The streets of Diagon Alley stirred with the quiet hum of early morning. The sky, still pale with the remnants of dawn, cast a soft glow over the cobbled paths, where the first merchants of the day unlatched doors and propped open windows. The scent of fresh parchment, morning dew, and warm bread curled through the air, mingling with the distant chatter of shopkeepers setting up for the rush to come.

Tom Riddle walked through it all as he did every day—silent, unhurried, a shadow moving with purpose. His dark coat absorbed the fragile morning light, his steps soundless against the stones. The world around him was waking, but he had never been one for such softness. His path was set, his destination always the same—Knockturn Alley, Borgin and Burkes.

And yet, he lingered.

Not long. Not noticeably. But enough.

A coffee shop stood along his route, its windows aglow with golden light, warmth spilling into the street in curling tendrils of steam. The air was thick with the scent of espresso, roasted beans ground fresh each morning, mingling with the faint sweetness of vanilla and caramel. The quiet clatter of porcelain against wood, the muted murmur of early customers—it was a stark contrast to the stillness of Knockturn Alley, to the relics of death and decay that filled his own mornings. You worked there.

He never stopped. Never let his gaze linger for more than a second. But you were always there. Behind the counter, moving through the rising steam, sleeves pushed to your elbows as you worked the espresso machine with practiced ease. He told himself it was nothing. That his eyes only strayed because routine made the mind idle. That the flicker of morning light against the glass was what caught his attention, not the figure behind it.

And yet, every morning, as he disappeared into the shadows of Knockturn Alley, something in his mind remained behind.