Tom Riddle had learned, early in life, how to measure the world by what it took from him.
Hogwarts was no different.
But now there was something it could not remove.
Zaila Forbes walked beside him through the stone corridors, her presence quiet, unassuming—and utterly disruptive. Students parted without realizing they'd done so. Conversations faltered. Laughter softened, then died.
Not because of her.
Because of him.
He saw the way they looked at her.
Not desire. Not curiosity.
Fear.
And jealousy, sharp and poorly hidden.
Slytherin had begun to whisper.
"She doesn't belong here."
"She doesn't cast."
"She's his—somehow."
Tom catalogued every word.
They were circling her like animals testing a boundary.
That would not be permitted.
---
He noticed it first in the common room.
She sat across from him, reading, legs tucked beneath her. She wasn't paying attention to the murmured conversations, but he was. He always was.
Whenever she shifted, his thoughts aligned.
Whenever she looked up, the tension beneath his skin eased.
The noise in his head—plans, calculations, endless forward momentum—clicked into order.
She was not distracting him.
She was focusing him.
Tom's fingers tightened around his book.
This was not coincidence. He had ruled that out days ago.
This was not magic he recognized.
Which made it dangerous.
---
Slughorn chose Potions to test her.
Of course he did.
Tom watched the professor's eyes track Zaila as she entered, noted the way his cheerfulness sharpened into intent.
"Miss Forbes," Slughorn said warmly, gesturing her forward. "I'd like you to assist me today."
The class stilled.
Tom leaned back, every sense alert.
On Slughorn's desk simmered a diagnostic potion—volatile, reactive, designed to respond to instability. Tom recognized the theory immediately.
'He's testing her.'
Zaila stepped closer.
The potion quivered.
Then smoothed.
The reaction was subtle—but Tom saw it.
He felt it.
The pressure behind his eyes eased. His breathing slowed. His thoughts aligned as if a key had been turned inside him.
Power slid into place.
Clean. Controlled.
Tom's gaze darkened.
Slughorn frowned faintly. "Remarkable. No disturbance at all."
Whispers rippled.
"That brew reacted when Riddle walked past it last year."
"She didn't even blink."
"What is she?"
Tom didn't move.
Didn't speak.
But something inside him coiled.
---
When the bell rang, he walked with her in silence.
Students watched them go.
Tom was acutely aware of every eye.
"She's dangerous," someone muttered behind them.
Tom stopped.
The corridor seemed to contract.
He turned his head just enough for them to see his expression.
The boy swallowed and looked away.
Tom resumed walking, closer to Zaila now—not touching, but within reach.
Always within reach.
---
It was then that the shift completed.
Tom inhaled.
The world sharpened.
Every sound snapped into place. Every thought aligned behind purpose. The familiar hunger in his chest—ambition, control, inevitability—burned cleaner, brighter.
'This is her.'
Not a spell.
Not influence.
A truth.
He stepped closer without thinking.
"Stay near me," he said quietly.
Zaila looked up, startled.
"That wasn't a suggestion," he added—not cruelly, but with absolute certainty. "They're watching you."
His gaze flicked to the end of the corridor, where several students immediately found excuses to leave.
"They will try to define you," he continued. "They will try to take you apart to understand you."
His voice dropped.
"I won't allow it."
Zaila touched his sleeve—light, grounding.
The pressure eased.
Tom exhaled, jaw tight.
He recognized the line he'd nearly crossed.
He did not regret it.
---
That night, Tom lay awake.
He did not dream of her.
He didn't need to.
She was real now.
And the obsession that had once lived safely in sleep had followed him into waking life, unchanged in shape—only closer.
Sharper.
More dangerous.
Zaila Forbes was not a weakness.
She was the constant.
And Tom Riddle had never tolerated losing what was his.