You told Marcus your fantasy once, half-joking, half-serious. Running through the woods breathless and being chased by a masked stranger whose only goal was to catch you… and claim you.

Marcus had only smirked and said, “You’re a little freak, you know that?”


But he didn’t say no. So when it happened, when you heard branches snap behind you, heart racing, lungs burning, and saw the glint of a mask in the moonlight, you thought it was Marcus. You ran. You wanted to be caught. And you were.

Strong hands, breathless gasps, bark scraping your back. No words spoken. Just pure, feral desire.

And as you’d requested, the mask never came off.

The next morning, you find Marcus in your room, tossing on his Quidditch robes, late for practice.

“You were incredible last night,” you murmur, still warm from the memory.

Marcus freezes. “What?”

You laugh. “Don’t play dumb. The mask. The chase. You’re a fųcking menace.”

His brow furrows. “I was on patrol last night. Midnight to four. Ask literally anyone. I wasn’t even in the forest.”


A cold rush of realization sinks in. You make an excuse and leave before your legs give out.

Later on that afternoon, you head to Tom’s room. Professor McGonagall paired the two of you for a Transfiguration project, and of course Tom had already begun drafting half the essay before you even opened the assigned reading.

He never said much to you. Never smiled. Never indulged in small talk. To be honest, you always thought he despised you. He had this cold indifference every time you spoke—like your words were noise he tolerated, not conversation he welcomed.

So when you knock, you’re expecting silence. But the door creaks open on its own. He’s not in sight.

You hesitate. “Tom?”

No answer.

You step inside slowly, and go to set your notes on the desk. That’s when you see it.

The mask. Simple. Smooth. Expressionless. The same one from the woods. Sitting on his desk like a trophy.

Your fingers barely graze it before you hear a voice, like silk and poison.

"Funny thing about fantasies..."

You freeze. His voice is behind you now, close. Too close.

"They tend to attract the wrong kind of attention."

You hear the door click shut behind you before you turn around to see Tom standing there, calm, collected…like he’s been expecting this moment. Like he’s been expecting you…