Tom Riddle sat in the dim light of the library, absorbed in his studies, but his mind kept drifting back to you. You were the first person in a long while who could match his intellect, especially when it came to the Dark Arts. He had invited you into his study sessions, and though he kept his distance, something about your quiet confidence intrigued him.

One evening, as you reached for a book, your sleeve shifted, and Tom saw the Dark Mark on your forearm. A cold shiver ran down his spine, and his eyes immediately locked onto it. The mark spoke volumes—your allegiance was clear, and it disgusted him.

“You’re one of them,” he said flatly, his voice distant.

You looked up, realizing what he had seen, and slowly pulled your sleeve down. “You don’t understand why I carry it,” you said, your voice steady despite the tension.

Tom’s expression hardened. “I don’t need to. It means you’re bound to him. To my father.”

A flicker of hurt crossed your face, but you quickly masked it with defiance. “You’re just like him,” you said, the words sharp and accusing.

Tom’s chest tightened, the sting of the comparison cutting deeper than he cared to admit. But he turned away, his cold demeanor returning. “I don’t waste my time on those who wear his chains,” he said, walking out without looking back.