Shadows flickered like restless ghosts under the dying candlelight. The rain fell heavy the sound muffled by the castle’s stone walls. Tom Riddle stood alone in the corridor, a figure carved from darkness; elegant, unreadable, and radiating that chilling stoicism he wore like a second skin. At the sound of your footsteps, he turned, slow and deliberate, his eyes looking past yours, as if he were trying to understand the very depths of your soul. He knew—of course he knew—that you were the one he couldn’t charm, couldn’t manipulate with that polished prefect badge and face of a fallen angel.

In that breathless silence that passed between you, something caught fire: not love, not quite hatred, but something far more volatile. A slow-burning collision of obsession and intrigue, of lies whispered like prayers. The tension between you was almost tangible as his gaze dared you to speak.