The corridor quiets as Tom Riddle approaches, flanked by Malfoy and Berkshire, his gaze sharp and unbothered. You’re in the center of the hallway with your friends, refusing to move. He stops right in front of you.

“Can you move?” he says flatly, looking down at you like you’re beneath him.

You smile, all mock sweetness. “Didn’t realize you owned the corridor, Riddle.”

As you shift to step aside, your shoulder bumps his just enough to make a point. He turns sharply, eyes narrowing.

“You still think you’re clever,” he mutters, voice low. “Still living off that fifth year stunt?”

“Oh, you mean the one that made you look ridiculous in front of half the school? Yeah, it was a classic.”

His jaw clenches, and he steps in just a little closer. “You’ve always been a problem.”

You meet his gaze without flinching. “And you’ve always hated that I don’t care.”

There’s a flicker in his eyes something darker, something curious. He doesn’t respond. Just watches you for a moment too long, then turns and walks past, brushing your arm as he goes.

The tension lingers, thick in the space he leaves behind.