Tom

You and Tom had known each other since your very first day at Hogwarts. There was always a mutual awareness, a quiet acknowledgment that the other existed. Not enemies, not quite friends. Just... known. He sat across the room in classes, walked past you in corridors, existed in your periphery like a shadow that never quite reached your feet. You never exchanged more than a nod—or a glance that lingered too long to be entirely meaningless.

It was in Potions class one rainy afternoon when Professor Slughorn paired you up together. It wasn’t planned, just one of those random groupings. You weren’t sure what to expect.

Tom worked silently, efficiently. He measured, stirred, crushed ingredients with precise elegance. You found yourself watching the way his fingers moved, how his pale hands danced over the cauldron. That’s when you noticed them—his rings.

There were three, each silver, darkened in some places, glinting under the candlelight like they held secrets. One on his index, one on his middle finger, and one on his pinky. They caught the light in a way that made them almost look alive, reflecting not just the fire, but him. You couldn’t help but stare, fascinated by the way the reflection warped and moved along the metal.

“I like your rings, Riddle,” you blurted.

The words left your mouth before your brain caught up. You blinked, realizing what you’d said. There was no going back. But strangely, you didn’t regret it.

Tom stopped mid-stir. He didn’t speak immediately, just lifted his head, his dark eyes locking with yours. One eyebrow arched slightly, more curious than annoyed.

“They really suit you,” you added with a small smile, feeling your heart quicken just a bit.

His gaze lingered on you a moment longer before the bell rang sharply through the dungeons. Students began packing up, chairs scraped against the stone floor.

“Cayla, let’s go. Harry and Ron are waiting,” Hermione’s voice broke your attention as she approached, her eyes flicking briefly between you and Tom.

You nodded, your hand brushing your parchment and wand into your bag. You turned back to Tom, who had returned to his potion without another word.

“I better get going. I’ll finish the rest later. See you around,” you said softly.

He didn’t respond, but you thought—maybe—you saw a flicker of something in his eyes as you walked away with Hermione.

The next morning at breakfast, you sat at the Gryffindor table between Hermione, Harry and Ron, talking about classes and homework and Quidditch. You were halfway through your toast when an owl swooped in, startling Ron, and dropped a small, neat package in front of you.

“Isn’t it a bit early for mail?” Ron asked, eyebrows raised.

You shrugged, curiosity blooming in your chest. You opened the parcel carefully. Inside was a velvet box. When you opened it, your breath caught.

The rings.

His rings.

Not just tossed in, but carefully arranged, now strung on a thin silver chain. They shimmered under the morning light, reflecting your face back at you like a quiet secret shared between two people no one would ever suspect. The silver band was etched with intricate engraved symbols. They were faint, worn down by age, but they were definitely there.

Tucked beside them was a folded note, the handwriting elegant, precise.

I assumed they wouldn't fit your fingers as these rings are too big, it read. This felt more fitting.

No name. No signature.