in his wake | t.r [ongoing]

Chapter 3 - Horace Slughorn

Chapter 3 

Horace Slughorn

Horace Slughorn prided himself on his ability to spot talent and nurture it. He often told his colleagues it was his greatest force as an educator. Over the years, his Slug Club had become something of a legend—his carefully chosen protégés moving on to powerful and prestigious positions within the wizarding world. From the moment he entered a classroom, he instinctively knew who would rise to the top and who would remain - in the politest way possible - background noise.

At first glance, Tom Riddle was firmly in the latter category.

Slughorn had barely noticed him the first day he entered his classroom. The boy had taken a seat at the back of the potions chamber. He hadn't raised his hand once, nor had he engaged with the lively chatter of the other first-years. He had no name of note. No family crest. There was no connection to anyone of significance as far as Slughorn was aware.

Instead, Slughorn's focus had naturally drifted to the likes of Capria Crouch, Abraxas Malfoy, Leonard Rosier, Vilmaris Selwyn, and the other students he knew came from well-known families and had the right connections. These were the students who would go far—they had the right polish, as he would say.

But Riddle - Riddle was one of the background students. Or so Slughorn thought.

***

It was the first Potions lesson of the term, and the classroom was humming with the usual verve of a fresh batch of first-years. Slughorn bustled about the room with his characteristic delight, his voice booming as he introduced himself and the intricacies of potion-making. The shelves lining the walls glinted with polished cauldrons and rows of neatly labelled jars, each filled with peculiar and wondrous ingredients.

"Now, Potions," Slughorn declared, twirling his wand to light the burners under the rows of pewter cauldrons, "is not about waving your wand and saying a flamboyant incantation. No, no! Potions is a subtle subject. Precise. It requires discipline, a steady hand, and a keen mind." His eyes twinkled as they swept over the eager faces before him. "Which, I dare say, I'm certain I'll find among this fine lot in front of me."

Predictably, his gaze lingered on the students he knew to watch. Capria Crouch was surrounded by a group of girls who had gravitated towards her after only a few days of being at Hogwarts. Malfoy sat near the front of the class, his quill poised over a pristine roll of parchment. Vilmaris Selwyn eagerly buffed her copper cauldron - the most expensive one on sale at the cauldron shop in Diagon Alley, Slughorn noted. Lounging with an air of casual arrogance, Rosier leaned toward Avery and whispered something that earned a snicker. Slughorn gave them a mild warning glance but couldn't help but give them a fond smile. Boys will be boys.

He eyed a few of the other faces sitting before him to see if he could spot any underdogs. He noted a few who had that keen spark in their eye or had eagerly opened their books to the potion they presumed they'd be studying today. He made a mental note of each one.

However, a distinct figure sat at the very back of the room—silent, still, almost blending into the shade of the rear classroom. Slughorn had to squint to see him.

His desk was bare except for a modest roll of parchment and a battered textbook that looked like it had been through as many years as the castle itself. He didn't fidget or chat like the others. Instead, he sat with his hands folded neatly in front of him, his dark eyes fixed on Slughorn with an almost unsettling vehemence.

The lesson unfolded in its usual chaotic splendour. Slughorn strode between the rows of desks, his voice carrying instructions over the clinking of utensils and the bubbling of cauldrons.