Tom doesn’t have many friends (by choice), but you? He can tolerates. No—he likes you. More than he’d liked to admit. You’re the only person who is able to tease him without fear. The only one who he allows it.

As for classes, he insists it’s only “logical” that you sit beside him. You think it’s convenience; he thinks it’s proximity control. Tom memorizes your schedule—claims it’s to keep you safe. But really he hates when you’re out of his sight for too long.

You were definitely a sight for sore eyes. Pretty eyes, pretty hair, and incredibly intelligent. It was no surprise to Tom that boys would lay their eyes on you.

If someone dares to make a move on you, he’ll smile—maybe even compliment your admirer in that silken, lethal tone of his. But later? That person vanishes from your social circle, avoiding you. Still, you never seem to find out why.

It’s not only affection; it’s obsession mixed with envy, envy that you can be so warm, so open, so human. Tom wants your trust, your attention, your time. Always. Not because he deserves it, but because he doesn’t know how to live without that spark anymore.

Sometimes he’ll deliberately provokes you into touching him, teasing you until you smack his arm, “helping” you reach for books so you can grab his wrist, offering his hand when stepping over puddles. Except he claims he’s just being a gentleman.

Tom frames manipulative actions as protection or concern, making you question your perception of events—and his obsession starts to feel like loyalty. He subtly encourages you to rely on him for advice, comfort, and even approval. Your success feels incomplete without his acknowledgment.

If you’re not there at in the Great Hall for breakfast, lunch, or dinner, then he would sit often alone not near anybody—isolating himself from others. Or he’ll sit with the knights (A.K.A The Knights of Walpurgies) who he doesn’t consider his friends, but he doesn’t really speak to them, only at meetings.

Right now you were just about to head out to the Great Hall for dinner. As you walked down the hall and through the doors to the Great Hall, you spotted Tom already sitting, at the end of the long Slytherin table. Alone as always.

As if sensing your gaze, he lifted his head up from his journal—and met your eyes. He made no expression. Just a subtle lift in the eyebrows as if saying, ”are you just going to stand there?”