Readers POV:
You are Eva Orlov, Hogwarts' newest history professor-and you're not alone. Tom Riddle, enigmatic and brilliant, begins his tenure as the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. From the moment you meet, an undeniable pull draws you to...
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*UPDATED Sep.13th.2024* ~Tom's POV~
The nighttime air at Hogwarts is crisp, still, and brimming with secrets. As I stroll through the darkened corridors, a part of my nightly routine, I pause at the highest point of the clocktower, surveying the grounds below. The castle is quiet, slumbering under the pale glow of the moon. Most of the professors here are forgettable, though one or two have potential. Professor Eva Orlov, in particular, intrigues me. She harbors secrets—I can sense it. But whether she will willingly reveal them or require more persuasive methods remains to be seen.
Oddly, Albus Dumbledore has yet to confront me. He usually appears like a shadow, lurking nearby whenever I linger. A suspicious old man—always plotting, always watching. He believes I'm unaware of his little game. Fool.
As I gaze into the darkened night, my attention is caught by a flicker of light emanating from the boathouse. Really? Have the students become so careless? In my day, we handled our affairs in the dungeons, away from prying eyes. There's no thrill in conflict if everyone can hear the screams.
With a sigh of irritation, I make my way toward the viaduct, fully expecting to deduct house points from a pair of reckless fools. The last thing I need is another display of teenage incompetence to ruin my evening.
But as I draw closer, I spot a figure stumbling toward me. Her gait is unsteady, and the way she waves—a feeble, desperate motion—suggests she is not a student, but someone who has been injured. I tilt my head, my curiosity piqued. Who would be foolish enough to get hurt out here?
"Are you okay?" I ask, though I already know the answer. She's about to collapse, a waste of my time and energy.
And just like that, she crumples to the ground. Amused, I approach and kneel beside her, brushing a few stray strands of hair away from her face. My breath hitches for a moment as I realize who it is.
Misses Orlov. What sort of trouble have you gotten yourself into this time?
I lift her head gently, ensuring she's still breathing. My fingers brush her cold skin, and a flicker of disgust runs through me. She's freezing. Has the woman gone for a swim in this weather? Irritated, I shrug off my coat and drape it over her. Ridiculous. I have plans for you, Professor, and dying of hypothermia isn't one of them.
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