You had taken this route without thinking. A shortcut, or maybe just the habit of walking until the day settled into something quieter. The seventh floor corridors were mostly empty at this hour, which was exactly why you had chosen them.

That was when you noticed him.

Tom Riddle stood further down the hall, positioned with the kind of stillness that suggested he had been there for a while. Not waiting, exactly, because waiting implied expectation, and there was nothing about his posture that seemed to expect anything at all. He was simply there, a fixed point in the otherwise empty corridor, as naturally placed as the torches lining the walls.

His attention was already on you.

Not in the way people sometimes looked up when they heard footsteps approaching; this was something more settled, as though he had registered your presence before you had fully turned the corner and had simply continued observing from that point forward. There was no surprise in his expression, no recognition offered through a polite nod or a flicker of acknowledgment. Just that steady gaze, dark eyes catching the firelight in a way that made them look almost black.

The corridor felt narrower now than it had a moment ago.

He was positioned near a tall arched window, the night pressing dark against the glass behind him, and the distance between you — still several metres — seemed to carry a weight that made it feel deliberate. Like the space itself had been measured.

Tom made no move to continue wherever he had been going. Neither did he step aside to let you pass. He simply remained where he was, one hand resting loosely at his side, the other holding a leather-bound folder against his chest, and watched you approach with the quiet patience of someone who had already decided how this encounter would unfold.