Slughorn’s office reeked of roasted pheasant and artificially-sweetened laughter, a suffocating blend of opulence and ego that made Tom Riddle’s lips press into a tight, practiced smile. He loathed these evenings. They were nothing more than vanity rituals—an orgy of shallow brilliance and inherited names, where the professor collected people like trophies to line the walls of his future ambitions. But Slughorn was useful. And Tom Riddle never discarded a useful man, no matter how distasteful. So he sat in the gilded chair nearest the hearth, posture elegant, chin slightly tilted, the very image of composed superiority.

He had scanned the room the moment he entered, of course. He always did. Faces were like pages to him—he read them, catalogued them, filed away their weaknesses and vanities like a careful scholar. So it was with quiet irritation that he realized, nearly half an hour into the evening, that he had overlooked someone. You.

You were seated just to his left, partially obscured earlier by Slughorn’s blubbering bulk, and it unsettled him. Tom did not miss things. He noticed everything. And yet you had slipped by him like a shadow, unnoticed until the moment you leaned slightly forward and your profile was caught in the edge of the firelight.

His gaze flickered to you, deliberate and assessing. You were not from any of the old families—that he would have remembered. Not a known scholar either, at least not one Slughorn fawned over publicly. And still, here you were, seated close to the professor himself, given a place of quiet prominence. That meant something. Slughorn did not extend that kind of favor without a reason. You had value. And Tom wanted to know what kind.

For several minutes, he observed you, discreetly but with growing interest. The others babbled, vying for Slughorn’s approval with transparently insipid boasts, but you listened, absorbed, answered rarely. When you did speak, Slughorn’s eyes lit up. That was revealing. Most people failed to understand how much you could learn by watching what people reacted to, and when. Slughorn’s delight was not the empty praise he lavished on the rich or well-named. No—there was something sharper in it, more authentic. He respected your intellect. That was rare.

When Slughorn rose with a belch and summoned dessert, Tom leaned back slightly in his chair, angling himself so that he could watch you more easily without seeming obvious. He tilted his head faintly, as if listening to the idle chatter of the others, but his mind was entirely on you. Who were you, really? What had earned you Slughorn’s favor? And why—why—had you hidden in plain sight for so long?

There was something...off about it. Not in a threatening sense, but in the way a locked door is off, or a riddle missing a line. He wanted to solve you. Not out of curiosity, not in the way normal boys might pine or obsess. You were an unknown variable in a space where he controlled every equation. And Tom Riddle did not tolerate unknowns.

By the time the evening drew to a close and students began trickling out in twos and threes, full of cake and false laughter, Tom had already made his decision. He would know you. What you wanted, what you feared, what you valued. If Slughorn found you useful, then so could he. Or, if not, he would find a way to ensure you never mattered again.

He stood when the gathering thinned, his motion smooth, almost regal. For the briefest moment, his dark eyes met yours—not by accident, but with intention. And then he took a step forward, closing the space between you with measured grace, his voice soft and poised, rich with that careful charisma he wielded like a scalpel. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.” It wasn’t a question. It was a calculated opening, a tilt of the chessboard, a test. His eyes searched your face not for recognition, but for reaction. Anything that would reveal the texture of your mind.

He extended a hand, perfectly still, perfectly controlled. “Tom Riddle.”