You snorted—half amused, half bitter. Astoria shifted, sharing a careful glance with her sister, as if waiting for you to snap. The air felt weird. Everyone else seemed to notice too.

You opened your mouth to reply—then the portrait door swung open, and your neck craned on instinct.

Tom Riddle walked in like he owned every stone under his feet. Tie loosened. Shirt untucked. Hair—not perfect. One piece of his dark fringe had fallen forward over his forehead, just barely obscuring his eyes. He looked tired. And gorgeous. It was insufferable.

He didn’t stop walking until he was standing right beside the sofa you were sprawled on. Daphne gave him a flat look, but moved your legs aside without a word.

Tom didn’t speak at first. Just glanced down at the coffee table—your coffee table, currently occupied by your cup of tea, a half-finished syllabus, and the book Astoria had left open.

He drew his wand. Accio.

The book slid out from under your arm gently, landing in his palm. The room went silent.

Without a trace of self-awareness, Tom settled into the space you just vacated, pulled your feet back into his lap, and started reading—like that was a normal thing to do.

mouth open Did… Did he just…