— — — — — —
Dumbledore was right—it really was a strange twist of fate.
Tom hadn't chosen that book with Nicolas Flamel in mind. In fact, he couldn't possibly have known Flamel had written that unpublished manuscript.
As for the tiny line of text in the corner marking the author? It was nearly impossible to notice, even when looking closely.
Tom only spotted it after Dumbledore pointed out that the book was special.
Well, now that it had come up… Tom was genuinely curious about meeting Nicolas Flamel someday.
After all, when an ordinary person lives a long life, it's just clinging to existence.
But when someone brilliant lives that long? That's when things get terrifying.
Flamel was a legend in alchemy—a true milestone in magical history.
Over six centuries, who knows how much wealth and knowledge he'd accumulated? He might even rival Hogwarts itself in terms of magical resources.
Because when it comes down to it, Hogwarts is still a school. It caters to the general wizarding population. But Flamel? His entire collection is for his own use. If a book isn't top-tier, it wouldn't even catch his eye.
Still, Tom wasn't going to bring up the idea of contacting Flamel just yet. That would be too presumptuous. For now, he simply promised Dumbledore he'd return the book within a week and left the Headmaster's office.
As he reached the doorway, the stone gargoyle moved to block him again.
"You need something else?" Tom raised an eyebrow.
"Kid, since you've already uncovered my secret… I might as well come clean," the gargoyle said mysteriously.
Tom stared, thoroughly confused. "Why is this thing so dramatic all of a sudden?"
The gargoyle's face took on an oddly smug expression, like it was proud of its own mystery. "Salazar Slytherin was only one of my creators. I was forged by all four founders. Salazar gave me life and layout, Helga gave me my unbreakable body, Godric gifted me strength, and Rowena blessed me with great wisdom."
Tom gave the statue a skeptical once-over. Okay, sure, the first three kind of checked out—this thing looked like it could easily punch a hole through a wall. But the last one?
Rowena's wisdom? Really?
"Are you mocking me again?!" the gargoyle shouted, scandalized.
Tom held up a hand. "No, no. Just wondering why you're telling me all this."
"Oh." The gargoyle visibly relaxed, then smirked. "It's just been a while since I bragged to anyone. Needed someone to appreciate how awesome I am."
Tom: "..."
— — —
"Hey, you okay?"
Tom returned to the Great Hall just in time for lunch. All eyes turned to him as he walked toward the Slytherin table. News spread fast—everyone already knew both he and Malfoy had been called to the Headmaster's office.
But only Tom had come back so far. Malfoy was still MIA (missing in action).
Daphne immediately scooted over as Tom sat down beside her, speaking in a low voice full of concern. She might have acted calm earlier, but truthfully? No one ever knew what kind of punishment Dumbledore might dish out.
"Fifty points docked. That's it," Tom said casually, scooping a generous serving of mashed potatoes onto his plate and pouring thick beef gravy over them.
The Slytherin students nearby didn't react much to the point loss.
—or rather, they reacted internally but didn't dare show it.
Out of the four houses, Hufflepuff cared the least about the House Cup.
Ravenclaw went with the flow—if they could win, great; if not, no big deal.
But Gryffindor and Slytherin? Those two were obsessed with house pride.
Gryffindors often charged in with all the fanfare, only to self-sabotage and lose their lead without even realizing it.
There's an old saying: lions and snakes are two sides of the same coin.
A clever lion becomes a snake. A bold snake becomes a lion. Not just poetic—there's truth to it.
Normally, anyone else losing fifty points would've been crucified by the Slytherins. Look at how they treated Malfoy and Goyle—pure-bloods or not, the second you became a liability, the group turned cold.
But Tom?
No one dared say a word.
This wasn't about whether he would be isolated—it was about whether he'd decide to isolate you.
Tom had just proven himself as the strongest in the house. He was untouchable now.
Besides, Tom was great at earning points. He could make up that loss in a month without breaking a sweat.
Malfoy? That guy was just dead weight.
...
The only person visibly distressed was Severus Snape, who stood staring at the house point board like he'd just aged five years.
"Dumbledore..."
"I told you to punish Riddle however you liked—detention, cleaning, even a disciplinary mark—but docking points?"
"Are you punishing him, or are you punishing me?"
"Now I need to team up with him again..."
— — —
"Tom, Malfoy really went and ratted you out. Want me to take care of him?"
After lunch, Zabini eagerly slid into step beside Tom. "Don't worry—you won't need to lift a finger. I've still got some of that Draught of Living Death left over. Just say the word and I'll have him running to his daddy crying."
Nott nodded enthusiastically. "And I've got some healing potions ready. Was planning to use it myself, but I'd be honored to gift it to Malfoy after beating him."
Rosier turned red but forced out a gruff, "Same here."
Out of the trio, he was definitely the least eloquent. Just didn't have the words.
The three of them weren't even trying to keep their voices down. Goyle and Crabbe, a few seats away, definitely heard every word.
But they acted like nothing happened, just kept shoveling food into their mouths.
Even followers had to look out for themselves. If sticking with Malfoy meant more trouble, maybe it was time to rethink some things.
For once, Goyle and Crabbe had a moment of clarity—whenever something involved Riddle, they'd play deaf and blind.
But the rest of the time? Keep pretending they were loyal to Malfoy and ride the gravy train.
Perfect way to survive.
"Don't act on your own," Tom warned, waving them off. "I already said—whatever happened between me and Malfoy is over. If he stirs things up again, then sure, go nuts. But for now, behave."
"Oh." Zabini looked genuinely disappointed but nodded obediently.
What a missed opportunity—to humiliate Malfoy and earn Tom's favor at the same time.
Still, thinking back, Tom always kept things clean. If you messed up, he'd punish you once, no grudges held.
"Man," Zabini thought, "maybe Tom's actually… a good guy?"
"Oww, we really don't deserve him. Especially after plotting against him at the start of term..."
Zabini's thoughts got weirder every second
...
Draco Malfoy didn't show up again until the afternoon Herbology class.
His expression was carefully neutral, ignoring all the curious stares. But every time his eyes landed on Tom's back, he couldn't help but flinch, his father's advice echoing in his mind.
All Malfoy could do now was pray Tom meant it when he said the feud was over.
He wouldn't mess with Tom Riddle again.
…unless Tom was clearly on his way out. Then, well, striking when the iron was hot wasn't betrayal—it was strategy.
...
"Oooh~ These beans are adorable!"
Daphne squeezed the plant until it popped, sending a puff of steam and a bright green bean flying. It bounced off the table like a rubber ball.
Everyone wore gloves for this—those beans were hot.
Tom caught the one Daphne popped, blew on it, wiped it clean, and popped it in his mouth. His eyes lit up.
"Not bad."
Daphne perked up immediately and squeezed out another one. "Let me try... Mmm! You're right. Sweet and squishy."
Professor Sprout watched them from the back with a mix of exasperation and amusement.
"Riddle, Greengrass—don't eat too many of those beans, they'll give you pimples."
Tom didn't react, but Daphne's face turned pale. She quickly spat out the bean she was chewing.
"It's fine," Tom said, amused. "Didn't Slughorn mention there's a potion that clears that up?"
"No way!" Daphne shook her head furiously. "I have to stay cute. Pimples are not happening."
Professor Sprout just chuckled. She didn't even scold them for goofing off in class—honestly, she felt a little regretful.
With an appetite like that, Riddle really should've been in Hufflepuff.
After class, Tom originally planned to head back to the dorms to brew some potions. But just as he stepped into the entrance hall, a Slytherin boy stopped him, speaking in a rushed, almost awkward voice:
"Riddle, Professor Snape wants to see you. His office."
Tom paused. Was Snape losing it again? Maybe he wanted to have another go at pushing his buttons.
Still, he didn't overthink it. He nodded and followed along—might as well swing by and scout the place out again.
He needed to borrow—well, more like steal—some rare materials from his favorite Head of House, after all.
.
.
.