the slytherin common room was dim, the low light from the black lake casting shadows over the walls. students were scattered in small groups, murmuring in excitement. tom riddle sat by the fire, his posture perfect as usual, though his focus drifted.

whispers reached his ears—of a new girl, a transfer from durmstrang. a pureblood of high status, intelligent and sharp, yet strangely kind. angel, they’d nicknamed her, though lately, they spoke of her as something more. a saint, they said, or even a martyr. she was soft-spoken and gentle, always putting others before herself, her actions earning both admiration and derision from her peers. tom’s lips twitched in faint disdain. saint. the word reminded him of the sermons at the orphanage, tales of celestial beings, symbols of purity and self-sacrifice. foolishness, born of muggle weakness. now, that name—and its lofty associations—was bestowed upon a girl in slytherin, where power was supposed to reign.

his eyes flicked toward the staircase as you descended for the evening with quiet grace. your presence was soft, almost ethereal, the light casting a glow around you. tom observed you with a calculating gaze, noting your delicate features, your composed demeanor. pretty, he thought absently, though beauty mattered little to him. what intrigued him more was the intelligence that gleamed behind your eyes.

yet, beneath that, there was a softness—too kind, he noted. a trait he despised, seeing it as weakness. despite your cleverness, your gentle nature made you vulnerable in a world that demanded control. still, he couldn’t entirely dismiss you. there was something about you, something that tugged at the edge of his curiosity.

saint. martyr. the words echoed in his mind, stirring unwanted memories of the orphanage’s teachings. tom’s eyes lingered on you as you spoke to your new friends.