"Hermione, you really don't need to take Ron's words to heart."
After praising Daphne, Tom immediately began pouring a fresh round of soul-soothing chicken soup into Hermione's heart. "What you just saw was nothing more than a weak man expressing envy and jealousy."
"Think about it—doesn't Ron's behavior just now remind you of what Malfoy did to me not too long ago?"
Hermione's expression turned contemplative.
Of course, she remembered what had happened recently.
Now that Tom mentioned it, there was a resemblance. The only difference was that Malfoy had deliberately gone out of his way to provoke Tom, while Ron… had flown into a rage simply because she had pointed out his mistake while casting a spell.
Looking at it this way—was Ron actually worse than Malfoy?
At least Malfoy's outburst had a clear motive—to push himself further. Ron's, on the other hand, was just petty embarrassment.
"See it clearly now?" Tom said with a calm smile. "Doesn't matter if it's Slytherin or Gryffindor—every house has people like this. They can't accept that they're ordinary, and they want everyone else to be as mediocre as they are."
"When you show kindness, they'll see it as mockery. Don't waste your energy getting upset over people like that—they're not worth it."
"And don't try to change their fate. Just focus on your own."
Hermione gave a firm nod. "You're right, Tom. Learning magic is what really matters."
"Exactly."
With a snap of his fingers, Tom led them up the staircase. "And of course, friends matter too. Who says you don't have friends? You and I have known each other for years—aren't we friends?"
"And Daphne stuck her neck out for you—doesn't that make her your friend?"
"It absolutely does not," Daphne muttered, cheeks slightly pink as she turned her head.
Hermione beamed, the lingering gloom in her heart completely dissipated.
Just like Tom said—getting angry at people like Ron was utterly pointless.
Seeing Hermione bounce back to full strength, Tom felt at ease. After all, he had other plans tonight, and rescuing someone wasn't supposed to be part of them.
As for whether some other poor soul might run into the troll? Well, that wasn't his problem.
Protecting his own, refraining from hurting others without reason—that was already a sign of incredible moral maturity.
Especially in the wizarding world, this was practically saintly behavior.
…
Because it was Halloween, the feast tonight would last longer than usual. It would end just before curfew, so after their afternoon classes, Tom moved up Daphne's training session and brought her to the Room of Requirement.
A month of consistent training had started to pay off. Her magical stamina and total magical output had both improved significantly.
More importantly, Daphne had finally grasped the feeling of spellcasting—something that let her apply her magic far more smoothly across a wide range of spells. From now on, learning new spells would be a breeze.
Just in the past week alone, she'd mastered five spells.
Daphne was practically glowing with joy. All the hard work she'd poured in over the last few weeks had finally borne fruit.
After an hour of training, Tom handed her a vial of revitalizing potion to restore her drained mental focus.
As for her physical energy? She'd need to refuel at the feast.
By the time the two of them arrived at the Great Hall, the familiar space had transformed entirely.
Thousands of bats flapped along the walls and ceiling. Some hung in clusters while others flew in slow, lazy spirals overhead—like dark, low-hanging clouds swirling above the long tables.
Hundreds of floating jack-o'-lanterns flickered eerily, candlelight blinking from inside their hollowed-out shells.
Aside from the Start-of-Term Feast, Tom had never seen this many ghosts appear at once—practically every ghost in Hogwarts was present.
Moaning Myrtle from the girls' bathroom and the Ravenclaw house ghost, the Grey Lady, were the only notable absentees.
Tom had never seen Myrtle before, but the Grey Lady had left quite an impression—an ethereal beauty with an icy demeanor and a distinct, deep scar running across her chest.
Yes, a real scar.
"Come on, Tom!" Daphne called from ahead. The festively transformed Great Hall had her practically bouncing with excitement. She had never spent a holiday with so many people before.
Tom picked up the pace. As he passed through the doors, he glanced over at the Gryffindor table. Hermione was chatting cheerfully with Lavender Brown. Maybe it was a coincidence, or maybe she sensed his gaze—but she looked up right at that moment.
Their eyes met.
Hermione gave him a playful wink.
Tom smiled back.
After everything that had happened that morning, she really did seem a lot more cheerful.
As they walked past the Hufflepuff table, a snippet of conversation drifted into Tom's ears. Justin Finch-Fletchley was talking to an upper-year student.
Justin sounded troubled. "Are you sure those bats won't… you know, poop? What if it drops right into someone's food?"
"No worries. If it falls in, just scoop it out within three seconds. As long as it's quick, it doesn't count as real contact. Trust me, I've got experience."
Tom: "..."
Hufflepuffs, of course. Holiday spirit meant nothing to them if it got in the way of eating.
And now that he heard it, Tom couldn't unsee it. He found himself constantly glancing up at the bats while eating, half-expecting one of them to dive-bomb his plate at any second.
"What are you looking at?" Daphne asked suspiciously. She noticed that Tom was pausing every few bites to glance upward.
Tom hesitated, then reluctantly shared what he'd just overheard.
Now Daphne went silent. She immediately regretted asking. One look at the wicked smirk on Tom's face told her everything—he'd done it on purpose.
She instinctively pinched his arm, then leaned over and whispered the story to Bulstrode.
Bulstrode's face twisted like she'd swallowed a fly. She retaliated by spreading the rumor to another roommate.
And just like that, the tale spread like a contagious curse. Soon, every Slytherin student at the table looked utterly miserable. Eat or don't eat—they were stuck in limbo.
Nobody could be sure whether any… "foreign substance" had already dropped onto their plates when they weren't looking. Some were even tempted to cast a spell and drive the bats away entirely.
Why don't you go hover over the Gryffindor table, you flying demons?!
Meanwhile, the culprit—Tom—sat happily finishing his food, waiting for the chaos to unfold.
Feeling bored, he chatted casually with Daphne while watching the professors, who were almost unrecognizable tonight.
Professor Flitwick couldn't stop grinning. He even wore a little goblin hat—clearly poking fun at himself. Professor Sprout's robes were covered in cartoonish evil pumpkins and miniature demon bats—clearly tailored for the occasion.
Even the normally stern Professor McGonagall was smiling, locked in a drinking contest with Dumbledore, who was wearing a hat shaped like bat wings.
Halloween, originally born from Celtic traditions over two thousand years ago, was "absorbed" into Christian customs during the 8th century. Pope Gregory III had declared November 1st as All Saints' Day, transforming a pagan celebration into a day to honor saints rather than demons.
Christmas, Easter—the more you looked at these holidays, the less they seemed related to wizarding culture. After all, the Church and the wizarding world were mortal enemies. Countless witches had been persecuted, burned at the stake, or crucified in the name of "righteousness."
There was no way wizards would willingly celebrate Jesus's birth or resurrection.
And yet, here they were.
Over time, Muggle-borns and half-bloods had subtly shaped wizarding traditions. And they'd done it so thoroughly that most purebloods didn't even find it odd anymore.
But while the whole hall was buzzing with festivity, there was one person who didn't fit in at all.
Professor Snape sat expressionless, a hint of sorrow in his eyes, cutting into his steak with mechanical precision—bite after bite after bite.
No one was particularly surprised. Snape never struck anyone as someone who cared about holidays.
But Tom knew better.
Ten years ago to the day, Lily Evans had died at the hands of Voldemort. For everyone else, today was Halloween.
For Severus Snape—it was the day she died.
Her death anniversary.
And a personal torment.
Tom suddenly realized something was off.
At the Gryffindor table—Harry and Ron were both missing.
BANG!
The heavy oak doors burst open with a thunderous crack, instantly breaking the festive buzz. Every head in the Great Hall turned instinctively toward the noise.
Professor Quirrell staggered in, face pale and wild with panic. He'd barely made it five steps before tripping over his own robes and crashing headfirst to the ground—right between the Slytherin and Ravenclaw tables.
"A t-troll... in the dungeons... thought you should know—"
And just like that, he collapsed in a heap.
Completely fake.
The Great Hall instantly erupted into chaos. Dumbledore had to shoot several bursts of fireworks from his wand to get the room back under control.
"Prefects," he said in a deep voice, "lead your Houses back to the dormitories. At once."
The House prefects leapt into action. Slytherin's own—Cecil Burke—was just about to stand and take charge when he froze mid-motion.
He was looking at Tom.
Tom was looking right back at him.
Cold sweat rolled down Burke's forehead. Without another word, he sat his butt straight back down and went utterly mute.
He'd gotten a little too comfortable lately, what with Tom not bothering to interfere in anything. He'd almost forgotten that Tom Riddle was still his superior.
Good thing he hadn't gotten cocky. Otherwise, Tom would've definitely held a grudge.
The rest of the students quickly caught on.
All eyes turned to Tom.
"First-years, form a line and follow me. Then second-years, third-years—older students in the back!"
Tom lifted his chin, took the lead like a general in battle, and—without so much as a glance—stepped squarely on Quirrell's head as he marched past.
Quirrell, still playing dead, nearly exploded on the spot.
"Damn you, Tom Riddle!"
His heart screamed in outrage, but before he could process the pain, it hit him like a freight train.
"How dare you insult Tom Riddle's name! That's not allowed! How dare you curse the great Lord Voldemort!"
The enraged voice of Voldemort shrieked through Quirrell's skull.
Sharing the same name was already insult enough. But now this impudent brat had literally stomped on the Dark Lord's face?
And Voldemort wasn't done.
"Why were you lying face-down?! If you'd laid on your back, it wouldn't have been my face he stepped on!"
Quirrell wanted to cry but had no tears. Wasn't I trying to protect you, my lord? he thought desperately. If I'd fallen backwards, your head would've slammed into the stone floor!
Now it was somehow his fault.
Of course, he couldn't say any of that. Instead, he silently redirected all his rage toward Tom. But even then, he didn't dare use Tom's real name in his mind.
So "that brat" would have to do.
But the worst part? The real horror was still to come.
Once Tom had gone ahead, the other students followed neatly in formation. Leading the charge was none other than Daphne.
Wherever Tom went, she followed. Same pace. Same route.
Which meant...
BOOM.
Voldemort got stomped again.
Then again.
And again.
Student after student from Slytherin trampled poor Quirrell like he was just part of the furniture. If this had been any other House, maybe a few kids would've hesitated at the idea of stepping on a professor.
But Slytherin?
Not even a blink.
No one liked Quirrell anyway. They considered him an absolute joke.
Maybe they didn't realize he was down there. Or maybe they did—and just didn't care.
It didn't matter. The damage was done.
After close to a hundred face-smashes, Voldemort was emotionally numb. The worst part? Many of the students trampling over him were descendants of his former Death Eaters.
He had plans for Quirrell. Big ones. But now?
Forget it.
Anyone who knew this humiliating little chapter of his life simply didn't deserve to live.
…
Quirrell's suffering went unnoticed.
As the students were escorted out, Dumbledore quickly assigned professors to sweep the castle floor by floor in search of the troll.
He exchanged a brief look with Snape.
Snape understood instantly, gave a slight nod, and vanished into the shadows without saying a word—headed straight for the fourth-floor corridor.
Before long, the Slytherin students were safely back in their common room.
Naturally, the troll incident became the hot topic of discussion.
Where had it come from? How had it gotten in?
Amid the excited chatter, quite a few students took the opportunity to roast Dumbledore and Quirrell.
"Hogwarts," they scoffed, "supposedly the safest place in the magical world—and yet there's a full-blown troll wandering around?"
And Quirrell?
Sure, trolls were terrifying. Ridiculously strong, freakish magical resistance, and massive physical power. But wasn't he the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor?
Wasn't this literally his job?!
He didn't even fight the troll. He just showed up, blurted a warning, and collapsed like a fainting goat.
Easily the worst professor Hogwarts had ever seen.
And likely ever would see.
Tom glanced at the student who'd just said that, mentally making a note to interview him next year—just for laughs.
Feigning a return to his dorm, Tom slipped into the stairwell. Once alone, he cast a Disillusionment Charm over himself.
Just as the last batch of seventh-years filed into the common room, Tom slipped silently back through the still-open stone door and vanished down the corridor.
The hallway was deserted.
Tom walked freely now, not worrying about the noise of his footsteps, as he sped through the underground passages toward the main building—specifically, the area near the Potions classroom.
The air reeked of something foul—sour, rotting, eye-wateringly pungent.
Tom clapped a hand over his nose.
Troll stench.
They all smelled like they'd crawled out of a barrel of pickled herring.
"Alohomora."
With a smooth flick of his wand, Snape's office door clicked open.
Tom strolled inside like he owned the place.
His eyes glittered as he looked over the rows of potion ingredients lining the shelves. In his mindscape, even Andros—his magical mentor spirit—was drooling.
"My darlings~ Papa's here!"
Rubbing his hands together like a kid in Honeydukes, Tom began what would go down in history as his very first—
Zero-Galleon Shopping Spree.