— — — — — —
Draco didn't know anything about the diary, but he did know his father, Lucius Malfoy, had been up to something shady. During the holidays, his father had even warned him not to get involved in anything related to the "Heir."
And just now—did Dumbledore glance at him?
Had the Headmaster figured out what his father had done?
Draco panicked and lowered his head, too nervous to meet the old man's piercing eyes.
Luckily, Dumbledore didn't press the matter. After a short pause, he withdrew his gaze. But what nearly made Draco's heart leap out of his throat was that the students weren't letting the issue drop.
"Who was it?!"
"That was a basilisk! One look and you're dead—someone wanted us killed!"
"Expel them! Whoever it is should be expelled!"
"No! Straight to Azkaban!"
And now it wasn't just the Muggle-borns shouting angrily—even plenty of Slytherins were upset.
After all, a basilisk didn't care about pure-blood or half-blood. They were all in danger.
At the Gryffindor table, Ginny clenched her fists so tightly her nails nearly broke the skin. Forcing herself to stay calm, she looked desperately toward the Slytherin side—only to see Tom sitting there, calm as ever. When he gave her the smallest smile and a reassuring nod, her heart finally steadied.
"Quiet! Quiet, please!"
Dumbledore had to raise his voice to quell the angry shouts echoing through the hall.
When silence returned, he went on,
"As for who brought such a dangerous Dark artifact into the school—I cannot say. But I am certain it was not their intent. He —or she— was manipulated by someone else. I will continue to investigate and ensure the true culprit pays the price."
"Now then, let's turn to something more cheerful."
The old man's face softened into a smile as he addressed the hall.
"With the Chamber's legend finally resolved, an old injustice will at last be set right. Fifty years ago, an innocent student was expelled. His name will now be cleared."
"And moving forward, you needn't worry about the safety of this castle. For this, we must thank Mr. Riddle and Mr. Potter for their efforts."
Dumbledore began clapping, and the professors and students quickly followed suit.
Harry thought it was ridiculous to be mentioned here. His only contribution had been… well, joining the party. Without him, they wouldn't even have been able to start the raid.
Wait. Thinking about it that way, he actually was kind of important.
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled as he looked at Harry, whose face had just shifted from confusion to calm, with even a faint smile.
"For Mr. Potter's courage, Gryffindor is awarded one hundred points."
"And for Mr. Riddle—who risked his life battling the basilisk to protect both the school and his precious friends…"
Dumbledore's voice hitched for a moment. That phrasing—yes, Tom had taught it to him yesterday.
A basilisk putting you in a desperate fight? That might fool the others, but it didn't fool Dumbledore.
He wanted to downplay it, but then he thought of the Horcrux, of Tom's undeniable contribution, of the fact that part of the castle was literally destroyed in the fight. In the end, he couldn't bring himself to refuse.
A little exaggeration wouldn't hurt. After all, no one else knew.
In the end, Tom received the Special Award for Services to the School—along with a five-hundred-point bonus. Slytherins pounded their tables in delight.
Five hundred points. With that cushion, they could slack off the rest of the term and still win the Cup.
And truth be told, the other Houses didn't think it was undeserved. Plenty of them had seen Tom's actions that Saturday. In their eyes, he had saved their lives.
As for how they got into life-threatening danger in the first place? Ahem. That was an evil man's fault, definitely not Tom's.
When they left the Great Hall, Tom was practically carried on the crowd's shoulders as they escorted him to Transfiguration class. At this point, he no longer needed to posture or prove anything.
Anyone thinking of crossing Tom would have to ask themselves: was their head harder than a basilisk's, or were they simply fearless of death?
And frankly, no one in the school seemed that brave.
Even in class, though, the Chamber and the basilisk remained the hot topic.
Not even Professor McGonagall could keep the discussion from drifting.
"I'm sure many of you witnessed Mr. Riddle's battle with the basilisk. It shows just how crucial mastery of Transfiguration can be. Throughout the fight, he stayed perfectly safe—never once giving the creature a chance to touch him."
"Professor McGonagall!" Lavender Brown's hand shot up. When called on, she asked eagerly, "The spell Tom used to control those stone statues—is that Transfiguration? What's it called? Can we learn it?"
Dozens of pairs of eyes turned hopefully to McGonagall. After all, if you could summon hundreds of stone soldiers with a flick of your wand—perfect for group fights—who wouldn't want to learn that?
McGonagall paused. "Perhaps we should let Mr. Riddle answer that himself."
Tom, who had been absentmindedly twirling a strand of Daphne's golden hair, suddenly realized he'd been called on. He blinked, then stood up.
"Sorry, Professor—what did you say again?"
McGonagall's face darkened.
Daydreaming in class? Slytherin, minus five points. I asked you to explain the Animation Charm to the class. Miss Brown is quite interested, though she doubts it qualifies as true Transfiguration
"Oh, that. Sure."
Tom didn't care in the slightest about losing points. After gaining five hundred earlier, he was riding high.
"Brown, first you need to understand the definition of Transfiguration. Any spell that changes the state of an object counts. A stone statue is lifeless by nature, but once Piertotum Locomotor is cast, it gains movement. That makes it Transfiguration—and in a way, also a kind of Summoning."
"As for actually learning the spell…" Tom paused, then added, "Well, once you've scored an Outstanding on your NEWTs, maybe you'll qualify to study it."
"So hard?!" A collective gasp filled the room, half the class wheezing in despair.
Tom shook his head. "Not really. It's just that by the usual curriculum, you won't be exposed to spells that give life to the lifeless until fifth or sixth year. Once you've built a solid foundation, it's not too difficult."
"But handling hundreds of those puppets at once—how do you manage that?" Seamus Finnigan asked curiously.
"Er… how to put it?"
Tom frowned slightly, struggling to explain the feeling. After a long moment, he said, "Don't think of it as control. They're not Muggle puppets. Think of it more like… the spell links my thoughts directly to the constructs. When I imagine something in my head, they act it out automatically."
"Because I will it, they move."
Most of the young witches and wizards, Hermione included, looked utterly lost. Only Professor McGonagall wore a faint, satisfied smile.
That single line showed Tom's understanding of the nature of magic already surpassed most people.
Magic, at its core, was channeling one's will through magical energy to affect the world. Anything more was just detail.
"All right," McGonagall finally interrupted before the students could get too tangled in thought. "You may remember Mr. Riddle's words, but don't dwell on them yet. The day you grasp even a fraction of what he means, schoolwork will no longer pose any challenge for you."
With that, she launched into the actual lesson.
When class ended, Seamus spotted a suit of armor in the corridor. Inspiration struck. Seeing no sign of Filch, he quietly pulled out his wand and muttered the incantation: "Piertotum Locomotor!"
Bang! Bang!
The armor sparked violently, then exploded into hundreds of fragments that clattered across the floor. The noise echoed up and down the castle like a thunderclap.
McGonagall, still inside the classroom answering questions, nearly jumped out of her skin. Fearing some new monster had appeared, she shoved the students aside and hurried into the hall—only to find Seamus standing frozen in front of the shattered armor, looking completely lost. She understood at once and roared:
"Finnigan! Damaging school property and casting spells in the corridor—Gryffindor loses ten points, and you'll report to my office tonight for detention!"
"Yes, Professor…" Seamus mumbled, utterly crushed.
Not far away, Zabini, who hadn't left yet, burst out laughing.
"Finnigan, with a genius like you around, Gryffindor keeping the House Cup would be a miracle."
He, Nott, and Rosier walked off, still chuckling.
Tom rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Was Seamus secretly carrying some magical creature's bloodline? Or maybe some strange fusion… something like an Explosion Release Kekkei Genkai?
Maybe he should… grab him for research.
"Tom, let's go. We'll be late for the next class."
Before he could decide, Daphne tugged him by the hand toward the greenhouses. It was another day of caring for Mandrakes.
Compared to the infant-like sprouts they'd been at the start of the term, the Mandrakes now looked like human children of twelve or thirteen—straight from creepy toddler to awkward teen.
Their screams were more dangerous too. Regular earmuffs no longer worked; only charms kept students safe.
Or, Tom's personal method: yank one out, then knock it out cold.
By the time the bell rang, everyone bolted from the greenhouse as if escaping torture. Many had bandaged, bitten fingers.
On his way back to the Great Hall for lunch, Tom ran into Snape. He thought it was a coincidence, but Snape actually stopped him.
"Riddle…"
A smile twisted Snape's face, and it was somehow even more unpleasant than his usual scowl. Tom instinctively took two steps back, unable to stomach that expression.
"Professor, could you… not smile?"
"Please, I'm begging you."
Snape wanted to snap at him, but he needed something from Tom. He swallowed his irritation and said in an oddly gentle tone, "That basilisk was enormous. Disposing of it must be quite troublesome. Perhaps… I could help you with that?"
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