— — — — — —
If Draco Malfoy had a hate meter, Tom figured he'd have maxed it out ages ago.
It wasn't just Harry who loathed him enough to grind his teeth—half of Slytherin couldn't stand his arrogance either. For Blaise Zabini to go so far just to one Draco… that was a surprise even to Tom.
Tom could even guide him to be 2 or 3 Dracos.
It was really a good surprise. After all, the best kind of employee is a free one.
And all for his notebook? That was nothing. He could make a copy in minutes.
Tom's smile lit up his whole face, bright as the sun. "Why didn't you say so earlier? If I'd known, I'd have given you one ages ago!"
"Just a notebook, right? No problem. Give me a few days to polish it up a bit. I'll make it easier to learn from—you'll be catching up to one Draco in no time."
Then Tom lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Actually… I've got another notebook."
Blaise blinked. "Another one?"
Tom leaned in, expression serious. "The Half-Blood Prince Notes. Written by a Potions Master when he was still a student. It's got all kinds of improved potion formulas—and some seriously nasty curses. I think it suits you."
Blaise's breath hitched. His eyes practically spelled out "I want it."
"Work hard," Tom said, patting his shoulder. "Once business picks up—say, in about a week—I'll give you part of it. Can't hand over the whole book, but it'll be enough to learn from."
"Tom, where are the ingredients? I'll start right now!"
Blaise looked like he'd just downed a gallon of espresso. If he could, he'd have filled Tom's whole shop with potions by sundown.
Too bad Tom didn't have any materials yet. The earliest shipment wouldn't arrive until the weekend, leaving Blaise with energy and nowhere to spend it.
So on Friday, he threw himself into studying the three potion recipes, memorizing every ingredient, every stirring technique, every timing detail by heart.
By Saturday morning, when the ingredients finally arrived, he marched into the Potions classroom with his cauldron under his arm, ready to go. Tom had even asked Snape to oversee him for the day, just to make sure he mastered the brewing process properly.
Tom himself didn't stay idle either.
That morning, he watched a hand-cranked Wizard of Oz film with Penelope—an idea inspired by Laos' earlier demonstration of Muggle weapons. Hogwarts couldn't handle anything electric, but old mechanical tech like this worked just fine.
At noon, he slipped away with Astoria to Madame Puddifoot's for an almost dangerously sweet lunch.
Then he hurried back, gave Hermione a tutoring session, and spent the rest of the afternoon entertaining Daphne and the two pandas.
He'd even planned to spend the evening with Ginny, but then he remembered something else—something he'd been meaning to test.
...
In front of the Room of Requirement, Tom paced back and forth three times, concentrating hard on entering Ravenclaw's bedroom.
Nothing. The wall stayed smooth, no door appeared.
"Huh?" He frowned and touched the wall. Then he tried again, this time thinking only of an empty room—and sure enough, the door appeared instantly.
Inside, Ravenclaw was smiling faintly. "My bedroom isn't that easy to get into."
"But I'm in, aren't I?" Tom said, looking around the shadowy space. "Not much of a room, though—no windows, no furniture."
Ravenclaw chuckled. "Here, I'll teach you the spell that opens the true entrance."
Under her guidance, Tom quickly learned the incantation that "woke" the room.
He flicked his wand, tracing a blue arc of light through the air. The glow broke into starlike motes that faded into the darkness.
A soft white light appeared deep within the space, spreading outward until it filled everything. The world seemed to ripple, shifting and stretching, as if reality itself was rearranging around him.
He heard the faint sound of running water. When the white glow thinned like mist and cleared away, Tom found himself somewhere completely different—so different, he doubted he was still inside Hogwarts at all.
He was standing on a grassy meadow, lush and bright. A clear stream wound its way through the field, crossed by a small wooden bridge.
On the far side stood a three-story cottage built from white stone, nestled lazily among blooming flowers and vines. The whole place radiated a quiet, peaceful beauty. And above, the sky shimmered with something surreal—like a reflection of Hogwarts grounds, with the Black Lake and lawns inverted high above the clouds.
He even saw a few familiar classmates near the lake, tossing breadcrumbs to the fish.
"Welcome to my room, Tom."
Through his eyes, Ravenclaw took in her "bedroom" as if rediscovering it after a thousand-year nap. She had no memory of the passing centuries, but seeing it again brought a quiet melancholy to her tone.
Tom looked around, speechless. "You call this a bedroom?"
"Only Helena and I can enter," Ravenclaw replied smoothly. "That makes it my bedroom, doesn't it?"
Tom wanted to curse for a moment.
He then crossed the little bridge and approached the house.
The door swung open automatically, revealing a cozy interior. The decor leaned heavily on shades of blue—her favorite color—but each hue carried a different mood, giving the space depth rather than monotony.
Even a quick glance told him Ravenclaw's artistic talent ran deep. You could see it in Hogwarts itself—the balance of intellect and beauty woven into its design.
But what really stood out here wasn't the architecture—it was the paper.
Parchment everywhere. On tables, on the couch, on the wardrobe, even scattered across the floor and piled beside the trash bin.
For once, Ravenclaw looked a little embarrassed. "Ah… I've always been a bit spontaneous. When inspiration strikes, I just grab a quill and write, no matter where I am. Most of it's probably nonsense, so I never bother to organize it."
The room was just as she described. Aside from Helena and herself, not even the other Founders had ever stepped foot in here. Since no one else entered, she saw no reason to clean.
Tom smiled and nodded, amused.
"Women's rooms," he thought, "were often messier than men's."
Take Daphne, for instance—if it weren't for the house-elf tidying up, her clothes would've formed a mountain at the end of her bed by now.
What was even more amazing, though, was how some girls could find exactly what they were looking for in the middle of all that chaos. Maybe that was a gift of its own.
Tom crouched down and began picking up the papers one by one.
He didn't dare use magic. After a thousand years, the parchment might look intact, but it had become incredibly fragile. One wrong move, and it would crumble into dust.
And this wasn't just any old paper—these were Ravenclaw's original notes. Every single sheet held priceless research value.
Ravenclaw wanted to help, to save him from this awkward task, but she could only stand by and watch helplessly.
"So, your soul was waiting here, right?" Tom asked as he stacked another pile neatly.
"That's right." Ravenclaw's smile softened. "I wanted to see my daughter one last time, but my body was failing. The only option was to separate my soul and memories and seal them away."
Her expression dimmed. "Who could've guessed she'd go and…" She sighed. "It was just a diadem. I didn't let her use it because I didn't want her to become dependent on it. But she stole it anyway—then ran off and felt so guilty she never came back."
Tom smirked. "The question is, why did she take it so hard?"
He lifted a pen holder, revealing another stack of parchment underneath. "You should probably read a few books on parenting," he said casually. "Adults and children don't see the world the same way. You can't expect them to feel the same, either."
He glanced over his shoulder. "You're Rowena Ravenclaw—the smartest witch who ever lived. Imagine the pressure Helena must've felt being your daughter."
Ravenclaw frowned slightly. "Other people's opinions can create pressure, I know that. But I told her many times not to worry about what others think—she just needed to take care of herself first."
Tom chuckled. "If lectures worked, there wouldn't be rebellious teenagers in the world. You didn't step into her shoes, so you couldn't really empathize. Once that emotional gap widens, it doesn't matter what triggers it—a fight like yours was inevitable, diadem or not."
Ravenclaw fell silent. It wasn't her area of expertise, and she had no arguments left.
"Don't worry," Tom said with a grin. "I'll help you talk some sense into your daughter next time."
Ravenclaw gave him a sidelong look, half amused. "By age, Helena's centuries older than you. By generation, the two of you are technically equals."
"There's an old saying," Tom replied, smug, "that he who knows most teaches best. When it comes to dealing with emotions and people, I've got her beat."
Ravenclaw laughed softly. "I suppose that's true."
They'd reached the third floor by now.
It was divided into two areas: Ravenclaw's living quarters—smaller and cozy—and her study, which took up most of the space.
They weren't close enough yet for Tom to wander into her bedroom (sleep room), so he headed into the study instead.
Books filled the walls. Unlike the fragile parchment, these volumes had been protected by powerful enchantments. Even after a millennium, they were as good as new.
Tom's eyes lit up.
Every single book was unfamiliar—some bore titles written by hand, in Ravenclaw's elegant script. They weren't just tomes of knowledge; they were her works.
He felt like a fly stumbling into a spider's lair, surrounded by seductive books whispering "Read me, investigate me, uncover my secrets."
There was no resisting that.
Tom grabbed the nearest one and dove in.
He had come in during the afternoon. When he finally looked up again, it was already Sunday morning.
Because of the archaic English grammar, his reading was slow. Even so, he'd skimmed through three books overnight.
And strangely enough, every single one of them dealt with memory—theories, research notes, and even a few spells related to it.
"Noticed the pattern, have you?" Ravenclaw asked with a lazy yawn. "You're right. Memory was one of my main fields of study."
She tilted her head slightly, her tone suddenly thoughtful. "Tell me, Tom… what do you think makes a person human?"
.
.
.