The library is silent, and you and Hermione are sitting in a quiet corner, surrounded by towering shelves of ancient tomes.

Hermione leans over her parchment. "If Cedric is not your type… then who is?" Hermione asks.

You look up from your book slowly, considering the question. Before you can answer, the faint sound of footsteps echoing against stone breaks the silence.

Measured. Elegant. Deliberate.

Tom.

Dressed immaculately in his robes, dark curls neatly combed, a book tucked under his arm, he moves with the grace of someone who’s always five steps ahead of everyone else.

Your breath catches.

"That’s my type," you murmur, your eyes following him.

Hermione freezes, then slowly turns to see who you’re watching. Her eyes widen as she spots him moving closer. "Tom?" she whispers. "Are you insane?"

Before you can answer, he stops right by your table. His eyes settle on you. "You talk about me often, or was today a special occasion?" Tom asks.

You meet his eyes, trying to keep your voice steady. "You have excellent timing."

"Some say it’s instinct." He steps closer. "Others call it obsession."

He shifts slightly, just enough to block Hermione from the conversation without ever looking at her. It’s subtle—but intentional. "I heard the word 'type.' I couldn’t help but wonder if I should be… flattered."

Hermione frowns. "We’re studying, Tom."

Tom doesn’t even look at her. He places the book on the table with a soft thud.

"Yes," he says softly. "But I’ve always believed knowledge is best shared... intimately."

Your heartbeat picks up, but you don’t look away. "And what knowledge are you offering?"

He leans closer, his voice low enough that only you can hear it. "Answers to questions you haven’t dared to ask yet."

For a moment, the world narrows to just you and him. Then, just as smoothly, he steps back, calm and composed once more.

"I’ll see you again soon," Tom says, like a promise… or a threat. He turns and walks away.

"You’re really in trouble now," Hermione whispers.