My Dark Lord

Chapter Eleven: Smoke and Glances

There are only a handful of places in the world where I can breathe without posturing.

The Slytherin fifth-year girls' dormitory was one of them.

Not because it was safe.

But because it was mine.

After the Sorting Feast, after the badge, after the smirk exchanged with Tom Riddle as we left the prefect benches, I stepped into the familiar chill of the Slytherin dungeons and found my sanctuary: our room.

The dormitory had evolved with us.

No longer childish or cramped, the space had grown luxurious-- dark green velvet curtains with silvery threading, flickering candelabras floating midair, full-length enchanted mirrors, and floor rugs made from imported wyvern wool.

We each had our own alcove now, with enchanted privacy veils for sleep or solitude, and polished cedar trunks stacked with finery.

And, of course, they were waiting for me.

Calliope Travers was lounging on her bed, legs crossed in black stockings, a silver-inked journal floating beside her. Dahlia Mulciber sat curled up in an emerald velvet armchair, painting her nails a faint shimmer of obsidian. Mara Selwyn had her sleeves rolled up, polishing her wand while quietly humming an old lullaby.

Eileen Prince sat at the vanity, combing her hair with mechanical precision, her pale reflection watching me approach.

I let the door close behind me.

"Did you miss me?"

Calliope grinned without looking up. "Desperately. Summer was ghastly without your brutal honesty."

Dahlia lifted her freshly painted nails. "You've grown taller. Or meaner. Or both."

"Both," Eileen said quietly. "Obviously."

I dropped my bag at the foot of my bed and fell back onto the mattress with a sigh of theatrical exhaustion.

"Tell me everything. Every scandal. Every tragedy."

Calliope went first. Naturally.

"The Isle was uninhabitable. The elf staff rebelled halfway through July-- something about heatstroke and minimum sleep. Father had to bring in an Unspeakable to contain the cursed cellar again. And Uncle Thaddeus insists a betrothal to the Avery boy is still 'strategically sensible.' I told him to drop dead."

"I'd pay to see that," I murmured.

"Your father would be proud," Dahlia said, reaching for a chocolate-dipped licorice wand from the snack box on her trunk. "Meanwhile, we summered in the south of France. Chateau Maleficia was stifling-- Maman insisted I study etiquette with a pureblood tutor from Vienna. I hexed her wig."

We all laughed at that.

Even Mara, whose summer was always least eventful.

"Mother got the drawing room redone," she said plainly. "Father was in Germany negotiating some political tripe about post-war neutrality charms. I taught our new guard dog to bark at Ministry officials."

"How responsible of you," Calliope said.

"And you, Layla?" Eileen asked, finally turning fully toward me.

I kept my face impassive, though a part of me still itched to say too much.

"My father is... still in exile," I said calmly. "We corresponded through charmed letters. Mother took me to the old Grindelwald estate in Switzerland to meet the Eastern branches of the family. Reclusive, but fascinating. I spent most of the summer in the libraries."