For the Greater Good || Tom Riddle ||

Chapter Thirteen: Secrets

As the night waned on, the students of Hogwarts became rowdier and rowdier. Tipsy girls clung to bucking broncos and lads slide bottles of booze into their jacket pockets as students poured in thick and fast into the Great Hall. Gwen was beginning to regret her deal with Simon—an extra hour of sober monitor duty in exchange for the vital time she needed to execute her plan for tonight. As she tiptoed around throngs of students shouting "Drink up!" obnoxiously loud and dealt with the hundredth drunkard, all of whom apologized very unconvincingly, any sense of fun was beginning to wear off.

A secret Gwen kept close to her heart was that prior to attending Hogwarts, she daydreamed about the balls the magical school hosted. Durmstrang never even entertained the thought of lumping all of the students in one room, serving finger snacks, and seeing where the evening went. Sometimes at night, when Gwen couldn't fall asleep, she would lie awake in her Durmstrang dormitory and imagine all the bright young things at Hogwarts, dressed in white tie, sipping champagne and dancing the night away in some of school's most beautiful corners.

And now that she was living that reality, surrounded by girls dressed in beautiful gowns and boys dressed in dashing suits whom were obviously thrashed, the brass band and canapés served on silver platters were frivolous details Gwen couldn't afford to focus on. 

Her gaze was fixated on the golden chalice that sat in front of Dumbledore and the man that sat beside him. By the looks of it, Slughorn already appeared quite drunk. The pink tint in his cheeks and his sloppy chuckles were telltale signs. It looked as though the bottles of mulled wine and oak-matured mead had made it to the grand table. A faint flutter of panic bloomed in Gwen, fearful of the repercussions if the Hogwarts staff found out she had spiked the alcohol with Veritaserum.

Luckily, the potion, which she began to work on the last two weeks of January, was clear, colorless, odorless and was almost indistinguishable from water. An unexpecting witch and wizard would spill their secrets with a mere three drops—but Gwen had had a much more generous hand when pouring the potion into the spirits. Surely, Dumbledore wouldn't catch on, especially since Slughorn was offering up the alcohol in the first place. The anxiety began to drain from her body and she straightened her posture.

Yes, I have to be confident...

She didn't know what else to do if it didn't work. She needed answers. She had been feeling so conflicted lately. Was the Greater Good the way? Were muggles all that bad? Did Dumbledore know more about the Hallows?

"Gwendolyn!"  sing-song voice called off to her right and pulled her out of her thoughts.

Gwen turned and spotted Milton Rosier and Abraxas Malfoy. Dressed in a red tartan tweed suit, Milton looked strange and out of place. Malfoy wore an emerald green sportscoat, much like the rest of the Slytherin house. Speckles of purple still surrounded Malfoy's nose from the punch Nott had thrown at him weeks ago. Briefly, Gwen entertained the thought that Madam Starkweather down in the Hospital Wing didn't straighten his nose quite right on purpose. If that was truly the case, the Malfoy family would surely hear about it.

Rosier and Malfoy were clearly intoxicated. Lazy smiles flitted across their faces—they had obviously taken advantage of the endless drinks. Forget any presentations of decorum of Sacred Twenty-Eight elitism—no, the Knights of Walpurgis were enjoying their messy night.

Malfoy sniffed, rubbing his face on his sleeve as he tried to regain his composure. "Rosier, looky here! It's Miss Riddle. Fancy that. All by herself. Ha!"

"Gawmdrey, you're such a swot. Why aren't you having a drink?" Milton hiccupped.

"That's because I'm a sober monitor," Gwen repeated for that what felt like the thirtieth time that night.