You should’ve known. Should’ve noticed the signs sooner—the way shadows stretched longer when you walked alone, the way the hairs on the back of your neck prickled even in an empty corridor. But it was only when you found the first letter, folded neatly on your pillow, that the fear began to settle in.

It wasn’t a confession. Not quite.

"Cinnamon and vanilla—how fitting. Sweet, warm, yet impossible to ignore. I wonder, did you choose it for yourself, or for those fortunate enough to be close to you? Either way, it lingers… just like I do."

At first, you ignored it. A sick joke, you told yourself. A cruel admirer testing your patience. But then came the second letter, tucked inside your Potions textbook.

"Why do you entertain fools? They look at you as if you are something to be won. Do they not see? You are already mine."

The third one was different. Shorter. Chilling.

"You lock your windows now. Do you think that matters?"

After that, you noticed that small, weird things started happening. Your quill, missing for days, suddenly reappeared in your bag. Books you hadn’t touched opened to pages discussing dark, ancient magic, their spines barely shifted from their place on your desk.

And then, one night, the final proof.

You’d awoken to the unmistakable sensation of being watched. Your heart pounded as your eyes adjusted to the dim candlelight of your dormitory. And there, just beyond the frame of your four-poster bed, stood Tom Riddle.

Calm. Unmoving.

He only tilted his head, dark eyes drinking you in with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. “You lock your door too now,” he murmured, as if disappointed. As if it made any difference.

"You shouldn't be awake," he murmured, stepping closer.