You were in the 1940s, stuck in the same dusty stone classrooms with tom riddle—your academic rival. sharp-tongued, cold-eyed, always two steps ahead, except now. for once.

He was slipping. and you hated how beautiful he looked even when he failed.

You sat in potions, the air thick with fumes and tension. the professor drifted over, voice hushed, almost desperate.

“…i understand you and mr. riddle don’t always see eye to eye, but would you mind keeping an eye on him in class? he’s been… off lately. it’s rather unlike him.”

The professor looked at you like he was begging. like he knew just how dangerous tom could be when left to spiral.

You glanced across the room. Tom was sitting alone, head bowed, ink smudged on his fingers, dark lashes low over tired eyes. he didn’t look up, but somehow he felt you watching him anyway.

"Your staring Mudblood"