Praise be to nature—or more accurately, the noble gift of the Re'em—for giving Tom a Christmas present that was actually worth presenting.
The hide of the Re'em, after being soaked in a potion of his own design, had become even more resistant to magic. Tom had tested it himself—his outfit could now block multiple stunning spells or even Petrificus Totalus.
Sure, the craftsmanship was a bit rough. It wasn't exactly fashionable.
But it wasn't meant to be worn outside—it was hidden under his robes. Function over form.
As for the Re'em's blood, that was even more valuable. It boosted physical strength and general vitality—priceless compared to even the enchanted hide.
That was what Tom had gifted to Hermione and Daphne this year.
While others might've begged for such a gift, Daphne looked like she was terrified of it. Tom couldn't help but laugh at her reaction.
"How could you possibly turn into a vampire from this?" Tom chuckled. "Just treat it like medicine. Grit your teeth and drink it down. You'll survive."
"It'll make you stronger too. No more winter colds," he added, like a parent coaxing a stubborn child.
Scratch that—he was coaxing a child.
Daphne had already caught two colds this term. Her constitution was seriously lacking.
Still, reassured by Tom's gentle tone, Daphne's resistance waned. She pouted, cheeks puffed up.
"Mum said the same thing… and told me to thank you properly. She said both gifts were incredibly precious."
Tom waved her thanks away. "With our relationship, what's there to thank me for?"
"Heehee, that's exactly what I told Mum too."
With a mix of persuasion and playful teasing, Tom finally got Daphne to drink the vial of Re'em blood.
The taste made her scrunch her whole face up like she'd bitten into a lemon. Her delicate features twisted in disgust.
Almost instantly, her pale skin turned bright pink—startling her enough to shriek.
Tom quickly explained it was a normal reaction, and she calmed down a little, but still hastily ended the call.
She absolutely didn't want Tom to see her looking like that.
…
After "hanging up," Tom stretched and got ready to head out to train with Grindelwald.
Grindelwald was... a unique presence.
Yesterday, they'd tested something out—he could either remain in the study space to rest, or return to his original body.
However, whenever Tom needed him, Grindelwald's consciousness would be summoned directly into the study space to instruct him.
That was... interesting.
Even without the previous contract restrictions, this meant that if Tom and Grindelwald ever had a falling out, Tom could forcibly summon his attention mid-combat.
And no matter how powerful he was, splitting focus like that would definitely hinder his strength.
Of course, Tom figured that wouldn't really be an issue. The system's power surely wasn't weak enough that it couldn't control even a legendary wizard like Grindelwald.
Just as Tom reached for the door, a sudden burst of fire ignited mid-air in his bedroom.
He reacted immediately, pulling out his wand.
Before he could cast anything, the fire condensed into the shape of a brilliant red bird, talons clutching a package.
A phoenix.
"Caw—caw!"
The phoenix saw Tom aiming a wand at it and screeched indignantly, its intelligent eyes flashing with unmistakable irritation.
"Fawkes?" Tom asked cautiously, lowering his wand slightly to show he meant no harm.
"Chirp!"
Okay… that didn't help. He still didn't speak phoenix.
Fawkes landed gracefully on the desk and set the package down, then began preening his feathers with majestic dignity.
"Grindelwald! Hey, Grindelwald!"
Tom immediately summoned the old wizard through the system interface.
Grindelwald, who'd been deep in magical discussion with Andros, blinked in confusion as his surroundings changed.
"What is it?"
"Take a look at this bird. That's Fawkes, right?"
Grindelwald turned his attention outward, observing the scene.
After several seconds of silence, he nodded. "Yes. That's Dumbledore's phoenix—Fawkes. What's he doing here?"
"Delivering my Christmas present, probably," Tom said, pointing at the neatly wrapped package.
After all—I can choose not to send a gift, but you don't get to not send one back.
Within Slytherin, Tom was the one receiving gifts. But when it came to Dumbledore, Tom had been the one to give.
Then again, there's an old saying: When I rise, the world shifts.
One day, even Dumbledore would be offering him gifts voluntarily.
That had been Tom's attitude—he'd assumed Dumbledore wouldn't bother sending a return gift.
But to his surprise, the man not only replied, he'd even had Fawkes personally deliver it.
This was Tom's first time seeing Fawkes in person.
He'd been to the Headmaster's office before, but never caught a glimpse of the legendary bird.
And now? The man was using a phoenix as a postal courier. That was insane. Only Dumbledore could get away with something so extravagantly magical.
In the entire magical world, only two phoenixes were known to be alive: Dumbledore's Fawkes, and a phoenix named Sparky, who served as a flying mascot for a Quidditch team—treated like royalty.
"…I want a classy pet like that too," Tom muttered with envy.
He rummaged through his stash of ingredients—some nettles and dittany harvested from the Forbidden Forest—and laid them out as a snack for Fawkes.
The phoenix seemed pleased with the offering and began eating slowly, clearly satisfied.
Tom finally turned his attention to the package. It was a solid, square box.
Grindelwald leaned in with interest as Tom opened it.
Inside were three notebooks.
Tom flipped to the first page and saw a handwritten note from Dumbledore:
"These are copies of my correspondence with Nicolas Flamel over the years.
I hope they will aid in your study of Alchemy."
He turned the pages—and sure enough, each was a discussion on alchemical theory and experimentation, organized meticulously by date.
The first letter was from 1905, the last from 1990—three full notebooks, every page filled.
The content was whimsical, abstract, and often speculative.
But these were the combined musings of two alchemical legends.
For someone with a solid foundation, even casually skimming these could unlock massive insights.
1905, huh? Tom recalled that Dumbledore was born in 1881—so he would've been just 24 at the time.
And Flamel?
Over 500 years old.
Truly a friendship that defied time.
"Grindelwald, do you know Nicolas Flamel?" Tom suddenly asked in his mind.
Grindelwald's expression in the study space twitched as though he'd just bitten into a lemon.
Know him?
If it weren't for that old undead relic, Paris might not even exist on the map today.
What happened next nearly made Grindelwald pop a vein.
Tom had casually placed the three notebooks—Albus Dumbledore's precious alchemy correspondence—on top of a certain book.
That book was a Hufflepuff favorite: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them.
"You're still reading that childish drivel?" Grindelwald finally snapped, his disdain overflowing. "That book is no different from fairy tales. Other than a few creatures worth noting, the rest are a complete waste of time."
"But I quite like it," Tom said calmly, brushing a hand along the book's worn cover. His voice carried a note of admiration. "Mr. Newt Scamander truly was an extraordinary man. He systematized the study of magical creatures and turned it into a proper branch of magic. That's remarkable, isn't it?"
Extraordinary, my foot!
Grindelwald was fuming. Andros, who had been quietly observing him, gave Grindelwald a sidelong glance. Why's he reacting like this? he wondered. Does he have a personal grudge against magical creatures?
"You have too much time on your hands," Grindelwald barked, scowling. "At your age, you still haven't mastered any decent dark magic. You think you've got time to read bedtime stories?"
"Stop wasting your time on this nonsense. Come learn Dark Arts with me. Now."
"Dark magic is more interesting than magical creatures?" Tom asked with a barely suppressed grin, already enjoying how worked up the old wizard was getting.
"I'll make you see the true allure of the Dark Arts," Grindelwald said with arrogance befitting a man who once terrified the entire wizarding world.
Tom nodded, smiling with fake obedience. "Alright, alright, just give me a moment."
He decided not to push further—Grindelwald was clearly reaching boiling point.
"Fawkes, how was the meal?" Tom turned and smiled sweetly at the phoenix.
From afar, magical phoenixes actually looked rather plain—perhaps even a bit ugly. But up close… their feathers shimmered with radiant firelight, and their bodies emitted a quiet, graceful heat. They were… captivating.
"Chirp-chirp~!"
Satisfied and full, Fawkes extended his long neck, and Tom gently ran a hand along his sleek plumage.
Then, just as Fawkes let down his guard, Tom bared his fangs in a grin.
"Fawkes… it's Christmas today. Your master already sent me a gift, and you enjoyed the feast I prepared for you," he said with honeyed tones. "Now… shouldn't you return the favor?"
"???"
The phoenix blinked in obvious confusion.
"I don't want much," Tom said, smiling gently like a predator calming prey. "Just two of your tail feathers, and a few drops of your tears. We'll call it a fair trade between friends. How about it?"
Fawkes tilted his head uncertainly. But by the time it reacted, Tom had already uncorked a small glass vial and held it under its eye.
And thus it was proven—even a high-intelligence magical creature like a phoenix was no match for a cunning Slytherin. After shedding a few drops of glistening tears and surrendering two precious tail feathers, Fawkes finally escaped, looking quite disheveled.
"You're such a scoundrel…" Grindelwald muttered, his lips twitching as he looked at Tom anew.
The image of the obedient, courteous student from yesterday? Completely shattered. What stood before him now was a scheming, calculating little devil.
But Grindelwald wasn't disappointed. No—this pleased him immensely.
The last thing he wanted was to raise another Dumbledore-type.
"Forgive me, Professor," Tom said with a dramatic sigh. "I'm just a poor orphan. I have to live with careful calculation to survive."
Grindelwald replied coolly, "With magic at your command, the rest of the world will come to you like a tidal wave."
"Remember this, Tom: Magic is might."
…
Inside the study space, perhaps driven by the desire to prove that dark magic was more interesting than magical beasts—or maybe just trying to impress his peers—Grindelwald began today's lesson by unveiling one of his most devastating techniques.
After all, he wasn't just any dark wizard. He was the dark wizard of the century. And with Andros, another wizarding legend, present, he couldn't afford to lose face.
"To truly kill a dragon," Grindelwald began, "you must first ground it. Neutralize its flight advantage. Only by forcing it to fight on land do you have a real chance."
He raised his wand and declared,
"This is my original creation—Protego Diabolica."
BOOM—!!
The once-flat floor suddenly split open. From the ruptured earth rose two giant hands, blazing with ghostly blue flames. They clenched into massive fists—then exploded outward with a violent roar.
Tom's eyes lit up with awe.
Coach, I want to learn this spell!
Grindelwald smiled faintly.
"Your Headmaster… is one of the rare Transfiguration masters of our time. I've fought him countless times. Among the creatures he transfigures, dragons are his signature weapon. I developed this spell specifically to counter him."
With a sweeping motion, the residual blue flames scattered around began converging, forming a dense, basketball-sized orb of fire.
"There's more to this spell," he said, voice low and dangerous, "but those are lessons for after you've mastered the basics."
"First, you'll need to learn the Protego Diabolica Curse."
"And by learn, I don't mean just conjuring flames. You must control it. Command it. If you can't rein in your own magic, then it's worthless. And any wizard who casts spells they can't control… is trash."
Tom suddenly remembered Crabbe—who had quite literally died by his own Fiendfyre.
This is the difference between white and black magic, he thought.
White magic is all about slow, structured learning.
Black magic? You jump straight into the deep end. Even the three Unforgivables are fair game if you're bold enough.
Not that they'd be particularly useful against dragons. Not directly, anyway. Even a Killing Curse won't take one down. At best, it gives the dragon a nosebleed.
No, against dragons, you needed Protego Diabolica—or violent, elemental destruction.
Luckily, Tom possessed the Heart of Darkness, a unique affinity for the Dark Arts. His learning speed was terrifying—far surpassing his progress in any other magical subject.
Even Andros was starting to suspect that Tom had been born for the Dark Arts.
Andros practiced alongside him, though progress was slow—he came from an era before Protego Diabolica even existed. While he was still struggling to conjure sparks, Tom had already mastered wide-area conjuration, and was beginning to direct and channel the blaze.
The next steps were finesse: shaping the fire, increasing its temperature, and eventually—like Grindelwald—treating Protego Diabolica like a toy.
…
For the next several days, Tom barely left his house.
He remained holed up, devouring the Dark Arts lessons like a man possessed. His learning credits were burning fast, but he didn't care. He had stockpiled plenty. And because Dark Arts was a rarely explored domain for him, every new spell yielded bountiful learning points.
Meanwhile, the outside world—both magical and mundane—was being thrown into chaos.
Several new nations had suddenly appeared overnight. Dozens of countries had lost their political leadership.
In the Muggle world, new governments emerged.
In the magical world, new Ministries of Magic sprouted like weeds.
On the final day of 1991, Tom finally left the house.
He headed straight for Knockturn Alley—specifically, the residence of Michael. There, he found a note left for him from Borgin & Burkes.
Without hesitation, Tom made his way to the infamous shop.
Old Mr. Borgin was just finishing up with a mysterious, hooded client—face hidden beneath layers of enchantment. Whatever the deal had been, he was grinning from ear to ear, the wrinkles on his face creased with delight.
"Looks like you made a tidy profit, Mr. Borgin," Tom teased lightly.
But Borgin only chuckled darkly. "Oh, it's not just my lucky day today. It's your lucky day too, Mr. Riddle."
"Oh?" Tom raised an eyebrow.
Then a flash of realization struck.
"You've found a dragon's heart?"
Borgin's smile grew sly. "Not the heart itself, but a lead. A very promising one."
He held up three fingers.
"Three hundred Galleons, and the news is yours."