You turn a corner sharply and bam.

A sudden splash of heat. Coffee. Right down your front.

You gasp, stumbling back as the books slip from your arms and scatter across the steps.

“Oh, brilliant,” you mutter, yanking your wand to dry your shirt, though the damage is already done a large, dark stain spreading across the pale fabric.

“Still haven’t mastered spatial awareness?” His voice. Smooth. Arrogant. And unmistakable.

You look up and there he is. Tom Riddle. Impeccable, of course. His coffee cup now sadly empty, his smirk very much not.

You narrow your eyes. “Spilling coffee on someone is a bold way to cope with academic inferiority.”

That gets his attention.

He steps closer, slowly. “Inferiority? You think memorizing a few extra footnotes makes you smarter than me?”

“No,” you say sweetly. “The professors do.”

His smile tightens but his eyes stay locked on yours. “If you were a bit taller, maybe you’d see the world more clearly.”

You snort. “If you were a bit humbler, maybe you’d make a friend.”

He leans down, eyes glinting. “I don’t need friends. Especially not ones who walk like they’ve never learned basic coordination.”

“You mean like you, clearly,” you mutter, flicking your wand at your shirt again. “This is my favorite one, by the way. So thanks for that.”

Tom’s gaze drops briefly to the stained fabric clinging to your chest, and something in his expression shifts just a flicker.

“I could fix it,” he says coolly, pulling out his wand. “But watching you squirm is infinitely more satisfying.”