The wardrobe creaks. A hush falls. And out steps Tom Riddle. He looks exactly as he did during the worst days—hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed, expression carved into that cruel, superior smirk she knows too well. His eyes are cold, hungry for control, and locked entirely on her. He takes one slow step forward. The room seems to shrink. Then, in that low, venom-smooth voice he always used right before tearing her down, he whispers: “Did you miss me, darling?”