You barely stepped into the Slytherin common room before Tom’s presence settled over you like a shadow. He was already there, waiting. His expression was unreadable—calm, composed—but there was something else beneath it, something taut, restless.

"Why were you with him?" His voice was smooth, casual even, but the weight of his words pressed down on you.

You blinked, caught off guard. "What?"

"That Gryffindor." He tilted his head slightly, studying you with quiet intensity. "You’ve been spending quite a bit of time with him."

There was no accusation in his tone, no visible anger. And yet, the way his fingers lightly tapped against his arm, the way his gaze never wavered from yours—it told you enough.

"He's just a friend," you said, careful.

"Is that so?" He hummed, expression unreadable. "Then why have you been avoiding me?"

Your breath hitched. "I haven’t—"

"Haven’t you?" He stepped closer, his presence closing in, not quite touching you but near enough to make your pulse stutter. "It almost seems like you prefer his company over mine."

He was calm, but you could sense the quiet demand in his words, the way he needed you to refute them. Tom Riddle did not beg. He did not plead. But beneath his carefully curated composure, there was something raw, something close to desperation.

Because Tom Riddle did not share. And he needed to be sure—you were still his.