The Slytherin dormitories were never truly quiet—only controlled. Greenish light from the Black Lake filtered through the tall windows, casting slow shadows across velvet curtains and polished stone. Trunks lay half-open, books stacked neatly, robes pressed to perfection. Everyone was preparing. The House Cup season had reached its most dangerous phase. Draco Malfoy stood by his bed, adjusting his tie in the mirror.

Draco: “We’re not losing to Gryffindor this year,” he said flatly. “Not after last term.”

Blaise Zabini lounged against a carved pillar, arms crossed, expression amused.

Blaise: “You say that every year,” he replied smoothly. “But this time, at least, we actually have strategy.”

Tom Riddle sat at the edge of his desk, reviewing parchment filled with neat, precise notes. Spell rotations. Point calculations. Timelines. He didn’t look up when he spoke.

Tom: “Emotion loses points,” Tom said calmly. "Discipline gains them.”

You leaned against the foot of his desk, skimming the list.

You: “Duelling Club, Potions Excellence Trial, Academic Rankings,” you said. “You’re covering everything.”

Tom: “I don’t leave gaps".

Draco scoffed lightly.

Draco: “That’s why Professor Slughorn practically breathes every time you walk past.”

A ripple of laughter passed through the room, but tension lingered beneath it. Everyone knew what was at stake. Winning the House Cup wasn’t just pride—it was reputation. Influence. Proof that Slytherin still ruled Hogwarts through intelligence, not noise. As they headed out of the dorms, robes swaying in synchronized confidence, Tom fell into step beside you.

Later that night, back in the dorms, strategy replaced rivalry. Blaise refined alliances, Draco trained precision spells, others revised theory. You sat with Tom, shoulders nearly touching, parchment spread between you.