Dumbledore wasn't wrong—this was indeed a strange twist of fate.
Tom hadn't picked the book with Nicolas Flamel in mind. In fact, there was no way he could have known Flamel had written this unpublished work. But now that he had the chance, Tom was genuinely interested in meeting the legendary alchemist.
Ordinary people living long lives merely survive. But when a remarkable man lives long… that's something else entirely.
Nicolas Flamel was a towering figure in alchemy, a milestone in magical history. Over six centuries of existence—how much wealth and knowledge had he amassed? Possibly even more than Hogwarts itself.
After all, Hogwarts was a school, built to serve the average wizard. But Flamel's collection? That was curated for his own use. If a book didn't meet his standards, it wouldn't even make it onto his shelf.
Of course, Tom wasn't about to push his luck and ask for an introduction now. He simply promised Dumbledore he'd return the book within a week and left the Headmaster's office.
As he reached the exit, the stone gargoyle once again blocked his path.
"Something else?" Tom raised an eyebrow.
"Young man, since you've already uncovered my secret, there's no point hiding it anymore."
Tom stared blankly. What now? This thing's got a flair for drama.
The gargoyle's face took on an oddly human expression—mysterious and wise. "Salazar Slytherin was only one of my creators. All four founders worked together to bring me to life. Salazar gave me consciousness, Helga forged my unbreakable body, Godric granted me great strength, and Rowena imbued me with profound intelligence."
Tom gave the statue a skeptical once-over. The first three checks out. Just by looking at its composition, he could tell the thing was built like a tank. But that last part...
This is Rowena Ravenclaw's so-called wisdom?
No wonder you're blue.
"Are you judging me again?!" the gargoyle cried out in a mix of anger and disbelief. That was the second time today someone had mocked it.
"No," Tom waved his hand casually. "Just wondering why you're telling me all this."
"Oh." The gargoyle's tone dropped. Then, in a rather pleased voice, it said, "I haven't bragged in ages. Needed someone to remind of how awesome I am."
Tom: "…"
———
Tom arrived at the Great Hall just as lunch began. Every Slytherin turned toward him with curiosity. News traveled fast—word had already spread that both Tom and Malfoy had been summoned by the Headmaster.
But only Tom had returned. Malfoy was still MIA.
Daphne waited until Tom sat beside her before blurting out her question. She hadn't looked particularly worried before, but that was only because she assumed it wouldn't be anything serious. Who knew what kind of punishment Dumbledore might hand out?
"Fifty points deducted. That's it," Tom replied, unbothered. He spooned a heap of mashed potatoes onto his plate and drowned it in rich beef gravy.
The moment he mentioned the point deduction, the little snakes showed almost no reaction.
Well—not exactly "no reaction." More like: no one dared to react.
Among the four houses, Hufflepuff was the most chill. The House Cup was never really their concern. Ravenclaw took things as they came—if they could win, great; if not, no big deal.
But Gryffindor and Slytherin? Lifelong rivals. House pride meant everything.
That said, Gryffindor had a habit of getting carried away and turning into "Gryffin-snore" by losing points left and right without even noticing.
Someone once said lions and snakes are two sides of the same coin. A cunning and ambitious lion becomes a snake, and a brave and daring snake becomes a lion. Not entirely wrong.
If it had been anyone else losing fifty points, the Slytherins would've torn them apart—just like they did with Malfoy and Goyle before. Even pure-blood elites weren't safe from ostracism if they messed up.
But Tom?
No one dared.
This wasn't about whether they'd ostracize him. It was about whether he might decide to ostracize them—with backup.
Tom had just been crowned the strongest in the House. No one was stupid enough to pick a fight.
Besides, the guy was practically a point-generating machine. He could earn that fifty back in a month without breaking a sweat. Unlike Malfoy, who was nothing but dead weight.
The only one visibly distressed was Snape, standing in front of the House Points board with a face full of unspoken pain.
Come on, Dumbledore...
I told you to punish Riddle however you wanted. Detention, cleaning duties, a serious write-up—whatever. But a fifty-point deduction?
Are you trying to discipline him or destroy me?
———
"Tom, Malfoy actually ratted you out. Want me to deal with him?"
After lunch, Zabini eagerly sidled up to Tom, voice low but brimming with enthusiasm. "You don't even have to lift a finger. I'll take care of it. I've still got some of that Draught of Living Death brew left from last time. One dose and Malfoy's stomach will remember me forever."
Nott nodded furiously, unwilling to let Zabini hog the glory. "I've got a stash of healing balm I made for myself. Thought I'd gift it to Malfoy now—how thoughtful, right?"
Rosier flushed bright red and struggled to contribute: "Me… me too."
He had the worst way with words. Out of the three, his tongue was the clumsiest.
Their voices weren't even hushed. Crabbe and Goyle, who sat several seats away, heard everything. Yet neither reacted. They just kept shoveling food into their mouths like nothing had happened.
Because even followers have limits. And continuing to serve under Malfoy could mean years of suffering. Seven years, to be precise.
For once, Crabbe and Goyle's brains kicked in:
From now on, anything involving Riddle? We're blind and deaf.
But during normal days, we'll still hang with Malfoy for the perks.
Perfect strategy.
"Don't act without orders," Tom said flatly, waving a hand.
"I've already said—whatever was between me and Malfoy, it's done. If he comes looking for trouble again, then you can do whatever you want. But for now, stay put."
"…Okay," Zabini answered obediently, though a wave of regret swept through him.
It was the perfect chance—not only to teach Malfoy a lesson, but also to earn points with Tom.
Who would've thought Tom had such principles? When he said "we're done," he meant it.
Then again, that had always been his way. He handled everything case-by-case. If someone messed up, they got punished. But once that was over, Tom never held a grudge or sought payback.
Rosier was nearly in tears. Tom was… a good person all along?
And to think, at the start of the year, they actually tried to bully him.
They must've been insane.
Malfoy didn't show up again until the afternoon Herbology class.
He wore a calm expression, ignoring the curious stares around him, but every time he caught sight of Tom's back, his heart gave a nervous jolt—his father's stern warnings still fresh in his mind.
All Malfoy wanted now was for Tom to keep his word: the past was the past, and hopefully, that's where it would stay.
He wasn't going to provoke Tom again… unless Tom was on his last legs. Then—maybe—he'd consider stepping in.
…
"What adorable little beans!"
Daphne squeezed a Snargaluff Vine pod between her fingers, and with a satisfying pop, it burst open—releasing scalding hot, pink beans that bounced on the ground like pinballs.
Everyone was wearing gloves during the harvest to avoid getting burned by the sizzling little things.
Tom picked up one of the beans Daphne had popped, blew on it, wiped it clean, and popped it in his mouth. His eyes sparkled.
"Tastes pretty good!"
Daphne perked up at that and quickly squeezed out another one. "Let me try... mmm, you're right! Sweet and soft!"
Professor Sprout watched them from behind with a helpless but amused look.
"Riddle, Greengrass," she called, "you shouldn't eat too many of those beans. They might give you pimples."
Tom didn't react, but Daphne's face turned white in horror. She immediately spit the bean out and kept spitting, as if trying to rid herself of the very idea.
"No way! Snape said there's a potion to cure acne, didn't he?" Tom said casually.
"I don't care!" Daphne cried, shaking her head like mad. "I want to stay pretty forever! Pimples are the enemy!"
Professor Sprout chuckled softly and didn't scold them for chatting during class.
Honestly, she felt a bit regretful. With an appetite like Riddle's, he should've been sorted into Hufflepuff.
…
After class, Tom had intended to return to his dorm to brew potions, but as soon as he stepped into the Entrance Hall, a Slytherin boy intercepted him.
"Riddle," the boy said nervously, "Professor Snape wants to see you in his office."
Tom paused, wondering if Snape had finally cracked and wanted to be emotionally tormented again.
Still, he nodded and agreed. At worst, he'd just go scout the place again.
Five minutes later, Tom stood before Snape.
This time, there was no cold-shouldering. The Head of House had even thoughtfully prepared a chair for him.
"You cost the House fifty points today," Snape said without preamble.
"If I had a choice, I'd rather be a good person," Tom replied with faux innocence.
"Great. Then go talk to Dumbledore and see if he'll give them back," Snape said dryly.
"Is there really no way to earn them back?"
"I don't care how you do it," Snape said with firm finality. "Slytherin must win the House Cup this year. Since you're now the uncrowned king of the House, you should shoulder the responsibility."
"Tell me—can you guarantee Slytherin will win?"
"Yes, Professor. I can."
"I have nine ways to make sure Slytherin wins the House Cup this year."
Tom grinned brightly, a dazzling expression that made Snape blink in surprise.
Didn't he hear the sarcasm when I called him "uncrowned king"? Snape thought.
What Snape didn't know was that Tom couldn't care less about the title—he was excited for an entirely different reason: his half-dead system had finally come back to life.
[System Detected: Task assigned by Head of House. Generating quest...]
[Quest Generated!]
Objective: Lead Slytherin to win this year's House Cup
Difficulty: Hard
Reward: 1000 Learning Credits, 100 Achievement Points, 1 Lucky Draw
A reward of 1000 credits—enough to activate his Supernatural State ten times.
100 achievement points—a tenth of what he needed for the "Century King" title.
And that rare Lucky Draw? He'd never even seen that option appear before.
Hell yes!
Snape wasn't an evil bat after all—he was a walking treasure trove, Tom's beloved little goldmine!
"Professor, do you have any other tasks for me?"
Tom's eyes burned with fervent intensity. Snape, unsettled, leaned back ever so slightly.
"I only have this one goal. Once you accomplish it, we'll talk about the rest," Snape said carefully.
"Alright then," Tom replied, slightly disappointed. But he quickly brightened again. "But Professor, I can't win the House Cup alone—I'm not the Chosen One."
Snape frowned, sensing something loaded behind that comment.
"I still have a lot to learn," Tom continued. "Especially in Potions. I've got a few questions…"
And just like that, the conversation naturally shifted into a Q&A session.
Snape never turned away a student who was eager to learn. Even if that student was Potter or Longbottom, he might snap and sneer, but he'd still give them the answer.
Of course, in Tom's case, Snape was much more composed.
He wasn't sure if Tom would one day hold a grudge and make him suffer for it, so he stuck to calm, straightforward replies.
But gradually... Snape's expression began to shift.
From casual indifference to cautious seriousness. Internally, emotions roiled like a storm.
Tom's questions weren't first-year level. Some were taken from advanced coursework, others were about properties and brewing methods that weren't even in the textbooks.
To Snape, the questions themselves weren't hard. But even a seventh-year student eligible for his Advanced Potions class wouldn't have asked them so precisely—let alone answered them well.
Yet here was a first-year, with detailed knowledge, familiarity with theoretical texts, and only lacking real hands-on experience.
What kind of monster is this?!
Of course, it made perfect sense.
Tom had been dedicating most of his time outside of regular classes to Potions. After all, he still had to brew that strengthening potion Andros had mentioned—and the ingredients were too rare and expensive to waste on failure.
"Riddle."
Snape suddenly interrupted Tom's excited questions. He pulled a key from his robes and unlocked a drawer in his desk, taking out a worn, black leather notebook.
The notebook looked old and battered.
Tom's heart skipped. Could it be...?
The Half-Blood Prince's notebook?!
The legendary cheat code that turned Harry into a Potions prodigy and almost one-shot Malfoy in the bathroom duel?!
Was Snape actually going to pass it on to him now?
"Riddle."
Snape pushed the notebook toward him with a deep voice. "You're learning too much, too fast. It's disorganized and all over the place."
"This is a compilation of my own experiences in Potions, written five years ago. Study it thoroughly before asking me anything else."
"Thank you, Professor."
Tom hugged the notebook to his chest like it was treasure.
Five years ago?
That made it far more valuable than the Prince's school-day scribbles. Five years ago, Snape was already a renowned Potions Master.
Tom hadn't expected the man to drop epic loot so easily. But since it was offered, he sure wasn't going to say no.
After promising the House Cup would belong to Slytherin, and eyeing the rare ingredients he needed on Snape's shelf, Tom finally took his leave.
Snape remained seated, hands clasped beneath his nose, silent for a long time.
Just now, a daring idea had crept into his mind.
What if I raised a Tom Riddle... to defeat—or even kill—the other Tom Riddle?
The boy's talent was the most terrifying he'd ever seen. Once Snape was certain that this Tom had nothing to do with that Tom, all his bias melted away.
The trouble he caused in school was trivial compared to the bigger picture.
In the dim room, a whisper like a spell echoed low and cold:
"I don't care what happens to the wizarding world. I don't care if another Dark Lord rises."
"If it means the new king will rise by crushing the bones of the old one…"
"Then so be it."
"I only want… Voldemort dead."