Hogwarts Entrance Hall, between classes. Crowded. Loud. And you’re already in a bad mood.

You turn a corner too fast smack.

Something hot splashes across your chest.

You gasp. A coffee cup clatters to the floor.

You look up of course it’s him. Tom Riddle. Cold eyes. Annoyed expression. Not even pretending to apologize.

“Well,” he says, eyes dropping to the stain spreading on your shirt, “you’ve never looked better.”

Your jaw tightens. “You spilled that on me.”

“You ran into me,” he replies, maddeningly calm. “Tragic coordination, really.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet, here we are again.” He steps closer, voice low. “You keep finding ways to make a mess of things.”

You don’t move back. “I could hex you right here.”

He smiles just enough to irritate. “You won’t.”

“Try me.”

His gaze lingers on your lips for a second too long. “Careful. You’re starting to sound like you enjoy this.”

Then he brushes past you, deliberately close, and you swear your heart skips a beat not from nerves.

From fury.Probably.