply pressed his palm against the wood of the table—soft, grounding—and then followed.
By the time Tom reached Hadrian’s chambers, the corridors were mercifully empty. His magic lashed restlessly against the walls, making the torches flicker, as though even fire itself hesitated before him. He did not pace—Tom Riddle did not pace—but he stood in the center of the room with the kind of tension that ached to move.
The door clicked open.
Hadrian stepped inside, his presence shifting the air instantly, pulling it taut, grounding it at once. He closed the door with deliberate care, the lock clicking softly, sealing them away.
Silence bloomed. Sharp. Heavy.
Tom’s fingers curled and uncurled at his side, twitching with the need to grasp at something—control, certainty, anything. The silence was louder than any accusation could be. He turned his hand, staring at the glint of the ring as if it burned his skin.
Finally, his voice broke. Low. Uncertain. “Do you even understand what you’ve done?”
Hadrian didn’t move closer, not yet. He only tilted his head, patient, steady. Waiting.
Tom’s throat worked, the words scraping free. “A ring is not a trinket. Not some bauble for your bloody eagle to drop onto my plate. It means—” His voice faltered, rough with something he hated naming. “It means forever. You—” His jaw clenched hard, fury at the tremor in his own tone. “You would tie yourself to me? Knowing what I am? Knowing everything?”
His eyes snapped up, wild, unguarded, betraying far too much. “And you’d still choose that?”
Hadrian stepped forward. Slowly. Deliberately. His magic brushed against Tom’s, steady where Tom’s stormed. He reached for Tom’s hand—the one clenched so tightly the ring bit crescents into his skin.
Tom froze, breath stuttering.
“May I?” Hadrian’s voice was low, almost reverent.
Tom couldn’t answer. His throat was locked, lungs too tight. All he could do was stare into those steady, dangerous green eyes that had haunted him for months.
Hadrian took the silence as permission. His fingers slid over Tom’s, firm, gentle, prying the clenched fist open. He held it in both of his hands, warming the cold skin, thumb brushing slow circles.
And then—with deliberate care—he slid the ring onto Tom’s smallest finger, where wizarding custom placed the band of a formal, acknowledged courtship.
The metal settled there as though it had always been meant for him.
Tom stared. His breath fractured, shallow, unsteady. He should have torn it off, sneered, spat some cutting remark that would shield his heart. He should have laughed in Hadrian’s face for daring.
But he didn’t. Couldn’t. The weight of it pinned him where he stood, terrifying and wonderful in equal measure.
“You’re a fool.” he managed, voice hoarse.
Hadrian’s lips curved into the smallest smile. “Then let me be a fool for you.”
Something in Tom cracked. For once, he didn’t know whether to laugh, rage, or collapse under the warmth blooming painfully in his chest.
He didn’t resist when Hadrian tugged gently, coaxing him down—not to the armchair, not to the sofa, but onto his lap. Tom’s breath caught at the closeness, his body taut as a bowstring. Yet Hadrian’s arm looped loosely around his waist—not a cage, but an anchor—his other hand still cradling Tom’s own, as if guarding the ring.
Tom stiffened, half-ready to snarl, to claw his way out of this unbearable tenderness. But Hadrian only leaned back slightly, resting, leaving Tom space to breathe.
The silence stretched, suffocating, until Hadrian pressed his forehead softly against Tom’s temple. Just that. A simple touch, steady as stone.
Tom’s defenses buckled under its weight.
“You’ll regret this.” he muttered, voice rough, but it sounded less like a threat and more like a plea.
Hadrian’s thumb brushed slow circles against his waist. “Never.”
Tom’s breath came ragged, shallow. He hated this, he hated how patience undid him more easily than force. But he didn’t move away. Didn’t fight.
Instead, he let his forehead drop, resting lightly against Hadrian’s jaw. For the first time in his memory, Tom Riddle let himself breathe.
The castle did not see Tom Riddle that day.
Whispers swirled about the ring, about the storm he had become in the Great Hall, about Hadrian following him minutes later. But it was Sunday, and speculation dulled quickly when lessons weren’t at stake.
Tom didn’t return to the Slytherin dormitories. He never considered it.
The hours bled together in Hadrian’s chambers. Not with scheming, not with sharp-edged words. Just quiet. Hadrian read by the fire, golden light warming his face, while Tom lay stretched on the sofa, eyes half-lidded, not resting but not resisting either. The eagle clicked its beak before retreating to the window, as if in silent approval.
Night fell, and Tom stayed.
The bed was wide enough for distance, but Hadrian had drawn him close without asking, like it was inevitable. Tom let him. Warmth seeped past his skin and into his bones until it ached in the most dangerous, most exquisite way.
For the first time in his life, Tom Riddle slept without dreams.
Morning light spilled soft and golden across the room.
Tom woke slowly, his mind sluggish, his body warm. His first awareness was not of the chamber or the castle but of heat—steady breath against his collarbone, an arm curled securely around his waist.
Hadrian.
The realization should have frozen him. Instead, he found himself still, cheek pressed to dark hair, hand resting against a shoulder far too steady to belong to anyone real.
Hadrian’s face was soft in sleep, unguarded. Too young, too fragile for the world Tom knew. The sight knocked something loose in his chest.
What if, Tom thought. What if he allowed this? Allowed warmth, belonging, the treacherous safety pressing close? What if he let himself be loved?
His thumb brushed along Hadrian’s shoulder. A gesture so small, so dangerous, it terrified him. Yet he didn’t pull back.
Instead, Tom leaned closer, pressing his forehead against Hadrian’s temple, eyes slipping shut against the impossible softness threatening to consume him.
For this morning, for this fleeting sliver of time, Tom Riddle allowed himself to believe.
And he let himself love.
Tom stirred again, slower this time, as if the castle itself had bent to let him linger in warmth a little longer. His lashes lifted, and the first thing he saw was not stone ceilings or candlelight but once again, just Hadrian.
The older boy was already awake, green eyes sharp even in the gentleness of morning. He was watching him, not with the scrutiny of professor or guardian, but with a quiet intensity that made Tom’s stomach twist.
For one suspended breath, Tom didn’t move. His cheek was pressed to Hadrian’s pillow, their legs tangled under the sheets. It was obscene, how easily his body had surrendered to this place, this touch, as if his bones had known before his mind that this was safe.
“Good morning.” Hadrian murmured, voice low and rich with amusement. The corner of his mouth tugged upward, not the smirk he wore for the world but something smaller, warmer, meant only for Tom.
Tom swallowed, trying and failing to summon his usual sneer. His lips parted, but no cutting remark came. All he managed was a rough exhale, the faintest curve of a smile hidden in it.
Hadrian brushed his thumb along the line of Tom’s arm. “Breakfast." He said softly, as if the word were a secret between them. “Here, or in the Hall?”
The question landed heavier than it should have. Here—or out there, where whispers swirled like vultures and every gaze measured, judged, devoured. Here—or safe, hidden away in this impossible pocket of belonging.
Tom’s throat tightened. He hated how small his voice sounded when he forced the word out:
“Here.”
Something eased in Hadrian’s face, quiet triumph glinting behind his eyes. “Good.” he said, like he had expected nothing less.
He shifted, rising from the bed with the fluid grace that made even simple movements deliberate. Tom watched, still cocooned in sheets, watching Hadrian drag on a robe, dark hair mussed but regal all the same. It burned in Tom’s chest—how effortlessly he filled a room, how he carried warmth like it had chosen him.
“Come,” Hadrian said, not a command but an invitation, stretching a hand toward him. Tom hesitated only a second before slipping free of the blankets, pale feet hitting the rug, and let Hadrian lead him toward the small adjoining kitchen.
The kitchen was not large—just a hearth, a counter, and a narrow table—but Hadrian moved like it was his kingdom. He lit the fire with a flick of his wand, coaxed flame into life, and began pulling down simple things: eggs, butter, bread. Ordinary. Infuriatingly ordinary.
Tom sat at the table, hands clasped loosely in his lap, and watched. He had never seen someone like Hadrian cook. Never seen someone powerful enough to bend destiny itself fuss with pans and utensils like it mattered.
It unsettled him more than blood and curses ever had.
“You cook?” Tom asked finally, voice edged with disbelief. But he realized it too late. He suddenly remembered one of those nights where Hadrian spoke of those disgusting mudblood of relatives that he had and how they treated him. But he remembered that a second too late.
Hadrian glanced over his shoulder, eyes glimmering with humor. “I eat, don’t I? Someone has to make it happen.”
The hiss of butter meeting hot pan filled the silence. The smell of eggs, rich and warm, began to curl through the room. Tom leaned back in his chair, pretending indifference, but every nerve was alive with strangeness. He had eaten hundreds of meals at Hogwarts—lavish, perfect, conjured with ease. None of them had smelled like this.
None of them had been made just for him.
Hadrian plated the food with quiet care, set it down between them: scrambled eggs, toasted bread, steaming tea. He didn’t wait for Tom’s approval, only sat across from him, expectant.
Tom stared. He wanted to scoff, to sneer, to remind Hadrian who he was. But the words died before they reached his tongue. Instead, he picked up the fork.
The first bite was simple, almost laughably so. And yet the taste, warm, grounding, entirely unlike the feasts of the Great Hall, was somewhat important. It wasn’t the food. It was the act.
Hadrian was watching him. Not with triumph, not with smugness. Just… watching.
Tom set the fork down with deliberate care, forcing composure back into his spine. He tilted his chin, eyes cool even as his chest ached. “You’re ridiculous.”
Hadrian’s smile was quiet, unshaken. “And yet you’re still here.”
Tom didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. His hand shifted, almost imperceptibly, brushing against Hadrian’s where it rested on the table. A touch so fleeting it could have been accident. But it wasn’t.
For a long time, they sat like that. Eating in silence, breathing in the strange, fragile peace of a morning that belonged only to them.