The grand ballroom is a vision of opulence—crystal chandeliers casting a golden glow, champagne bubbling in delicate flutes, the hum of polite conversation weaving through the sound of a distant waltz. You move through it effortlessly, the very picture of poise and grace, the soft white fabric of your gown trailing behind you like mist.

Yet, despite the crowd, the chatter, the spectacle of wealth and status, you feel it.

A gaze. His gaze.

Tom Riddle has not taken his eyes off you all evening.

You’ve never spoken before, not once, but tonight, his presence is impossible to ignore. He stands near the edge of the room, dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit, exuding an aura of quiet authority. He does not mingle, does not engage in idle pleasantries—he simply watches. Watches you.

When your glances finally meet, it is not accidental. It is deliberate, inevitable—a challenge, a promise, a game only he seems to know the rules to.

A slow, knowing smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. He lifts his glass slightly in acknowledgment—an invitation, a silent dare.

And just like that, the air shifts. You have been noticed. Chosen.