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...
PS: Perfect song for this chapter: Tommy Profit - Tragety
*Eva's POV*
I dart out of the room, my heart pounding in my chest as I head down the long, dimly lit hallway. Tom's words replay in my mind—both of us are immortal, in a way..
I can barely process it. What does he mean? How can he be so sure? But I don't have time to dwell on it now. His condition is worse than I let on. He needs help. Now.
"Evan... I need to find Evan," I mutter under my breath, my legs carrying me faster than I thought possible.
The house is eerily quiet, too quiet. My footsteps echo off the cold stone floors, but there's no sound from the others—no Bellatrix, no Avery, no one. It's unsettling, as if the house itself is holding its breath. I reach the top of the staircase, about to descend, when I hear it—a voice.
"Eva."
My blood freezes in my veins, and I stop, straining to hear it again.
"Eva!"
The voice is unmistakable. It's Evan, calling from somewhere below, his voice low but urgent. I can't see him, but I know it's him. My heart skips a beat. I whirl around, scanning the staircase and the corridor below.
"Evan?" I call back, taking a tentative step down. My skin prickles with unease. Something feels... wrong. I shouldn't be able to hear him this clearly. His voice seems to bounce off the walls in a way that doesn't quite make sense.. Maybe my abilities are sharper because of all the human blood I drank.
I lift my dress as I rush downstairs, looking around I take a few more steps, my hand gripping the banister tightly. The air feels heavier now, thick with tension. As I reach the bottom, my eyes dart to the front door. It's slightly ajar, the cold night air seeping in through the crack. It's so silent I could swear the world stays still.
Bang—a loud, jarring sound, as if someone is pounding on the door from the outside is letting me flinch hard.
"Eva!" Evan's voice is louder now, more desperate. "Open the door!" Another bang follows.
I rush over, hands trembling as I swing it open—and there he is. Evan Rosier stands in front of me, his usual confident smirk replaced by a look of panic. But something's off. His clothes are dirty, disheveled, and his face is pale, too pale. I wonder what happened to him..
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"I've been looking for you everywhere," he says, breathless, his voice raspy. "Is he alright?"
I blink, trying to shake the unease gnawing at me. "I was just going to find you. He's badly hurt. We need to hurry."
He steps toward me, and for a moment, I hesitate. Something about him feels... wrong. But I can't pinpoint what. Maybe it's the way his eyes don't quite meet mine or how his movements seem slightly too stiff, too rehearsed. Maybe he is angry at me, or at unease because I drunk his blood. Twice. I muster him for a bit while he closes the door, he smells bad man.
