Tom has been acting strange for weeks. Colder, more distant. His eyes linger on things unseen, and when he speaks, there’s something... off. Like he's thinking of something far darker than the conversation at hand. You’ve learned to read him better than most, but this? This feels like you’re missing a puzzle piece.

So, when he slips out of the common room one night, silent as a shadow, you follow. Curiosity outweighs caution. Your breath fogs in the cool night air as you trail behind him through the winding halls of Hogwarts, past the Forbidden Forest’s edge.

The deeper you go, the quieter everything becomes. Even the wind seems to hold its breath. Then—suddenly—a sharp flash of green slices through the dark, illuminating Tom’s silhouette. His wand is raised, his voice a low whisper, ancient and chilling. The incantation rolls off his tongue like a curse laced in silk, its meaning slipping just out of your reach.

You inch closer, the thrum of adrenaline pounding in your ears. But then—crack.

Your foot lands squarely on a brittle stick. It snaps like a gunshot, echoing too loudly in the suffocating stillness.

Tom freezes.

The hairs on the back of your neck rise as he halts, spine straightening with unnatural stillness. Slowly—painfully slowly—he turns his head, inch by inch, like a marionette pulled by unseen strings. The pale moonlight bleeds across his sharp features, carving shadows where warmth should never dare linger.

But it’s his eyes—God, his eyes. They blaze crimson, molten and alive, glowing like dying stars smoldering behind a veil of black lashes. There’s something ancient in them, something starved.

A slow, razor-edged smile curls at the corner of his mouth, sharp as broken glass. The kind of smile that promises you’re exactly where he wants you—cornered. And worst of all?

He looks like he’s been waiting for you.

Then, his voice, low and velvety, threads through the dark like a serpent in silk.

“Well, well... what have we here?”