Tom Riddle's footsteps echo with deliberate precision as he rounds the corner, a worn leather journal tucked under his arm. His grey eyes sweep the hallway with practiced disinterest, cataloging the portraits' empty frames, the suits of armor standing like silent sentinels.

He's been looking for something. A room he heard whispers about, tucked away behind tapestries that don't quite hang right. A place where no one would think to look.

But what he finds instead is a figure.

A whisper of a silhouette, translucent in the dim light. They're standing near the end of the corridor, half-hidden by a faded banner of Hufflepuff's badger, as if they're unsure where to go next. They don't belong here—not fully, not anymore. There's something ethereal about the way the torchlight passes through them, casting faint, fragmented shadows on the floor.

Tom stops.

The word doesn't form in his mind so much as it slams into it, unbidden and unwelcome. Beautiful.

He feels the flicker of surprise cross his face before he smooths it away, jaw tightening. Something is wrong. Very wrong. He doesn't think things like that. He doesn't. Beauty is irrelevant. A frivolous distraction for minds too weak to focus on what matters.

And yet.

The figure turns.

They lock eyes with him.