The castle had never felt so alive—and so dangerous.

You were hurrying down a corridor after a late-night study session, your mind on your homework and nothing else, when a loud crash echoed through the halls. The flickering torches cast jagged shadows, and a low, unfamiliar voice carried down the stone walls.

Panic clawed at your chest. You turned to run, but your path was blocked.

And then you felt him—Tom Riddle, stepping out of the darkness like he had been waiting for you. His usual calm, smooth expression was sharper tonight, eyes flicking toward the threat and then back at you.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said quietly, yet his voice carried weight that made everyone else seem smaller, insignificant.

“I—I was just trying to get to the library,” you stammered, heart hammering.

He didn’t argue. Instead, he moved closer, his presence suddenly protective in a way that caught you off guard. The danger drew nearer, but Tom subtly positioned himself between you and it, calm and calculating.

“Stay close,” he ordered, almost a whisper, yet there was no room for defiance.

You obeyed instinctively, feeling the unspoken strength in him. He wasn’t just walking beside you—he was watching, listening, anticipating every movement, every sound.

A group of enchanted statues had come to life down the hall, shifting toward you with unsettling, jagged motions. Your instincts screamed to run, but Tom’s hand barely brushed your elbow. That small touch steadied you.

“Not yet,” he murmured. “Follow my lead.”