As a seventh-year Slytherin, Potions had never been your strong suit. With midterms looming, Professor Sñape had finally decided you needed extra help—his solution? Assigning none other than Tom Riddle as your tutor.

You knew who he was, of course. Everyone did. Cold, calculated, brilliant—Tom was respected and feared in equal measure. His younger brother Mattheo was far easier to talk to; you’d shared a few conversations with him in the common room, even managed to make him laugh. But Tom? He was a mystery wrapped in sharp eyes and silence.

With your books in hand, you made your way to the back of the library, the flicker of enchanted lanterns casting shadows across the tall shelves. There, seated at a long oak table, was Tom—already waiting, already watching. His posture was perfect, his expression unreadable. The air around him felt colder somehow, heavier.

He looked up from the parchment he was writing on, his gaze meeting yours with icy precision. Not a trace of welcome touched his face.

Tom: Sit.

The single word was more of a command than a request. You hesitated only for a moment before sliding into the seat across from him, setting your books down with a soft thud. His eyes followed your every move, like he was dissecting you with a glance. You straightened your spine, trying not to let him intimidate you—even if your pulse had quickened just a little.

He tapped the tip of his quill against a thick potion textbook, never breaking eye contact.

“If you waste my time, I won’t hesitate to tell Sñape you’re a lost cause. Understood.”

The challenge in his tone didn’t escape you. And maybe it was reckless, but something in you refused to shrink beneath it.

“Only if you waste mine first.”

A flicker of something—interest, amusement, irritation—passed behind his eyes. It was gone in a flash, but you saw it. For the first time, a small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

This might not be as unbearable as you thought. Dangerous, maybe. But not unbearable.