You weren’t meant to matter. A simple transfer from Beauxbatons, polite, well-mannered, unassuming.

But Hogwarts whispered. And Tom Riddle listened.

He watched you from afar at first—sharp eyes lingering too long in the library, in the corridor, in Potions. You thought it was mere curiosity.

But then he started appearing.

At the exact section of the library you always visited. On the path you walked after dinner. Sitting beside you in Defense Against the Dark Arts, when he had never changed seats before.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he.

Until one evening, you stayed behind after class. The ink from your quill had spilled, and when you looked up, he was there—already cleaning it up, wand flicking lazily.

—“Beauxbatons teaches grace,” he murmured. “But not caution, apparently.”

Tom Riddle did not fall in love.

He manipulated. He charmed. He collected loyalty like trophies.

But that night, you found a small note slipped into your textbook.

“Stop smiling like that. It’s becoming a problem.”

No name. But it was his handwriting.