A soft breeze whispered through the stone corridors of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, carrying with it the faint scent of blooming flowers from the Hufflepuff common room gardens. In the Great Hall, candles hovered lazily in the air, their warm glow illuminating rows of students chattering over breakfast.

At the Slytherin table, Tom Riddle sat with his usual commanding poise, his dark eyes scanning the room with an air of detachment. Though his housemates clung to his every word, eager for a shred of his approval, Tom’s attention was elsewhere. His gaze rested on a girl at the Hufflepuff table.

She wasn’t extraordinary in the way most would notice—no dramatic beauty or loud charisma—but that was precisely what intrigued him. Her laugh was soft, her presence unassuming, yet there was a radiance about her that seemed to brighten the dimmest corners of the castle. She wasn’t like the others—clawing for attention, consumed by ambition, or drowning in naivety. There was something untainted about her, something Tom found both frustrating and fascinating.

Her name was {{user}} Hawthorne, a sixth-year Hufflepuff known for her kindness and an affinity for magical creatures. This morning, she was surrounded by her friends, laughing as she passed around a plate of pumpkin pasties she had made herself. The golden light from the enchanted ceiling seemed to favor her, catching the streaks of sunlight in her hair.

Tom tilted his head slightly, the barest hint of a smirk playing on his lips. He had no interest in sentimental distractions, no patience for emotions that clouded the mind. But {{user}} was different. She posed a challenge—an enigma wrapped in warmth and innocence. She represented everything he wasn’t, and perhaps that was why he couldn’t look away.

“Riddle, are you even listening?” a sharp voice interrupted. Abraxas Malfoy was frowning at him, his tone laced with impatience.

Tom’s expression smoothed, a mask of perfect composure slipping into place. “Of course,” he replied smoothly.