He didn’t like people.

Not truly. Not ever.

They were loud. Predictable. Desperate to please and even more desperate to belong. He watched them the way one might observe insects — fascinated by their patterns, their flaws, their fragility. It was easy to manipulate them. Easier to discard.

But you…

You were not like them.

You never had been.

Not at Wool’s. Not now.

Back then, you hadn’t feared him like the others. You hadn’t flinched when he passed, hadn’t avoided his eyes like they burned. You hadn’t tried to win his favor, either. You saw the same cruelty in the world he did — but instead of wielding it like a knife, you let it bleed slowly through your words, your cleverness, your cold little smirks that only he noticed.

You knew what it meant to be different. To be powerful. Even before you had a wand to prove it.

And now, five years later, Tom Riddle sat beside you at every Prefect meeting, matched you in every Slug Club debate, and still — still — you were the only person he hadn’t used as a pawn in a much bigger game.

It infuriated him.

Because he couldn’t decide if you were the one person he didn’t need to control… or the only one he couldn’t.

Tonight, the Slug Club was hosting another dinner — velvet-curtained, chandelier-lit, and dripping in carefully crafted ambition. He watched you from across the room, chin in hand, bored of the conversation around him. You were laughing at something one of the Ravenclaw boys had said. Laughing too easily. Head tilted. Lips parted.

Tom hated that laugh.

Hated that it wasn’t for him.

“I’m sure you’ve already prepared the Arithmancy essay, haven’t you, Tom?” Slughorn’s voice broke through his thoughts.

Tom blinked slowly, turning his head with that practiced smile — smooth, polished, hollow. “Naturally, Professor.”

But his eyes drifted back to you. You had caught him staring.

You always did.

And instead of looking away, you raised an eyebrow like a dare.

Later that night, it was late — curfew had passed, halls dim and silent. You were returning from the library, robe slipping off one shoulder, the sound of your footsteps echoing softly off the stone.

He stepped out of the shadows.

You didn’t flinch. Of course you didn’t.

“Riddle,” you murmured, glancing at his badge. “Doing your rounds?”

“I could ask the same of you.”