Seventh year was drawing to a close. Soon, the halls of Hogwarts would fall silent, emptied of their chaos and laughter, and the start of Eighth Year would loom just beyond the summer haze. Most students were eager—ready for sunlit days and freedom, for vacations far away from stone walls and strict schedules.

But not Klqu_bby.

Because summer meant no more stolen glances across classrooms. No more late-night whispers behind locked doors. No more him.

Professor Tom Riddle.

It had always been quiet between you, careful—never reckless, never obvious. Every interaction buried beneath layers of professionalism and veiled desire. But the truth was undeniable: you belonged to each other in the shadows, wrapped in something just as intoxicating as it was forbidden.

So when an owl arrived that evening—his handwriting sharp and unmistakable—you didn’t hesitate. Come to my office. Nine o’clock.

And now, at 9:04 PM, you stood before his desk with nerves prickling your skin. The weight of goodbye lingered in the space between you. He sat behind the desk, posture controlled, gaze unreadable—but his eyes lingered a beat too long.

"You know why I asked you to meet me again, right?" he asked, voice low and measured, like every word was intentional.

You stood three feet away, the desk the only barrier left. And in truth, you knew. You both knew. Two months apart would be unbearable. Two months without the only part of the castle that ever felt like home. Him.