— — — — — —
"Don't let Ron's words get to you, Hermione."
After praising Daphne, Tom turned to Hermione, pouring some warm, soul-soothing tea into her heart. "That's just how the incompetent express their jealousy and resentment."
"Think about it—wasn't what Ron did just now kinda like what Malfoy tried to pull on me a while ago?"
Hermione paused, thoughtful.
Of course she remembered what happened back then.
And now that Tom mentioned it… yeah, it did feel kinda similar. The difference was, Malfoy had deliberately gone looking for trouble with Tom, while Ron had just lost it after she pointed out he was doing a spell wrong.
So… Ron might actually be worse than Malfoy?
At least Malfoy's actions were driven by a desire to prove himself. Ron? Just plain embarrassment and rage.
"You see it now?" Tom said calmly. "Doesn't matter if it's Slytherin or Gryffindor—there'll always be people like that. People who can't accept being ordinary and want everyone else to be just as mediocre."
"To them, your kindness probably feels more like mockery. Don't waste your time or energy getting upset over people like that. It's not worth it."
"And don't try to change their fate either. Just focus on your own path."
Hermione nodded firmly. "I get it, Tom. What really matters is learning magic."
"Exactly."
With a snap of his fingers, Tom led them up a flight of stairs.
"And besides," he added, "friends matter too. Who said you don't have friends? We've known each other for years now—aren't we friends?"
Daphne chimed in, face slightly flushed, "And I stood up for you, didn't I? Doesn't that count?"
Hermione burst into a bright smile, all the unease in her heart melting away.
Just like Tom said—getting mad at someone like Ron really was pointless.
Seeing Hermione back to her cheerful self, Tom finally felt at ease. If she'd stayed upset, he might've had to waste the evening rescuing someone, and that would've totally derailed his plans.
As for whether some other poor soul might bump into the troll tonight? Well… not his problem.
Protect your own. Don't hurt others unless you have to. That was his personal, simple moral code.
And honestly? In the wizarding world, that already made him a saint.
— — —
After classes ended that afternoon, Tom decided to move their usual training session earlier. He took Daphne with him to the Room of Requirement.
After nearly a month of training, Daphne was starting to show serious improvement. Her magic was regenerating faster, her reserves had grown, and—most importantly—she'd finally found her rhythm with spellcasting. That meant learning new spells in the future would be way easier for her.
Just this week alone, the girl had already mastered five spells. She was thrilled, finally feeling like all her hard work was paying off.
When training wrapped up an hour later, Tom handed her a potion to restore her energy.
As for the physical fatigue? That was what the Halloween feast was for.
By the time they entered the Great Hall, the place was completely transformed.
Thousands of bats flapped along the walls and ceiling, some forming dark, cloud-like swirls above the tables. Hundreds of jack-o'-lanterns floated in the air, their flickering candles glowing in eerie patterns.
Aside from the Welcome Feast at the start of term, Tom had never seen so many ghosts gathered at once. It felt like every spirit in Hogwarts had shown up—except for Moaning Myrtle from the girls' bathroom and the Ravenclaw house ghost, the Grey Lady.
Tom had never seen Myrtle before, but he definitely remembered the Grey Lady. She was beautiful and distant, with a cold elegance about her—and a nasty scar slashing across her chest.
...
"Hurry up, Tom!" Daphne called ahead, clearly excited. The transformed hall and festive atmosphere had her practically bouncing. She'd never celebrated with so many people before.
Tom picked up the pace and glanced toward the Gryffindor table as he walked in. Hermione was chatting happily with Lavender Brown. Maybe it was coincidence—or maybe she sensed his gaze—but she suddenly looked up. Their eyes met, and she gave him a quick wink.
Tom smiled. Looked like she was in a much better mood now.
As he passed the Hufflepuff table, a snippet of conversation caught his ear.
Justin Finch-Fletchley was talking to an older student. "Clatum, you sure those bats aren't gonna poop on the food? What if it lands in someone's mashed potatoes or something?"
"No biggie," Clatum shrugged. "Just pick it out fast. If it's under three seconds, it doesn't count. Trust me, I've got experience."
Tom: "..."
Classic Hufflepuff. Who cares about decorations when dinner's at stake?
Now Tom couldn't un-hear it. He spent the next few minutes nervously eyeing the ceiling, worried that some "surprise seasoning" might drop into his plate.
"What are you staring at?" Daphne asked, noticing him glancing up after every bite.
He hesitated… then decided to tell her what he'd overheard.
Now it was Daphne's turn to go silent. She regretted asking. The mischievous grin on Tom's face told her he'd definitely said it on purpose.
She instinctively pinched his arm, glaring at him, then turned around and whispered the "news" to Parkinson.
That was the start of a chain reaction.
Parkinson's expression soured like she'd just eaten a bug. Not to be outdone, she told another classmate.
Before long, the rumor spread like wildfire through the Slytherin table. Everyone suddenly felt queasy. Eat or don't eat—either way, it was torture.
No one could be sure if something hadn't already dropped onto their plate earlier. Some even itched to blast the bats away with spells.
Why don't they go bother the Gryffindor table?! Damn pests!
Meanwhile, the instigator himself, Tom, was already full and content, sitting back to enjoy the chaos.
Bored, he chatted with Daphne while observing the professors—who looked very different tonight compared to their usual selves.
Professor Flitwick had a smile glued to his face and was even wearing a leprechaun hat—definitely leaning into the holiday spirit. Professor Sprout had on a robe decorated with evil pumpkins and little bat-demons. Clearly custom-made for the occasion.
Even the usually stern Professor McGonagall was smiling, sharing drinks with Dumbledore, who had tiny bat wings poking out of his hat.
Halloween had its roots in ancient Celtic traditions, but the Christian Church co-opted it in the 8th century. Pope Gregory III declared November 1st "All Saints' Day" to replace pagan rituals with saintly celebrations.
Same thing happened with Christmas and Easter. If you think about it, these holidays don't really belong to the wizarding world at all.
Wizards and the Church were mortal enemies. Countless witches and wizards were burned alive by the Inquisition back in the day.
Kinda ironic.
But over time, Muggle-borns and half-bloods slowly influenced wizarding traditions—so much so that most didn't even question it anymore.
Still, in this joyous atmosphere, there was one person who clearly didn't fit in.
Snape sat quietly at the staff table, his face expressionless with a tinge of sorrow, methodically cutting into a steak, bite after bite.
No one was surprised—Snape never seemed like the festive type.
But Tom knew the deeper reason.
Ten years ago today, Lily Evans was killed by Voldemort.
For the others, it was Halloween. For Snape, it was a day of mourning. A reminder of his failure. A day that cut deeper than any curse.
Wait a second…
Tom suddenly noticed something.
At the Gryffindor table—Harry and Ron weren't there.
BANG!
The heavy oak doors slammed open, the loud crash instantly shattering the festive mood. Everyone instinctively turned toward the entrance.
Quirrell stumbled in, looking completely panicked. He tripped the second he entered the Great Hall and landed awkwardly between the Slytherin and Ravenclaw tables.
"A t-troll! In the dungeons—I thought you should know—"
And with that, he collapsed to the floor.
Yeah. He was faking.
Chaos immediately broke out in the Great Hall. Students started yelling and panicking until Dumbledore had to fire a few magical fireworks from his wand to regain control.
"Prefects!" he barked, his voice low but commanding. "Take your housemates back to the dormitories—now!"
The prefects quickly sprang into action.
Slytherin prefect Burke started to get up and give orders—then suddenly froze. His gaze shifted nervously to Tom.
Tom was already looking at him.
Cold sweat formed on Burke's forehead as he sat back down without a word.
Tom had been keeping a low profile lately, so much so that Burke had almost forgotten the pecking order. Thankfully, he hadn't said anything stupid yet. Otherwise, Tom definitely would've held a grudge.
Everyone else caught on quickly and turned to Tom for direction.
"First years, line up behind me! Then second years, third years—older students at the back!"
With his chin up and shoulders squared, Tom strode forward confidently. He didn't even bother stepping around Quirrell—he walked right over his head.
"You little bastard! Damn you, Tom Riddle!" Quirrell screamed inwardly, barely managing to stay "unconscious" despite the sharp pain shooting through his head.
"Don't you dare curse him! Don't even speak that name!" Voldemort's voice raged inside his mind. "That little brat! He dared to step on my face?! I swear I'll kill him the moment I'm resurrected!"
Voldemort was furious. Not only did this kid share his name, he had the nerve to stomp right on his face.
And now he was yelling at Quirrell too. "Why were you face-down?! If you'd just laid on your back, this wouldn't have happened!"
Quirrell wanted to cry.
But he didn't dare talk back to Voldemort, so he channeled all his rage at Tom—though he still didn't have the guts to use Tom's name. He just kept muttering "that damn kid" under his breath.
But things were about to get worse. Much worse.
After Tom, the whole Slytherin line started marching in formation.
Daphne, of course, followed Tom's exact path.
Which meant…
Voldemort got stepped on again. And again. And again. And....
Almost every single Slytherin passed through the same route.
In any other house, stepping on a professor might be shocking. But in Slytherin?
No one cared about Quirrell. Most of them couldn't even be bothered to pretend they respected him.
Maybe some were just distracted. Maybe others did it on purpose.
It didn't matter.
By the time the hundredth foot landed on his head, Voldemort was numb. Even more frustrating? Several of the kids stomping on him were descendants of his former followers.
He had originally planned to reward Quirrell for his efforts after the resurrection.
Yeah… not anymore.
Anyone who had seen him in that state didn't deserve to live.
Of course, no one noticed or cared about Quirrell's suffering. While the students were being escorted back to their dorms, Dumbledore quickly gathered the professors and split them up to search for the troll.
He shot Snape a subtle look.
Snape immediately understood, nodded slightly, and slipped away without drawing attention.
Meanwhile, the Slytherins returned to their common room and instantly launched into wild theories about where the troll had come from.
Between the chatter, they still found time to mock Dumbledore and Quirrell.
"Hogwarts is supposed to be the safest place in the wizarding world, and now there's a troll just roaming the halls? What the hell's going on?"
"And Quirrell? Seriously?"
Trolls were notoriously tough to deal with. They had sky-high magic resistance and terrifying brute strength.
But Quirrell was the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. His job was literally to handle magical threats. And all he did was show up, shout a warning, and faint?
Absolutely pathetic.
By far the worst professor Hogwarts had ever seen. No competition.
Probably never will be a worse one, either.
...
After some time...
Perfect timing—just as the last of the seventh years returned to the common room, Tom slipped back out through the open wall, casting a Disillusionment Charm on himself
The corridors were deserted now. He didn't even have to worry about footsteps echoing—he picked up speed, racing through the lower halls until he reached the main castle and neared the Potions classroom.
The air reeked.
Tom covered his nose. That smell... unmistakable.
"Alohomora."
The lock on Snape's office clicked open like butter.
Tom strolled inside as if he owned the place.
He looked around at the neatly labeled rows of potion ingredients on the shelves, eyes gleaming.
Inside his mental study space, Andros was practically glowing with excitement too.
"Come to papa, my precious babies~"
Rubbing his hands together, Tom prepared himself for the first 100% discount of his lives.
.
.
.