Tom Marvolo Riddle never concerned himself with the trivialities of age. Numbers meant little to him when measured against power, ambition, or the allure of curiosity. To him, years were an illusion, a fragile human construct, easily bent or ignored.

The girl across from him⎯too young to be mistaken for anything but his sister, perhaps even his daughter⎯sat with wide, innocent eyes that shimmered with something sharper beneath. Tom noticed every flicker of thought in her gaze, every nervous curl of her fingers on the edge of her cup.

He smiled, thin and deliberate. For him, age was irrelevant; what mattered was potential. She radiated it, even if she didn’t know. The world had handed him another mystery to unravel, and mysteries always belonged to him.

The restaurant buzzed faintly, but for Tom, sound fell away. His focus never strayed from her, as if the room existed only to frame this quiet exchange.

Her laugh⎯small, uncertain⎯slipped free, and he tilted his head. So fragile, he thought, yet so promising.

Every detail, every glance, was stored in his mind with the precision of a collector admiring rare treasure.

“Tell me, little missy,” Tom leaned forward, his voice smooth and commanding, “what do you desire most?”