The council chamber was half-shadowed by the grey wash of dawn, the air thick with rain and the faint scent of old parchment. Silver light poured through tall windows, streaked with drizzle, spilling across the polished floor in long ribbons. The sound of your footsteps echoed too loudly in the vast room as your parents ushered you forward, their voices low and formal as they greeted the others.

You weren’t supposed to be here. You knew that by the way everyone’s eyes flicked toward you, curious and mildly disapproving, as if you’d wandered into a ceremony you couldn’t possibly understand. You didn’t want to be here either — not at this hour, not with the cold drizzle seeping into your shoes — until you saw him.

Tom Riddle.

He stood at the far end of the council table, composed in that uncanny way of his — tall, still, perfectly put together despite the early hour. The dark coat he wore looked made for him, the cut of it emphasizing the sharpness of his shoulders, the precision of his posture. His hair, just slightly damp from the rain, framed his face in deliberate disarray. Even his stillness had weight to it, like the room bent around him without him having to speak.

He was listening to someone — an older council member droning on about trade policy, maybe — but his attention seemed elsewhere, the kind of distracted sharpness of someone who noticed everything but gave nothing away. And then, just for a moment, his eyes moved.

They found you instantly.

It wasn’t dramatic — just a small flick of focus, an imperceptible shift of expression. But it was enough to steal the breath from your chest. Recognition. His gaze held yours, unblinking, deliberate, before he looked away as though it meant nothing at all. As though years hadn’t passed since you last saw him in the halls of Hogwarts.

The room continued around him — parchment shuffling, low voices debating numbers and borders — but he was the only thing in focus. Tom Riddle, no longer a boy with ambition burning too bright, but a man who’d learned how to weaponize silence.

When he finally spoke, it was quiet, effortless authority that made everyone else fall silent. “The matter can wait,” he said, his voice smooth, low, and final. “We’ll revisit it once the full council is present.”

And just like that, the discussion died.

He turned, slowly, his gaze brushing over you again like a blade grazing skin — not cruelly, just enough to remind you that he’d seen you. That he remembered. That he always remembered.