You never expected grand gestures from Tom Riddle.

He wasn’t the kind of boyfriend who held your hand in the hallways or left sweet little notes in your books. He didn’t talk about feelings, didn’t show affection—not in the way other boys did.

And that was fine. You liked him anyway.

Because sometimes, you did catch the way his eyes lingered on you a second too long. Or the way he walked you back to your dorm even if he didn’t say a word the whole way. Those little things meant something. You told yourself they did.

But today was Valentine’s Day.

And maybe, just maybe, you’d hoped for a little more.

You waited for him in his dorm. You always sat on that same old armchair while he sorted through essays or scribbled notes in his cursed-looking notebook. He liked the quiet. You liked the quiet with him.

You glanced at the small box in your lap for what must’ve been the fiftieth time. The silver serpent ring inside gleamed under the candlelight—elegant and dark, with little emerald eyes. It reminded you of him. It wasn’t much, but you’d saved for weeks. He liked meaningful things, after all. And you knew he liked snakes.

Alongside it, you had a neat tin of cookies you baked in the kitchens and a carefully wrapped sachet of rose tea—the exact brand he once said was “tolerable” in a passing comment two months ago when you two went to Hogsmeade together.

You’d thought of everything.

Everyone in the castle had been buzzing all day. Girls squealing in the corridors with bouquets in their arms, boys stumbling through nervous confessions, couples sneaking off toward the Astronomy Tower like it was a second Great Hall. Even your friends had asked what he was doing for you. You just smiled and said, “It’s Tom. He’s not the type.”

But still… you waited.

He arrived late. Books in hand, robes slightly wrinkled, as if he had been running from something—or perhaps from nothing at all. His dark eyes flicked toward you briefly as he entered the room.

You smiled. “Hey, love.”

He only gave a curt nod, setting his things down on the desk and pulling out a parchment. The scratch of his quill filled the space.