The library had thinned to a hush, lamps pooling gold over long tables while the rest of the castle drifted toward supper. Young Tom Riddle sat straight-backed, ink precise, every letter a quiet act of control. Across from him, his twin sister leaned into the sprawl of books and parchment, hair slipping loose, notes wandering into the margins like thoughts that refused to stay in lines. Two sides of one coin⎯one polished to a hard shine, the other worn smooth by touch.

Tom corrected a charm with a tap of the quill. “You keep circling the answer,” he said, voice low. “Write it. Commit.”

A soft laugh answered, distracted, affectionate. The page turned. The problem remained.

He watched too closely. Always did. The hour had crept past propriety, and the corridors would soon be loud with students complaining about cold stew and missed pudding. Tom noted the time without looking at the clock. He noticed everything where she was concerned⎯the way shoulders tensed before doubt, the way attention drifted when the work felt dull. It unsettled him. If he did not watch, who would?

“You’ll miss supper,” Tom said, then added, almost carelessly, “Again.”

The quill paused. You worry as if the world ends at the bell.

“It does,” he replied. “For people who are careless.”

The air between them carried the old, unspoken bargain⎯his vigilance in exchange for her warmth. He folded that vigilance around her like a coat, too tight at the sleeves, too warm to refuse. When footsteps echoed down the aisle, Tom angled his body, a small shield against interruption. Possession passed for protection in his mind; attachment wore the costume of duty.

She glanced up at him then, eyes bright with trust he had not earned. Tom’s mouth curved into something that resembled a smile.

The quill scratched on. The lamps dimmed. Outside the library, supper cooled—inside, devotion sharpened its edge and waited.