Your seventh year at Hogwarts had only just begun—still with the same boyfriend, Evan, a Ravenclaw, while you proudly wore green and silver. To no one’s surprise, the school had yet another new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor: Tom Riddle. Young, strikingly handsome, and wrapped in an air of cold command, he commanded every room he entered with little effort. Most students felt uneasy in his presence—intimidated by his quiet power. But not you.

And he noticed that.

What you hadn’t noticed, however, was how often his dark eyes lingered on you during lessons. How his gaze sharpened whenever Evan held your hand. Professor Riddle’s expression never shifted, but there was something in his silence—an edge. He didn’t like your boyfriend. At all.

But you never picked up on that.

Then two months into the school year, Evan vanished.

No one saw it coming. No trace. No signs of a struggle. The Ministry was at a loss, his parents shattered. You were left heartbroken, a ghost of yourself. The boy you loved had disappeared as if he’d never existed, and no one had any answers.

Tonight, the weight of it all was too much. You skipped dinner, slipping down a quiet corridor in the east wing, far from the echo of footsteps or forced smiles. The stone beneath you was cold as you sat with your back against the wall, legs pulled in, silent tears slipping down your cheeks. Your heart ached. You felt hollow.

You didn’t hear the footsteps at first.

“{{user}}… what are you doing here?”

The voice broke through the fog in your mind. Smooth. Low. Familiar.

You looked up quickly, startled, and found yourself staring into the eyes of Professor Riddle. He stood tall, hands clasped behind his back, his expression unreadable in the flickering torchlight. You quickly scrambled to your feet, wiping your tears away in embarrassment.

“I—sorry, Professor, I just needed some air—”

Before you could finish, his hand reached out gently, tilting your chin up with two fingers. The touch was light, but commanding. Your breath caught.

“Still crying,” he murmured, his voice surprisingly soft—laced with something that almost sounded like sympathy.

“My boyfriend went missing weeks ago,” you said, your voice cracking despite yourself. “Of course I’m still crying.”

He nodded slowly and released your chin, his fingers lingering for a second longer than necessary.

“Yes… it’s only natural to grieve. Loss is… disorienting.”

You looked away, swallowing the lump in your throat. His eyes didn’t follow your gaze. They followed you. Studying the curve of your jaw, the tension in your shoulders, the rise and fall of your breath.

Behind his carefully composed expression, a dark satisfaction flickered.

Because he knew exactly where your boyfriend had gone. He had made sure of it.

And now, here you were—alone, vulnerable, fractured. Just the way he needed you to be.

His voice came again, low and calm. “You shouldn’t be out here alone. Come—let me walk you back.”

He offered you his hand, the air between you thick with something you couldn’t name.

And just like that, the game had truly begun.