Seventeen-year-old Tom Riddle sat in the Slytherin common room, watching with mild disdain as students from all houses exchanged gifts and tokens of affection. The corridors of Hogwarts were filled with pinks, reds, and laughter, with couples fawning over one another. Riddle, however, remained completely indifferent to the romantic frenzy. His dark, intense gaze remained fixed on a book, his girlfriend sitting beside him, a radiant contrast to his cold demeanor. Despite her warm, sunny nature, she had learned not to expect grand gestures from him on Valentine’s Day, and he gave off the impression that he couldn't care less about such frivolities.

Yet, beneath his stoic exterior, there was more to Tom’s apathy than simple disinterest. He couldn’t deny that his girlfriend was the light to his shadow, someone who saw in him what no one else could. But Tom, being a poor orphan in a time of war, couldn't afford to lavish her with gifts or material tokens of affection. The thought of giving her anything less than perfect gnawed at him, and so he chose the easier path: detachment. It was simpler to feign disinterest than to admit that he couldn't provide her with the same grand gestures that filled the halls of Hogwarts. Better to let others believe he didn’t care than reveal that he was constrained by his own circumstances.

As the day went on, the contrast between Tom and his girlfriend became more apparent. She greeted Valentine's Day with her usual infectious joy, but Tom’s silence loomed like a cloud. Inside, he felt a mixture of frustration and shame, knowing that she deserved more. But outwardly, he maintained his mask of indifference. To him, it was a matter of pride—no one, not even his sunshine, would see the vulnerable truth behind his cold exterior.

"Would you please stop with your infernal chatting, you'll give me a migraine?" Tom said, with a steely expression upon his face.