Tom handed the responsibility of guarding the potions to Kaka.
To be more precise, he entrusted it to the house-elves.
Kaka couldn't possibly keep watch 24/7—he had his own duties to attend to. Fortunately, Hogwarts had no shortage of house-elves. At Kaka's call, five or six of them popped into existence, quickly huddled together, and drew up a shift schedule.
For Hogwarts house-elves, all students were technically their masters. So Tom's request was met without resistance. Only a direct command from Dumbledore or another professor could override his.
And Tom wasn't concerned about any of them leaking secrets. Dumbledore wasn't omniscient—if he ever questioned him that precisely, it would only mean Tom's cover was already blown.
With that assurance, Tom began brewing under Andros' guidance. After completing the first stage of potion-making, he left the rest to Kaka and exited.
…
The next day.
The troll incident hadn't faded—it was, in fact, still escalating.
Because one of the key players had decided to publicly "share their story."
When Tom entered the Great Hall, the Gryffindor table was packed with students leaning in to listen. At the center of it all sat Ron, animatedly recounting last night's events like he was on a stage.
Only then did Tom realize the timeline had been slightly altered—but not completely.
Hermione had safely returned to the common room without encountering any danger. However, Harry and Ron still ended up clashing with the troll.
And here, Ron's strengths were on full display. Despite having nearly died the night before, he bounced back completely, even turning the harrowing event into a thrilling tale for breakfast conversation.
Not everyone had that kind of psychological resilience.
Maybe it was because moments like this—being the center of attention—were so rare for him, but Ron took the opportunity to embellish the tale with... let's call it artistic license. His version was so intense and dramatic that even Slytherins sitting two tables away could hear the lion cubs gasping and Ron's theatrical narration.
"Hmph."
Monet Selwyn scoffed. "You'd think Weasley defeated the troll himself, the way he's carrying on. As if he wasn't just running for his life before a ghost saved him."
"A ghost, right?" Zabini snorted. He'd been listening more carefully than he let on. "If the troll had even half a brain, they'd have been splattered across the floor. Try punching a ghost—see how that goes."
Their fellow snakes burst into snickering.
Slytherins couldn't stand Gryffindors flaunting their glory. Naturally, they responded with biting sarcasm.
Then Avery, the sixth-year prefect, shared a tasty bit of news: "I just checked the points board. Gryffindor lost another twenty points. They're almost in the negative now."
This made the Slytherins cheer even louder.
"Still not enough," Zabini said with mock regret.
Tom sipped his lemon tea and offered a different take. "Actually... I think the deduction is a little misguided."
The table fell quiet.
Had anyone else said that, they'd be met with scorn. But Tom? No. If he had something to say, it better be good—and people listened.
He set down his teacup and swept his gaze across the table.
"This was clearly a failure in the school's management system. Four Heads of House. Six or seven professors. Plus Filch, who acts like a bloodhound sniffing out rule-breakers every second."
"And yet, with all that staff, a troll still managed to get inside the castle. What are we saying here—that the troll is smarter than our professors? Or..." Tom's voice lowered slightly, "...that it was let in on purpose?"
"Potter and Weasley were just unlucky. If we're going to deduct points over something like this, what message does that send?"
"If the castle itself isn't safe, should we all just stay holed up in our common rooms after class? That way, we're not just avoiding danger—we're also avoiding blame."
Silence. Everyone mulled that over.
He had a point. A very good point.
Why were students being punished for the school's failure?
They might not all like Harry or Ron, but at the end of the day, they were all students. And suddenly, they could all relate.
The Slytherin table fell quiet. The jeers stopped. An uncomfortable silence settled in.
And just as Tom finished speaking, Professor McGonagall entered the hall.
She caught his words clearly. Her expression was unreadable—was it guilt? Embarrassment? Perhaps a little of both. But behind it was unmistakable admiration.
What Tom said struck a chord.
It wasn't Potter or Weasley who failed.
It was them—the professors.
The realization hit her like a jolt. She had failed to protect her students. Her eyes drifted toward the head table and narrowed on the empty seat at its center—Dumbledore's chair.
Her gaze darkened with discontent.
After all, the troll wasn't even the most dangerous thing in this castle. Let's not forget the three-headed dog—that monster could shred the troll in seconds, and it was currently sitting quietly on the fourth-floor corridor.
But who's to say it would stay quiet?
This was all Dumbledore's decision. She had opposed it from the start, but he was the Headmaster. What was a Deputy Headmistress to do?
Yet today, Professor McGonagall's opinion of Tom rose to new heights.
While all the other Slytherins were mocking Gryffindor, Tom saw past the house rivalry and stood up for fairness. He was more thoughtful than she'd been as their professor.
If only she had a legitimate excuse—she'd have awarded him house points on the spot.
What a child. What a brilliant child.
She glanced one last time at Tom, who was chatting with Daphne and laughing lightly. Then she turned sharply and walked out, back straight, her silhouette radiating steely determination.
She would confront him today.
If Dumbledore wouldn't fix the school's security, no one would have peace.
…
Meanwhile, at the head table, Snape was ready to explode on Quirrell.
The man had waltzed into breakfast like he didn't have a care in the world, even flashing Snape a friendly smile.
To Snape, it was nothing short of provocation.
I raided your office, his eyes seemed to say. What are you going to do about it?
Arrogant bastard. Acting like Snape didn't even matter.
Quirrell, on the other hand, was silently fuming himself. Why is Snape looking at me like he wants to skin me alive? He hadn't even gone up to the fourth floor last night—he'd been cornered on the second. What the hell was Snape so worked up about?
"Oi, Quirrell," Snape suddenly called out. His soft tone sent a chill straight down Quirrell's spine.
"You seemed injured yesterday. That swelling on your forehead still looks fresh. I've got a potion—want it?"
"N-No! No need!" Quirrell shook his head frantically.
That potion is a trap. No way I'm drinking that!
Snape looked disappointed. Of course he hadn't spiked the potion—he'd just laced a little Veritaserum into it.
But if Quirrell refused, there wasn't much he could do. He could hardly force it down the man's throat. With a tsk of annoyance, Snape stood up and stalked away.
There was still time before classes began when Professor McGonagall stormed up to the eighth floor. She uttered the password and swept into the headmaster's office without hesitation.
Dumbledore was already exasperated. He'd always been a late sleeper, and ever since the start of this term, it seemed like everyone had suddenly decided the early morning was the perfect time to pay him a visit. First Snape, now McGonagall—who was next?
But once they were here, he couldn't exactly turn them away. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Dumbledore reluctantly descended from the upper loft.
"Minerva, what urgent matter brings you here at this hour?"
"Dumbledore."
McGonagall's expression was grim. She didn't waste a single word on pleasantries.
"I believe the school's security is riddled with holes. You need to remove those... things from the fourth floor immediately. Who knows if that three-headed dog will go berserk and show up in front of the students, just like the troll did?"
"Potter and Weasley were lucky this time. But what about the next?"
"We cannot leave our students' safety up to luck. They're not all walking around dosed with Felix Felicis."
Dumbledore blinked, clearly not expecting an outright confrontation.
"Minerva, I know you're worried, but calm down for a moment. You agreed to my arrangements before—what's changed so suddenly?"
McGonagall launched into a rapid account of what she'd overheard in the Great Hall—Tom's pointed criticisms about the school and its staff. Dumbledore listened silently, falling into deep thought.
McGonagall assumed he was reflecting on his decisions and felt some comfort in that—until she saw his face.
He was smiling.
No, not just smiling—his eyes were shining with tears.
Dumbledore removed his glasses and gently dabbed at the corners of his eyes.
"How wonderful. This is true friendship at its purest. Mr. Riddle has taught this old man a valuable lesson."
"Even Slytherin and Gryffindor... who still remembers they were once the best of friends?"
This was the moment Dumbledore had long hoped for. Talented students who lived in isolation often grew emotionally distant—sometimes dangerously so. They lost the ability to empathize, to value the lives of others.
Just like Voldemort.
He had been praised by everyone at school, yet he always wore a mask and kept himself aloof. Even now, Dumbledore never truly let his guard down with Tom. He wouldn't interfere in the boy's choices, but he still feared that the pursuit of power might one day consume him.
But those words from earlier had given him peace. Voldemort would never have thought that way. In his world, there was room only for himself.
"So, you're agreeing to my request?" McGonagall pressed.
"I'm sorry, Minerva."
Dumbledore composed himself and slid his glasses back on.
"I understand your concern, but we cannot move what's in the fourth-floor corridor. Not yet."
"Why not?" McGonagall looked genuinely puzzled. "I know those enchantments are there to protect the Philosopher's Stone—but honestly, what could be safer than your own office?"
Dumbledore explained patiently.
"If we move it here, the one with dark intentions will lose all hope—and I fear what he might do when cornered."
"Bait only works when it's visible and seemingly reachable. We need him to keep trying, until he makes a mistake."
Did Dumbledore care about student safety?
Of course.
But weighed against the danger posed by Voldemort, the choice was clear. He didn't make mistakes when it came to matters like these.
Let's not forget—"For the Greater Good" was originally his philosophy.
Dumbledore was a man of unshakable focus and steely resolve. If the time came, he wouldn't hesitate to sacrifice even his own life.
That's why the bait had to stay. Let Quirrell see it, almost touch it—until he made the fatal slip.
McGonagall opened her mouth again, but Dumbledore silenced her with a look.
"I swear, on the name of Albus Dumbledore," he said solemnly, "that no student shall suffer irreversible harm or lose their life on the fourth floor. Trust me, Minerva."
She stared at him for a long moment before finally sighing and rising to leave.
A vow like that from anyone else might've meant little—but from Dumbledore?
It meant everything.
McGonagall could only choose to believe him.
…
In first-year Defence Against the Dark Arts, Quirrell had finally dropped the act entirely. He let the students read on their own while he sat slouched in his chair with his eyes closed, pretending to nap.
Neither the Gryffindors nor the Slytherins bothered to acknowledge him anymore. They just got on with their usual self-study, ignoring him completely.
If Tom hadn't already had a top-tier personal tutor by his side, he would've long figured out a way to get Quirrell kicked out and replaced by someone competent.
Even Snape teaching the class would've been leagues better than this. And if all else failed, well—why not bring in Barty Crouch Jr. from the Crouch household? Even he, Death Eater or not, actually taught something. Moody would probably be less effective than Barty, to be honest.
As soon as the bell rang, students packed up and fled the room, not even sparing Quirrell a perfunctory "Goodbye, Professor." It was like he didn't exist.
Not that Quirrell minded. That was exactly what he wanted. Who the hell wanted to teach, anyway? The only thing on his mind was getting his hands on the Philosopher's Stone.
In the past, Tom would sometimes hang around after class, asking fake questions to earn a few points. But today he had more important things to do and spared Quirrell the trouble.
He told Daphne to head back to the common room with their friends while he made his way upstairs.
The books he'd borrowed from Dumbledore last week were finished, and he planned to return them and borrow new ones.
Over the past few weeks, Tom had checked out more than a dozen books from the headmaster—each of them insightful, even the most basic ones. Anything Dumbledore considered worth keeping was bound to be valuable.
Some were rare publications only circulated among elite wizards—absolute treasures.
Tom had kept himself in check lately. None of the books he borrowed had anything to do with Dark Magic.
Because power didn't lie in the spell—it lay in the person.
The Killing Curse could be learned by anyone. It was even listed in the Restricted Section. But people still feared the name Voldemort.
On the other hand, Dumbledore—armed only with Transfiguration and Light Magic—could still suppress the Dark Lord with ease.
That said everything.
Light magic required patience, study, and discipline. Dark magic was raw, brutal, and simple. But neither was superior.
Soon, Tom arrived at the entrance to the headmaster's office. The stone gargoyle guarding the passage came to life and grinned at him.
"Password~"
Tom stared at it, puzzled.