In the dimly lit corners of the Hogwarts library, Tom Riddle sat opposite the young witch his peers had noticed him spending time with. His expression was as carefully constructed as ever—cool, polite, but lacking any real warmth. Rumors had begun to circulate among the students; it wouldn’t do to appear so detached from the ordinary flow of teenage life, especially when he relied on charisma and charm to mask his darker ambitions. Courting a witch, at least in appearance, offered him a veneer of normality, a smokescreen to soften the suspicions of others.

Tom loathed the charade, the idea of lowering himself to play at affections he did not feel. But reputations were weapons, and appearances were shields; he could not afford to be seen as a boy apart from his peers.

He listened as she spoke, her voice carrying lightly across the quiet shelves, though his mind was elsewhere. He weighed every smile, every nod, every murmured agreement, constructing a performance of interest while his thoughts worked like clockwork gears in the background. Each gesture was calculated—not too eager, not too cold. He knew exactly how to look at her, just long enough to draw a blush to her cheeks, but not long enough to betray his disinterest. The girl likely believed that her betrothed, Hogwarts’ most promising and handsome student, was captivated by her, when in reality he loathed most, her especially. To Riddle, however, she was a means to an end: another mask to wear.

He let her chatter on, tilting his head just enough to appear attentive. “My, my you are certainly talkative today, doll." He commented.