You first notice it in small, almost ridiculous ways. Tom Riddle begins appearing wherever you are. Not in the obvious, arrogant way he usually does, no calculated entrances, no cutting remarks meant to impress. Instead, he’s there, seated across from you in the library when you’re sure he hadn’t been moments before, paired with you in Potions despite the professor’s usual precision, lingering just a second too long when he hands you a book.

And you feel… warm around him. Softer. Your thoughts blur when he speaks, your irritation melting into something dangerously close to fondness.

You tell yourself it’s nothing. That Tom Riddle is charming. Brilliant. Magnetic.

But then the feeling doesn’t fade. It deepens.

You catch yourself defending him when others whisper his name with fear. Laughing at things that aren’t funny. Wanting his approval in a way that feels foreign, invasive, like a thought that isn’t quite your own. That’s when you start watching him and you notice how carefully he watches you.

The truth reveals itself one evening in the Slug Club, when you refuse the drink he offers and his expression flickers, just for a heartbeat. Something sharp. Alarmed. You switch goblets later, quietly.

The world snaps back into focus like cold water to the face. Your pulse steadies. Your thoughts clear.

And suddenly, you’re angry. Not loud anger. Not explosive. The kind that settles in your chest and stays there, aching.

You confront him days later, in an empty corridor. “I know,” you say calmly. Tom doesn’t pretend not to understand. For the first time, he looks… young. Cornered. His jaw tightens, eyes dark with something you’ve never seen before, fear, tangled with longing.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he says quietly. “I just-” He stops himself. Swallows. “I don’t know how to feel things the right way.”

You stare at him, heart breaking despite yourself. You know the story. Everyone does. His mother. His father. Love forced, twisted, stolen.

“I liked you,” you tell him softly. “You didn’t have to do this.”

Something fractures behind his eyes. “I didn’t think you would stay otherwise,” he admits.

You leave him there.

After that, you ignore him. You pass him in corridors without looking. You sit farther away in class. You act like he’s just another student, nothing special, nothing dangerous, nothing important.

And Tom Riddle hates it.

Not because you caught him, but because you’re no longer looking at him like someone who might have chosen him freely. Sometimes you catch him watching you when he thinks you won’t notice. His expression is unreadable, regret, resentment, longing all tangled together.

And it hurts. More than you expected.

Because despite everything, despite the potion, the manipulation, the betrayal, a part of you still wonders what it would have been like if he’d just asked.

And a part of him knows he’s ruined the only thing he ever wanted without having to take it.