It was not meant to be found.

You discovered it by accident, the parchment tucked inside one of his books on ancient runes. It had the smell of smoke and old parchment, its edges burnt just enough to look deliberate. Your name was written at the center, the ink darker than anything ordinary, almost alive. Around it spiraled a ring of symbols, precise and unnervingly elegant. They pulsed faintly under the candlelight, as though aware of being seen.

When he entered the room, you were still holding it. He did not look surprised.

“Where did you get this?” you asked, your voice quieter than you meant it to be.

He closed the door with a click that felt too final. “You were not supposed to see that yet.”

The parchment trembled in your hands. “It has my name, Tom. What have you done?”

He stepped closer, his expression calm, composed, the picture of patience. “It is not what I have done,” he said softly, “but what I have begun.”

You stared at him, the air in the room suddenly heavier. “This is dark magic.”

“Names are power,” he replied. “You should know that by now.”

You felt anger rise in you, sharp and human. “You had no right.”

His eyes flickered with something dangerous, not anger but something colder. “You misunderstand. This is not a theft. It is a bond.”

He reached out, taking the parchment from you with deliberate care. His fingers brushed yours, and the contact burned like a secret you could not name. “Do you know what I see when I look at you?” he asked. “A witness. Someone who saw me before the world will forget the name Tom Riddle. History requires its witnesses, and I cannot trust it to fools.”