#hogwarts oc

Harry watched him with a mixture of pity and amusement. “If you don’t want to ask her directly… You could ask Hermione, she always has good ideas,” he said, shrugging.

Ron’s eyes lit up with hope. It was true, Hermione always had good ideas that ended up saving their skins, and besides, SHE WAS ALSO A WOMAN, a perfect combination. She would have the answer.

Without wasting any more time, he dashed out of the dormitory, nearly tripping Neville, who was coming down the stairs. The common room was almost empty, except for Hermione. She was right where he expected to find her, curled up in the armchair closest to the fire with her hideous cat in her lap and her nose buried in an advanced magic book.

“Hermione,” he called, approaching, trying to hide the short dash he'd made just seconds before.

She didn't even look up from her book. “What's wrong, Ron? Another Potions assignment you didn't understand?”

“No, it's not that,” Ron denied immediately, although the truth was he did have a Potions assignment he needed help with. “This is much more important.” Hermione watched him intently over the edge of the old book. “I'm listening.”

Ron swallowed hard. “What do you get a girl for her birthday?”

Surprised by the question, Hermione dropped the book on Crookshanks, who meowed in annoyance but didn't move.

“Well, it depends on the girl,” she finally said.

“Yeah, well, a girl, a girl… Normal?” “Oh, is this a present for your sister?” she asked innocently, enjoying seeing him flustered.

“For Ginny? No!” Ron replied irritably. “Merlin, why would I want to get her something?”

“I can’t help you if you don’t tell me who it’s for,” she insisted.

“That doesn’t matter,” Ron replied, trying to sound nonchalant, though he knew his cheeks were starting to betray him.

“Well, if you’re looking for a present for who I think it is…” Hermione continued, suppressing a smile, “I know she lost her scarf last week, maybe that would do.”

“I can’t give her a scarf. I’m not my mother,” Ron protested again, frustrated. “Besides, I want it to be something special… And I don’t have much money.” He let his head fall into his hands with a sigh; this task was proving more difficult than he’d expected. Hermione ran her hand down his back, trying to comfort him. It was no secret to anyone who Ron was in love with, even though he didn't want to talk about it. Hermione had noticed how her friend's eyes always wandered in your direction whenever you passed by, how he tried to maintain physical contact as much as possible, and how he'd even given you the last of his Chocolate Frogs just last week. Without a doubt, Ron was completely smitten.

"You don't need to spend a fortune to give a special gift," she said kindly, setting aside the jokes. "A thoughtful gesture can mean so much more than an expensive present, you know?"

"A thoughtful gesture? What exactly does that mean?" Ron felt even more lost than before.

"Something with sentimental value, Ronald," Hermione explained, losing patience. "For example, what do you notice when you're around her?"

"Um... Well, she has a really nice laugh," he murmured after thinking for a few seconds.

"Uh-huh. What else?"

"She also has really beautiful eyes."

"Okay, we're making progress... And what things does she like?" “Well, I have no idea,” Ron muttered, somewhat lost. “She’s always drawing something in a notebook she carries around… She always wears her hair tied back with a red ribbon and she likes to look out the window when it rains.”

“Okay, I think you’ve got it.”

“I’ve got it? Are you kidding me?” He huffed in annoyance. “You still haven’t told me what to get her.”

“I’m not going to tell you,” Hermione replied, going back to her reading. “Otherwise it would be a present from me, and I already have to get her something.”

“So what are you going to get her?”

“Forget it, Ron, you’ll have to figure this out yourself,” Hermione said. She buried her nose in her book again. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m busy right now.”

“So what?” But he didn’t get a response. Annoyed, he continued, “You’ll have to figure this out yourself.” He mimicked her in a low voice with an exaggerated grimace, but Hermione just carefully turned the page. “I’m Hermione Granger, and I’m a know-it-all, only I’m not going to help you because it’s more interesting to read my book on…” She glanced quickly at the cover of the book. “Evolution and Reproduction of House-Elves?” she said with disgust. “Are you ignoring me because of that awful book?”

“It’s a fascinating and informative book,” Hermione defended herself. “If you read anything other than those stupid Quidditch magazines, you’d understand.”

“Yeah, right…” Ron slumped back against the sofa. “I once heard her mention that she likes chocolate frogs.”

“Don’t you dare!” Hermione angrily put her book aside again, but at that moment the portrait hole opened.

You swept into the common room with your group of friends. Ron immediately fell silent and glared at his friend to make sure she didn’t say anything. Hermione, pleased with the situation, raised her free hand to get your attention. Seeing them, you couldn’t help but smile and quickly approached them.

Ron thought he would faint right then and there. The annoyance he felt with his friend quickly transformed into a knot of nerves in his stomach and a burning heat in his cheeks. He prayed internally that Hermione wouldn’t open her mouth at that moment. “It’s so good to find you,” you said, relieved. “For a moment I thought I’d have to send you both an owl.”

“An owl?” Ron repeated nervously. “Why?” He had to stifle a cry of pain when he felt Hermione’s foot dig into his ankle.

“Well, I don’t know if you knew, but tomorrow is my birthday.”

“Yes, we knew,” Hermione said.

“No, I had no idea,” Ron replied at the same time. They both glared at each other, trying to get the other to shut up.

“Um… Well,” you continued, oblivious to the silent exchange, “Tomorrow is my birthday and I wanted to celebrate. It’ll be something low-key, right here. Fred and George promised they’d get me some snacks. And well, of course, you’re both invited.”

“Oh, that sounds great!” Hermione exclaimed immediately. “Count us in.”

“Cool,” you smiled. “I’m sure it’ll be a good night.” You winked at them. One of your friends came over to where you were to take you with her towards the stairs to the bedrooms. You hadn't even disappeared from sight before Ron slumped back down on the sofa, feeling defeated.

"Well," Hermione said, unable to hide her smile, "You have at least 24 hours to figure out what to get her. You should hurry."

The night was agonizing; the idea of ​​showing up empty-handed made Ron's stomach churn uncomfortably.

It wasn't that you'd be angry if he arrived with nothing, of course not; you were too kind. He'd seen it many times, like when you let him keep your notes indefinitely, or when you shared your favorite sweets, or how you never laughed at him whenever he managed to embarrass himself by saying something silly.

But if he managed to find a good gift, one that would impress you, there was a chance he'd get more than just kindness from you. Perhaps you could see him with the same eyes he saw you with.

However, nothing came to mind, and every small idea that seemed even remotely viable instantly became unfeasible due to the meager amount of Galleons in his purse. Harry hadn't been any help, and he was sure the rest of his friends hadn't either, and Hermione was too stubborn in insisting that he should figure it out for himself.

There was only one last option left to ask for advice, one he had tried to avoid because of the consequences it would bring. But desperate times call for desperate measures. His brothers had always been successful with girls; surely they (after teasing him relentlessly) could help him.

The next morning, for the first time that year, Ron was the first of his classmates to get up and head towards the Great Hall. Fred and George were in their usual spot, chatting about something related to explosives and some itching powder. “Good morning, little brother,” Fred greeted him with a grin that was a bit too big for that time of day. “Did you fall out of bed? Nightmares about spiders again?” Ron bit his tongue to keep from answering. Yes, he’d had a horrible nightmare where he gifted you a box full of spiders and everything ended in disaster… But he wasn’t going to admit it, not with them.

“No, I was just thinking.”

“Merlin’s beard!” George exclaimed. “I’m sure we’ll have a storm tonight.” Both twins laughed as if it were the funniest joke they’d ever heard.

He was about to get up and leave, but Fred placed his hand on his shoulder to keep him in place. “Come on, little brother, don’t be angry. Why were you looking for us?”

“I need some advice,” Ron grumbled.

“Advice,” Fred repeated. “What kind?”

“Skipping class?” George interrupted.

“Teaching some idiot Slytherin a lesson?” Fred continued.

“Escaping Filch?”

“Cheating in Snape’s class?”

“Girls?” Ron didn’t answer the question, but the change in his expression was enough to know that George had hit the nail on the head. “Girls!” he confirmed again, and the twins burst into laughter once more, attracting the attention of some students at other tables. Ron was about to get up, convinced that it had been a bad idea to ask them for help, but both brothers forcibly sat him back down.

“You should have started there. We’re experts on the subject,” Fred began. “So tell us, who is this unlucky girl?” George asked.

“I’m not looking for that kind of advice,” he lied. “I just want to know what I can get a girl for her birthday.”

“Her birthday?” Fred repeated, leaning towards him with a mischievous grin. “And she’s the one I’m thinking of.”

“I have no idea who you’re thinking of,” Ron said quickly.

“I think I’m thinking of a girl too,” George added, also leaning towards him.

“Are we thinking of the same girl, George?” Fred asked with feigned innocence.

“I think so, Fred.”

“This was a mistake,” Ron lamented, dropping his head into his hands.

“A mistake? You’ve come to the right place, little brother,” George patted him on the back, trying to cheer him up. “What’s more, we thought you were taking your sweet time,” Fred added. “We bet you’d take until next year to confess your feelings for Miss.”

“Damn it, now I owe Lee 10 Galleons,” George complained.

“You were betting on that?!” Ron exclaimed indignantly.

“Well, it’s not like you’ve been very subtle,” Fred said in a half-whisper.

“When you comb your hair every time she appears, it’s a bit obvious,” Lee commented, sitting down across from the three redheads.

“Or when you always look for a seat near her.”

“Or when you stare for long minutes when she ties her hair up.”

“Or when you stutter every time she speaks to you.”

“Or when…”

“Stop it! I don’t do any of those things!” Ron shouted, completely red-faced. “Sometimes it’s a bit creepy,” George added in a whisper. “But you’re in love, what can you do…”

Ron remained in his place, staring at the plate in front of him, unable to believe how obvious it had been.

“Anyway,” George continued, “you came to the right place, we’ll help you.”

“Yeah, right,” Ron scoffed, already despondent.

“Come on!” Fred slammed his fists on the table, making the plates rattle. “She’ll be so impressed with your gift that she’ll have no choice but to run straight into your arms, won’t she, George?”

“Of course, Fred.”

“Listen, Romeo,” George continued, “She’s a very pretty girl and she also seems to have class, you have to give her something worthy of her.”

“I think I still have some Glow Powder…” Fred rambled.

“Isn’t that the one that almost made the Prefects’ bathroom explode?” Lee chimed in, his mouth full. “Yeah, but we already adjusted it, it’s less flammable now… In theory,” Fred defended himself.

“I’m trying to surprise her, not start a fire,” Ron quickly explained.

“But you have to make your gift stand out from everyone else’s,” George said.

“And romantic,” his twin added.

“And make an impact.”

“There’s a shop in Hogsmeade near Zonko’s,” Jordan interrupted, his mouth full of toast. “They have things like bracelets, necklaces, and all that nonsense girls like… And it’s not too expensive.” Ron’s eyes widened; for the first time in the entire conversation, someone had given him a concrete idea. He stood up so quickly that he accidentally bumped his brother’s elbow as he was drinking from his glass, causing the liquid to spill all over him.

“Holy crap!” Fred exclaimed, jumping out of his seat as pumpkin juice dripped down his uniform. Ron didn’t turn to look at the mess; after all, he knew he’d get charged for it later. He reached Gryffindor Tower in record time and raced up to the dormitories, pulling all the Galleons, some Sickles, and a Knut he'd kept from his own birthday out of his trunk. There was no sign of Harry anywhere, so with a swift movement, he borrowed the Marauder's Map and the cloak hidden under the bed. He was sure he could repay him later. Without wasting any more time, he ventured through the passage, where a strong, icy gust nearly ripped the cloak off his back. It wasn't the first time he'd traveled through these tunnels, but he swore he'd never done it at such speed. It took him no more than a few minutes to reach the other end. Luckily for him, the Honeydukes cellar was completely deserted, which allowed him to remove the cloak before leaving.

Hogsmeade was completely covered in a white blanket of snow, and a familiar, sweet smell filled the air. He walked down the street trying not to attract attention; after all, this wasn't a day when Hogwarts students were allowed to visit the village.

Following Lee Jordan's words, he reached Zonko's shop and began to pay closer attention to the nearby stores. Truthfully, he'd never noticed the old bookstore next door or the old-fashioned women's clothing store beside it, but just a few meters away was what he was looking for.

A small shop, with peeling pink paint on the front and a crooked sign. The window was crammed with strange, shiny objects: rings with tiny pulsating hearts, necklaces that changed color according to the wearer's mood, and even matching bracelets that glowed when one of the two wearers pressed them. Everything seemed designed to impress a girl and perhaps also to ruin any wallet. Ron nervously eyed the shop window. Lee had lied to him; absolutely everything was either out of his budget or too tacky. He was about to give up and desperately search through that secondhand clothing store when a small butterfly caught his attention. The tiny iridescent blue insect fluttered delicately among the other items, held by a thin silver chain. Right where it was attached was a small, handwritten, almost imperceptible sign: “Special Offer!” For a moment, Ron remembered the notebook you carried everywhere, the one with the pretty butterfly you had drawn yourself.

Inside the store, a woman with grayish hair dozed behind the counter. Ron cleared his throat, trying to get her attention, making her jump.

“Oh, dear, how can I help you?” she asked in a calm, kind voice; for a moment, it reminded him of his own grandmother. Ron pointed to the shop window. “I’d like to see the butterfly pendant.”

The woman smiled before searching for what he was looking for. When she brought it out, the butterfly was still clumsily trying to escape. “Good eye, young man,” she laughed. “This is the last one left, that’s why it’s on sale.”

“On sale?” Ron repeated, trying to sound casual as he felt the money in his pocket.

She nodded and told him the price. Ron felt a lump in his throat and emptied everything he had on the counter. He counted it carefully so as not to miss a single coin under the watchful eye of the shopkeeper. Every Galleon, Sickle, and even the last Knut ended up in the shop’s register.

The shopkeeper nodded with satisfaction and tapped the butterfly once with a wand. It fell stiffly onto a small velvet box. “It will last a few minutes,” she explained as she tied a gold ribbon around it. “When your girlfriend opens it, it will fly away again.”

Ron blushed to the tips of his ears, but he didn’t correct her. He carefully tucked the small box into his pocket and said goodbye with an awkward “Thanks.”

The walk back seemed shorter, perhaps because he felt like he was floating. He wasn't in a hurry this time; the snow fell silently, clinging to his hair, but he couldn't care less. He was convinced he was carrying the best possible gift, one that would bring a smile to your face that took his breath away.

When he finally passed through the statue of the one-eyed witch, he dusted off his cloak and walked to the common room. Just as he stepped through the portrait, his brothers came up behind him, laughing and joking, carrying boxes full of snacks and drinks.

“What's with that face, Romeo?” George teased when he saw him.

Fred raised an eyebrow. “Looks like Lee's advice did some good. Although I still think you should have listened to us.”

Ignoring them, Ron went up to the room where he put the map and cloak back in their place. Harry, who was sitting on his bed leafing through a copy of the Daily Prophet, looked at him in surprise. “Did you get a present?” Ron just nodded, blushing. Harry shrugged with a smile, but didn't press the issue.

After a few minutes, they both went down to the common room. The fire was warming the room pleasantly. They had arranged a quiet get-together with a few close friends, and the twins had kept their word about getting snacks and drinks from the kitchen.

He looked around for you; you were standing by the sofa with a glass of Butterbeer in your hand, your hair loose and shining in the firelight. Hermione had just finished telling a joke that made you laugh uproariously, that laugh he loved so much, and it gave him the strength to approach you. He walked toward you with the small box in his hand. He felt like his heart would burst as he got closer; he was afraid that if he got any closer, you might even hear it. When he reached you, he reached out and gently touched your shoulder.

You turned around, and Ron froze. A small pink butterfly pendant, identical to the one he held in his hand, rested on your collarbone, glowing faintly.

“Hi! For a moment I thought you'd fallen asleep,” you said, laughing, but noticing his expression, your smile faded slightly. He just lowered his gaze, speechless.

You followed his gaze to your neck and took the small pendant between your fingers, showing it to him. “Do you like it?” you said tenderly. “It's very original, a friend gave it to me.” Ron felt his stomach sink. “Happy birthday,” he managed to say as he discreetly put away his own gift.

“Thanks, Ron,” you tried to smile at him, but his disheartened expression puzzled you.

You both remained in an awkward silence. From across the room, Ron felt the sharp gaze of his brothers, waiting for the gift to be presented, but that wasn't going to happen. “Hope you enjoy the party,” he muttered before walking away towards Harry and the twins. Fred watched him approach, disappointed. “What’s with that face? Didn’t you get her a present?” Ron didn’t answer, just slumped down in the empty space next to his best friend. Lee Jordan, who was standing with the twins, ventured to ask, “So… did you find that shop I told you about?” “Yeah,” he replied in a low murmur. “And the present? Bro, her birthday’s today. I know you want to surprise her, but I don’t know if you’ll manage it if you give it to her any other day,” George insisted. Ron clenched his jaw, but didn’t reply. Instead, he jumped up and stomped across the common room, passing by the portrait of the Fat Lady. The change in temperature was noticeable, but he didn’t care; he just wanted to be away from everyone. He slumped down on one of the steps with a heavy sigh. The hallway was silent; only the murmur from inside the room could be heard.

With his elbows resting on his knees, he took the small box from his pocket. He opened it carefully, and the small butterfly took flight. "What an idiot," he whispered to himself, watching the little creature trying to escape. He was so focused on the small glass insect that he didn't even hear the frame open behind him. He only noticed your presence when you sat down next to him, staring at you intently.

"You left early," you said, a little uncomfortable. "Are you okay?"

"Yes," he replied with a sigh. "I'm just tired."

"Oh," you murmured. "For a moment I thought you were upset... with me." He looked up to meet your eyes, bright and curious, and felt his heart melt at them.

"Don't be silly," he quickly replied. "I'm just tired of being such a... fool." Ron hesitated for a moment, but finally handed you the small, open box. With extreme care, you took the box in your hands, your warm fingers brushing against his. “I thought you’d like it, but I guess it doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Oh, Ron, I love it,” you said. “This one’s the same color as my notebook. Thank you so much.”

“You don’t have to lie to me,” he hastened. “Or use it, it’s silly.”

“No, it isn’t,” you interrupted. You took your wand from your pocket and tapped the chain, which, after glowing faintly, shortened considerably. “Now it definitely isn’t,” you assured him. “Will you help me?”

Ron looked at you in surprise. The necklace was now the perfect size to wrap around your wrist. He fastened it carefully, trying to keep his hands from trembling with nerves. You moved it to show it to him; the butterfly fluttered its shimmering wings. “I loved it, Ron,” you insisted again. “Thank you so much.”

“I… I’m sorry I left like that,” he apologized awkwardly. “I just… I spent all afternoon looking for something special, and I wanted it to be unique.” He paused, hesitating to continue. “I think you’re unique.”

You both remained silent, your hand still resting on his, and neither of you seemed inclined to remove it.

“Well,” you said softly, “there’s a gift that no one has given me yet.”

“Really? What—What?” He looked at you, confused.

You didn’t answer. Instead, you leaned in, pressing your lips to his. Ron quickly returned your kiss, gently releasing your hand to place his own on your cheeks. At first awkward and hesitant, Ron began to feel more confident when he felt your hands become entangled in his hair. He pulled back a few millimeters to check that this wasn't a dream, and without letting go, you smiled broadly before your lips met again. This time, Ron's hands ventured to your waist, caressing you more freely.

It was at that moment that the portrait of the Fat Lady creaked open again.

"I'm telling you, there's still cake in the kitchen, George," Fred complained, coming out of the passageway. "Besides, we didn't have enough..." Both brothers froze at the scene before them. You and Ron broke your kiss with a start, but remained in place. The twins, clearly surprised by the scene, opened their mouths to speak. But before you could say anything, a voice cut you off from inside the portrait.

“Fred, George! Come back here!” Hermione leaned half her body through the painting's frame to lead both brothers back into the living room. Neither resisted the young woman, and the portrait closed again, plunging the corridor back into darkness.

You looked at him again; Ron was still staring at you, his hands still on your waist. “Happy birthday,” he said again.

You couldn’t fathom it. It was like an alien concept—interest. In you. Tom Riddle had a personal interest in you. Was this another dream? Or perhaps a nightmare? And yet, it all seemed too real to be your mind playing tricks on you again.

You blinked, red painting the skin of your ears as your eyes shook. You physically couldn’t form words, but Tom didn’t need them. It was like he looked right through you, or tried to, for a purpose. Your curiosity now burned inside you to understand. And for the first time, you let it create arson inside you.

Tom, then, made a swift move to grab the idling potions book in your hand, “Too advanced. You have no skillset like this yet.” He made a movement with his wand and put the book back, and you followed it with shaken eyes. You were about to open your mouth when, “You follow everything by the book, don’t you? Breakfast, lunch, classes, and even curfew. You never did step out, did you?”

Your lips moved, but it seemed your voice was held in a tight knot at the depths of your throat. You couldn’t fathom how he could gather so much information about you, observe you, within two days of school. It shouldn’t be—

Your eyes grew wide then, when realization dawned upon you like an ice-cold bucket. Tom paid no attention to you anymore, his gaze now diverted to the infinite wall of books behind you, his fingertips caressing each spine with a delicate caution.

“You—how long have you been watching me?” Your voice came out faint, but Tom didn’t flinch. Paid no mind to it, really, and continued searching.

“Since last year.” He said it with uneasy neutrality as he continued to focus on searching for whatever book he needed to. An invisible fist punched the air out from inside your lungs at his response.

Since last year.

Tom Riddle had been watching you since last year. The concept was so absurd, you almost chuckled. Almost.

But the sound died before it reached your lips, because Tom’s tone had not been one of jest. And it wasn’t laced with strings of unnoticed cruelty, either. It had been factual, precise. Denoting an incident like a desensitized surgeon.

You hadn’t felt his gaze on you for almost a year. You always observed him like you would stars, tried to place him as you did with constellations, and yet you hadn’t solved the one right in front of you: his eyes on you. Burning you. For almost a year.

A goddamn year.

You hadn’t felt it. His gaze certainly didn’t prickle your skin as the sun did. It was far away, you concluded, like a quiet satellite observing your world from light-years away.

Had your mind been playing tricks on you for seven years? Were you not apt for the art of observation? Was your body not made of the shadow you were certain plagued you?

“A—a year?” The question tore itself out of you again. Tom paid no mind to you, treating you like a spirit roaming behind him, as everyone did. But he knew you—now you definitely knew he did.

Your lips parted—was this how he tricked you into thinking you were a ghost in his life? A light breeze not worth the attention? Perfecting the art of ignoring you? You thought his ignorance of your existence was natural, like every other student, not a Shakespearean-worthy theatrical performance you had just witnessed.

“You cannot—it can’t be possible! I would have felt you gazing at me for a year—“

“Ah, here it is.” He ignored your chatter and grabbed a purple book at the corner.

You licked your lips, dry as parchment. “You can’t mean—”

Tom finally turned, the purple book balanced easily in his hand, and fixed you with that same impenetrable stare. It couldn’t be possible to not feel such a gaze like his. It was a magnet, it pulled you into the abyss of dark oblivion of his pupils. It just—it wasn’t possible.

“Do you believe observation requires permission?” His tone was soft, steady, but sharp enough to carve into your nerves.

You blinked, his words holding a place inside your head. “Well, certainly not, but people feel gazes on them—“

“You’ve observed people intensely, but they never felt your gaze, now did they?” He stepped forward. The creak of wood, his impenetrable stare, his mere presence thickened the air with that familiar green poison that choked any oxygen inside you. Tom tilted his head, “Why should you ever be an exception to another’s stare?”

Every word from his lips wormed into your mind, eating every memory of your observations, unraveling the careful vines you had wound around it.

How many hours had you spent staring at people, dissecting their ticks, their subtle tells—the way Darya’s lips twitched when she was jealous, the way Ophelia’s eyes twinkled in insecurity, or the way Slughorn’s eyes flickered toward his favorites like fireflies to honey? And none of them had ever noticed. They lived on, unaware, as you quietly stole pieces of them and placed them carefully into your collection of details.

But you would have never thought you would ever be a muse.

You were the quiet artist who painted other people's lives with your soul closed and lonely hands. Never the muse.

It seemed you were so convinced of your invisibility that you let it crack right under your nose, and the dark eyes before you were the only ones who heard it. Saw it. Investigated shards that led to you.

“Shit.” You mumbled under your breath. But still, what curiosity could ever spark an interest in you of all people? Your life was quiet. It was boring. Not even poets could ever romanticize the mundane out of your grey days.

And so, the question came out again, “Why?”

“You certainly ask many questions for someone who thinks of themselves as quiet.” A faint curl tiggen on his lips, questioning you like he knew you.

Without another word, he extended the purple book toward you, his fingers still loosely gripping the spine. “Here,” he said, voice quiet. “Have it. Study it. Thank me later.”

Your breath caught as the book pressed into your palms. Its leather was worn, edges frayed, but when your fingertips brushed the cover it thrummed faintly, like something alive lurked within the ink. You looked down at it, then up again—only to find his cloak already swaying, his back turned as he began to walk away.

For a heartbeat, you stayed frozen, trapped between disbelief and the lingering venom of his gaze. The world blurred, soundless, as if he’d dragged you into his orbit and then left you stranded in the stillness he carried with him.

Then it hit you.

“Hey!” Your voice cut through the hush of the library, louder than you intended. You bolted after him, clutching the book to your chest, your shoes echoing on the stone floor. “I watch you, too, you know.”

Tom stopped suddenly and looked back. His eyes froze your veins, and with a willpower pulled from the devil underground, you forced out the words stuck inside you, “You don't follow rules, do you? I mean, to others it may be that you do—you're good at hiding.” Words came out smoothly before you could cut them with a knife, “Today, in potions. You didn't follow the rules on the potions book. You grabbed other ingredients.

Tom smirked. There was a twinkle of intrigue in the way he looked at you, one dark enough to dismantle souls. You preferred when he was ignorant to your existence—or at least pretended to be. His attention created knots in anyone’s existence, and in yours, he would be a hazard for your uncomplicated goal.

“Ah, quite observant of you. Perhaps you are less daft than I give you credit for.” He said your name in the end, and the way it sounded on his tongue was now etched on every wall of your brain, stitched into the fibres of your memories.

It sounded wrong and right at the same time, dressed in silk and knives.

Your grip tightened around the book. “You’re avoiding the point. You didn’t follow the instructions in Potions.”

“Oh?” he asked, almost lazily. “Didn’t I?”

“You didn’t,” you insisted, before your courage slipped away. “The roses—you didn't grab them as everyone else did. Instead, you grabbed moonstones. And the—” you inhaled, “—the Jobberknoll feathers. You didn’t stir them clockwise. You waited.”

Silence stretched for a heartbeat. Then another.

Tom liften one eyebrow. He looked almost intrigued, and perhaps, for the first time, surprised by actions of another. “My, my, you do watch,” he murmured.

You swallowed. “So how? You can’t just guess with Veritaserum. One wrong step and it’s useless—or worse.”

Tom tilted his head slightly, as if considering how much rope to hand you. “You’re making a mistake,” he said at last.

You bristled. “Excuse me?”

“Do you really think a textbook provided by a school that censors certain types of spells is reliable?” he took a step forward, and you gulped thickly, your lips going dry once more.

Tom’s shadow stretched over you like something sentient—calculated, patient, waiting. His voice dropped into something softer, yet still sharp enough for goosebumps to appear all over your delicate skin.

“Do you truly believe,” he murmured, “that Hogwarts of all places would ever allow students access to the real method of brewing a potion the Ministry itself fears?”

Your breath stilled.

“Slughorn’s class was merely a performance of sorts. To make passive students not dare to think they are being choked by limitations.” Tom’s eyes narrow and his voice gets thicker, almost….venomous. “The best way to keep a prisoner from escaping—“

“Is to make sure he never knows he’s in prison.” You murmur, and Tom raises an eyebrow once more.

“Hm, so you know Dostoyevsky?”

You fight the urge to squirm under his intense gaze, your mind still under the hazy effect of his voice and his dark yet magnetic eyes. You stare at the bookshelf behind him, avoiding the heaviness of his pupils on you, “Yes.”

“One of the few muggles that ever piqued my interest. A shame he was cursed for a life so….ordinary, really.”

A quiet breath escaped you, barely audible. “Why are you telling me all this?”

His head tilted like a cat regarding something newly alive under its paw.

“You wouldn’t…” your voice faltered, tightening around the truth you feared, “say these things to just anyone. Would you?”

A slow smirk tugged at his mouth. “Smart girl,” he said softly, the praise somehow feeling like a hand closing around your throat. “No. I certainly wouldn’t waste my breath on just anyone.”

Your fingers tightened around the book again. “Then—what is it you want?”

He stepped closer.

The air changed.

It thickened. Burned. As if every book behind you was aflame and you were choking on its carbon monoxide.

Tom leaned in with the deliberate grace of a predator who never rushed for his kill. The proximity pushed the breath from your lungs, leaving your ribs tight and trembling.

You weren’t used to this. To such proximity by another human being. The most you’ve gotten were slaps from your insufferable aunt, while she screamed how much she hated you. And when you kissed your crush in a Muggle school when you were ten, and he screamed to the teacher that the witch had tried to kidnap him.

Another so close to you should have repulsed you. Should have triggered your instinct to take flight and never look back.

And yet not a bone in your body moved because it felt…exhilarating. New. Alien.

“What do I want?” he echoed, voice dropping into something dangerously intimate.

“I want to tutor you.”

He leaned back, expression as neutral as always. You didn’t catch a smirk, not even an eyebrow twitch. It was as if the moment never happened. And perhaps it was all in your head, your touch-starved hormones sending false signals to your body.

You blinked. Once. Twice. As if the floor had just tilted under you.

“Tutor—me?”

A faint curl touched his lips. “You certainly need it. If you continue on your current path, you won’t receive more than an Acceptable in Potions. If that.” His gaze dipped briefly to the book pressed to your chest. “And you want to pass with at least an Exceed Expectations in your N.E.W.T’s, or am I wrong?”

“You are not wrong, but…..” Heat rushed uninvited to your ears. “What’s in it for you? You never tutored anyone, not that anyone knows of.”

Tom’s eyes sharpened, darkening like ink poured into water.

He didn’t smile this time.

“A favour,” he said simply.

Your stomach dropped. “What kind of favour?”

Tom blinked, his face as impassive as ever, stone cold. No smirk, no eyebrow lift.

“I will tell you when I need it.”

You gulped thickly, heat spreading through your neck. You’ve heard of this—men taking advantage of vulnerable women like you for sexual favours. Just last week, you heard your roommate saying a Gryffindor man tried bargaining a Quidditch favour for nights with her.

Men were becoming too audacious, and you couldn’t submit yourself to such a nightmare. You were quiet, but you had self-respect.

“I am not a whore.”

The words tumbled out louder than you meant, sharp enough to slice the silence between the shelves.

Tom Riddle’s expression shifted.

A flicker of surprise cracked through that perfect composure—the faintest widening of his eyes, a subtle stutter in the set of his jaw.

“A whore?” he repeated, as though tasting the word on his tongue.

Heat flooded your cheeks. “I do not want your help for you to use me for sexual favours—”

Tom cut you off with a soundless exhale, something halfway between disbelief and irritation.

“Do you truly think I need to bargain for sex?”

The contempt in his tone was so understated, so cleanly delivered, that it made your shame burn hotter.

He stepped forward—slowly, deliberately—until the distance between you felt perilously thin.

“If I wanted a warm body,” he said, voice low with an edge of ice, “Hogwarts is full of desperate, shallow-minded girls who would throw themselves at me with no hesitation.”

Your throat tightened.

“I do not barter for things I can acquire without cost,” he continued. “And certainly not for something as… trivial… as sex.”

Your heart hammered so violently you wondered if he could hear it.

Tom leaned back, his face impassive as he looked at you up and down, eyes heavy with judgment and something almost like…disgust.

“And you,” he added, eyes sweeping over your unnervingly precise features, “are certainly not someone I would approach for that.”

You weren’t sure whether the sting that followed was relief or an unexpected bruise.

You wanted to ask what he meant by that, but you shut your throat before the words could tumble out. Questions lead to answers your ears didn’t want, and you certainly learned your lesson with the ones that spilled out from you today.

You stood quietly, ignoring the embarrassment from moments ago, and pondered on Tom’s proposition. You needed a good grade on your N.E.W.T’s; that was one fact you could not deny. To reach your destiny as a healer, you needed a chunk of good grades, and potions were a necessary one.

On the other hand, help from Tom Riddle was like bargaining with the devil himself. Tempting, and perhaps could lead to your success, but at any time, he could pull the strings to your own doom and watch you fall with a smirk on his face.

And yet…

Your mind flickered back to Slughorn’s voice announcing the upcoming evaluation, to your cauldron stained with failure, to the roadmap of your future splintering if you couldn’t pass the one subject that mattered most.

It wouldn’t be forever. And once this tumultuous time in your life passed, even if your invisibility could be tarnished for a second, the road would turn straight again, with no distractions. As if this sidetrack never existed in the first place.

And finally, you made up your mind.

“I accept your offer, then.”

Tom smirked and shook your hand. You felt it burning under his palm and your chest felt hollow, as if you’d temporarily sold your soul to him. To the devil.

His grip was deliberate, controlled, and far too steady for the chaos erupting in your chest. A chill climbed your spine, then heat flushed in its wake, blooming under your skin like ink spreading through water.

It felt wrong.

It felt dangerous.

It felt… inevitable.

“Wise decision,” he murmured. “We start tomorrow straight after class. Meet me in the astronomy tower.”

You opened your mouth—perhaps to agree, perhaps to protest—but Tom had already turned, cloak brushing the stone floor with surgical precision as he moved deeper into the library’s shadows.

He didn’t look back.

You swallowed thickly and clutched the book in your hand to your chest, as if it could save your fast-beating heart.

Your mind then wandered—had you sealed your doom or opened your fate?

You couldn’t decide which was worse.

The ground shook under you. You could feel the pathway you so intricately planned for your future cracking right underneath your nose. The sphere of what you deemed reality shattered, and you were now vulnerable to the whispers of questioning.

No, you couldn't let his silky voice worm inside your head. Tom Riddle was solely a parasite that you could easily cure within a week. You certainly weren't interested in keeping his eyes on you for longer than that, and so, you would get over with his tutoring and swiftly do his favour—just get it over with so your paths can never cross again.

You shook your head, running away from your thoughts and walked to the table where your bag resided. You were about put the book Tom gave to you inside, but you hesitated for a second. You traced the beat-up cover with your fingers, your thoughts running wild, dissecting every word, every second of your interaction.

You weren't daft, you knew this was a part of some bigger plan inside his head. Observing Tom the way you did, for as long as you did, you knew everything he did was deliberate. Every move, every smile, every word that came out of his sultry lips was a chess move in a bigger game inside his head.

But you just couldn't figure out what he wanted with someone like you. The no-face, the invisible background character that served as a void in important people's lives.

You sighed and placed the book inside the bag—there was no way you would be able to focus on studying potions after the day you had. You knew your brain would be distracted dissecting your interaction with Tom Riddle to pay attention to instructions on how to brew a potion.

That night, sleep became a foe once more, and when it came time for amends, you dreamt of sultry lips and fangs.

The next morning bled grey through the dungeon windows. A bitter light shone on you, determined to remind you of the hollow in your eyes. Your body moved on autopilot, pulling on robes, knotting your tie, brushing your hair back into a disguise of normalcy.

Acid pooled inside your stomach as a new feeling submerged—uncertainty.

Before, your day was predictable. Every step was the same, every interaction could be molded into a short and boring script no writer would ever bother to read.

But now it was a blank page.

Your hands twitched at the thought. You hated it. Blank pages meant risk; it meant anything, and everything could happen. And the fact that a dark ink called Tom Riddle would stain those same pages made you uneasy. Weary of your surroundings.

The corridors hummed with the morning rush, but their rhythm felt different. You kept your eyes low, watching polished shoes click against the flagstones and chatter pollute the hallway. You usually slipped into that current unnoticed, but today it was as if the tide threatened to pull you under.

You entered the dining hall swiftly as you always did, but the air felt heavier. Your eyes immediately found a certain Slytherin, who sat at the far end corner with other ambitious and pure-blooded peers. He ate quietly, but you saw his gaze—he was observing his surroundings. Like a hawk. Like you.

You went to your regular seat at the sidelines and grabbed the bread you always did. The hall buzzed with noise, yet every sound rang muted—too far, too hollow. You pretended to study the surface of your plate, but your peripheral vision was traitorous. It kept flicking toward him.

His presence was always a heavy one, but now it called your eyes like a siren whisper, one you could not resist. You just had to look at him. Perhaps you were waiting for something to happen, now that it was revealed he knew you. Observed you.

Your mind whispered reminders of yesterday, of his voice wrapping around your name like a clandestine spell. Tom Riddle had carved his presence into your bones—every step you took, you would scan if his eyes were watching you. Breathing your invisible presence in.

Tom sat at the far end, surrounded by the same orbit of polished, ambitious Slytherins that always trailed behind him like obedient shadows. Lestrange, Rosier, Avery—they filled the air with laughter, but Tom sat in his usual ominous silence.

He lifted his cup with deliberate grace, lips brushing its rim, eyes scanning the hall. For one terrible heartbeat, you thought his eyes would find yours. A flicker for more than a second perhaps, an evidence that the events of yesterday were not a figment of your imagination.

But he didn't look your way.

You looked back at your bread and straightened your posture, trying not to seem like you were waiting. Your hands trembled against your lap as you rehearsed a neutral expression.

You understood. Your presence was quiet. Invisible. It wasn't heavy like Tom Riddle's; it didn't call attention. Perhaps he needed to put in an effort to find you in the crowd, one he wasn't interested in doing at 7 in the morning.

Time passed, students strolled through the halls back and forth, when, finally, through your peripheral vision, Tom stood.

He moved through the hall, and the air seemed to thicken whenever his steps were near. His robes brushed the edge of your table. You could smell that faint, sterile scent of parchment and clove.

Your chest tightened. He was close enough now—close enough that one word could reach him.

Your lips parted, a breath catching before sound could form.

But he didn’t look.

Not once.

You stared down at your untouched plate, the weight of the bread still heavy in your hand. Something cold and ugly twisted in your chest—a mix of humiliation and relief.

You cursed yourself for thinking he would ever acknowledge your presence—for wanting it.

You had forgotten what his attention meant, the poison it would bring to your peaceful life, corrupting every thread you've built over the years. Tom Riddle's eyes on you meant you would be seen by everyone else, and there was nothing more dangerous than being acknowledged.

You were dragged out of your pit of thoughts by an annoying, high-pitched voice you unfortunately came to know.

“You look quite desperate, you know.” Ophelia sat beside you and quickly grabbed the bread from your plate.

Your jaw tightened. “Good morning to you too,” you muttered.

Ophelia hummed and continued to take a bite from your bread. “Indeed a very good morning. I mean, it was a boring morning, so I came here to see some…entertainment. And my, my, you certainly delivered.” Her eyes glinted with vicious amusement as she turned fully toward you.

“You came to me for entertainment?” You raised one eyebrow and Ophelia chuckled.

“My boredom was just too great this morning.” Ophelia yawned and grabbed a cup of water from the table, “You know, you really should stop letting your eyes wander off to Tom Riddle, or one might think you might have a…crush on him.” Ophelia sipped on her drink and you scoff.

You took a rather rough bite of your bread as you replied , “I already told you, I do not have a crush on him.”

“Everyone has a crush on Tom Riddle, darling, so, forgive me for not believing you.” Ophelia snorted and sipped her water, “Well, even if you don't, here's some friendly advice: stay away from him.” She leaned her head, her lips touching your ear, as if she were to conspire a coup against an empire. “He is bad news and dangerous. I wouldn't want to have you tangled in his…business.”

Your eyebrows furrowed, but before questions could blurt out of your mouth, Ophelia placed her drink on the table and smiled, as the moment before had just been a figment of your wild imagination. You stared at her, bewildered, but most of all…curious.

“I'm going to be late for my first lesson. I'll see you….around.” She didn’t wait for a response—she never did. Her heels clicked against the stone floor as she melted back into the crowd, leaving behind the faint scent of something floral.

You remained seated for a moment longer, staring at the space she’d occupied.

Bad news and dangerous.

The words echoed, aiding the vines of curiosity to grow even deeper into your mind. They were poisonous for your future, for your dreams of tranquility, but their glimmer was too hard to ignore. You couldn't help but wonder what Ophelia could possibly have meant. Did she know Tom so personally that she was in her right to give warnings? Or was she basing herself on rumours?

But what rumours?

You were a ghost through Hogwarts halls, and could hear the whispers through its walls. You knew almost every rumour—you heard every sneer, every gossip when students thought they were away from prying eyes, because well, you were a wall to them.

And you had never heard of such a rumour. Tom was regarded with rose-coloured eyes by every student, save for those who spat his name in envy of his natural talents and charm. Most were men, of course, who eyed him like competition for their fragile egos.

You pushed yourself to stand and forced the lingering thoughts out of your head. Now was not the time to enter the maze your curiosity trapped you in, and perhaps it never would be the time. As Ophelia said, you couldn't et entangled within Tom Riddle's web. Deeper than you already were anyway. If you had any hope of escaping and continuing down the path you were always meant to tread.

The bench scraped softly against the stone floor. The Great Hall felt too open now, too full of eyes, even if none of them truly saw you. You slipped away with practiced ease, letting louder presences swallow the space you left behind.

Classes passed in a haze.

Charms dissolved into murmurs and wand movements you copied by muscle memory alone. Even Herbology, the class that always seemed to pique your interest, failed to anchor you. Your quill moved when it was meant to, ink forming neat lines you barely remembered writing. You nodded at the right moments, turned pages when others did, and laughed when laughter was expected.

But your thoughts were elsewhere.

They lingered on the way Ophelia’s voice had dipped when she warned you. On the word she used—dangerous. You figured she must have passed some time with Tom and his circle since she was related to one of them, but how deep into their circle was she?

During potions, your eyes couldn't help but shift toward the enigmatic figure that haunted your daydreams, the seed of the very vines that corrupted your thoughts. He was watching Slughorn as he entered one of his lectures on how potions were vital for every witch and wizard's life on the future, and you could see there was no flicker inside his pupils. No darknes. Just…boredom.

You sighed as your hand struggled to register the words of your professor. It was as if your mind had detached from your body, going rogue so it could run into the forbidden cavern of thoughts that, in which a shadow awaited for you with enigmatic eyes and a smirk from the devil himself.

Your eyes, though, were a servant to your rogue brain, and found the shadow hidden in the dark caverns of your mind once again.

Tom Riddle stood perfectly, as he always did, and listened to Slughorn the way a king might entertain a jester.

You forced your gaze back to your notes.

“Potions are the backbone of practical magic” Slughorn boomed, voice warm and round. “They teach discipline, intuition—”

Your eyes moved again, and you noticed how Tom’s quill didn’t move.

Yours, and everyone else's, did in an automatic way. Almost robotic. You wrote what was expected, even as a strange tension coiled in your chest. You stared back at your notebook, and decided to force your eyes to stay fixed where it were safe, even if your mind wasn't.

You thought of the night before, and an uneasy feeling crept its way into your stomach. You couldn't fathom what favour he would ask of you when the time came, but if the feeling inside you were to be right, it was not going to be any good. You unconsciously bit the feather of your quill—had you just made a deal with the devil? How were you supposed to know, when he had a face of an angel and the voice of a siren?

Well, no way to back down now. Besides, you needed good grades on your NEWTS, and perhaps you could learn to make your potion skills be as half as good as Tom's. It would certainly already be a great advantage.

After classes went by, you would usually take your free time to continue your book in your dorm, drowning yourself in the comfort of solitude and lost in the words of Dostoyevsky.

But that day, by the time the sun began its slow descent, staining the windows with amber and gold, you turned away from the familiar paths.

It was a subtle, and you were sure no one would notice, because who would? Everyone preferred to read about their worlds than take their eyes off their own book and read another's. Especially one as boring as yours. But still, your pulse quickened as your feet carried you up narrow staircases you rarely used.

You counted your steps without meaning to. Not because of where you were going, but who you were going to.

Every step was one closer inside the dangerous cavern. To Tom Riddle.

The higher you climbed, the quieter it became. The murmurs of students dissolved into echoes, then into nothing at all.

When you reached the Astronomy Tower, the door was already ajar.

You hesitated only a second before pushing it open, the hinges whispering rather than creaking. The tower greeted you with open sky and wind sharp enough to bite.

A dark figure stood near the edge, back turned to you. You turned to his side, and caught the presence of two cauldrons sitting on the floor, as well as ingredients for whatever potion he might teach you today.

Tom Riddle’s figure looked carved from the night itself, like a shadow waiting ominously for its meal. He was crushing something on the wood with a knife, and you flinched when his voice boomed through the room.

“You’re late,” he said sharply without turning.

“I’m not,” you replied quietly, closing the door behind you. “You’re just early.”

A pause choked the air before he turned, slow and precise, dark eyes settling on you with unnerving focus. The corner of his mouth lifted—not into a smile, but something close enough to unsettle you.

“Fair,” he said.

He gestured toward the space beside him before going back his ministrations. You moved there without thinking, your bag resting at your feet as the wind tugged at your robes.

“Won’t we get caught?” You gulp as you tread slowly toward Tom, “I remember headmaster Dippet explicitly saying the astronomy tower was off limits this season. With…Grindelwald and all.”

Tom didn’t look away from the ingredients as you spoke. His hands continued their precise work, blade rising and falling in a smooth rhythm.

He was calm. Too calm. As if the prospect of getting caught never crossed his mind.

“Dippet says many things,” he replied coolly. “Most of them are meant to soothe fear, not prevent danger.”

“Is that so? What about the dementors, then? I'm sure they're not roaming around Hogwarts trying to soothe fear.”

Tom stopped his movements for a brief moment, and once his head turned, your breath hitched for the faintest moment. You had forgotted how alluring, how dangerous his gaze on you was.

“Dementors,” he said at last, tasting the word with quiet disdain, “are not here to protect anyone. Do you really think a powerful wizard like Grindelwald wouldn't find his way through some meek dementors?” He turned back to the table, resuming his work as if the interruption had been no more than a passing thought.

You furrowed your eyebrows, gulping down the acid that formed in your throat, “Then why…?”

Tom talked once more, and his words held a viciousness that cut through the whispering wind. “I am not here to give you a lesson in how the ministry works. I am here to make you a master in potions.”

You opened your mouth–once, twice, but nothing came out of your throat. You couldn't form words, you couldn't form a question. You cleared your throat, and finally, your voice found its place. “Just...I'll ask again, and you need to answer me—what if we are caught? What will you do, then, Tom? What’s your grand plan to not get us in detention?” You crossed your arms, feeling your erratic heartbeat inside your chest. “Or worse, expelled.”

He finally set the knife down and turned to face you fully. Up close.

The night sharpened his features—hollowing his cheeks, darkening his eyes until they looked almost endless. An infinite pool one could easily drown in.

“No one will come,” Tom said. “And even if they do, I am head boy. I’m certain I could think of something…convincing that would get us out of trouble.”

Your stomach tightened at the ease with which he said it. Head boy. He was supposed to be righteous in his position; only the best of the best students ever achieved such a high-ranking status within the school. Some students sought their whole academic lives to be where he is. And yet, here Tom was, talking of lying and utilizing his power as a means to escape as if it were…nothing.

“And if that doesn’t work?” you pressed on, hating the way your voice wavered despite your effort to keep it steady.

Tom studied you for a long moment, expression unreadable. Then—slowly—he smiled.

Not kindly. Not reassuringly, but….Confidently.

“Oh, it will. You can trust me.”

You scoff lightly, a small amount of courage sparking the words outside of your throat, “I don't know you, Tom.” You take a step towards him. Slowly, cautiously. “I mean…I know what everyone else sees, but…something tells me you're much more than what you let people see of you. It's like asking me to trust a stranger.”

“Now that's a smart observation, little witch,” Tom said softly. “Indeed, you don’t know me. But you can analyze the facts. I would be faced with consequences just like you—if not more—if we were caught inside this tower. If you go down, I go down. And do you really think I would put my position in jeopardy?” Tom raised one eyebrow, and you sighed.

He made sense, damn it.

“Fine. You make sense.” You squinted your eyes, “But I do not trust you.”

“Ah, you do well in not doing so,” Tom smirked, and it was as if his eyes opened their grey fog and made way for a small spark of amusement. “You do impress me a bit more as time goes on, little witch.”

Your breath hitched, “What does that even mea–”

“Now,” Tom interrupted you by swiftly turning around, his robe following him as he walked toward the part of the wooden floor where two empty cauldrons stood. He turned toward you once more. “Tonight, you will brew Amortentia. But not the Hogwarts version, full of its restraints to make meek students fail.”

You furrowed your eyebrows. “Amortentia? Isn't that a 6th-year potion?”

“Do you observe everything but class?” Tom groaned as he rolled his eyes, “If you were to put your observation skills where they really mattered, instead of worthless students’ lives, you would know that Slughorn has tells whenever he is explaining a quiz.” Tom grumbled, “Since NEWTS are about everything we have learned, he is trying to surprise us with a potion he knows most people have forgotten the first ingredient it takes to make it.”

You bristled. “Learning about others is not worthless.”

Tom paused mid-step. Just for a fraction of a second, but you caught it. His shoulders stilled, the air around him tightening like a held breath.

“Most are,” he corrected coolly, turning back to you. “You just have to pick the right ones to dissect. Most of our peers live in ignorance—they drift through Hogwarts believing that their effort alone will make them exceptional. It won’t. I mean, do you see every student with O's or EE's on their tests?” Tom chuckles slowly, “Well, awareness gets them there. Observing the right things, you start to notice patterns, and just how…deceiving tradition really is. But everyone is too busy looking over their own lives to observe the reality around them.” His eyes flicked to you pointedly. “You have that gift, you know. But you squander it.”

Your jaw tightened, irritation bleeding into something uncomfortably close to the truth. But then, a moment of thinking, of digesting his words, your eyebrows furrowed as a crippling sensation traveled down your spine. “And how do you even know what I observe?”

Tom’s face never changed. No twitch. No confident, eerie smirk. He simply stared sinisterly. “It is logical, really. Were you to observe classes, you would have noticed Slughorn’s pauses. The way his voice dipped when he mentioned Amortentia, as he was listing the possible potions for the pop quiz. The way he overexplains so no one questions what he does.”

He stepped closer—not abruptly, never abruptly. You stared at him back, “And you never follow his explanations, do you?”

Tom grinned, and seeing his eerie smile sent an ominous feeling down your spine. “Correct, little witch. I don’t live by the confinements dictated by Hogwarts books. I make my own, and everyone one day shall know it.” You were about to ask what he meant when he then gestured toward the cauldron on the left. “Come. I shall teach you to do the same. It is my part of the deal, after all.”

You hesitated only a moment before stepping forward. The stone beneath your shoes was cold, the wind licking at your ankles as you stopped beside him. Tom pointed at the cauldron, then at the ingredients laid out with meticulous care.

“Tell me what you see,” he said.

“The ingredients for Amortentia, I suppose?” You raised one eyebrow, and Tom nodded stoically.

“Correct. And what do you know about this potion?”

You licked your lips before clearing your throat, “It's the most powerful love potion there is. It makes the person who drinks it fall in love with—“

“Ah, you’re already wrong, little witch.”

Blood went up your cheeks as you frowned, “What? But that’s the description—“

“Of the 6th year potions book?” Tom sighed in disappointment, and you looked down. Somehow, even though you barely knew him, his approval sparked something inside you. And his disappointment led to a slight fog of shame sinking into your stomach.

“You’re thinking inside the box, just like every other sheep inside this herd.” Tom walked from side to side, his hand tied behind his back. His deep voice boomed through the tower, “Amortentia isn’t really a love potion, now is it? It makes the person obsessed. There is a keen difference that not many people can decipher. The potion isn’t meant to create love, but obsession.” Tom’s eyes flicked to you, sharp and assessing. “Desire, passion, lust—but not love.” He said emotionlessly, “Love is a slow, irrational surrender built over time that makes you weak. Amortentia is nothing more than an illusion of that weakness. No potion could ever imitate that raw, pathetic human feeling.”

You raised an eyebrow, “You seem awfully well-read in love.” You smirked, “Have you ever been in love?”

Tom’s posture immediately went rigid, and he looked at you with the eyes of a snake, puncturing every inch of your soul with its fangs. “Love?” Tom repeated slowly, as if testing the shape of the words on his tongue, finding it distasteful.

“I have read about it. Not because I was fascinated by it, but because people, when under its influence, had me curious.” He said, his tone almost eerily calm. “They grow so weak and predictable it's almost laughable. And they make that choice. They choose to be vulnerable for the whole world to stab a knife into their back.”

Tom chuckled, but no humour was laced in his voice. It was dark, so foreboding that it made your pulse want to scream. “So, no. I have not been in love. And do not want to be in love. I am better than to let myself surrender to such pointless attachments.”

The words hung between you like frost.

“That sounds… awfully lonely,” you said before you could stop yourself.

“Loneliness,” Tom huffed, “is a word invented by those who are scared of their own presence when licked by silence.” He stepped closer to the cauldron again, “Now, shall we continue, or do you want to waste our time even more with pointless questions?”

You stayed silent for a few moments and sighed. It was best not to waste your time asking questions about him, as it would only lead to dangerous paths. You had to find a way to keep your mouth shut and curiosity at bay if you wanted to come out of this deal unscathed.

Learning about the devil would only get you burned, after all.

Your gaze dropped to the ingredients laid before you: crushed rose petals, moonstone dust, and a curl of Jobberknoll feather resting beside a slender knife.

“So…about the potion. Were all the books—all the potions we made in class wrong?” you asked.

“Not wrong,” Tom corrected. “Just incomplete. You really think they would let the ingredients for one of the most dangerous love potions out in the open for reckless teenagers to abuse them? And so, a watered-down potion creates nothing dangerous.” His mouth curved faintly. “But I prefer accurate results, even if it means a little danger is sprinkled inside.”

The wind shifted, sweeping strands of your hair across your face. You brushed them back, stepping closer to the cauldron.

Tom moved behind you—close enough that you felt the warmth of his presence at your back. His touch never came, instead what you felt was a ghost of skin that sent goosebumps up your spine. His hand reached past your shoulder and whispered, “Incendio”, making a small fire start.

“First, you will forget what the book taught you,” he said, voice low near your ear, “Now…look at the ingredients. Tell me what you see.”

You frowned, scanning the cauldron. “Moonstone shavings. Crushed rose—not petals, the stem too. Peppermint, but dried longer than usual. Powdered pearl. Ashwinder egg.” You glanced at him. “That’s not the standard—”

“No,” he cut in sharply. “It isn’t.”

You gulped thickly, his presence behind you overbearing to your nerves, “I…how did you even get your hands on such ingredients?”

“Let’s just say I have my ways.”

“In other words, you stole them.” You turned to him and crossed your arms. Tom immediately took a step back, as if standing too close to you for too long was poison to his skin. You frowned slightly, but masked it with the same impassive face he mastered.

“I can't understand where this false sense of morality came from, but may I remind you that I caught you sneaking around the castle past curfew? You are not innocent, and I can't fathom why you are pretending to be so right now.”

“I….” You hesitated, a small blush forming on your face, ““I had my reasons for that, Riddle.” You sneered, and he ignored the spines of your words and walked toward the other side of the cauldrons.

“I don't doubt that.” Tom hummed, “But don't go preaching about rules on a moral high ground you clearly do not have.”

“I…” You couldn't answer. Words caught in the back of your throat, and Tom simply sat down on the floor, looking up at you with the most neutral face you've ever seen.

Ah, his impassive look was back.

“Now,” he continued,“ You see this?” He picked up a small jar of crushed rose stems.

“Yes.”

“What is it?”

“Rose stem,” you answered cautiously. “And…thorns, I think.”

“Good.” Tom set it down, then lifted the powdered pearl. “And this?”

“Powdered pearl. It's used as a buffer,” you said. You’d read once in a footnote, but your confidence faltered for a second. “For…consistency?”

“Not bad.” Tom’s eyes narrowed, approving in the smallest way, and for a reason unknown to you, a foggy yet fuzzy feeling brewed in the depths of your stomach.

He then reached for the Ashwinder egg. “Now, pay close attention, little witch. This,” he said, “is where most students ruin it.”

You blinked. “Why? It’s just a heat component.”

“That,” Tom corrected softly, “is what the book tells you.”

He stepped closer to the cauldron and drew his wand with smoothness. It was like him, and his wand was one. Just another part of his fingers.

The tip hovered above the fire, and the fire obeyed him, lowering its flame, as if it were his servant.

“Heat is not the point, see?” he murmured. “It’s timing.”

He set the egg beside the cauldron but didn’t add it.

You frowned. “Then when do you—”

“When the potion asks for it,” Tom cut in, and his eyes met yours. “Not when the book does.”

“What? How the hell are you supposed to know that?” You snorted, “Does the potion talk now?”

“Oh, you'll know, I assure you.” Tom's dark eyes fixated on you, and he tapped the space beside him. “Come on, sit. Put your observation skills to the test. This is where you'll need it most.”

You eyed the space suspiciously, your brain recoiling at the mere thought of his suffocating company so close to yours, yet your body followed his words, addicted to their allure.

You sat right beside him, your eyes never leaving the inside of the cauldron, ignoring the presence beside you that felt like a blade against your throat.

“Look inside,” he said simply.

You did exactly that.

The potion was still, not a flciker of movement inside. You furrowed your eyebrows, trying your best

“What do you see?” Tom asked.

“A potion,” you replied flatly.

His gaze slid to yours. “Try again.”

You swallowed. Your eyes returned to the surface. You forced yourself to find an anomaly. Observe the potion the way you did people—any flicker, any small tell that would serve as a clue to deciphering this riddle.

“The…consistency is changing,” you murmured after a moment. “It’s…thicker than it should be.”

Tom nodded, and you continued to watch as the potion continued to change, but it was so minimal that only an observant eye could spot it. You then see a faint bubble burst, almost in slow-motion, as if the potion were asking you to feed it, and then you exclaimed, “Now. Add…the ashwinder eggs?”

Tom smirked and added three ashwinder eggs to the cauldron, and the potion changed its colour to a faint purple, almost turning pink. You bit your lip, watching every change, every minimal tell, as if the potion was just another Hogwarts student you always deciphered.

You cleared your throat, “Rose thorns…? To make it pink?”

Tom hummed and poured the rose thorns into the cauldron, and the potion turned a strong pink, but still not the faint colour it required. “Your hesitation is pulling you back. You need to trust your words, even if you are not sure they are correct. When you have confidence, a mistake isn't an error, because no one doubts you.”

You gulped, your eyes never leaving the brewing. It shimmered again, the pink deepening, the surface tightening into something almost glass-like.

Observe.

Your eyes narrowed slightly, tracking every shift, every subtle movement, then, finally, it started turning a light pink as he stirred and stirred.

“There. You can stop stirring.” You let out a breath you were holding and turned to a stone-faced Tom Riddle. “Did it work?”

“Only one way to find out.” He gestured to the smoke coming out of the cauldron, “Smell it. If it smells awful, it didn't work. If it smells pleasant, well—you have your answer.”

You swallowed.

Then, slowly, you leaned forward.

You closed your eyes and inhaled. The smell was a breeze of curious scents, and your mouth spoke before you could even decipher what was coming out of it, “I-I…smell a quill’s ink and….the smell of stones after a night of rain and….. something metallic?”

You blinked your eyes open and stared at the potion, “That's weird…I thought it was supposed to smell what attracts you? Isn't it supposed to smell like flowers or something?”

Tom glanced at your face with an eyebrow raised, “Flowers?” he repeated, voice smooth, almost amused. “Is that what you expected?”

You frowned slightly, shifting your weight. “Well…yes. Something like that. Something…normal.”

Tom hummed under his breath, turning his attention briefly to the cauldron. The pink glow reflected faintly against his features, softening nothing, only making him look more unreal.

“Amortentia does not concern itself with what is normal,” he said coolly. “It reveals what you are drawn to. Whether you understand it…or not.”

“Maybe I failed?”

Tom blinked, his eyes moving to stare at the smoke, “No. You got it right. I've done it before.”

“Huh.” You hummed, “Well, what do you smell?”

Tom stays silent for a moment, tension thickening the air and almost grabbing your throat. You almost started overthinking, that maybe you shouldn’t have asked him, but then he broke what he created.

“Nothing.” He said cooly, his eyes fixated on the cauldron, “I smelled…nothing.”

“Huh? How can you not smell anything? Maybe I did do it wrong—“

Tom got up abruptly, causing you to follow suit. “Our lesson had finished, little witch. I’ll see you tomorrow. Same time.” He muttered something under his breath, and the cauldron and ingredients disappeared. And before you could open your mouth, Tom walked out so fast, you would think he apparated away.

You shook your head, startled, but those venomous vines of curiosity only grew more. It was a parasite in your brain, digging its thorns into your skin, begging you to relieve the pain by indulging in it. But you couldn’t. You already watered it too much today by asking too many questions for your liking, and if you were to make it rain, a storm would pour into your life.

So, you did what you did best: you ignored it and walked toward your bedroom, ignoring intrusive thoughts that wanted to get louder for your attention.

You did your nightly routine, ignoring the chatters of your roommates, and instead of reading before sleep, you let your thoughts drift. You replicated the events of the evening—of Tom’s dark yet alluring eyes, his instructions, his eerily curious lessons.

Until one specific memory came to mind, of Tom making the ingredients disappear….

Did he do wandless magic?!

You had been secretly seeing Draco Malfoy for two months now, though the two of you had been drawn to each other for nearly a year before that. What started as stolen glances and subtle attempts to find one another had slowly turned into something neither of you could ignore.

It was a strange balance, being close to someone while pretending you weren’t. The two of you had to be careful, finding moments together when no one was watching and keeping the details of whatever was happening between you to yourselves. Still, despite the secrecy, there was a comfort in knowing that it was something shared only between the two of you.

The relationship remained a secret by mutual agreement. With a name as powerful and as heavily scrutinized as “Malfoy,” it seemed easier for both of you to keep things private for as long as possible. Neither of you wanted the opinions, rumors, or expectations that came with it to interfere with whatever was growing between you.

You had to constantly pretend that the girls who threw themselves at Draco didn’t bother you, and he had to do the same whenever some boy offered to help you with something you were perfectly capable of doing yourself, using it as nothing more than an excuse to get closer to you.

Neither of you ever gave the other a reason to doubt where your feelings stood, but that didn’t mean it was always easy. There were moments when the act became exhausting or when having to hide what you were to each other felt like more effort than it should have been. Still, all of those moments became worth it the second you were finally alone together.

Behind closed doors, there was no pretending, no watching what you said or how you acted. It was just the two of you, and Draco always found a way to make every moment you had together worth the wait whether that be in the way he kissed you, or the way he would take a little extra time brushing your hair out of your face before telling you how pretty you looked trying to hide your jealousy when that ravenclaw girl tried to get his attention. Or in the way he was dying to have you sprawled out onto his sheets so he could selfishly taste you again.

When it was just the two of you, there was no room for guessing. But the second you left his room, or he left yours, the act was back on. As the months went by, it became harder and harder to hide what was happening between you.

Simple things, like sneaking glances at each other in class more often than you used to, started becoming noticeable to your friends. They began to pick up on the way your attention always seemed to find him, or how Draco, despite pretending not to care, always seemed to know exactly where you were whenever they’d ask.

It was the little things that gave you away, the way his expression softened when he spoke to you, the way you instinctively looked for him whenever you entered a room, or the way he somehow always ended up sitting closer to you than necessary. Even the smallest gestures, like him remembering something you mentioned weeks ago or you fixing his tie without thinking, started to feel impossible to explain away.

The two of you had gotten so used to hiding what was between you that you didn’t realize how much of it had started showing. But there was still one thing neither of you had ever been willing to risk, letting the world see just how much you meant to each other.

Draco especially had always been careful about that. For someone who carried the Malfoy name, vulnerability was something he avoided at all costs. He had spent years building a reputation around being untouchable, someone who never needed anyone, never cared enough to be hurt, and certainly never let anyone see a side of him that could be considered soft. Which was why no one expected it when, during the biggest Quidditch match of the season, that carefully guarded image began to fall apart.

The Slytherin versus Hufflepuff match had drawn the entire school to the stands. The moment Draco stepped onto the pitch, all eyes naturally followed him. He carried himself with the same arrogance he brought everywhere else, the kind that made people believe he was untouchable. He had always been good at making people believe nothing could truly affect him.

But even Draco Malfoy, with all the confidence and control he carried, was not immune to moments he could not prevent. It happened in a matter of seconds. One moment, Draco was exactly where he was meant to be, high above the pitch, moving with the precision and control that had made him one of Slytherin’s strongest players.

And then, without warning, the game changed.

A Bludger came flying toward him faster than anyone could have anticipated, colliding with his broom before he had any chance to react. There was no mistake, no moment of carelessness, no fault of his own. It was simply one of those rare moments where even the best players could be caught off guard.

The entire stadium watched as his broom was knocked off course, as the confident figure everyone had been watching suddenly lost the control he was known for having.

For a moment, there was nothing but silence.

Then he fell.

The sound of him hitting the ground echoed across the pitch, and the cheers that had filled the stadium only seconds before disappeared completely. For a moment, no one moved. No one knew what to say. The boy who had spent years convincing everyone that he was untouchable was suddenly on the ground, injured and unable to hide it. Madam Pomfrey rushed onto the pitch, immediately moving to assess the damage, but Draco barely seemed to register the people surrounding him. The pain, the shock, and the hundreds of eyes watching him didn’t matter.

The only thing he cared about was you.

And through the thick and unwavering silence, everyone heard him ask for you.

The words were quiet, strained, and so unlike the Draco Malfoy everyone knew that the entire stadium seemed to freeze. The boy who had spent years refusing help, refusing weakness, and refusing to let anyone see him as anything other than perfect had done the one thing no one ever expected him to do.

He admitted that he needed someone.

He needed you.

He wanted you.

He begged, not for the pain to subside, but for someone, anyone, to bring you to him.

Even then, even injured and surrounded by people waiting to see if he was alright, his first concern was not himself. It was whether you were worried. Whether someone had told you he was okay. Whether or not you knew he was going to be fine.

And that was the moment everyone finally understood. The reason Draco had become different wasn’t because he had changed who he was. It was because there was someone who brought out the parts of him he had spent years hiding.