You chew the end of your quill as you scan the final paragraph of your essay. Before you can start writing, a voice cuts through your thoughts.

“You’ve written ‘conjuration’ three times in the same sentence.”

You don't need to look up to know it's Tom. You feel the weight of his gaze before hearing his footsteps. He stops beside your chair and plucks the parchment from under your fingers with maddening ease.

“You're distracting,” you mutter, watching as he scans your work with a furrowed brow.

“And you're careless with repetition,” he says, tapping the margin with his finger. “But your arguments are improving.”

You glance up at him, waiting for some hint of warmth in his praise — but Tom doesn’t offer warmth. At least, not aloud.

Still, when your eyes meet his, they remain unreadable for a moment too long. You know that look. It's the war he wages with himself every time you're near — the one where logic loses and something else flares up behind his otherwise composed expression.

“You don’t have to babysit my homework,” you say, reaching for the essay again.

He puts the parchment on the table.

“You don’t have to keep brushing my hand in corridors, either,” you add.

He says nothing. Just continues to stare, until the air between you feels heavy — charged.

“And you definitely don’t have to look at me like that.”

His jaw tenses, his lips parting slightly — like he wants to argue, or deny it. But he doesn't. He never does.

“I’ve told you before,” he says quietly. “You shouldn’t want someone like me.”

“And yet,” you whisper, rising slowly from your chair, “here you are.”

His breath catches — barely audible, but there. You see the restraint in his posture, the fury in the way his hands curl slightly at his sides.

You take a step toward him. “Say it.”

“I’ve already said too much.”

“No,” you push. “You’ve danced around it. Critiqued my essays. Corrected my wand grip. Got silent when others—”

“Don’t talk about them.” His voice sharpens. “They don’t see you. Not the way I do.”

Your heart stutters. “Then say it.”

You barely register his steps before your back is pressed gently against the nearest bookshelf. His hand cages the space beside your head, the other brushing along your waist in a ghost of a touch, almost reverent.

“Age doesn’t change the fact that you belong to me,” he murmurs. “Don’t make me prove it.”

“You keep saying I shouldn’t want you,” you breathe, staring up at him. “But it sounds like you do.”

His eyes are darker than you’ve ever seen them. Hungry. Haunted. “I do,” he whispers. “Far more than I should.”