Tom's demand was perfectly reasonable—logical, even.
Quirrell, though a Ravenclaw alumnus, was well aware of the depth of Slytherin's bloodline elitism.
Even if Riddle was the teachers' golden boy, it didn't mean he was popular with his peers.
Earning the House Cup to boost his standing within Slytherin—now that was a clever move.
Kids would be kids. Handed such a prime opportunity for blackmail, and yet they wouldn't even use it properly.
Quirrell chuckled inwardly, but outwardly he expressed hearty approval of Tom's idea. He promptly pulled out a pouch containing a hundred Galleons and handed it over, saying smoothly,
"Even as a professor, I need a reason to award House points. I can't just hand them out arbitrarily."
"Don't worry, Tom. Next time in class, I'll call on you a few more times. That way, the points you earn will be well-deserved."
"Thank you, Professor." Tom took the pouch with a satisfied nod, then asked, almost offhandedly, "Professor, how much does the school pay you every month?"
Quirrell didn't mind revealing that little secret. "I get a hundred and fifty Galleons. That's considered a high salary among regular professors. Heads of House make more, but not by a huge margin."
A hundred and fifty Galleons was, in the wizarding world, quite a lucrative wage.
Your average Ministry worker made between thirty to fifty Galleons, slightly more depending on their role and department.
But one-fifty? That was Department Head level.
Quirrell's openness was deliberate—it was his way of showing how much he valued this "partnership."
I'm giving you most of my monthly salary. What a fantastic collaborator you are.
Tom nodded thoughtfully. "Alright then. I'll come pick it up again next month."
"Tw—two hun—huh?"
Quirrell froze mid-nod, his smile stiffening. "Tom… what did you just say?"
Tom looked at him, confused. "Isn't it a hundred Galleons per month?"
"Y-yes, yes… it is," Quirrell forced a smile, immediately reevaluating his earlier praise.
This kid's a damn leech!
"I'll be going now."
Tom gave a casual wave and strolled out of Quirrell's office, leaving no trace behind—except for a pouch a hundred Galleons lighter.
As the door clicked shut, Quirrell's face twisted with rage, like a demon shedding its mask.
"Let me out!"
Voldemort's voice was a harsh snarl. Quirrell frantically unwrapped his turban and knelt before the full-length mirror.
On the back of his head, Voldemort's twisted face glared back at him. His pallid skin was now marred with bruises and cuts.
He hadn't looked this terrible before—the Bludger had done a number on him.
Not only was his face a mess, but his nose had been crushed inward. He now looked like… well, like someone with no nose at all.
Voldemort let out a dark, mirthless laugh.
"How many years has it been… since someone dared to threaten me?"
"Master, why didn't you let me act just now?" Quirrell remained on his knees, confused. "Even if we can't kill him inside the castle, I could've used the Imperius Curse to control him and then erase his memory."
Everything he'd said earlier had been Voldemort's instructions. But Quirrell didn't understand—why go through so much trouble for a mere first-year?
"You idiot!"
Voldemort's voice was a whip-crack. "Didn't you see the Slytherin girl standing beside Riddle when he stopped you?"
"She knew you were up to something. She still came with him to your office—do you really think Riddle wouldn't have prepared for that?"
"And even if you did control him with the Imperius Curse, your pitiful Dark Arts skills would need constant re-casting to maintain it."
"Dumbledore's already watching you closely. And Riddle, who's constantly interacting with you, would eventually expose something. Why can't you think before you act?"
Voldemort lashed out in frustration. In his prime, someone like Quirrell wouldn't even qualify to be his follower—just a lackey, like the two dimwits always trailing behind Malfoy.
But now, with his powers so weak, all he could do was manipulate idiots like this with words. Anyone smarter, and he might lose control.
Still… there was another reason he hadn't let Quirrell go through with it.
That reason was Tom's name.
He hated that name—his old name. He had gone to great lengths to cast it off.
But Tom Riddle was Tom Riddle. Anyone bearing that name was… different.
And Quirrell? Quirrell was nothing. How dare he think he could control Tom?
"Just keep Riddle appeased. Don't worry about your pathetic Galleons."
Voldemort spoke distractedly. "Once I'm resurrected, you'll be rewarded a thousandfold. Riddle—I'll deal with him myself."
"You have two tasks now. First, figure out exactly what traps the professors have set up on the fourth-floor corridor."
"Second, gather the materials I need. I'm too weak right now—so weak I can barely help you at all."
Voldemort had never been this feeble.
When the Bludger hit Quirrell, he had absorbed nearly 80% of the damage.
That little reserve of strength he'd had? Almost completely gone.
These days, he'd spend three days unconscious, two barely alive, and one just clinging to existence.
Quirrell bowed low. Even in Voldemort's weakest state, he had no thought of resisting. His life was no longer his own.
Still, he took the chance to complain. "Master, Snape's been watching me like a bloodhound. He's got some bizarre grudge against me. Acts like I robbed his house or something. He was a Death Eater once, wasn't he? Now look at him, working for Dumbledore like the perfect little soldier."
"Death ends all loyalty." Voldemort sneered. "And not just Snape—how many others threw themselves into Azkaban the moment I fell?"
"I wasn't there to see it, but I know. Those pureblood families—they were the first to grovel and surrender."
"But what does it matter? The moment I return to power, they'll all be on their knees again, kissing the hem of my robes. Snape included."
"Should I contact him now?" Quirrell asked hesitantly. "If he learns that you're alive, and that I'm working toward the Philosopher's Stone for you, maybe he'll help us—"
"Who said you could decide that?!"
"AAAHHH—!"
Quirrell screamed in agony, clutching his skull.
It felt like a thousand silver needles had pierced straight into his brain.
"You do exactly what I tell you," Voldemort growled. "Don't try to use that pathetic excuse of a brain to take shortcuts.
You think I haven't already considered what you just did?"
"You really think Snape would choose me, weak as I am—less than human—or Dumbledore?"
"Without me, you're a worthless failure. But Snape? He's a Potions Master. He'll thrive no matter whom he serves.
He's not the same as you, you useless idiot!"
Quirrell wept openly, groveling for forgiveness.
It took a long time before Voldemort's fury subsided.
Meanwhile, back in the Slytherin dorms, Tom returned with an extra hundred Galleons in his pocket and a spring in his step.
"Got anything to eat? The waffles at breakfast were rock-hard. Didn't like them. Still hungry."
The roommates who had been playing Exploding Snap immediately tossed their cards aside and rushed to rummage through their trunks. In no time, Tom's desk was piled high with snacks.
The three of them glared at one another, forming a perfectly tense triangular standoff.
The war over "soft persimmons" was always the same—if they gave more, the others gave less.
And how else were they supposed to earn Tom's favor?
Don't be fooled by how meek they seemed in here. Out there, they threw Tom's name around like a club. Among first-years, no one dared mess with them—except that damn Greengrass girl.
Even older students didn't dare boss them around. That came with perks.
Give it a few more years, when they themselves were the upperclassmen... the benefits would multiply.
And so the Slytherin dorm turned into a full-blown competition of sycophancy. A contest to see who could kiss up to Tom the best.
Munching on crisps, Tom walked over to a cauldron simmering in the corner. He leaned in and checked the potion's consistency, then nodded in satisfaction.
"Not bad, Blaise. This batch of Stamina Potion is pretty much a success."
Zabini broke into a wide, excited grin.
Tom had started teaching him how to brew Stamina Potions a month ago. After four or five failed attempts, this was his first real success.
Still, that alone was enough to make him proud—this was a high-level potion even fifth- or sixth-years might not master.
Nott and Rosier exchanged a glance and saw mirrored helplessness in each other's eyes.
They could compete in other areas, maybe, but not this.
Zabini had the talent and the interest in Potions. He willingly invested time and money into it. Meanwhile, neither of them had the aptitude or the patience, and there was no way they could challenge him on this front.
"Brew a few more batches tomorrow. Practice makes perfect," Tom encouraged, patting Zabini on the shoulder. "Once you can do it consistently, it'll mean you've truly mastered it."
After all, Stamina Potions were consumables—Daphne and Hermione both needed them regularly. With Zabini handling the brewing, Tom had essentially cultivated a free labor source.
Actually, no—not just free. Zabini paid for the ingredients himself too.
Tom was practically profiting off him.
Still, even a fool needs to be given some incentive if you want the exploitation to be sustainable. No point in fishing out the pond.
Tom returned to his desk, pulled a notebook from his bag, and tore out a page. He copied something onto it, then used a Mending Charm to restore the notebook.
"Zabini, this is my insight into the Stunning Spell. It should help you increase both casting and projectile speed."
Zabini accepted the note like it was a sacred treasure. Nott and Rosier's eyes turned bloodshot with envy.
This kind of thing? Their families considered it arcane secrets never to be shared.
People always wondered—why could the same spell differ so greatly in power when cast by different wizards?
The reasons were many, but spellcasting technique was a big one. Skilled wizards often customized spells to suit themselves better. Go a step further, and you were improving the spells—making them easier to learn or more powerful.
That was the mark of true heritage.
Any family worth its salt had at least a few secret techniques or forbidden spells. If not, how could they call themselves a proper wizarding family?
Zabini was a pure-blood, sure—but not from a pure-blood family. His blood status came from having two pure-blood parents, that's all. His father was long dead, and his mother had remarried multiple times.
Aside from money, Zabini didn't have much to boast about. Not compared to Nott or Rosier.
Gulp.
Zabini stared blankly for a moment before swallowing hard.
"Tom… are you sure I can have this?"
The Stunning Spell was basic, yes, but used well, it could give you the upper hand in a fight. The reward felt so immense he was scared to accept it.
"If I wasn't giving it to you, would I waste my time copying it?" Tom waved a hand dismissively. "Just don't come up with excuses next time I ask you to brew something."
"I swear I won't!" Zabini said quickly, sounding almost panicked. "As long as I'm good enough, I'll brew whatever potion you need. I'll even pay for the ingredients myself!"
"Tom, is there anything I can do for you?" Nott asked eagerly. "I'm not great at Potions, but I can help with chores or errands!"
Rosier nodded so hard he nearly gave himself whiplash. "Same here!"
"You two…" Tom looked at them with a half-smile, half-sigh. "Why don't you figure out what you're actually good at first, then we'll talk."
Damn it. So this is the power of having a skill.
Nott and Rosier fell into deep thought.
What were they good at?
Eating? Slacking? Skipping class?
...
Ever since receiving Tom's reward, Zabini had undergone a complete transformation.
In Potions class, he paid rapt attention. After class, he practically lived in the library. Any spare time went to practicing Tom's improved Stunning Spell.
He was a stark contrast to his two freeloading roommates.
Nott and Rosier were baffled.
We agreed to be deadweight together—how could you just start trying all of a sudden?
The power of example was undeniable. Even if the two still hated studying, the fear of being left behind—and embarrassed—pushed them to study harder too.
They couldn't match Zabini's work ethic, but compared to the rest of the first-years, they were way ahead.
Take Harry, for example.
He seemed born with a sense of righteous burden—deeply convinced that the school's professors were incompetent parasites. How could anyone trust them to protect Dumbledore's treasure?
So lately, Harry had been slacking off in class, pouring most of his energy into one thing: Who exactly is Nicolas Flamel?
Hermione hadn't told him.
She believed that if the treasure was truly so important, Dumbledore would've taken every possible precaution. If his protections failed, what could Harry possibly do?
After trying to reason with him a few times and getting nowhere, Hermione gave up her savior complex and focused solely on improving herself.
Tom's rate of improvement was even faster. With the help of his Strengthening Potion, his body and magical reserves were evolving every week. His learning speed remained steady, but his overall capabilities were rising fast.
As for Quirrell—ever since that talk with Tom, he'd started making good on his promise, handing out House Points like candy.
Naturally, someone was starting to notice.