The Unspoken Thing.
Tom Riddle did not like things he could not understand.
He did not like questions without answers, riddles without solutions, or people who slipped through the cracks of his careful observations. Knowledge was power, and power was everything.
And yet, as he sat in Muggle Studies, his quill poised over parchment, he found himself staring at Professor Evans.
The man had always been an enigma, but lately, something about him was wrong.
It wasn’t obvious—not to the untrained eye. But Tom was not untrained. He noticed the details others missed. The subtle shifts, the gaps where logic should exist. And Evans had become a collection of missing pieces.
His paleness was the first thing. Over the past few months, his skin had lost all trace of warmth, settling into something closer to porcelain—no, paper—no, bone.
Then there was the quiet.
The room always felt still around him. Not just silent, but still. As if the air itself hesitated to move. As if the world had learned to hold its breath in his presence.
And there was something about the way he moved.
It was the same as before, and yet—not.
A fraction too smooth, a fraction too deliberate.
As if he was walking not because he had to, but because he was mimicking something that once had.
Tom did not believe in superstition. He did not believe in things that lurked beneath beds or in the dark corners of corridors. But some deep, primal part of him felt it.
A wrongness.
A whisper at the edges of his thoughts.
Something watching.
Something listening.
Evans turned his head.
Tom did not flinch—he had trained himself not to. But something in him coiled, tense, like an animal baring its teeth.
Evans’ green eyes settled on him, and for a brief, unbearable moment, Tom felt seen.
Not in the way Dumbledore saw him. Not in the way teachers or classmates did.
This was different.
This was something ancient looking through a mask.
A polite smile touched Evans’ lips. “You seem distracted, Mr. Riddle.”
His voice was the same as always. Cool, composed. And yet, it felt like it carried a second voice beneath it, something distant, something that should not be heard.
Tom held his gaze, forcing himself to relax. “Just thinking, Professor.”
“Ah.” Evans tilted his head slightly. A fraction too far.
Tom’s fingers tightened around his quill.
That was another thing.
His gestures were all a fraction too much.
His nods dipped a degree lower than necessary. His blinks held a fraction too long. His fingers curled a fraction too fluidly.
Not enough for most to notice.
But Tom noticed.
And he knew, with a certainty that crawled beneath his skin, that whatever sat behind those green eyes was watching him right back.