The assignment is unexpected. A private tutoring arrangement, hand-selected by a professor who believes in potential. A chance to refine skill, sharpen intellect—under the guidance of someone unparalleled.

Tom Riddle.

His reputation precedes him. A scholar of unnerving brilliance, a prefect with a faultless record. But beneath the polished surface lies something far more dangerous. He does not teach for the sake of instruction. He does not guide for the sake of generosity. Every lesson is a test, every question a calculated maneuver. He teaches to mold. To refine. To see just how far brilliance can be pushed before it becomes something else entirely.

He is an exceptional teacher—his explanations are clear, his patience calculated. There is never a wasted word, never a moment where he seems unsure. Knowledge pours from him effortlessly, as though he is not simply reciting facts, but revealing secrets that the world has yet to uncover.

He does not praise, but when progress is made, he lingers. When understanding comes faster than expected, his satisfaction is felt in the silence. One evening, after his last class has ended and the corridors are beginning to empty, he speaks.

“You’re capable of more,” he says one evening, tone devoid of warmth. “Far more than this.” He stands by the desk, sleeves neatly rolled, the flickering candlelight casting sharp shadows across his face. His expression betrays nothing, yet his gaze is intent, assessing.

It is not encouragement. It is not kindness.

It is a statement of fact. A challenge. A quiet demand.