You were used to being underestimated. A Muggle-born in Hogwarts, everyone assumed you wouldn’t understand the magic as deeply, wouldn’t keep up in classes, wouldn’t… matter.

Except you did.

And Tom Riddle noticed.

He first spoke to you in Potions class, leaning casually against a counter while you corrected his potion proportions.

“Curious,” he said, voice smooth, almost amused. “I assumed you’d mismeasure. Yet here we are.”

You shrugged, not intimidated by the flawless confidence he always carried. “Assumptions tend to be wrong sometimes.”

The corner of his mouth twitched—was it a smile, or the beginning of a frown? “Interesting,” he murmured.

The corner of his mouth twitched—was it a smile, or the beginning of a frown? “Interesting,” he murmured.

From that moment, Tom seemed everywhere you went. Not in a threatening way—at first—but his presence was magnetic, unsettling. He asked questions in class only to hear your answers, followed your reasoning in debates, and always seemed one step behind your thought process.

You challenged him constantly—disagreeing with his theory in Charms, pointing out flaws in his logic during Defense Against the Dark Arts, questioning the assumptions he made about magical superiority. And every time you did, he felt something stir inside him that he had never felt before: intrigue.

“You’re reckless,” he said quietly one day, just the two of you in the library. “And annoyingly clever. How… disturbing.”

You tilted your head. “Disturbing? That’s a new one.”

He paused, gaze sharp. “You challenge me. You don’t defer. And that… fascinates me.”