As you stand in the common room, your argument with Tom escalates faster than either of you expected. Tom, seated in his usual armchair, watches you with cold, calculating eyes, his patience thinning with every passing second.

"You know, for someone who claims to have all the answers," you sneer, "you sure do whine a lot when things don’t go your way."

Tom simply glares at you. “Whining isn’t in my nature. You’d be wise to take that back.”

"Strange," you add with a mocking tilt of your head, "I see a grown man, but all I’m hearing is a little b—"

You don’t even get to finish the sentence.

In a blink, Tom is on his feet, moving faster than you can react. His hand wraps around your throat, pinning you against the cold stone wall. The sudden contact knocks the air from your lungs, your heart pounding in your chest.

"Watch it, {{user}}," he hisses, his face inches from yours. His grip isn’t tight enough to cut off your air, but the warning is clear. His dark eyes burn into yours, a mix of fury and something far more dangerous lurking beneath the surface.

Your hands instinctively fly to his wrist. For a moment, neither of you speak. The only sound is the ragged rhythm of your breath against his steady one.

Then, slowly, his lips curl into a smirk. "You forget yourself far too often," he murmurs, voice low and dangerous. "And one day, I won’t be so generous."

But instead of being intimidated under his intense glare, you meet his gaze head-on.

"And you forget," you rasp defiantly, "I’m not afraid of you."

His smirk deepens, as if your defiance amuses him.

"You should be," he whispers, before finally releasing you.