Ever since Quirrell returned to teaching, the students' suffering resumed in full.
He hadn't picked up any of Snape's better habits — still the same routine: read the textbook, recite the textbook, write your reflections. Nothing new.
Actually… there was one change.
Quirrell smelled worse than ever, pungent enough to make students suspect he had somehow ascended into garlic-based sentience. And to make matters worse, he now enforced a strict "no windows open" rule in class. So not only were students learning nothing, they also had to endure chemical warfare every lesson. Who wouldn't pass out?
The library's entire collection of olfactory-blocking charms and potion books had been borrowed dry. The waitlist stretched into the following year.
But for Tom, Quirrell's return was undeniably a good thing.
Quirrell had begun calling on him to answer questions in class, or help collect homework — little favors that came with steady rewards: one or two points each time. It didn't seem like much per class, but over time, it added up fast.
With two Defense Against the Dark Arts classes each week, by December, Slytherin — despite an early term of relentless point deductions — had surged ahead of Ravenclaw by 20 points. And over just a few weeks, Tom had single-handedly earned 80+ points from Quirrell.
Put simply: the pride of all seven Slytherin years was resting squarely on his shoulders.
Though Dumbledore rarely appeared in public, nothing within the school escaped his notice. He quickly picked up on this anomaly and used his authority to check the points ledger. Upon reviewing the records, the Headmaster fell silent.
Quirrell had given Slytherin over 80 points in a single month — all to Tom Riddle.
If that didn't smell fishy, then Dumbledore was a Blast-Ended Skrewt in disguise.
After a long pause, he summoned Snape and shared the findings.
Snape had actually been in a decent mood. Things had been smooth lately: Slytherin was leading, Quirrell hadn't caused any disasters — life was, for once, tolerable.
Until Dumbledore dropped the bomb.
Snape's face turned stormy in an instant.
So… all of Slytherin's points came from Quirrell?
Just what the hell was Tom Riddle up to?
"I'll handle it," Snape growled, already striding out the door like a thundercloud in human form.
—
At the time, Tom was in the common room teaching Daphne how to braid string into a flower knot when someone came in saying Snape was looking for him. He blinked in confusion but went obediently to the Potions Master's office.
He barely had time to sit down when Snape cut right to the chase.
"Riddle. What's going on between you and Quirrell?"
His tone was razor-sharp.
"In one month, he gave you eighty points. What is he — your long-lost father?"
"Professor," Tom said, frowning, "I can't help but notice your sarcasm has gotten even sharper lately. That was genuinely offensive."
"If Quirrell were really my father, I'd be studying the three Unforgivable Curses by now."
"Don't joke with me," Snape snapped. "Explain. Why is Quirrell giving you so many points?"
Tom casually settled into the chair across from him and spoke with practiced honesty:
"Well, the explanation's simple. I found out he was trying to kill Harry during the Quidditch match… and that he's after the Philosopher's Stone. So I used that to blackmail him."
"He not only agreed to give me points, but also promised me a hundred Galleons a month."
"And once he gets the Stone, we're supposed to split the Elixir of Life and any gold made from it fifty-fifty."
"...???"
Snape's entire mind filled with question marks.
Was this kid seriously being this honest?
Wait — no.
His demeanor shifted at once. A dangerous gleam lit his eyes as he fixed Tom with an intense stare.
"How do you know about the Philosopher's Stone?"
Tom calmly repeated the story, laying it all out again.
Snape's tension slowly ebbed. He leaned back in his chair and… laughed.
Yes — genuinely laughed.
Turns out, some kinds of speechlessness do lead to laughter.
Dumbledore, look at the people you trust, Snape thought bitterly.
A few first years managed to wring your biggest secrets out of Hagrid, your most loyal follower.
"What, you want the Stone for yourself?" Snape asked abruptly.
"Of course," Tom said, voice open and sincere. "But I can't beat Dumbledore."
Snape didn't even look at him. He simply pointed to the door.
"Get out."
Just before Tom stepped out, Snape's cold voice followed him:
"Stay away from Quirrell. Don't meet with him alone. Know your limits, Riddle."
"Got it, Professor," Tom replied cheerfully, waving as he closed the door behind him.
—
That night, Snape relayed everything to Dumbledore.
And the Headmaster… could only chuckle helplessly.
He was certain Tom had no real designs on the Philosopher's Stone. If he did, he wouldn't have been so blatant about spilling the details.
Snape, of course, couldn't pass up the opportunity to jab at Dumbledore.
"This is your 'secret weapon,' huh? That half-giant may be loyal to a fault, but what other virtue does he have?"
"And look at the mess he's made — every time, you have to clean it up. Dumbledore, if you don't rein him in, one of these days he'll cause a catastrophe you can't contain."
"Potter didn't even ask anything. Hagrid just spilled the beans like a busted cauldron. I'm starting to think my missing potion supplies were stolen by him to brew Veritaserum as drinking water!"
If Tom were here, he'd probably declare Snape a prophetic genius on the spot.
Because Hagrid's troublemaking had only just begun.
Next came magical creature injuries, illegal breeding of Blast-Ended Skrewts…
Any one of those offenses would land someone else in Azkaban — but Hagrid? Still bouncing around Hogwarts and even promoted to professor.
"This isn't about loyalty," Dumbledore replied calmly. "Hagrid trusts me, the same way I trust you. We're not in a hierarchy. We're friends with a shared purpose."
Snape gave him a tight-lipped smile.
So this is what a White Dark Lord from Gryffindor sounds like?
Only Dumbledore could turn cold, hard facts into such moving declarations of trust. Against someone like Hagrid, that's more effective than all of Voldemort's theatrics combined.
"What now, then?" Snape asked. "Even students are learning about the Stone. You really think Quirrell won't succeed?"
"I'm confident in my protections," Dumbledore replied. "But... I agree. Some rules need to change — to make sure no child stumbles into danger. I'll handle it."
Snape narrowed his eyes. It suddenly clicked.
Dumbledore wanted Harry to dig deeper, to uncover more secrets. But why?
"Dumbledore," he asked suddenly, "can the Philosopher's Stone be used… to become more powerful?"
The old wizard gave him a curious look.
"Severus?"
Dumbledore looked at Snape with mild surprise.
He'd thought he understood Severus Snape inside and out, but that question just now proved he might have been wrong.
Snape clarified with a rare edge of earnestness:
"Nicolas Flamel entrusted the Philosopher's Stone to you. That implies he's left its use up to your discretion. If it could be used to amplify your power… wouldn't that make you better prepared to face the Dark Lord?"
Dumbledore mulled that over for a moment.
"In theory… yes. But in truth, the Stone's power has been nearly exhausted. And even a perfect Philosopher's Stone wouldn't have made that much difference."
He chuckled lightly. "If it did, Nicolas wouldn't be stuck at his current magical level. To be honest… ah, never mind."
Compared to his legendary alchemical accomplishments, Nicolas Flamel's magical prowess had always been underwhelming, to say the least.
"I see," Snape sighed, not with disappointment for Dumbledore—but for Tom.
Because deep down, Snape knew Albus would never rely on external power to strengthen himself. His question had been more about whether the Philosopher's Stone could be of use to Tom Riddle.
The notion of nurturing a new Dark Lord—one with control, intellect, and perhaps even a moral compass—still lingered at the edges of Snape's mind. And with each new display of talent from Tom, that fantasy felt increasingly tangible.
Losing out on a shortcut like the Stone stung, and the disappointment showed plainly on his face. The conversation, to him, had already ended.
But Dumbledore wasn't finished yet.
With an awkward smile, he hesitantly brought up another matter.
"Severus… about those House points Slytherin's been receiving…"
Snape's face turned grim instantly.
"They stay," he said sharply. "If you dock any points, Quirrell will sense something's wrong. He'll realize Riddle's spoken to you."
"But it's unfair to the other Houses," Dumbledore protested gently. "Even without those points, Slytherin still stands a strong chance of winning the House Cup."
Snape shot back immediately:
"All for the greater good, Albus. Sacrifice the small for the sake of the larger plan. Or have you forgotten how this works?"
Dumbledore let out a resigned sigh. As much as he disliked it, Snape wasn't wrong. It really wasn't worth risking Quirrell's suspicion just to even out the scoreboard.
Besides, perhaps it could be seen as a reward—for Tom's restraint, for valuing principles over power.
When he saw that Dumbledore wouldn't argue further, a faint smirk tugged at Snape's lips. He turned and left the office without another word.
…
By mid-December, Hogwarts awoke one morning to a breathtaking sight: the grounds had been blanketed overnight in a fresh coat of shimmering silver.
The season's first snow had arrived.
Excited young witches and wizards spilled onto the grounds, eager to start snowball fights and make snow angels. Their laughter echoed across the hills and courtyards.
The Weasley twins, however, found themselves in detention—not because of the snowball fight itself, but because they'd enchanted several snowballs to chase Professor Quirrell across the courtyard… and smack right into the back of his turban.
Tom witnessed the whole thing and could only shake his head in amazement.
Now that was bravery—lobbing magical snowballs at Lord Voldemort himself.
It made him wonder… years down the line, when one twin died and the other was left shattered, would anyone trace that fate back to this cheeky incident?
Knowing Voldemort's pettiness? Very possible.
…
"Tom! Snowball fights are boring. Let's build a snowman instead," said Daphne, suddenly popping up behind him like a snow spirit.
She was bundled from head to toe in winter white—fluffy down coat, matching trousers, a cozy hat with little white pom-poms dangling on either side. Honestly, she looked more like a snowgirl than anything she might build.
"How about we invite Hermione too? We can have a contest—see who makes the cuter snowman."
Daphne immediately agreed and urged Tom to go fetch her.
Though Daphne and Hermione were getting along better than they had at the start of term, their relationship still had a competitive edge. They bickered often—though strangely, it seemed to bring them closer.
Tom jogged back toward the castle, grumbling internally about how inefficient wizarding communication was. No messaging charms, no devices—he still had to go chase people down on foot.
Maybe it was time to invent something.
He'd been dabbling in alchemy lately—perhaps this was the perfect excuse to develop a magical communication tool.
…
As expected, Hermione was in the library, nose-deep in a book. Without preamble, Tom grabbed her by the sleeve and dragged her out.
When she learned they were building snowmen, she hesitated. But Tom's reasoning—"you need balance to study efficiently"—finally won her over.
And once she stepped into the snowy wonderland outside the castle, her eyes lit up with wonder.
They each took a spot and began sculpting snowmen, while Tom played the impartial judge. Not wanting either of them to suffer from the cold, he cast gentle warming charms on their hands. The snow might melt a bit faster, but at least their fingers wouldn't freeze.
As he enchanted their gloves, he gently held each girl's hand—warm, soft, and faintly fragrant. Both girls flushed pink and immediately snatched their hands away, muttering under their breath.
Suddenly, the air split with a whoosh. Without turning, Tom raised his wand—and the snowball hurtling toward him reversed mid-air and zoomed back along its trajectory.
Thwack! Thwack!
Two yelps of pain followed.
"Riddle! That's cheating!" Fred clutched his head, wincing. "Who uses magic in a snowball fight?!"
Tom finally turned, looking completely innocent.
"But didn't you two enchant snowballs to chase Professor Quirrell earlier? I saw it with my own eyes."
"And besides—we're wizards. Isn't that the whole point?"
The twins exchanged a look… then identical grins spread across their faces.
"Alright then, Riddle. Let's settle this with a proper magical snowball duel!" George declared, already pulling out his wand.
In an instant, over a hundred snowballs lifted off the ground around them, floating menacingly. It was quite a sight—and it caught the attention of half the courtyard.
Hermione and Daphne readied their wands to assist, but Tom stopped them.
"No need. Just watch me handle this."
With a flick of his wand, Tom tapped the ground. The snow shifted and rumbled… then surged upward.
Right before the stunned Weasleys, the snow formed into a towering ten-meter-tall snowman, complete with stubby arms and an oversized, goofy smile.
The giant scooped up a snowball larger than either twin and hurled it with casual ease.
Fred and George blanched.
Their enchanted snowballs looked like fluffy marshmallows in comparison.
With matching shrieks, they split and sprinted in opposite directions. The snowman hurled ball after ball with astonishing accuracy.
Fred was the first to get caught—snow spilling into the seams of his robes and making him shriek like a banshee.
Up on the front steps, Professor McGonagall witnessed the whole scene—and instead of scolding anyone, she smiled warmly.
If only he showed this level of skill during Transfiguration class, she thought. I'd give him ten points on the spot.
High above, in the ivory tower, Dumbledore stood at the window, gazing out over the snowy grounds.
He watched the towering snowman, the giggling children, and the way sunlight made the world glitter.
And he smiled.
This… this is what it's all about.