After a satisfying meal, Tom parted ways with the trio of food lovers. He watched them return to the castle, then turned back and ventured deeper into the Forbidden Forest.
The feast had delayed him, so he cast a Feather-Light Charm on himself to move swiftly. By now, the outer forest was so familiar to him it may as well have been the back of his hand—paths and wildlife patterns were etched clearly in his memory.
He began by visiting the territory of the Mooncalves, collecting some of their dung for potion ingredients, and tossed them a bit of food. Then he swung by the habitat of the Treefrogs and scooped up a cluster of amphibian eggs.
Lastly, he located a family of porcupines, stunned the entire group, and plucked a generous handful of quills from their bristly backs.
Honestly, Tom was beginning to think that being a wizard wasn't so different from cultivating immortality in those Muggle fantasy novels. Wizards relied on potions much the way cultivators used elixirs and spirit stones: to grow stronger, survive danger, and speed up their progress.
Fortunately, his Head of House happened to be a Potions Master—possibly one with intentions of taking Tom on as both his first and last apprentice. The man never held back knowledge, which allowed Tom's potion skills to grow at an extraordinary pace.
Otherwise, if Tom had to rely on buying these ingredients, assuming he could even find a vendor who stocked them, the quality and potency would be a huge gamble.
After ransacking the outskirts, Tom pushed deeper into the forest.
There wasn't an official line dividing the outer woods from the inner depths, but his system provided a clear signal.
[You have entered the Forbidden Forest's inner region. Achievement Points +20]
That pushed his total to over 900.
Back when he only had a few dozen, Tom could keep calm. But now—with just under a hundred more needed to summon another teacher—he was growing impatient.
Andros was powerful and kind, no doubt, but the man was a fossil. There were vast chunks of modern magical theory he simply didn't understand. Take Apparition and Disapparition, for example—essential tools in any wizard's arsenal. They were invented during the post-Medieval Witch Hunts. To Andros, they were the magical equivalent of flying cars.
He'd tried learning them in the spirit space, but being a soul without a body made the spells... awkward. So he didn't dare teach Tom something he couldn't confidently perform himself.
Tom was now hoping his next summoned mentor would be a wizard from the 15th century or later, when the modern magical system had started taking shape. If his next teacher was another ancient relic, he might as well reverse the learning process and teach them instead.
Achoo!
In the learning space, where Andros had been idly flipping through The Daily Prophet, he sneezed violently for no apparent reason.
…
Entering the deeper woods, Tom slowed down. It wasn't just to map the terrain—caution was crucial here.
Some magical creatures weren't dangerous individually, but in swarms they became death incarnate. Take Acromantulas: a single adult was nothing a skilled wizard couldn't handle, but a full nest? You might as well dig your own grave.
Tom's goal was to find a lone Acromantula, take it down, and get out before the rest showed up. If he was unlucky enough to stumble upon a full colony… well, then it'd be time to channel his inner god and consider species-level genocide.
After a short walk, he spotted a large patch of wild nettles in the damp undergrowth. Their leaves bore gnawed edges—clear evidence that magical creatures had been feeding here.
Sure enough, Tom soon discovered a hollow tree housing a full nest of Horklumps.
His face lit up.
Horklumps were key ingredients in Enhancer Elixirs, a type of potion that temporarily boosted physical stats. In duels or emergency situations, drinking one could greatly increase a wizard's speed and strength.
Agility was already a given. After all, "Pikachu, dodge!" had become a pop culture staple for a reason. But strength? That was where wizards fell short. When spells weren't enough to end a fight, sometimes a well-placed punch was.
Magical dueling had its budget options—standard spell-slinging. But the high-end version? That was a pharmaceutical arms race: downing seven or eight potions for buffs and maybe even a Felix Felicis to top it off. With that kind of prep, even a student might beat an Auror.
One Stunning Spell later, the nest fell silent. Tom picked through the fallen Horklumps and selected about twenty—half the nest—with a perfect 1:1 male-to-female ratio. The rest he left behind to repopulate the stock.
He also harvested the nettles before moving on.
Suddenly, a low, guttural bellow echoed from the northwest. It sounded bovine—like a water buffalo—but fiercer, more aggressive.
Tom followed the noise and soon reached a small sunken glade, where he found the source.
A massive creature with golden fur was devouring a half-eaten goat carcass.
"A Re'em?" he whispered, eyes going wide.
Shock and joy washed over him in equal measure. Re'ems were native to North America and the Far East—what on earth was one doing in the Forbidden Forest?
They were exceptionally rare—ranked 4X on the magical creature danger scale—and even rarer than dragons. Whenever one appeared, it triggered a feeding frenzy among magical poachers.
Re'em blood granted incredible strength. It was so potent that the global wizarding governments had long since banned hunting them. But profit spoke louder than law. On the black market, Re'em blood fetched absurd prices—and it always sold out instantly.
Tom didn't hesitate.
He leapt from cover. The Re'em halted its meal and whipped around. Its horns dipped threateningly as it stomped the ground with its front hooves.
Tom raised his arms and bounced on his feet, emitting a strange, rhythmic cry.
It was a challenge—one that magical beasts understood instinctively.
The Re'em roared in return, golden light flaring even brighter across its body.
Tom flung a Blasting Curse to signal the start of the duel. It struck the beast's back… and vanished harmlessly into its thick fur.
He wasn't surprised.
That gleaming coat wasn't just for show—creatures evolved for survival, not fashion. And the Re'em's shimmering hide was incredibly tough. It made the skin of a three-headed dog look like tissue paper.
Tom's plan was simple: not just to collect its blood, but also to snag a few tufts of fur—ideal material for crafting wizarding "bulletproof" robes.
"Tom, be careful," came Andros's voice, finally intrigued. "This might be the strongest opponent you've ever faced."
He wasn't wrong. All those duels with Slytherin first-years didn't count for much. That was just beating up kids, not real combat.
A full-grown Re'em, on the other hand, could give even Aurors a run for their Galleons. It usually took a team to bring one down.
Andros was curious to see how Tom's strength measured up now that he'd ingested so many potions and practiced so relentlessly.
They had sparred before inside the learning space—but it was like a grandmaster trying to measure the skill of a toddler. It was hard to tell if Tom had grown stronger or just louder.
"I understand," Tom muttered, eyes never leaving the beast.
And then the real duel began.
Tom grew serious.
The classification of magical creatures as XXXX or XXXXX didn't strictly reflect their strength—it was a rating of their danger to humans, as well as their hostility.
Even Dumbledore's phoenix was only rated XXXX. Who'd dare say Fawkes was weak? The bird had taken down a Basilisk solo.
While Tom and Andros spoke, the Re'em had already lowered its head and charged, each thundering hoofstep causing the earth to tremble. It was like a living freight train barreling forward at full speed.
With a flick of his wand, Tom cast downward, chanting fast.
A shimmering trail of ice shot out beneath his feet—so polished it gleamed like a mirror.
The sudden change in terrain caught the Re'em completely off guard. It slipped, legs flying out from under it, and crashed to the ground with a resounding BOOM!
The thin layer of ice cracked and shattered under the creature's weight, shaking the earth violently.
Tom didn't waste a second.
"Ice Chains!"
The shattered shards reformed into sturdy chains of glimmering ice that snaked toward the Re'em, binding its powerful limbs before it could rise.
In these frigid woods, ice magic was not only efficient and resourceful—it was devastating.
"Shock Pulse!"
"Stupefy!"
"Split Coordination!"
The Re'em was now a sitting target. Each of Tom's spells zeroed in on its massive head—not to kill, but to overwhelm and knock it unconscious.
All he needed was some blood and hair. There was no need for a corpse.
The beast's radiant coat glowed with increasing intensity, each wave of light dispersing Tom's spells—but even that had limits. The creature's attempts to rise were thwarted again and again.
That last spell—Split Coordination—left its limbs flailing in disarray. It couldn't even decide which leg to move first.
Defensive abilities weren't infinite. They burned through stamina and magical reserves just like anything else.
After a dozen direct hits, the Re'em's glow had dulled.
Its movements grew sluggish.
Its resistance, weaker by the second.
Andros, watching from within the learning space, was grinning ear to ear.
Tom's fighting style was... sly.
No flashy duels. No head-on collisions.
He manipulated the battlefield, set traps, and used the environment to break his enemy down piece by piece.
This dumb beast hadn't even gotten a proper hit in—it had been neutralized before it ever got to fight.
But Andros wasn't going to scold him for using "underhanded tactics."
Quite the opposite.
This was how you fought when your life was on the line. Not like a brute, but with brains. With magic.
Just as he was admiring the scene, Andros' smile vanished.
"Tom. Watch out. Something's coming."
Tom immediately paused, ears perked.
Through the groaning breaths of the weakened Re'em, he heard it—rapid, rhythmic hoofbeats approaching from the northwest.
And they were closing fast.
No time to waste.
Tom's attacks ramped up in intensity. He had to finish this now, before the new threat arrived.
"Stop!"
A shout rang from above.
Tom didn't stop. In fact, he raised his wand higher.
The ice around him twisted and surged, forming a massive warhammer—solid and gleaming like wrought iron.
Gripping the haft tightly, Tom brought it down with thunderous force.
"Go to sleep!"
BOOM!
SWISH!
WHINNY!
An arrow whistled past, barely a meter from Tom's head.
But the hammer struck true, slamming into the Re'em's skull. The golden beast let out a low groan and finally slumped over, motionless.
Tom's expression turned cold.
Satisfied the Re'em wouldn't be waking up anytime soon, he turned toward the direction the arrow had come from.
There stood a centaur—bow still drawn, muscular human torso bare and tensed, another arrow already nocked.
The last one had been a warning shot, but this one?
This one was aimed directly at him.
Andros had already warned him the arrow wasn't meant to hit—but that didn't mean Tom wasn't furious.
A centaur. With a bow. Pointed at him.
Absolutely unacceptable.
"Drop your wand, poacher!" the centaur barked, pulling the bowstring tighter.
Tom's eyes narrowed, and blue flame danced to life in his palm, casting a magical glow across his features.
"Open those horse eyes and take a real look," Tom snapped. "You see this uniform? This is a bloody Slytherin robe!"
The centaur didn't budge. "That could be a disguise. If you're not a poacher, why attack a Re'em?"
Tom's temper flared.
"And what business is it of yours what I do? Since when does a Hogwarts student need a centaur's permission to be in the Forbidden Forest?"
"And you—you—think you can aim a weapon at me and live to talk about it?"
The centaur ignored the demand, scanning the treeline, ensuring no other wizards were nearby.
"I don't care who you say you are. Step away from the Re'em and come with me. Once I confirm you're a real student, I'll escort you back to the castle."
Tom's patience snapped.
"Guess you don't speak human," he muttered, raising his wand.
"Thunderclap!"
Storm clouds burst into existence above the centaur's head. Lightning cracked the sky, bolts raining down with violent fury.
The centaur's eyes widened in panic. He loosed his arrow in desperation and galloped to avoid the strikes.
But outrunning lightning?
Not a chance.
CRACK!
ZAP!
BZZT!
The centaur was struck multiple times, his body spasming as he collapsed to the forest floor.
Tom didn't move.
The warhammer had shifted, transforming mid-air into a sturdy shield that effortlessly deflected the centaur's arrow.
Then he charged.
All those strength-enhancing potions he'd taken earlier? Now they kicked into full gear.
In mere seconds, he crossed the distance—like a sprinting champion fueled by adrenaline and rage—and now towered over the twitching body of the fallen centaur.
Tom looked down, voice dangerously low.
"Which hand did you use to shoot that arrow?"
He cracked his knuckles.