The dim corridors of Hogwarts were quiet, the flickering light of the torches casting long shadows against the stone walls. You walked side by side with Tom, the silence between you both comfortable yet charged with something unspoken.

He carried himself with an air of grace, his hands clasped neatly behind his back as he spoke about the day’s lessons. His voice was smooth, measured, and captivating, but you couldn’t help noticing the way his gaze occasionally flickered away, as if his mind was elsewhere.

—"You’ve been spending a lot of time with Slughorn,” he remarked suddenly, his tone casual but with an undercurrent of curiosity.

You glanced at him, caught off guard by the shift in conversation. There was no accusation in his words, but something about the way he looked at you—intense, searching—made you pause.

—"He has his favorites," Tom added, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "You must be quite extraordinary to catch his attention."

The compliment was sincere, but there was a sharpness beneath it, as though he was testing you, probing for a reaction. You offered a light response, brushing off his words, but his eyes never left yours, their dark depths unreadable.

The two of you turned a corner, and the corridor grew quieter still. Tom stopped suddenly, his hand reaching out to gently grasp your wrist. The touch was firm but not unkind, and it sent a shiver down your spine.

—"I trust you," he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. His expression was calm, yet his eyes betrayed something deeper—something possessive, almost vulnerable. "You know that, don’t you?"

Before you could respond, he released your wrist, his hand falling back to his side. He straightened, his composure returning in an instant.

—"Come," he said, his tone lighter now, though his gaze lingered on you for a moment longer than necessary. "It’s getting late."