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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"Eva..." His voice is barely above a whisper, but it sends a shiver down my spine. I step further into the room, my gaze locked on him, trying to make sense of what I'm seeing.
Tom Riddle, the Dark Lord, Lord Voldemort.. is leaning against the dresser, his pale skin marred by streaks of blood and grime. He's shirtless, his chest rising and falling with labored breaths. I can see the glistening sweat that coats his skin, the way his usually sharp, calculating eyes are clouded with pain. This is not the Tom I know—the cold, unyielding man who manipulates and bends the world to his will.
Something is wrong. Very wrong.
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"Tom, what happened?" My voice trembles as I approach him, my heart racing in my chest. My eyes sweep over him, searching for the source of the blood. His arm, his side—there's a deep gash just below his ribs. Blood trickles down from the wound, staining his trousers, pooling onto the floor in small, sticky droplets.
I feel the air leave my lungs, my thoughts scrambling to process what I'm seeing. I've never seen him hurt like this. He is untouchable, invincible—yet here he is, leaning heavily on the dresser, his face pale and drained of the vitality he so ruthlessly commands. My instincts scream at me to move, to help, but something deeper inside me—a fear that's always existed in the presence of Tom—keeps me rooted in place for a moment longer.
Tom meets my gaze, and for a fleeting second, I see something in his eyes that looks like vulnerability. It's gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by the familiar intensity, but I know it was there.
"You don't look better yourself," he says, his voice low but sharp, and even now, even like this, there's an edge to his words that cuts through the fog in my mind. I snap out of my frozen state and rush to his side, my hands trembling as I try to assess the wound.
"Stop," he hisses through gritted teeth as I reach out to touch him, but I ignore him. My fingers brush against his skin, cold and clammy to the touch. He's losing too much blood. I can smell and see it, the metallic taste in the air.. It's incredible hard for be to resist, especially after everything that happened..
