𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐒, ᵗᵒᵐ ʳⁱᵈᵈˡᵉ. ✓

030.

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It was a rare occasion, one that hardly ever happened at Hogwarts. But with the start of their sixth year came the whispers of rebellion and defiance against the ever-looming dark clouds outside the castle. Slytherins, as a house, prided themselves on control and discipline, but even they needed an outlet, a release from the pressure that had been building.

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And so, in one of the hidden, seldom-used rooms deep within the dungeons, a group of sixth and seventh-year students had gathered for a clandestine party. Alcohol smuggled in from Hogsmeade, courtesy of connections most of them would never speak of, flowed freely. The fire whiskey was passed around, sloshing into goblets with reckless abandon, and the air was thick with the heady mix of laughter, whispered secrets, and the sharp sting of liquor.

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Daphne Rose had never been one to indulge like this. She was usually the composed one, the girl with her emotions carefully concealed behind a cool, calm exterior. But tonight—tonight felt different. Maybe it was the tension she had been carrying since the start of term, or perhaps it was the weight of her complicated feelings toward Tom Riddle, feelings she had yet to fully understand or confront. Whatever it was, she had taken one too many drinks, her usual restraint slipping with each sip.

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By the time the laughter around her had grown louder, and the room felt like it was spinning ever so slightly, Daphne knew she was drunk. She could feel the warmth in her cheeks, the light-headedness that came with it, and the way her thoughts felt like they were floating just out of reach. She sat on one of the old, worn couches, her head resting against the back, her eyes half-closed as she watched the dim lanterns flicker above. Across the room, Tom Riddle watched her.

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He hadn't joined in the drinking. Tom rarely indulged in any form of debauchery. He always remained in control, always calculating, always keeping his distance from the things that dulled the senses and clouded the mind. Tonight was no different. He had attended the gathering, if only to observe—because everything, every moment, was an opportunity to learn, to manipulate, to control. But now, his attention was entirely on Daphne.

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He had noticed when she'd started drinking more than usual the slow, steady decline of her usual grace. Her laughter had become softer, more genuine, her smile less guarded. It was rare to see her like this, and for a moment, Tom had been curious. But now, watching the way she swayed slightly in her seat, her usually sharp gaze unfocused, his curiosity was replaced by something else—something darker.

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He stood from his place at the edge of the room, his movements smooth and unhurried, and crossed over to where she sat. As he approached, Daphne blinked up at him, her eyes glazed but warm, her lips curving into a lazy smile. "Tom," she said, her voice soft and slurred, "you're always so serious. Come sit with me. Have a drink." She reached out, her hand grasping for the goblet on the table beside her, but Tom was quicker. He caught her wrist gently but firmly, his long fingers wrapping around her arm as he pulled the goblet out of her reach.

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"I think you've had enough, Daphne," he said, his voice cool but not unkind. Daphne pouted, leaning back against the couch, her head lolling to the side as she looked up at him with a half-dazed expression. "You're no fun, you know that?" she mumbled, though there was no real malice in her words. "Always... in control. Always... perfect." Tom's eyes darkened at her words, though he kept his expression neutral. He crouched down in front of her, his grip still gentle but unyielding as he guided her hand back to her lap.