#glimmerfics

this sparkle icon. At first i wanted to give this company the benefit of the doubt, maybe they used the sparkle because the companies name is glimmer, like shiny so a sparkle would make sense but many many companies are also using the same type of sparkle for ai generated content, for example googles gemini ai

at first i thought this was a pure coincidence due to the fact that when you click on it it brings you to a page where you can purchase in app currency

so i thought “Okay great! maybe this isn’t ai and i’m just paranoid…that was until i started reading the fic it stated to show the text line by line instead of all at once like a normal ebook “maybe this is a stylistic choice!” i say naively, then i scrolled down to the first questions that would start the “choose your own adventure” part of the story when i saw this

This is only possible in a few ways an example of this would be a computer program that had built in responses to many different questions that weren’t originally asked(think video games that have you type in your name they might have the pronunciation of a few names but not all), another is ai both conversational (like siri) and generative (like gemini and chatgpt) so i paused and went to check their About me and yup it was EXACTLY what i suspected

Glimmerfics uses Generative ai to “write” your fanfics for you THIS IS A TRAP THEY ARE USING YOU TO SCRAPE YOUR WRITINGS FOR THEIR AI MODLES! In their about me they talk about how they are aware of the “concerns people have about ai” and they “don’t think machines can replace real artist but they want to use ai to help authors tell a story” they even talk about the environmental concerns so as a “partial measure”they are purchasing carbon offsets

(ie reforestation and renewable energy and the likes) from July 2025 through October 2025 to try and cover “their best estimate of their carbon footprint”

This in my opinion is about the same as putting a numbing gel on a cavity it may help to ease the pain but problem is still there, reforestation only works if you give the forests time to heal trees take YEARS to grow to a fertilizing state where they can pollinate and regrow and young trees are especially vulnerable to disease and fungus which have wiped out entire forests before, and what happens to land with no plants? it becomes extremely unstable with no growth to keep the dirt rooted down erosion can become rapid leading to devastating consequences not only for animals and plants but to any humans that maybe living nearby. Buying carbon offsets isn’t going to do shit and much like a cavity the only thing you can do to combat the affects of generative ai is to stop the problem at its source unfortunately for ai it is the problem, it is one of the many many reasons as to why climate change has seen such a rapid uptick. Please please i beg of you to block any and all blogs you see that are using or promoting glimmerfics THEY WILL STEAL YOUR WRITINGS THEY WILL STEAL YOUR WORK COMPANIES LIKE THIS LIE ALL THE TIME TO SCRAPE AI FOR THEIR MODLES

The rain follows you all the way to the gate. It streaks down the black bars, cold against your fingers as you clutch them and stare at the building beyond, Wool’s Orphanage, Mrs. Cole called it. The place looks tired, as if it’s been holding its breath for years.

Her lantern swings ahead of you, scattering light over cracked steps and puddles that mirror the yellow glow. You follow because that’s what you’ve been told to do, and because you have nowhere else to go.

Inside, the air tastes of dust and old cabbage. The corridors hum with quiet noises, footsteps too light to belong to grown-ups, the soft rustle of sheets, someone sobbing where they think no one can hear. You feel the pain of the children before you ever see them; it hums under your skin, heavy and familiar, though you don’t know why.

Mrs. Cole walks briskly, her shoes clicking against the stone floor. When she glances back at you, her face is sharp and tired, but her eyes hold something gentler. “You’ll sleep here,” she says, opening a door to a narrow room lined with iron beds and shivering shadows.

You nod, though your throat is tight. You don’t know how to thank her. You don’t know what else to say.

All you know, all you remember, is your name.

Everything before this moment is gone. The faces, the laughter, the warmth, all burned away, leaving only a flash of green light behind your eyes and a hollow ache where a life used to be. Seven whole years you can’t remember.

Mrs. Cole’s hand rests briefly on your shoulder. “It’ll get easier,” she says, as if the words might make it true.

When she leaves, the candlelight flickers. You whisper your name into the darkness, soft and certain, as if holding onto it will keep the rest of you from disappearing.

“Y/N L/N“

You take a slow breath and look around the room. Three iron beds stand against the walls, each with a thin mattress and a single gray blanket folded at the foot. The floorboards are bare and worn smooth in places, and a small, grimy window looks out onto a brick wall and a slice of rainy sky. There’s a wooden chest at the foot of each bed, and a cracked mirror hangs on the wall between two of them, reflecting the flickering candlelight in distorted shards.

A child with mousy brown hair sits on the bed closest to the door, watching you with wide, curious eyes. She’s maybe your age, maybe a little older, clutching a worn rag doll to their chest.

“You’re the new one,” they say, not unkindly. “I’m Amy. That’s Denis’s bed over there, but he’s outside playing in the puddles until Mrs. Cole catches him.”

They pat the space beside them. “You can sit if you want. What’s your name?”

“Y/N,” you say, your voice softer than you meant it to be.

Amy nods as if filing the name away. “That’s nice. Sounds like it belongs in a story.” She glances toward the doorway, her expression tightening slightly.

You follow her gaze.

A boy stands in the hall, just outside the room. He’s pale, with dark hair neatly combed, watching you with an intensity that makes the back of your neck prickle. His eyes are dark, almost black, and they don’t blink. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t move, just stares, as if he’s trying to memorize you.

Before you can say anything, Mrs. Cole’s sharp voice cuts through the quiet.

“Tom Riddle! What are you doing lurking about? Get away from there this instant!”

The boy, Tom, turns his head slowly, as if pulled from a trance. He gives Mrs. Cole a look that is neither frightened nor apologetic, just blank. Then he slips away down the corridor without a sound.

Mrs. Cole huffs, shaking her head. “Wicked boy,” she mutters, more to herself than to you. Then she raises her voice. “Dinner in five minutes! Everyone to the kitchen!”

Amy leans closer to you, her voice dropping to a whisper. “That’s Tom. Best stay away from him. He’s… strange.”

You can't shake the image of Tom's dark, unblinking stare. "What do you mean, strange?" you ask Amy, keeping your voice low.

Amy shifts on the bed, her fingers worrying at her doll's yarn hair. "He does things," she whispers. "Bad things. Animals get hurt when he's around. Billy Stubbs's rabbit… its neck was broken, and Tom was just standing there, looking at it. He didn't even cry. And he talks to himself sometimes, in a hissy sort of voice. No one likes him. Mrs. Cole calls him wicked all the time."

She glances toward the empty doorway again, as if afraid he might still be listening. "He steals things, too. Little things that go missing, and then they turn up in his drawer. He never gets in trouble for it, though. He's clever like that."

Footsteps echo in the hall, the clatter of many children heading toward the kitchen. Amy stands up, smoothing her worn dress. "Come on. We should go before all the bread's gone."

She offers you a small, sympathetic smile. "Just... don't be alone with him, okay?"

You follow Amy out of the room and down the dim corridor toward the smell of boiled potatoes and weak gravy. The kitchen is a large, steamy room with a long wooden table crowded with children of all ages. Their voices blend into a low, anxious hum.

Amy leads you to two empty spots on a bench. A boy with freckles and tousled hair is already sitting there, Denis, you assume. He gives you a quick, curious glance before turning his attention back to the slice of bread he's buttering.

You take your seat, and your eyes drift across the table almost against your will.

Tom sits alone at the far end. He's not eating; he's just staring at his plate, his expression perfectly blank. The children around him leave a noticeable gap, as if his very presence pushes them away. He looks up, and his dark eyes find yours immediately. There's no smile, no nod, just that same unnerving, focused stare.

Mrs. Cole claps her hands. „Eat, children!"

A bowl of thin stew is placed in front of you. As you pick up your spoon, you feel the weight of Tom's gaze still fixed on you, steady and unblinking, from across the room.

You force yourself to look away from Tom and study the other children instead. There’s a girl with a crooked braid who won’t meet anyone’s eyes, a boy who keeps kicking the table leg, a pair of twins whispering fiercely to each other. Their faces are pinched with hunger or worry or both.

Your gaze drops to your bowl. The stew is watery, with a few pale chunks of potato and carrot floating in it. The bread beside it is hard at the edges. A sudden, sharp wave of loneliness washes over you, so strong it makes your throat ache.

Why are you even here?

You don’t know. You don’t remember anything before the green light and the empty feeling. You don’t remember your parents’ faces, or a home, or a reason.

You pick up your spoon, but you don’t eat. You just stare into the thin broth, wondering if you’ll ever feel like you belong anywhere again.

Then you lift the spoon to your lips and take a small, reluctant bite. The stew tastes of salt and something faintly bitter, like old vegetables. It’s warm, at least, and the warmth spreads through your chest, easing the tightness there just a little.

Across the table, Tom is still watching you. But now, as you swallow, you see something shift in his expression, not a smile, but a subtle tilt of his head, as if he’s pleased you’ve decided to eat. It’s a strange, quiet approval that makes your skin prickle.

Amy nudges you with her elbow. “It’s not so bad once you get used to it,” she murmurs. “Better than nothing.”

Denis, on your other side, finally speaks up. “Sometimes we get jam on Sundays,” he says, as if offering a piece of valuable intelligence. “If you’re good.”

You nod, taking another spoonful. The act of eating feels like a small rebellion against the emptiness inside you. You’re here. You’re eating. You’re surviving.

Tom’s gaze doesn’t waver. It feels less like a threat now and more like… interest. Like you’re a book he’s decided to read, and he’s waiting to see what happens on the next page.

You lean closer to Amy, your voice dropping to a whisper that barely carries over the clatter of spoons and benches. "Why does he keep staring?"

Amy follows your gaze to Tom, then quickly looks down at her bowl. "I told you," she murmurs back. "He's not right. He does that to new people sometimes. Watches them. Like he's figuring out how to... I don't know. How to get to them."

Her expression grows earnest. "Just don't give him anything. Don't talk to him. He'll lose interest eventually."

But as you look back at Tom, you're not so sure. His dark eyes are still fixed on you, and there's a curious intensity in them now, not malice, but something like recognition, as if he sees something in you that no one else does.

You're caught in that silent exchange, a thread of connection stretching across the noisy room. Tom tilts his head slightly, studying you as if you're a complex spell he's trying to decipher.

Mrs. Cole claps her hands again. "All right, plates down! Everyone to wash up and then straight to bed. No dawdling!"

The spell breaks. Tom stands up smoothly, his bowl empty, and walks out of the kitchen without a backward glance. You're left sitting there, your heart beating a little too fast, wondering what you've just started.

You follow Amy back through the dim corridors, your mind still caught on that silent exchange with Tom. The orphanage feels different at night, the shadows longer, the quiet more profound, as if the building itself is holding its breath.

In your room, Amy changes into a nightdress without speaking. Denis is already in his bed, facing the wall.

"You should get ready," Amy says softly. "Lights out soon."

You change quickly and climb into your narrow bed. The sheets are rough and smell of soap and damp. Amy blows out the candle on the small table between your beds, plunging the room into darkness broken only by the faint gray light from the window.

You lie there, listening to Denis's steady breathing and the distant sound of a train passing somewhere in the city. Your thoughts drift, and exhaustion pulls you under.

In your dream, you're standing in a sunlit room you've never seen before. Books float gently through the air, turning their own pages. A quill writes by itself on a parchment that hovers mid-air. You reach out, and a small, carved wooden bird on a shelf trembles, then lifts into the air, circling your head before settling softly into your open palm.

You wake with a start, your heart pounding. The room is still dark. The wooden bird isn't real, but for a moment, the feeling of weight in your palm was.

The dream of floating objects lingers in your mind for days, a secret warmth tucked behind your ribs.

One rainy afternoon, when the other children are playing a noisy game in the common room, you slip away down a narrow hallway you haven't explored before. At the end is a door, slightly ajar.

You push it open.

The room is small and ugly, with peeling green paint and a single grimy window. A few shelves hold a sad collection of tattered books. Tom is sitting on the floor in a patch of weak gray light, a book open in his lap.

He looks up, and for once, he doesn't seem surprised to see you. His dark eyes study you carefully.

"This is the library," he says, his voice calm and clear. "Not that there's much to read."

"Hello," you say, and step inside.

The room feels smaller with both of you in it. Tom watches you, his expression unreadable. He doesn't smile, but he doesn't look angry either. Just... observing.

"You're the new girl," he says. It's not a question.

You nod, surprised he knows your name. "Yes."

He closes his book, setting it aside with careful precision. "Most of the others don't come in here. They think it's boring." He pauses, his dark eyes studying your face. "But you're different."

The words hang in the air between you. Different how? You think of your dream, of the quill floating above the desk. You think of the blue light that sometimes flickers at the edges of your vision when no one is looking.

Tom leans back in his chair, his fingers tapping lightly on the table. "Sometimes," he says, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, "I can do things. Strange things. Things that shouldn't be possible."

He watches you closely, as if testing your reaction. "The other children call me wicked for it. Mrs. Cole too, when she thinks I can't hear."

You take a small step into the room, the floorboards creaking under your weight. "What kind of strange things can you do?" you ask, your curiosity outweighing Amy's warnings.

Tom's expression doesn't change, but something flickers in his eyes, a spark of interest, or maybe satisfaction. He sets his book aside carefully.

"I can make things happen," he says, his voice low and even. "Without touching them. I can make animals do what I want. I can find things that are hidden. I can hurt people if they bother me, and no one ever knows it was me."

Your eyes widen, and a strange mix of awe and recognition blooms in your chest. "Do you really mean it?" you whisper, taking another step into the room. "Could you... show me?"

For the first time, Tom's lips curve into something that almost resembles a smile. It's small and sharp, but it's there. He looks pleased, not in a warm way, but in the way someone looks when they've solved a difficult puzzle.

He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he glances toward the door you left ajar, then back at you. "If I show you," he says quietly, "you can't tell anyone. Not ever. They wouldn't understand."

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, smooth stone, gray and ordinary. He places it on the floor between you.

"Watch," he says.

He doesn't touch it. He doesn't say any words. He just stares at the stone, his dark eyes fixed and intense. For a moment, nothing happens. Then, slowly, the stone begins to tremble. It rolls once, twice, then lifts an inch off the floorboards, hovering in the air as if held by invisible strings.

It stays there, suspended, for three heartbeats before dropping back with a soft tap.

Tom looks at you, his expression calm but expectant. "See?" he says. "I can do things they can't."

You stare at the spot where the stone hovered, your breath catching in your throat. "I've dreamed about things like that," you whisper, the words slipping out before you can stop them. "Moving on their own. Books... and a little bird..."

Tom's eyes sharpen. He leans forward, his gaze intense. "Tell me," he says, his voice low but urgent.

You swallow, the memory of the dream vivid behind your eyes. "There was a room, full of sunlight. Books were floating, turning pages by themselves. A quill was writing in the air. And there was this wooden bird... it flew to me. It landed right in my hand."

You look down at your palm, half-expecting to see the ghost of its weight still there. "It felt real. More real than this."

Tom is silent for a long moment, studying you with a new, deeper interest. "Dreams can be memories," he says finally. "Or warnings. Or... possibilities."

He picks up the stone again, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. "You're like me," he says, and there's a strange note in his voice, not quite warmth, but something close to recognition. "We're not like them. We're special."

He looks at you, his dark eyes holding yours. "We should keep this between us. They wouldn't understand. They'd call you wicked too."

You nod slowly, the weight of the promise settling in your chest like a second heartbeat. "I won't tell anyone”, you say, your voice firm despite the whisper. „Not ever."

Tom watches you for another moment, then gives a single, satisfied nod. He slips the stone back into his pocket. "Good," he says. "It's better this way. Just us."

He stands up, brushing dust from his trousers. The gray light from the window catches the sharp angles of his face, making him look older than seven, like a statue carved from something cold and permanent.

"We should go back before they notice we're gone," he says, but he doesn't move toward the door right away. He looks at you one more time, his dark eyes lingering on your face as if memorizing it. "You can come here again. If you want."

He turns and walks out, leaving you alone in the ugly little room with its peeling paint and sad collection of books. The air feels different now, charged, as if something invisible has shifted between you.

You stand there for a moment longer, listening to the distant sounds of children playing down the hall. Then you follow him out, closing the door softly behind you.

Days pass in a blur of routine meals and quiet observations. You find yourself watching Tom more often, noticing how he moves through the orphanage like a shadow, present but separate. Sometimes you catch him looking back, and that silent understanding passes between you again.

Then comes the storm.

It builds all afternoon, the sky darkening to a bruised purple. By nightfall, rain lashes against the windows, and thunder rumbles deep in the distance. You lie awake in your narrow bed, listening to the wind howl around the old building.

That's when you feel it, a strange, warm tingling in your fingertips, like static electricity but stronger. You sit up, holding your hands out in the dark. A faint, silvery glow begins to pulse around your skin, growing brighter with each heartbeat.

You stare at the silvery light dancing around your fingers, your breath catching. Instead of pulling away, you focus all your attention on it, willing the glow to grow brighter. You think of the floating stone, of Tom's calm intensity, of the wooden bird from your dream.

The light responds. It pulses, then spreads, wrapping around your hands like delicate lace made of moonlight. The tingling sensation grows warmer, almost pleasant, humming through your veins. You can feel it, a current of something alive and waiting, just beneath your skin.

Across the room, the candle on the small table flickers, though there's no draft. The flame stretches toward you, bending as if drawn by an invisible force.

You remember Tom's words: We're special.

This is what he meant. This is the difference.

The thunder cracks again, closer this time, and the whole room seems to vibrate with the sound. You look from your glowing hands to the storm raging outside the window, and a sudden, fierce certainty fills you.

You look around the dark room. On the small table between your beds sits a chipped cup. You fix your gaze on the cup, willing it to move.

At first, nothing happens. The cup stays stubbornly still. You bite your lip, frustration mixing with the warm hum in your veins. You think of the stone hovering, of Tom's calm certainty. You don't just want it to move, you know it can.

The cup trembles.

It's a tiny, almost invisible shudder at first. Then it rocks once, twice, and lifts an inch off the table. It hovers there, wobbling slightly, as if held by an unsteady hand. Your heart leaps into your throat.

You're doing it. You're really doing it.

The cup drifts toward you, slow and unsteady, before dropping back onto the table with a soft clink. The sound seems loud in the quiet room. Amy stirs in her sleep but doesn't wake.

You stare at the cup, your hands still glowing faintly. There's no doubt now. It's real. And Tom was right… you’re like him.

You need to find him.

You slip out of bed, your bare feet silent on the cold floorboards. The silvery glow has faded from your hands, but the warmth lingers in your veins, a secret fire. You pause by Amy's bed, listening to her steady breathing, then ease the door open and slip into the dark corridor.

The orphanage is different at night, all shadows and creaking wood, the storm still muttering outside. You know where Tom sleeps, in a small room at the end of the boys' wing. You've never been there, but you've seen him come and go.

Your heart beats fast as you pad down the hallway, past closed doors and the faint smell of damp wool. When you reach his door, you hesitate, your hand hovering. What if he's angry? What if he doesn't believe you?

But you remember the floating stone, his dark eyes watching you with that strange recognition. You knock softly, three quick taps.

For a moment, there's only silence. Then the door opens a crack. Tom stands there, already fully dressed despite the hour, his dark hair neat, his expression alert. He doesn't look surprised to see you.

His eyes drop to your hands, then back to your face. "You did it, didn't you?" he says, his voice low.

You nod, your voice dropping to a whisper that barely carries over the sound of the storm. "I made a cup float," you tell him, holding out your hands. They're not glowing now, but you can still feel the warmth humming just beneath your skin. "Can you teach me more?"

Tom's eyes gleam in the dim light. He doesn't smile, but there's a new intensity in his expression, something hungry and focused. "Yes," he says simply. „There’s a place," he says. "Under the roof. No one goes there. We can practice there."

He watches you, waiting for your reaction. "But you have to promise to do exactly as I say. Magic can be dangerous if you don't control it."

You nod eagerly, your eyes wide and bright in the dim room. "Is it really magic?" you whisper, the word feeling strange and wonderful on your tongue.

Tom's expression softens just a fraction, not into a smile, but into something like approval. "Yes," he says. "It's magic."

He moves to the door, opening it just enough to peer into the hallway. "Follow me. Stay close."

You trail him through the dark corridors, your heart beating fast with excitement and nerves. He leads you up a narrow, winding staircase you've never noticed before, its steps worn smooth by time. The air grows colder as you climb, and the sound of the storm grows louder overhead.

At the top, Tom pushes open a heavy wooden door. The room beyond is small and dusty, tucked under the sloping eaves of the roof. Moonlight filters through a grimy circular window, illuminating floating dust motes and a few forgotten trunks stacked against the walls. The space feels secret, separate from the rest of the orphanage, a world of its own.

Tom turns to you, his face pale in the moonlight. "This is where we'll practice," he says. "No one comes here. We'll be safe."

He gestures to the center of the room, where the floorboards are clear. "Show me what you did with the cup."

You take a deep breath, your eyes scanning the moonlit room until you spot a single, large dust mote drifting slowly through the air. You focus on it, hard, remembering the warm hum in your veins, the certainty you felt when the cup lifted.

At first, nothing happens. The dust continues its lazy descent. You bite your lip, frustration bubbling up. Then you think of Tom's stone hovering, steady and controlled. You don't just want it to float, you will it to.

The dust mote stops falling. It hangs in the air, suspended, as if caught in an invisible web. You hold your breath, keeping your gaze locked on it. Slowly, you guide it upward, making it drift in a small, deliberate circle.

It's not much, just a speck of dust, but it's yours. You did it.

You look at Tom, your eyes wide with wonder. He's watching the dust mote, his expression unreadable. Then his gaze shifts to you, and something in his dark eyes changes. It's not just approval anymore, it's something sharper, hungrier. Like he's found something precious that belongs to him.

"Good," he says, his voice quiet but intense. "Very good."

He takes a step closer, his shadow falling across you. "Now try something heavier. That book, over there." He points to a small, leather-bound volume resting on one of the trunks. "Don't just lift it. Bring it to me."

You turn your attention to the small leather book on the trunk. It looks heavier than dust, more solid. You take another deep breath, focusing all your will on it. You imagine it lifting, floating through the air toward Tom's waiting hand.

For a long moment, nothing happens. The book sits there, stubborn and still. You feel a flicker of doubt, but then you remember the cup, the dust mote. The warmth in your veins pulses, stronger this time.

The book trembles. Its cover shifts slightly, then it rises an inch off the trunk, wobbling unsteadily. You hold your breath, keeping your gaze locked on it. Slowly, painstakingly, you guide it through the air. It drifts toward Tom, moving like a leaf on a gentle current.

When it reaches him, it hovers before his chest for a heartbeat before dropping into his outstretched hand.

Tom catches it, his fingers closing around the worn leather. He looks from the book to you, and something in his expression shifts again. There's pride there, sharp and possessive, and something else, a kind of hunger that makes your skin prickle.

"Perfect," he says softly, his dark eyes holding yours. "You learn fast."

He sets the book aside and takes a step closer. The moonlight catches the sharp angles of his face. "We're going to practice every night," he tells you, his voice low and certain. "Just you and me. No one else can know what we can do."

He reaches out, his hand hovering near your arm as if he wants to touch you but isn't quite sure how. "You belong here," he says. "With me."

The nights that follow become a secret rhythm, you and Tom meeting under the roof, practicing until your hands tremble and your mind feels stretched thin. He teaches you control, precision, how to make objects dance through the air with just a thought. Each success makes his eyes gleam with that same hungry pride.

Then, one bright afternoon, you slip into the orphanage's small, neglected garden, seeking a moment alone. That's when you find her: a little, dark snake coiled beneath the rose bushes, her scales glistening with what looks like fresh blood. She's hurt, her breathing shallow.

You kneel without thinking, your heart pounding. "Are you alright?" you whisper.

The snake lifts her head, her golden eyes fixing on you. To your surprise, you understand her hissing reply as clearly as if she'd spoken English. "The two-legs with the stick hurt me. I cannot move."

You kneel closer, your hands trembling slightly as you reach out. "Let me see," you whisper, not sure if you're speaking English or the strange, hissing language that feels so natural.

You gently touch the scales near the wound. A deep gash runs along her side, oozing dark blood. She flinches, a soft hiss escaping her.

"It hurts," she says, her voice a pained whisper in your mind.

Your throat tightens. "I know," you murmur. „What is your name? I'm going to get help. Stay here.“ You hear her whisper: „Nagini“, before you move.

Tom. You need Tom. He'll know what to do, he always knows.

You run back into the orphanage, your feet flying over the worn floors. You don't stop until you reach his door, knocking frantically. When he opens it, his expression shifts from mild annoyance to sharp curiosity as he takes in your panicked face.

"There's a snake," you gasp, breathless. "In the garden. She's hurt. She talked to me, Tom. I understood her."

Tom's dark eyes widen, just for a fraction of a second. Then his face goes still, unreadable. "You understood her?" he asks, his voice low.

"She said the two-legs with the stick hurt her," you tell him, the words tumbling out in a rush. "She can't move. She's bleeding, Tom. We have to help her."

Tom stares at you, his expression utterly still. For a long moment, he doesn't speak. You can see something shifting behind his dark eyes, confusion, then calculation, then something sharper. Hunger.

"You understood her," he repeats, his voice quiet. "Word for word."

He steps out into the hallway, closing his door behind him. "Show me."

You lead him back to the garden, your heart pounding. Nagini is still coiled beneath the rose bushes, her golden eyes watching you approach. When Tom sees her, he stops a few feet away, his gaze fixed on the snake.

"Another two-legs," Nagini hisses, her voice weak. "Is he a friend?"

Tom's jaw tightens. He doesn't answer the snake. Instead, he looks at you, his expression unreadable. "I can't help her," he says flatly. "I don't know how to heal animals."

He kneels down, studying the wound with clinical detachment. "The cut is deep. She'll die without help."

You kneel beside Nagini again, your hand hovering over her wounded side. "I'm going to try to help you," you whisper, the hissing words feeling both strange and right.

Nagini's golden eyes fix on you. "You speak the old tongue," she says, her voice a pained whisper. "The two-legs who hurt me did not."

You nod, though you don't fully understand. You look up at Tom, who's watching you with that intense, hungry expression.

You turn back to Nagini, placing your hands gently on either side of the gash. You close your eyes, trying to push away the fear and the racing of your heart. You think of warmth, of light, of things being put back together. You remember the silvery glow that wrapped around your hands that first night, the hum of magic in your veins.

At first, nothing happens. Then you feel it, a different kind of warmth, deeper and brighter, starting in your chest and flowing down your arms. A soft, blue-white light begins to glow beneath your palms, spilling over Nagini's dark scales.

The light pulses, growing stronger. You can feel the magic working, knitting flesh and scale back together. Nagini lets out a soft hiss, but this time it sounds more like relief than pain.

Tom is utterly still, his dark eyes fixed on your hands and the healing light. His expression is no longer just hungry, it's awed, possessive, triumphant. Like he's found something even more precious than he imagined.

You push everything else away, Tom's intense gaze, the garden around you, even your own fear. All that matters is the warmth flowing from your hands into Nagini's wounded side. You focus all your energy on it, willing the light to grow brighter, stronger.

The blue-white glow intensifies, wrapping around Nagini like a gentle cocoon. You can feel the magic working, deeper than before, not just healing the surface wound, but mending muscle and scale, soothing pain, restoring strength. It feels right, like this is what the magic was meant to do.

Beneath your hands, the gash closes completely. The torn scales knit back together, leaving only a faint silvery scar. Nagini lets out a long, relieved hiss and uncoils herself, testing her movement. She slithers forward, her body whole and strong again.

"Thank you," she says, her golden eyes fixed on you with something like reverence. "You have the old magic. The true magic."

She coils around your ankles, her scales cool and smooth against your skin. "I will stay with you," she declares. "You are my speaker."

You look up, your hands still tingling with fading warmth. Tom hasn't moved. He's staring at you with an expression you've never seen before, awe, hunger, and something darker, more possessive. His dark eyes are wide, his face pale in the afternoon light.

For a long moment, he doesn't speak. Then he takes a step closer, his voice barely above a whisper. "What was that?" he asks. "That light... that wasn't normal magic."

You look up at Tom, your hands still tingling with the fading warmth. "I don't know what it was," you whisper, your voice trembling slightly. "But it felt right. Like... like it was supposed to happen."

As you speak, a sudden wave of exhaustion washes over you. Your legs feel weak, your head spins. You stumble forward, your vision blurring at the edges. Tom catches you before you can fall, his hands firm on your arms.

"Whoa," he says, his voice closer than you expected. He steadies you, his grip surprisingly gentle. "Easy."

You lean against him, your eyes heavy. The world seems to tilt and sway. You can feel his heartbeat through his shirt, steady and calm, a contrast to your own racing pulse.

"You used too much magic," Tom murmurs, his breath warm against your hair. "Healing takes energy. More than floating books."

He doesn't let go of you. Instead, he guides you to sit on the ground, his arm still around your shoulders for support. Nagini slithers closer, coiling protectively around your ankles.

Tom looks from the snake to your pale face, his dark eyes thoughtful. "You spoke to her," he says quietly. "You healed her with magic I've never seen before. Blue light."

He says the last two words like they're something precious and dangerous. His gaze holds yours, intense and searching. "Do you understand what that means?"

You shake your head weakly, the motion making the world swim again. You're too tired to think about what it means, too tired to think about anything except how heavy your eyelids feel, how your whole body aches with a deep, bone-weary exhaustion.

Tom watches you for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he sighs, a soft sound that's almost gentle. "You need to rest," he says. "Come on."

He helps you to your feet, his arm around your waist to steady you. Nagini follows, slithering close to your ankles as if she's afraid to let you out of her sight.

Tom leads you back inside, supporting most of your weight. The orphanage corridors feel longer than usual, the stairs steeper. When you reach your room, he pauses at the door, glancing down at Nagini.

"She can't come in here," he says quietly. "Amy will scream."

Nagini hisses softly, but you murmur to her in Parseltongue, "Wait for me outside. I'll come find you soon."

The snake reluctantly coils by the doorframe, her golden eyes watching you as Tom helps you to your bed. You collapse onto the thin mattress, your limbs feeling like lead.

Tom stands over you for a moment, his dark eyes studying your face. "Sleep," he says, his voice low. "We'll talk about this tomorrow."

He turns to leave, but pauses at the door, looking back at you one last time. His expression is that same mix of awe and hunger you saw in the garden. "You're full of surprises," he murmurs, almost to himself.

Then he's gone, closing the door softly behind him.

The days blur together after that, secret practices under the roof, whispered conversations with Nagini in the garden, Tom watching you with that same hungry awe every time your hands glow blue. Before you know it, it’s the week before Christmas.

You're sitting beside Tom at dinner, the usual watery stew steaming in your bowls. Around you, the other children point and whisper, their eyes darting between you and Tom. You've become a pair in their minds, the strange, quiet boy and the girl that follows him everywhere.

Your stomach growls loudly, a hollow ache that's become familiar. The portions are small here.

Without a word, Tom pushes half of his bread roll onto your plate. He doesn't look at you when he does it, his expression carefully neutral, but the gesture is unmistakable.

You look at the bread roll on your plate, then up at Tom. Your eyes go wide, touched by the gesture. Without a word, you break the piece in half and push one piece back toward him.

Tom glances at the bread, then at your face. For a moment, he looks almost surprised, as if he didn't expect you to share it back. Then his expression softens, just a fraction. He takes the piece and eats it slowly, his dark eyes watching you over the rim of his bowl.

Around you, the whispers grow louder. "They're sharing," someone mutters. "Like they're a proper family or something."

You ignore them, focusing on your stew. The bread helps, but your stomach still feels hollow. You think about Christmas, which is only a week away.

You glance at Tom. He's staring at his bowl, his expression closed off and cold.

You lean closer to Tom, your voice dropping to a whisper. "Are you excited for Christmas?"

Tom's spoon stills in his bowl. He doesn't look at you at first, his gaze fixed on the watery stew. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and flat. "I don't like Christmas."

He glances at you then, his dark eyes sharp. "Do you know why?"

You shake your head, waiting.

"Because it's a lie," he says, his voice barely audible over the clatter of spoons and chatter around you. "All those families outside, laughing and giving presents. They pretend everything is perfect. But it's not. Nothing is perfect. They're just better at hiding the ugly parts."

He pushes his bowl away, half-finished. "I hate watching them. I hate knowing they have something I'll never have."

His words hang between you, heavy and cold. You think of your own memories, or lack of them. The green flash, the hollow ache where a family should be. You understand his bitterness, but something in you rebels against it.

You want to tell him that Christmas doesn't have to be about perfect families. It could be about something else, something just for the two of you. But before you can speak, Mrs. Cole claps her hands, signaling the end of dinner.

Tom stands up, his expression closed off again. "Come on," he says, not looking at you. "Let's go."

You follow Tom out of the dining hall, your heart beating a little faster. When you reach the quieter corridor, you reach out and touch his sleeve, stopping him.

"Tom," you say, your voice firm despite the nervous flutter in your chest. "I want to make this Christmas special for us."

He turns to look at you, his dark eyes unreadable. "Special how?" he asks, his tone flat. "We're in an orphanage. There's no money for presents. No tree worth having. No family."

"I know," you say, holding his gaze. "But we have each other. And we have magic. We could make our own Christmas. Something just for us."

For a long moment, Tom doesn't speak. He studies your face, his expression shifting from skepticism to something more thoughtful. You can see him considering it, turning the idea over in his mind.

"You want to use magic for Christmas?" he asks, his voice quieter now.

You nod. "We could make decorations that float. Or warm the room without a fire. Or... I don't know. Something beautiful."

A faint, almost imperceptible smile touches Tom's lips. "You're determined," he says.

"I am," you tell him, your voice steady. "We deserve something good, Tom. Even if we have to make it ourselves."

You look up at Tom, your determination softening into curiosity. "If you could have one wish for Christmas," you ask quietly, "what would it be?"

Tom goes still, his dark eyes searching your face as if looking for a trick. The corridor around you is quiet now, the sounds of dinner fading behind closed doors. For a long moment, he doesn't answer. You can see him thinking, weighing whether to be honest or to give you the cold, dismissive answer he usually gives everyone else.

Finally, he speaks, his voice so soft you have to lean closer to hear. "To never be hungry again," he says. "To never have to share half a bread roll because there isn't enough. To have a room that's warm in winter. To have... things that are mine. Truly mine."

He looks away, his jaw tightening. "Not presents. Not toys. Just... enough. And no one to take it away."

His words settle in your chest, heavy and real. You understand, suddenly, that his bitterness about Christmas isn't just about families, it's about lack. About never having enough of anything: food, warmth, security, love.

You reach out without thinking, your fingers brushing his wrist. "We'll make it warm," you promise. "However we can. And we'll make sure there's enough, even if it's just for one day."

Tom looks down at your hand on his wrist, then back up at your face. His expression is unreadable again, but his eyes hold yours for a long moment. "You mean that," he says, not quite a question.

"I do," you tell him.

The days pass, cold and gray, and Christmas draws closer. You spend your time planning, whispering ideas to Tom under the roof, gathering what little you can for decorations. But one evening, as you're returning from the garden after checking on Nagini, you find yourself alone in a dimly lit hallway.

The shadows seem to stretch longer than usual. You're about to turn the corner when three figures step out, blocking your path. Billy Stubbs stands in front, his face set in a mean, pinched expression. Two older boys flank him, their eyes hard.

"Well, well," Billy says, his voice dripping with mockery. "Look who's all alone for once. No Tom to protect you."

He takes a step closer, and the other boys move to either side of you, cutting off your escape. "We're tired of you following him around like his little pet," Billy sneers. "Think you're special because he talks to you? You're just as pathetic as the rest of us."

Your heart hammers against your ribs, but you force yourself to stand still. "What do you want from me?" you ask, your voice steadier than you feel.

Billy's smirk widens. "We want you to understand your place," he says, taking another step closer. The hallway feels smaller suddenly, the walls pressing in. "You think you're better than us because Tom Riddle talks to you? Because you whisper to each other like you've got secrets?"

One of the other boys, a tall, thin one with sharp elbows, reaches out and shoves your shoulder. "We're tired of watching you follow him around," he says. "It's pathetic."

Billy nods, his eyes cold. "We're going to teach you a lesson. So you remember you're just another orphan. Just like the rest of us."

He grabs your arm, his fingers digging in painfully. The other two move in, blocking any chance of escape. They start dragging you down the hallway, away from the main rooms, toward one of the empty storage closets that no one uses anymore.

You struggle, but there are three of them and only one of you. Your mind races, searching for a way out. You think of Tom, of Nagini, of the magic you've been practicing, but right now, none of it seems to help.

Panic surges through you as they drag you toward the empty room. You can feel their hands gripping your arms too tightly, see the cruel satisfaction in Billy's eyes. You think of Tom's lessons under the roof, focus, will, intention. You think of the blue-white light that healed Nagini.

You stop struggling and close your eyes, just for a second. You focus on the magic humming in your veins, on the warmth that's always there, waiting. You don't think about floating objects or healing wounds. You think about pushing them away. About creating space.

A soft, shimmering glow begins to pulse around your hands. It's faint at first, then brighter, a pale blue light that spills into the dim hallway.

Billy and the others freeze, their eyes widening. "What's that?" one of them whispers, his voice shaky.

You open your eyes and push with your mind, not with your hands. The magic responds, flowing out from you in a gentle wave. It doesn't hurt them, it just pushes, like an invisible wall of air. Billy stumbles back, his grip on your arm loosening. The other two boys let go, stepping away with confused, frightened expressions.

For a moment, you're free. You stand there, breathing hard, the blue light still flickering around your fingers. Billy recovers first, his face twisting with anger and something else, fear.

"You're a freak," he spits, but he doesn't come closer. "Just like him."

He glances at the other boys, who look uncertain now. Then he takes a step forward again, his fists clenched. "That little trick won't save you," he says, his voice low and mean.

You don't wait to see if they'll overcome their fear. The moment Billy hesitates, you turn and run, your feet pounding against the stone floor. You can hear them shouting behind you, their footsteps giving chase.

You make it only a few yards before a hand grabs the back of your dress, yanking you backward. You stumble, losing your balance, and crash to the floor. The impact knocks the air from your lungs.

Before you can get up, Billy is on top of you, pinning you down. The other two boys grab your arms, holding you still. "Thought you could run?" Billy sneers, his face close to yours. "Thought your little light show would scare us?"

He raises his fist, and you brace yourself. But before he can strike, a cold voice cuts through the hallway.

"Let her go."

You look past Billy's shoulder. Tom stands at the end of the corridor, his expression utterly still and cold. His dark eyes are fixed on Billy, and there's something in them that makes your breath catch, a quiet, dangerous fury.

Billy freezes, his fist still raised. He glances at Tom, then back at you, his confidence wavering. "This doesn't concern you, Riddle," he says, but his voice lacks its earlier conviction.

Tom takes a step forward. "It does," he says, his voice soft but carrying. "Now let her go."

Billy hesitates for a moment longer, then his face hardens with stubborn anger. "Or what?" he challenges.

Tom doesn't answer with words. He raises his hand, his fingers curling slightly. Billy's body goes rigid, his eyes widening in shock and pain. He makes a choked sound, his hands flying to his throat as if something invisible is squeezing him.

The other two boys let go of you, backing away with terrified expressions. Billy drops to his knees, gasping for air, his face turning pale.

You stay where you are, frozen on the floor, watching in shock as Billy gasps and chokes under Tom's invisible grip. Billy's face is pale, his eyes wide with terror. He claws at his throat, making horrible, wet sounds.

The other two boys have backed all the way against the wall, their faces white with fear. They don't try to help Billy, they just stare, trembling.

Tom's expression doesn't change. His dark eyes are fixed on Billy, cold and focused. His hand remains raised, fingers curled as if holding something delicate. There's no anger on his face, no rage, just a calm, terrible control.

Then footsteps echo down the hallway, sharp and quick. Mrs. Cole appears around the corner, her face tight with alarm. "What in heaven's name-" she begins, then stops, taking in the scene: you on the floor, Billy choking, Tom with his hand raised.

Her eyes widen in horror. "Thomas Riddle!" she shouts, her voice sharp. "Stop that this instant!"

Tom's hand drops. Billy collapses to the floor, coughing and gasping for air. Mrs. Cole rushes forward, kneeling beside Billy, then turns her furious gaze on Tom.

"What have you done?" she demands, her voice trembling with anger. "Using your... your wickedness on other children!"

Tom doesn't answer. He just looks at her, his expression blank.

Mrs. Cole stands up, her face pale. "Two weeks," she says, her voice cold and final. "Two weeks without dinner. And you'll spend them in solitude. No Christmas celebrations. No contact with anyone."

She turns to you, her expression softening slightly. "Are you hurt, child?"

Before you can answer, she shakes her head. "Never mind. Get up. Both of you, to your rooms. Now."

Tom doesn't look at you as he turns and walks away. You watch him go, your chest tight with guilt. Because of you, he won't have Christmas at all.

A week passes, cold and quiet. Christmas Eve settles over Wool's Orphanage like a heavy frost. You walk through the dimly lit hallway, your footsteps soft on the stone floor. The usual sounds of children are muted tonight, everyone is in the common room, gathered around the sad little tree Mrs. Cole put up.

Then you hear it, a voice from the isolation room at the end of the hall. Tom's voice, but different. Thinner. Desperate.

"Please," he's saying, the word strained. "Mrs. Cole, it's so cold. Just another blanket. Or something to eat. Please."

You stand there in the dim hallway, your heart pounding. Tom never begs. He never shows weakness. But he's cold and hungry and alone on Christmas Eve, and it's because he defended you.

Anger flares hot and sudden in your chest. How can Mrs. Cole do that? How can she leave him cold and hungry on Christmas Eve? It's cruel. It's wrong.

The anger doesn't just stay inside you, it spills out. A soft blue glow flickers around your hands, pulsing with your heartbeat. You feel your magic lashing out without meaning to, making the nearby sconce flicker wildly. Shadows dance across the walls, stretching and twisting.

You take a deep breath, forcing yourself to calm down. The glow fades, but the determination remains, sharp and clear. You need to help Tom. You need to make this right.

You turn away from the isolation room and head toward the kitchen, your footsteps quick and quiet. The orphanage is mostly empty now, everyone gathered in the common room for what little Christmas cheer Mrs. Cole allows. The kitchen door is unlocked, and you slip inside.

The room is dark and cold, the stove unlit. You find a kettle and fill it with water. While it warms, you search the pantry. There, on a high shelf, you find a tin with two gingerbread cookies inside, probably meant for Mrs. Cole's own Christmas treat.

You take them, your hands trembling slightly. The kettle begins to whistle softly. You pour the hot water into a cup, add a tea bag you find in a tin, and stir in a spoonful of sugar. Tom's favorite.

You grab the tea and cookies, then pause. Tom said he was cold. You need more than tea.

You slip out of the kitchen and hurry to your room. The other girls are still downstairs, so the room is empty and quiet. You pull your thin blanket from your bed, it's not much, but it's something. You fold it carefully, tucking it under your arm with the tea and cookies balanced in your other hand.

The hallway is dark and silent as you make your way back toward the isolation room. Your heart beats fast, each step feeling too loud. You listen for any sound, Mrs. Cole's footsteps, other children moving about, but there's only the quiet hum of the orphanage at night.

When you reach Tom's door, you pause. You can't hear anything from inside now. He might be sleeping, or just too exhausted to make noise. You set the tea and cookies down carefully on the floor, then place your hands against the cold wood of the door.

You close your eyes, thinking of the lock. You've never tried to open a door with magic before, but you've moved smaller things. You focus on the mechanism inside, on the tumblers and the bolt. You imagine them shifting, turning, releasing.

A soft blue glow spreads from your hands across the wood. There's a quiet click. The door swings open just a crack.

Inside, the room is dark and bitterly cold. You can see Tom curled on a narrow cot, shivering even in his sleep. His face looks pale in the faint light from the hallway, his lips indeed tinged with blue.

You almost drop the tea and cookies in shock at how cold he looks. Setting them down carefully on the floor, you kneel beside the cot and take Tom's hands in yours. They're ice-cold, his fingers stiff. You close your eyes and focus, letting the warmth of your magic flow from your palms into his skin.

A soft blue glow surrounds your joined hands, gentle and steady. You think of warmth, of comfort, of the heat from a fireplace on a winter night. The glow spreads up his arms, chasing away the chill. Tom stirs, his eyelids fluttering open.

He blinks at you, confusion in his dark eyes. "What..." he begins, his voice hoarse.

"You were so cold," you whisper. "I brought tea. And cookies. And my blanket."

Tom sits up slowly, still holding your hands. The blue glow fades as you release the magic, but his hands feel warmer now. He looks from your face to the tea and cookies on the floor, then back to you. His expression is unreadable for a moment, then something softens in his eyes.

"You shouldn't be here," he says, but his voice lacks its usual edge. "If Mrs. Cole finds you..."

"I don't care," you tell him firmly. "It's Christmas Eve. You shouldn't be alone and cold."

You let go of his hands to pick up the tea. It's still warm from your magic. You hand it to him, then unwrap one of the gingerbread cookies. The sweet, spicy scent fills the small, cold room.

Tom takes the tea, his fingers curling around the warm cup. He doesn't drink right away, just holds it, letting the heat seep into his hands. He looks at you over the rim of the cup, his dark eyes thoughtful.

You look at him, and suddenly tears well in your eyes. "I'm sorry," you whisper, the words tumbling out. "I didn't want you to get in trouble for saving me. I didn't want you to suffer. And now... now Christmas isn't special at all. It's just cold and lonely for you."

Tom watches you, his expression unreadable. He sets the tea down carefully on the floor, then reaches out. His fingers brush your cheek, wiping away a tear. The gesture is so unexpected, so gentle, that you freeze.

"Don't cry," he says quietly. "It's not your fault."

"But it is," you insist, your voice trembling. "If I hadn't been there, if I hadn't used magic-"

"You were defending yourself," Tom interrupts. His hand drops from your cheek, but his eyes hold yours. "Billy and the others would have hurt you. I did what I had to do."

He picks up the tea again and takes a sip. The warmth seems to ease some of the tension in his shoulders. Then he looks at the gingerbread cookie in your hand.

"Is that for me?" he asks, a faint hint of something like amusement in his voice.

You nod, holding it out. He takes it, breaking it in half. He offers one piece back to you. "We'll share," he says. "That's what you do on Christmas, isn't it? Share?"

You take the half-cookie, your fingers brushing his. The gingerbread is sweet and spicy, a small burst of warmth in the cold room. You eat it slowly, savoring it. Tom does the same, his eyes never leaving your face.

When the cookie is gone, he finishes his tea. The color has returned to his lips, and he doesn't look quite so cold anymore. He sets the empty cup aside.

"You should go back to your room," he says, but his voice lacks conviction. "Mrs. Cole will check on me eventually."

You pout, looking down at your hands. "I don't want to go," you admit quietly. "I missed you all week."

Tom goes still. He watches you for a long moment, his dark eyes thoughtful. The silence stretches between you, filled only with the distant sounds of the orphanage settling for the night.

"You missed me," he repeats, his voice soft. It's not a question, but there's something in his tone, surprise, maybe, or something warmer.

You nod, not looking up. "It was quiet without you. And... lonely."

Tom lets out a slow breath. He looks around the small, cold room, then back at you. "If you stay and Mrs. Cole finds you," he says, "you'll be punished too. No Christmas for either of us."

He says it matter-of-factly, but there's an edge to his words, a warning, but also something else. A test, maybe. To see if you mean what you say.

You finally look up, meeting his gaze. "I don't care," you tell him, your voice firm. "Christmas isn't Christmas if you're alone in here."

Tom's expression softens, just a little. The hard edges around his eyes ease. He looks at the blanket you brought, then back at you. "Fine," he says. "But you sleep on the floor. And if you get cold, don't complain."

He says it like he's doing you a favor, but you can see the way his shoulders relax slightly. The way he doesn't look quite so alone anymore.

You nod eagerly, relieved he's letting you stay. You take your blanket and try to make a comfortable spot on the stone floor. The floor is hard and cold, even through the thin wool. You spread the blanket out, then lie down, pulling the edges around you.

The cold seeps through immediately. You try to curl into a ball, to conserve warmth, but you can't stop shivering. Your teeth chatter softly, and you press your hands between your knees, trying to warm them.

From the cot above you, Tom lets out a quiet sigh. "Stop that," he says, his voice tired.

"I'm trying," you whisper through chattering teeth.

There's a moment of silence. Then you hear the cot creak as Tom sits up. He looks down at you, his face shadowed in the dark room. "You're shivering," he says, sounding annoyed.

"It's cold," you admit, your voice small.

Tom sighs again, louder this time. He shifts on the cot, making room. "Come here," he says, his tone begrudging. "Before you freeze to death."

You hesitate for just a second, then scramble up from the floor, bringing your blanket with you. The cot is narrow, but Tom moves over, making space. You climb in beside him, pulling your blanket over both of you.

The warmth from his body is immediate and welcome. You curl against him, still shivering slightly. Tom doesn't put his arm around you, but he doesn't move away either. He just lies there, stiff at first, then gradually relaxing.

The room is still cold, but here, under the blankets, pressed close together, it's warmer. Safer. You can feel your shivering slowly subsiding, replaced by a drowsy warmth.

You cuddle unconsciously closer to him, chasing his warmth. A soft sigh escapes you as you finally feel safe, truly warm for the first time all night. The tension leaves your body, and you relax fully against him, your head resting near his shoulder.

In the quiet darkness, you whisper, "Merry Christmas, Tom."

For a moment, he doesn't respond. Then you feel his arm shift. It doesn't go around you, but his hand comes to rest lightly on your back, a tentative touch. His fingers are warm through your nightdress.

"Merry Christmas," he murmurs back, his voice low and close to your ear.

You can feel his breathing slow and deepen as he settles into sleep. The cold room doesn't seem so threatening anymore, not with him here. Not with this small, shared warmth between you.

You close your eyes, listening to the quiet rhythm of his breathing. The orphanage is silent around you, the world outside dark and still. But here, in this narrow cot, with Tom's steady presence beside you, Christmas feels like something real. Something yours.

You drift toward sleep, wrapped in warmth and the unfamiliar comfort of not being alone. Tom's breathing has evened out beside you, his body relaxed in a way you've rarely seen. The hard edges he keeps up during the day have softened in sleep.

For Tom, this silent, stolen hour in the dark is better than any Christmas he can remember. No presents, no songs, no feast, just this: someone who came for him. Someone who saw him cold and hungry and said no. Someone who broke a lock with magic they shouldn't have, just to sit with him in the dark.

He doesn't know how to name what he feels. It isn't gratitude. It's something sharper, hungrier. It's the certainty that you are his now, in a way no one else has ever been. Your magic is his. Your loyalty is his. Your warmth beside him is his.

Outside, midnight passes. Christmas Day arrives quietly, without fanfare. But in a small, cold room in Wool's Orphanage, two children sleep curled together under a thin blanket, and a bond is forged that will shape everything that comes after.

For Tom Riddle, it is the beginning of an obsession.

The Great Hall buzzed with its usual morning chatter, the scent of toast and bacon wafting through the air. You sat at the Hufflepuff table, cheerfully spreading marmalade on your toast while listening to Capricia recount her latest Herbology mishap involving a particularly rebellious Fanged Geranium.

Across the hall, Fred Weasley was watching you again. He'd been doing that a lot lately 一 leaning against the Gryffindor table with that lopsided grin, his eyes tracking your movements as if you were the most fascinating thing in the room. George nudged him, whispering something that made Fred's ears turn pink before he looked away.

“Honestly,” Thelma said, following your gaze, “does he ever stop staring? It's getting a bit obvious, don't you think?”

You blinked, looking between your friends. “Who? Fred? Oh, he's probably just thinking about his next prank. You know how creative he gets when he's plotting something!”

Clementine exchanged a knowing look with Capricia before sighing. “Right. A prank. That's definitely what he's thinking about.”

You raised your hand and gave Fred an enthusiastic wave, your smile bright enough to rival the morning sun streaming through the enchanted ceiling. Across the hall, Fred's eyes widened slightly before he returned the gesture with a wave that was almost too casual, his cheeks flushing again as George elbowed him hard in the ribs.

“See?” you said to your friends, turning back to them. “He's just being friendly! Maybe he wants to include us in whatever he's planning.”

Thelma buried her face in her hands with a groan. “Merlin's beard, you're impossible.”

Capricia leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Listen, we've been meaning to talk to you about something. There's this... situation developing. With Fred.”

Before she could continue, a shadow fell over the table. Fred himself stood there, looking uncharacteristically nervous as he shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Morning, Darling,” he said, his usual confident tone slightly strained. “Lovely weather for... whatever.”

“Morning, Fred!” You beamed up at him, your eyes crinkling at the corners. “Are you planning something fun? Thelma thinks you've been staring because you're plotting.”

Fred's ears turned crimson. “Staring? Me? No, just... admiring the architecture. The Great Hall's ceiling is particularly ceiling-like today.”

George appeared behind him, rolling his eyes dramatically. “Right. The architecture. That's what we'll call it.”

“Would you like to join us?” You asked, gesturing to the empty space beside you. “There's plenty of toast, and I think the house-elves made extra sausages today.”

Fred blinked, looking from you to your friends' amused faces and back again. “Well, I wouldn't want to impose…”

“You're not imposing!” you insisted, scooting over to make more room. “Come on, sit. Tell us about this fascinating ceiling architecture you've been studying.”

With a slightly dazed expression, Fred slid onto the bench beside you, his shoulder brushing against yours. George followed, squeezing in next to Thelma with a smirk that promised trouble.

“So,” George began, leaning forward with exaggerated interest, “what were you ladies discussing before we so rudely interrupted?”

Capricia opened her mouth, but you answered first. “Oh, Capricia was just saying there's some situation developing with Fred! Something about staring?” You turned to Fred with your characteristic bright smile. “Are you working on a new prank? You can tell us 一 we won't spoil it!”

Fred choked on the pumpkin juice he'd just sipped.

You reached over and patted him firmly between the shoulder blades. “Easy there! The pumpkin juice must have gone down the wrong way.” Your touch was warm and friendly, completely unaware of how Fred stiffened at the contact.

“Thanks,” Fred managed to croak, his face now a shade of red that nearly matched his hair. He cleared his throat, avoiding eye contact with George, who was grinning like a Cheshire cat.

“You know,” George said, leaning his elbows on the table, “I think Fred's been working on a particularly tricky bit of magic lately. Something that requires a lot of... observation.”

“Really?” Your eyes lit up. “Is it an illusion charm? Or maybe something with portable swamps? I had an idea about that 一what if you could make a temporary swamp that only appears under specific people's feet? Like, only Umbridge's!”

Fred stared at you, his coughing forgotten. “That's... actually brilliant.”

“I could help you with your observation work after classes if you'd like!” You offered, completely earnest. “I'm pretty good at noticing details. Last week, I spotted that Peeves had replaced all the suits of armor's swords with rubber chickens before anyone else did.”

Fred looked like he'd been hit with a Confundus Charm. “You... you'd help me?”

“Of course! That's what friends are for, right?” You took a bite of your toast, completely missing the way George mouthed "friends" to Capricia with an exaggerated eye roll.

Across the hall, several students were watching the interaction with unusual interest. A group of Ravenclaws had their heads together, whispering and occasionally glancing toward the Hufflepuff table. Even some Slytherins seemed to be paying attention, with Draco Malfoy smirking as he watched the exchange.

“Actually,” Fred said, recovering some of his usual bravado, “I could use a second opinion on some... experimental products. For the shop. After dinner in the Gryffindor common room?”

“Absolutely!” You beamed, your hair catching the morning light as you nodded enthusiastically. “I'd love to help with your experiments. The common room after dinner sounds perfect.”

Fred's smile was genuine this time, less strained than before. “Brilliant. I'll, uh, save you a seat by the fire.”

As breakfast continued, the whispers around the hall seemed to grow more pronounced. A first-year Gryffindor leaned over to their friend, pointing subtly at your table before being shushed by an older student. Even Professor Flitwick, passing by on his way to the staff table, paused to observe the interaction with a curious twinkle in his eyes.

Your friends exchanged another round of meaningful glances. Thelma finally broke the silence. “Darling, dear, have you noticed that practically the entire school is watching you two?”

You glanced around, your cheerful expression faltering for just a moment. “They are? Oh, maybe they're hoping Fred will announce a new prank! Or perhaps they want to see if I'll help test something explosive.” You turned back to Fred with renewed excitement. “Will there be explosions? I don't mind small ones.”

You turned in your seat and gave a cheerful wave to the staring students, your signature smile lighting up your face. “Good morning!” you called out brightly.

The reaction was immediate and varied. Some students quickly looked away, pretending they hadn't been watching. Others waved back awkwardly. A group of fourth-year Hufflepuffs actually started giggling uncontrollably, while Roger Davies from Ravenclaw gave a thumbs-up that seemed more directed at Fred than at you.

Fred buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking with what might have been laughter or despair 一 it was hard to tell. George, however, was openly chuckling. “Well, that should fuel the betting pool for another week at least.”

“Betting pool?” You asked, turning back to the table with a curious tilt of your head. “Is there a Quidditch match I forgot about?”

You shrugged, your cheerful expression never faltering. “Oh, you two and your mysterious betting pools,” you said with a light laugh, turning your attention back to Fred. “So, about after dinner 一should I bring anything? Notebooks? Protective eyewear? I have these lovely goggles that Madam Pomfrey gave me after that incident with the bubotuber pus.”

Fred seemed to relax again, the tension leaving his shoulders. “Just yourself, Darling. And maybe those goggles 一can't be too careful with experimental products.”

As the breakfast hour drew to a close, students began gathering their things for morning classes. The whispers continued, but now they were accompanied by the rustling of robes and scraping of benches. You stood up, smoothing your yellow-trimmed robes.

“I'll see you tonight then!” you said brightly, giving Fred one last smile before turning to join your friends who were already heading toward the doors.

The walk to Herbology was filled with more meaningful glances between Capricia, Thelma, and Clementine. Finally, as they entered the greenhouse, Thelma couldn't hold back any longer. “Darling, dear, about that betting pool George mentioned…”

“Oh, I think it's perfectly fine for them to have their secret betting pools,” You said cheerfully as they found their stations among the bubbling pots of Mandrakes. “Fred and George are entrepreneurs! They're probably testing some new product idea 一you know, like which flavor of Every Flavour Beans people are most likely to choke on. That's just good market research!”

Thelma opened her mouth to respond, but Professor Sprout's arrival cut her off. “Good morning, seventh years! Today we'll be working with mature Mandrakes. Ear muffs on, please!”

As they fitted the fluffy pink ear protection over their heads, Capricia leaned close to you, her voice muffled but still audible. “It's not about beans, Darling. It's about一”

But the rest of her sentence was lost as you pulled up your first Mandrake, its piercing cry silenced by the ear muffs. You worked with practiced efficiency, repotting the squirming plant with gentle hands, completely unaware of the meaningful looks your friends continued to exchange over the rows of pots.

When the lesson ended, and they removed their ear muffs, Clementine tried again. “Look, about Fred一”

“Did you see how well that Mandrake took to the new soil?” You interrupted, your eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. “Professor Sprout said my repotting technique is the best in the class! Maybe I should offer to help in the greenhouses next year…”

You paused on the path back to the castle after class, your cheerful expression turning thoughtful for the first time that morning. “Alright, what is it you keep trying to tell me about Fred? You've all been giving each other those looks since breakfast.”

Your three friends exchanged glances, a silent conversation passing between them. Finally, Capricia spoke carefully. “It's just... Fred's been acting differently around you lately. More than usual.”

“Differently how?” You asked, genuinely puzzled. “He's always been friendly! Remember last year when he helped me find my Charms textbook after Peeves hid it in the owlery?”

Thelma sighed. “Yes, but this is different. The staring, the nervousness, asking to meet you alone after dinner…”

“Oh, that's just because he values my opinion on his products!” You said brightly. “I give excellent feedback. Last month I told him the Ton-Tongue Toffees needed more variety in flavors, and he said that was a brilliant suggestion!”

As they entered the castle, they passed a group of sixth-year students who immediately fell silent, watching you with poorly concealed interest. One of them 一a Ravenclaw girl一 actually pulled out a small notebook and scribbled something down.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of classes and curious glances. By the time dinner arrived in the Great Hall, the atmosphere felt charged with anticipation. Students kept looking between the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables as if expecting some grand announcement.

After finishing your treacle tart, you excused yourself from your friends 一who watched you go with expressions ranging from amusement to exasperation一 and made your way to the Gryffindor common room. The Fat Lady swung open at the password (“Fizzing Whizzbee”), revealing the cozy, red-and-gold draped space beyond.

Fred was waiting by the fireplace exactly as promised, a small table between two armchairs covered with an assortment of colorful boxes and vials. He stood up when you entered, running a hand through his hair in a gesture that was becoming familiar.

“Darling! You came.” He sounded genuinely surprised, as if he'd half-expected you to forget, which wouldn’t be too surprising.

“Of course I came!” you said, settling into the offered chair. “Now, what are we testing first? Ooh, are those the new Skiving Snackboxes? I heard Lee Jordan say they need work on the timing.”

Fred blinked, then grinned. “Actually, yes. How did you一”

“I pay attention!” You beamed, picking up one of the Skiving Snackboxes, turning it over in your hands with a thoughtful expression. “You know, the timing issue might be solved with a delayed activation charm instead of an immediate one. What if the first bite just tastes like a normal treat, and the symptoms don't start until, say, thirty seconds later? That way the professor wouldn't connect it to eating in class.”

Fred stared at her, his quill pausing mid-scribble on his notes. “That's... actually brilliant. Why didn't we think of that?”

“Because you're too focused on the big effects!” You said cheerfully, setting the box down. “Sometimes the subtle approach works better. Oh, and you could make different flavors trigger different symptoms 一cherry for nosebleeds, lemon for fainting, chocolate for vomiting…”

“You've put a lot of thought into this,” Fred said, his voice softer than usual.

“Well, of course! It's important work.” You leaned forward, your eyes sparkling in the firelight. “Education is valuable, but so is learning how to creatively avoid it sometimes.”

From the common room entrance, a small crowd had gathered 一 mostly Gryffindors, but a few curious students from other houses who'd managed to sneak in. They were watching the interaction with rapt attention, some even taking notes. George stood among them, collecting what looked like small bets from those around him.

You glanced toward the common room entrance, your cheerful expression faltering for just a moment. “Fred, why is there a crowd watching us? Are we putting on some sort of show?”

Fred followed your gaze, his face flushing immediately. “Oh, that's just... George being George. Ignore them.” He waved a dismissive hand, but the gesture lacked his usual confidence.

“But they're taking notes,” You observed, squinting at the group. “Is this part of your market research? Observing how people react to product testing?”

“Something like that,” Fred muttered, shooting a glare at his twin. George merely grinned and made a "carry on" motion with his hands.

One of the watching students 一a fourth-year Gryffindor一 whispered something to their friend, and a ripple of laughter passed through the group. You caught the words "ten more galleons on next week" before they fell silent again.

“You know,” you said thoughtfully, turning back to Fred, “if this is about gathering data on product testing, we should probably be more systematic about it. We could create observation sheets with specific criteria—onset time, symptom severity, recovery duration…”

Fred stared at you, his expression a mixture of awe and something else you couldn't quite identify. “You're incredible, you know that?”

The evening wore on with you and Fred developing increasingly elaborate testing protocols for the Skiving Snackboxes. By the time the common room began to empty for curfew, they had filled three parchments with notes and ideas.

“Honestly, Fred, this has been wonderful,” you said as you gathered your things, your smile warm in the firelight. “I haven't had this much fun since I helped Professor Sprout cross-breed those Chinese Chomping Cabbages with Venomous Tentacula.”

Fred walked you to the portrait hole, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. “Yeah, it was... really great. You're a natural at this.”

“Thanks! Same time tomorrow? We should test the timing charms on the Fainting Fancies.” You gave him a cheerful wave before disappearing through the portrait hole, completely missing the way Fred leaned his forehead against the wall with a quiet groan once you were gone.

The next few days fell into a pleasant pattern. You would meet Fred after dinner to work on products, offering creative suggestions that consistently impressed him. Meanwhile, the betting pool grew to include nearly half the school, with odds shifting daily based on their interactions.

On Thursday afternoon, as you walked to the library with your friends, you passed a notice board in the entrance hall that usually displayed Quidditch schedules and club announcements. Today, however, it featured a large, magically-updating chart titled "PROGRESS TRACKER". A crowd of students was gathered around it, whispering excitedly.

You paused, tilting your head at the crowded notice board. “What's that 'Progress Tracker' about? Is it for O.W.L. study groups or something?”

Your three friends exchanged glances that had become familiar over the past week. Thelma sighed deeply. “Darling, dear, it's not for O.W.L.s.”

“Then what一”

Before you could finish, the crowd around the board parted slightly, revealing the chart in more detail. The columns weren't labeled with academic subjects but with things like "Direct Compliments (Today: 3)" and "Physical Contact Incidents (Week Total: 7)." At the very top, in elaborate script, were the words: "DARLING-WEASLEY INTERACTION METRICS."

You blinked, your cheerful expression turning puzzled. “Darling-Weasley? That's... me and Fred? Why would anyone track our interactions?”

A first-year Hufflepuff nearby piped up, “Everyone's betting on when you'll finally一” but was quickly shushed by an older student.

Clementine put a hand on your arm. “Maybe we should talk about this somewhere more private.”

But you were already walking toward the board, your curiosity overriding any sense of privacy. Students moved aside to let you through, watching you with a mixture of amusement and anticipation.

Capricia took a deep breath. “Darling, the betting pool George mentioned at breakfast... it's not about products. It's about you and Fred.”

“Me and Fred what?” You asked, your eyes wide with innocent confusion.

“About when you'll finally realize he's been trying to ask you out for months,” Thelma blurted out.

The silence that followed was absolute. Even the portraits on the walls seemed to be holding their breath. You blinked once, twice, your smile frozen in place as you processed the words.

“Ask me out?” you repeated slowly. “But... we're just friends working on products together. He values my opinion on timing charms and flavor combinations…”

From the back of the crowd, a familiar voice called out, “Ten galleons says she still doesn't get it by next Tuesday!”

“But... we're just friends!” You protested, your cheerful expression finally cracking into genuine bewilderment. “He's never said anything about... about that.”

The crowd seemed to collectively hold its breath. From somewhere near the back, George's voice carried clearly: “See? I told you she'd say that! Pay up, Davies!”

Roger Davies grumbled something about "premature celebration" as coins changed hands.

Capricia stepped closer, lowering her voice. “Darling, think about it. How many 'just friends' ask to meet you alone every evening? How many 'just friends' stare at you across the Great Hall like you've hung the moon? How many一”

“But he's working on products!” You insisted, though your voice had lost some of its certainty. “And the staring... he said it was architecture!”

Thelma made a sound halfway between a laugh and a groan. “Architecture. Right. Because Fred Weasley has suddenly developed a passion for Gothic ceiling design.”

Your eyes drifted back to the Progress Tracker on the notice board. The numbers seemed to swim before your eyes. Each statistic represented a moment you'd interpreted one way, while apparently everyone else in Hogwarts had interpreted it completely differently.

You stood frozen for a long moment, the cheerful energy that usually animated you completely stilled. The crowd's whispers seemed to swell around you, pressing in from all sides. Without another word, you turned and walked away from the notice board, your friends scrambling to follow.

“Wait, Darling!” Clementine called after you.

But you didn't stop until you reached a quiet alcove near the library, away from prying eyes and betting pools. You leaned against the cold stone wall, your usual smile absent for the first time your friends could remember.

“It can't be true,” you said quietly, more to yourself than to them. “Fred and I... we're partners. In product development.”

Thelma's expression softened. “Oh, Darling. Has he ever actually shown you any of these 'products' being manufactured? Or has it mostly been talking and planning and... well, staring?”

You opened your mouth to protest, then closed it again as memories surfaced: Fred's flushed cheeks when you complimented his ideas, the way he always saved you a seat by the fire, the nervous energy that seemed to crackle around him whenever they were alone together. You'd attributed it all to creative excitement.

“But why wouldn't he just say something?” you asked, your voice small.

“Because you're you,” Capricia said gently. “You're so... cheerfully oblivious. He probably thought he was being obvious.”

The sound of approaching footsteps made them all turn. Fred himself rounded the corner, his expression concerned. “George said there was some commotion in the entrance hall and you一” He stopped short, taking in your unusually serious expression and your friends' protective stances. “What's wrong?”

You took a deep breath, your eyes still fixed on Fred. “Could you give us a moment alone?” you asked your friends, your voice quieter than usual.

Capricia, Thelma, and Clementine exchanged glances before nodding and retreating down the corridor, though not without Thelma shooting Fred a look that clearly said "be careful."

When they were gone, the alcove felt suddenly smaller. Fred shifted uncomfortably, his usual confidence nowhere to be seen. “Darling, what's going on? You look... different.”

“I just saw the Progress Tracker in the entrance hall,” you said, watching his reaction carefully. “The one that's tracking our 'interactions.'”

Fred's face went pale, then flushed crimson. “That's 一George was supposed to take that down. I told him it was getting out of hand.”

“So it's real?” You asked, your cheerful mask completely gone now. “The betting pool, the tracking... all of it?”

Fred ran a hand through his hair, a gesture you now recognized as nervous rather than thoughtful. “It started as a joke. George bet I couldn't get you to notice my feelings before graduation. Then other people got involved, and it just... snowballed.”

He looked at you properly then, his brown eyes serious in a way you'd never seen before. “But the feelings aren't a joke, Darling. They never were.”

“You like me, then? Really?” You said softly, allowing yourself to believe it for the first time.

Fred's expression softened, the nervous tension leaving his shoulders. “Really,” he confirmed, his voice gentle. “Since last year when you smiled at me after that dungbomb incident in the corridor. You weren't even mad 一just laughed and said 'better luck next time.'”

You remembered that day. You'd been on your way to Herbology when a poorly aimed dungbomb had exploded at your feet. Instead of getting angry, you'd simply charmed the mess away and given Fred 一who'd looked horrified at his mistake一 an encouraging smile.

“I thought you were just being kind,” you whispered.

“I was trying to be brave,” Fred admitted, taking a small step closer. “But every time I worked up the courage, you'd say something so... wonderfully you. Like suggesting we add lemon flavor to the Fainting Fancies, or getting excited about protective goggles. And I'd lose my nerve because I didn't want to ruin what we already had.”

From down the corridor, the distant sound of chatter suggested the betting crowd was still lingering, waiting for an outcome. Fred glanced in that direction, his expression turning apologetic. “The betting pool got out of hand. I'm sorry about that. George thought it was hilarious, but I should have put a stop to it sooner.”

You pondered on everything a couple of seconds longer before saying, "Alright, then," your voice regaining some of its usual cheer 一 though now with a determined edge. Before Fred could respond, you grabbed his wrist and pulled him out of the alcove, marching them both down the corridor toward where the betting crowd still lingered near the entrance hall.

“Your brother better give me forty percent of his winnings for emotional damage,” you declared loudly enough for the gathered students to hear.

Fred stumbled alongside you, confusion written across his face. “Darling, what一”

You stopped abruptly, turned to face him, and kissed him.

It was brief 一just a firm press of your lips against his一 but it silenced the entire corridor. The whispers died instantly. Even the portraits stopped their usual chatter to gawk.

When you pulled back, Fred stared at you, completely stunned. His hand rose to touch his lips as if to confirm what had just happened.

“Sorry I didn't notice before,” you said, your eyes sparkling with a mix of amusement and sincerity. “But I think I understand now.”

From the crowd, George's voice broke the silence: “Merlin's beard, she kissed him! That's not in the betting options!”

The corridor remained frozen in stunned silence for three full seconds before erupting into chaos. Cheers, groans (from those who'd bet on a later date), and the distinct sound of coins changing hands filled the air.

Fred finally found his voice. “You... kissed me.”

“I did,” you confirmed, your cheeks flushing pink for the first time that day. The realization of what you'd done 一and why一 was settling in, and to your surprise, it felt completely right.