in the dimly lit potions classroom, the air hung heavy with the tang of brewing ingredients and the muted murmurs of students. tom riddle sat poised at his usual station, his black quill tapping against the edge of his parchment in a slow, rhythmic pattern. he preferred to work alone, a silent arrangement between himself and professor slughorn that acknowledged his intellectual superiority without words. solitude suited him—no distractions, no fumbling partners to slow him down. so when slughorn clapped his hands and announced the arrival of a new student, pairing tom with you, the quiet disruption felt almost insufferable.

he didn’t acknowledge you as you sat beside him, but there was a cold shift in his demeanor, his movements growing sharper, more deliberate. the materials at his workstation were subtly pulled closer to him, as if to barricade them from interference. when the lesson began, tom’s hands worked with the precision of a craftsman, slicing, measuring, and stirring with a practiced ease that made it clear he needed no assistance.

when you reached for an ingredient, his hand darted out, halting yours with a firm, almost casual authority. “stop,” he said, his voice a quiet command. “this requires skill, not guesswork.”

the class passed in silence, save for the faint bubbling of the potion and the occasional scrape of his knife against the cutting board. tom gave no instructions, no opportunities for you to contribute, as though your role was to observe and nothing more.

as the cauldron emitted a faint, shimmering glow, signaling the potion’s completion, slughorn called for the end of class. tom meticulously cleaned his tools, every movement as exact as his brewing. once his station was immaculate, he finally turned to you, his expression unreadable but his eyes cold and calculating.

“do try not to waste my time again,” he said evenly, his tone devoid of warmth but full of meaning.