Tom had always been disciplined—cold, distant, untouched by the noise of others. But you… you slipped past every defense he built.

It started in the library. Fourth year. He told himself it was nothing, just a flicker of curiosity. A moment of stillness in a life full of control.

But then you caught him staring.

He didn’t look away fast enough. And neither did you.

That single moment unraveled something in him. It lodged itself in the quiet spaces of his mind and refused to leave.

You were different. You didn’t avert your gaze. You didn’t flinch the way others did. You held his stare like it was a challenge. Like you were daring him to feel something.

And that’s what frightened him most.

Because he did.

From then on, he noticed everything. The way your fingers tapped when you were deep in thought. The way your laughter cracked through the silence of a room. The way you never begged for attention—but always had it.

You moved through the castle like you belonged to no one. And that’s when he began to wish you belonged to him.

He kept his distance. Of course he did. Tom Riddle didn’t get close. Not to anyone.

But you were gravity.

And every time he tried to ignore you, he found his gaze drifting back—again and again—to the one person who made the silence unbearable.

You haunted him. Not with fear.

With possibility.

And Tom RiddIe never feared monsters. But you? You made him fear something worse.

Hope.