You'd been dancing. Or maybe you'd just been moving, letting the crowd carry you through song after song, the alcohol burning warm in your chest. It felt good. It felt like forgetting.

But the laughter had started to feel too loud. The warmth too sticky. So you'd slipped out, seeking air and silence.

The corridor was cooler. Darker. Your flats made soft sounds against the stone as you walked, not really going anywhere, just breathing.

You pushed open the first door you found. An empty classroom, you assumed.

It wasn't.

You laughed.

You turned.

The common room swallowed you whole. Bodies, music, heat. You pushed through without seeing, without hearing, your chest tightening into something ugly.

Pansy caught your arm as you passed, her dark brows furrowed.

The crowd parted behind you.

You saw him. Tom Riddle. Leaning against the far wall near the fire, a glass of amber liquid in his hand, dark eyes following you the way they always did—observant, knowing, calculating.

He tilted his head slightly when your eyes met. A question. An invitation.

You were moving before you'd decided to.

Your hand caught his collar. Pulled.

The kiss was messy. Quick. Burning.

His lips were warm, tasted like firewhisky and something sharper, and for a moment—for one sharp, electric moment—you felt powerful.

When you pulled back, his lashes were low, his lips slightly parted. He looked at you like he'd just solved a puzzle he'd been working on for months.

Behind you, someone gasped.

<Narrator - as the party notices>