𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐒, ᵗᵒᵐ ʳⁱᵈᵈˡᵉ. ✓

041.

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It was a quiet afternoon in the Hogwarts library, the soft rustling of pages and distant whispers filling the air. Sunlight streamed in through the tall, arched windows, casting a golden glow over the wooden tables where students sat hunched over their books. At a secluded corner table, Tom Riddle and Daphne Greengrass sat side by side, surrounded by piles of parchment and ink bottles. They had been studying in silence for some time now, their focus on their respective assignments.

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Daphne, however, had grown restless. The hours of potion essays and Dark Arts theory had worn on her, and now, she sat slouched in her chair, her quill tapping idly against the edge of the table. Her long blonde hair, which she had tied up at the start of their study session, had loosened and now fell in soft waves down her back.

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Tom, as usual, was absorbed in his reading. His dark eyes skimmed the pages of a particularly ancient tome; his brow furrowed in concentration. But even in his focused state, he noticed the subtle movements of Daphne beside him—the way her quill tapped with increasing impatience, the way she shifted in her seat, clearly bored. He could feel her restless energy, though she hadn't said a word.

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"Daphne," he said quietly, not looking up from his book, "if you're going to fidget like that, you might as well do something useful." Daphne stopped tapping her quill and glanced over at him, a small smile tugging at her lips. "Oh? And what would you suggest, Riddle? More reading?" Tom finally looked up, his eyes meeting hers with that familiar intensity. He didn't respond to her teasing tone, but instead, he reached out toward her hair. "Turn around," he said, his voice calm but authoritative.

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Daphne blinked in surprise, but she complied, turning in her chair so her back was to him. "What are you—?" "Your hair," Tom said simply, brushing his fingers through the soft strands. "It's a mess." Daphne laughed softly, her heart fluttering at the unexpected gesture. Tom Riddle was not one for casual affection or affection of any kind. But here he was, his hands gently gathering her hair as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

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Tom worked in silence, his fingers deftly weaving her hair into a braid with surprising skill. His movements were precise and methodical, just like everything else he did. Daphne could feel the light pressure of his hands as he braided, and she found herself relaxing into the motion, her earlier restlessness fading away. "You're surprisingly good at this," Daphne murmured, her voice soft with amusement.

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Tom didn't respond immediately, but after a moment, he spoke, his tone low and contemplative. "I had a sister once. She liked to braid her hair, but she wasn't very good at it." Daphne stilled at his words. Tom rarely spoke of his past and even more rarely of his family. She hadn't known he had a sister—or perhaps he had never mentioned it because she was long gone. The thought tugged at something deep in her chest, and she wondered how much pain lay buried beneath Tom's cold exterior.

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"What happened to her?" Daphne asked gently, her voice barely above a whisper. Tom's hands paused for a brief second before continuing with the braid. "She died. Years ago." Daphne's heart ached at the simplicity of his words, the way he said them as if it were a fact to be accepted, not mourned. She wanted to reach out, to offer some kind of comfort, but she knew Tom wasn't the type to accept it. So, instead, she sat quietly, letting him finish the braid in silence.

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When he was done, Tom tied off the end of the braid with a small ribbon he had found on the table. He didn't say anything more, but Daphne could feel the weight of unspoken memories hanging in the air between them. She turned around to face him, her blue eyes searching his for any hint of the emotions he kept hidden so well. "Thank you, Tom," she said softly, her voice full of quiet gratitude.

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He met her gaze, his expression unreadable, but there was a flicker of something—something almost vulnerable—in his eyes. For a moment, they simply looked at each other, the space between them filled with more than just the silence of the library. Then, as if the moment had passed, Tom straightened in his chair, his familiar cool demeanor slipping back into place. "You should get back to your essay," he said, his tone as calm and detached as ever.

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Daphne smiled, knowing that despite his words, this moment had meant something—perhaps more to him than he would ever admit. She picked up her quill, her heart feeling lighter than it had before. As they returned to their books, the braid Tom had woven into her hair hung gently down her back, a quiet reminder of the connection that lingered between them, even in the silence.

Word count: 830