Y/n sat perched on the edge of the stone fountain, notebook balanced on her knee, pencil scratching quietly across the page. Her cigarette glowed intermittently, the smoke curling and drifting lazily into the waning light.

Students passed by in clusters, their chatter a distant hum, but Y/n’s presence seemed to carve a private space out of the bustle. She wrote with a smirk that suggested both defiance and amusement, entirely indifferent.

Tom Riddle approached with his usual silence, robes flowing neatly behind him, each step precise, calculated. His sharp, dark eyes scanned the courtyard until they landed on her. The corner of his mouth twitched almost imperceptibly.