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[Hogwarts] Ch 70: Create Your Own Spell?
🕑 Added 2025-06-26 17:01:41 +0000 UTC— — — — — —
Tom had been to the Headmaster's office to return books more than a few times by now.
At first, he had to say the password to get in, but after seeing the gargoyle so many times, it eventually got used to him and would automatically step aside when it saw him coming—saving both sides some trouble.
So why was it suddenly asking for a password again today?
A bit confused, Tom still said the password: "Fizzing Whizzbee."
"Nope!"
The stone gargoyle gave him a mischievous grin. "Dumbledore changed it on Monday. Riddle, if you can't guess the new one, no entry."
"Oh, so that's what this is," Tom muttered, finally catching on. "But I've never needed a password before. Logically, I should still be able to go in."
The gargoyle shook its head furiously. "That was then—this is now."
"I heard there was a troll running loose in the school yesterday. I've gotta keep the Headmaster safe now. No one gets in without the password."
"Not even Dumbledore?" Tom raised an eyebrow.
"Nope, not even the Headmaster," the gargoyle said confidently.
Tom nodded, amused. "Alright, remember you said that. Otherwise, I'll make sure your inconsistency is written down in Hogwarts: A History. Let the future students know that the guardian of the Headmaster's office doesn't keep his word."
"You sly little snake... You really are from Slytherin!"
If the gargoyle could sweat, it definitely would have been dripping by now. Getting something like that recorded in Hogwarts history would be the end of its millennia-old reputation.
"Kid, how about—"
"I don't wanna chat right now. Gotta focus on cracking the code."
Tom cut the gargoyle off.
Dumbledore's passwords were never that hard to guess—usually sweets from Honeydukes. If you listed off enough candies, you were bound to get it eventually.
"Chocolate Frog."
"Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans."
"Lemon Ice Lolly."
"Peppermint Toad Cream."
...
"Jelly Slugs."
Reluctantly, the gargoyle slid aside. The password had been guessed, and rules were rules. Even if the one standing there had been Voldemort or Grindelwald, the door had to open.
Tom gave it a smug look and climbed the stairs.
Nice try. Did it really think it could mess with him?
Haha...Ravenclaw wisdom my ass.
That said, Dumbledore's taste really was something else... Jelly Slugs? Gross. Just barely better than Cockroach Clusters.
"Hello, Professor. I'm here to return some books."
When Tom stepped into the office, Dumbledore was hunched over his desk writing something. Hearing the greeting, he set down his quill and looked up with a smile.
"Tom, you're reading through these books so fast I'm starting to think my whole collection will be gone before you graduate."
Tom glanced at the towering shelves of books and shook his head. "At my current pace, it's not nearly enough. I still need to work harder."
Dumbledore gave a helpless smile. "To be honest, I haven't even read all of these myself. Some were collected by previous headmasters."
Tom shrugged. "I'll just read what I can. I've got plenty of free time anyway."
He climbed the ladder and returned two books to their places, then scanned the shelves again and picked out two more:
The Nature of Magic
The Power Hidden in Ancient Runes
As Tom was about to say his goodbyes and leave with the new books, Dumbledore stopped him.
"Professor, is something wrong?"
"Nothing serious," Dumbledore said with a warm smile. "I just wanted to apologize."
Apologize?
Tom blinked, trying to figure out what this was about. He asked cautiously, "Are you planning to collect the money you loaned me ahead of time?"
He couldn't imagine anything else that might warrant an apology from Dumbledore.
Was the old man... losing touch with the younger generation's way of thinking?
Dumbledore: "…"
Had he really fallen so far that people thought he'd be petty enough to chase down a few hundred Galleons?
"Don't worry about that money," Dumbledore said, half-laughing, half-exasperated. "I'm apologizing for something else. I heard your criticism about the school this morning, and I want you to know—I will guarantee the students' safety."
Tom's mind worked quickly, and it didn't take long to figure out what had happened.
He'd noticed Professor McGonagall around earlier that morning but didn't think much of it. Now it seemed she had passed on his words to Dumbledore, leading to this little conversation.
As long as it wasn't about repaying a debt, Tom was fine with it.
"Of course I trust you, Professor. That troll incident was just a fluke."
All things considered, Dumbledore's years as headmaster had seen their fair share of chaos, but the only actual fatality had been Cedric Diggory—and that was after he was portkeyed out of Hogwarts.
Dumbledore nodded with a smile and chatted with Tom a little longer before letting him go.
...
That afternoon, after Herbology, Tom headed straight toward the Forbidden Forest. To avoid any unnecessary trouble, he'd already cast a Disillusionment Charm on himself.
Even so, as he passed Hagrid's hut, the massive dog Fang still barked wildly at what seemed like thin air.
"woof! woof woof! Woo—"
Halfway through, it turned into a whimper because Tom had looked its way.
Dogs were naturally sensitive to danger, and hunting breeds especially so.
Fang had the distinct sense that if he kept barking, he might very well end up as the main ingredient in a hotpot...
"Fang! What are you barking at?!"
Hagrid, who'd been tending to his vegetable patch, came running over. But there was no one in sight—just Fang, hugging his own head pitifully.
Tom was already deep inside the Forbidden Forest.
The Disillusionment Charm worked well enough to blend him into his surroundings, but it didn't suppress scent. To really hide, he'd need a spell that could mask his smell too.
But so far, he'd never come across one.
The wizarding world had always carried a kind of arrogant bias against magical creatures, rarely developing spells specifically to deal with them.
Even someone like Newt Scamander was seen as a weirdo—and people's attitudes still hadn't really changed.
"You should consider inventing your own spells."
Andros suddenly piped up in his mind.
"Me?" Tom blinked, stopping in his tracks.
He'd never thought about inventing his own spells. Not because he lacked ambition, but because he assumed that kind of thing was far beyond his current level. Or maybe... just unnecessary for now.
He figured he'd dig into that once he was further along in his magical journey.
Sensing his thoughts, Andros chuckled softly from within the space they shared and explained gently:
"Creating your own magic—or even just modifying existing spells to suit your needs—is a natural part of your growth as a wizard."
"Don't... what's the phrase... sell yourself short, Tom. You're already far beyond the average wizard."
"Not just your peers—even compared to adult witches and wizards, you're exceptional. You've earned the right to take that next step. By inventing or adapting spells, you'll gain deeper insight into the nature of magic itself."
"I get it," Tom nodded, mentally adding 'create my own spell' to his ever-growing to-do list.
Andros gave a proud nod.
And honestly, the fact that their sync level had almost reached 90%… said a lot.
Andros hadn't said all that just because Tom held control over him—he genuinely meant it.
Just look at what other eleven-year-olds were doing. Actually, scratch that—forget other eleven-year-olds. Even most Hogwarts students weren't as driven.
At that age, kids were supposed to be full of energy and curiosity, sure—but mostly for games, fun, and chaos. Puberty would hit soon, and then all they'd care about was rebellion and hormones. Studying would be the last thing on their minds.
But Tom? From the moment they met, he hadn't slacked off for even a day. Not only did he study religiously in class, but every evening without fail, he logged into the magical study space to continue learning.
With that kind of persistence, even someone with average brains would eventually get somewhere.
While others partied away their seven years at Hogwarts, Tom was learning nonstop. And after graduation, when most people would get bogged down by work and life's nonsense, the gap would only grow wider.
Andros took pride in having a student like that.
Of course, Andros didn't know the full picture. The reason Tom could push himself like this wasn't just maturity or foresight—it was also thanks to the system.
Even though the system didn't show a visible progress bar or skill level, it did track points and credits.
Every time his academic score ticked upward, Tom knew he was actually learning something valuable—no wasted effort. It was like having a built-in progress tracker.
Every time he saw those numbers go up, he got fired up again. If anything, he wanted to study a few more hours each day.
And so, this lovely little misunderstanding continued. Not that it was a problem—in fact, it helped boost his bond level. And when it hit 100, he'd be able to draw another talent.
Later that evening, Tom returned to the spot where he'd been brewing his potion the night before. From a distance, he spotted a house-elf staring at the cauldron, seemingly in a daze.
Tom called out tentatively, "Rndo?"
The house-elf jumped a full foot in the air and spun around, bowing repeatedly as he stammered, "M-Master Riddle! Rndo wasn't slacking! Rndo wasn't daydreaming!"
Tom glanced into the cauldron and checked the potion's color—it looked right on track. He gave the elf a small smile. "I know. The potion looks great. Good job."
"You're too kind, Master Riddle!" Rndo was so flustered it was like he'd just been awarded Order of Merlin, First Class.
Tom had no idea what kind of history the house-elves had to make them so deeply submissive—like it was etched into their DNA. But he wasn't the type to try changing their situation. After all, he benefited from it. And he definitely wasn't the kind of person to betray his own class for the sake of some noble ideal.
He crouched down beside the cauldron and stirred the potion with his wand, channeling magic into it. The soft bubbling immediately turned to a lively boil. Then he added the next batch of ingredients.
Under the sunlight, the potion took on a vibrant purplish-red hue. And if things went according to plan, on the third day, when he added the dragonblood, it would turn deep blood-red.
At least, that's what Andros had said.
After monitoring the brew for a bit, Tom gave Rndo a few instructions and headed off to rest.
Over the next two days, the Forbidden Forest became something like Tom's second dorm. He stopped by in the morning, checked on the potion during lunch, and even swung by after his nightly walks.
Honestly, he wasn't sure how amazing this potion was going to be, despite Andros hyping it up. But what he had gained during the brewing process was a lot of new hands-on experience—and a few new questions too.
Normally, he would've gone straight to Snape to clear up his doubts… but lately, that didn't seem like a great idea.
The Potions Master had been acting like he was going through a full-blown magical menopause—irritable, sharp-tongued, and on edge. And it wasn't just Harry or the first-year Gryffindors getting caught in the crossfire anymore. These days, anyone outside Slytherin was fair game.
Even the other professors were confused. No one could figure out what had set him off this time.
Except Dumbledore and Tom.
Dumbledore knew because Snape had tried to get some potion ingredients reimbursed—and was denied.
As for Tom... well, he was the one who caused it. Of course he knew.
Still, from what Tom could tell, Snape had never even suspected him. He had his sights locked on Quirrell.
Now Quirrell was so terrified, he barely dared to show up for meals—just scuttled from class to class like a mouse hiding from a cat.
---
Finally, it was Saturday.
The first Quidditch match of the year was about to begin.
There's a saying in the Muggle world: "Sports are the wars of peacetime."
At Hogwarts, Quidditch wasn't just a game—it was war between the four houses. Their most direct and passionate form of competition.
The tension had been building for days. It was like the castle itself was holding its breath.
Each team's players were practically under 24/7 surveillance. Teammates or upperclassmen followed them everywhere. No one was allowed to move around alone—not with sabotage always a possibility. Every meal had to be taste-tested in case someone tried slipping something in.
The security level honestly shocked Tom.
Harry Potter, for instance, was being shadowed by three massive fifth-years. You could barely even see his small frame behind them.
Slytherin's Seeker, Terence Higgs, wasn't doing much better—Marcus Flint, the fifth-year Prefect, was acting as his personal bodyguard.
"Isn't this all a bit too much?" Tom muttered.
"This is standard, Tom," said Adrian Pucey, one of the Slytherin Chasers, turning back with a deadly serious look.
"Two years ago, when I just joined the team officially, Gryffindor slipped me some kind of super-powered laxative. I legit thought my insides were gonna fall out."
Tom's jaw dropped. "Gryffindor did that? Aren't they supposed to be the honorable, goody-two-shoes types?"
He'd never had a great opinion of the lion house, but this didn't seem like their style. Most of them played fair.
A Peter Pettigrew-level sneak only came along once in a century.
"They're the worst!" Pucey snapped, practically growling. "The one who spiked my food is their current Beater—one of those Weasley twins!"
"Just because Marcus broke Oliver Wood's nose doesn't mean I deserved to be poisoned!"
Tom: "..."
Well. Case closed.
So it really had been Slytherin who struck first. That lined up perfectly with all his stereotypes.
.
.
.
