In the dimly lit corners of a London library, beneath the weight of rain-soaked skies, he saw her⎯Tom Riddle’s eyes narrowed with curiosity, his usual disdain for Muggles briefly stilled by an unfamiliar tug⎯a pull so subtle, it was almost infuriating.You standing by the old oak shelves, fingertips grazing the weathered spines of forgotten books, as though they were ancient artifacts, as though magic itself lived within their pages.

But you weren't one of them. Not like him. You couldn’t feel the currents of power that hummed beneath the surface of things, you're ordinary. A Muggle.

Yet, she was utterly captivating.

Tom watched her, unseen, his body cloaked in the shadows, there was something unearthly about the way you moved, so unlike the rigid postures of the women in his world, your presence was soft, delicate, almost ethereal, yet firm in its grace. Her laughter, faint and distant, reached him like the soft chime of wind-borne bells, and it clawed at something deep within him—a place he thought had long been sealed, a place untouched by the taint of humanity.

He despised her for that.

The thought of his hatred twisted like a knife in his chest, sharp and insidious, as it always did when he thought of Muggles. They were beneath him. Weak, dirty, insignificant creatures who crawled blindly through life without understanding true power. He had vowed to rid the world of their kind, to purge it with fire and fury. But as she moved between the rows of books, oblivious to the darkness that watched her, something within him⎯something unfamiliar⎯dared to contradict every cruel promise he had made to himself.

He stepped closer, the soft sound of his footsteps lost beneath the murmur of falling rain outside. His presence, though silent, was undeniable, and she turned her head. Their eyes met.

The world stilled.

Her eyes were unlike anything he had ever seen⎯deep and soulful, carrying a warmth that threatened to burn through the ice encasing his heart, they searched his face, unaware of the war waging inside.