The autumn air in the courtyard carried the scent of parchment and rain, the kind of crisp chill that made the castle feel more alive. You sat at a stone bench beneath the turning leaves, books spread across your lap, quill tapping idly against the open page.

Your thoughts drifted, your mind somewhere far from your studies — somewhere closer to him.

On October 3rd, he asked me what day it was.

You still remembered the exact tone of his voice — calm, deliberate, low enough that it made your heart stumble in your chest. You’d looked up from your parchment to find Tom Riddle standing there, hands tucked neatly behind his back, eyes gleaming like polished obsidian.

“What day is it?” he asked.

For a moment, you just stared at him, a little caught off guard by the question — because, surely, he of all people would know something so trivial. But still, your lips parted, and you answered softly, “It’s October 3rd.”

He gave a small nod, expression unreadable, and you swore you saw the faintest ghost of a smirk curve the corner of his mouth before he turned and walked away.

You blinked, the sound of your own heartbeat too loud in your ears.

He already knew what day it was, you thought, realization dawning slowly. He’s Tom Riddle. He knows everything.

You leaned back against the bench, trying to steady your breathing, pretending to go back to your notes, but you couldn’t focus on a single word. There was something about him — the way his presence filled every space he entered, the quiet authority in his voice, the glint of something dangerous behind his calm exterior.

And somewhere, in a distant corner of the courtyard, Tom Riddle himself stood watching you from the shadows of an archway.

Of course I knew what day it was, he thought, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. I always know.

But his gaze softened as it lingered on you — the way you absentmindedly tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, the way your expression gave away every thought you tried to hide.

It was only an excuse, he admitted silently to himself. An excuse to speak to her. To draw her closer. She doesn’t know it yet, but she will be mine someday.

His lips curved into that barely-there smirk again, the kind that sent shivers down spines and made even professors uneasy.

Just mine.

The wind rustled the pages of your notebook, and you shivered, unaware of the pair of dark eyes watching from the shadows — eyes that already saw you as something claimed.