Low, greenish lantern light glimmered off the dark lake windows, casting shifting watery shadows across the leather armchairs and stone floor. A few seventh-years murmured over textbooks by the fire, but most had drifted off to dinner or other pursuits.

You were curled in a deep, high-backed chair near the rear wall, a half-finished Charms essay on your lap, your quill idle.

The heavy oak door swung open without a sound.

Tom Riddle entered, his prefect's badge gleaming faintly on his chest. His gaze swept the room, dismissive, until it landed on you.

He didn't smile. He never did, not in that way others would recognize. But something in his posture shifted, a subtle loosening of his shoulders as he crossed the room with that smooth, predatory grace that made younger students instinctively clear a path.