— — — — — —
Ravenclaw had asked a question so deep that there was almost no right answer to it.
Tom thought for nearly a full minute before replying. "You're asking how we define what makes a person themselves, aren't you?"
The witch's lips curved into a look of approval. "Tom, Slytherin stole you from me. The Sorting Hat was an accomplice. You should have been in my House."
It might have sounded like Tom was stating the obvious, but that was exactly the point. Ravenclaw's question wasn't about wordplay—it was something deeply philosophical. 'Who am I? What makes me, me?'
After a moment's silence, Tom finally said, "The body provides existence, the soul gives life, and the self is the entity of thought. Through interaction with the world, it grows and evolves until it becomes the true self."
"I think, therefore I am."
Ravenclaw didn't respond right away. She sat there, mulling over his words, occasionally nodding as if dissecting every layer of meaning.
"Tom," she asked eventually, "did you come up with all that yourself?"
"Not entirely," he admitted. "There were a lot of great philosophers in history. I built my understanding from them, blending what I've learned and experienced."
Ravenclaw's tone grew serious. "Then please, help me gather all of their writings."
Tom smiled faintly and nodded. "Alright. So what do you think of my answer?"
"I can't judge it," Ravenclaw said, shaking her head. "Every person's understanding of themselves and the world is different. What others think doesn't matter. I asked only to draw connections—and to analyze your nature and potential direction."
Tom was speechless. He couldn't tell if she was being admirably dedicated or disturbingly detached.
Dedicated, because she never stopped being a teacher. Detached, because she was treating him like a test subject.
"And what about you?" he asked. "You think memory is what defines a person?"
"Of course," Ravenclaw answered without hesitation. "The body and soul are nothing compared to memory. A person is a collection of perceptions. The continuity of memory and experience is what makes you YOU. The soul and body are merely the vessels."
"So the body and soul are the ship," Tom quipped, "and memory is the person inside?"
Ravenclaw's eyes lit up. "Exactly! You see, Tom, you really do have insight."
"Don't flatter me," Tom muttered. "I just happened to have heard that line somewhere. Doesn't mean I've grasped it."
Ravenclaw waved a hand dismissively, lounging back on the sofa, her perfect figure outlined against the light. "That's fine. The more you know, the more you can confirm and refine your own path. That's the power of knowledge."
She tilted her head slightly. "Speaking of memory, I once ran an experiment. I completely extracted one person's memories and implanted them into another's mind. Then I altered the recipient's appearance. From that moment on, B became A—lived A's life, maintained A's relationships, left A's mark on the world, until the day he died."
Tom frowned. "But he was still B. His nature didn't change."
Ravenclaw giggled softly. "Whose definition of 'nature'? In his mind, he was A."
"Then let me put it this way," Tom countered. "If you put a wizard's memories into a Muggle, could they use magic?"
"No," she said with a slight shake of her head. "But that's a matter of biological difference."
"And according to your theory, if the vessel changes, the person changes too. Naturally, there'd be consequences."
Tom blinked. "And what does that have to do with your so-called path of magic?"
Ravenclaw pointed to her temple. "Memory can be erased, transferred, even fabricated. For example, I currently hold fragments of ancient wizards' memories in my mind. But I deleted the memories of the transfer itself, merging them seamlessly with my own experiences. Now, those ancient memories are my own."
"They let me live across eras—as if I've existed in every age."
"Extraordinary mind," she added lightly, "is the greatest form of wealth. And wealth can be traded... or taken."
The room went utterly still. For the first time, Tom felt cold spreading from his fingertips to his toes.
Ravenclaw's philosophy was terrifying. In that moment, he finally understood why modern Ravenclaws could be so greedy, so self-absorbed—sometimes even colder than Slytherins.
Their founder wasn't just brilliant. She was a madwoman. A brilliant, ruthless madwoman.
"Did I scare you?" she asked with a faint smile.
With a flick of her wrist, a blanket floated over, settling over her long, half-bared legs. "Don't worry, I'm not trying to force my beliefs on you. But if you want to learn, I won't hold anything back. For now, just finish reading every book here. Once you do, you'll have a much clearer picture of my teachings."
Tom nodded and withdrew his consciousness from the study space—only to realize he was drenched in cold sweat.
"Slytherin," he muttered under his breath, "I owe you an apology, fam. She's the real final boss of this school."
Tom wasn't exactly sentimental by nature. He viewed people not close to him the way one might view NPCs in a game.
But going from a calm, structured world straight into one where immortality meant devouring others… that was a hard shift to stomach.
Especially now that Ravenclaw's image in his mind had completely shattered and reformed—into something far darker than he'd ever imagined.
Not that he was actually afraid. After all, he literally held her own soul in his hands, backed by a system that even the laws of this world couldn't override. Even a legend like Ravenclaw couldn't really touch him.
So, both he and Ravenclaw tacitly agreed not to bring up that unsettling conversation again. Tom followed her advice and buried himself in the library books.
---
Then Monday came, and with it, the professors' wrath.
They'd spent the weekend grading the students' tests. Judging by their grim expressions, things hadn't gone well. "Disastrous" would've been putting it kindly.
It was bad enough that some professors were starting to question whether they'd even taught anything last year—because clearly, none of the students remembered the important stuff.
Even Professor Flitwick, the ever-smiling and endlessly patient Charms teacher, looked uncharacteristically stern in class.
"I think Mr. Riddle's suggestion from last week wasn't half bad," he said, tone mild but eyes sharp. "Some of you might actually benefit from your professors having a little chat with your parents."
A shiver ran through the classroom. 'Wait—wasn't it agreed that grades wouldn't be sent home this time? Professor, that's betrayal!'
Thankfully, Flitwick didn't intend to follow through—at least not yet. "Since this was just a baseline assessment, I'll assume some of you didn't perform at your best. I'll give you another chance. But if your scores next month are still unsatisfactory, I'll hand your parents' ID list to Professor McGonagall and let her deal with it."
The collective gasp that followed practically changed the room's temperature.
If McGonagall got involved, their parents would know by the weekend. Hogwarts wouldn't even be a safe zone anymore.
In an instant, every student straightened up in their seat, suddenly the very picture of discipline.
Flitwick hid a smile behind his mustache, pleased with the effect. "Alright, let's move on. Close your books. Today I'll be teaching a new charm—the Return Spell. It's a simple but very practical one, often used alongside the Mending Charm."
He rose on tiptoe and scanned the room. "Can anyone tell me the difference between the Return Spell and the Cleaning Charm?"
Several hands shot up.
"Mr. Malfoy," Flitwick called, looking mildly surprised. Draco almost never volunteered.
Draco stood with a smirk, chin tilted up proudly. "These are basic household spells, Professor. House-elves use them all the time. I've seen them cleaning and tidying, so I know a bit about it."
"The Cleaning Charm targets dirt and dust, while the Return Spell moves objects back to their original places."
Flitwick's mouth twitched. Of course. The point hadn't been to answer—it was to brag. Still, technically correct.
"Very good. One point to Slytherin," Flitwick said with a nod, motioning for him to sit. "Mr. Malfoy's right. You've probably seen adults use both spells together. With a single wave, everything's clean and back in its place. That's not one spell—it's two, used in combination."
He paused, smiling faintly. "But that's still a bit advanced for you lot. Today, we'll focus on the basic Return Spell."
Flitwick handed out small wooden nameplates to everyone. "Write your name on it, then trade with your partner. The goal is to summon your own nameplate back into your hand. That's how you'll know you've done it right."
After that earlier "chat with your parents" threat, no one dared slack off. The classroom buzzed with muttered incantations and flickering sparks of magic all the way until the bell rang.
Still, Flitwick wasn't done with them. The homework load was heavier than ever: a one-foot essay and a hundred successful castings of the spell, with notes on both successful and failed attempts. All due by Friday.
By the time class ended, the students trudged out like prisoners heading to their next sentence.
And it wasn't just Flitwick. Every professor had suddenly gone full tyrant mode.
Professor Sprout no longer waited until after class to point out mistakes—she called them out on the spot. McGonagall doubled the homework and made students rewrite anything she deemed "below standard."
As for Snape… rumor had it he'd made all students cry in a single class.
In just two days, Hogwarts had transformed. Conversations about pop singers and Quidditch were replaced with desperate whispers about essays, spellwork, and homework deadlines.
Professor McGonagall noticed the shift and couldn't hide her satisfaction.
Hogwarts had always prided itself on giving students freedom—to study as much or as little as they liked. But lately, she'd decided to raise the bar. Not for the inter-house competition, but for the future of the British wizarding world itself.
If her students wanted to slack off, fine. But they'd still meet the standard—or work until they did.
...
By Wednesday, the third-years finally got a bit of a breather. Most of the day was filled with electives.
Around ten, under the warm morning sun, Tom strolled down the slope toward Hagrid's hut with Daphne and Hermione in tow.
Daphne's elective schedule perfectly matched Tom's—not that she cared what classes she took. She walked beside him chatting happily about how the price for ghostwritten essays had suddenly skyrocketed, her voice bright and musical like a little songbird.
Hermione watched her with open envy.
Finally, the trio arrived early, but soon other students began trickling in.
Then Hagrid emerged from the edge of the Forbidden Forest, towering and broad as ever. Tom's eyelid twitched.
Because Hagrid wasn't alone.
He was leading out a full-grown Hippogriff.
.
.
.