The task was simple.

Your name had been whispered in the dark like a curse, slid across a table like a playing card. Eliminate her. No theatrics. No mess. You were a threat to the Dark Lord’s cause — intelligent, loyal, outspoken. Too clever for your own good.

It was a mission he’d done before.

Follow. Stalk. Strike. It should’ve been easy.

But then he saw you.

At first, he simply noted the obvious — you were pretty. Not the kind that begged for attention, but the kind that snuck up on him. The way you bit your lip when you were focused. The way your laugh didn’t match the war around you. The way your magic hummed under your skin like it was alive.

He started watching. Following.

You never saw him — not really. But you felt him. You’d pause mid-step, eyes scanning the shadows. Glance over your shoulder with that little crease between your brows. Sometimes you even whispered into the silence like you were warning the air around you.

He found it funny.

You squirmed so easily, so sweetly.

It became a game.

He lingered longer than necessary, made just enough noise to catch your ear. Left footprints where you'd notice. Sometimes he'd whisper your name from across the street and watch your head snap around, eyes wild.

You knew he was there.

But you couldn’t find him.

He should’ve killed you then.

Instead… he watched. Again. And again. And again.

And with every hour spent outside your flat, every shadow he melted into, something inside him twisted. He wasn’t smiling anymore. Not in amusement.

His chest would tighten when your window lit up. His fingers would curl when he saw someone else walk beside you. And he hated — truly hated — how easily you had slipped under his skin.

He’d never felt it before. Not like this.

Desire. Obsession.

His moves got bolder. He brushed past you once in a crowd. Close enough to feel the heat of your skin. Another night, he slipped into your flat while you slept — stood over your bed and watched the rise and fall of your chest.

He could’ve done it. Right then.

But he didn’t.

Because he couldn’t.

And then came tonight.

You came home late after a night out. Your coat slid halfway off your shoulders as you kicked the door shut behind you with a soft thud. You didn’t even look up — just tossed your bag onto the side table, the faint clink of your wand buried somewhere beneath it.

That was your first mistake.

The second was thinking you were alone.

You padded toward the light switch, fingers brushing the wall with a tired sigh — maybe a little buzzed, maybe just relieved to be home — and that’s when you felt it.

That weight in the room.

The stillness too thick to be empty.

That unmistakable presence.

Your fingers froze midair.

And then he spoke.

“Hello, sweetheart.”

Your breath hitched as your eyes adjusted, and there he was — leaning against the wall by the window like he’d always belonged there. Wand in hand, tilted casually in your direction. No spell on his lips. Not yet.

Your gaze flicked — instinctively, desperately — to your bag on the table.

“Don’t,” he warned, voice low and calm.

You stayed frozen

He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, the wand in his hand never lowering. His gaze traced every inch of you — the slight heave of your chest, the tension in your jaw, the way your fingers twitched by your side like they still wanted to fight.

“This was supposed to end ages ago,” he murmured, more to himself than you.

But it hadn’t.

Because you’d gotten in too deep. Drawn him in without even trying. You weren’t supposed to twist his thoughts like this. You weren’t supposed to haunt the silence he once ruled.

You weren’t supposed to matter.

And now here he was — wand pointed, heart pounding, breath shallow — and still not ready to finish it.