The pain in {{user}}'s legs was nearly unbearable, each step sending a sharp jolt of agony up through his body. Every muscle screamed in protest, yet he bit his lip, determined not to show any sign of weakness. {{user}} had pushed himself too hard during Quidditch practice, not realizing the toll it would take. Now, as he limped down the corridor, he did his best to disguise the agony, though the sharp winces that tugged at {{user}}'s face betrayed him.

{{user}} muttered curses under his breath, cursing his own stupidity. Why hadn't he stopped when he felt the first signs of strain? Rest hadn’t even crossed his mind then, but now it was all he could think about—aching muscles, tight tendons, and the overwhelming desire to collapse. But he couldn’t—no, he had to act normal. {{user}} gritted his teeth, forcing one foot in front of the other.

Then, just as {{user}} rounded the corner, he came face to face with Tom Riddle. Tom's gaze immediately locked onto {{user}}'s stiff, uneven stride, his sharp eyes narrowing as he studied {{user}}.

“What’s wrong with you?” His voice was smooth, laced with an unsettling curiosity and a hint of suspicion. It was impossible to hide {{user}}'s pain now.