The night had fallen, and the boys’ dormitory was wrapped in a comfortable gloom, lit only by a few carelessly placed candles. On the table, a makeshift feast of stolen snacks and a couple of mysterious bottles—clearly acquired by Blaise and Draco—gave the room a rebellious edge.

Mattheo lounged in his chair, his tousled hair falling over his forehead, lazily playing with a piece of chocolate between his fingers. A mischievous, almost feline smile curled his lips before he turned his head toward his brother.

—So brother, how's it going with your little crush? —he asked, his tone dripping with mockery and intrigue.

Theo, who had been leaning back on his bed with his arms crossed, barely lifted his gaze. A subtle smile tugged at his mouth as he looked down at the table, quietly amused. The idea that Tom—the ever-cold, calculating Tom Riddle—was in love with someone was so rare it was both entertaining and a little unsettling.

Tom, sitting across from them, didn’t answer immediately. His long fingers spun the glass he was holding, over and over. His face remained as unreadable as always, though there was something in his eyes—a mix of frustration and confusion—that wasn’t there most days.

—I just don't get it —he finally said, his voice low and serious. A sigh escaped him, exasperated, before he continued—. I have tried flirting with her every single day.

Now intrigued, Mattheo leaned forward, resting his elbow on the table and his chin on his hand, as if settling in for the juiciest story of the night.

—It's like she's not getting the hint —Tom added, licking his lips, his expression deep in thought.

Draco raised an eyebrow, clearly suppressing a laugh. Blaise, on the other hand, simply observed, taking in the situation like he was watching an unfolding stage play.

Tom’s so-called flirting situation, days later:

The scene was almost comical. His eyes had locked on you with a solemnity so intense it seemed he wasn’t admiring you but rather inspecting the quality of your shoes. He tried to soften that funereal gaze into something charming, but the result was more unsettling than seductive.

When he finally opened his mouth to speak, his tone was so ceremonious—so rehearsed—that it sounded like he was reciting an ancient love poem in Aramaic, hoping that sheer intonation would do the trick. You, of course, had no idea what that… strange poetry was meant to be. His “flirting” felt more like a failed Legilimency attempt than an actual compliment.