Every young witch and wizard in the Great Hall craned their necks toward the staff table, eyes wide with curiosity.
The professors were clearly in deep discussion , Professor Rouse speaking animatedly, hands slicing through the air , but no one could hear a word.
It wasn't that they were whispering. Even though Rouse spoke at a normal volume, the sound simply didn't reach the students. Whatever spell they'd cast had sealed their voices away, making the whole thing look like some strange pantomime.
Of course, this only made everyone more desperate to know what was being said.
Maybe Dumbledore will tell us after the feast, they hoped silently.
Tom, too, was curious , though unlike the others, he wasn't impatient. He could just ask later, after everyone else had left.
During the holidays, Rouse hadn't contacted him at all , aside from a single festive message on WhatsApp. Whatever the man had been working on, it had kept him entirely off the grid.
But Tom would find out soon enough.
At the Slytherin table, Blaise Zabini was grinning like he'd swallowed a batch of Felix Felicis. His friend Nott, sitting beside him, finally lost patience.
"Blaise, what's wrong with you? You've been smiling like that for ten minutes. Did someone curse you? Was it those Gryffindor idiots?"
"Curse you," Blaise shot back without missing a beat, though his grin didn't fade. He tried , and failed , to school his expression into something solemn. "Actually… my seventh stepfather passed away this holiday."
The words hit like a dropped cauldron.
Nott blinked.
Tom blinked.
And half the table froze.
Unlike the secretive professors, Blaise had no filter and no concept of volume. Half the Slytherin House heard him clearly, and soon an awkward silence settled over the table.
Everyone knew about Madam Zabini, his mother , a living legend in wizarding society.
She'd had eight husbands so far. The first had been Blaise's biological father. Every one of them had been wealthy, distinguished… and dead within a year of marrying her.
Her reputation rivaled that of the cursed Defense Against the Dark Arts position itself.
The Ministry had even launched an official investigation once , but in the end, the findings were always the same: "tragic accidents, no foul play."
Yet despite her dark reputation, Madam Zabini's beauty ensured she was never short of suitors.
Tom had met her once, last year at the train station.
A cold, poised woman with platinum-blonde hair, skin like polished marble , she looked exactly like Vanessa Kirby's White Widow from Mission: Impossible.
Even the older wizards had stared.
Men, Tom thought at the time. Eternal boys, all of them.
"…Er, congratulations?" Nott finally managed, groping for words.
That single word, "congratulations," sparked a wave of stifled laughter across the table.
Blaise just nodded cheerfully, covering his mouth as if to hide his grin. "Thank you, thank you. Much appreciated."
Tom pinched the bridge of his nose. Now that's what you call a cheerful funeral.
Before the conversation could spiral further, the empty golden plates on every table filled themselves in an instant , roast meats, puddings, and pumpkin juice appearing with a shimmer of magic.
And finally, the murmuring from the professors' table ceased.
Tom felt a sharp, dagger-like stare pierce him. He didn't need to look to know who it was.
Severus Snape.
The man's fury was practically radiating heat across the hall.
And honestly, Tom couldn't blame him.
After all, he was the one who'd given Snape that ridiculous Christmas "gift." And then, as if that weren't enough, he'd convinced Snape to continue brewing that particular potion , a potion that had turned the poor man's laboratory into a nightmare.
Snape's expression screamed I will end you.
Tom met his glare , and grinned, wide and innocent, with a bright, boyish sincerity that rivaled Harry Potter's.
That was the final straw. Snape's blood pressure skyrocketed; his fork bent under his fingers with a metallic squeal.
"Severus?" Dumbledore asked gently, watching him with faint concern. "Why aren't you eating?"
Snape's voice was ice. "Oh, I'm full. Utterly full."
Dumbledore followed the line of Snape's glare, spotted Tom's smug face, and sighed quietly, shaking his head.
For the life of him, he couldn't understand it.
Tom had brought nothing but prestige to Slytherin , turned their reputation from notorious to formidable. He'd defended them, outperformed them, and yet Snape treated him like a ticking bomb.
When the feast ended, the students groaned in disappointment , no revelations, no answers.
Dumbledore merely announced two new items to Filch's list of banned contraband and waved everyone off for the night.
As the students rose from their seats, a sharp voice cut through the chatter:
"Mr. Riddle, please stay!"
It was Professor McGonagall.
Dumbledore blinked in surprise and turned.
Minerva… you stole my line.
He'd been just about to call Tom over himself. How had she, ?
Tom, puzzled, approached the staff table. "Professor McGonagall, is something wrong?"
"Quite the opposite," she said with a rare smile. "Something good. Come with me, Mr. Riddle. Oh , you too, Albus."
And so, obedient as ever, Tom followed her.
And so, somewhat less obedient but equally curious, Dumbledore followed as well.
The two exchanged a look as they walked down the hall.
Tom's expression said, So this is the great Headmaster of Hogwarts? You and I are both getting ordered around.
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled with amusement. He could read that expression easily , and he refused to rise to it.
Nice try, his look replied. That trick doesn't even work on Snape.
In truth, there wasn't a soul in Hogwarts , student or professor , who dared defy Minerva McGonagall when she was in one of her moods.
Still, Dumbledore thought wryly, the boy certainly knows how to needle me.
In silence, the trio made their way up the spiral staircase to the Headmaster's Office.
"Toffee Finger," McGonagall declared crisply.
The stone gargoyle sprang to life and leapt aside. As Tom passed, it winked at him.
"You've made friends," Dumbledore murmured under his breath.
Tom smirked. "Not exactly. More like… it's learned to fear me. I might've annoyed it a bit. I've used the password more in one week than it's heard in decades."
Dumbledore chuckled softly. Evil meets evil, and harmony is born, he mused.
,
"Chirp!"
No sooner had they stepped inside than Fawkes, reborn and radiant after his last fiery cycle, swooped down to perch on Tom's shoulder.
The phoenix rubbed affectionately against his cheek, feathers gleaming like molten gold.
Tom chuckled and returned the affection , in his own way. "You really are beautiful. Look at these feathers, oh, sorry, didn't mean to pull so hard."
Two warm, glowing tail feathers slipped deftly into his pocket.
Dumbledore didn't even look. He simply turned away, eyes fixed firmly on his desk.
If he didn't see it happen, it didn't happen.
He'd learned that trick a long time ago.