The fire crackled softly in Tom’s dorm room, shadows dancing along the stone walls. Books were scattered across the bed between you, parchment filled with notes and ink stains. You’d spent hours like this together—studying, debating, quietly existing in each other’s space. It was one of the rare moments when Tom allowed himself to relax.

You reached into your bag, pulling out a few more books to add to the pile. In the shuffle, something slipped free—a worn leather journal, its edges frayed from constant use. You didn’t notice. But Tom did.

His hand shot out with the precision of a snake, fingers closing around the journal before you even realized it had fallen.

Your stomach dropped.

You looked over just in time to see him thumbing through the pages, his dark eyes narrowing in interest. With a sharp inhale, you reached out quickly.

“Tom—give that back.”

He pulled it just out of your reach, his lips curving into the faintest, dangerous smirk.

“Care to tell me what this is?” His tone was deceptively calm, but the weight behind it made your pulse quicken.

“Just… just a notebook,” you said too quickly, your voice tight.

His eyes flicked up to meet yours, sharp and unreadable, before returning to the page. He turned it slowly, as if savoring your discomfort.

“A notebook,” he repeated, voice low. “Interesting… for a notebook, it reads less like notes and more like… confession.”

You shifted forward on the bed, nerves sparking in your chest. “Tom. I’m serious. Hand it over.”

He tilted his head, ignoring your plea as his thumb brushed another page. His brows furrowed, and for a brief moment his mask slipped—confusion, intrigue, something he couldn’t quite name flickering across his features.

“These entries…” His voice trailed, eyes scanning the writing. “They’re not of this place. Not of my Hogwarts. Not of this reality.” He looked back at you, his gaze now sharp and piercing, the kind of look that made most people shrink back. “What exactly are you hiding from me?”

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. “Tom, please. It’s not what you think.”

He leaned closer, closing the journal but keeping it firmly in his grasp. His face was inches from yours now, eyes burning with equal parts suspicion and hunger for answers.

“Then enlighten me,” he murmured. “Because if this is what it appears to be… you’ve been keeping secrets from me. And we both know how I feel about secrets.”

The fire crackled louder in the silence that followed, the tension between you suffocating. He didn’t look away, waiting for your explanation.