She’d been in love with Tom Riddle for as long as she could remember — since they were eleven, really. Everyone at Hogwarts knew it. She was the girl who trailed after him like sunlight chasing shadow. Years later, it wasn’t a surprise to anyone that she was still at his side, that he’d quietly gotten used to her constant presence — the chaos to his control, the warmth to his winter. People called them friends, though Riddle denied that quickly.

The fire had burned low in the Slytherin common room, green shadows flickering across the damp stone walls. Tom didn’t bother to glance up when the portrait door creaked open — he already knew the rhythm of her steps.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he said quietly, quill scratching over parchment.

“You never tell me to leave,” she murmured, settling beside him, her shoulder brushing his.

He paused, ink dripping onto the page. “I did try, but you're just too stubborn.”