Fractured Reflections

The door to the dungeon swings open, the heavy wood groaning against its hinges. The scent of stewed herbs and ground roots thickens the air, curling against Draco’s nose. He barely takes a step inside before heads begin to turn. A few students glance up in mild curiosity — some with brief irritation at the disruption — before quickly returning to their cauldrons.

However, the moment Slughorn’s eyes land on them, the reaction is far from mild.

“Oh, Tom, my boy!”, he greets them with a delighted smile, his jovial voice carrying over the bubbling of potions. Any trace of displeasure vanishes as if it had never existed.

Draco has never seen Slughorn brighten so quickly at the sight of a student. Not even Potter.

For the briefest moment, Slughorn's gaze flickers to Draco — his brows furrowing, a split-second recognition of a new student in his house. His expression shifts, caught between welcoming and perplexed, as if only just realizing Draco exists at all.

But then Riddle steps forward, just slightly, with that ever-present, effortless grace. And just like that, Draco is forgotten.

“Professor, excuse us for our late coming. Headmaster Dippet required our presence.”

Slughorn waves away the apology.

“No matter, no matter, my dear boy! You’re just in time, and I daresay you could teach the class a thing or two on today’s potion, eh?” He chuckles, his belly shaking slightly as he beams at Riddle, as though his presence alone has improved the lesson.

Draco has seen professors play favorites before. Snape had always been notoriously biased toward Slytherins, and Slughorn himself had lavished attention on students he deemed promising. But this — this is different.

Slughorn doesn’t just favor Riddle.

He practically reveres him.

It’s unsettling.

As they move to take their seats, Draco feels the weight of quiet curiosity pressing on him. The students cast him sidelong glances, subtle but scrutinizing, assessing the newcomer that Slughorn has barely acknowledged. But even that scrutiny fades in the presence of Riddle, their interest shifting back to him the moment he settles into his seat.

With no urgency, Riddle pulls out his notes. Draco glances at them and immediately notices how pristine they are — neatly organized, every line measured and deliberate. His handwriting is absurdly precise, almost mechanical in its perfection. The ink flows smoothly, without a single stray blot. Each letter is elegantly formed, the strokes practiced, disciplined.

Draco’s own tutor would weep at the sight of such flawless penmanship.

In contrast, Draco has nothing  — no textbook, no notes, no quill. The absence makes him uneasy, fingers twitching with the phantom instinct to hold something, do something. He casts a glance at the open page in front of Riddle.

Draught of Living Death.

It’s a potion he’s brewed before — complex, but not unfamiliar.

Riddle, noticing his gaze, wordlessly shifts the book between them, aligning it perfectly in the middle of the desk.

Draco hesitates for half a second before nodding in thanks, using the opportunity to study the page more closely. Some of the original instructions have been crossed out, corrections written in the margins in that same elegant, controlled script.

The adjustments aren’t just minor tweaks — they’re improvements. Precise, efficient. Draco recognizes some of them from his own advanced studies, but others are entirely new to him.

He frowns slightly.

Riddle has done this before.

Not just as a school exercise, but thoroughly — testing, refining, perfecting.

Some of the students have already begun preparing their ingredients. Draco stands, moving toward the supply cabinet and selecting what’s listed in the textbook. He returns, placing them on the desk with a soft thud.

Riddle looks up at him, his gaze piercing.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, his voice low, and without hesitation, he turns his attention back to the ingredients. He picks up the Sopophorous Beans, rolling them between his fingers before holding them up to the light. He examines them closely, his brows furrowing in concentration, before setting half of them aside.

“What is wrong with them?” Draco asks, his voice edging with frustration, though curiosity lingers beneath it.

Riddle regards him with quiet scrutiny, his expression impassive but discerning.

“They are not white enough. Some are too hard, indicating that they are not ripe. It would lower the efficiency of the potion. I need at least seven more.”

Draco’s lip curls ever so slightly, irritation seeping into his bones. He nods curtly, a little too eager to move away from the quiet weight of Riddle’s scrutiny.

With a sharp breath, Draco walks toward the shelf, the quiet hum of the classroom pressing on him. His eyes scan the beans on the shelf, and he selects the ones that meet Riddle’s unspoken standards. But as he reaches for another handful, his gaze falls on a small, empty vial sitting on the edge of the shelf.

It’s nothing important, really.

But something inside him twists. Without fully understanding why, his fingers curl around the vial, and before his mind can catch up, he slips it into his pocket. He doesn’t give it another thought.

Wordlessly, he returns to the table. Riddle has already prepared everything. The faint scent of something simmering in the cauldron fills the air. With effortless grace, Riddle crushes the beans, the juice dropping into the cauldron. Almost immediately, the potion turns a pale lilac. But after a few more deft stirs, it clears.

“Wonderful! One of the best potions I’ve seen so far!” Slughorn exclaims, his voice filled with admiration. “Five points to Slytherin. Please bottle it and place it on my desk for evaluation.”

Riddle had said nothing throughout the stirring process, his focus entirely on the task at hand. It’s clear now — Riddle is used to handling everything alone. He hadn’t asked Draco for help once.

Normally, Draco would be annoyed by it, but it does provide him the rare opportunity to look around. Some students are already finished, while others are still working. His eyes land on one student — an unsettling sight. A pale face framed by dark curly hair and piercing brown eyes. A Ravenclaw. Scary. Draco immediately looks away, unease creeping in.

Before he can fully process his discomfort, another student approaches. A girl from Hufflepuff, her footsteps hesitant, moves toward their table. Riddle has already vialled the potion, sealing it with practiced ease, when she finally stops in front of them. She offers him a tentative smile.

“Excuse me. I just saw that you finished with the potion. Can you help us, please, Tom? I don’t know why our potion won’t clear — it just stays lilac.”

Draco barely spares her a glance, keeping his focus on the cauldron. Surely, Riddle will dismiss her.

Instead, Riddle rises smoothly, smiling at her. “Of course, Miss Wright.” His voice is polite, pleasant even.

Draco’s head snaps up, eyes narrowing. This is not the reaction he had expected.

The girl pouts, her expression somewhere between playful and exasperated. “I told you to call me Stella.”

She is flirting. A Hufflepuff, openly flirting with a Slytherin.

This is not the past. This must be an entirely different dimension.

And Riddle chuckles. The sound is low, sending shivers down his spine. “Apologies, Stella.”

He walks over to their desk, his footsteps light but commanding. The girls immediately straighten, their posture shifting as they lean slightly toward him, eager for his attention. Riddle doesn’t seem to notice the way their eyes linger, the way they’re practically enthralled by his presence. His focus is entirely on the potion.

“What have you done here?” Riddle asks, his voice low and composed, with an edge of authority that instantly commands attention. The girls fidget, almost nervously, as they answer him.

The girl closest to him, her voice soft and hesitant, says, “We — we followed the instructions. But it just won’t clear.”

Riddle’s eyes flicker over the potion, then back to her, his expression unchanging. “You stirred it too much. This potion requires precision. A little sloth brain, a few counterclockwise turns, and it should settle. You need patience.”

The girls nod eagerly, their eyes wide with admiration. And Draco — watching them, watching Riddle — can’t help but feel a sense of envy wash over him. It isn’t jealousy, exactly. It’s something else.

Riddle moves with the same effortless grace that Draco has been trained to emulate, the same quiet authority that his father expects of him. Riddle embodies all the qualities Draco has been taught to admire — confidence, intelligence, control. The way he carries himself, the way he speaks, the way the girls can’t help but be drawn to him, it’s all so... effortless. It’s everything Draco has been taught to aspire to. And yet, seeing it, seeing how Riddle commands the room without even trying, it stirs something within Draco — something deeper than admiration.

Riddle adjusts the potion, his every movement so sure, so self-assured, and Draco feels the attraction like a slow burn in his chest. It’s not just Riddle’s looks — it’s the way he fits so perfectly into the role of what Draco has always been told to be. To be worthy of respect. To command attention. To be perfect in every way.

When the girl near Riddle looks up at him with that same infatuated smile, Draco feels something tighten in his chest. The way she looks at Riddle, like he’s the only person in the room, makes Draco ache with the desire for that same attention. The kind of attention that validates everything he’s been taught. The kind that tells him that he’s worth something, that he’s important. Being noticed by someone like Riddle, someone so good-looking, so intelligent, is the kind of recognition Draco has always longed for.

Riddle, still absorbed in the potion, doesn’t notice Draco’s gaze, or the way Draco’s chest tightens with that strange need. Draco quickly forces his attention back to the potion in front of him.

His fingers graze the vial in his pocket again. When Riddle moves away to adjust the girls’ potion, Draco takes the opportunity. His fingers move swiftly, the vial cool against his palm as he pours the potion into it, his hands steady but his mind racing. As he seals the vial, his heartbeat quickens. He slips it back into his pocket just as Riddle turns back toward him, but Draco quickly looks away, his heart racing.

Before he can steady his breath, a voice cuts through the air.

“Mister Malfoy, a word, please.”

Draco’s stomach coils. He turns, carefully masking his unease as Slughorn beams at him, his jovial tone betraying no hint of suspicion.

“See me after class, won’t you?” Slughorn adds, already moving on as if the request is nothing more than a passing thought.

Draco lingers at his desk as the rest of the students begin to file out of the dungeon, their voices blending into a dull hum. He keeps his posture relaxed, calculated, as he pockets his things, giving himself a moment to settle the racing of his heart. He casts a quick glance at Riddle, who is still engaged in a quiet conversation with the girls from before.

That’s when he sees it.

A black-covered book, half-hidden beneath Riddle’s worn potions textbook. Its spine is smooth, unmarked, the kind of book that shouldn’t stand out — but does.

A flicker of unease snakes down Draco’s spine.

Without thinking, he trails a finger along the edge of the cover —

Pain.

Not a burn, not quite. A pulse.

It thrums through his skin, a deep, rhythmic sensation, like something alive beneath his fingertips. Like Voldemort calling to him.

But that’s impossible.

His breath catches. A familiar prickle crawls up his left forearm, sharp and sudden. Instinct kicks in —

Is the Mark moving?

He tugs at his sleeve, fingers fumbling as he starts to pull it back —

“Come, come, my boy! No need to dawdle,” Slughorn calls, his voice light, but firm.

Draco freezes, fingers hovering over his cuff. The moment breaks. The pulse fades.

He exhales sharply, snapping his sleeve back into place. He casts one last wary glance at the book before forcing himself to move.

Schooling his expression, he steps toward Slughorn’s desk, masking his unease with a polite smile. Around him, the last of the students trickle out, their voices fading into a dull hum.

The heavy dungeon door swings shut behind them, leaving only the two of them in the lingering scent of stewed herbs and faintly burnt Sopophorous Beans.

“Well, then, Mister Malfoy,” Slughorn begins, clasping his hands over his round belly. 

“I think I can spare you the introductory speech. Tom has surely given it to you already.”

Draco forces a small smirk. “He has, sir.”

Slughorn chuckles. “Of course, of course. A very responsible boy, that one. Now, tell me — how are you finding your classes? Adjusting well, I hope?”

Draco does not hesitate. “Yes, Professor. The curriculum is rigorous, but I am confident I will catch up.”

Slughorn’s eyes gleam with approval. “That’s the spirit, my boy! I’d expect no less.” He leans forward slightly, his voice dropping into something almost conspiratorial. “If ever you do need assistance, however, my door is always open. House Slytherin looks after its own.”

Draco nods, carefully modulating his response. “I appreciate that, Professor.”

Slughorn waves a hand. “Oh, think nothing of it. Though, truth be told, most matters among our students never make it to my desk. Not when dear Tom has everything under control.”

Draco stills, just barely.

Slughorn continues, oblivious to the flicker of tension in Draco’s posture. “Yes, yes — our dear Mister Riddle is quite the capable young man. A natural leader! Sharp mind, exemplary conduct — always thinking ahead, that one.” He chuckles, as if sharing a private joke. “Why, some would say he practically runs the house already!”

Draco swallows the sharp retort that rises to his tongue. Instead, he says, “He does seem… highly regarded.”

Slughorn sighs with something like fond exasperation. “Highly regarded? Oh, my dear boy, that’s putting it mildly.” He leans back in his chair, reaching for a crystal decanter of what is unmistakably not pumpkin juice. As he pours himself a drink, he muses, “I dare say it should be enough for you to bring any concern to him before troubling an old man like me.”

Draco schools his expression into something unreadable. “Of course, Professor.”

That’s unheared of.

No student should wield this much power. Not even Draco, when he had been Slytehrin’s prince, had ever commanded this level of control. And Riddle? He isn’t even Head Boy — just a prefect.

Riddle is dangerous. Not to be underestimated.

Slughorn studies him for a moment before his jovial smile returns. “Good, good. Then off you go.“

Draco inclines his head in a gesture of polite dismissal before stepping out into the cool corridor. The heavy dungeon door swings shut behind him with a dull thud, sealing in the lingering scent of stewed herbs and aged parchment.

He expects to find Riddle waiting for him.

But it isn’t Riddle.

It’s Nott.

The older boy stands just beyond the threshold, hands tucked neatly behind his back, posture casual but unmistakably expectant. There is something unreadable in his dark eyes, a quiet observance that Draco doesn’t particularly like — too assessing, too detached.

“Riddle has prefect duties to attend to,” Nott says smoothly, tilting his head in mild acknowledgment. “So, I suppose I’ll have to do.”

Draco forces a polite chuckle, though it comes out stilted.

Then, as if on cue, his stomach lets out a low, miserable grumble.

It is mortifying.

Heat crawls up his neck, settling in his ears. He stiffens, willing the sound to be ignored, to be dismissed, but the traitorous ache in his stomach only twists tighter.

Nott, to his credit, does not comment. He merely inclines his head, stepping into an easy pace as he leads them through the stone corridors.

Draco exhales, composing himself.

“Maybe a little lunch would be appropriate,” he mutters, half a statement, half an excuse.

“You are in luck,” Nott replies smoothly. “That is precisely where we are heading.”

As they walk, Draco presses his arms tightly against his stomach, willing it into silence. The dull ache of hunger gnaws at him, unwelcome and persistent.

Nott, ever observant, says nothing. Instead, after a measured pause, he asks, “How did you find your first class?”

Draco shrugs. “It was adequate.”

Nott gives a slight nod.” Was the instruction similar to what you are accustomed to? “

“The structure is much the same,” Draco says, his tone measured. “Some methods differ, of course, but the material is not particularly challenging.”

Nott hums as though making note of that, then asks, “Were you schooled alone?”

Draco hesitates for a fraction of a second before nodding. “Yes.”

At that, Nott makes a thoughtful noise. “Unusual.”

Draco tenses slightly. “Why?”

Nott glances at him then, something almost indulgent in his expression, as though he finds Draco’s lack of foresight mildly entertaining.

“I don’t know how you do things in France,” he says smoothly, “but here in Britain, we do things differently.” His tone is not unkind, but there is an unmistakable weight behind the words — a quiet reminder that Draco is an outsider in this world, no matter his name.

“Pureblood heirs — especially those of distinguished lineage — are not merely educated,” he continues, as though explaining something self-evident. “They are positioned. Education is not simply for academic refinement; it is for the cultivation of alliances.”

Draco exhales through his nose. He knows this. Of course, he knows this. His father had spoken of such things often enough — of the importance of maintaining the right connections, forging bonds that would outlast mere academia.

Before he can formulate a response, Nott continues, his voice calm.

“A word of advice, Malfoy.” His tone is not unkind, yet neither is it particularly warm. It is simply factual. ”Things here do not function as you are accustomed to. Your arrival has… disrupted the hierarchy of this house.”

Draco blinks, momentarily thrown off balance. “What do you mean?”

Nott’s lips curl slightly — not quite a smirk, not quite a smile. Merely knowing.

“This is hardly a discussion for a public corridor,” he says smoothly. “But allow me to summarize.” He slows his pace slightly, as if emphasizing his next words. “Your sudden appearance, appears — whether intentionally or not — to be a calculated maneuver by Lord Malfoy.”

Draco stares at him, momentarily thrown off balance. That was not something he had considered. He had been too caught up in his own problems, too focused on survival, to stop and think about how his arrival might be perceived by others. A careless oversight.

Nott, as if sensing his surprise, elaborates.

“You must be aware,” he continues, voice smooth as silk, “that few pureblood families are ever fortunate enough to bear two heirs in the same generation.” His words are carefully chosen, deliberate. “And from an outside perspective, the timing of your uncle’s decision to… introduce you now is rather questionable.”

Draco remains silent, but Nott takes no offense. He merely tilts his head, as if allowing him time to process.

“I do not mean to suggest you are unwanted, of course,” he continues idly. “Merely that your presence alters the dynamic. If your uncle had intended for you to remain in the shadows, he would have kept you there. And yet… here you are.” His voice dips, thoughtful. “One does not simply introduce a spare heir without reason.”

Draco exhales, keeping his expression neutral. “That is an interesting theory.”

Nott’s lips quirk. “It is not a theory. It is optics. And optics are the currency of men like the patriarchs of our bloodlines.”

“And what do you gain from telling me this?” Draco counters. There is no free advice in Slytherin.

Nott casts him a sideways glance, expression unreadable. “Consider it a lesson. The game started long before you arrived. Best you catch up.”

They reach the entrance to the Great Hall, where the distant murmur of students and the scent of roasted meat and fresh bread drift into the corridor.

Nott pushes open the door with effortless grace, gesturing slightly.

“Come, Malfoy. Lunch awaits.”