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Chapter Three:
Draught of Insight

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March of 1940 - Third year
Scotland, Highlands

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𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐒𝐋𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐍 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐀𝐍 𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐁𝐋𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐍. Emira sat in the second front row with her Potions partner, Richard Parkinson, as the professor chattered endlessly away about the Draught of Insight and its usage, both positive and negative aspects.

Scribbling all his words onto her parchment in front of her, Emira's hands fixated onto the cauldron between her and Richard. "Did you bring the right ingredients?" Richard's voice quipped up beside Emira. He was lanky and growing, as most of the boys were now they've begun their third year and were entering the prepubescent stage of their lives. Emira found that this fellow Slytherin, though snarky and mean, was much more tolerable on a good day and he did not dwell too much on blood superiority or politics, he was fonder of music and arts and theatre, which made him fit into a different mold from his Slytherin counterparts of the likes of Malfoy, Avery, Nott or even Black.

"Yes," she replied. "I think we should try a few different methods from the professor's though, I have learnt this similar draught before back home." This statement earned a shrug from Richard, though often careless, he never questioned her intelligence.

"As long as we're doing it, I don't see a problem," Richard said. This ensured Emira of the permission she was looking for, and she dived into her own notes and reflexes of brewing the potion. She turns her face towards the front, once again, assessing carefully Slughorn's words.

"...The Draught of Insight is a relatively simple potion—originally intended for two people. In medieval times, the aggressor and the target would often share it in a casual setting—tea, perhaps, or even wine—for it to work seamlessly..."

"Wouldn't that be considered poisoning?" asked Charlotte Rowle from the back of the room, her voice clipped and disdainful. "Surely things weren't so dire that people needed to resort to such... dramatic measures?"

Slughorn sighed. "Yes, dear, but since when have you ever been one against poisoning?" The professor was referring to Rowle's incident with Nott and slipping him amortentia earlier during the semester. "But, let's not forget—there weren't many safety regulations or moral standards in those days, were there?"

A wave of snickers rippled through the class as Charlotte sank deeper into her robes. Slughorn turned back to his cauldron. "Now, to be effective, the aggressor must recite three separate incantations. These change the potion's intent. Today, we'll focus on the version used for basic mind reading. And since most of you haven't studied mind magic yet, I'll need a volunteer for demonstration."

A few hands shot up in the air, and Slughorn's smile pleased himself at the enthusiasm of his students. "I think we'll go with," he scanned the room, Emira bowed her head in hopes of not being chosen, "Mister Riddle! Come on up!"

A low rustle of murmurs passed through the class. Tom rose with a quiet grace, not bothering to adjust his robes as he walked—measured, almost serpentine. His movements had the calm certainty of someone used to being watched.

"Now, watch carefully, children. Before Mister Riddle takes the cup, I will mutter the incantations, usually, of course, over the one deigned to give to him, my target, and then, he and I will both drink our cups of potion!" The professor sputtered. Tom Riddle mirrored him, calculatingly in sync with his professor.

But while Slughorn drank with theatrical gusto, Tom sipped slowly—deliberately—his dark eyes never once leaving his professor's face.

His gaze was not curious. It was watchful. Measuring. As if the potion was a chess move and Slughorn, a pawn he was already thinking ten steps ahead of.

"And, without further adieu, to put this potion to a test, Mister Riddle will write a sentence in front of the class for only him and you to know, and I will read his mind aloud to the class!"

Blindfolded, Professor Slughorn waited patiently as Tom Riddle wrote away on the parchment. Emira's gaze lingered on him longer than she meant it to. He had grown—not just in height, though that was obvious—but in presence. There was a cold refinement to the way he moved now, deliberate and controlled. His features, once youthful and sharp with boyish pride, had slowly started to carve out. There was calculation in the curve of his mouth, in the stillness of his eyes. He no longer just entered a room; he occupied it.

Two years ago, Tom had been quiet, mysterious in a curious sort of way. Now, there was something deeper—something colder. He wasn't just ahead of his peers. He was distant from them, as though walking a path no one else could follow.

She wasn't sure whether it intrigued her or unsettled her.

Riddle finished writing his sentence, slipped the parchment face down in front of him, and nodded to Professor Slughorn, who stood in front of the class, blindfolded and waiting.

A hush fell across the room.

"Let us see," Slughorn said cheerily, his voice echoing in the silence. "Now, I'll attempt to read Mister Riddle's thoughts. You'll all be witness to the results—fascinating, truly. Let me focus..."

The professor raised his wand slightly, murmuring a soft charm under his breath. The class held their breath. A long pause stretched between them, heavy with anticipation.

Then Slughorn spoke.

"The hawk does not wait for the storm to pass; it flies through it."

There was a beat of silence before Tom turned the parchment over. The exact words were scrawled neatly in his handwriting.

Gasps echoed around the dungeon.

Even Emira's eyebrows rose in surprise. That was... accurate. Uncannily so.

"Remarkable!" Slughorn beamed, removing his blindfold. "A flawless result. I must say, Mister Riddle, that was a particularly poetic phrase. Very... evocative."

But Tom didn't smile. He simply inclined his head, that same neutral expression frozen on his face.

Slughorn peered at him for a moment longer, his smile faltering ever so slightly. He tapped his fingers on the edge of his desk, then looked down at the now-empty potion cups. As he stared even longer at Tom, his smile had disappeared completely.

"Odd," Slughorn commented, hastily fidgeting with the blindfold in his wands. "I am supposedly allowed to still read your mind, alas, it seems concealed..." Slughorn's voice faded. He came to a pause and looked directly at Tom now, head tilted, "Have you learnt of occlumency?"

Tom's back straightened, cautious. He met Slughorn's gaze calmly. "I came across it last year in a book, Professor. It seemed like a useful skill to study."

"Indeed, it is," Slughorn replied sharply. Almost grimacing. "Rather advanced for a wizard of your age."

"I like to be prepared," Tom said, with a small, unreadable smile.

Slughorn let out a small chuckle, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Well. I suppose it would explain the... clarity of the result. But do take care, Riddle. The mind is a fragile thing when forced open, and Occlumency—if misused—can close it just as dangerously."

Riddle said nothing more, and the moment passed. Slughorn clapped his hands.

"Back to your cauldrons, everyone! Let's see if we can manage a successful batch of our own, shall we?"

The classroom buzzed back to life, but Emira's eyes lingered on Tom. He returned to his seat without fanfare, not even looking around at the stares still following him.

But Emira didn't stop watching him. Not yet.

"Cold one, I must say. But really attractive. I'd let him read my mind all day long, honestly," Emira heard Pandora Selwyn whisper to another giggling witch from behind her. She agreed with the statement. About Tom Riddle being cold, not that discourse of him being attractive, of course.

Something inside her whispered that whatever Tom Riddle was preparing for, it had very little to do with schoolwork.

The class had scattered back to their stations, the usual shuffle of clinking vials and hissing flames filling the room. The moment of awe surrounding Tom Riddle faded, but for Emira, a quiet buzz still echoed beneath her skin.

She reached for her notes, brushing her fingers across the parchment with a flicker of certainty. Something about the potion Slughorn described didn't sit quite right with her memory. The Draught of Insight—as he called it—resembled a similar formula she'd studied at Turankad, but it felt... watered down. In her old school, the version they brewed had been far more potent, used in the deeper studies of mental manipulation and dominance, and in fact, it had all the same purposes just like the Draught of Insight, reserved only for upper-class prodigies, and she'd remembered seeing Kadri and a few other Sisters of their house use it harmlessly on Muriel.

Her fingers moved on instinct, guided more by memory than method.

"Are you sure we're meant to do that, though?" Richard asked, peering over the rim of their cauldron with his usual blend of curiosity and caution. He sounded doubtful now. "After Riddle's mishap of memory up there, perhaps we should stick to the material given..."

"I know" Emira replied absently. "Just, perhaps, we could experiment... a variation. A more refined technique."

Richard frowned. "You're adding," he picked up the maroon vial and studied its contents carefully. Eyes wide, "Vampire blood? Where did you get this? That wasn't on the list."

"It helps with dominion over the mind," she said coolly. "Trust me."

Against all his doubts, Richard did. Painfully.

The mixture inside their cauldron began to change. While the other pairs produced pale silver liquids that shimmered with a quiet glow, Emira's potion had darkened with a softer brown and red hues pulsing through it. The texture thickened, denser, more alive. It radiated an unnatural energy, and even Richard took a step back.

"That's not the same potion," he muttered. "That's—Merlin's beard, Emira, what is that?"

"I knew it..." she whispered, heart pounding now, "I think I brewed zihin İksiri*"

Richard blanched, his eyes searched for a translation. Careless, he was. Mean, he was. But uneducated he was not. Richard was a man of the human arts, after all. This meant that he had learnt roughly 14 different languages from around the world. "The Mind Elixir? There's a dark version?"

Emira nodded once, tight-lipped. "I learned it at Türankad. We weren't supposed to brew it unsupervised."

Just then, Professor Slughorn's voice boomed across the room.

"Miss Demerci! Mister Parkinson! That potion of yours looks... unique. Would you do us the honor of demonstrating its effects?"

Emira froze.

"I—I'm not sure that's wise, Professor," she said carefully, but Slughorn was already striding toward them, eyes alight with curiosity.

"Nonsense, my dear! That's what potions are for—experimentation! And it looks perfectly stable, a little dark on the color, but nothing we couldn't later," Slughorn smiled assuringly towards the young witch, "Let's see... Mister Parkinson, do you mind being the subject?"

Richard hesitated, then offered a very forced smile through gritting teeth. "Anything for education."

Professor Slughorn chuckled. "Excellent. Now, let's do this properly."

He conjured two small crystal goblets, filling each with a swirl of the shadowy elixir. Slughorn raised one, handed the other to Richard, and gave Emira an approving nod.

Holding the tray up to the pair, Emira eyes flicked towards Richard's goblet and casted the incantation she had remembered from her old school days, "Zihnin efendisi, seni benim olmanısağlarsam." ("Master of the mind, I will make you mine.")

Richard looked at her softly, he had a queasy feeling in his gut already but there were far too many eyes on them already.

"On three. One... two... three."

They drank.

At first, nothing. Then, Richard's eyes widened—too wide.

Hello Richard Parkinson, he heard Emira's voice in his head. Clear as daylight, despite the fact that the witch in front of him was still drinking from her goblet. He was frightened, he couldn't fathom this power, and he spat the rest of the drink into his goblet.

Where did Malfoy and Mulciber hide Eleanor Carrow's broom last year before the Quidditch try-outs? Emira interrogated him in his brain. I know you know. I know you helped them, Parkinson. He looked at the witch, she had an indifferent look plastered upon her, this time her eyes were towards the crowd. Parkinson's eyes darted around the room, he felt dizzy.

His back stiffened. His fingers trembled. Sweat beaded on his brow as he began to mutter, whispering broken thoughts out loud, words spilling from his mouth without permission. "How do you know- know- about—agh—stop!"

He felt a sharp sting in his mind as he felt himself go through a series of events from last year, the one when he and Arthur Crouch had helped Malfoy and Mulciber bully the poor Carrow girl, hiding her broom in order to secure both Malfoy and Crouch's position on the teams. Parkinson wasn't one to bully but he did it in defense of his best friend, and they found it ridiculous that the Carrow scion wanted to try-out for such a strong sport, when she should've been fixing her face

"I... I buried it—no, no, not here—they weren't supposed to know—I didn't take the broom, I swear—I saw them hex her, I wanted to stop—stop—stop—"

"Richard," Slughorn said sharply.

But he didn't stop. He clutched his head, breathing raggedly now. Emira took a step back in horror as her potion continued to work far beyond what it should have. She would've felt bad if she hadn't gone through his memories and seen the fragments of confessions.

"Parkinson!" Slughorn barked, raising his wand. "Finite incantatem!"

The boy gasped, staggered back, and collapsed onto the nearest stool, dazed and pale as parchment.

The classroom had gone completely silent.

Emira stared down at the goblet in her hand. The dark threads still shimmered faintly in the dregs of the potion.

Slughorn stepped closer, inspecting the cauldron and its contents. His jovial expression had faded.

"Miss Demerci," he said slowly, "this is not the Draught of Insight. This is something far more advanced. Dangerous, even."

"I didn't mean—" she started, but he held up a hand.

"You've brewed a dark version of this, haven't you?" His voice was lower now, knowing.

Emira swallowed. "Yes, Professor. I didn't realize until it was finished. At my old school, we were taught the foundational differences, but I—forgot how easily it could overlap."

Slughorn nodded gravely, tapping his fingers along the edge of the desk. "That could've went terribly—terribly wrong, Miss Demerci."

"I apologize, Professor—"

"You have talent," he said, quietly. "That much is clear. But this potion is not meant for casual classroom use, Miss Demerci. I wouldn't dare attempt it with third-years."

A flicker of pride passed through her chest, but it was quickly tampered by the stern chill in his tone.

"You'll stay after class," he added. "We'll discuss this in more detail. Be very careful where you step next."

The class was still watching her. Richard said nothing, but the look he gave her was a strange mix of fear and awe, he sat quietly.

Emira exhaled slowly, her fingers still trembling.

This wasn't Türankad. This was Hogwarts. And she had just revealed a shadow of what she could truly do.

The rest of the class ended in a tense, cautious silence. Slughorn didn't speak again of the incident—not aloud. But everyone noticed how he watched Emira now, like someone studying a magical creature he hadn't expected to see in his own habitat. Richard didn't speak either. He'd recovered physically, but the unease hadn't left his eyes. He didn't meet Emira's gaze when he packed up his things and left the classroom.

"Miss Demerci," Slughorn said firmly, once the last student had filed out. "A word, please."

Emira nodded, quietly placing her parchment and quill back onto the desk. The heavy door shut behind the last student with a resonant thud, and the torches around the dungeon flickered as if stirred by tension itself.

Unseen by either of them, Tom Riddle had not left with the rest. He lingered in the corridor just beyond the door, then slipped silently back through the shadows, blending with the stone archway near the back of the room. A preservation charm cast during one of his many late nights let him watch and more importantly, hear, without being noticed.

Inside, Slughorn leaned on the edge of his desk, arms crossed over his heavy chest, expression somewhere between stern and intrigued.

"You've had training," he began, "far beyond what our curriculum allows at your level, to my understanding."

Emira didn't deny it. "Yes, Professor."

"Turankad, is it? Türk Karanlık Cadıları," Slughorn spoke the native name with the remnants of his accent shining through,"Türankad, the translation, if I'm not mistaken, is roughly, Turkish Dark Witches," he said. "I've heard of it. A rather... exclusive institution. Deeply rooted in older, darker forms of magic."

"We value power," she replied evenly, Emira hated that she could feel herself getting defensive. "And control."

Slughorn nodded slowly, thoughtfully. "Indeed. And yet, here you are at Hogwarts, sitting quietly in my class, brewing potions that most seventh-years wouldn't dare attempt. Why?"

Emira's eyes met his, dark and unreadable. "Because here, I can learn things they don't teach at Türankad."

"Mm," he hummed, rubbing his chin. "And would those things include discretion?"

She said nothing.

Slughorn sighed, then stood upright, pacing slowly. "That variation of yours of this Draught of Insight is not just a tool for insight. In the wrong hands, it borders on violation. It doesn't just read thoughts... it pulls them, drags them out, forces them to surface. If you had used that on someone less resilient, more violent, than Mister Parkinson..."

"I didn't mean to," she interrupted softly, but clearly.

"I believe you," Slughorn said, not unkindly. "But intent doesn't always protect us from consequences. That kind of magic leaves marks."

A pause.

Then, more quietly, almost to himself, he added, "You're not the only one here who's interested in the limits of power."

Behind the archway, Riddle's eyes narrowed slightly.

Slughorn finally turned away from her cauldron. "I'm not going to punish you. That would be... shortsighted. But I will be watching you, Miss Emira. Carefully. And I suggest, for your sake, you choose what kind of witch you're going to be before someone else does it for you."

Emira nodded. "Yes, Professor."

"Good. Off you go, then."

She gathered her things, silent and measured, and turned toward the door. Her footsteps echoed across the stone, but as she passed near the back of the dungeon—something caught her. A shift in the air. The faint scent of cologne not worn by the professor. But when she looked toward the shadows, there was nothing.

Tom Riddle had already slipped away.

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The Slytherin girls' dormitory was quiet, the low sound of lake water rippling beyond the enchanted windows casting a gentle blue shimmer across the stone walls. The sconces were dimmed, and the faint scent of mint and candle wax drifted through the air.

Emira lay on her side beneath the heavy green velvet blankets, staring at the ceiling. She couldn't stand the attention she'd gathered today, and she had attended the remainder of her classes as quietly as possible, she had even skipped dinner at the Hall, too scared of what the chatter might be. Ignorance is bliss.

Her mind was still buzzing—half from the sharp warning in Slughorn's voice, half from the lingering pull of the elixir she'd brewed. The energy of the potion still felt close, like it had left a trace in her bloodstream.

Across the room, Eleanor rustled under her covers. She'd been quiet the entire evening, ever since the potion lesson. But now, her voice broke the silence, soft and hesitant.

"Emira?" she whispered.

"Mhm?"

"...What happened today? With the potion."

Emira didn't answer at first. She stared at the ceiling for another long second before replying. "It was an accident," she said quietly. "I brewed something I wasn't supposed to."

Eleanor was silent again for a moment. "Was it... dark magic?"

Emira rolled onto her back. "Yes," she said finally. "Back at Turankad, we were taught things most schools don't touch. I thought I was brewing something else. I wasn't."

There was a long pause. The sound of water tapping against the glass. Then, "You scared Richard."

"I know."

"And Professor Slughorn."

"I know."

Emira turned her head slightly toward Eleanor's bed. She could see the soft shape of her friend curled up, staring back at her.

"What did you ask him, by the way?" Her voice laced with curiosity.

Emira's mouth twitched into a knowing smile, "Last year's sabotage they planned on you. That was the first time I'd seen Malfoy and Parkinson getting along. Of course it was for the suffering of somebody else would they ever unite gleefully."

Eleanor's face recoiled in distaste as she remembered the humiliation she suffered last year from their hands. Despite Slytherins staying intact and perfectly united in front of other Houses, they were heavily divided amongst themselves, and most of them found that a meek, weeping spoilt princess like Eleanor Carrow and the weird foreign witch like Emira Demerci a perfect target for their verbal abuses of discrimination.

"I understand, Em." Eleanor smiled in return. It was a knowing pat-on-the-back for her, she was grateful that so far, their duration here in Hogwarts, the girls had found shared liking to each other and were good friends.

"You know, we were all scared... but not Riddle," Eleanor noted. Her voice was quieter now. "He didn't look afraid. He looked... interested."

Emira didn't respond. She didn't know how to.

"I think he's got a plan up his sleeve."

Emira stiffled a faint gasp, then a short giggle. "Come off it, Ellie. We're only fourteen, by the likes of Riddle he's probably just planning a way to ace upcoming exams, that's what."

Eleanor exhaled slowly. "You can laugh all you want, Mira but I can sense it. He always talks like he's too good for anybody else, and he uses language that my Father uses when he's dealing with philosophers and world-class leaders!" Eleanor pulled her blanket tighter to her chin now, "My mum used to say something about power. That it's like fire. Warm and bright and beautiful—until someone gets too close."

The words settled into the silence between them like a stone dropping into a still pond.

A pause.

"You're not going to burn yourself, are you?"

Emira blinked up at the ceiling again. Her mouth opened, but she couldn't find the words. At last, she scrambled, "Of course not. I wouldn't dare," but even those words tasted bitter in her mouth.

Eleanor turned over and pulled the blankets closer. "Just... don't use all that potential on the bad things, that's all. Good night, Em."

"Good night," Emira murmured.

But sleep didn't come for a long while.

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THREE NIGHTS LATER

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Lounging on the long, leathered sofas of the room, Abraxas Malfoy's laugh bellowed through the place. Cantankerus Nott shuffled the deck of cards sprawled in front of the coffee table before them.

"In this round, Riddle?" He quipped.

Tom Riddle sat on the other end, his posture straight on a soft, deep recliner, his fingers lifted as he signaled a declining motion and returned to The Daily Prophet's political update. A column on continental wizarding politics held his attention—or seemed to.

"Still pretending to be above all of us," Vulcan Mulciber muttered, not quite under his breath. "Even during cards."

Abraxas gave a dry chuckle, brushing ash from his sleeve. "He's been reading that same page for ten minutes. Bet he's not even reading—just brooding again. What's caught your eye now, Tom? Bulgarian insurgents? Dark magic abroad? Foreign wizarding wars?"

At the mention of "foreign," Cantankerus snorted. "Speaking of which—do you lot remember that mind-bluff from Demerci on Tuesday? Bloody hell. Slughorn nearly swallowed his own mustache when she started reciting spells in that desert gibberish."

"Zihnin efendisi," Marcellus Lestrange mimicked, mocking the cadence. "Sounded more like a curse than an incantation. And what kind of third-year brews mind-control potions for fun?"

"Someone who doesn't know her place," Mulciber said flatly.

"Oh, she knows it," Malfoy said lazily. "She just doesn't care."

The group laughed again, though it lacked humor—more unease than amusement. A dark, tense curiosity lingered in the air. None of them had quite forgotten Parkinson's face as he stumbled out of that classroom like a man freshly dissected.

Tom finally looked up from his paper.

"She's not careless," he said, voice smooth and precise. "She meant to do it. She just didn't mean for it to go that far."

The room quieted. It was Nicholas Avery that spoke as he glanced at the others. "You defending her now, Riddle?"

"No," Tom said. "I'm watching her."

Malfoy leaned forward, eyes gleaming with mischief. "You always say that. You're always watching. You watched Black until he failed Dueling. You watched Goyle until he got caught cheating his N.E.W.T. pre-trials. And now Demerci? What for? Think she's useful?"

"She's unpredictable," Tom replied, folding the paper and placing it beside him. "Unpredictability, in a place like this, draws attention. Attention, in turn, reveals character. And character," he paused, "is harder to mask than blood."

Nott raised an eyebrow. "Still hung up on bloodlines, are you?"

"Not at all," Tom said. "They only matter when they determine outcome. She was trained at Türankad—one of the only institutions that rivals Durmstrang in mind magic and blood ritual. Her pedigree may be foreign, but it isn't weak."

"She humiliated Parkinson," Lestrange said. "That'll make her enemies."

Tom's lips curled slightly at that. "So did I. And yet here I sit."

A pause.

"You think she'd join us?" Mulciber asked, his interest was in Tom's palm.

"I think," Tom said slowly, "she hasn't yet decided what kind of witch she wants to be. Which means—" he reached for the Prophet again, "—she's still... malleable."

Abraxas tilted his head. "And if she chooses wrong?"

Tom's eyes flicked toward the fireplace, its green light dancing across the marble.

"Then we'll be the ones to remind her."

As the others resumed their banter and card game, Riddle's gaze dropped back to the folded Daily Prophet, though his mind no longer absorbed the words. The room's laughter and the shuffle of cards faded into a background hum as his thoughts drifted elsewhere.

Demerci. The foreign witch. Türankad. Emira.

The name lingered in his mind, almost like a whisper. She had been on his radar for some time now, ever since her arrival at Hogwarts. It wasn't that she had done anything particularly spectacular—nothing overtly impressive, nothing that set her apart from the other students at first glance. Yet there was something about her. Something that made her different.

He didn't quite understand it. Perhaps it was the way she carried herself—a quiet confidence that contrasted sharply with the more common arrogance of others in their House. Emira wasn't like the usual girls who paraded around, desperate for attention or approval. No, she was... elusive. A mystery, wrapped in the ordinary.

Tom's fingers absently adjusted the edge of his paper, but his eyes no longer followed the printed words. Instead, he remembered how she had looked earlier that day, walking across the courtyard, her laughter mingling with that of her friends. She simply existed, and that was enough to draw attention.

He might've never interacted with Demerci through the corridors, or the fleeting glances every once in a while, but he was always watching her.

Riddle's lips curved, just slightly, as he watched Nott win another round of cards. His friends were entirely absorbed in their game, unaware of the subtle shift in his focus. They didn't know what it meant to truly observe. To pick apart the smallest detail. To study someone with the precision and intensity that he could.

"Riddle," came Nott's voice, breaking into his thoughts. "What's got you so distracted, mate? Come on, you've been out of it all night."

Tom glanced up, his eyes cool and unreadable. "Nothing," he said smoothly, as though the suggestion of distraction had never occurred. He folded the paper neatly, eyes flicking over the others before resting back on Nott. "Just thinking."

Nott exchanged a look with Mulciber and Malfoy, but neither of them commented. They had long since learned not to press Tom on things he didn't wish to divulge. It was part of the reason they tolerated his aloofness, even if it often made their conversations feel like games they weren't always sure they were winning.

But Tom's mind was already elsewhere, slipping back to Emira.

It intrigued him how little she seemed to care about the usual things. She wasn't obsessed with status or climbing through the ranks like the others. She was quiet, but not meek. Sharp, but not cruel. She had a way of moving through the world that reminded him of... something.

He paused. It was a comparison he didn't often entertain—at least, not one he liked to make. It wasn't like her to be anything like him. But there was a certain depth to her, a quiet strength that reminded him, albeit faintly, of his own resolve. His desire to gain control over everything, to wield power over those who underestimated him.

Emira was one of the few who hadn't been quick to follow the usual patterns of admiration or scorn. She didn't seem interested in fawning over the more well-known names in the school, nor did she give him a second thought, despite his growing reputation.

That fascinated him.

The more he observed her, the more he realized that this girl wasn't going to be won by empty charm or forceful persuasion. If he wanted her—if he needed her to be in his grasp—he would have to be more subtle. He would have to move carefully, like a chess player inching toward victory with every measured move.

He had been doing it all his life—watching, waiting, calculating. And Emira... Emira was no different. She was just another piece to be moved, another challenge to be conquered.

And Tom Riddle never backed down from a challenge.

His lips curled again, this time into a more deliberate smile, though his friends had long since returned to their game and didn't notice the faint flicker of ambition in his eyes. His thoughts began to turn, as he analyzed every little interaction he'd observed from her: the way she spoke, the subtle way she smiled, the people she surrounded herself with. Eleanor Carrow was obviously her closest friend, but it was Emira who held the subtle power in their duo. He could see that.

The more Tom watched her, the more he realized just how much of a player she truly was. But if there was one thing he knew best, it was how to manipulate power. And he could make her play by his rules, whether she realized it or not.

"Are we playing or not, Riddle?" Avery's voice interrupted once again, dragging him back into the present.

Tom blinked slowly, as if coming out of a trance, his cold gaze sweeping across the table. "Of course," he said, his voice smooth and casual. He picked up his card, but his mind still lingered on Emira, the game only a secondary distraction now. She would notice him soon enough—he had no doubt of that. And when she did, she wouldn't know what had hit her.

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AUTHOR'S NOTE!

sorry its so short! pls vote and comment<3