Glimpses of Light

V

In the dimly lit Slytherin common room, eerie green flames flickered in the hearth, casting long, sinister shadows that danced upon the stone walls. The atmosphere was thick with the scent of firewhisky and the low murmur of hushed conversations. Tom Riddle, seated regally in his high-backed armchair, held an untouched glass of amber liquid, his fingers lightly brushing the rim as he surveyed the surroundings like a predator.

His gaze fixated on Antonin Dolohov, the newest member of his inner circle. Dolohov was consuming alcohol as if it were pumpkin juice, yet he remained unnervingly sober. Tom's lips curved into a subtle smirk of disappointment; Dolohov's resilience would complicate his plan to extract the truths he desired through Legilimency, his favourite hobby. Intoxicated minds were so much easier to infiltrate.

What secrets did Dolohov harbour about his family's abrupt departure from the old continent amid Grindelwald's rising tide? How could the Dolohovs—who, according to Malfoy, were the epitome of pureblood fanaticism—not lend their support to Grindelwald's cause at such a critical juncture? Their sudden relocation to England, pulling their son from his education prematurely, reeked of hidden agendas. And that Hufflepuff cousin—the clear disappointment in her eyes and body language whenever Dolohov approached, was far too curious. The tale of them not liking each other simply wouldn't cut it for Tom.

What is it you're hiding, Antonin? I can't possibly add you to my collection if I don't trust you, can I? Tom mused, his eyes narrowing slightly.

His gaze then swept across the room, taking in the familiar scene of nightly debauchery, and stopped on Abraxas Malfoy. Seated by the fire, Malfoy's silver-blonde hair glowed in the twinkling light as he lazily twirled a Snitch between his fingers, its wings struggling weakly. He still managed to appear arrogant, even while doing the most trivial things. But Malfoy's arrogance was just a mask, one that veiled his underlying insecurity. You're always afraid of failing, poor little Malfoy, of not being enough to uphold your noble family name. And I know how to use that, Tom thought, his eyes darkening as he watched Malfoy feign nonchalance. You may hide it from the others, but you can't hide it from me. I see every crack in that perfect façade, every doubt.

On the other side of the room, Wotan Avery was sprawled across a settee, his loud, obnoxious laughter punctuating some lurid tale he was sharing with Lestrange and the Rosiers, who hung on his every word, desperate for approval.

Sycophants, all of them.

"Spotted anything or anyone interesting lately, Mulciber?" teased Avery all of a sudden, propping up on his elbows as he noticed Artem making his way into the common room. Tom's icy eyes bore into the newcomer.

Mulciber's eyes narrowed slightly, a mocking smirk curving his lips as he responded, "Malfoy can't keep a secret to save his life."

Malfoy lifted his eyes in boredom and shrugged dismissively as if to say he had no idea what he meant.

"Nika Miron, huh?" asked Avery, winking in Mulciber's direction. Mulciber hesitated for a moment, glancing toward Dolohov, then nodded in agreement.

At the mention of her name, Tom's interest was piqued. Suddenly, the look Mulciber had given her at dinner on the day of her arrival made sense.

This is very interesting news.

Around the room, a spark of interest ignited. Lestrange raised an eyebrow. "Miron? Her father's a filthy Mudblood," he muttered, glancing sideways at Dolohov. "No offence."

"None taken." Dolohov's expression remained smooth, but Riddle caught the flicker of discomfort in his eyes. None taken? You're lying, Antonin. But it serves you to play along, doesn't it?