Faced with Hermione's confusion, Tom replied with complete confidence, "Of course I'm out for a nighttime stroll. Just like you lot."
Hermione nearly choked. How could Tom speak so righteously about something that so blatantly violated school rules? But before she could say anything, the sound of footsteps echoing down the corridor reminded her they still had pursuers behind them.
Grabbing Tom by the hand, she hissed, "Filch is right behind us—we have to hide!"
And so, with utter disbelief, Tom let himself be dragged along by four hopelessly directionless first-years—right into a dead end.
At the far end of the hallway stood a locked door.
"We're done for," Ron whimpered. He hadn't even noticed Tom had joined the group. His legs were trembling as he heard the distinct sound of footsteps—Filch and his cat were closing in.
"Out of the way!"
Hermione shoved Ron aside and raised her wand toward the door.
"Alohomora!"
Click. The door unlocked, and the five of them spilled inside. They pressed their backs against the door, holding their breath, listening as Filch's bickering with Peeves echoed closer… then faded away.
"Are we saved?" Harry whispered.
Gulp.
Neville swallowed hard. Tugging on Harry's sleeve, he said in a trembly voice, "No… we're doomed."
The others turned to him, puzzled, wondering what on earth he was on about—until they saw it for themselves.
This wasn't a classroom. It was a hallway.
And at the end of the hallway, filling the entire space from floor to ceiling, was a monstrous, three-headed dog.
Its six eyes were locked on them, unblinking and full of menace. Its mouths were slightly open, strings of slobber glistening in the dim light. The way it looked at them…
...was exactly how they looked at a midnight snack.
RRRRRRAHHH!
The triple-throated roar shook the room. Hermione spun around, fumbling with the door handle, preferring Filch's punishment over becoming dog food. But she had locked the door behind them earlier to prevent Filch from entering—and the ancient mechanism had jammed. No matter how she fiddled, the lock wouldn't release.
"Tom, no! Come back!"
Hermione screamed in horror as the dog lunged. But Tom didn't retreat. Instead, he stepped forward to meet it head-on.
"Stupefy!"
A jet of white light shot from Tom's wand and struck the central head squarely.
The beast yelped—but aside from a white scorch mark, it barely flinched. If anything, it looked angrier.
"I knew I was being too gentle," Tom muttered.
His wrist flicked again, faster this time.
Harry and the others stood frozen, mouths agape.
Tom was like a living spell turret—relentlessly firing off incantations, some familiar, some they'd never heard of. The entire corridor lit up with magical blasts. The sheer size of the three-headed dog made precision irrelevant—everything Tom fired found its mark.
One spell might do little. But layered together? Even a beast bred for brutality couldn't withstand that level of concentrated force.
The dog let out agonized howls as it stumbled backward. Eventually, it collapsed at the far end of the corridor, its three massive heads tucked between its paws, whimpering pitifully.
It almost sounded… sad.
Tom stopped casting. Turning calmly to Hermione, he asked, "That lock still giving you trouble?"
"Huh? Oh—right!" snapped Hermione, snapping out of her daze.
She went back to fiddling with the lock, finally managing to get it unstuck. With a click, the door creaked open.
Ron practically squeezed himself through the gap, followed by Harry and Neville.
Hermione stepped out after them, but Tom lingered for a second.
He turned back toward the injured Cerberus, who was now watching him warily.
Raising his wand again, he murmured a string of healing charms.
Soft glows landed gently on the dog's wounded body.
Whimper…
The dog let out another subdued noise—whether in gratitude or submission, it was hard to tell.
Tom gave it a brief nod, then slipped out and pulled the door shut behind him.
The five students stumbled back through the castle, adrenaline still surging through their veins. No one spoke until they reached the Gryffindor common room.
The Fat Lady had returned from her late-night visit. She eyed them suspiciously but said nothing.
Harry muttered the password—"Pig Snout"—and they all rushed inside.
Upstairs, each of them collapsed onto their beds.
Harry, however, couldn't sleep. His mind kept replaying the events of the night:
Malfoy's dirty trick. Filch's relentless pursuit. The terrifying three-headed dog.
And then—Tom.
That moment when Tom stepped forward alone, calm and unshaken, unleashing spell after spell to drive the beast back… it was burned into Harry's brain.
A wave of deep discouragement washed over him.
People called him the Boy Who Lived—the one who defeated the Dark Lord.
But next to Tom… he felt useless.
He didn't even know the spells Tom used, let alone how to cast them with such power.
They were both first-years—how could the difference between them be so vast?
…
Far beneath the castle, in the Slytherin dormitory, Tom was having similar thoughts—but for entirely different reasons.
He was reviewing his own performance.
The three-headed dog was notoriously tough—thick skin, high resistance to both physical and magical attacks.
Even adult wizards struggled to harm it.
Still, Tom believed with his innate talent—"Absolute Justice"—and his ability to rapidly surge his magical output, he should have done better.
The real issue, in his opinion?
The smell.
That mutt clearly hadn't bathed in ages, and the stench inside that enclosed corridor had been suffocating.
It completely threw off his concentration.
I'll have to train under more extreme conditions, he noted mentally, adding a new line to his already intense magical regimen.
Satisfied with his adjustments, he took a deep breath and finally drifted off to sleep.
…
Just minutes later, a new figure arrived at the same corridor where the dog lay curled up.
It was Albus Dumbledore, clad in whimsical pajamas and a pointy cone-shaped sleeping cap.
He inspected the dog's injuries with a serious eye, then turned and held a whispered conversation with several nearby portraits.
When he finished, he stroked his beard and murmured to himself:
"Such promise in the young these days… truly extraordinary."