if he hadn't angered his father for the disrespect he had dished out to bellatrix from house black, he wouldn't had noticed the dancer.
in the crowd of performers, he was one of many. black haired and plain looking with eyes the colour of pickled toads his mother kept in her pond, he held nothing against the nobles he knew and yet.
tom watched him dance in between the dozen, following him with his eyes as he trailed and shifted. standing in the crowd of courtiers, with abaxas malfoy speaking of his shipment of peacocks and a glass of whiskey he hadn't touched, he stared.
he was a dancer on a day of court, a normal occurrence due his father's love for the arts and shouldn't have stood out to him. for that, tom knew he had to be different from the dancers he had met and bedded for years.
there was grace in the steps he took to join the others, exchanging an instrument he couldn't identify for a long piece of blue linen. in falling back in a dance which spoke of victory and triumph, of his father's kingdom which rose from the ashes of the enemy he had burned.
almost magical, in the way he seemed to fly and pivot when the stage was cleared enough to. in the shape of his smile, flitting across his features and in the the linen swishing in the air.
it made tom riddle curious, to blink back the mask he had perfected through his years at court and watch.
he should've known that one day, others would notice him too. should have planned for it, except he didn't.
maybe that was why he acted so harshly.