Tom coming to the Headmaster's office to return books was hardly anything new.
In the past, he had to speak the password each time. But after a few visits, the stone gargoyle by the entrance got used to seeing him—it would jump aside the moment he approached, no questions asked. A silent agreement, smooth and easy.
So… why was it asking for a password today?
Though a bit confused, Tom spoke the latest password he knew: "Fizzy Honeydukes."
"Wrong," the stone gargoyle said with a sly grin. "Dumbledore changed the password just this Monday. Sorry, Riddle boy—if you don't have the new one, you're not getting in."
Tom narrowed his eyes. "So that's why you're acting up. Lying in wait for me, were you?" Then he added with a trace of indignation, "But I didn't need a password the last few times. By that logic, I should be able to walk in now, too."
The gargoyle shook its head wildly. "That was then. This is now."
"I heard a troll got into the school yesterday. I've got to protect the Headmaster now. From today on, nobody gets in without the password."
"Not even Dumbledore himself?" Tom asked dryly.
"No exceptions," the gargoyle said, full of certainty.
Tom gave a meaningful nod. "You'd better remember you said that. Or I'll write it down in Hogwarts: A History—how the guardian of the Headmaster's office says one thing and does another. I'm sure future students would love to read about a stone sentry that breaks its own rules."
The gargoyle nearly choked on imaginary sweat. If it could sweat, that is.
"You little snake… Truly a Slytherin."
If his reputation—etched in stone for a thousand years—were tarnished in the official school record, it would be ruined forever.
"Kid…"
"I don't feel like talking anymore," Tom cut him off flatly. "I need to guess the password."
He had a strategy, of course. Dumbledore's passwords were almost always sweets from Honeydukes. Reciting every candy in the shop's catalog would surely crack it. It was a game of numbers.
"Chocolate Frogs."
"Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans."
"Lemon Snowdrops."
"Creamy—err… something with eucalyptus oil and—mint...?"
"Jelly Slugs."
Click.
The gargoyle groaned as it reluctantly shifted aside. The guess had been correct. And once the right password was spoken, it had no choice. Even if Voldemort himself showed up, or Grindelwald, it still had to let them through.
Tom cast it a sideways glance, the corner of his mouth curving upward as he started up the spiral staircase.
Nice try, he thought smugly. Trying to outwit me?
Guess Ravenclaw's famed "wisdom" isn't all that impressive after all.
Still, he thought with a twitch of disgust, Jelly Slugs? Really, Dumbledore? That's just vile. Right behind Cockroach Clusters on the "Why does this exist?" scale.
—
"Good afternoon, Professor. I'm just returning some books."
When Tom entered, Dumbledore was hunched over his desk, quill scratching away. At the sound of Tom's voice, he looked up and smiled warmly, setting the quill down.
"Mr. Riddle, you read too fast. At this rate, you'll clear out my entire collection before you even graduate."
Tom glanced at the towering bookshelves, stacked to the ceiling. "Not likely," he said, shaking his head. "At my current pace, I'm behind. I'll have to work harder."
Dumbledore chuckled helplessly. "To be honest, even I haven't read every book in here. Many of them belonged to past headmasters and headmistresses."
Tom shrugged. "I'll get through as many as I can. I've got plenty of spare time."
He climbed the ladder and carefully replaced the two books he was returning in their original spots. After scanning the shelves, he selected two more:
"The Nature of Magic"
"Ancient Scripts and the Power Within"
Books in hand, Tom turned to leave—but Dumbledore called out to stop him.
"Professor? Is there something else?"
"Nothing much," Dumbledore replied, still smiling gently. "I just wanted to apologize."
Tom blinked. Apologize?
He frowned, thinking hard. Then he asked cautiously, "You're not taking back the loan, are you?"
Honestly, that was the only thing he could imagine Dumbledore apologizing for.
Dumbledore: …
Is this what I've become? he wondered, half amused and half dismayed. A man so pitiful that a student thinks I'd apologize just to reclaim a few hundred Galleons?
"Mr. Riddle," he said with a sigh, "you can continue using that money without worry."
Tom gave a sigh of relief, but Dumbledore continued, "I'm apologizing for something else. I received your… feedback this morning. Your concerns about the school's security."
Tom's brain clicked into high gear. In a flash, he realized what had happened.
He had noticed Professor McGonagall lurking nearby during breakfast but hadn't thought much of it. Apparently, she'd relayed his words to Dumbledore, and now here they were.
As long as it wasn't about the loan, Tom didn't really care.
"Professor, of course I trust you," he said smoothly. "The troll incident was just a freak accident."
In all fairness, Dumbledore's term as Headmaster had seen its share of chaos, sure—but the only actual fatality had been Cedric Diggory. And even that had happened after he was portkeyed off school grounds.
So technically, Dumbledore could promise student safety without jinxing himself. It wasn't really a flag.
Dumbledore nodded with a faint smile. They chatted a little while longer before Tom finally took his leave.
After Herbology class ended that afternoon, Tom headed straight for the Forbidden Forest. To avoid unnecessary trouble, he'd cast a Disillusionment Charm on himself beforehand.
But even so, as he passed Hagrid's hut, the boarhound Fang—tied at the door—began barking wildly at thin air.
"Woof! Woof woof—whimper...!"
Mid-bark, his voice turned into a whine. Tom had turned to glance at him.
Despite being hidden from sight, dogs—especially hunting breeds—had a keen sense of danger. Fang could tell that if he kept barking, he might just end up as the star ingredient in a hotpot.
"Fang, what are you barking at now?"
Hagrid came hurrying over from his pumpkin patch. All he saw was Fang curling into himself, whimpering and covering his snout.
Tom was already slipping silently into the Forbidden Forest.
The Disillusionment Charm had its drawbacks. While it distorted light to hide the caster's form, it did nothing to conceal scent. If someone—or something—relied on smell, the charm alone wouldn't cut it. For proper stealth, a spell to suppress scent was essential.
Unfortunately, Tom had yet to encounter any such magic. The wizarding world had long harbored a certain arrogance toward magical creatures—most didn't bother developing magic specifically to evade them. Even with someone like Newt Scamander challenging the status quo, the prejudice ran deep.
"You should start creating your own spells," came Andros's sudden voice in his mind.
"…Me?"
Tom halted in place, momentarily stunned.
He had never considered inventing his own spells. Not out of a lack of ambition—but because it felt like something far beyond his current level. Or perhaps… simply unnecessary. Surely that was something to tackle after he'd mastered more conventional magic.
Understanding his hesitation, Andros chuckled from within the mental space they shared. "Creating magic—or tailoring existing spells to suit yourself better—is a vital part of magical growth. Don't underestimate yourself, Tom. You're already far beyond ordinary."
"Not just compared to other students your age—even among full-grown wizards, you'd stand out. You've earned the right to take this step. Developing and adapting spells will force you to think more deeply. You'll come to understand the essence of magic itself."
"…I understand," Tom said, nodding slowly. He made a mental note of it—his first official consideration of magical innovation.
Andros looked on, satisfied.
He wasn't just humoring Tom because the boy controlled his existence—his approval was genuine. After all, when you looked at the other eleven-year-olds around Hogwarts, Tom was in a league of his own.
Children, by nature, were bundles of energy and mischief. Teenagers were even worse—restless and distractible. Yet Tom, from the day they'd met, had been relentless in his pursuit of knowledge. Not just attending classes, but training in their shared space every single night without fail.
With that kind of dedication, even a fool would accomplish something. And Tom was no fool.
While others played through their school years, Tom studied them into the ground. Once adulthood came with its distractions and burdens, the gap between them would only grow wider.
To Andros, having such a pupil was an honor.
What he didn't know was that Tom's drive was also fueled by something else—his system.
The system had no visible "skill progression," but it did track credits. And whenever Tom's credits increased, he knew he'd truly learned something. That sense of visual progress gave him endless motivation.
Seeing those numbers tick upward made him itch to study even more—sometimes for hours longer than planned.
It was a beautiful misunderstanding. But one that, incidentally, helped strengthen the bond between mentor and student. Once their synchronization hit 100%, Tom would unlock another trait.
…
When Tom arrived at the clearing where he'd brewed potions the night before, he spotted a house-elf standing over the cauldron, staring into it.
"...Andros?" Tom called out tentatively.
The elf jumped like he'd been struck by lightning and immediately began bowing nonstop.
"Master Riddle! Ando was not slacking! Ando was not daydreaming!"
Tom glanced into the cauldron. The potion's color was exactly as expected. Satisfied, he smiled and nodded. "I know. It's progressing nicely. Good work."
"Master Riddle is too kind! Not hard work at all!"
Just one polite word of recognition was enough to send the elf into overwhelmed gratitude. Tom couldn't imagine what kind of treatment they'd endured to make submission so instinctive.
Still, he had no intention of challenging that system. He benefited from it—and he was no idealist. He wasn't about to betray his own class.
Crouching beside the cauldron, Tom stirred with his wand, infusing it with magic. The potion, previously bubbling faintly, immediately surged into a boil. He added a new round of ingredients.
Under the afternoon sun, the mixture shimmered a striking violet-red. According to Andros, by the third day—once the heart of a Fire Dragon was added—it would turn deep crimson.
After a final check, Tom instructed Ando to watch over it carefully, then turned to leave.
Over the next two days, the Forbidden Forest might as well have become his second common room. Morning, noon, and night, he'd swing by the cauldron to check its progress.
Though he had no clue how effective Andros's prized potion would be, the brewing process had already taught him a lot. He was gaining experience—and even more questions.
Under normal circumstances, he might have taken those questions straight to Snape.
But lately, the man had been… volatile.
It was like the Potions Master had hit wizarding menopause. His temper was foul, his patience thinner than Peeves' excuses. And the targets of his wrath weren't limited to Harry or the younger Gryffindors anymore. Anyone outside Slytherin was fair game.
Even the other professors were baffled. What had pushed Severus Snape into such a foul mood?
Only Tom and Dumbledore knew the truth.
Dumbledore had found out after Snape's budget request had been denied. As for Tom... well, he'd caused it. Of course he knew.
Not that Snape suspected him. His eyes were locked on Quirrell like a vengeful hawk.
The result? Quirrell had been so paranoid he didn't even dare enter the Great Hall for meals anymore.
...
Finally, Saturday arrived.
The first Quidditch match of the year was about to begin.
There's a saying in the Muggle world—sports are the wars of peacetime.
At Hogwarts, Quidditch might as well be war between the four houses. It was their most direct form of competition.
Tensions began to mount days before the match. Players were shadowed by classmates or older students wherever they went, to prevent sabotage. No one was allowed to eat anything unless a "tester" sampled it first.
The sheer level of security even left Tom astonished. Harry, for instance, was flanked by three towering fifth-years. The scrawny Seeker was completely swallowed up by them.
And Slytherin's Seeker, Terence Higgs, had it no easier—he had Marcus Flint himself acting as his personal bodyguard.
"Isn't this a bit much?" Tom couldn't help but comment.
"It's essential, Tom," said Adrian Pucey, one of Slytherin's Chasers, turning to him with a solemn face. "Two years ago, when I made the main team, Gryffindor slipped me a high-grade laxative. I thought my intestines were going to fall out."
Tom blinked. "Gryffindor? That sneaky?"
He didn't particularly like the bold, reckless lions, but this seemed… uncharacteristic. Most of them were fairly straightforward.
Pettigrew-type backstabbers were rare.
"They're the worst!" Pucey growled through gritted teeth. "It was their Beaters—the Weasley twins—who did it. Just because Marcus broke Wood's nose the previous year, they took it out on me! I had nothing to do with it!"
Tom: "…"
Well. Case closed.
Turns out Slytherin struck first—exactly like he expected.
Figures.