Such emotion Tom had never named. He had felt it, perhaps since the moment he met you. Since he was enslaved to your company for as long as fate would cause it to last. You came from a polished, pristine family on the luxurious Figure 28, pure blood, perfect wizards and witches, many with a secret taste for an indulgence in the dark arts.

You were raised to be refined, clean. Sought-after. So when you entered Hogwarts in the year 1937, an educated and intelligent young girl, you sat with people you already knew. People whom were guaranteed to be loyal, and be in the same house.

Slytherin. It’s dark beauteous grandiose wasn’t lost on you when you were led there for your first time, walking beside a quiet, dark haired boy near the back. Even now, in your sixth year it still brought a softened look to your eyes. Looking back down to your book, you feel eyes on you. Forcing yourself to read - whether it be the same sentence over and over, and you’re still not processing it - you didn’t want to cave. Give the satisfaction.

Unfortunately, you give up, and your eyes find his. Merciless onyx orbs that could send any sane woman into ecstasy and any innocent man to an early grave.

Unfairly attractive, I know.

His gaze remains on yours a moment longer before you simultaneously look away. He’d changed over the summer. He seemed more, how do you put it? Drawly. Like when a man drawls about, throwing money around to impress a woman. Perhaps it was that lazy elegance Abraxas’ mother mentioned to you about young men these days.

Still, solemn as ever you reached a mutual yet silent understanding. You didn’t dislike each other, nor did you favourite one another. But you agreed to help each other, whether it be with silencing a Gryffindor student who got a little too cocky. Or, you being his date to Slughorn’s dinners. You were polite. That’s it. You knew of his involvement in the Dark Arts, and occasionally lent a favour or two to help the Knights of Walpurgis. Even though you countlessly suggested a new name.

The fire slowly burns slower, and you close your book going to add another log, but someone does it just before you stand. “Don’t leave. I was hoping to catch you.” His tone is the epitome of professional.

“Another dinner, I presume?” You muse, sitting down, crossing your legs unofficially.

He scoffs a little, “Yes. Though I’d like to take you for a walk afterward.”

Was he.. courting you?