Chapter 7
You sat at your desk the next morning, the checks spread out in front of you like a challenge. They practically dared you to make a decision. You had spent hours agonizing over them, weighing your options, turning the note over and over in your mind.
But as the sunlight streamed into your room, illuminating the golden bookmark resting on your nightstand, a sense of resolve washed over you.
He gave me these checks. If he expects me to refuse, then that’s his problem. If this is some kind of test, I’ll pass it by doing what I want.
You gathered the checks into the envelope, grabbed your bag, and headed out of the castle. The day was crisp, with a chill in the air that hinted at the approach of winter. The cobblestone streets of Hogsmeade were bustling as you made your way to your favorite bookshop, a small, cozy place tucked between a sweets store and a tailor’s shop.
The bell above the door chimed as you stepped inside, greeted by the familiar scent of parchment, ink, and leather bindings. Shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, filled with an eclectic mix of magical and Muggle books. It was one of the few shops in the area that catered to both worlds, and you had always loved the way it felt like a bridge between them.
---
You started in the magical books section, scanning the spines until your eyes landed on a few titles that had been on your wishlist for months. A rare volume on advanced Charms theory. A comprehensive guide to ancient runes. And finally, an old but pristine copy of Arithmancy: A Historical Perspective , a book you had skimmed once but couldn’t afford.
You held each book in your hands, feeling their weight, letting the anticipation build as you imagined diving into their pages. Normally, you would have stopped here, feeling guilty for splurging too much. But today, with Tom’s checks burning in your bag, you decided to keep going.
You crossed over to the Muggle section, your fingers brushing along the titles until you found the ones you had been dreaming about. A beautifully bound edition of Pride and Prejudice . A stack of Sherlock Holmes mysteries. And even a leather-bound journal of blank pages, perfect for your own thoughts and sketches.
Each book you picked felt like a small act of rebellion—not against Tom, but against the fear and guilt that had been gnawing at you since the gifts began. If he wanted to give you this, if he wanted to indulge you, then why not let yourself enjoy it?
---
When you reached the counter, your arms were full. The shopkeeper raised an eyebrow at the pile of books you set down, but you didn’t care. You handed over one of the checks, watching as he inspected it, his expression turning to mild surprise.
“Very generous patron,” he remarked, sliding the books into a bag.
You just smiled faintly, pocketing the receipt and thanking him as you left the shop.
---
The walk back to the castle felt lighter, as though the weight of your worries had lifted with every step. By the time you returned to your dormitory, you were practically buzzing with excitement. You spread your new books out on your bed, running your hands over their covers, flipping through the pages.
For the first time in days, you felt a sense of peace.
This wasn’t about Tom anymore—it was about you. These books were yours now, and you would use them as you pleased. If Tom wanted to send you gifts, that was his choice. And if you wanted to accept them, well, that was yours.
---
Later that evening, you curled up in bed with one of your new Muggle novels, a cup of tea steaming on your bedside table. The golden bookmark sat tucked into the pages, glinting in the dim light. You allowed yourself to smile, feeling the kind of contentment that had been missing for weeks.
But in the back of your mind, you couldn’t quite shake the thought of Tom. Had he expected you to use the checks? Had he wanted you to resist? You wondered what he would think when he realized you had accepted his gifts without hesitation, without guilt.
Would he be pleased? Or would he see this as a challenge—a sign that you wouldn’t bend to his will as easily as he might have hoped?
For now, you decided not to care. You turned the page of your novel, the words drawing you in and momentarily silencing the storm of thoughts in your mind.
Whatever came next, you would face it on your own terms.
For tonight, you were just Y/N, surrounded by books and your own dreams. And for once, that felt like enough.
---
The following morning, you arrived at breakfast with a spring in your step, feeling lighter than you had in days. Your bag was heavier now, stuffed with the weight of your new books, but it was a weight you welcomed.
Sliding into your usual seat at the Ravenclaw table, you couldn’t help but let your mind wander back to yesterday’s indulgence. The shopkeeper’s comment still lingered in your head— Very generous patron. You didn’t need to guess who that patron was.
You glanced toward the Slytherin table, where Tom sat as poised as ever, his dark eyes scanning the room. When his gaze flicked to you, your stomach twisted slightly, but you didn’t look away. Instead, you gave him the smallest of smiles. Not a thank-you—just a quiet acknowledgment that you knew.
His expression remained impassive, but something about the way his eyes lingered on you sent a shiver down your spine. You turned back to your plate, trying to focus on your toast and tea.
---
The day passed in a blur of classes, each one feeling less stressful than usual. Perhaps it was the satisfaction of knowing you had your new books waiting for you, or perhaps it was the quiet thrill of your newfound defiance against Tom’s control. Whatever it was, you felt… steady.
Until lunch.
You had just settled into your seat when Clara, your ever-curious friend, leaned in conspiratorially.
“So, what’s with you today? You’re practically glowing,” she teased, grinning.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you replied smoothly, taking a sip of pumpkin juice.
“Oh, come on,” Clara said, nudging you. “You’re smiling. You never smile like this unless you’ve aced a test or found some rare book. Spill.”
You hesitated, debating how much to tell her. Clara was sharp, and if anyone could piece together the strange dynamic between you and Tom, it would be her.
“I might have picked up a few books yesterday,” you admitted vaguely, trying to downplay it.
“‘A few books?’” she repeated, her eyes narrowing. “I know you, Y/N. If you’re this happy about it, it wasn’t just *a few* books. What’s the real story?”
You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could, a familiar figure passed behind you. The air seemed to grow colder, heavier, and you didn’t need to look up to know it was Tom.
Clara must have noticed the way your shoulders tensed because she turned, her eyes following Tom’s retreating figure.
“Riddle?” she asked, her voice low. “Has he been bothering you again?”
“No,” you said quickly, too quickly. “Why would he be?”
Clara’s eyes narrowed further, but she didn’t press. “Just… be careful around him, okay? He’s not exactly known for being friendly.”
You nodded, grateful for the change of topic when she started rambling about an essay due later in the week.
But even as you forced yourself to engage in the conversation, you couldn’t stop thinking about Tom. Had he overheard Clara’s comment? Had he noticed your smile at breakfast? And more importantly, why did you care so much about what he thought?
---
That evening, you found yourself in the library again, tucked away in your favorite corner with one of your new books. It was a Muggle novel this time, a mystery that had already hooked you within the first few pages.
You were so engrossed that you didn’t notice the shadow that loomed at the edge of your vision until it was too late.
“Enjoying your purchases?”
The low, silky voice sent a chill down your spine. You looked up to find Tom standing over you, his expression unreadable. He wasn’t smiling, but there was something in his eyes—something that made your pulse quicken.
“I am,” you replied, keeping your voice steady. “Thank you.”
His head tilted slightly, as if he hadn’t expected such a straightforward response.
“You’re not curious why I gave them to you?” he asked, his tone almost casual.
“Should I be?” you countered, meeting his gaze.
A flicker of something—surprise? amusement?—crossed his face before it disappeared.
“Most people would be,” he said. “But you’re not most people, are you, Y/N?”
You swallowed hard, feeling the intensity of his words settle over you.
“No,” you said quietly. “I’m not.”
For a moment, the two of you just stared at each other, the air between you crackling with unspoken tension. Then, with a small nod, Tom turned and walked away, his robes billowing behind him.
You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, your heart racing. Whatever game Tom was playing, you weren’t sure who was winning anymore.
But as you looked back down at your book, your fingers brushing against the golden bookmark, you realized something else.
You weren’t sure if you wanted the game to end.