— — — — — —
The young wizards had barely shaken off their holiday laziness when the first exam of the term arrived.
It wasn't as grand or ceremonial as the finals, but the content and difficulty were just about the same.
At breakfast, everyone received their exam schedules and headed off to the assigned classrooms.
For third years, the first subject was Potions — forty-five minutes of written work followed by an hour of practical brewing.
Tom absentmindedly swapped Hermione's cauldron with his own, sliding his untouched ingredients back to her in return.
A few desks away, Harry just stared, dumbfounded. His bright green eyes followed Snape as the man passed by — silently screaming, "Are you fucking blind? You didn't see that?"
"Longbottom," Snape said in his trademark low, cutting voice, "if you mix up Fletchley's ingredients one more time, I'll inform Professor McGonagall that you've finally grown bold enough to cheat during my exam."
That was enough to make Neville's hands shake. The handful of murtlap powder he was holding slipped into the cauldron — ruining his potion completely. Justin Finch-Fletchley looked like he was about to cry; Neville had just destroyed his ingredients.
Tom's little maneuver was deliberately ignored.
Snape wasn't blind, far from it. He saw everything. But he also knew Tom well enough to know better than to pick a fight. If he caused trouble now, he'd just have to live in fear of whatever retaliation came later.
This exam was meant to measure how foolish the rest of them were — not to test a monster like Tom Riddle.
---
Later, inside his personal study space, Tom gathered his three tutors and laid out his latest frustration.
"I can't keep up — not even close. My brain needs nearly an hour to recover after overexerting itself, but Fawkes only needs two minutes."
He ran a hand through his hair, frowning. "How can I make my Apparition faster, sharper — beyond even a phoenix's natural gift?"
Three great minds put together should equal one Archmage, right? These three were practically legendary in wizarding history — surely they'd come up with something.
The first to bow out was Andros. "I didn't even have Apparition in my time," he said with a rueful shrug. "Learned it from books after being revived. You're better off asking those two." He mimed zipping his lips and turned to watch Grindelwald and Ravenclaw.
Grindelwald frowned, arms crossed. "From the North Pole to the South Pole — and back again? That's absurd. Even I've never tried something like that."
"The farthest I've gone was Berlin to Bhutan," he said after a pause. "Stopped three times along the way. I was dizzy when I arrived, but still had the energy to Apparate two or three more times if needed. That's about my limit."
Tom's mind ran quick calculations, and then he gave Grindelwald a thumbs-up.
"Damn impressive."
Berlin to Bhutan spanned nearly an entire continent — close to seven thousand kilometers. Not much shorter than his race against Fawkes. Same number of pauses, but Grindelwald still had energy left at the end. His mastery was clearly superior.
The old man's smirk barely had time to form before Tom added, "No wonder you were so hard to catch. But still took Grandpa Newt only one lucky shot to bag you."
'Scamander, you damn bastard.' Grindelwald's expression darkened immediately.
Still, Tom had to admit — the man's skill was real.
Most wizards' Apparition worked like being sucked into a drain — body spinning wildly through a vortex before being spat out again at the destination.
Grindelwald's, on the other hand, was different. He simply opened a door in the air and stepped through. When he crossed the threshold, he was already there.
"I should warn you," Grindelwald said after a pause, pouring cold water over Tom's enthusiasm. "Even if your Apparition surpasses mine, that doesn't mean you can beat a phoenix. The biggest problem isn't speed — it's recovery."
"If you can't finish the whole journey in one go, Fawkes will just catch up once you need to rest. You're still human, Tom. The phoenix isn't."
"Yeah…" Tom sighed. "So what I need isn't a burst of speed — it's endurance."
He turned to his final hope. "Ravenclaw. Thoughts?"
"I have a few ideas," she said with a soft smile, her voice calm and thoughtful — the kind that made even Tom's mind falter for half a second.
He had to admit: smart, graceful women were dangerously distracting. Maybe if she wore glasses too…
But he quickly shoved the thought aside. In his head, there was only Fawkes.
Ravenclaw set her book down and spoke gently. "I don't like offering half-baked theories. Truth is, I don't know you well enough yet. Give me a few days to observe your training. Once I understand your true limits, I'll give you a proper solution — and design a new study plan to go with it. Does that sound acceptable?"
Tom nodded rapidly.
So precise. So damn meticulous. No wonder she founded a school—this was professionalism. Way beyond the two half-baked old men beside her.
"Then I'll wait for your good news," he said, grinning as his form faded and he exited the study space.
The first exam wrapped up. Tom, Hermione, and Daphne made their way to the Charms classroom for the next one.
As they crossed the little garden, Fawkes swooped down and landed nearby, looking at Tom with pleading eyes. Sighing, Tom fished out a handful of herbs and started feeding the phoenix on the spot.
Daphne blinked, puzzled. "Why is Fawkes begging you for food?"
"Because Dumbledore is broke," Tom said casually. "When Fawkes wants something decent to eat, he has to come to me."
Daphne nodded thoughtfully. "Then maybe we should just buy Fawkes. It'd be so much easier to travel if we owned him."
"Chrrp!"
Fawkes let out an indignant cry. A phoenix being bought? The very idea was insulting.
Hermione couldn't help laughing. "Daphne, Dumbledore may not be rich, but money doesn't mean anything to someone like him. He'd never sell Fawkes."
"You never know till you try."
Daphne couldn't understand bird language, but she got the gist from Fawkes's tone—and ignored it.
Her mother always said, "There's nothing money can't buy. If it doesn't work once, try again with more cash and a trick."
Just like when she'd wanted to give Tom money. She couldn't hand it to him directly, so she came up with the "private tutor" excuse—and it worked perfectly.
Surely there'd be a similar workaround for Fawkes and Dumbledore.
While the phoenix ate happily, Daphne quietly memorized the types of herbs Tom used to feed it.
"Let's go," Tom said after Fawkes finally finished and flew off. The three of them hurried toward their next exam.
---
Two days later, the placement exams were finally over.
Except for a handful of top students, no one looked remotely happy.
The exams were done, but classes resumed the very next day—no post-exam break like after finals. And after two and a half months of summer, most students hadn't cracked open a single book despite knowing full well there'd be a test at the start of term.
Their results, unsurprisingly, spoke for themselves.
At least the scores weren't getting sent home. If they were, the hall would be full of Howlers by tomorrow morning.
...
That day, Tom walked out of Snape's office with three new potion formulas in hand.
One was a Brightening Elixir, which made skin glow with a healthy sheen.
Another was a Blemish-Removal Potion, designed to fade scars and acne marks.
The last one was a Scented Shampoo, which Tom strongly suspected Snape had created just to compete with the Potter family's famous Sleekeazy's Hair Potion—since Tom had definitely not asked for anything like that.
Still, that shampoo recipe had been sold decades ago by Harry's grandfather, Fleamont Potter. Tom had no idea what Snape hoped to gain here.
The formulas weren't difficult, and the effects were modest by design. Tom had made sure of that.
Snape, being a master of potions, could easily create something ten times stronger—but he didn't understand business.
If you play your best card right away, how do you sell upgrades later? If the product works too well, people only need one bottle—and there goes your repeat business.
Naturally, Snape was offended. To him, making "mediocre" potions was beneath his dignity. What kind of insult was this? He was Severus Snape, not some apothecary peddler.
But since Tom still held a few spell secrets Snape wanted to learn, he grudgingly agreed—on one condition: Tom couldn't claim Snape had made them.
He refused to have his name attached to "beauty products."
Tom was a little disappointed. He'd planned to use Snape's name for free marketing. But fine—he could work with that.
He'd just say these were formulas recovered from a lost ruin by a team of great wizards. The diluted effects were only because some rare ingredients had been substituted. That way, when he released "upgraded" versions later, he could claim he'd finally found the real materials.
Now, though, he had a different problem.
He had formulas—but no one he trusted to brew them.
There were capable potion-makers among the Acolytes, but he didn't want to risk linking his new venture to them. He needed someone new.
When he stepped into the common room and saw Blaise Zabini and Rosier playing a simulated Quidditch match, Tom's eyes lit up.
Maybe the help he needed was right here.
"Blaise," Tom said warmly, almost too warmly, "do you have a minute? I need to talk to you about something."
"Of course, Tom."
Zabini waved over another student to take his place, then followed Tom back to their dorm.
Tom handed him the formulas. "Take a look. I don't think these are beyond your skill level."
Blaise read through them carefully, then nodded with quiet confidence. "Nothing too difficult. If I practice a few times, I can guarantee near-perfect results. You want me to brew these for you?"
"Exactly. But not just a few bottles—I'm thinking large-scale production."
He gestured for Blaise to sit. They sat facing each other across their beds as Tom continued. "I'm going to launch these as part of Elaina's Magic Workshop, but I don't have time to handle the brewing myself. That's where you come in. If you're interested, we can discuss pay."
Blaise hesitated. He liked potions, but brewing the same ones over and over? That wasn't passion—that was labor. And he didn't exactly need money.
Having one mother and eight stepfathers, all rich, tended to solve financial problems rather effectively.
Still... this was Tom asking. And no one in their right mind said no to Tom.
Then Blaise's eyes lit up as an idea struck. "Tom, forget the money. Malfoy said you gave him a notebook. If you give me one too, I'll brew for you all semester. And if you give me a stronger one—one that lets me destroy Malfoy in duel—I'll work for you the whole year!"
.
.
.