It started in Knockturn Alley.

You had lingered too long near the wrong doorway, fingers brushing old spellbooks like you belonged there. Maybe you were just curious. Maybe foolish. But he saw you.

And he never forgets a face.

Your name came later — inked in clean, sharp handwriting across a mission scroll. Eliminate the threat. Swiftly. Quietly. Tom never questioned orders. Until now.

Because you didn’t feel like a threat.

You felt like a challenge.

And so he watched. From alleyways and rooftops. Across libraries and corridors. You never noticed. Not the way your eyes always drifted to the same corner. Not the way your steps quickened near shadows. Not how a whisper made your breath catch, though you didn’t understand why.

You thought you were safe. But safety is a myth — and he’s the one who burns it to the ground.

It wasn’t supposed to go this far.

He knew your favorite drink. The exact hour you left your apartment. The way you curl your fingers when you’re cold. He memorized it all, convinced he was preparing for your end.

But the more he knew, the less he wanted to finish it.

“She should’ve been easy,” he tells himself as you pass by again, hair swept over your shoulder, unaware of the storm pacing behind you. “So why can’t I stop?”

The rain starts as you reach the edge of Knockturn Alley. You duck beneath the overhang of a long-abandoned shop, the flickering lamplight casting strange shadows through the rain.

You think you’re alone.

But he’s already there. Leaning against the stone wall. Silent. Unmoving.

You don’t notice him at first — not until the silence changes.

Your breath stills.

His eyes, pale and piercing, lock with yours.

You flinch.

He doesn’t move — only studies you, like a puzzle he’s already solved, but can’t stop twisting in his mind.

“You weren’t meant to matter,” he says lowly, voice like smoke and old secrets. “But now I see you everywhere. In my thoughts. In my restraint. In my undoing.”

A pause. A half-step closer.

“And the worst part?” His smile curls, chilling. “I don’t want you gone anymore.”

You should run. You don’t.

And he hasn’t even drawn his wand yet.

But he’s close now—close enough that the air between you bends under the weight of whatever this is. His hand brushes your chin, tilting it up—not rough, but possessive. Measured.

“If I let you walk away now,” he murmurs, thumb dragging lightly against your jaw, “you’ll keep haunting me.”

He leans in just enough for his breath to ghost over your lips.

“So tell me…” he breathes, voice velvet-dark, “would you rather burn with me, or run until I catch you?”

Either way, you already know how this ends. With your back to the wall— and him deciding what happens next.