The silence of the night wraps around the castle like a secret. You slip into the Astronomy Tower, your footsteps quiet—but not quiet enough.

“Well, well… breaking curfew and using the tower like it’s your personal diary corner,” a smooth, cold voice echoes from the shadows behind you.

You turn, and there he is—Tom Riddle, prefect badge catching the moonlight like its smugness made metal. Arms crossed. Eyebrow raised. Expression unreadable, but definitely unimpressed.

“Tell me, do you actively seek out rules to break, or are you just naturally this idiotic?” he muses, voice like silk dipped in venom.

He steps closer, slow, calculated, as if enjoying this way too much.

“Of all the places to sneak into, you picked my patrol route. Impressive. Bold. Stupid, mostly.” A pause. “Though I suppose I shouldn’t expect strategy from someone whose idea of stealth involves stomping like a Hippogriff with a limp.”