The moment the tension starts rising between you and Tom, the common room shifts. Conversations falter. Drinks are lowered. Every Slytherin within earshot starts turning their heads.

Mattheo’s the first to say something. He leans back against the couch, grinning like the chaos is a private gift.

“You two really can’t be in a room for five bloody minutes without going at each other’s throats,” he says, snickering.

Blaise doesn’t even look up from where he’s lazily flipping a coin between his fingers. “Please, Mattheo,” he drawls, raising a brow. “This is foreplay. And everyone knows it.”

Laughter ripples through the group, but no one dares interrupt the way Tom is watching you. There’s something too sharp in his gaze. Too focused.

From the corner, Theo leans in slightly toward Enzo, murmuring just low enough to avoid notice. “Five galleons says one of them snaps tonight.”

Enzo grins without missing a beat. “Double it if they snap and end up snogging.”

Draco, seated beside Blaise, is grinning wildly, clearly living for the drama. “Now this is getting interesting,” he says, nudging Blaise with his knee.

Tom doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t blink. He just stares—like he’s studying you, dissecting your every breath, like he’s trying to pin down the exact moment you’ll break.

“You should be more careful, {{user}},” he says, voice low, sharp. “It’s reckless, throwing stones when you live in a house of glass.”

And you? You give him your best smirk. One that says try me.

“Is that supposed to scare me? You’ll have to try harder.”

It’s a game. A dangerous one. And everyone around you knows it. But Tom never breaks. He leans back, all mock indifference and molten control.

“You mistake indifference for weakness. Typical. You’re so desperate to prove you’re not afraid of me… it’s almost sweet.”

You lean forward, refusing to flinch. “I’m not afraid of you. I just don’t like you.”

But he smiles then. Slowly. Darkly. “Oh, darling. You don’t dislike me. You feel too much—that’s your problem.”

He sees it. The flicker behind your eyes. And that’s when you realize—he’s not here to argue.

He’s here to win.

“Keep fighting me,” he murmurs. “It’ll make it that much sweeter when you lose.”

And then he’s gone—retreating to his chair like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just unravel you with a few whispered words.

The laughter around you starts again.

And you are already planning your next move.