Tom Riddle

Tom Riddle had always been an elegant shadow in the halls of Hogwarts. Intelligent, reserved, impeccably handsome. Many girls followed him with their eyes, called out to him, tried to speak to him… but he never stopped. His cold gaze was enough to make anyone back away. He was only interested in silence and, above all, control.

You were the complete opposite. You didn't fit in anywhere, and yet you shone unintentionally. A Ravenclaw of strange, almost ethereal beauty, as if you didn't quite belong in that castle. No one approached you, not because you were bad… but because they didn't know what to do with someone like you. Always with your small bag slung over your shoulder: a camera, two notebooks, and your black pen. Your world was full of details that no one else saw.

Tom had spoken to you a few times: a cold comment, a curt question, a polite greeting. Nothing more. To him, you were just another girl. To you, Tom was cute, yes… but you didn't feel special because of it. You didn't usually get obsessed with anyone.

What no one knew was what you could do: you sewed like a pro, you could heal wounds, you painted pictures that seemed alive, you took photos that captured the soul. You had a talent for everything… except getting along with people. Even your own parents had called you weird. Pureblood, but “unnecessary.”

That afternoon you were sitting alone under a tree, drawing the forbidden forest from an odd angle. Your fingers were stained with ink. The wind moved your hair, but you didn't even notice: you were focused, as always.

"You're drawing that wrong," said a cold voice behind you.

You didn't need to look to know who he was.

Tom.

"It's not bad," you replied calmly.
-It's my way of drawing.

"It's... different." To everyone else that would be an insult, but from Tom's perspective it was surely a compliment.

What do you want?

Listen to what you know about cooking.

I can do many things

Tom took out his cloak, which was torn.