"Jupiter was supposed to be a star, but failed..."
In 1943, Aurora just wanted to get through her fifth year without being noticed. That was, until, she attracted the attention and inevitable obsession of an older, enigmatic student called Tom. In t...
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October 1943
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"Lumos maxima."
The crisp comfort of autumn had passed into the quiet monotony of early-winter. As autumn once relinquished its vibrant cloak, the gradual transition into winter unfolded with a subtle, transformative grace. On an inconsequential Sunday evening, nightfall fell like Death's scythe upon Hogwarts Castle, and Tom Riddle prowled the halls of the castle, amidst an onslaught of Halloween decorations, accompanied only by the moonlight shining through the mullioned windows and the blinding ebb of the lumos spell emanating from the tip of his wand clasped in his hand outstretched in front of him.
With the sleeping portaits hung on the stone walls limned the silver of both moonlight and wandlight, Tom quickened his pace down the portrait hall, before coming to an abrupt stop in front of a single door nestled into the castle stone like a scab.
He raised his hand, hesitated for perhaps a mere fraction of a second, and then knocked twice. The door swung open inwards immediately, and Tom was greeted by the plump Professor Slughorn - head of Slytherin House and esteemed potions master - grinning magnanimously up at the young wizard as he usually did.
"Tom, m'boy! You're nearly very late..."
"My apologies, Professor," said Tom in a honeyed voice. "I had a little run-in with Peeves on my patrol. I couldn't subdue him for a long while."
"Ah! No worries, no worries at all... Come on in, m'boy, we're just getting started..."
Horace Slughorn, a stout old wizard with a walrus-like moustache and a mirthful disposition, stepped aside to allow Tom to enter his office that he used as a makeshift meeting room for his renowned 'Slug Club' charade that only served as a means for him to further secure his position in his students lives - those of which he deemed to be the most fruitful and successful in the future, that was. Everyone had high expectations of Tom Riddle. After all, it was his penultimate year, and he was due to graduate very soon.
Everyone said that Tom Riddle would go on to achieve greatness. Oftentimes, Tom felt like they were setting him up for failure. He knew deep down that he would succeed in whatever he put his mind to, but doubts lingered still in the crevices of his mind, although, they were inconsequential enough for him to subdue the self-imposed judgement.
'The Slug Club' itself was on invitation basis only, and was strictly reserved for fifth to seventh year students, and as Tom, now a sixth-year prefect, glanced around that circular, dark-mahogany table littered with water carafes, snacks, and goblets, there were a swathe of dimly-lit faces he did not recognise.
