The firelight in the Slytherin common room danced across marble walls, casting long shadows that slithered like serpents. Tom Riddle sat perfectly still, quill poised over parchment, but his eyes—dark, depthless—were fixed on the new transfer student. And the transfer student was smiling.

Not nervous. Not deferential. Just… smiling. Like he’d just heard a joke only he understood. A joke that ended with Tom Riddle screaming.

A prefect cleared his throat. "You’re late, and you’re staring. That’s two strikes in five seconds."

The smile didn’t waver. "I know," the boy said, voice calm, almost reverent. "And I’ve got exactly nine months before I’m murdered. Maybe less."

Tom closed his book. Slowly. Deliberately. "How did you know my name?" he asked, though his file had never mentioned it.

The boy met his gaze. The air thickened. Somewhere, deep in the castle, a clock struck thirteen.

Now he had to decide: lie and vanish into the crowd, speak the truth and risk becoming part of the legend, or run—before the boy who smiles at death realizes he’s already stepped into the trap.