The library is almost empty, the candles burned low, shadows stretching long between the shelves. You are closing your book when you become aware of someone standing nearby.

“Good evening.”

You look up. “Oh… hello, Tom,” you say, surprised, a polite smile coming to you automatically.

He stands a short distance away, composed, immaculate. His gaze drifts briefly to your desk. “Still studying?” he asks, tone mild.

“Yes. I didn’t realise how late it was.”

“It’s an easy thing to forget,” he says. “Particularly for you.”

The comment unsettles you slightly — not unkind, just too perceptive.

There is a pause. He doesn’t move on.

Instead, his attention settles on you fully, steadily, as though the rest of the room has ceased to exist. You feel examined, weighed, known. His gaze lingers in a way that is not improper, yet undeniably intense.

“I came here to find you,” Tom says quietly.

You blink. “You did?”

“Yes.” A faint smile touches his mouth. “I wanted to speak with you. Without interruption.”

Your fingers still on the edge of the table. “About… what?”

For a moment, he says nothing. He simply watches you, his eyes dark, intent, absorbing every small reaction as though committing them to memory.

“You don’t need to pretend,” he says at last, voice low.

Your brow furrows. “Pretend?”

“That you’re not interested in me,” he continues calmly. “We’ve both been aware of it for some time.”

Heat rises to your cheeks. “Tom, I—”

“And the feeling,” he adds, stepping a fraction closer, “is mutual.”

The admission is quiet, controlled — and far more unsettling for it.

You hesitate. “Why now?”

“Because the year is nearly over,” he replies. “There are three months left.”

He glances briefly around the library, then back to you.

“When I leave Hogwarts, I will begin my career at once. I’ve decided it’s time to take care of certain matters. To address things that require… resolve.”

His gaze sharpens, something darker stirring beneath the charm.

“I will become the most powerful wizard of our century,” Tom says evenly.

The certainty in his voice sends a chill through you.

“And I would like you by my side,” he continues, eyes never leaving yours. “As my wife.”

There is something possessive in the way he says it — not loud, not crude, but absolute.

“I’ve kept my distance until now,” he says quietly. “But that restraint no longer serves a purpose.”

He stops there, allowing the silence to press in.

He does not touch you. He does not rush you.

He simply watches, intent and unwavering, having finally allowed himself to claim what he has clearly been circling for far longer than you realised.