Chapter Text
Harry hadn’t meant to follow him. At least, that’s what he told himself when his feet carried him after Tom Riddle through the winding corridors of the castle. He wasn’t suspicious, not really. Just curious. Tom always had secrets, and Harry wanted to believe he was trusted enough to be let into them.
But when he turned the corner and froze in the shadows of an alcove, that fragile hope splintered.
Tom was kissing Bellatrix Black.
It wasn’t casual, wasn’t meaningless. Tom’s hand gripped her wrist tightly, his lips moving against hers with a hunger that made Harry’s stomach twist. For a moment Harry thought he might be sick. The air left his lungs all at once, and he stood there silently, every nerve screaming that he had just seen the truth of what he was to Tom, nothing.
He didn’t wait for Tom to notice. He turned sharply on his heel, footsteps echoing, too loud to mask his escape.
“Harry- wait.”
The voice came like a spell, sharp and commanding. Tom’s voice.
Harry didn’t stop.
The sound of quickened steps followed him until fingers closed around his wrist, pulling him back. He spun, eyes blazing.
“Let go,” Harry hissed.
Tom’s face was unreadable, carefully composed as always, but there was something brittle in his tone when he said, “You’re overreacting.”
The laugh that broke from Harry’s throat was sharp and hollow. “Overreacting? I just saw you with her Tom! What the hell am I supposed to call that?” His voice cracked, but the anger didn’t soften. “You tell me I’m yours, that you want me, and then you-” He bit the words off, shaking his head. “Was it all just a game to you? Was I just a game?”
The truth of their situation pressed against him like a weight. Tom had never promised him openness. Harry had been dragged into dark corners, empty classrooms, behind locked doors. He had been kissed like a secret, like something Tom wanted to keep hidden. Maybe Tom’s closest friends knew, no they definately knew. Harry had seen the way they looked at him, the smirks, the whispers—but to everyone else at Hogwarts, they were rivals, enemies circling each other with teeth bared. No one would believe Harry had fallen for him. No one would ever know Harry had been fool enough to let it happen.
“You don’t understand,” Tom said, voice low, steady.
Harry’s temper flared. “Then explain it to me!” His chest heaved, words spilling with all the pain he had held back for months. “Explain why I’m good enough for you in shadows, good enough for your little circle to snicker about, but never here, where people could actually see us! Explain why I’m supposed to wait around while you-” His throat closed around the words, choking them into silence.
For the first time, Tom’s composure shaken. He looked at Harry with something almost uncertain in his eyes. His hand twitched, as if he meant to reach for Harry’s cheek, but he stopped himself, letting the gesture die.
Harry’s anger cracked, replaced by something rawer, softer, but no less painful. “Do you even love me?” His voice was barely a whisper.
The silence that followed was unbearable.
Tom did not answer. He didn’t deny it, didn’t confirm it. His pride held him silent, iron-willed, as though admitting to love would be weakness, a chain he refused to wear.
Harry’s breath hitched. That silence told him everything.
Slowly, he shook his head, eyes stinging though he refused to let the tears fall. “That’s what I thought.”
He stepped back, away from Tom’s grasp, and this time Tom didn’t stop him. Harry turned and walked down the corridor, his footsteps echoing long after his figure had disappeared into the dark.
Tom stood alone in the shadows, Bellatrix’s taste still bitter on his lips. For the first time in his life, he wondered if silence had cost him something he could never win back.
And though he would never admit it, victory had never felt so much like loss.
Tom Riddle stood still. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Harry wasn’t supposed to see. For all his careful planning, all his precision in controlling what people knew and what they didn’t, one slip had undone everything. He had always known Bellatrix was reckless, desperate for his attention, but it hadn’t mattered—until now. Until Harry.
Bellatrix wasn’t anything, just someone Tom used to secure more connections with dark pure-bloods. Pure-bloods who saw the world as he did, who worshipped him for his direct link to Salazar Slytherin, who agreed with his views. Views Harry would never share. Harry was too kind, he saw the world as equal, refusing to believe that pure-bloods were superior and Muggle-borns nothing but mudbloods.
Tom needed Bellatrix for his future plans, his plans as the Dark Lord. She was useful, nothing more. Harry… Harry was different. He wasn’t a tool or a pawn. He was the light Tom needed in his darkness, the one person who made him feel something beyond hunger for power. But Bellatrix is more useful, for now at least. More useful for the empire Tom was building, for the loyalty and connections he required. If only Harry shared his vision, if only he could see the world as Tom did. But he didn’t. And it didn’t matter. Harry could wait. The future could not.
He just needed to make sure Harry didn’t completely slip away from him, out of his grasp. He needed Harry chained to him, still thinking of him, still unable to let go. If it was the last thing Tom ever did, he would make certain no one else could ever have Harry.
“Tom,” Bellatrix’s voice trailed after him, high and trembling with false sweetness. Her grin was too wide, too eager, like a child clutching at a prize she thought was finally hers, blind to the truth that she was only ever being used.
“What,” Tom answered coldly.
“Let’s continue what that filthy half-blood interrupted,” Bellatrix purred, her grin twitching wider.
“Don’t you dare say anything about him.” Tom’s eyes snapped to hers, his voice a blade.
“But-”
“Silence.”
“I–I apologize, my Lord…” Bellatrix faltered, her arrogance crumbling.
Tom’s expression remained unreadable.
“That’s better. Now get out of my sight. Tell the others there will be a Knights of Walpurgis meeting tomorrow night.”
Ron and Hermione were bent over a wizard’s chessboard in the common room, Ron smirking as one of his knights smashed a bishop to pieces. Hermione rolled her eyes, ready to argue strategy, when the portrait door creaked open.
Harry stumbled inside. His face was stained, his eyes wet, his breath ragged like he’d been running. He didn’t even look at them before collapsing onto the nearest armchair, burying his face in his hands.
The chessboard went silent. Even the enchanted pieces froze.
“Harry?” Hermione’s voice was soft, careful.
Ron was already on his feet, frowning. “Mate what happened?”
“Tom…” Harry’s voice cracked, raw with pain.
Ron shot up from the chessboard, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. His eyes burned with fury.
“What’s that bastard done to you?” he demanded, voice sharp and protective.
Hermione was already on her feet, rushing to Harry’s side. Her hands hovered uncertainly, afraid to touch in case he broke apart.
“Harry, what happened?” she asked softly, her voice trembling with worry.
“I-I saw him,” Harry choked out, his chest trembling. “I saw him snogging with Bellatrix Black.”
The words tore from him in broken sobs, his face stained and wet.
Ron’s fists clenched so tight his knuckles went white.
“That bloody snake!” he spat, furious.
Hermione’s eyes widened, her hand covering her mouth as if to hold back her own gasp. She stepped closer, lowering her voice, desperate to ground Harry.
“Oh, Harry…”
"I knew you should’ve never trusted him! Him and his stupid ponce snake friends! All they do is slither around, thinking they’re better than everyone else, acting like the world owes them something! Malfoy, Avery, Rosier! Doesn’t matter the name, they’re all the same slimy lot! And Riddle!- he’s the worst of them! He acts all charming and clever, but it’s just poison underneath!" Ron ranted as he paced back and forth, his fists clenching at his sides.
“Ronald!” Hermione snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut through Ron’s furious ranting.
Ron halted mid-step, his shoes scuffing against the stone floor. Only then did he really see them. Harry sat slumped in the armchair, shoulders caved in, his eyes dull and red-rimmed, like he’d already given up on something that mattered more than life itself. Beside him, Hermione leaned close, rubbing slow circles on his back, her face tight with worry and her usual cleverness dimmed by helplessness.
“I—I’m sorry mate… I got carried away,” Ron said, his voice thick with guilt.
“No, you’re right… I should’ve never trusted him… I-I thought he was going to be different,” Harry said, his voice breaking, eyes fixed on the floor. His shoulders sagged as though the weight of his own hope was crushing him
“Harry, don’t say that. You trusted him because you saw something different in him and that isn’t weakness. That’s you, Harry. You always believe there’s more to people than what they show the world. That’s not a mistake… it’s what makes you better than him.” Hermione’s hand stilled on his back, her voice soft but steady.
“She’s right, mate… You’re not stupid for wanting to believe in him. If anything, it shows you’ve got more heart than the rest of us. But if he can’t see what he’s got with you, then he’s the stupid one. Not you.” Ron shifted awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck.
“I’ll sneak into the kitchens to get some ice cream,” Ron said, forcing a small grin. “Nothing fixes a broken heart better than a whole tub of chocolate frog ice cream.”
Harry let out a weak chuckle, wiping at his eyes. “Thanks, Ron… you too, Hermione. I don’t know what I’d do without you two.”
The doors to the Great Hall opened with the kind of flourish Tom preferred—just enough noise to command attention, not enough to look like effort. He never hurried. He never needed to. Bellatrix’s hand was tucked neatly into his own, her laugh bubbling in her throat like a song of victory, and he allowed it. She was useful for this, a prop draped in black silk and pride.
The hush that spread through the room was almost intoxicating. Eyes followed him from every table, whispers chasing in his wake, and he felt it all, adoration, fear, envy. He didn’t crave their attention. He expected it.
But there was only one gaze he wanted.
He let his eyes wander slowly, dragging out the moment, until they landed on the Gryffindor table.
The boy froze the second their eyes met. A fork clattered from his hand, echoing sharply against the silver plate, and for the briefest instant Tom saw him laid bare. Not the irritatingly stubborn Gryffindor who fought back at every turn. Not the boy who spoke to him with reckless defiance behind closed doors. No- this was Harry wounded, vulnerable, unable to mask the break in his expression.
It was exquisite.
Tom smirked faintly, just enough for Harry to see it and no one else. He could feel Potter’s fury from across the hall, could almost taste his pain. He wanted Harry to understand—wanted him to know this wasn’t an accident. That Bellatrix on his arm, the timing of his entrance, the deliberate slowness of his steps… every second of it had been crafted for him.
Bellatrix pressed closer against his side, smug, delighted by the display. She thought she mattered in this equation, thought she had been chosen. Tom almost laughed. She was a pawn, and one so eager to play her role that she never noticed her own strings being pulled.
Harry’s stare was unrelenting, his emerald eyes burning with hurt that no one else seemed to notice, but Tom saw it as clear as day. He always did. Every shift, every flicker of emotion. Potter was his mirror in that way, incapable of hiding from him.
And that was why this was necessary.
Because Harry had dared to believe he could walk away. Dared to think he could break what bound them.
So Tom tightened his grip on Bellatrix’s hand, tilted his head toward her as if sharing some private joke, and let the implication burn across the distance. He felt the tension coil in Potter from here, the way his entire body tightened, the way his friends rushed in to cage him, to calm him.
Perfect.
A thousand eyes could be on him, but only one mattered. And as long as Harry Potter’s expression carried that raw, breaking edge, Tom Riddle knew he had him exactly where he wanted.
This wasn’t about Bellatrix. It was never about Bellatrix.
This was about Harry. Always Harry.
Tom guided Bellatrix to the Slytherin table, not rushing, savoring each pair of eyes that followed them. His so-called friends, the ones already circling around his orbit, shifted to make room. Abraxas leaned forward, curiosity flickering in his gaze, while Mulciber smirked knowingly. They all understood what this was, a display of power, dominance, and possession.
Tom released Bellatrix’s arm only once he was certain Harry had seen enough. She slipped in beside him like a loyal shadow, her smile sharp, hungry for approval. He ignored it. Approval was not something he gave; it was something people clawed for.
“Fashionably late, as always,” drawled Abraxas, a trace of amusement in his tone.
Tom allowed the corner of his mouth to twitch upward. “Some things,” he said lightly, “are worth waiting for.” His voice carried just enough for Harry, still seated across the hall—to hear, if he was listening. And of course he was.
As the Knights filled his ears with shallow laughter and eager chatter, Tom leaned back in his seat, perfectly at ease. To them, he was their leader, their inevitable future. But his thoughts were elsewhere. He didn’t miss the way Harry had looked at him, hurt, betrayed, but unable to look away. Exactly as Tom intended.
It wasn’t love he wanted from Harry. It was something far sweeter, devotion, obsession… the kind of bond that couldn’t be broken, no matter how deep the wound.
And Tom Riddle always got what he wanted.
Rabastan leaned forward, his smirk sharp as a blade. “So… not with the golden boy anymore, I figure?” he asked, voice deliberately low but edged with amusement. A few of the others chuckled, waiting to see how Tom would respond.
Tom tilted his head, eyes narrowing just slightly. His expression was smooth, composed, though inside, irritation stirred. They thought they understood him. They never did.
He let the silence hang long enough for discomfort to creep in, then spoke with velvet precision. “The golden boy,” Tom said, as if savoring the words, “was a… diversion. Entertaining for a time. But not meant to last.” His gaze flickered toward Harry at the Gryffindor table, lingering just long enough to ensure the cut went deep.
Bellatrix giggled, clutching his arm, as though his cruelty were some kind of private gift to her. The others followed with laughter, but Tom’s mind was elsewhere, tracking every twitch of Harry’s face, every fractured piece of him that was still watching, still tethered.
Tom smiled faintly, a predator’s smile. “Besides,” he added, his tone silk over steel, “the things I want… don’t slip away so easily.”
The Knights of Walpurgis laughed again, mistaking his words for arrogance. But Tom knew better. What he wanted was staring back at him across the hall, broken and furious and still unable to look away.
Harry’s fork slipped from his fingers, clattering against the plate loud enough to make nearby Gryffindors glance over. He didn’t even notice. His entire body went rigid as the doors to the Great Hall creaked open.
Tom walked in. Late. Deliberately late. Bellatrix Black’s hand was curled possessively through his arm, her head tipped toward him as though he were whispering something just for her. She laughed, high and sharp, and it carried across the cavernous hall like a curse.
The Gryffindor bench shifted as Ron muttered something foul under his breath, but Harry didn’t hear. He couldn’t tear his gaze away. Every movement Tom made was precise, deliberate. The slight curve of his mouth, the tilt of his head as he guided Bellatrix down the aisle between the tables. He looked untouchable, immaculate, like the hall belonged to him.
The Slytherin table erupted when he finally sat, their little circle, Malfoy, Lestrange, Rosier snickering and exchanging pointed glances, nudging one another like it was all a grand joke. And in the center of it all sat Tom. Composed. Regal. Smug. Like he’d orchestrated the entire display from the start.
Harry’s chest ached with every second. His breathing turned shallow, jaw clenched tight enough to hurt. He told himself to look away, to focus on anything else, the plate of food in front of him, the golden goblets glinting in the light, even Ron’s red, angry face beside him, but his eyes stayed locked on Tom.
And then it happened.
Tom’s gaze lifted. Brief. Intentional. His eyes found Harry’s across the sea of students, and for that single moment, the rest of the hall disappeared. Harry’s stomach dropped, a nauseating twist tearing through him. He knew that look. He knew the satisfaction flickering at the edges of Tom’s expression, the cruel pride of being seen.
Bellatrix leaned closer to Tom, brushing her lips near his ear, and Tom let out a low chuckle. He didn’t need to kiss her, not yet. Every gesture, every smirk, every languid lean of her head against his shoulder was enough. Enough to twist the knife deeper, to make sure Harry felt it.
Ron slammed his hand against the table, his muttered curses growing louder “bloody snake, pompous git” but Hermione quickly laid a warning hand over his, whispering urgently. Still, her other hand drifted to Harry’s arm, fingers pressing lightly against his sleeve in quiet comfort. He barely registered it. His vision tunneled.
Harry tried to swallow, but his throat was dry. He could feel the prickle of tears at the corners of his eyes, and he blinked hard, refusing to let them fall here, in front of everyone, in front of him.
The laughter from the Slytherin table grew louder. Malfoy tipped his head back, Rosier whispered something obscene, Bellatrix’s laugh rang out again, and at the center of it all, Tom wore that smile. The one Harry had once known privately, the one that had once been for him alone.
And Harry understood, with bone-deep clarity, that this wasn’t an accident. This wasn’t Tom moving on. This was a performance. A punishment. A message written across the hall in every calculated touch and smirk.
For Harry. Only Harry.
Harry pushed back from the table so abruptly his goblet toppled, spilling pumpkin juice across the wood. He barely noticed. His movements were sharp, rushed, as if he had to get out before the walls themselves closed in.
He didn’t glance at Ron or Hermione. Didn’t glance at anyone. His eyes, though, his eyes snapped to Tom, drawn like a magnet he couldn’t resist. For a single heartbeat, the world shrank to just them: Harry, shaking with betrayal, and Tom, lounging as though nothing in the world could touch him. That smirk—small, cruel, deliberate, was enough to make Harry’s stomach twist.
Without a word, Harry spun on his heel and strode for the doors. His robes whipped against his legs, the hurried rhythm of his boots hitting stone echoing loud enough to draw whispers.
The great oak doors groaned as they swung open, then shut behind him with a heavy thud.
Ron was up instantly, knocking over his own plate in his rush. “Bastard,” he muttered savagely, glaring across the hall before storming after Harry.
Hermione hesitated only long enough to gather her things, her face pinched with worry. She ignored the snickers from the Slytherins and followed close behind.
At the Gryffindor table, whispers broke out like sparks. At the Slytherin table, laughter rippled, smug and knowing. Bellatrix preened at Tom’s side, basking in the chaos, while Rabastan leaned in with a grin.
Tom, however, only sat back, fingers steepled under his chin. His gaze lingered on the doors where Harry had vanished, dark eyes unreadable, lips barely curving at the corners.
Everything was unfolding exactly as he had planned.
Two weeks had passed since Harry felt Tom’s betrayal. He had been trying his hardest not to cry or break down, but lately everything felt heavier, especially with the Quidditch Cup approaching. This time, however, he couldn’t take it anymore. After practice, he lingered in the locker room, waiting until the chatter of his teammates faded down the corridor and the last footsteps disappeared. The silence closed in around him, and the mask he had been holding together for days shattered. Harry sank onto the nearest bench, his hands trembling as he buried his face in them, the sobs he had fought so hard to contain finally breaking free.
Harry thought he could finally break down in peace, alone in the quiet of the locker room, when a voice cut through his sobs.
“Harry.”
His head snapped up, eyes red and wet, to see Cedric Diggory standing in the doorway. Cedric Diggory—Hufflepuff’s golden boy, their Quidditch captain, and one of the kindest, most genuine people Harry had ever met. He wasn’t just admired for his talent on the pitch, but for his warmth, his easy smile, and, if Harry was being honest, his disarming good looks that had half of Hogwarts swooning.
Cedric took a cautious step forward, concern etched across his face. “Are you… are you okay?” he asked softly, his voice low and careful, as though afraid Harry might shatter completely if pressed too hard.
Almost immediately, Cedric winced at his own words and shook his head. “Wait—sorry. That was a stupid question. Obviously, you’re not okay.” His tone was gentle, threaded with guilt, like he regretted intruding on something so raw.
Cedric hesitated for only a moment before crossing the room and lowering himself onto the bench beside Harry. He didn’t press too close, giving Harry space, but close enough that Harry could feel the warmth of his presence. For a long moment, neither spoke. The only sound was Harry’s uneven breathing, broken up by the occasional shaky sniffle.
“You don’t have to tell me what’s wrong,” Cedric said quietly, his voice steady and kind. “But… you also don’t have to go through it alone.”
Harry stared at the floor, his hands twisting the edge of his robes. He wanted to say it, wanted to pour out everything about Tom, about betrayal, about the way his chest felt like it was caving in every time he remembered. But the words stuck in his throat, heavy and sharp. Instead, he gave a small shake of his head, refusing to look Cedric in the eye.
Cedric didn’t push. He just let the silence linger, then gently rested a hand on Harry’s back. It wasn’t intrusive, just steady, an anchor when Harry felt like he might drift apart completely. “Whatever it is… you’re stronger than you think,” Cedric murmured. “But even strong people need someone sometimes.”
Harry’s breath hitched, another tear slipping free despite his best efforts. He didn’t say anything, but the tiniest part of him felt lighter, just knowing that someone was there, sitting with him, without demanding answers.
“Thank you… Diggory,” Harry said, his voice trembling, barely above a whisper.
Cedric gave him a small, reassuring smile. “Call me Cedric.”
Harry managed a weak chuckle despite the heaviness in his chest. “Then call me Harry.”
For a moment, the weight pressing down on him didn’t feel so suffocating.
They stayed in that comfortable silence a little longer, the only sound in the room the faint dripping of water from the showers and the distant echo of voices fading down the corridor. Cedric didn’t push or prod for answers, he simply sat there, his presence steady and grounding.
Harry’s breathing slowly evened out, though his eyes still burned from the tears. Somehow, Cedric’s quiet company made it easier to hold himself together. It wasn’t about words anymore, it was about knowing he wasn’t alone.
Finally, Cedric spoke, his voice low and careful, as if afraid to shatter the fragile calm between them. “You don’t have to tell me what’s wrong… but if you ever do, I’ll listen.”
Harry hesitated, torn between honesty and self-preservation. His chest ached with the weight of what he couldn’t say, so instead he reached for the safer explanation. “Everything just feels… heavier, I guess,” he muttered, voice rough. “With O.W.L.s coming up, and the Quidditch Cup… I’m worried I won’t be able to balance it all. And I can’t get this stupid Transfiguration thing right no matter how much I practice.”
He tried to make his words sound casual, like it was nothing more than the stress every student faced, but his voice cracked at the end, betraying him.
“Which part of Transfiguration?” Cedric asked gently.
“Vanishing…” Harry admitted with a sigh.
Cedric’s grin was immediate, almost boyish. “Hey! I did great on that!”
Harry let out a small snicker despite himself. “Of course you did.”
“Well, then it’s settled,” Cedric said, leaning forward a little, his tone light but his eyes earnest. “I can help you. Want to meet in the library? I’ll walk you through it.”
Harry blinked at him, caught off guard by the offer. “Is that… fine? I don’t want to bother you.”
Cedric shook his head firmly, his smile softening. “You could never be a bother, Harry.”
For the first time in days, something inside Harry loosened, just a little.
Ever since that day in the locker room, something shifted between Harry and Cedric. It started small, study sessions in the library where Cedric patiently explained Vanishing Spells until Harry’s frustration gave way to shaky laughter. From there, it grew into late afternoons on the Quidditch pitch, not as rivals but as friends, trading tips, racing through the air, and sometimes just lying on the grass and talking about anything but school.
They began to find each other in the in-between moments too, walking together to class if their routes lined up, stealing time to joke in the Great Hall before practice, or drifting toward each other in the common study spaces, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Their laughter carried down the halls, easy and unforced.
Harry was Gryffindor’s Golden Boy, the Seeker everyone admired, the student people expected to shine. Cedric was Hufflepuff’s pride, steady and admired in his own right. Side by side, they caught attention, but neither seemed to mind. If anything, it only made Harry realize how rare it was to have someone look past the reputation and see him for himself.
And Cedric did. Every time.
Rabastan was feeling unbearably bored. It was that time of the month again the Knights of Walpurgis’ so-called “study meeting.” Nothing exciting ever happened during these, just books, parchment, and the occasional stiff lecture. He couldn’t care less about any of it, but their lord expected attendance. And disappointing him was not an option. So here Rabastan sat, restless, picking at his quill and barely listening.
Finally, unable to take the silence any longer, he leaned back in his chair with a sly smirk. If he had to be here, he might as well stir the pot a little.
“You lot want to hear something amusing?” he drawled. “A Ravenclaw told me she caught Diggory and Potter snogging.”
For a moment, the table went quiet. A few heads turned toward him, quills pausing mid-scratch.
“Potter?” mulled Mulciber, frowning. “As in Gryffindor’s golden boy? The one Slughorn can’t stop bragging about?”
Rabastan smirked, enjoying the ripple of interest. “The very one. Seems Hogwarts’ darling has been keeping himself busy.”
There was a snort from Avery. “Merlin, imagine Diggory of all people. He’s supposed to be squeaky-clean, perfect Hufflepuff material.”
“Perfect until he’s got Potter in his lap, apparently,” Rabastan said lazily, earning a few snickers.
“Are you sure this Ravenclaw wasn’t making it up?” Wilkes cut in, skepticism tinged with amusement. “Everyone at Hogwarts likes to invent stories about Potter. He trips once on the stairs and suddenly he’s been cursed.”
Rabastan twirled his quill between his fingers, eyes glittering with mischief. “Oh, maybe. But it’s a rather delicious picture, isn’t it? Gryffindor’s golden boy tangled up with Hufflepuff’s poster child.”
That earned outright laughter, the heavy atmosphere of the study meeting breaking at last.
At the far end of the table, though, Tom Riddle hadn’t laughed. His quill still moved across his parchment with calm precision, but Rabastan noticed the tiniest flicker in those dark eyes.
And that, Rabastan thought with satisfaction, made the gossip worth telling
For a moment, the room practically hummed with the energy shift. A study meeting among the Knights of Walpurgis was usually quiet, dull even, but Rabastan’s words had lit the place on fire.
Mulciber leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. “Slughorn’s dinner party, Hogsmeade weekends… Next thing you know, they’ll be sneaking into broom cupboards.”
“That would explain why Potter’s been looking… distracted lately,” Rosier said slyly, his grin wicked. “I saw him after practice, hair even more of a mess than usual. Looked like he’d been thoroughly… occupied.”
The table erupted in snickers.
Wilkes tapped his quill against the edge of his parchment, feigning seriousness. “We’re really underestimating Diggory, aren’t we? Everyone thinks he’s the model Hufflepuff, all sunshine and smiles. Maybe he’s been hiding a streak of ambition after all.”
“Or maybe Potter just can’t resist a pretty face,” Abraxas drawled, tilting his head. “It’s very Gryffindor of him, don’t you think? Rushing headlong into a schoolboy romance.”
Rabastan’s grin stretched wider. “Oh, it’s perfect, isn’t it? Two golden boys shining together. The rest of us mere mortals should probably give up now.”
That set off another ripple of laughter, parchment pushed aside as the supposed ‘study session’ collapsed entirely.
Except, at the end of the table, Tom Riddle’s quill had stilled.
It wasn’t obvious at first, his hand rested as though considering the next line of ink, his head bowed just slightly. But the air around him tightened. Abraxas, seated nearest, caught the subtle shift: the curve of Tom’s jaw tightening, the faintest narrowing of his eyes.
Avery, oblivious, leaned back in his chair and smirked. “Honestly, if they keep this up, the whole castle will know by Christmas. You can’t hide something like that for long.”
“Good,” Rabastan said lazily, twirling his quill. “Because watching Hogwarts lose its mind over Potter and Diggory holding hands down the corridor? That’s entertainment.”
A few chuckled again, but quieter this time. Something in the room had shifted, like a shadow lengthening.
Then Tom finally spoke. His voice was soft, smooth, but carried a razor’s edge. “Amusing, isn’t it, how easily distracted some of you are.”
The laughter died instantly. Every head turned.
Tom’s eyes lifted at last, dark and sharp as glass. “While the rest of the school wastes its time whispering about teenage infatuations, we have greater things to concern ourselves with. Or have you all forgotten why you are here?”
A flush of embarrassment rippled through the group. Quills were snatched back up, parchments dragged forward as if they’d never been abandoned.
Rabastan ducked his head, still smirking faintly to himself. He had seen it, the flicker in Tom’s eyes, the stiffness in his shoulders.
He had hit a nerve.
And oh, wasn’t that delicious.
Tom’s chair scraped sharply against the stone floor as he rose, the sudden sound slicing through the forced silence of the room. No one dared to speak. The only noise was the faint rustle of his robes as he gathered them with deliberate precision.
He didn’t look at anyone as he strode to the door, but the pressure of his magic seemed to trail behind him like a stormcloud, thickening the air with every step.
The heavy door slammed shut in his wake.
For a long heartbeat, no one moved. Avery swallowed hard, exchanging a nervous glance with Mulciber. Even Abraxas, usually smug, was staring fixedly at his parchment as though the ink there might save him from the memory of Riddle’s expression.
Rabastan leaned back in his chair, his grin unfading. “Well,” he drawled, breaking the silence, “I suppose Potter’s love life is a touchier subject than I thought.”
His voice dripped with amusement, but there was something sharper in his eyes, a satisfaction that he had been the one to stir the serpent’s nest.
No one laughed this time.
End of Chapter 1