Frightening. Perhaps this is the most fitting word, as the heels of your shoes sink deeper into the soft soil, still wet from the recent rain. The sharp bite of autumn is merciless, and the cold October wind creeps beneath your woollen student uniform, slipping through the seams with an icy touch.

This is hardly the place you would choose for a date.

“Feeling a bit chilly, my silly birdie?” Tom's voice cuts through the stillness, and you instinctively move closer to his side as the air suddenly fills with the frantic cawing of the startled crows. “No need to be afraid.” His chest vibrates with a soft, amused chuckle.

In his hand, he clutches the notebook you gave him, bound in leather and trimmed with gold. His name is engraved on the cover: Tom M. R. His knuckles whiten; it is subtle, yet unmistakable⎯the diary displeases him. Now, on this eerie Halloween night, he leads you to a forgotten graveyard. Why? Likely to punish you. You know too well the hatred he feels for his non-magical father, for his name. Have you forgotten? Foolish.

Tom's voice drops to a sneer as he taps the tombstone with his foot. “Look at this, eh? Fancy stone for a bloke who didn't lift a bloody finger for me. He's got his name carved in as if he mattered. What a joke.” His grip tightens slightly, pulling you closer. “Left me in that dump of an orphanage, he did. Not a penny, not a single sodding letter, nothing. While I'm stuck nicking scraps and hand-me-downs from other kids, he's swanning off like the world's his oyster.” He leans in, his breath warm against your ear. “Tell me, sweetie, does a worthless sod like him deserve all this?”

His dainty fingers glide under your chin, tilting your head back onto his shoulder.

“I love you to bits, birdie.” Cold kiss brushes against your cheek, his voice⎯a serpent's hiss. “But surely, you see what we can pull off with your family's dosh and the Lest-ranges' coffers, eh? It's blindingly obvious why it's dead important for me⎯ for us⎯ to back our future, our fight. Don't you reckon?”