— — — — — —

After breakfast, Tom took Daphne and Hermione to the Room of Requirement.

Before they got down to business, he gave them a detailed rundown of everything that had happened the day before—starting from how he subdued Fluffy, all the way to facing off against Voldemort himself. The two girls listened with bated breath, their hands clenched tight, barely daring to breathe.

"Wait, You-Know-Who was on Quirrell this whole time? So we've been living in the same castle as the Dark Lord for an entire term?!"

Daphne's face went pale— part horror, part fury.

She still didn't dare say Voldemort's actual name, but Tom didn't bother correcting her. It was a habit she'd had for years, and honestly, there was no need to nitpick over something like that.

Hermione, on the other hand, seemed more composed. Just like Tom had once told Dumbledore: Muggle-borns didn't grow up knowing what Voldemort meant to the wizarding world. Most of their fear came secondhand, absorbed from others.

"When we get back, I'm asking my mum to file a formal complaint with the Ministry. What kind of headmaster lets someone that dangerous hang around the school for an entire year without noticing?! Dumbledore should be fired!"

Daphne huffed, shaking her tiny fists in frustration, mentally adding a big red checkmark to the list of reasons she couldn't stand Dumbledore.

She was a textbook Slytherin—proud of her pure-blood heritage, suspicious of the headmaster, and in another timeline, would've been cozying up to Pansy Parkinson's little pure-blood gang.

But… Daphne was also a sucker for good looks.

And when faced with Tom's ridiculously handsome face, all her previous beliefs went straight out the window. After spending so much time with him and Hermione, her old ideals had all but dissolved.

Though her dislike for Dumbledore? That part still held strong.

Even Hermione, usually quick to defend the old headmaster, stayed quiet this time. Because honestly… this whole thing was insane.

Hogwarts was supposed to be the safest place in the magical world—so how the hell did Voldemort show up there of all places?

"Tom," Daphne said tearfully, grabbing his hand, "next time something this dangerous comes up, let Potter deal with it, okay? That was He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named! Even in that weakened state, he's still deadly. You're still just a kid… once we've grown stronger, then you can take him on."

Tom chuckled and gently ruffled her hair. "Actually, the hooded guy I ran into in the Forbidden Forest that night? That was also Quirrell—and the Dark Lord. I only went after him because I knew I could handle it. You don't have to worry about me."

Hermione's eyes lit up in realization. "So that's why Quirrell suddenly quit after that night! I should've figured it out sooner."

Then, looking a little jealous, she added, "Devil's Snare, wizard chess, potions… That whole obstacle course sounded so fun. Tom, you should've brought me along! I could've breezed through the potions and chess challenges for sure."

Tom shrugged casually. "They're just puzzle games. When we come back next term, I'll set them up for you to try."

After chatting a bit more, Tom sketched out Voldemort's current appearance for them—only for the girls to recoil in disgust. Once they learned he had other stuff to take care of, they left him to it.

...

Tom pulled out the dragonhide and dragonbone he'd prepared and started cutting and assembling the pieces.

Making a trunk with Undetectable Extension Charms was both a technical and physical challenge. Each section of the interior had to be expanded bit by bit, then reinforced with Stabilization Charms to ensure it wouldn't collapse.

In the days following final exams, Tom spent his entire afternoons in the Room of Requirement, building the trunk and studying the Thunderbird.

The Thunderbird was a magical beast native to North America, most commonly found in Arizona, deep in the American Southwest. It was a close relative of the phoenix and was incredibly sensitive to danger.

Still, there were barely any detailed records about it at Hogwarts—but even the fragments Tom managed to dig up were enough to leave him speechless.

Thunderbirds were among the fastest magical creatures in existence, capable of flying over 500 kilometers per hour. Their flight was accompanied by storms.

So if he wanted to win a race against one of these things, he'd not only need to master a flight spell, but also exceed those insane speeds—and somehow survive the accompanying chaos of the storm.

Of the four trials, this one was shaping up to be the toughest by far. And right now, he hadn't even figured out the basics of flight spells.

Was it even realistic to hope he'd pull it off over the summer?

Andros and Grindelwald weren't having an easy time either. After hearing the requirements, they'd buried themselves in their research, gradually working out a solution.

— — —

The day before the end-of-year feast, the final Quidditch match was held.

With Harry still unconscious, Gryffindor had to throw in a last-minute substitute who was decent at flying—but the team was completely out of sync, and Ravenclaw crushed them with a truly humiliating score.

Tom noticed that when the match ended, Oliver Wood's eyes were red from crying.

But that same evening, Harry finally woke up.

"Good afternoon, Harry," Dumbledore greeted him with a smile.

Harry blinked, confused, before suddenly remembering everything. "Professor, the Philosopher's Stone — it was Quirrell, he—wait, where's Tom?"

"Calm down, my boy," Dumbledore said gently, his voice laced with a calming charm. Harry quickly relaxed as the headmaster continued, "The Stone is safe. You and Mr. Riddle did something truly extraordinary—you protected the Stone and defeated Quirrell. I'm proud of you."

Dumbledore answered a few of Harry's questions, and somewhere along the way, Harry felt an odd sense of clarity—like Dumbledore was offering him a choice. As if, deep down, Dumbledore wanted him to be the one to stand against Voldemort.

It felt… orchestrated.

But what about Tom?

"Let me check him one more time!"

Madam Pomfrey finally relented and allowed Harry to leave the hospital wing. The moment he was free, he went straight off to find Tom.

They ran into each other in the entrance hall. Harry waved off Ron and Neville and pulled Tom aside to a quiet corner of the Great Hall.

"Tom," he said seriously, "thank you."

"No need to thank me," Tom replied lightly. "By the time I got there, you'd already beaten Quirrell half to death."

Then, with a curious glint in his eye, Tom asked, "But I am wondering—how'd you guys get past the earlier obstacles?"

Hermione was the usual brains of the trio and their go-to for anything technical. Ron and Harry, well… let's just say they weren't exactly known for strategic thinking. The fact that those two had managed to make it through the trials still felt surreal to Tom.

Especially the Devil's Snare and the potion riddle—those shouldn't have been possible for them.

Seeing Tom's curiosity, Harry recounted their adventure.

With the Devil's Snare, neither of them had a clue what it was. All the herbology knowledge they'd learned had long since flown out the window. During the struggle, Ron's wand got tangled in the vines and snapped, causing a magical backlash—an explosion that scared the plant off just in time to save their lives.

As for the wizard chess challenge, that was all Ron's doing, of course.

And the potions riddle at the end... Harry straight-up admitted he was just guessing.

He looked over all the potion bottles, picked the one that looked like it had been tampered with and had the least liquid inside, and just gulped it down. By some miracle, he actually guessed right.

Tom couldn't help but laugh after hearing the full story.

So it was all dumb luck and blind bravery, huh? Of course it was. No wonder he's the 'chosen one'—Voldemort's destined rival. Anyone else would've been seriously injured or worse. But Harry and Ron? They just dust themselves off, take a few days to rest, and bounce back like nothing happened.

"Uh... hey," Harry scratched his head awkwardly. "Tom, I owe you an apology."

"Apology?" Tom raised an eyebrow. "What could you possibly need to apologize for?"

Harry looked embarrassed. "That day… when you and Hermione told me to be careful of Quirrell, I didn't listen. I was convinced Snape was the bad guy. But Professor Dumbledore already told me Snape was actually protecting me—and Quirrell was the one who wanted me dead. If I'd just listened to you sooner, none of this might've happened."

"Oh, that," Tom said, realization dawning. "Honestly, even if you had believed me, it wouldn't have changed anything. It's not like you had any solid proof. What, were you going to stalk Quirrell every day until he slipped up? Nothing would've turned out differently."

He waved a hand dismissively. "If you really feel guilty, go apologize to Snape instead."

With that, Tom turned and walked off.

Harry stood there, stunned for a second, then pouted.

Apologize to Snape?

Yeah, right. He'd rather keep wrongly accusing the guy. No big deal. Being a petty little jerk wasn't that bad.

...

When Tom entered the Great Hall, the decorations had already been changed—green and silver banners hung proudly, representing Slytherin House. Behind the staff table was a massive banner featuring the serpent emblem.

Most students outside of Slytherin looked like they were about to gag. After all, every single year since they enrolled, the final feast had always ended with Slytherin winning the House Cup.

A few minutes later, Dumbledore arrived, and the chatter in the hall gradually quieted down.

"Well," he began cheerfully, "another year has come and gone. And before we dig into this delicious feast, I'd like to take a moment for an old man's rambling speech."

A few students chuckled good-naturedly.

"It's been an eventful year, one I'm sure you've all learned a great deal from. There's a long summer ahead to rest and recharge—but please, for the love of magic, pick up a book once in a while. Don't let your brains go completely to mush."

Laughter filled the room.

Once the noise settled, Dumbledore continued, "Now, let's get to the House Cup results. The final scores are as follows:

"Gryffindor: 300 points."

"Hufflepuff: 352 points."

"Ravenclaw: 426 points."

"Slytherin: 500 points."

The Slytherin table erupted in cheers. Snape even allowed himself a rare smile—much to the annoyance of just about everyone else.

"Yes, yes," Dumbledore nodded, smiling. "Well done, Slytherin. However, recent events must also be taken into account."

Snape's smile faded. The Slytherin table instantly fell silent. Everyone had a bad feeling about this.

"First," Dumbledore said, "it takes a great deal of bravery to stand up to our enemies but just as much to stand up to our friends. For that, Neville Longbottom, I award Gryffindor 50 points."

Cheers rang out from the Gryffindor table. Slytherins didn't seem too bothered though—the point gap was still wide. Neville, meanwhile, was beet red. He'd never earned that many points before.

"Second, Ron Weasley. For playing what might've been the most brilliant game of wizard's chess Hogwarts has seen in years—and sacrificing his wand to protect school property—I award Gryffindor 60 points."

The twins jumped onto the table, hollering. Percy was loudly telling anyone who'd listen that Ron was his brother and had beaten Professor McGonagall's life-sized chess set.

Still, there was a 90-point gap. Slytherins reassured themselves: it wasn't over yet.

"Third, Tom Riddle."

All eyes turned to him. Slytherins perked up visibly.

"Mr. Riddle stepped in at a critical moment, risking himself to aid Mr. Potter despite being from another House. As a reward… I've already given him the most precious treasure in my possession, so no additional points will be awarded."

This had already been agreed upon in Dumbledore's office, so Tom wasn't surprised. But a lot of students looked disappointed.

"What treasure was it, Tom?" Daphne tugged at his sleeve, whispering.

"I'll tell you later," he grinned. "It's a surprise."

That just made her even more curious—her heart practically itched with anticipation.

"And lastly, Harry Potter."

The hall went silent.

"For his bravery and selfless courage, I award Gryffindor… 100 points!"

The eruption of noise was deafening. Students who were quick at math started cheering even harder.

"We did it—we passed them!"

"Gryffindor wins!"

Even students from Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw joined in the celebration—Slytherin's unpopularity was that strong.

Dumbledore had to raise his hand and magically amplify his voice just to be heard over the noise. "Well then! I suppose it's time to change the decor a bit."

He clapped his hands, and the green-and-silver decorations instantly turned gold and red. The snake emblem shifted into a roaring lion.

Snape, putting on a smile like a true gentleman, shook hands with Professor McGonagall—then subtly shot Dumbledore a venomous glare.

'Could the favoritism be any more obvious, old man?' he thought.

'Still, Riddle's no fool. I'm just waiting for the day he turns the tables on you. And he already beat the damn Dark Lord. Ha ha.'

McGonagall and Dumbledore looked a bit confused. Given what they knew of Snape, this reaction wasn't quite what they expected.

No anger? Just smiling even more than before?

Then—

"Hold on a second!"

Just as everyone thought this dramatic, chaotic House Cup finale had finally wrapped up, Tom slowly stood up.

His voice, magically enhanced, cut through the hall like a blade, ringing in everyone's ears and silencing the room.

This time, it was Dumbledore who felt a twinge of unease.

Tom smiled politely at him, then turned to face Snape.

"Professor Snape, I wanted to ask—did my theory end up getting published?"

.

.

.