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(🥀)═══ CHAPTER TEN ❝ your touch is power ❞
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Mazikeen sat on one of the plush, dark leather couches by the fire in the slytherin common room. The warmth from the flames did little to chase away the chill that seemed to pervade the air. She stroked the soft fur of her familiar Artemis, who lay curled up contentedly in her lap, its eyes half-closed in a doze.
In her other hand, Mazikeen clutched a letter written in her father’s neat, precise handwriting. Her fingers traced the parchment absently as she read the words for the third time. The letter was filled with a mix of encouragement and advice. Her parents were proud of her for being sorted into Slytherin, and they had also reminded her of the legacy their last name holds.
The common room was relatively quiet, the occasional murmur of conversation blending with the crackling of the fire. The atmosphere was heavy with an unspoken tension, each student absorbed in their own thoughts and schemes. The arched windows allowed in the dim, greenish light from the lake outside, casting shifting shadows that played across the stone walls.
Mazikeen sighed softly, her gaze lifting from the letter to the fire. Artemis stirred slightly, sensing her unease, and nuzzled her hand. She smiled down at it, drawing comfort from its presence.
Despite the grandeur of the common room and the pride she felt in being here, there was an underlying current of uncertainty. She was only eleven, and yet the weight of her own expectations for herself felt heavier than ever.
The letter’s final words echoed in her mind: "Your mother and I are proud, Mazikeen. Remember, your touch is power."
She folded the parchment carefully and slipped it back into her robe pocket. Her resolve hardened. She would make them proud. She would prove herself, not just to her parents, but to everyone at Hogwarts.
Mazikeen leaned back into the couch, her hand still resting on Artemis. The fire crackled on, its bright flames a constant reminder of home.
Her gaze shifted, scanning the common room and noting the few students scattered around. Her eyes lingered on one figure who always seemed to stand out to her: Tom Riddle. Despite being a first-year like her, he exuded an air of— as Alphard described it— quiet intensity that set him apart from the others.
Tom sat at a heavy wooden table near the far end of the room, his posture straight and focused. The flickering light from the fireplace cast shadows over his sharp features, highlighting the concentration etched across his face. In front of him lay a stack of books and parchment, each meticulously arranged.
