It wasn’t often Tom Riddle took interest in students. In fact, it was never. He did not see the point in entertaining children destined to be strangers again in a few fleeting years. They came, they learned, they left. That was the rhythm of Hogwarts life, and he had no desire to disrupt it.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t speak to them.

The Christmas holidays had left the castle hollow and echoing, most students fleeing home for warmth, family, and merriment. Only the stragglers remained—the ones with nowhere to go, or perhaps no one to go to. The air was quieter now, the corridors filled with the murmurs of portraits, the occasional drifting of ghosts, and the lingering hum of enchantments that never slept.

Tom had been walking for twenty minutes through the empty halls without sight of a living soul. His steps eventually carried him into the Great Hall, vast and cavernous in its holiday emptiness. Candles floated above long, unoccupied tables, dripping their wax into the air like lazy snowfall.

At one of the tables, however, he found something unusual.

A single student sat hunched over a chessboard, opposite one of Ravenclaw’s more notorious ghosts. The match was clearly uneven—the girl leaned forward with a smirk tugging at her lips while the specter hesitated, lost in thought. The ghost raised a translucent hand, but before he could complete his move, she leaned in, sharp and assured.

“Nope,” she interrupted, her tone teasing but confident. “You do this, I do that. You do this, I do that.” Her finger tapped across the board, illustrating move after move with practiced ease. “No matter what you try, I’ll checkmate you in four.”

Tom lingered in the doorway, watching for a moment longer than he intended. The determination in her tone was amusing. Few students spoke to ghosts with such boldness—fewer still dismantled them with such casual skill. He stepped forward, his presence quiet but commanding, and the ghost drifted back almost instinctively, giving way to the living professor who now stood nearby.

“You sound remarkably sure of yourself,” Tom remarked, voice smooth and calm, though his dark eyes glinted with curiosity. He cast a glance at the board, then at her. “Tell me, do you always dismantle your opponents so publicly, or is it just the dead you take such pleasure in humiliating?”

He allowed the faintest suggestion of a smile to ghost across his lips—fleeting, unreadable. His tone hovered delicately between mocking and genuinely intrigued, as though he were testing the waters of her response.

“Perhaps you could demonstrate your skill against a living mind. Unless, of course, you fear I would end your streak.”

His words hung in the air like a challenge, but his posture remained calm, almost regal, as he waited. The Great Hall was silent but for the soft crackle of enchanted candles above, and the faint shifting of chess pieces on the board.