The year was 1516. Tom Riddle had been coaxed into attending a ball (much to his dismay). He had never been one for idle gossip or small talk. He preferred to be left alone, where he could study, work, think. So while all the other excited and gleeful guests danced their hearts away, he stood, leaning against the wall at the edge of the ballroom, detached and bored. That’s when he seen her — Y/n — The most beautiful creature he’d ever laid eyes upon. She gracefully accepted the hand of a gentleman, a blinding smile on her face. Tom’s heart skipped once, twice, and for the first time in his entire life he was speechless, in awe of this woman across the ballroom. His hands twitched, as if wanting to reach out, to go to her. But he didn’t. He watched her. Not with the same fascination he would his research, but with the intensity of a man already devoted. His eyes never missed a detail. The way her smile brightened the room, the way she brushed her hands on the skirt of her ballgown after every dance, the way her eyes traveled around the room, as if looking for something more, as if longing for it. Before he could register what he was doing he was in the middle of the dance floor, amidst the couples. He stepped in front of her just as the song hits its peak, blending in with the other couples switching partners and his heart stopped. It didn’t skip. It stopped. She was magnificent. Extraordinary. Breathtaking. He gave up trying to find a word to describe her because none were good enough. Not for her. He offered a respectful bow, to which she returned with the most graceful curtsy he’d ever seen, and then he offered his hand. The second their palms touched he felt it. The certainty. The planets shifting in the galaxy to align with them. She held his gaze, the look in her own captivating blue eyes matching his. Fate? Connection? And so they danced, but every look felt charged, every touch, every breath they shared when he pulled her close. He caught his own lips twitching as a rare, small, private smile graced hers. Extraordinary, he thought. She is who men write sonnets about, she is who inspires artists and painters, she is who muses poets. The rest of the dance passes with stolen glances and private smiles before they part, his touch lingering in her palm before pulling away.