A/N: I'm really enjoying authoring this story so far, and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I do! Please review and favorite/follow the story if it's to your liking! It helps me keep my inspiration and puts a smile on my face!

Tom settled into his seat in the dimly lit detention hall with a sigh, pen in hand and an eye on the dark corridor outside. Professor Merrythought had assigned the world's dullest punishment—lines. Tom smirked as he carefully inked each letter: I will uphold the rules of Hogwarts and respect my peers. Respect, indeed. The concept was charming in its absurdity. He'd never respected anyone in his life, nor did he intend to start.

Across the room, Arlo nursed his bruised pride (and arm), tossing Tom dark looks that, to Tom's private delight, seemed to contain a smidgen of fear. Tom, naturally, rewarded him with a slight, taunting smile. Poor Arlo. There were only so many ways to hide the bite marks of a worm.

Finally, Professor Merrythought released them, her voice cold and clipped. "You're free to go," she said with a final glare in Tom's direction that suggested she'd gladly issue a lifetime detention if she thought it would accomplish anything. Tom only smiled back sweetly, gathering his things as if he'd just completed an honest day's work.

But just as he stepped out into the dark corridor, he froze. A shadowy figure was waiting for him with a faint smile and twinkling eyes. Of course. Dumbledore.

"Mr. Riddle," he began, his voice as smooth as his robes. "Might I borrow a moment of your time?"

Tom resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Certainly, Professor."

Dumbledore fell into step beside him, and they began to walk slowly down the hall. Tom knew this routine well: gentle chiding, philosophical nonsense, all wrapped up in a nice little package meant to "inspire" him.

Dumbledore clasped his hands behind his back, eyes on some distant point. "I understand you have a certain… effect on your classmates," he said, sounding almost amused.

Tom fought down a smirk. "I only try to be a good example, Professor."

"Oh, I'm sure," Dumbledore replied, his mouth twitching in that maddening way that made it impossible to tell if he was genuinely amused or if he knew exactly what Tom was up to. "But the best examples are built on kindness, not fear."

There it was. Tom barely restrained himself from sighing. He forced his expression into one of polite interest instead. He could not disagree more with the old man. But instead, he said, "Absolutely, sir. I couldn't agree more."

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, giving him a long, appraising look. "Then I trust you'll keep that in mind. Someday, you'll be remembered, Tom. And it's worth considering how. Power, when misused, has a tendency to backfire on those who wield it. Remember that."

Tom managed to keep his face neutral as he nodded, though inside he was thoroughly unimpressed. Dumbledore could talk about kindness and memory all he wanted, but Tom had already decided how he'd be remembered—and kindness was nowhere on that list.

With a final nod, Dumbledore drifted away, leaving Tom alone once again in the dim corridor. Tom allowed himself a wry smile. Perhaps Dumbledore truly believed he could mold him into some bastion of goodness, leading the masses with a pure heart. The irony of it nearly made him laugh.

He turned toward the staircase, but there, lingering at the base, was Arlo and his gang. They looked up as he approached, bristling like territorial animals. Tom raised an eyebrow, amused. Did they honestly think they could intimidate him in front of a corridor full of people?

"Riddle," Arlo snarled, though Tom noted the slight tremor in his voice. "We're not done."

Tom tilted his head, looking Arlo over with an expression that was equal parts curiosity and pity. "Still here? How touching," he said dryly. "Is it so hard to stay away?"

Arlo flushed, his fists clenching. "I'm warning you. I don't care who you think you are."

Tom smiled, a polite, shark-like smile that made Arlo's friends shuffle uncomfortably. "Noted," he replied smoothly. "But let's be honest, Arlo, threats aren't your forte -"

BAM!

Tom hadn't even finished his sentence when he felt the impact—a sudden, sharp pain on the side of his jaw. For a split second, all he could register was the shock of it, the sting spreading through his cheek.

Arlo had actually hit him!

The corridor seemed to fall silent, as though holding its breath. Tom slowly straightened, bringing a hand up to his face, his fingers brushing over the spot where Arlo's fist had made contact. The pain was dulling, but Tom's rage had ignited, sharper than anything Arlo could ever hope to inflict.

Arlo's own face was a mix of defiance and, Tom noted with satisfaction, a flicker of regret. The idiot. He hadn't planned this through—hadn't considered what would happen next. He must have decided to handle things physically, Tom thought, realising he is no match for me magically.

Tom tilted his head, his lips curving into a smile that was far too calm, a look that made Arlo's friends shuffle back instinctively.

"You imbecile," Tom said, his voice soft and steady, which was somehow more chilling than if he had raised it.

Just as Tom was about to react, a voice cut through the corridor like an icy blade.

"Mr. Greaves!"

Professor McGonagall's presence filled the hallway, her expression a mask of barely contained fury. The sound of her footsteps echoed ominously as she strode toward them, her gaze fixed firmly on Arlo, whose fist was still half-raised in the air, ready to fight some more. His face flushed, and he hastily dropped his hand, looking like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"What is the meaning of this?" she demanded, her tone as cold as steel. Her eyes briefly scanned Tom, noticing the barely forming bruise on his cheek and the blood dripping down from the side of his lip, which he was unaware of.

Arlo stammered, scrambling to find words. "I… uh, Professor, he was provoking me—"

"Provoking?" she repeated, raising an eyebrow. She cast a quick, disbelieving glance at Tom, who was standing there calmly, hands at his sides, looking entirely unfazed and perfectly innocent.

"Yes, Professor," Arlo blurted out, a bit more desperately. "He was trying to make me look bad in front of my friends—"

McGonagall's lips pressed into a thin line, cutting him off. "Mr. Greaves, I didn't ask you to speculate on your peer's intentions. I want an explanation for your actions," she said, her voice carrying a dangerous edge. "I'm not interested in excuses."

Arlo's face drained of colour, and he seemed to shrink under her piercing gaze. Tom fought the urge to smile.

"Mr. Riddle," McGonagall turned to Tom, her tone softer but still holding a hint of suspicion. "Did you do anything to provoke this... behaviour?"

"No, Professor," Tom replied, his voice the picture of sincerity. "I was merely heading to my dormitory when Mr. Greaves decided to… express his feelings rather physically. I hadn't realised my presence would cause him such distress." He offered a slight, apologetic smile that only seemed to make Arlo's face burn redder. "There are ample witnesses here of the incident who can attest to what I'm saying," Tom added smoothly, gesturing around to the lingering crowd in the corridor. Most of them were too preoccupied with the unfolding drama to look away, but a few whispered among themselves, and several were nodding in agreement, clearly eager to see Arlo punished.

But then Tom's gaze landed on someone unexpected. Standing just beyond the circle of students, half-hidden by a suit of armor, was the grey-eyed girl again. She was watching him with keen interest, a slight smirk playing at the corners of her lips as if she'd been waiting for something entertaining to happen. Her eyes met his, and she didn't look away. If anything, her gaze sharpened, the curiosity in her expression deepening.

Tom's stomach gave a strange twist—something entirely new and unwelcome. Was it… embarrassment? He immediately squashed the thought, forcing his usual cool, composed mask back into place, but he could feel the heat rising in his cheeks. It was absurd. He had faced down bullies, teachers, and peers with practiced ease, and yet here he was, his heart racing simply because this girl happened to be watching.

He cleared his throat and forced himself to look away, addressing McGonagall again, though he couldn't quite keep the flicker of unease from his voice. "As I was saying, Professor, I think the other students can confirm that I've done nothing wrong."

McGonagall pursed her lips, her gaze shifting back to Arlo with barely concealed disdain after seeing not a single person disputed Tom's decleration. "It seems, Mr. Greaves that whatever 'provocation' you imagined was simply that—your own imagination. And yet, rather than practicing self-restraint, you've resorted to violence. Very… disappointing."

Arlo's mouth opened and closed helplessly, looking more like a fish than ever. His friends had already slunk off, leaving him to face the full force of McGonagall's displeasure alone.

"Fifty points from Slytherin," she said coldly, making Arlo visibly flinch, Tom too. "And you will report directly to Professor Dippet's office. Immediately."

The colour drained further from Arlo's face. Reporting to Dippet was a fate he clearly hadn't anticipated, and Tom had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep his expression neutral. He gave Arlo a sympathetic nod as if to say, Unfortunate, though a glint of satisfaction flickered in his eyes.

McGonagall's attention turned back to Tom, her gaze assessing but not unkind. "And you, Mr. Riddle—I trust you're well enough to return to your dormitory?"

"Yes, Professor. I'll be just fine," Tom replied, dipping his head respectfully.

"Good." Her gaze softened, if only slightly. "Remember that Hogwarts has no tolerance for this kind of behaviour. Now, off to your dorm."

Tom gave her a grateful nod, playing the part of the innocent, unassuming student to perfection. As he turned to leave, he caught a glimpse of Arlo being marched off toward Dippet's office, looking thoroughly defeated. And, for the briefest of moments, Tom allowed himself the smallest of smiles.

As Tom turned to leave, a light footstep caught his attention. He glanced over his shoulder and felt a flicker of surprise—which was a rare occurrence for him. The grey-eyed girl had broken away from the dispersing crowd and was heading toward him, a small smile playing on her lips.

For a second, Tom simply stared, caught off guard. She moved with a calm assurance, her eyes holding his without a hint of shyness or trepidation. When she finally stopped before him, she produced a folded handkerchief from her pocket—a soft blue linen with a delicately embroidered edge.

Tom's brow furrowed. He had no clue what the girl was doing, or why.

He scrutinized her carefully, searching for any sign of mockery, but found none. If anything, there was a quiet curiosity in her eyes, as though she were trying to understand him just as thoroughly as he was trying to understand her.

With one nod, she turned on her heel and slipped back into the crowd without another word. Tom watched her go, holding the handkerchief uncertainly in his hand, feeling a strange mixture of irritation and intrigue. What was she playing at?

Once he reached the Slytherin dormitory, he sat down on his bed, exhausted from the day's events. He then caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and inspected his reflection. To his surprise, there was a faint streak of dried blood at the corner of his lip—something he hadn't noticed during the heated exchange.

So, that was what the handkerchief was for.

Without thinking, he went into the bathroom, dipped it in water and began to dab at the spot, watching the blood come away to reveal smooth skin beneath. As he wiped, his fingers brushed over something stitched at the edge of the cloth. He paused, lifting it to inspect more closely, and noticed a set of initials sewn into the corner in silver thread: "M. A. S."

A peculiar sense of satisfaction washed over him. He didn't know her name, not yet, but she had unwittingly—or perhaps purposefully—left him a clue. For some reason, the thought lingered pleasantly in his mind as he finished cleaning his lip and carefully folded the handkerchief.

Tom laid it on his desk, running his fingers over the soft fabric. It wasn't like him to dwell on such a trivial thing, yet he found himself wondering what her game might be.

For now, he decided, he'd keep the handkerchief.

Tom's mind was in turmoil, and for the first time in a long while, it was genuinely annoying him. He had no time for love, lust, or anything remotely resembling those weak, pathetic distractions. Both were nothing but excuses for people to make idiotic decisions—driven by hormones and ridiculous fantasies. He had watched it all through the years, the ridiculous pining and stuttering affection, and the way it clouded people's judgment. He was far too intelligent for such nonsense. He had bigger things to focus on—important things, like power, control, and getting ahead of everyone else.

But there she was, with those damn grey eyes, stirring something inside him that he had no intention of acknowledging. She was sort of beautiful, and it was infuriating. He tried to dismiss it, but no matter how hard he tried to rationalise his frustration, it kept creeping back like an annoying itch he couldn't scratch.

He hadn't even spoken to her —what, a couple of eye glances, a single handkerchief exchange—and yet here he was, feeling something. His mind screamed, "Why?".

"This is ludicrous," he muttered to himself.

A/N: Hope you enjoyed that! See you soon with Chapter 4!