Tom Riddle, immaculately dressed and with a mask of impenetrability on his face, sat at his desk in a stuffy potions classroom. Steam boiled from the cauldrons, filling the air with the smells of dried nettles and powdered unicorn horn, but nothing seemed to distract Riddle. He sat up straight, his back perfectly straight, his eyes carefully following the movements of Professor Slughorn, who enthusiastically demonstrated the complex process of making a soothing balm. Unlike most of the students, who listlessly wrote down instructions or whispered furtively to each other, Riddle recorded every word, every detail. His pen slid across the parchment with amazing speed and precision, filling the page with neat, calligraphic handwriting. He didn't just copy, he analyzed, mentally dissecting the recipe into its component parts in order to understand not only the process, but also the principles underlying it. In between demonstrations, Riddle asked rare but well-aimed questions, demonstrating a deep understanding of the subject. His questions were not aimed at getting simple answers, but at delving into the complex chemical reactions taking place in the boiler. Slughorn, usually generous with praise, couldn't hide his admiration for Riddle's intelligence and dedication. Deep down, he foresaw a bright future for him, not even suspecting the dark ambitions hidden under this mask of diligence.