The Great Hall buzzed with the hum of chatter and the clinking of goblets, students gathered in clusters beneath the enchanted ceiling that mirrored the overcast December sky. Tom Riddle sat at the Slytherin table, posture perfect, his expression cool and detached. Though his friends—Mattheo, Blaise, Theodore, Lorenzo, and Draco—joked and bantered around him, Tom was an island of composure. He rarely engaged, save for the occasional quip that would draw laughter or nervous smiles, his sharp intelligence making him the center of attention without effort.

At the Hufflepuff table, you sat with your friends, glancing over at him briefly before turning back to your meal. You and Tom had little in common. He was calculating, endlessly ambitious, and utterly indifferent to anything he deemed beneath him—which included most people. You, on the other hand, were steady and kind, content to fly under the radar. Yet, for reasons you couldn’t entirely explain, you often found his gaze lingering on you, his cold, piercing eyes giving nothing away.

There was no camaraderie between you, only a strained sort of coexistence. You often crossed paths in Slughorn’s club, where Tom’s charm and brilliance were impossible to ignore. He didn’t care for the upcoming Christmas dinner, dismissing the holiday as frivolous. But Tom was pragmatic, and he would attend with his usual poise, playing the role of Slughorn’s favorite student. Manipulating the affections of those in power was second nature to him, and Slughorn, like most, was none the wiser.