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dirty little secrets — part one [t.r]

⭑ summary: You spent six years at Hogwarts perfecting the art of invisibility. No friends. No enemies. No one ever looked close enough to notice you, to question you. To see you. You learned to embrace the arms of loneliness in the hallways of Hogwarts, and now, in your final year, you thought it would be no different. You would focus on your studies, drown in your quietness, and make it out of the hellhole you called home. Get a job as a healer apprentice. Get a place of your own. You had it all planned out. But once you catch the eyes of the infamous Tom Riddle, everything changes. Catching the eyes of the devil leaves you tangled in webs of dirty little secrets, ambition, and now that you've unlocked the monster's cage, he won't stop until he's corrupted you. Now it's only a matter of time before you'll give in to the darkness or let it swallow you to your destruction. MINORS DNI PLEASE. please remember to reblog and leave a comment if you can, it helps a lot. thank you ♡

⭑ pairing: tom riddle x reader

⭑ genre: series, eventual smut, angst, dark, 18+

⭑ warnings: ominous tom riddle, reader is a loner and some dark shenanigans, but nothing much.

⭑ word count: 13k

⭑ links: series masterlist 𝜗ৎ my masterlist 𝜗ৎ inbox

⭑ author's note: it has been years since i wrote anything, so i'm quite nervous pushing this baby out. but here it is! this fic will be quite lengthy and if you would like to recieve formal updates, i have it cross-posted on wattpad and ao3 ♡

The room was dark. Morbidly silent. It belonged to the void, and you were cursed to live inside these lifeless walls.

Days bled as you counted the hours until you could finally leave. You muttered "Lumus" so quietly, not even the wind barging in through your window could catch your words. Your wand lightened up, and you glanced at the clock beside you for what felt like the one thousandth time.

It probably was.

2:57 am.

Eight hours and three minutes until you could finally breathe freely again, much to your aunt's dismay.

You sighed and turned once more on your already scrambled sheets. The only sound you could hear was the wind whispering through the night.

You were jealous of it. The way it weaved through the skies was so free.

You turned once more, your eyes awake, counting the minutes, seconds until you would finally hear the sound of whispers and talk of magic everywhere. You could almost hear it: the leather seats, the taste of magic jelly beans—

"What the fuck are you still doing awake, girl?! Bloody hell, it's three in the morning!"

Your aunt's voice tore through the quiet, sharp enough to make you jolt. You snapped your wrist, whispering, "Nox." The light vanished instantly, leaving only the black.

"Don't you dare use that freakish magic inside my bloody home, you wench!" she snarled from the other side of the door. Her words dripped with that same venom she'd been feeding you for years.

You didn't answer. You'd learned long ago that replying only prolonged the attack. Silence was your only defence. You only turned the other way, waiting for her to get tired and slither away. A pause claimed the room. You could hear her breathing — quick, irritated. Then the slow retreat of her footsteps down the hall.

"Be awake at six," she called over her shoulder. "One minute late and you'll miss that freak train of yours. I wouldn't mind keeping you here for chores."

The house swallowed the sound of her voice, leaving you with the whispering wind once more.

You turned back onto your side, pulling the blanket tighter, pretending it was something warmer, safer.

Eight hours and three minutes.

The thought looped in your head like an incantation, steady and stubborn, keeping you anchored. Because no matter how long the night felt, morning would come. And with it, the train. The scarlet steam, the gleam of brass, the smell of sugar and coal, and the voices of those like you—gifted in magic—filling your ears.

You closed your eyes and clung to that image until sleep finally claimed you.

The first light of the month consumed the attic as you zipped your suitcase. The warm September breeze slithered into your room—it was finally that time of year again, to head back to classes. To remind yourself, life isn't limited to monotone wooden walls and the annoying screams of your aunt.

You grab your suitcase and carefully help yourself down the stairs. Truly, your aunt's 'no magic' ban made life so hard for no reason. You could easily float your suitcase with a wandless charm instead of struggling with its weight down the delicate wooden stairs. Your aunt was already in the kitchen, arms crossed, a chipped mug of camomille tea steaming in her grip. Her brown eyes flicked to the suitcase, then to you, her mouth curling into something that wasn't quite a smile.

It never was.

"Don't scratch the banister," she muttered through her mug, and sipped her tea monotonously. Just like everything inside this house.

The kitchen smelled faintly of burnt toast and yesterday's fried onions. You slipped past her, heading for the front door. The sooner you were outside, the sooner you could finally breathe fresh air instead of the poisonous smoke you had to live with all summer long.

"You've got money for the train, I hope," she called after you. "Not that I'm giving you a knut. And don't come back early — I'm not feeding you extra this year."

"It's not like I want to head back early." You murmur, and your aunt sighs. You were used to it, the breaths of disappointment. Dread. The flicker in her eyes whenever you were near—fear, disdain, regret. You were a reminder of everything wrong in her world.

"You should be grateful. I feed you, let you live here for free." Your aunt clicks her tongue, "Ungrateful, wench. Get the bloody hell out of here before I kick you out myself."

With that, your aunt slithered out of the room, taking the air pollution with her. You sighed in relief, and when you opened the door, your lips formed a small smile, one you were sure your lips had forgotten how to do.

The morning air wrapped around you like a balm — cool, clean, alive. It chased away the stagnant scent of the kitchen and the stale summer you'd been drowning in.

London was stirring awake — the groans of buses, the hiss of opening shop shutters, the faint chatter of your neighbours doing their chores. None of them looked at you, of course, they wouldn't. You were Mrs Halloway's strange niece. The quiet void no one dared look, or talk to. People feared the unknown, and nothing was quite as strange as a woman who kept to herself.

Your journey to King's Cross was a blur of grey streets and impatient traffic lights. You kept your head down, hair shielding your face as always. You never were one to gather attention. Not that you liked it.

Life was... comfortable in the shadows.

By the time you stepped inside the station, the chaos hit you all at once — the echo of train whistles, the shouts of platform announcements, the blur of Muggle travellers rushing in every direction.

You marched through the crowd, and your eyes twinkled as you found platform nine. You grabbed your suitcase tighter, and walked through the brick barrier, the sound of muggles fading away as the image morphed into one you'd awaited for weeks—platform nine and three-quarters.

You breathed in deeply. Ah, fresh air. All summer, you've craved it—the smoke in your lungs to finally be healed.

No one glanced at you. Every young witch and wizard was either saying their farewell to their beloved families or happily entering the train, anxious to find a cabin with their established friend groups.

You watched for a second longer than normal, those who were lucky enough to earn hugs from their loved ones, to receive eyes twinkling in affection and care. Your eyes narrowed in anger, in envy—why did they all have what you couldn't? Why were you just...never worthy?

Before you could open the door to more suffocating thoughts, the train announced that it was almost time to depart. You quickly picked up the pace, shrugging those words away to the depths of your head.

You walked through the cabins, the sound of chatter and laughter thickening the air. You reached the far end of the train, where seats were scattered through the room. You've become accustomed to this quiet part of the train, where introverts thrived and silence prevailed as everyone stuck to their little worlds.

You sat in your usual seat, in the far end corner, and picked up your beaten-up book inside your backpack to ease your boredom throughout the train.

The train swayed gently as it pulled away from the station, the rhythmic clatter of wheels on tracks filling the silence around you. You let yourself sink into the book, its pages a shield between you and the world beyond.

But then—movement.

A flicker in your peripheral vision that made your eyes shift from the world of Dostoyevsky's 'Crime and Punishment.' Two tables ahead, on the same side of the carriage, sat a student. Not just any student, though.

Tom Riddle.

Even without the neat emerald-trimmed robes or the badge glinting on his chest, you would have known him. Everyone knew him. The Head Boy. The model Slytherin.

It was unusual, seeing him alone, without his pure-blooded friends surrounding his figure, or any other ass-kissing student hoping to get something out of him. Whether it was help with a certain spell or a date to Hogsmeade.

Girls whispered his name in giggles and blushes, professors referred to him with awe, boys looked at him in admiration—yet there was one emotion that bound them all. Envy.

Envy of the way he travelled through the halls with practiced ease, shoulders poised to perfection, and hair styled to the last strand. The way magic came to him so easily, some classes were like child's play. Of how he seemed to have anyone and everyone hanging onto his last word, hypnotized by his charming smile.

You observed him sometimes, on the back of classes, through the peripheral vision of your book during break times. On the other side of the lunch table, where most Slytherins sat and competed to get into.

He always made the hairs on your body turn upright, not through shivers of pleasure, but of unease. No one could be that perfectly poised. His words were almost so rightly said, perfectly timed, it seemed calculated. Scripted somewhere.

No one was that perfect with nothing to hide. And observing long enough, you could see flickers of a void when he thought no one was watching. Of a blankness so sinister it made crows flee in fright.

He sat with the poise of someone who knew they were being watched. And he was. He was Tom Riddle, after all.

A book lay open in front of him, its spine perfectly aligned with the edge of the table, his slender fingers resting lightly against the page. There was nothing casual about it. Every page turn was deliberate, like each word demanded his full, surgical attention.

You told yourself to look away.

Not that you would ever catch his attention. But the mere thought of it sent shivers down your spine. But curiosity was damning, and yours had always been sharper than it should be.

His head lifted slightly, as if he'd felt the weight of your gaze.

And then his eyes found yours.

Dark, steady, unreadable.

The noise of the train seemed to fade, replaced by the soft, unbearable hum of awareness. You'd expected that, perhaps, he would look away—polite, disinterested, dismissive.

He didn't.

Instead, he held your gaze, not with hostility, but with something colder. Calculating. As though he were sifting through your skin, your bones, peeling back the layers to see what was underneath. And they flickered with something dangerous. Something you never expected to see.

Recognition.

Your grip on your book tightened. It wasn't possible. You never uttered a word to him. Never let your gaze fall to him long enough for him to feel its heaviness. You navigated lightly when it came to observing him, and never let it go deep enough that he could find you through the crowds.

No one ever noticed you. Not even the damn professors knew your name. Professor Slughorm, for instance, referred to you only once, as the 'girl in the back' to grab a potion beside you. To your peers, you were another ghost that roamed around the hallways. And yet, the way he looked at you now, it wasn't the idle glance of a passing curiosity.

It was deliberate.

Like he knew you.

Your heartbeat thudded in your ears, each pulse counting out the seconds you should have looked away. But you couldn't. There was a gravity in his gaze — not pulling you closer, but pinning you exactly where you were. Holding you prisoner like a suffocating insect beneath glass. Captured.

The corner of his mouth shifted, but not into a smile. It was subtler, stranger — as though some private thought had amused him. Then, just as sharply as it began, his eyes fell back to the page before him, leaving you to wonder if that fleeting moment was a fragment of your insanity.

Tom Riddle's attention was hazardous, and you could hope to avoid getting poisoned.

The sounds of clapping filled your side of the great hall as the last child came out of the sorting hat a Slytherin. The other houses rolled their eyes or scrunched their faces in utter disgust as the child giggled innocently and fled to the green table.

Headmaster Dippet went on to his usual first speech of the new semester, going through the rules for first years and latest announcements, nothing that you ever really paid any attention to. However, one part in particular caught your ear. "As you all might know, Grindelwald is still on the loose, spreading darkness wherever he goes. The ministry speculates that his next target might be Hogwarts, and so new regulations have been implemented. Dementors will now be roaming around Hogwarts skies, and some places shall no longer be available for the time being. Those include the Forbidden Forest, the Owlery tower after sundown, the Astronomy Tower outside of class hours, and the far eastern courtyard leading toward the old greenhouses. In addition, the lower dungeons beneath the Slytherin common room are now strictly off-limits to all students."

A ripple of murmurs moved through the tables. Students glanced at each other with mixed reactions, some shocked, some afraid, some smirking with plots of mischief—yet one remained impassive. His face was set to stone as he heard every word coming out of the headmaster.

Tom's facial expressions were limited, never showing more than what he wanted to. Sometimes, a charming smirk adorned his face; other times, a cold look of concentration whenever he was focusing on classes. Most times, though, his face held an impassive, cold look, as if every detail of the world bored him to pieces.

You shifted your eyes away from his, your spine shivering in fear of the thought of him holding your gaze again. It was odd, and it haunted you all day. All you could think about was the way his eyes kept you pinned and how he smirked knowingly.

Strange, strange guy, he was.

The feast began in its usual grand fashion—golden plates gleaming, goblets refilling with every sip, and platters of roasted meats appearing suddenly. The scent of warm bread and spices curled up toward the enchanted ceiling, where a thousand floating candles swayed against the illusion of a star-streaked night sky.

You ate alone, as always, and revelled in the peace of knowing no one would bother you—

"Hello."

The word was soft enough that for a moment, you weren't even sure it was meant for you. You looked up from your plate, half-expecting to find someone leaning past you to greet someone else. Instead, a girl stood there—pale skin catching the flicker of candlelight, dark hair falling in a silky wave over one shoulder. Green eyes looked at you, not past you like they usually did.

You recognized her instantly—Ophelia Lestrange. Cousin to one of Tom Riddle's infamous gang members, Lestrange, who murmured curses toward Muggle-born students when they passed him in the hallway. He always seemed to have a smidge of hatred in his eyes, anticipating something. Unlike him, Ophelia kept to herself. She didn't swagger through the corridors or spit poison in the way the others did so outwardly. In fact, you'd never heard her raise her voice, besides the backhanded jab towards Muggle-borns here and there.

She was, however, revered for her intelligence, beauty and was especially admired for being the only woman inside Slughorn's little secret club. The professor thought all students remained oblivious to it, but walls could talk. Nothing ever really stays a secret within Hogwarts' walls.

The club was rumoured to gather only the smartest and most gifted students in potions through years five to seven, and have secret gatherings and parties in the students' honour, to add a spark of exclusivity to Slughorn's best students. Everyone wanted in, of course, and the secrecy of it all added a sense of achievement to whoever got in.

She glanced at the big gap beside you on the bench, then back to your face. "May I?"

You nodded, unsure why she'd want to sit here when there were plenty of open seats closer to the center of the table, nearest to Tom Riddle and his friends.

"I couldn't face sitting near Lestrange and his lot tonight," she said matter-of-factly as she set down her plate. "They're already making bets on which new first-year will be the first to fall victim to one of their childish pranks. It's... exhausting."

You blinked, surprised by the blunt honesty. "You could've sat anywhere else."

"I could have," she agreed, delicately cutting into her roast beef. "But I've seen you around. You're...quiet." A small, almost conspiratorial smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "That's rare here. And something I'd rather have tonight."

For a moment, you weren't sure how to respond. It wasn't a compliment exactly, but it wasn't an insult either.

What caught your attention was the fact that she knew you. That meant she was looking in the shadows. You didn't know how or why—and yet she sat here, plainly separating her meal, as if you'd known each other since the first year.

"I suppose not," you murmured.

"Good," she said simply, as if that settled it, and turned her attention to her meal.

It was strange—she didn't press for conversation, didn't probe with idle questions the way others did when curiosity struck. She simply ate in comfortable silence, a quiet presence beside you in the otherwise chattering hall. No one had ever noticed you—save for that strange interaction with Tom Riddle hours before.

Had the water been hexed this year? It was your last, and you were certain it would be just like the others, yet... the atmosphere was thicker than usual; eyes were starting to notice you...

Perhaps the seventh year would be a change in your mundane days.

A change you didn't know was good or bad.

Your eyes flickered toward jet-black curls on the far corner of the long wooden table again. Tom was slowly and quietly eating his meal, a stark contrast to the noise of his friends around him, either gossiping or cursing another Muggle-born student in the other houses.

"Tom Riddle, huh?" A soft voice took you out of your thoughts: "Wouldn't be the first to have a crush on him."

Your cheeks flushed hot, a faint crimson creeping up your neck. You stared at her, wide-eyed. "I don't have a crush on him."

Ophelia's smile was slight, almost knowing. "I didn't say you did. But you looked at him like you were... curious." She speared a piece of potato with her fork.

"I was just—" You paused, searching for a word that didn't sound like a confession. "observing."

She hummed quietly, eyes flicking once toward Tom before returning to her plate. "He's quite a catch, honestly. Too bad he's never given any girl a chance." Ophelia continues, her eyes focused on splattering butter on her bread. "Word is Darya Vasilieva is thinking of asking him out. Honestly, it would make sense, in a way. Both are pure-blooded, ambitious, cold, and whatnot. Though if you ask me, she's a bit of a stuck-up." Ophelia shrugged, "She acts as if she's better than everyone, even the other sacred pure-blooded families. She's a prissy bitch, honestly." Ophelia snorted, "Tom would never like her, though he probably should, right?"

Ophelia tore a piece of bread, her movements neat and deliberate, before adding with a shrug, "My cousin tells me he thinks Tom doesn't have any romantic interest at all. Not in girls, not in boys. Just... nothing. Creepy if you ask me."

You swallowed, unsure if the warmth in your cheeks was from embarrassment or the way her words made a chill creep up your spine. "Maybe he just hasn't met the right person," you offered, though your voice lacked conviction.

Ophelia snorted, "Please. Honestly, it makes sense. I think you'd have to be either a stone or a masochist to handle someone like him. I mean, can you imagine him ever giving a woman some flowers?" Ophelia chuckled lowly as she continued to conspire with you. "It's devastating how handsome he is, though, isn't it?"

You narrowed your eyes. "Didn't you say you wanted quiet?"

Ophelia's lips curved faintly. "I did. But sitting in silence doesn't mean I have to turn my brain off. Besides..." She leaned in just slightly, lowering her voice. "Quiet people are the best at noticing things. You should know that."

You tilted your head, unimpressed. "Noticing and gossiping are different."

Her smirk widened, though her eyes stayed cool. "Really? I mean, you hear everything and eavesdrop on every conversation. I notice things, you know. Even you. The only difference is that you have no one to tell what you know. But it's still gossiping, in a way." Your eyes went slightly wide before you could stop yourself, and Ophelia caught it immediately. She chuckled under her breath, the sound low and knowing.

Ophelia sighed and got up from her seat. "Well, this has been fun, but I fear I must retire for the night. I'm happy we became friends...." She raises an eyebrow, expecting to hear your name, which you murmur.

"Who said anything about us being friends?" You verbalized your thoughts before you could catch them, and Ophelia smirked.

"I did." And just like that, she walked away with ease, leaving you dazed and confused about the whole interaction.

The space beside you now felt colder, the conversation still echoing in your ears like a broken record.

You stared at the empty spot on the bench, trying to piece it together. Why now? Why you? For seven years, she'd been just another Slytherin ignorant of your presence, and suddenly she'd decided to talk like you were intimate enough to gossip.

She said she noticed you, but that wasn't possible. Your presence was weightless, unlike Tom Riddle, who thickened the atmosphere when he entered the room, leaving no space for any other thought. Were you not as invisible as you thought you were?

Or perhaps Ophelia wanted something, though you couldn't figure out what or why. A loveless life with a smidge of traumatic events was all you had to offer, really.

The hall around you blurred into a dull hum. Lestrange's laughter cut through the noise like a knife, a burst of sound from further down the table, followed by the cruel snicker of someone else you didn't care to identify. It only made Ophelia's earlier words press harder in your mind.

Time bled out, and finally, it was time to head to the dorms. The remaining Slytherins on the table gathered and walked in sync towards the dungeons, and as usual, you kept your head low at the far corner. Tom Riddle led the crowd as the head boy, barking rules to the wide-eyed first years.

His friend group stayed just a bit further, murmuring to themselves before swiftly changing their course, so smoothly that no one seemed to notice. But you did.

You noticed it instantly—that deliberate shift in their route. It wasn't random. The way Mulciber glanced over his shoulder, the way Rosier's smirk twitched, and the way Lestrange fell a step behind to shield their little detour from prying eyes.

You slowed your pace, pretending to fuss with the strap of your bag, letting the crowd move ahead. Riddle continued walking, and that made your confusion all the greater. Why were they taking a detour without the main member of their group? Something didn't seem right, yet you picked up your pace; you didn't want to feed your curiosity tonight and instead followed your gut.

By the time you reached the common room, students were laughing by the fireplace, the air thick with the warmth of the flames. You slipped past them, heading straight for the staircase that led to the girls' dormitories.

The room was still empty as your roommates caught up with each other downstairs.

You changed into your nightwear and dropped your bag by your bed. You lay awake, reading a copy of your book as you used your wand as a flashlight. The quiet was heavy—the kind of silence that feels almost staged. Your eyes tried to follow each word and make sense of every sentence, yet your thoughts screamed louder this time.

Why did Ophelia talk to me? Why did Tom Riddle smirk at me on the train? What the hell is going on today?

Then, suddenly, you heard faint bursts of laughter drifting up the stairwell, muffled by the thick stone walls.

Within minutes, the door opened and your roommates filed in, the energy of the common room clinging to them. You didn't look up, but you didn't need to—you could feel their presence and their sheer unawareness of you without a single word spoken. The rustle of robes, the clink of hairpins on the nightstand, the quiet thunk of a trunk lid.

"...did you hear?" One voice whispered, barely muffled by the sound of a wardrobe opening. "Darya Vasilieva's going to ask Tom out. Tomorrow."

Another sweeter and high-pitched voice chirped out, "Gosh, the fact that he'll probably say yes makes me want to fucking strangle her. It's not fair!"

"Life isn't fair, love. Who told you to be born in a half-blood family, eh?" the first one giggled. "But honestly, she's perfect for him. Russian pure-blood, rich family, top marks in everything—"

"And creepy as fuck," the other cut in. "I saw her torturing a mouse the other day by hexing it. Talk about psychopathy."

A third voice joined in, soft but venomous. "You know her family keeps those creepy cages in the basement? My cousin swears they're for torture, since, you know, her family is rumored to have joined Grindelwald."

The laughter that followed was muffled by blankets and pillows, but it still prickled your skin. You didn't move, pretending to be absorbed in your book, though you'd been stuck on the same paragraph for five minutes.

The truth was, their words wormed into you. You knew Darya, or well, knew her from a distance. She had pale, porcelain skin and sharp eyes as blue as the ocean, and similar to Tom, her eyes held a shivering coldness too. Yet, the whispers couldn't be more wrong; they weren't so similar. Tom calculated every move, every smile, every step he took down the hallway, whereas Darya didn't have such motivation. She was ice-cold, yes, but her movements weren't scripted to the whim, and her reactions were always genuine, if there ever was one.

You thought of him again, the depths inside those chocolate eyes. It was easy to get lost in the riddle of his stare, trying to puzzle out the pieces of his being and every movement he made. He had a motivation behind everything he did; you could see it, but you could never decipher what it was. A more realistic outcome would be that he wanted to become a minister one day, perhaps a powerful Auror. But his gaze—it held something far darker than any other average ambition.

You snapped your book shut, the sound making one of the girls glance over before quickly looking away. You waited. You always waited.

And just like every other night, they eventually settled, their voices trailing off into yawns and mumbled goodnights. The dormitory shifted into that in-between quiet, where you could hear the soft rise and fall of sleeping breaths.

You sighed and shook off the thoughts of a certain dark-haired boy before drifting into a dreamless sleep.

For once, normalcy plagued your day.

You'd woken before most of your roommates, save for a couple of early risers who were already gossiping in hushed tones by their wardrobes. You strolled through the common room like a ghost, ignored and greeted with silence like every other day for the last seven years.

You hummed to yourself, familiarity splattering through your veins as you walked down the hallway towards your breakfast. You sat at the far end of the Slytherin table, where the chatter was quieter, and began serving yourself the same balanced breakfast you had every morning at Hogwarts: pancakes with a drizzle of honey and dark, decaf coffee. You found comfort in the mundane and were glad that things were finally going back to your sense of normal.

Your eyes wandered for a moment, catching the regular suspects in their usual places, but your eyes didn't linger long enough to decipher the emotion, or lack thereof, of his handsome face. You told yourself you would avoid looking at him at all costs and find another interesting figure to observe and piece out. Tom Riddle was...too much of a threat to your plans.

Classes went in their familiar order.

Transfiguration was first, with Professor Dumbledore. He was wise beyond his years and sometimes talked in what seemed like sophisticated riddles, but you were quite fond of him. It was a shame he never noticed you, though, but it did make sense. The only ones worthy enough to gain his favor were Tom Riddle, Darya Vasilieva, and Ophelia Lestrange. Their magic was of such excellence that it even succeeded his expectations, as he once said before, though his eyes always did linger on Tom's figure longer than most.

Dumbledore's voice carried that gentle authority that seemed to gather everyone's gaze. You followed his instructions, and after a few tries, transfigured your brass button into a beetle, then back again, with practiced precision. The insect twitched in your palm before reforming into a dull, round button, and you placed it on the desk without fanfare. Dumbledore barely glanced your way—his attention drawn, as always, to the select few.

"Ah, Mr. Riddle, a first try, as always. Well done." Tom Riddle only nodded at the praise, his face impassive as he transformed the beetle back with an almost sinister ease. He wasn't fazed by the praise, of course not. He received the same compliments every hour of the day, whether it be from professors themselves or through loud whispers and giggles in the hallways.

"Miss Lestrange," he added next, his tone warm but slightly amused, "excellent, though your beetle seems determined to glare at me." Ophelia's soft chuckle answered him, a sound like a secret being shared.

Your gaze shifted to Ophelia, a glimmer of something stirring inside you. Would she notice you again? Perhaps start a conversation once more, take you away from the arms of silence, and slice the monotony out of your day? You were relieved with the ignorance of other students, sure, yet when Ophelia said she noticed you, hell, even said you were friends... You couldn't help but feel something close to warm. Something you only ever felt when near a fire during London's harsh, cold nights.

But her eyes never landed on you; instead, she went to the Ravenclaw student beside her, her eyes flashing with a glimmer you couldn't decipher yet.

"Miss Vasilieva, a clean execution as always," Dumbledore commended, and you didn't need to look to know she was smiling in that poised, distant way that made her seem carved from ice.

Darya smirked and thanked the professor. The glow in Ophelia's eyes when she looked at Darya was intriguing, something more than jealousy, deeper than envy...but it was still an enigma to you. Maybe you could observe their interactions for longer and pick apart every word exchanged between them to come to a suitable conclusion.

Or maybe you could mind your own business, and it would get you out of the clutches of Ophelia Lestrange's attention. It was for the best, staying invisible to her peripheral vision, avoiding the threat of letting more people become aware of your presence. Being quaint and invisible was a superpower, one that came with its price, of course. But still a superpower, nonetheless.

The rest of the classes passed without incident, though you caught yourself glancing more than once at the empty seat beside yours, wondering if—by some strange alignment of fate—Ophelia would slip into it. She didn't.

Dinner finally arrived and came in, and the Great Hall was its usual noises of endless chatter, and you sat with your plate, the voices around you fading into static.

A flicker of movement drew your attention—Ophelia passing behind you on her way to the prefects' table. She didn't say anything this time, brushed through you like she would a piece of furniture, and plastered a fake smile when sitting next to Tom and his usual gang.

What was it about yesterday that made her want to talk to you? By the way things were going, it was a piece of anomaly never to be repeated. But why?

Unsatisfied with unanswered thoughts, you walked toward your dorm, the paintings going about their business and ignoring you, even ghosts passed through you without trying for conversation or tease. You grumbled as you shivered and went about the same path you did every night, when, suddenly, a movement of a dark cloak made you stop in your tracks.

This wasn't a path to any dorm room, and by now, most students should be retiring to their respective rooms. The torchlight ahead flickered, and the corner where you'd seen the cloak's movement was now still, empty... but the air felt heavier.

You told yourself to keep walking.

And yet, your feet betrayed you, pulling you closer. Maybe it was morbid curiosity, maybe it was the fact that a part of you — the same part that lingered on Tom Riddle in clandestine glances — wanted to know who was out here.

When you reached the bend in the corridor, there was nothing. No one. Just the whisper of the draught sliding along the stone. But the air was thick, threatening to cut the oxygen from your lungs. Your spine shivered, and you turned around, but again, nothing.

You exhaled slowly. "Fuck."

You cursed yourself—you should have walked by it, and you would have been in the dungeons by now. The you from the past years would have walked right through it, seeking the safety of your thin blankets and the stretch of your imagination. Why were you now looking out for something to burst the walls of predictability you built? It didn't make sense.

Again, you liked the mundane. You wanted the silence and the comfort in knowing every day would be the same as before. Following a plan laid out in your mind ever since you were a first-year student.

Stay silent. Stay invisible. Graduate. Find an apprenticeship. Become a healer by twenty-six.

One glance into dark pupils, and he made you question your own goddamn timeline. But no more!

You shook your head and followed the path to your dorm room. No more goddamn distractions.

You couldn't sleep. It was hours past curfew, and every roommate of yours was sleeping soundly, reaching the peak of their sleep. But you lay awake like an owl, eyes wide and no sign of sleepiness threatening to come.

You turned onto your side. The mattress creaked, a small, accusing sound. Sleep still didn't come. Not even close.

You tried everything.

Getting lost in Dostoyevsky's words, trying to figure out what Raskolinikov would do next. But not even your book could take you away from your rushing thoughts.

You then tried deep breathing, counting numbers to see if your body would surrender to slumber, but all you did was get lost in your counting as the voice inside your head morphed into the same buzzing thoughts of before.

Then you just closed your eyes, your worst trial yet, and to no surprise, it failed. Miserably.

Your eyes flicked to the gap in your curtains. The faintest sliver of greenish torchlight from the dungeon corridor seeped through, and if you listened closely enough, you swore you could hear footsteps, distant but deliberate. And some sort of slithering movements, too.

You pressed your lips together. This was stupid. You had no reason to get up, no business wandering after curfew. But, fuck, your brain was buzzing with energy, and your eyes weren't closing any time soon.

And so, you got up with delicate movements, trying not to wake your roommates as you made your way out of your dorm.

You just needed some movement to finally sleep, you told yourself as you walked out of the Slytherin common room. No one would even notice you, like always. Only this time, it would be under the night sky.

Your slippers brushed the cold flagstones as you made your way down the empty hall. Shadows moved with the black lake's sway from the tinted windows, and you shivered as you watched them. They looked like monsters dancing under the moon.

You told yourself you'd only walk for a bit. Just enough to tire yourself out. But the further you went, the more that restless itch under your skin grew.

Then you heard it again.

Footsteps. Slow. Unhurried. Deliberate.

You froze. The sound didn't come from behind you — it came from ahead, somewhere in the deeper stretch of the corridor. And beneath it, the faint scrape... no, not scrape... that slither again.

"You shouldn't be here."

Your blood chilled.

You knew that deep voice.

He never spoke too many words, but it was hard to forget such velvet wrapped in a unique timbre.

It was him.

Tom Riddle.

You swallowed thickly, nerves shivering as Tom stepped out of the darkness, like a shadow coming to life. His face held that same coldness it always did, but his eyes—they glimmered. Was it amusement? Curiosity? Or was perhaps your brain trying to find something that was not there once again?

"Excuse me?" You shrieked out; your voice sounded much steadier in your head.

"You are not supposed to be here." He takes a step forward, his fingers caressing his wand slowly. "You cannot wander off in castle grounds past curfew. And Hogwarts is full of mysteries—you never know what you might find at night..." His voice was deep; it carried a tone so eerie that shadows fled from the darkness. Your spine shivered, and you hesitantly took a step back.

Your breath hitched. "What the hell do you mean?"

His head tilted slightly, eyes never leaving yours. "It means," he said, each word a precise cut of a knife, "you're straying into places you don't belong."

The silence that followed was toxic—it was ashes to your lungs. Tom then took another step forward, thickening the air like carbon monoxide.

Your fingers twitched at your sides, struggling to catch any breath as your eyes never left his figure. He circled you like a snake would its prey, eyes glistening as if he held a knowledge only found in the deepest trenches of the forbidden library.

"I should deduct points from you for wandering past curfew. Notice the professors and give you the detention you deserve." His words painted the air green, each syllable a cursed magic to the walls, which seemed to shake in his wake. Your feet felt the trembling ground and twitched for freedom, to leave before your lungs collapsed.

"I should," he repeated, tilting his head just slightly. His fingers reached the tip of his hand as he narrowed his eyes. "But I won't. This time. But let this be a warning." He spits your name out, and you gasp. It sounds so illicit coming from his lips. Like a dark spell created just so your ears could bleed.

He knows your name. How? After all these years of passing by unnoticed to him, was his ignorance an illusion? Did he always know you existed? Purposefully ignored you? But you were certain you never uttered your name next to him, nor did any other professor. Never your name.

The promise of a threat hung in the air around you, the unspoken words in the air tightening your throat in a cruel grip. You waited for a hex, an announcement of detention, but he only looked at you. His gaze burned like acid on your skin. Laced inside his pupils was a promise written in spilled blood.

"Go," he murmured. He didn't need to raise his voice to demand obedience. His presence commanded the air, mastered the atmosphere with one simple, heavy clack of his boot. "Stay out of the corridors after hours," Tom's face returned to his neutral, impassive mask as he strolled the hallways with, "Or next time, I won't be the one who finds you."

Before you could even dissect what his words could mean, Riddle turned on his heel, the smoke of shadows leaving with him, releasing the taut grip it had on the air.

You let out a gasp—you could finally breathe. The ground stood static under your feet, the air finally returning to its peaceful nature.

Nevertheless, inside you, peace was a ghost long gone. A seed of unease seemed to have been planted in its place by the monster Fear and its ominous hands.

You hesitated for a second before walking away, your steps painted with dread and utter confusion of the scene that had played out moments before. You didn't pay attention to where you were going, your mind replaying the threat inside those dark eyes of his while your feet worked alone to drag your body to your dorm.

You realized your nails were digging into your palms as you entered the room. Slowly, you unfurled your fists, forcing the tremor to leave your fingers. The air was quieter now; the only sound was the soft breathing of your roommates as they dreamt, while you curled on your bed, heart hammering inside your tortured inside from the nightmare you had just witnessed.

You pushed your book aside to make room for your body on your scrambled sheets. The pillow was the same as every other day, the blankets were the ones you slept with for the last seven years, but today they felt stiff. Like a rock under you, poking your flesh every time you tried to close your eyes.

You attempted one more time to ignore the discomfort, but it only seemed to scream louder when you did so.

Sleep was never your friend, more like an acquaintance that sometimes greeted you with a soft, hesitant wave. But tonight, it seemed to grow into a monstrous foe.

Thoughts were a plague that swallowed you that whole night, binding you to the prison of a certain Riddle you could never solve.

This year wasn't going to be like the others, was it?

Your face stung from the slap. You couldn't move, your body pinned in place by some invisible force. You wanted to scream, to flee, but it seemed you had no mouth. Or better yet, it seemed your body chose to stay in its prison.

A shadow appeared behind you, its slender fingers caressing your shoulder. It appeared to be soft, but its touch was...empty. "So weak. So pathetic." A voice echoed in your ear. "You cannot run away, can you?"

Another slap to your face, shouts from the other side of the room. You know that wretched voice; you know its venom from a mile away. You've felt it every day for your whole life, swallowed it down until it corroded your soul.

"Stupid fucking wench! Damn my fucking sister for leaving me with you. Not even she wanted you." Your aunt chuckled bitterly. The shadow behind you chuckled, its touch cold and lingering on your shoulder as its ominous voice reached your ear again.

"Ahh, I see why you don't want to leave." It squeezed your shoulder, and you whimpered, "She's the only family you have, hm? Don't want her to leave you, too?"

You tried to retaliate, to scream, to attack. But you stayed frozen, lonely tears spilling down your cheeks, and the shadow seemed to revel in your misery. Observe it.

The shadow whispered, "Pathetic little mouse."

You woke with a gasp, your face sweating as you grabbed the sheets beside you. It had been a while since you had nightmares. They didn't usually taunt you on castle grounds; they preferred to cage you when you were in that dirty attic, sleeping on a rough mattress during summer nights with closed hands.

But that shadow—that was new. It seemed too real to be a part of your imagination. Your body recoiled at the thought—you could still feel its freezing touch lingering on your shoulder. You could still feel the emptiness that possessed you when its fingers grazed your skin.

You groan and stand up from your scrambled sheets. You only got two hours of sleep, and none of it was successful in leading you to that vibration of peace. Your thoughts fogged you all night long—of those dark green robes and words dripping with threat.

And when you did sleep, shadows decided to corrode your mind and trap you in a nightmare.

Your eyes refocused and scanned the room, and you gasped when you saw none of your roommates on their beds. You always woke up before them to avoid any stares or the awkwardness of getting ready together when you had no affinity.

"Shit." You cursed and quickly grabbed your wand to float your clothes toward you. After putting them on with frantic movements, you seized your bag and hurried down the stairs, your steps bordering on sprinting and utter desperation.

"Shit, shit, shit." You could only hope your first class hadn't started yet, and you only missed breakfast. Your stomach could deal with one less meal for a day, but you just maybe couldn't survive the acid if you arrived late to class. Eyes would be upon you, scanning you like they would prey, and you would become visible for the first time in seven years. You couldn't possibly afford that.

It was already enough that a certain Riddle had picked you apart from the crowd you so thoroughly blended in—you couldn't have the same knowledge bleeding into Hogwarts' whispers and gazes. And so, you always arrived on time to avoid this very scenario.

The staircase to the Great Hall came into view, and you pushed yourself to sprint faster, harder, your lungs aching to keep you from collapsing. Maybe you could slip in unnoticed as you always did, grab a crust of bread, and make it to class without drawing attention.

But when you passed under the archway and into the hall, the tables were nearly empty, the clatter of cutlery replaced by the murmurs of lingering students finishing their meals.

"Goddamnit." You sigh and turn away, running through the empty halls to your first class—herbology.

It was one of, if not your favourite, classes. Not because you were particularly skilled at it—though you held your own—but because there was something undeniably grounding about it.

Herbology didn't demand the sharp, cold precision of Potions or the focus on mastering your wand in Defense Against the Dark Arts. Instead, it was alive. The plants didn't care who you were or if you spoke too little. They didn't ignore you. They simply grew. If you tended them well, they thrived; if you neglected them, they withered. It was a relationship you understood.

It was also the class you needed the most to become the healer you wanted, along with potions, of course. Though Slughorn's class was one that never adhered to your skills, never bent the way plants did. Slughorn, for his part, tended to show blatant favoritism, like Dumbledore.

However, under his chirpy mood lay a strictness that demanded more focus, and his instructions could be quite... nonsensical most times. It didn't make sense how students like Riddle just knew what ingredients to use, its metrics precisely, to make potions sometimes even better than Slughorn himself. It earned him the title of teacher's pet, though Tom made no effort to earn the professor's favor.

You gulped thickly as you reached the wooden door. It made a creaking sound, and once you opened it, the scene was one straight out of your nightmares.

Every eye was on you.

This never happened—you never caught any attention, and you did everything so meticulously that no one would. Why were you becoming so careless? It didn't make sense; you still craved the quietness. The invisibility. It was all part of the plan that was written on the stars the first time you entered the wizarding world.

The students' eyes weighed down on you as you quietly walked to the only seat available, on the back, next to...You turned beside you, and it was Ophelia Lestrange.

Her eyes were on you again, noticing you just like that one time during dinner. She smirked and whispered, "Late, are we?"

You didn't answer, and instead, opened your herbology book quietly with slightly trembling hands as Professor Sprout continued the lesson. The eyes of students finally shifted toward something more interesting than an unknown girl arriving late in class.

Your quill scratched lightly against the page as you tried to keep your head down, copying the diagram Professor Sprout had charmed onto the board. The earthy smell of damp soil and crushed leaves filled the greenhouse, usually a comfort to you, but today it only made the air feel heavier.

You could feel a pair of green eyes on you, and you looked at the culprit. "What?"

Ophelia Lestrange's smirk widened. Her chin propped lazily on one hand as she sighed, "Oh, nothing," she said, voice dripping with mock innocence. "Just curious. You don't usually make an entrance."

"Not that it's any of your business," You tightened your grip on the quill, eyes flicking back to your parchment, "but I overslept."

Ophelia hummed, "Well, it's a good thing you're next to me in this class. I could use some quiet. I was getting tired of Arthur's constant attempt to charm me. It's cute that he thinks he has a chance with me." Ophelia huffs as if it were the most preposterous thing in the world.

Ophelia was a beautiful, cunning woman, and everyone knew that—especially the boys. Most either crushed on her or Darya, and Arthur Greene, the Gryffindor keeper, was no exception. He was an American exchange student from Ilvermorny, and like many guys in Hogwarts, looked at Ophelia with rose coloured glasses.

Ophelia, though, never really paid any mind to the love letters on her desk or the roses each man wanted to give her. She never gave any boy the attention they craved, and that made them want to take the challenge even more.

You couldn't understand it; their fascination with trying to claim her. She showed them she was interested, and that only motivated them to try harder. The same was for Darya. However, Ophelia was notorious for blatantly ignoring advances; Darya, to her end, was known to coldly reject and humiliate anyone who tried.

Professor Sprout's voice cut through the earthy hush of the greenhouse.

"All right, everyone—pair up. We're working with Venomous Tentacula today, and I expect you to keep all your fingers intact by the end of class."

You kept your gaze low, avoiding saying anything, hoping Ophelia would just ignore you, like she did the day before. But to your dismay, you heard her voice again, "Guess we're together. I should tell you, I'm quite bad at herbology. Honestly, I don't even know why it's a discipline. It's so...useless, really." Ophelia sighed and dragged her seat to be nearer to you. "It doesn't deserve my expertise."

"It's not useless." You simply said, and she huffed in reply. "And it certainly requires a level of attention—every sten, every petal, every root, is precious to its own life. You need to tend it with caution and—"

"Gosh, didn't know you were such a bore. Keep talking like that, and I might prefer Arthur's boring American stories to dealing with you nerding out about plants." Ophelia said mockingly, and you could only roll your eyes. You kept your mouth shut; you didn't have the patience or energy to form a reply, though all you did was beg Merlin to stop this torture. So much for being 'friends'.

Your fault for ever believing, for even a second, such a blatant lie.

Her green eyes then shifted, and she chuckled bitterly, "Ah, of course Darya's already claiming her place at Tom Riddle's side." Ophelia rolled her eyes, "She said she was going to ask him out yesterday, but I guess she chickened out. Pathetic, honestly."

Your eyes moved to that familiar jet black hair, and his face was the same as it always was—cold and impassive. Observing him long enough, you could gather that his face could never hold any emotion for long.

Darya shifted her seat closer to him as she babbled about something Tom was not paying attention to. His eyes were distant, his thoughts elsewhere, but it seemed Darya didn't watch him like you did and stayed oblivious.

Your eyes lingered on Tom for a fraction too long—long enough for Ophelia to notice.

"Staring at Tom again, are we?" she said, a sly grin curling her lips. "You should give up already, honestly. He never looks at anyone—he'd never look at you."

You sighed in annoyance, "I don't want him to." You stopped taking notes of the diagram and slid your book inside your bag. "Honestly, do you always talk this much?"

Ophelia narrowed her eyes, "Do you always talk this little?"

"Yes. I do." You muttered under your breath as you prepared the table for the spiky, hungry plant that was about to come. "Now, do you know how to tend to a Venomous Tentacula?"

"What do you think I am? A moron? I am not Stephen Longbottom, as you can clearly see." Ophelia scoffed and narrowed her eyes, "You should know I'm one of the best students in this damn school—"

"One of." You reply without taking your eyes off the table you cleaned, "Not the." Your eyes flicker toward Tom's back and Darya beside him, who still didn't stop talking. Truly, you never saw her talk this much—she usually had either her signature cold smirk or was out and about cursing Muggle-borns with her friend group.

Ophelia's eye twitched, "You insolent little–"

"Now, students, each of you shall grab a Venomous Tentacula," Professor Sprout announced, clapping her hands to pull attention back to the front. The large wooden crates beside her creaked as the lids slid open, revealing the writhing vines that didn't waste any time and immediately lashed outward, hungry for a target.

The classroom filled with a chorus of nervous shuffling, a few gasps. A loud yelp when a vine nearly snagged Stephen Longbottom's sleeve, the first victim of the plant's aching teeth. Ophelia's lips curved into a cruel smirk as the class filled with laughter, "See? You truly think I have that level of idiocy? Even the plants can—"

You ignored Ophelia's nonsensical babbling and walked toward the end of the classroom where each tantactula writhed slowly, their vines moving with precision, waiting for a vulnerable prey to satiate their hunger.

"Careful, they can sense fear," Professor Sprout warned, wand raised to keep the Tentacula at bay. "Remember what we learned in class, everyone. You all need to learn about these beauties for your N.E.W.T.S, and what better practice than learning hands-on?!"

A few hesitant students hissed as the plants aggressively thrashed towards them, confusing them for easy prey, and the sound of wood scraping against stone filled the greenhouse. You tightened your grip on your wand and swallowed the tension rising in your chest.

Ophelia strutted after you and, with far more confidence than reason, her long hair swinging as she snatched her gloves and tugged them on with a flourish. "Oh, didn't you say you were the herbology master, darling? " she smirked with the cockiness of a master.

Professor Sprout's voice rang clear above the chaos, "Firm hands, calm movements! They respond poorly to hesitation!"

"Hear that?" She whispered, and her smirk widened as she shoved you backward, "Watch and learn why I'm one of Hogwarts' best students."

She grabbed her vine with gloved hands, forcing it down against the table. She chuckled in confidence, but something about it was fake, and the plant could sense it, too—her stiff shoulders, the tremble on her breath she desperately tried to hide, and the way her chuckle bordered on something else.

In a sudden lash, its vine coiled around her wrist and yanked. Ophelia shrieked, stumbling forward as the teeth on its stem snapped dangerously close to her face. "Ah, ah, fuck! Get this nasty thing off of me!"

"Ophelia!" Professor Sprout cried, raising her wand, but you were faster. You didn't think; you only raised the wand in your hand in a swift movement. For the first time in forever, you didn't think of the repercussions of your actions, of the weight of eyes on your figure. You acted on instinct and whispered an incantation under your breath so fast, no student even flinched. The vine recoiled, smoking slightly where the magic seared its bark. Ophelia tumbled backward onto the floor, pale and breathless, her eyes wide with shock.

Students gasped; nothing of the sort had ever happened to the Ophelia Lestrange. She was a statue of reverence, of posture and confidence; girls envied and boys sought her for dates. She didn't miscalculate, nor did things not usually go the way she so intended. Nor did unknown girls like you ever save her.

Reality washed over you like a bucket of ice-cold water, and you instantly looked at the scene before you. Attention was all over your stubbed figure. Oxygen slipped out of your lungs, and their weight gripped your tongue so tight all you could do was stare, unmoving, at your own nightmare.

You searched for that ominous shadow again, to ground you into knowing this was only a part of a reality inside your mind. That none of this was flesh and bone. But no avail.

This was real, and you could feel bile ruining your throat.

You could hear the faint sound of murmurs, widened eyes, and ripples of gasps, but two figures were unmoving. Unflinching.

Darya stared at Ophelia with a malicious smirk on her face, her eyes looking down at the Slytherin with a mockery laced with a deep meaning. As if she won a silent battle.

Your eyes then found his familiar dark ones, those that haunted her thoughts—those that were the reason for her mind's unwillingness to shut down. For once, no one paid attention to Tom, and he knew it. His lips curled into a menacing smirk, one only meant for your eyes. His deep chocolate eyes glinted with a darkness that made your spine tremble.

Within all pairs of eyes on you, his was the heaviest. The darkest. The darkest diamond in a sea of only gold.

You couldn't understand why his orbs found you only now, why they seemed to burn through the fog of faces, and find your unknown one. You couldn't decipher why they lingered.

You could never be of use to him—you were a silent breeze that had steps as light as a feather, wandering unnoticed through marble floors. You were a body in the background of those who held importance, like Riddle did. You were certainly not a part of the sacred, pure-blooded families that Tom seemed to save his interactions for.

The memory of the night before crept back unbidden, tightening around your chest.

This time, it wasn't a flicker that made you question if it was real or not. This time, he grabbed the advantage as no one seemed to pay attention to him, for once.

So he stared. Entirely. The way one studies an unsolvable enigma. The way you look at him under the fig tree during break times.

But the moment was gone within a second, as one student took the courage to break the thick silence. "Happens to the best of us. Welcome to the club." Stephen Longbottom reached out his hand toward Ophelia, and she growled in response and stood up by herself, leaving an embarrassed, red-cheeked Longbottom to retreat his friendly arm.

Ophelia's cheeks were blotched crimson, her breath still uneven as she straightened her robes with a furious snap of her wrists. She tossed her hair over her shoulder, eyes blazing like twin emerald fires as she hissed, "I don't need your stupid help, I can fend for myself—"

"Clearly," Darya muttered through a false cough, and you could see Ophelia's ears turning red, while students held their breath at their comment. Tension corrupted the air as the two women glared at each other, before Professor Sprout cleared her throat.

"Enough chatter! This is precisely why we practice, Miss Lestrange. Even skill means nothing without humility." The professor cleared her throat, "Thank you for your fast thinking, Ms...."

"Hawking." You murmured through a nervous breath, and for once in your life, a professor's eyes lingered on you, glinting with satisfaction.

The students scrambled to their respective seats, each one dealing with the plants with caution, taking Ophelia's incident as a lesson. You leaned in and grabbed one of the plants, trying to ignore the light twitches in your hand and the heavy gaze on your shoulders.

Your gloved fingers brushed over the slick, pulsating vine, and you forced your breathing to steady. Though they sometimes could evoke fear, plants were easy to understand—even aggressive ones like the one before you. They weren't like that by will, but by the circumstances of their environment and hunger for survival.

A twitch of nervousness was all it took to mistake you for prey, and so, you gripped the pot with a firmness you didn't know you had and led it to yours and Ophelia's table.

Ophelia, for once, stood in silence on her chair, her eyes fixed on the table. You cleared your throat and placed the tentacula in front of you both. Ophelia's gaze fixed sharply onto you, and she growled out, "Don't you ever do that shit again, you hear me?"

You blinked, pulse still hammering from before, "I merely helped you, Ophelia. If I didn't do anything, the tentacula was going to rip your face off." You crossed your arms, "You should know by now arrogance will get you nowhere."

Ophelia's pupils were so sharp, one movement, you were sure they would cut you like a knife. "I don't need help, I can do it myself." She snarled and stood up, "You do that shit again? You can expect to be promoted from friends to enemies."

You sighed, but kept your mouth shut. You didn't need a smart response to lead you to become a target to Ophelia—some people couldn't see past the fog of their own ego, and you didn't waste energy trying to force clarity in their minds.

And, of course, were you to try, you would become a target of her bitterness; it would certainly make you more visible than you already were after the tentacula incident moments ago.

Ophelia tossed her hair over her shoulder and flipped a switch inside her mind, her voice conspiratorial once more, filling your ears with nonsensical blabber. "Anyway," she chirped, "did you notice how Longbottom nearly tripped over his own feet trying to be chivalrous? Disgusting. Touching his slimy hand would certainly give me boogers."

You ignored her as she kept on ranting your ears off, and focused on tending to the tentacula before you. Every stem, every root, crippled with life and movement. The wild plant soothed under your firm touch, allowing you to wrap it up in dirt and water it after.

The lesson went on smoothly, yet whispers lingered around the room—of Ophelia's incident, of Longbottom's pathetic attempt at being a saviour, and how Darya and Riddle seemed to work on the tentacula in an uneasily smooth together. It was like the tentacula was a slave and they were their master; however, you knew whose doing it was, and it certainly wasn't Darya. She didn't have his commanding presence, an aura that demanded attention and obedience. Though everyone seemed to think it was a shared effort, Tom didn't seem to bother to correct them and solely continued to tend the plant with an eerie calmness.

Thankfully, talk of you vanished faster than a blow of a candle, and you were grateful for it. Better to be blown off than burn to your end under their judgmental whispers.

After such a storm of events, classes, luckily, unfolded seamlessly until finally, the last subject of the day came. Potions.

This time, there was no green-eyed Slytherin gossiping beside you. She, of course, avoided you for the rest of the day, blending into the crowd, and like everyone else, ignored your presence. As if your existence didn't exist in her life.

You were relieved, of course, after the horror in herbology, of that daytime nightmare of having people's attention on you, people asking themselves who you were, you couldn't afford her weighing presence next to you. Whispers would fly faster than an owl, questions about who you were and what you were doing with Ophelia would spark.

One spark was enough for a fire to spread.

A torment would then ensue. The dark shadows of your dreams would come alive to haunt you in reality, and not be stuck inside your mind anymore.

You would lose the power of observation, of slipping under everyone else's radar. And you couldn't have that. It would disrupt the vines you so carefully constructed around you—dismantle the plans you so carefully created for your future.

Slughorn was going on his usual lecture on how potions were a mastery selected for a few, but then one part caught your attention, "And by next week, we will have a test on your potion skills. It will be a one-hour evaluation of every ingredient we learned this year, and of course, one extra unknown one. If any of you get it right, then, well, you will get my personal congratulations."

The room erupted in the usual groans and sighs. Some students scribbled furiously in their notes, others slumped back in defeat at the very thought of another test for another lesson, and in the worst subject of all—potions. However, most students' eyes glinted in ambition at the thought of perhaps becoming a member of the elusive slug club, which only existed through whispers in the school's hallways and after-hours gossiping sessions in the common rooms.

Being a member meant being the best, and everyone wanted to shine the brightest.

You, however, only groaned internally at the thought of an evaluation. You already had N.E.W.T.S. coming at the end of the school year, the one evaluation that would set you on toward your planned future—you didn't need Slughorn's crazy tests to add to the mixture.

Slughorn chuckled and tapped his cane twice against the flagstones. "Don't fret! The goal is not perfection. Potions are a form of art, a way to express yourself and create something extraordinary out of the ordinary. I want to see your instincts—your creativity—how you think when you don't have all the answers." Slughorn grinned and, finally, started the lesson.

Slughorn's voice boomed again, this time, holding a small green transparent glass in his hand. "Now, does anyone know what I am holding here?"

Some students raised their hands, and Slughorn pointed toward Ophelia, "Veritaserum, sir."

Slughorn smiled and walked toward Ophelia's desk, "Ah, well done, Ms Lestrange. 5 points to Slytherin!"

Ophelia let out a smug grin, and Darya stared at her with clear, burning envy. It was known that Darya had never entered the Slug Club, the only female member being Ophelia. No one understood why—both women had similar outstanding skills, and every professor seemed to shower both with the same amount of praise. Except Slughorn.

"This is Veritaserum — a Truth Potion so powerful that three drops would have you spilling your innermost secrets for this entire class to hear." The professor went to the other side of the class, eyeing each student with a twinkle in his eye. "Unfortunately, none of you shall see use for the fruits of your labour today, as this potion is strictly controlled by the Ministry. However, you do need to know its ingredients precisely for your N.E.W.T.S. And, of course, your evaluation next week." Slughorn chuckled. "Now, turn your books to page 51, and start!"

Students scurried away from their seats in order to try and gather the necessary ingredients. The cupboards groaned as jars of roots, powders, and dried herbs were pulled down in a frenzy, each person grabbing the needed ingredients as said in the book.

You moved slowly, careful not to be swept into the current of scrambling classmates. Keeping to the edges, you searched the shelves with steady hands, preferring to observe which jars were taken too quickly and which ones remained untouched. The potion demanded an art of observation even you hadn't mastered yet.

From the corner of your eye, you caught his figure again. It seemed to pull you in, no matter what he did. He stood apart from the chaos, unaffected by the rush of bodies around him. What caught your eye, though, was how he was gathering different ingredients than everyone else, meticulously picking them apart and carrying them in his hands.

You narrowed your eyes—Tom Riddle never went against instructions, against the rules so meticulously ingrained within Hogwarts' walls. Or perhaps, your art of observation was not as advanced as you thought it was.

But that couldn't be possible—your watching skills were up to par with the hands of DaVinci when he painted. You had the eyes of an astronomer charting each star in the night sky. You noticed patterns. You lived off of details. And Tom's movements didn't fit the pattern.

You grabbed the ingredients the book so clearly said, and strolled quietly toward your seat at the back. You had no wit to diverge from the book's clear rules like Tom had—not that you knew how to, anyway—but your gaze never left a certain Slytherin's back. Normally, you would go for flickers at a time, a soft kind of watching, so no one would feel that eerie sense that someone was watching them. But this time, you were like a hawk behind him, not paying enough attention to how heavy your gaze could be.

You followed the book's instructions step by step, though it was nearly impossible to catch some ingredients. The rose thorns poked the sensitive skin of your fingertips, the peppermint made your, and many other students', noses itch, and the rose petals Slughorn had provided looked faint, almost begging for their death.

You stirred your potion with caution, but it didn't turn transparent like it needed to. Instead, a purple hue glanced at you mockingly. How could your potions never turn out like—

"Tom, m'boy!" Everyone looked up at Slughorn's voice, who walked toward a still Tom Riddle with his signature impassive face and hands behind his back.

"Merlin's Beard, it is perfect!" Slughorn leaned over the cauldron with unrestrained awe, "I have never had a student able to brew Veritaserum this flawlessly—it's up to par with the Ministry itself!". Slughorn clapped his hands, "15 points to Slytherin."

A wave of whispers overflowed through the room. Eyes swiveled, some gleaming with envy, others with admiration, and most Slytherins had a competitive grin on their face. You, however, stood with your lips parted, your mind's signals stopping their function. You couldn't fathom how he knew what ingredients to deviate, how to use them with such precision that it was as easy as breathing.

Slughorn, then, continued making comments and checking each student's potion, and of course, none up to par with Tom's brewing. Slughorn gave a few points here and there, post notably to Ophelia and not Darya, whose potion had a tad of colour, according to the Professor.

Darya kept her composure, of course, replying that she would become better, though Slughord nodded awkwardly. You, though, could see the twitch in her hands, the subtle, yet poisoned, gaze at the green-eyed Slytherin beside her.

Class ended, and Tom quickly closed a black book he held in his hands and put it inside his bag. Your eyes furrowed—wasn't that one of Slughorn's class books? Why was he carrying one with him? You were supposed to hand it over after class, just like every other student. And he always did so, faster than others—he never stole school property.

His case was a mystery set for decades, and you were transforming into an obsessed detective. But you knew such curiosity could lead to your demise—an obsession with Tom could lead to vines spreading to each witch or wizard's ears, whispering your name.

Not to mention, you didn't want a repeat of the night before. You couldn't have his somber eyes on you again, gripping the air you breathed with one single look. His and his clique's attention was a death you were certainly hoping to avoid. Metaphorically, of course.

And so, you headed to the great hall with curiosity, punching inside the prison you forced it into, trying to bleed inside your body like a virus.

After lunch in familiar loneliness, you headed to the library, an hour or so before curfew. You needed to study for Slughorn's exam next week—you knew if you didn't, your grades would wither away and you would then only have scrambled flowers for the graveyard of your dreams.

The library was a cathedral of silence at this hour, the perfect place for a soul like yours. Most students were either in the common room socializing with their established friends, and first-years were taking tours of castle grounds with that glimmer of innocent awe in their faces. It was rare to find feet roaming the library so early into the year—it was only the second day, and no normal student with a social life would even dare to enter the library at this point.

Only those peculiar odd like you stepped inside the library with eager feet. The library was the only one that welcomed those with a shade of grey in their eyes with open arms.

Here, they existed.

The librarian's sharp gaze lifted from her desk as you entered. Her name was Madam Irma Pince—she was known to be strict, a no-nonsense kind of woman. And was particularly guarded of the restricted section.

She was one of the few people, if not the only one before this year, who picked you out in the shadows. To her, your face wasn't a blur in the background. And it was comforting to be known without malice in another's eyes, have an attention that didn't send shivers of terror through your spine.

The librarian nodded as you entered, but she did not smile. She didn't need to. The look of recognition was more of a conversation than any words could make.

You slipped into the stacks, the air cooler here, perfumed with ink and the faint musk of leather binding. Your fingers brushed across rows of titles, your mind busy reciting them all inside your head—Potions Compendium for the Practicing Alchemist, Advanced Elixirs of the 19th Century, Theories of Metamorphic Mixtures.

"These are too advanced for you."

You knew that deep, baritone voice anywhere. You heard it in your dreams, in your daytime nightmares, and whenever curiosity tried to spark a fire inside you enough to follow it. But now, well, it seemed his deep chocolate eyes were the ones following you.

Your lips turned dry within the second you lifted your head to meet his eyes, a ghost of grey flashing through his pupils. His face was as impassive as always, but this time it wasn't an act, a mask for people's eyes that always seemed to find him through the crowd.

"Excuse me?" You huffed as your fingers left the books, your attention fixing on his demanding figure.

Tom didn't flinch, "I said, those are too advanced for you."

You narrowed your eyes. Your body screamed for you to find an excuse to flee, avoid the cherry wave of attention. An earthquake like Tom Riddle would swallow you, but you couldn't ignore the diesel inside your stomach, rumbling. Aching to let curiosity spark a fire.

And with the next words, you sealed your fate, "And what do you mean by that?"

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