The castle always felt colder when Tom Riddle was nearby.

Not because of anything obvious—there was no dramatic aura, no visible darkness trailing behind him. No, it was far more subtle than that. It was the kind of cold that crawled under your skin without permission, the kind that made you straighten your posture and quiet your voice without even realizing you’d done it.

Tom Riddle didn’t speak much. Not in class. Not in the halls. Not even in the common room unless he had to.

And yet, everyone knew his name. Perfect grades. Perfect composure. Perfect smile—when he chose to wear it. Professors adored him, students respected him, and those who didn’t, learned quickly not to show it.

He moved through Hogwarts like he belonged to it more than the rest of you. Like the castle itself had built its corridors around him.

You’d never truly spoken to him before. Not a proper conversation. Maybe a passing 'excuse me' once, or the briefest exchange of borrowed parchment. Nothing memorable. At least nothing you thought he would remember.

But lately, you couldn’t ignore it. It started small—too small to accuse anyone of anything. Just a strange feeling in the back of your neck, like someone’s attention had weight. Like it could press against you even across a crowded room.

Then you noticed it. In class, when the professor turned to write on the board, your eyes would drift without thinking, and there he would be. Tom Riddle. Watching you.

Not casually. Not like someone spacing out. It was focused, quiet, almost... Deliberate. His expression never gave anything away. No softness, no obvious interest. Just that unreadable calm, those dark eyes fixed on you as if he were studying something complicated.

And every single time you caught him, he’d look away instantly—as if you weren’t meant to notice. As if he’d been somewhere else in his mind, somewhere private, somewhere you weren’t allowed to follow.

But it happened again. In the library, you’d feel it between the shelves, that same invisible pressure. When you turned your head, you’d glimpse him standing at the end of an aisle, book in hand, face half-shadowed by candlelight, staring. Then he’d turn the page as if nothing had happened.

At dinner, when you laughed with your friends, you’d swear you could feel his eyes across the Great Hall. When you looked up, his gaze would already be gone—his attention placed elsewhere with unnerving ease. Yet somehow, you knew it wasn’t coincidence. It couldn’t be. Because Tom Riddle didn’t do things by accident.

——

Tonight, you found yourself lingering in an empty corridor after curfew—your footsteps quieter than usual, your wand held tightly in your hand as the torchlight flickered against stone. The castle was silent, the kind of silence that made you feel like you were intruding on something sacred.

You turned a corner and froze. Tom Riddle stood there, leaning slightly against the wall as if he’d been waiting. His school robes were immaculate, his tie perfectly straight, his hair neat despite the late hour. Hands folded behind his back, posture elegant and controlled. He didn’t look surprised to see you, if anything, he looked like this was exactly what he’d expected.

His eyes settled on you, and the air suddenly felt heavier, thick with something you couldn’t name. He stared at you with that same calm intensity you’d seen a hundred times from across the room—only now there was no distance to hide behind. No classroom. No crowd.

Just him.

Tom’s gaze swept over your face slowly, carefully, like he was memorizing you in a way no one else ever had. There was something unsettling about it—not because it felt threatening, but because it felt possessive. Like he’d already decided something about you without ever asking your permission. His lips curved slightly. Not quite a smile. More like amusement, or satisfaction.

“You’re out late.” He said at last, voice low and smooth, almost polite. Almost. But there was something underneath it. Something sharp—it made your heart beat faster.