𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐒, ᵗᵒᵐ ʳⁱᵈᵈˡᵉ. ✓

012.

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It was late at night, and the Slytherin common room had grown eerily quiet. The flickering glow of the dying fireplace cast long shadows against the cold stone walls, and the few remaining students had already retreated to their dormitories. Daphne lingered longer than usual, her mind restless. Ever since her conversation with Tom, something had shifted between them—something unspoken yet palpable. She couldn't shake the feeling that there was more going on beneath his cool exterior, something he wasn't telling her.

___

As the minutes passed, her thoughts wandered back to Tom, and a strange unease settled in her chest. Tom had always been an enigma, his emotions carefully controlled, his facade never cracking. But lately, there have been subtle changes. She had seen it in his eyes, in the way he spoke, and in the moments of silence that lingered too long between them. Unable to ignore the growing tension gnawing at her, Daphne stood from the plush chair and made her way toward the boys' dormitory. She knew it was against the rules, but something urged her forward, a sense of intuition that she couldn't ignore.

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The hallway leading to Tom's dormitory was dimly lit, the soft hum of magic in the air the only sound. As she approached his door, she hesitated, her hand hovering above the cold handle. Should she be doing this? Was it even her place to check on him? But then she heard it—faint, barely audible—a low, muffled sound coming from behind the door. Her heart skipped a beat. She had never heard Tom Riddle sound anything less than composed, never seen him lose his icy control. But this... this sounded like someone breaking. Daphne's breath caught in her throat as she pressed her ear against the door, straining to hear.

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A soft, strangled noise echoed from within, followed by the unmistakable sound of something heavy being knocked over. Her pulse quickened. Without thinking, she turned the handle and slipped inside, her movements silent and careful. The sight that greeted her froze her in place. Tom Riddle, the composed, brilliant, untouchable leader of Slytherin, was sitting on the edge of his bed, his head buried in his hands. His normally pristine hair was disheveled, and the tension in his posture was palpable, his fingers gripping his temples as if trying to hold himself together. The room was in disarray—books scattered across the floor, ink spilled across the desk, and a shattered glass vial lying in pieces near the bed.

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For a moment, Daphne couldn't move, her heart pounding in her chest as she took in the scene. Tom, who had always been so cold, so calculated, was unraveling before her eyes. His breathing was uneven, his shoulders shaking ever so slightly as he fought to regain control. Daphne's voice caught in her throat, but she forced herself to speak, her words soft and tentative. "Tom..." At the sound of her voice, Tom's head snapped up, his dark eyes wide with shock and fury. For a split second, he looked vulnerable, raw, as if the walls he had built around himself had crumbled. But then, just as quickly, his expression hardened, his gaze turning sharp and cold. "What are you doing here?" His voice was low, dangerous, laced with anger, though Daphne could hear the tremor beneath it.

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She didn't flinch. Instead, she took a cautious step forward, her eyes never leaving his. "I heard something... I was worried." Tom's jaw tightened, his fists clenching at his sides as he stood, towering over her. "I don't need your pity, Daphne." "I'm not offering pity," she said quietly, holding her ground. "I'm here because I care. You're not yourself, Tom." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. It was a cold, bitter sound that sent a chill down her spine. "I'm always myself," he said through gritted teeth, his voice a venomous whisper. "This is who I am." Daphne shook her head, her heart aching at the sight of him—this brilliant, ruthless boy who was so determined to keep everyone at arm's length, even when he was falling apart. "No," she said softly, stepping closer despite the warning in his eyes. "This isn't you, Tom. Not like this."

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For a moment, the anger in his gaze faltered, replaced by something far more dangerous—fear. It was fleeting, barely there, but Daphne saw it. She saw the cracks beneath his carefully constructed mask, the weight of whatever burden he was carrying. "I don't need anyone," Tom muttered, turning away from her, his voice tight. "Least of all you." Daphne's chest tightened at the coldness of his words, but she refused to back down. "You don't have to say anything," she whispered, her voice gentle. "But you can't keep pretending nothing's wrong. Not with me." Tom stood still for a long moment, his back to her, the tension radiating from him in waves. She could see his hands trembling slightly at his sides, his knuckles white from the strain. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. "You don't understand, Daphne. You never will."

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Her breath hitched at the quiet desperation in his voice, but she stepped closer, her hand reaching out instinctively. She hesitated for a moment, unsure if he would push her away, but then gently placed her hand on his arm. "I don't have to understand," she said softly. "I'm here." Tom flinched at her touch, but he didn't pull away. For a moment, the tension in the room shifted, the silence between them filled with something fragile and unspoken. Daphne's heart ached as she watched him, this boy who had always been so untouchable, now standing on the edge of breaking. And for the first time, she saw him not as the calculating leader of Slytherin, not as the future Dark Lord, but as a boy—lost, afraid, and alone. For a long time, neither of them spoke, the weight of the moment hanging heavy between them. And though Tom would never admit it, Daphne knew—she had seen the cracks in his armor. And for now, that was enough.

Word count: 1020