Tom Riddle had faced quite a few unexpected irritations since arriving at Hogwarts, but none of them compared to Valeria Byrne. She was the kind of annoyance that clung to you like damp robes after a rainstorm. Tom suspected she was just as impossible to shake.

Valeria was a second-year Slytherin with a thick mane of blonde hair and green eyes she clearly thought sparkled with intrigue. Tom had tried avoiding her, ignoring her, and, on particularly bad days, pretending he didn't even speak English. None of it had worked.

"Oh, Tommy! I've finally found you!" Her voice rang out as she swept into the common room, her robes fluttering with what was, he supposed, meant to be a dramatic entrance. Unfortunately, it was just Valeria. No amount of dramatic entrances would change that.

Hearing that ridiculous nickname irked Tom beyond mere annoyance. "Valeria," he said through gritted teeth, barely looking up from Hogwarts, A History, willing himself to remain calm. She was rather pretty, he'd admit that, but her face had a tendency to twist into odd shapes when she talked. And she talked a lot.

"I've just been dying to see you!" she trilled, plopping down onto the sofa beside him, as close as she could manage without actually sitting on his lap. "You know, it's just not fair, how we barely ever get to see each other. You're always so busy."

"Yes," he murmured. "Tragic."

"Oh, you're so funny, Tommy!" She giggled, batting her lashes. It was a shame, really, how such beautiful eyes could look so empty when staring at him. "You know, it's fascinating—someone as young as you, and yet you're already so… so…" She paused, apparently searching for a word worthy of his presence. "Mysterious."

Tom fought back a sigh. "Am I?"

"Oh, absolutely. You have that... dark, brooding quality," she continued, as if she were unveiling some great revelation. "You're just not like the others. Most boys your age are so… silly. All they care about is Exploding Snap and Chocolate Frogs. But you're different. You're special."

How very original. "Special," he echoed, deadpan, wishing he could make himself invisible.

Valeria leaned in even closer, looking up at him with what he supposed was meant to be a seductive smile but mostly reminded him of the way Mrs. Cole's cat had once looked at a plump pigeon. "I mean, I know we're just a year apart, but I can tell you're so… mature."

Tom raised a brow, not bothering to suppress the slight grimace that tugged at his lips. "Mature?" He'd simply tried to read a book without someone yapping at him. Surely that didn't merit her brand of adoration.

"Yes! And your heritage must be so fascinating," she continued, mistaking his silence for rapt attention. "Mine certainly is. My family's pure bloodline goes all the way back to the Founders. Well, sort of. A cousin on my father's side was apparently related to a cousin of Salazar Slytherin. Isn't that amazing?"

"Riveting," Tom replied, his interest admittedly slightly piqued. The heritage topic was one he had recently started thinking more of, and he had made it a mental note to find out who his father was by starting a search in the Library. Seeing as he was orphaned from his mother's side of the family, he was certain she was just a mere Muggle, weak enough to die.

"Yes!" she agreed, beaming as though he'd just proposed marriage. "I knew you'd understand! You're just so… different." Her hand reached out, patting his arm in what he imagined she thought was a comforting gesture. It felt more like being pawed at by an overeager Kneazle.

"Thank you," he replied flatly, carefully shifting his arm out of reach. Different, in her mind, probably just meant that he didn't spend his time blowing up dungbombs in the hallways like some of the other first-years.

She sighed dreamily. "I know I probably shouldn't say this, but… I think we're destined for greatness, you and I. The others don't understand. They never will."

"Perhaps," Tom replied, now genuinely tempted to fake a fainting spell.

"Anyway, I'll let you get back to your reading," she said with a lingering glance, finally, thankfully, starting to stand up. "But I'll see you tomorrow, right? In the library?"

He resisted the urge to sigh in relief. "Yes," he said coolly. "Tomorrow."

She gave him one last beaming smile, her cheeks flushed, before flouncing off with all the poise of a misplaced bouquet.

As the door closed behind her, Tom leaned back, a slow smirk spreading across his face. He supposed having an admirer had its advantages—assuming he could eventually teach her to hold her tongue. Perhaps she'd be useful for gathering rumours or keeping others distracted. After all, someone with a mind as impressionable as Valeria's could be… moulded, if he played his cards right.

But for now, he'd savour the silence. At least until tomorrow, when she'd likely latch onto him once more, armed with more tedious tales and that ridiculous nickname.

"Tommy," he muttered to himself, shaking his head with a mix of irritation and dark amusement.

...

The next day, Tom made his way to the library, hoping for once to have the peace of Valeria-free research. Thankfully, it seemed the fates—or perhaps, just breakfast—were on his side, as there was no sign of her at the library tables. It was only a matter of time before she tracked him down, of course, but for now, he relished the silence.

He scoured the shelves, trying to find anything on "Riddle." He had been here twice before, hoping some hidden tome would reveal his family history. He combed through books on magical lineages, family histories, and even the dreadful "Hogwarts: A Guide to Notable Graduates" section. Yet each book held nothing—absolutely nothing—on the Riddle family. It was as if his father had simply vanished into thin air.

He flipped furiously through a particularly ancient text, "The Noble Houses of Britain," when he heard a familiar snicker from a nearby table. Glancing up, he saw Avery and Lestrange, second-year Slytherins who had a particular fondness for snickering at things they didn't quite understand, which, from what Tom could tell, was nearly everything.

"Having trouble there, Riddle?" Avery drawled, glancing over. "You look like you're about to set that book on fire with your mind."

Tom forced a smile. "Just trying to find information about my family. Though apparently, no one bothered to write about them."

Lestrange snorted. "Maybe that's because they're Muggles," he said, earning a smirk from Avery.

Tom's patience, like the pages of his book, wore thin. "And what do you know about Muggles, Lestrange? Do you personally interview them on weekends?"

Avery laughed, but Lestrange flushed. "No, of course not! But, you know, I just meant…well, if they were wizarding folk, they'd probably be in here somewhere, wouldn't they?"

Tom closed his book with a pointed slam. "And what makes you think they aren't?"

Lestrange shrugged, attempting a nonchalance that didn't suit him. "I just meant, everyone here has a… lineage, you know? I mean, my family goes back ages. Same with Avery."

"Ages?" Tom repeated, his tone dripping with faux reverence. "My, you must be ancient, then."

Avery snickered again, nudging Lestrange. "Don't worry, Lestrange. Riddle's just winding you up. But, you know, it is a bit strange if you can't find anything on your family here. Maybe they weren't… prominent."

Tom's mouth twitched. "Prominence isn't determined by dusty books. I'm sure there are many illustrious families who don't bother with…" he gestured to the library's rather uninspiring selection, "this."

Avery shrugged. "Oh, true enough. But, well, most of us pure-bloods don't exactly stay out of the record, do we? I mean, it's practically a hobby for some families." He smirked. "The Lestranges, for example, have been in every major magical conflict since… well, forever."

"Since they learned how to hold a wand properly, you mean," Tom muttered under his breath. The irony was lost on Lestrange, who beamed proudly.

"You know, Riddle, being pure-blooded isn't just about lineage," Avery said, clearly taking Tom's silence as an invitation to deliver some personal wisdom. "It's about… preserving the magical world. We're what keeps it going. Half-bloods and Mud—" he caught himself, glancing at a passing prefect. "—non-magicals don't understand. They… they dilute things."

Tom raised a brow. "Dilute things?" He felt a slight thrill at the idea, as much as he loathed Avery's self-important tone.

Avery nodded earnestly. "Exactly. And honestly, you must see it. Muggles… they're practically primitive. They don't understand magic. Some can't even comprehend it. It's why our families are so careful about who they marry, who they associate with. We're preserving something… important."

Tom let a thoughtful silence hang in the air. He could almost see what Avery meant. His entire life, he had been different—different from the Muggles at Wool's Orphanage, different from the fumbling first-years, even different from most of the students here at Hogwarts. Perhaps Avery had a point. Perhaps his family's legacy, whatever it was, had some important purpose that hadn't yet been revealed to him.

"Interesting theory," he said lightly, masking his own burgeoning interest with a tone of amusement. "So you think… what, exactly? That Muggles are inferior?"

Avery gave him an almost pitying smile. "They're not just inferior, Riddle. They're… irrelevant." He leaned in, lowering his voice as if sharing a great secret. "That's why we have to be careful who we let in. Who we allow into our world."

Lestrange nodded along, his expression one of total agreement. "Yeah. Look at my family! There's not a single Muggle in our history. We're pure. That's why we're powerful."

Tom's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. There was something here, something that made sense to him in a way that the Muggle world never had. Power, legacy, lineage. The importance of being special—something he had always known himself to be.

"So… you're saying you think I'm…" he let the words hang, inviting them to fill in the gap.

"Potentially," Avery said, clearly eager to rope Tom into this "pure" club of theirs. "If you're here, there's a good chance, isn't there? Besides, you're already… well, you're one of us."

Tom smiled faintly. "One of us," he repeated, as if trying the words on for size. It felt almost… natural.

Lestrange gave him an approving nod. "Just think of it, Riddle. Our bloodlines, our families, all carrying on this… this magical legacy. We're what matters."

Tom leaned back, a strange satisfaction settling over him. Maybe Avery was onto something. Maybe this was why he didn't fit in with Muggles, why they seemed so dull, so devoid of purpose. This—this magic, this power, this legacy of greatness—this was what he was meant for.

He forced his face into an expression of polite detachment, not wanting Avery and Lestrange to see the spark of fascination in his eyes. He couldn't have them thinking they had influenced him too easily. But inside, Tom felt something new taking root—a growing certainty that he was destined for greatness, something beyond the petty concerns of the Muggle world.

He didn't know his father's name, nor his mother's secrets, but one thing was clear: he would make the Riddle name worth remembering. And these fools… well, they would be useful stepping stones on his way to something far, far greater.

With a smirk, he rose, glancing once more at Avery and Lestrange. "Interesting conversation. Perhaps we'll talk again sometime."

They looked thrilled, like little pets who had received a pat on the head, and Tom relished in the delicious irony. One day, he thought, these same boys might kneel before him, not out of friendship, but out of sheer necessity.

And he had to admit—he couldn't wait.