My Dark Lord

Chapter Eight: The Club That Reeked of Pipe Smoke and Pretension

Slughorn's invitation arrived folded in rose-scented parchment, sealed with green wax and embellished with a gold S.

I didn't need to open it to know I'd been summoned.

"Your presence has been requested," Calliope said dramatically, tossing her own invitation onto my bed. "An evening of treacle tart, fizzing whizzbees, and casual career networking."

"Career networking," Mara echoed with a snort. "We're eleven."

"Never too young to become someone's favourite," I murmured, examining the wax seal. It was warm under my fingers-- enchanted, likely. Slughorn didn't do simple. He liked to remind you he was choosing you.

I smiled coolly.

Let him think he'd found his newest prize.

The gathering was held in one of the old, unused dungeon classrooms-- transfigured for the evening with plush green chairs, floating candles, and far too many silver trays filled with sugared pineapple.

We arrived fashionably late, naturally.

Me, flanked by Eileen, Mara, Dahlia, and Calliope-- our robes pressed, hair tamed, eyes lined just enough to draw attention and never enough to beg for it. Together, we looked like queens at court.

Slughorn beamed as we entered.

"Ah, Layla! And the rest of our brightest new witches!" he gushed. "The very future of Slytherin. Come in, come in! Sit, sit!"

We obeyed with feigned deference.

But we weren't the only ones.

Abraxas Malfoy, Rufus Lestrange, and Cassian Avery were already there, reclining smugly like they'd inherited the place.

And then, of course, there was Tom.

Sitting nearest the fire with a glass of pumpkin juice in one hand and a serpent-like smile on his lips.

He looked up as I entered. He didn't rise. He didn't need to.

His eyes said it all:

Welcome to my room.

At first, I held the attention well enough.

Slughorn asked about my family, of course. My heritage. My lineage. Gellert Grindelwald's shadow loomed behind every compliment.

"And are you-- ah-- interested in following in your family's footsteps?" he asked delicately, stirring his tea.

I gave a practiced smile. "I prefer to walk behind no one."

There were chuckles. Murmurs of appreciation. I could feel Mara's approval at my side, the strength of my girls behind me.

And then Tom spoke.

It was subtle-- almost accidental.

Slughorn asked about wandwork, and Tom gave a modest comment about his interest in magical theory. But then he referenced a text from the Restricted Section-- something obscure, something Slughorn clearly adored.

The conversation turned.

Before long, the professor was all but cooing at Tom. "In all my years-- all of them-- I've rarely seen such potential, my boy! Tell me again what you said about transmuting memory charms across bloodlines—fascinating, fascinating..."

I sipped my drink. Sweet. Cloying.

Calliope whispered, "He's grandstanding."

"He's winning," Mara corrected softly.