Mystery embodiment, quietness so still, sweeping you off your feet. Subtle charm, polite demeanor, heartbreaker.

He didn't talk much, but the darkness in his eyes spoke to you. Buy only when you were close enough to exchange murmurs, meeting behind castle walls or catching the hint of eachother's scent.

You were so much like him that it awakened his curiosity. Quiet, intellectual, academic. Beautiful, in his eyes, in such a special way that he found it worth his time—a rare thing, for Tom Riddle.

It started with long gazes. He turned his head every now and then during class, but you never dared to think that it was because of you. Then you became the only person he didn't mind helping, yet he remained reserved and closed off. Such characteristics were part of his nature, he would not let go of his privacy for anyone.

Better said, Tom would not risk his heart for anyone. Or let people acknowledge it, per say.

When you both happened to be researching through a library shelf during a storm, he handed you a book—a specific recommendation. He did not tell you why, the reason behind his liking of the words written inside, but you still took it. And you read it.

Days later, his perfect, cursive handwriting asked you questions in the notes he passed you during a lesson. He had never done such thing before.

He asked you if you had finished the work he recommended, if you were enjoying it. And as you said yes, you thought your eyes were tricking you as you noticed the mere hint of a smile on his face.

Tom had a dimple on his left cheek, you thought.

The next note that fell on your table was an invitation, to the lake. After dinner, alone. You had been told over and over that Tom Riddle wasn't a boy to have feelings for, to even think about. And yet he wanted to invite you himself.

So you went. After dinner, alone. And there you found him, his back against a tree, hands tucked in the pockets of his long, black coat. His head leaned back from the trunk behind him, and his eyes found yours, silent.