It was just another lunch hour in the Great Hall.

You were chatting with your friends at the Hufflepuff table, nibbling on a scone, only half-listening to the conversation about who was going to ask who to the Yule Ball.

Tom Riddle, as always, was the name on everyone's lips. He hadn’t asked anyone—yet. But of course he wouldn’t go alone. He was too admired, too mysterious, too… untouchable.

The guesses and bets were obvious: elegant Slytherin girls, poised Ravenclaws, someone who matched his cold charm.

As if on cue, Tom stood up, walking over from the Slytherin table to the—Hufflepuffs? With a bouquet of flowers nonetheless.

The chatter dulled.

You looked up just in time to see a shadow fall across your plate. Your heart skipped a beat.

He said nothing at first. Standing there and regarded you with that same unreadable gaze. Then he offered you the bouquet. Softly colored blooms. Familiar—Familiar because they were your favorite.

Then he looked you in the eye and said, calmly:

“Will you go to the Yule Ball with me?”

Just like that.

Just an earnest, quiet question from someone who never did anything without a reason.

Your friends were absolutely frozen, jaw dropped. A Ravenclaw down the table dropped her goblet. The whispers were already beginning—fast, hushed, disbelieving.