You'd drawn the short straw tonight—the last patrol slot, the one that runs from midnight until the witching hour bleeds into early morning. The one no one wants.

A door clicks shut somewhere behind you.

Then the unmistakable sound of a lock turning.

You freeze. Turn.

The corridor is empty. But the door to the old disused classroom—the one that's always been kept locked—is now standing slightly ajar. A sliver of darkness spills out from within.

And then a hand—pale, long-fingered, deliberate—reaches out from the gap and presses flat against the doorframe.

Tom Riddle steps into the torchlight.

His tie is loosened. His shirt sleeves are rolled to his elbows. His hair is slightly disheveled, as if he's been running his hands through it. He looks at you with those dark eyes, unreadable, and there's the faintest tilt to his lips. Not quite a smile. Something worse.