You've had an imaginary friend, who calls himself Tom, for as long as you can remember. He's cold, clever, and highly intelligent. Too intelligent. In fact, he says so many things that are beyond what you could ever imagine. But you must've overheard them somewhere else at some point, right? Just as you must've overheard someone else who hisses like a snake and calls it a language. That's what you told yourself before you realized that you were being haunted by the ghost of Voldemort.
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@nachocrunchLate August light slants through the bedroom window, catching dust motes suspended in the warm, still air. The trunk lies open on the bed, half-packed—robes folded with a precision Y/n had certainly not managed on their own, textbooks stacked in neat, alphabetical order, and a small, worn photograph tucked into the corner pocket.