As death nears
The Slytherin dormitory had always been Violet's sanctuary. Nestled beneath the lake, the green-and-silver decor reflected the cool, serene depths of the water above. The soft glow of enchanted lanterns cast rippling shadows across the walls, mimicking the movement of the lake, and the ever-present hum of the castle's ancient magic provided an oddly soothing backdrop. Despite its underground location, the dormitory was surprisingly cozy. The emerald curtains on her four-poster bed were heavy but soft, blocking out the world when she needed to retreat.
Violet sat cross-legged on her bed, unpacking her trunk with meticulous care. Books were the first items she unpacked, each one placed carefully on the small shelf by her bed. Their spines were a mixture of leather-bound tomes and worn paperbacks, a reflection of her love for poetry, fantasy, and the occasional treatise on the dark arts—a shared interest with her brother, Julius.
"Still hoarding books, I see," Eve Trawers teased, flopping onto her bed with a dramatic sigh. Her auburn hair was tied in a loose braid that trailed over her shoulder, and her cheeks were still flushed from the brisk walk to the castle.
"You say that like it's a bad thing," Violet replied with a faint smile, folding a scarf and placing it neatly in her trunk.
Eve laughed, her bright hazel eyes dancing with mischief. "Not bad, just predictable. Speaking of predictable, did you hear about the new DADA professor? Apparently, he's not some old codger this time."
Violet glanced at her friend, suddenly feeling self-conscious. "I heard," she murmured, her voice careful.
"Handsome, too, or so they say," Eve continued, leaning over to prod Violet's arm. "Did you see him yet? Maybe you'll be the first to confirm."
Before Violet could respond, Bella Lestrange sauntered into the room, a glass of firewhisky in one hand and an assortment of silk ribbons in the other. Bella was magnetic, with her wild curls and piercing gaze that could cut through any room. She was the kind of person who didn't need to demand attention; it simply gravitated toward her.
"Who's handsome?" Bella asked, tossing the ribbons onto her bed before flopping onto it with practiced elegance.
"The new DADA professor," Eve said, grinning. "Apparently, he's quite the sight."
Bella scoffed, reaching for one of the ribbons. "I'll believe it when I see it. Last year's was supposed to be 'decent,' and he looked like a wrinkled old toad."
"He's young," Violet interjected softly, her voice barely cutting through the chatter. "Maybe thirty. Dark hair, sharp features..." She trailed off, realizing she might have said too much.
Eve raised an eyebrow, her grin widening. "And you know this because...?"
Violet hesitated, the heat rising to her cheeks. "We... shared a compartment on the train. He sat with me."
Bella's head snapped up, her curiosity piqued. "The new professor sat with you? What did you talk about?"
"Nothing important," Violet said quickly, trying to downplay the encounter. "He just asked about my family, my interests..."
"Family, huh?" Eve teased. "I bet he knows Julius. That's probably why."
At the mention of her brother, Violet relaxed slightly. "He did mention knowing Julius. They were at Hogwarts together."
Bella tilted her head, studying Violet with an amused glint in her eyes. "You're blushing, Vi."
"I'm not!" Violet protested, though her flushed cheeks said otherwise.
"Don't worry, darling," Bella said with a smirk, twirling a ribbon between her fingers. "Professors are fair game once you graduate. Until then, though, hands off."
Eve burst out laughing, throwing a pillow at Bella, who dodged it with ease. "You're terrible, Bella."
"I'm realistic," Bella replied, leaning back with a satisfied grin.
The conversation drifted to lighter topics—upcoming Quidditch matches, the latest gossip about the older students, and the strange tension brewing among the staff. But Violet's mind kept wandering back to Professor Riddle.
***
Later that evening, the common room buzzed with the usual chaos of students settling in, catching up, and discussing their first day back at Hogwarts. Violet sat near the window with her friends, Eve and Bella, listening half-heartedly as they laughed and joked. But her mind kept drifting. It wasn't the usual chatter that held her attention—it was something far darker, something that unsettled her in a way she couldn't quite explain.
Tom Riddle.
The new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. There was something about him, something about the way he moved, the way his eyes studied everyone with that icy, calculating precision, that left a weight on her chest. His charm wasn't like others—he didn't need to try. He simply was. His presence demanded attention without asking for it.
She had been aware of him all throughout the day. His quiet authority, the way the students around him fell silent at his mere presence. It was almost as if he was used to being the center of the room—without lifting a finger, without so much as a word.
When he walked into the common room, it was as though the air itself shifted. Conversations stalled. The murmurs began immediately:
"Did you see him? He's... perfect."
"He's not even that old—how is he so put together?"
"Do you think he's single?"
But Violet didn't join in. She couldn't. Despite the compliments from her friends, the girls who fluttered around him like moths to a flame, she felt a tension building inside her. He was a professor. A professor.
She knew the risks of being drawn in, the danger of allowing herself to get caught in his orbit. It was clear the others didn't see it—not the way she did. They saw his looks, the way he spoke with such calm confidence, the almost effortless charm he exuded.
She, however, saw something more. Something darker.
And then, her heart skipped a beat.
Tom's eyes met hers across the room. For a split second, the noise around her ceased. The world narrowed to just the two of them, and she felt it—the quiet command in his gaze. He wasn't just looking at her. He was looking into her, peeling back the layers she hadn't realized she'd put up.
Without a word, he began to move toward her.
Violet's breath hitched in her throat as he approached. The crowd seemed to part for him, instinctively, without anyone realizing they were doing it. His steps were measured, deliberate, but it was the way he walked that caught her off guard—there was no hesitation, no uncertainty. Tom Riddle was a man who never doubted his place in the world.
He stopped in front of her. The others didn't seem to notice—too absorbed in their own excitement. But Violet felt the shift. Felt his gaze on her, felt the magnetic pull of his presence.
"You're still here," he said, his voice smooth and dark, almost as though he were reminding her of something.
Violet swallowed. "Yes, Professor."
His lips curved into something like a smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I hope I didn't disturb your fun," he added, with a faint note of irony.
Her heart thudded in her chest. "No, you didn't. Just... catching up." She wasn't sure why she was still speaking so casually. Maybe it was the tone of his voice that left her feeling slightly off-balance, or maybe it was the fact that he didn't look like a professor. He didn't act like one either.
Tom's eyes lingered for a moment longer before he leaned in just slightly. "I need to speak with you. In private."
Violet's breath caught. There was no room for argument in his words, no space for refusal. She nodded stiffly, gathering her things with a little too much force.
Tom led her out of the common room, through the quiet corridors of the dungeons. The castle felt cold tonight, like the walls themselves were closing in on them. Violet kept her gaze trained ahead, her pulse quickening, but she didn't dare speak. She wasn't sure what to say.
They stopped in a quiet hall, far from the students and the noise. The flickering torchlight cast shadows on the stone walls, making the air feel thick and suffocating. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Tom leaned against the wall, his posture casual but somehow predatory, as if he were waiting for something—waiting for her to break. He studied her with that unnerving, unreadable look, his eyes dark, and almost expectant.
Violet opened her mouth to ask what this was about, but the words caught in her throat. Tom had a way of making her feel as though she were the subject of some test, some experiment. He wasn't just a professor, she realized. He was a manipulator—his every word, every look, calculated to provoke a response. To see how far he could push her.
Finally, Tom spoke, his voice low and velvety. "You were quite reserved today. Don't tell me you're already bored of me, Miss Violet."
Her stomach twisted at the way he said her name—so familiar, so intimate, and yet he wasn't using it in the way a professor should.
"I'm not bored," she replied stiffly, trying to maintain some distance. "I just... didn't expect the day to be so intense."
He took a small step closer, his figure looming in the dim light. "Intense?" he repeated, his lips twitching upward as though he found her answer amusing. "You've only just begun, Violet."
Violet glanced up at him, meeting his gaze. "What do you want from me, Professor?" Her voice was barely above a whisper.
Tom's eyes flashed, dark and piercing. "I want to hear the truth, Violet. I want to know what you think."
Her chest tightened, and for the briefest moment, she could've sworn she felt his breath against her skin. Then, with a movement too swift to react to, he slid his coat from his shoulders and draped it over hers. The fabric was warm, like he was leaving something of himself with her, a piece of his power.
The scent of vanilla, books, and something darker—something more dangerous—lingered on her skin as he stepped back.
"You're cold," he said, his voice still low, but now with an edge of something deeper.
Violet's heart raced, and she suddenly felt trapped—like there was nowhere to go. "I... I don't understand," she admitted, swallowing against the growing tightness in her throat.
Tom's smile was faint but calculating. "You will. In time."
He was already moving, turning his back on her as though she were of no more consequence, yet every part of her screamed that she was far from irrelevant to him.
"You should return to your friends," he said, his voice soft yet firm. "Let them think you've been a good girl."
For a moment, Violet stood there, caught in the pull of his words. His coat felt like it weighed more than it should, like it anchored her to this moment, to him. She forced herself to step away, the unease still swirling in her chest.
"Goodnight, Professor," she said, her voice almost trembling.
But as she turned to go, he spoke again, and this time his voice was softer, more intimate.
"And Violet... Call me Tom."
Her heart skipped. It was the first time he had used her name without the formality of "Miss." It was a command—subtle, yet undeniable.
She nodded, her breath catching in her throat, before disappearing down the corridor.
Tom remained where he was for a long while, staring after her, his expression unreadable. His coat was still draped over her shoulders, and in that moment, he couldn't help but feel the strange weight of it, the sensation that she had already left her mark on him, even if he had been the one pulling the strings all along.
But as much as he tried to ignore it, the image of Violet—of her fragility, her uncertainty, and yet that sharpness he couldn't quite define—lingered in his mind, something he couldn't push away.
It didn't matter. She was just a student. But for some reason, he couldn't shake the feeling that she was more than that.
