When Tom left the Headmaster's office, the sun was already high—nearly midday.
Dumbledore had spoken at length that morning, offering not just knowledge, but philosophy.
In his view, whether one was learning or dueling, the mindset was paramount. Magic, he said, was not about rushing headlong into power, nor about chasing the most destructive spells—it was about mastering what fit the self. And above all else, he held love as the most profound force in existence, a conviction strong enough to turn belief into strength.
Tom acknowledged that the words weren't entirely wrong. Andros had warned him from the very beginning that emotions shaped power.
But to Tom, love was only one fragment of that spectrum—hardly the whole truth.
So he listened, yes. But selectively. Dumbledore, Andros, Grindelwald—he would take what was useful from each. Yet in the end, his path was his own. If he faltered, it would be his mistake to correct. A puppet who blindly echoed his teachers was no more than a hollow scholar, a shadow with no will.
"Tom…"
The soft, cautious voice made him pause at a corridor corner on the second floor.
Cho Chang and Marietta Edgecombe were walking toward him.
Seeing the direction they'd come from, Tom already guessed. "You went to visit Clearwater?"
Cho nodded, her face troubled. Marietta wore a similar look.
"We tried," Cho said, "but Madam Pomfrey wouldn't allow anyone inside. We could only glimpse her from the doorway. She looked so…"
"…so much like she was dead?" Tom finished dryly.
Both girls froze, their expressions twisting. That bluntness—did he have to phrase it that way? They had been carefully skirting around those words, searching for something gentler.
Marietta let out a half-laugh, half-scoff. "Riddle, you really have a way with words."
"You're missing the point," Tom countered, shaking his head. "I said like. Which means not. Penelope will be fine in a few days. Don't let this haunt your minds."
And it wasn't just the two of them. All of Ravenclaw was restless—their prefect had been attacked, after all.
Cho bit her lip. "But the culprit hasn't been caught. Which means it could happen again."
Understandable. They were still just teenage girls, facing the shadow of death. Fear was inevitable.
But Tom, in truth, wasn't worried.
The castle was still guarded by the Founders' ancient enchantments. Hogwarts protected its students fiercely; in its thousand-year history, the number of children who had actually died inside its walls could be counted on two hands.
In the original timeline, the basilisk had attacked four or five times this very year. Yet no one died—only petrifications.
Was it sheer luck? Hardly.
First, Salazar Slytherin's order to the basilisk had not been kill indiscriminately. Second, Hogwarts itself shielded its wards in unseen ways.
Myrtle had been the rare tragedy, the one unlucky enough to stumble into the creature's gaze during its very first awakening—confused, unrestrained, and directed by a fledgling Tom Riddle through the diary.
But now? Voldemort's remnant inside that diary could barely exert control.
Of course, Tom couldn't explain this to Cho. She'd never believe it. Better to soothe her fears in another way.
With a flick of his hand, two necklaces appeared, each dangling a small iron plate at the bottom.
"What's this?" Cho asked, curiosity momentarily outweighing her anxiety.
"Amulets I made myself," Tom said. "They can resist curses. If danger comes near, the plate will crack. When it shatters completely, the charm is spent."
In truth, they were devices he had crafted specifically to deflect the basilisk's deadly gaze. But amulet against curses sounded far more dignified.
"I get one too?" Marietta's eyes sparkled.
"Of course," Tom said smoothly, handing them over. "We're friends. Take them."
Marietta accepted hers eagerly. Yes, one day she would betray Dumbledore's Army to Umbridge—but Tom bore her no ill will for that. He knew why she had done it. With Umbridge threatening her parents' livelihoods, what child wouldn't bend? To sacrifice one's family for "student camaraderie" wasn't bravery—it was foolishness.
And Marietta had already proven herself useful: the way she had supported Cho in public, playing the loyal wingwoman with flawless timing… that kind of instinct made her worth keeping close.
The girls thanked him earnestly and slipped the necklaces over their heads, visibly comforted by the weight.
In the days that followed, talk of the Chamber of Secrets swept the castle like wildfire. The library's copies of Hogwarts: A History were all but stripped bare as students scoured for clues.
Hermione's sharp questioning in History of Magic, and Professor Binns's dry answers, spread through the school in hours:
The Heir of Slytherin would purge Hogwarts, cleansing it of those unworthy of magic.
The accusation cast a fresh shadow over Slytherin House. Already distrusted, they were now regarded with suspicion and fear.
Even within their own ranks, whispers stirred. If the Heir is one of us, who is it?
Malfoy. Rosier. A few other ancient-blood families—all were rumored candidates.
And yet, every one of them loudly denied it. None wanted that mantle. This wasn't admiration—it was a curse. For if Tom ever decided one of them was the Heir, who would shield them from his wrath?
The lesson was reinforced swiftly.
Just days ago, Anthony Goldstein of Ravenclaw had mocked a group of terrified Muggle-born Hufflepuffs, letting slip that word.
The next morning, his mouth twisted, one eye drooping, limbs stiff and unresponsive.
Now he lay in the hospital wing, Madam Pomfrey declaring he was under a powerful curse—two weeks of immobility, minimum.
A curse.
And many students had been there that night, when Tom had corrected Dumbledore with that casual remark: "Not petrification… a curse."
The connection was obvious.
And suddenly, no one wanted to test Tom Riddle's patience again.