Of course, no one dared suspect Tom had been behind Anthony Goldstein's "curse." Absolutely no one.
If blame was to be placed anywhere, it was on Goldstein himself—loose tongue, careless words. He had provoked the wrong person, and the outcome was inevitable.
…
"Tom, do you think Malfoy could be the Heir of Slytherin?"
In the Room of Requirement, Hermione held a massive copy of Hogwarts: A History against her chest, curiosity written across her face.
Tom shook his head. "From my observation? No."
He leaned back lazily. "If Draco Malfoy had that kind of authority, he wouldn't keep it quiet. He'd flaunt it, brag about it—and last night, he practically fell over himself pledging loyalty to me. With that level of subtlety? The boy couldn't possibly be the Heir."
"Malfoy as the Heir?" Daphne snorted, taking a bite of cake. "If it were him, the first one to be attacked wouldn't have been Clearwater. It would've been Weasley."
"Ron?" Hermione frowned, tilting her head. "Why Ron? Wouldn't it make more sense for Harry?"
Daphne rolled her eyes. "Please. Weasley is the biggest obstacle standing between him and Potter. Remove Weasley, and Malfoy would have free rein to hound Potter every day."
Tom rapped Hermione lightly on the head with a finger. "Stop reading those cheap novels—you're starting to think like one."
Daphne giggled and stuck her tongue out, mischievous, while Astoria sighed like a weary little adult. Her sister was growing less dignified by the day. Clearly, the younger sister was the sensible one in the family.
"Malfoy also has an alibi," Astoria added quietly. "On the night of the feast, he was with his two shadows the entire time."
"So then," Tom asked casually, "who do you think it could be?"
"I'll say it outright," Daphne declared through a mouthful of cake. "If anyone's the Heir, it's you, Tom. None of the others are even worthy of the title."
Astoria nodded timidly, as though agreeing was the safest choice.
Even Hermione gave a shy smile. "Honestly… if it weren't for the attacks, I'd have thought it was you too."
Tom: …
He sighed and changed the subject. "By the way, I heard the flu outbreak in Gryffindor's pretty bad."
Hermione perked up. "Yes, it's been spreading like wildfire. Percy's been trying to keep order, but no one wants to take Madam Pomfrey's potions—they say they taste awful. He practically forced Ginny to drink an entire goblet yesterday."
"Ginny?" Tom asked with casual interest. "The youngest Weasley girl? She's sick as well?"
Astoria nodded. "Her symptoms are worse than most. She's been drifting off a lot, daydreaming in lessons. Professor McGonagall even scolded her last week."
Tom's eyes narrowed slightly. So. The diary has indeed found its way into Ginny's hands.
…
Three days later, the revival draught was finally brewed. Snape himself delivered the potion to the hospital wing, and Dumbledore arrived moments later.
Neither professor lasted long inside—Madam Pomfrey threw them both out with sharp words.
"If you want answers, come back tomorrow," she snapped. "My patient needs rest. She hasn't eaten in three days—nutrient potions or no, she cannot endure more stress."
The great wizard and the Potions Master left, muttering, but students all across Hogwarts were cheered by the news. The shadow over the school seemed to lift.
…
The next morning, Tom was in Herbology when a breathless upper-year burst into the greenhouse.
"Professor Sprout! The Headmaster's calling for Riddle—he's needed at the hospital wing!"
Sprout nodded briskly. "Go on, Mr. Riddle."
Tom packed away his tools and followed the messenger out.
"Thank you for the Mandrakes," the boy said earnestly as they walked. "Clearwater's awake again—no lasting damage at all."
It wasn't that he secretly adored Penelope; he was simply another Ravenclaw, shaken by what had happened to one of their own.
Tom smiled faintly. "Don't thank me. Just… next time you lot whisper about the Heir, don't put me on the list. I really am not."
The boy flushed, embarrassed. He hadn't realized Tom knew of those rumors. Truth was, every House had whispered about it—Tom's absence at the feast, coupled with his brilliance, made him a natural suspect. But his humble origins always dropped him lower in the rankings.
At least that was how the rumor mill worked.
Marietta had confirmed as much herself—yet another reason Tom valued her as a source.
At the hospital wing doors, the Ravenclaw boy paused. "For what it's worth… I believe you, Riddle." And with that, he hurried away.
Tom slipped inside.
The first thing he saw was Anthony Goldstein, still lying twisted and half-paralyzed, eyes rolling wide in fear when they met Tom's. The boy tried to cry out, only managing muffled, garbled sounds of terror.
Tom barely glanced at him before drawing back the curtain and stepping deeper into the ward.
Dumbledore was there, alongside Professor Flitwick and Snape. They stood gathered around a bed where Penelope Clearwater sat upright. She was pale, weak—but alive.
"Mr. Riddle, at last." Dumbledore beamed, beckoning him closer. "Miss Clearwater and Professor Flitwick insisted on thanking you in person."
Flitwick hopped down from his stool, his face alight. "Riddle, my boy, splendid work! Truly splendid!" He grasped Tom's hand in both of his tiny ones and shook vigorously.
On the bed, Penelope's voice was soft, but sincere. "Thank you… for the Mandrakes, Riddle."
Tom waved it off, pulling up a chair. "If thanks are due, give them to Newt Scamander. Without his gift of materials, you'd still be lying here for a term."
He leaned forward slightly. "Tell me, though—what happened that night? What do you remember?"
Penelope frowned, frustrated. "I… don't know. I wish I did. I'd just come back from the courtyard—it was raining, and I was soaked through. I wanted to change into dry robes before joining the feast. That's when I saw Mrs. Norris following me. I was about to shoo her away when—"
Her voice faltered.
"A sudden flash of yellow light filled my vision. After that… nothing. Until I woke up here."