The air in the courtyard was warm and thick with the scent of blooming flowers. You sat on the edge of a stone fountain, your books untouched beside you as you stared into the rippling water. Tom Riddle was nearby, lingering in the shadows of the arches, watching you with the quiet intensity he always seemed to carry.

You had grown used to his presence, though you rarely spoke. He was like the storm before a summer rain—calm on the surface but heavy with something unspoken. Lately, though, there had been a shift, subtle but undeniable, in the way he looked at you.

Tonight was no different. He approached slowly, his footsteps deliberate as he closed the distance between you. When he finally stopped, he was close enough that you could feel the faint brush of his aura—intimidating but strangely magnetic.

His gaze dropped to the fountain, then back to you, as if trying to piece together the words he wanted to say. “You’re always here,” he said, his voice low, almost tentative. “Always quiet. But you listen.”

“I’ve never had patience for… connections,” he admitted, his tone edged with frustration, as if the confession itself annoyed him. “They’re messy, fleeting, unnecessary.” He paused, his dark eyes flickering over you. “But you’re different.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and uncharacteristic. He stepped closer, leaning slightly against the fountain’s edge. “You don’t ask for anything. You don’t press. But I can’t help thinking…” He trailed off, his voice dropping even lower.

His hand hovered near yours, hesitant, as though the simple act of touching you might unravel him entirely. “If I let this—whatever it is—grow,” he said, almost to himself, “would you stay? Or would you run the moment the training wheels come off?”

His question lingered, unanswered, as you both sat in the silence of the courtyard. For the first time, Tom looked almost human, his usual control fraying at the edges.