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[Hogwarts] Ch 69: A Good Tom Riddle
🕑 Added 2025-06-26 17:00:15 +0000 UTC— — — — — —
Deep inside the Forbidden Forest, not far from the Mooncalf herds…
Tom stood under the moonlight with a cauldron set over a small fire, carefully prepping ingredients under the soft glow of a lantern. His movements were focused and precise—every slice, stir, and grind done with extreme care.
He'd even activated his system, letting Andros observe everything from the study space.
These ingredients weren't exactly easy to come by. Wasting a single one would hurt his soul.
Originally, Tom had wanted to practice with simpler potions first—to build up his skills before tackling something this advanced. But Andros wasn't having it.
The stronger Tom's body got, the more magic it could handle—and the more powerful spells Andros could teach him.
Tom finally got tired of the nagging and dragged his cauldron out here in the middle of the night to brew the enhancement potion.
Why not use the Room of Requirement?
Because this specific potion required both moonlight and sunlight to activate properly.
High-level potions often had weird conditions like that.
Take Animagus transformation, for example: first you had to hold a mandrake leaf in your mouth for an entire month, and then wait for a thunderstorm to even try the transformation. With bad luck, you could be stuck waiting for weeks.
After two full hours of prep, Tom finally finished processing the ingredients.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead and stood up to stretch.
And then came a new problem.
The potion had to simmer for three full days and nights. Just leaving it here wasn't safe, even with protective wards. Someone needed to stay and watch it.
Andros frowned too. He'd forgotten Tom had classes tomorrow.
Tom thought hard for a moment, then finally had an idea. He whispered softly:
"Kaka."
POP!
With a sharp crack, a house-elf appeared before him, bowing deeply.
"You called, Master Riddle?"
Hobbie, Kaka, and many others were house-elves at Hogwarts. Thanks to Tom's frequent nightly visits to the kitchen, he had already grown close to them.
---
Tom handed over the responsibility of watching over the potions to Kaka.
But Kaka couldn't stand guard 24/7—he had his own work to do. But Hogwarts had plenty of house-elves, and with just a few words from Kaka, five or six of them popped up and quickly divvied up a watch schedule.
To the Hogwarts house-elves, all students were basically their masters, so Tom's instructions weren't something they'd refuse. The only people who could override Tom's commands were Dumbledore or the other professors.
Tom wasn't too worried about his secrets getting out—Dumbledore wasn't omniscient. If he managed to ask the right question with that kind of accuracy, it would mean Tom had already been exposed, which obviously hadn't happened.
Once everything was secured, Tom started brewing potions under Andros' guidance. After completing the first stage, he left, assigning Kaka to keep an eye on things.
— — —
The Next Morning
The chaos caused by the troll hadn't died down—it was only spreading.
Because one of the people involved had decided to "give a personal retelling" of the whole thing.
When Tom arrived at the Great Hall, the Gryffindor table was packed. A crowd had formed around Ron, who was animatedly recounting his "near-death experience" from last night.
Only then did Tom realize the original story had shifted, though not entirely. Hermione had made it back to the common room safely and wasn't in any danger. But Harry and Ron still ended up having a "bonding moment" with the troll.
Ron's unique strengths really showed here. He'd been dancing on the edge of death just last night, yet today, he was not only back to normal—he was using it as prime storytelling material.
That kind of mental resilience wasn't something everyone had.
Maybe it was because experiences like this were rare, but Ron had clearly taken some... creative liberties with his retelling. The whole thing sounded like a heart-pounding action thriller. Even students two tables over at Slytherin could hear the loud gasps from the Gryffindor crowd and Ron's dramatic voice.
"..."
"Hmph."
Monet Selwyn sneered. "You'd think Weasley actually defeated the troll, the way he's going on about it. Wasn't he just running for his life and then rescued by a professor?"
Someone chimed in sarcastically, "Good thing that troll was dumb as rocks. If it had even half a brain, those two would've been paste."
"Wait, wasn't it a ghost who saved them, not a professor?" Zabini asked mockingly.
The Slytherins around him burst out laughing.
They couldn't stand Gryffindor's showboating tendencies. Every time something happened, they had to turn it into a heroic tale.
Then Avery, the sixth-year male prefect, shared a delightful bit of news: "I just checked the scoreboard. Gryffindor lost another twenty points. They're almost in the negatives."
The Slytherins were thrilled.
"Still not enough," Zabini said, shaking his head in disappointment.
But Tom, sipping his lemon tea, offered a different perspective. "Actually, I think docking points over this... seems a bit unfair."
The table went quiet for a moment. Everyone turned to look at Tom.
Anyone else saying this would've been mocked already. But since it was Tom, people expected an explanation. He wasn't someone who said things without reason.
Tom set down his teacup and calmly looked around. "This was clearly a failure in school management. There are four Heads of House, six or seven professors, and Filch, who spends all day catching students breaking rules."
"With all that manpower, a troll still made it into the castle. What, is the troll smarter than the professors? Or... did one of them actually bring it in themselves?"
"Potter and Weasley were just unlucky. If even that gets you docked points, then what's the takeaway for the rest of us?"
"That when something dangerous happens, we should just hide in the common room until it's over? Otherwise we'll get in trouble too?"
"If even the castle isn't safe, then what's the point of coming to school at all?"
When he finished, the whole table was silent.
Because... well, he had a point.
Why were students being punished for the school's own failures?
Even though the different houses didn't get along, they were all students. And on this, they could all relate.
So, the open mockery of Harry and Ron faded, replaced by a heavy, contemplative quiet.
Unbeknownst to Tom, Professor McGonagall had just entered through the front doors and caught every word he'd said. Her expression was a complicated mix of embarrassment, guilt... and admiration.
It wasn't until Tom laid things out so clearly that she realized the real fault didn't lie with Potter and Weasley—it was with them, the professors.
That hit her hard.
She hadn't protected her students. Her gaze shifted toward the empty spot in the middle of the staff table, and a wave of frustration surged in her chest.
There were worse things in the castle than a troll. For example, that three-headed dog on the Third-floor corridor—it could tear a troll apart with ease. And it was just sitting there.
But who could guarantee it would stay calm forever?
All of this had been Dumbledore's decision. She hadn't agreed with it from the start, but he was the Headmaster. What could she do?
Still, her opinion of Tom soared to a whole new level.
While every other Slytherin was busy mocking Gryffindor, only Tom had looked past house rivalries and spoken up for students who weren't even from his own house. Frankly, he'd done a better job than she had.
If she had any excuse to do so, she would've awarded Slytherin house points on the spot.
'Good kid. Truly a good kid.'
'He is really different from the other Tom. He is a good Tom Riddle.'
She cast one last satisfied glance at Tom—who was now joking around with Daphne—and turned on her heel, marching out with a fierce determination in her stride.
She was heading straight for the seventh floor. Today, she was going to confront that old man. If they didn't fix Hogwarts' safety issues, no one was going to have a good time.
At the staff table, Snape was also just about ready to explode on Quirrell.
Seeing the man stroll in like nothing had happened—smiling and greeting him, even—set Snape's teeth on edge. He didn't take that as a friendly hello, but as a blatant provocation.
'What? You think you can sneak into my room and I won't do anything about it?'
That smug expression... Quirrell clearly didn't take him seriously at all.
On the other end, Quirrell was mentally cursing. 'Why is Snape looking at me like he wants to eat me alive?'
He hadn't even gotten to the third floor yesterday—he was intercepted on the second! Where was all this hostility coming from?
Then came Snape's soft, sinister voice that made Quirrell shiver.
"Hey, Quirinus," he said suddenly. "I've got a potion here. Want to give it a try?"
"You seemed to have taken a hit yesterday. That bump on your forehead still looks nasty."
"N-no! No need! I'm fine!" Quirinus Quirrell shook his head furiously.
No way was he drinking anything Snape gave him. That stuff was guaranteed trouble.
Snape looked a little disappointed. Of course, he hadn't put poison in it. Just a little Veritaserum laced with a touch of something... extra.
But if Quirrell refused, he couldn't exactly force it down his throat, so he stood up and left, still a little annoyed.
...
Meanwhile, there was still time before class started. McGonagall stormed up to the seventh floor, muttered the password, and entered the Headmaster's office.
Dumbledore was still groggy. He'd gone to bed late and wasn't a morning person. Lately, it felt like everyone wanted to talk to him first thing in the morning—first Snape, now McGonagall. Who'd be next?
But since she was already there, he couldn't just ignore her. Rubbing his sleepy eyes, he came down from the loft.
"Minerva, what's the matter? It's awfully early..."
"Dumbledore."
Minerva McGonagall cut him off sharply—there was no warmth in her voice this time.
"The security situation at this school is a complete disaster. Those... things on the third floor need to be moved. Immediately."
"How can we know that three-headed dog won't do exactly what the troll did and suddenly appear in front of a student?"
"Potter and Weasley got lucky this time. But what about next time?"
"We can't rely on luck to keep our students safe. It's not like they're chugging Felix Felicis every day!"
Dumbledore was caught off guard. He hadn't expected her to come in guns blazing.
"Minerva, I understand your concern, but let's not be too hasty."
"You agreed to my arrangements before. Why the sudden change of heart?"
McGonagall didn't hesitate. She recounted everything she had overheard in the Great Hall—Tom's sharp criticisms of the school and the professors, his passionate defense of his fellow students.
"..."
Dumbledore fell into deep thought.
Just as McGonagall started to feel comforted, thinking he was reflecting on his mistakes... she saw him smile.
There were even tears welling up in the corners of his eyes.
He took off his glasses and gently wiped them away. "How wonderful... That's what real friendship looks like. Young Riddle has taught this old man a valuable lesson today."
"Even Slytherin and Gryffindor... Who remembers anymore that their founders were once the best of friends?"
This was exactly the kind of scene he loved to see. When gifted students grew up isolated and emotionally detached, they often ended up unable—or unwilling—to care about others. They lost their empathy. Lost their humanity.
Voldemort was the clearest example.
Back in school, Voldemort — known as Tom Riddle at that time — had been praised by everyone. He was smart, elegant, and polite. But he always wore a mask, keeping others at arm's length. He never truly connected with his classmates.
Though Dumbledore had said he wouldn't interfere in Tom's affairs, that didn't mean he wasn't worried. He feared this boy, too, might lose himself in the pursuit of power.
But after hearing what Tom said today, half of that fear was already gone. Voldemort would never—could never—have said something like that. He only ever thought about himself.
"So... you'll approve my request?" McGonagall asked carefully.
"I'm sorry, Minerva."
Dumbledore composed himself and put his glasses back on. "I do understand your concerns. But the third-floor corridor can't be touched. Not yet."
"Why not?" McGonagall frowned. "I know those enchantments are there to protect the Philosopher's Stone, but is there any place safer than your office?"
Dumbledore explained patiently, "If we moved it here, anyone with dark intentions would feel hopeless—and desperate. And desperation can drive people to madness. I don't even want to imagine what they might do."
"To catch the fish, the bait has to be somewhere it can see and almost reach. Only then will it bite. We need to draw him out."
Did Dumbledore care about student safety?
Absolutely.
But compared to that, catching Voldemort was the bigger priority. He couldn't afford to make a mistake on this. Ever.
People tend to forget—Dumbledore was the one who coined the phrase "for the greater good."
He was a man of clear mind, unwavering will, and laser focus. If necessary, he wouldn't hesitate to sacrifice even himself for the bigger picture.
That's why the bait had to stay on that floor. It had to be just visible, just tempting enough for Quirrell to keep trying... until he made a fatal mistake.
McGonagall looked like she was about to argue again, but Dumbledore stopped her with a look. His expression was firm.
"I swear on my name, Minerva. As Albus Dumbledore, I will not let any student suffer irreversible harm—or lose their life—because of the third-floor corridor. Please trust me."
McGonagall stared at him for a long moment. In the end, she sighed, stood up, and left.
Anyone else making that kind of promise wouldn't have inspired much confidence. But Dumbledore saying it?
That was different.
And McGonagall... had no choice but to believe.
---
Later that day, during Defense Against the Dark Arts, Quirrell had completely dropped the act.
He just told the class to read their textbooks and then sat in his chair with his eyes closed, pretending to rest.
The Gryffindor and Slytherin students didn't even bother acknowledging him. They treated it like a free study period.
Honestly, if Tom didn't already have a world-class private tutor by his side, he would've found a way to get Quirrell kicked out by now and replaced with someone competent.
Even Snape would've been better.
Worst case, they could drag Barty Crouch Jr. out of wherever the Ministry was hiding him these days and let him teach. At least he knew his stuff.
Sure, he was a Death Eater—but he actually taught.
— — —
When the bell rang, the students packed up in a hurry. No one said goodbye to Quirrell. No one even looked at him.
Quirrell didn't mind. In fact, this was exactly what he wanted. Who the hell cared about teaching? All he cared about was getting that damn Philosopher's Stone.
Usually, Tom would stick around after class to "ask questions" and earn some points. But not today—he had things to do and decided to let Quirrell off the hook.
He asked Daphne to go back to the common room with her friends while he headed upstairs.
The books he'd borrowed from Dumbledore last week were already finished, and he was planning to return them—and pick up a few more while he was at it.
Over the past few weeks, Tom had borrowed more than ten books from Dumbledore. And, to be honest, every single one had been worthwhile.
Even the basic ones had unique insights. And the rarer ones—the ones barely circulated outside of elite wizarding circles—were absolute treasures.
Tom had been on his best behavior lately. Not a single one of the books he borrowed had anything to do with Dark Magic.
But it wasn't about the magic—it was about the person.
Soon, Tom arrived at the entrance to the Headmaster's office.
The stone gargoyle came to life, flashing him a toothy grin.
"Password?" it asked.
Tom blinked, confused.
.
.
.
