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[Hogwarts] Ch 53: About Riddle
🕑 Added 2025-06-21 18:40:13 +0000 UTC— — — — — —
The next morning
By the time Tom woke up, it was already past nine.
Kids his age needed sleep—lots of it. And with everything that had happened, he'd worked up a serious appetite.
After a quick wash-up, he headed straight for breakfast.
One thing you had to admit—Hogwarts really did think of everything. They knew most students liked to sleep in on weekends, so breakfast didn't end until 10:30. Thanks to preservation charms, the food stayed warm and fresh—even if some of the more popular dishes tended to vanish early.
As Tom passed the common room, he noticed the spot where Malfoy and his two lackeys had been hanging from the wall was now empty.
He raised an eyebrow—and, right on cue, a savvy Slytherin hurried over and whispered, "Malfoy and his cronies went back to their dorm this morning. Someone saw them fall off the wall not too long ago."
Tom gave a slight nod. "One night was enough. I wasn't planning to leave them up there all week. Did he say anything?"
"Said he's going to tell his father."
Tom snorted. "Lucius Malfoy, huh?"
That whole family was more bark than bite. Sure, they looked impressive now, but it was all just a show built on money.
Every year, Lucius donated a hefty sum to the Ministry and kept cozy ties with Cornelius Fudge. In the Muggle world, that'd be called political funding.
But if you stripped away the gloss?
They were just a family of three.
In the magical world, unless you were at the level of Dumbledore, Grindelwald, or Voldemort, your real power came from numbers—just like in the old days: more people, more strength.
So, just a few pissed-off dark wizards could easily wipe out the entire Malfoy Family.
Tom Riddle didn't mind playing that role himself if it came to it.
"By the way, what's your name?" Tom asked casually. The guy seemed pretty sharp, which piqued his interest.
The student quickly introduced himself, "I'm Marcel. Marcel Nott, fourth year."
"Nott? Are you related to…" Tom raised an eyebrow, suspicious.
Marcel gave an awkward smile. "Yeah, Theodore Nott is my useless little cousin."
Tom nodded in understanding—then his curiosity deepened. "So if you're related, you must know what happened in our dorm, right?"
It was normal for kids to run to adults or older relatives when they got into trouble. Theodore getting his cousin involved would've made perfect sense. Yet, no one ever came looking for Tom, which was odd. And today, Marcel even approached him on friendly terms.
Something wasn't adding up.
Marcel seemed to catch on to Tom's confusion and gave a casual shrug. " Theodore did come to me, actually. Wanted me to teach you a lesson. But I turned him down."
He continued, "Honestly, upperclassmen picking on first-years doesn't look good. And let's be real—he's had every advantage. Private magic lessons, better resources, you name it. But he just doesn't apply himself. He's got no focus."
"And besides, he picked the fight with you. Made his choice—now he can live with the consequences. Better to learn that lesson early than mess with the wrong person later and end up regretting it."
Tom looked at Marcel with newfound respect.
A clear head was worth far more than reckless strength. Marcel was a textbook Slytherin—cold, calculating, and sharp when it came to weighing pros and cons.
"You've got a good head on your shoulders, Marcel," Tom said with a small smile. "Hope I hear good news from you on Monday."
Someone that ambitious? There was no way he wouldn't try for the position of "Shadow Prefect." Especially since he was in fourth year—next year, they'd be picking the official Prefects, and the Shadow Prefect was the obvious frontrunner.
"I'll do my best," Marcel replied humbly. He wanted to improve—badly.
As he watched Tom walk away, a fire burned in Marcel's eyes.
The Nott family's motto had always been Follow power wherever it leads. In the last war, they'd made a terrible mistake—backed the wrong side and paid the price for it. His parents were still locked up in Azkaban.
Marcel knew he didn't have what it took to become the strongest himself.
So he waited—for someone who could.
And now, it looked like that someone might be Tom Riddle.
Of course, that didn't mean Marcel was ready to bow and swear loyalty right away. Tom was still just a first-year, and beating up a few classmates only proved he had potential.
But potential was cheap. Very few actually made it to the top.
Marcel was just laying the groundwork early. When Tom really rose to power, that's when he'd make his move.
It might not earn him the biggest rewards—but it was the safest bet.
As long as he stayed on the "right" side of history, the Nott family name would rise again. One day.
— — —
Meanwhile, in the Headmaster's Office—
Snape had shown up unannounced, which was rare for him. He wanted a serious conversation with Dumbledore—about Tom Riddle.
The two Riddles.
Snape's arrival shattered the peaceful office.
The portraits of former headmasters stirred to life, grumbling as they were woken up, all curious about what had brought Snape here this time. After all, he didn't usually come knocking unless it was something big — usually something involving Voldemort.
These old portraits had nothing better to do all day. Any news, especially something involving the Dark Lord, was their version of premium entertainment.
To them, Voldemort wasn't some terrifying threat — just a spicy topic to break the monotony of death.
Besides, what was he going to do to them? They're all dead anyway.
The room was silent, but Snape could feel all the stares boring into him. He knew where the sensation came from and didn't bother acknowledging it.
Arguing with a bunch of portraits was pointless — even if he won, it'd mean nothing, and if he lost, it'd be humiliating.
More importantly... he'd made that mistake once before, back in his youth. He'd gotten into it with them and was absolutely roasted. It wasn't a pleasant memory.
Click.
Just as Snape was lost in that humiliating memory, the door at the top of the spiral staircase opened. Dumbledore appeared, descending lightly in his slippers and night robe, looking quite satisfied.
"Ooh~ Severus," Dumbledore said cheerfully. "I spent half the night debating which chamber pot to use. Finally made my choice just before dawn, and I must say, I slept wonderfully afterward."
Snape's expression darkened.
This — THIS was why he hated having serious conversations with Dumbledore.
The man was brilliant, no question. But he always put on this eccentric act, throwing out absurd, off-topic nonsense at the worst possible times.
And worse was yet to come.
With a casual wave of his hand across the desk, Dumbledore conjured a breakfast: honey water, fresh bread, sausages, and — of course — a plate of cockroach clusters, all appearing like they'd been there all along.
He took a sip of honey water and bit into a cockroach cluster with genuine enthusiasm. "Severus, have you had breakfast? Care to join me?"
Snape closed his eyes and breathed through his nose, refusing to look at the plate. "Thank you, I've already eaten. Quite a lot, actually."
Ugh. Not even a dog would eat that filth.
If he had the chance, Snape would love to sneak a few real cockroaches into the mix — see how Dumbledore reacted once he bit into those.
"Well then," Dumbledore said, not pressing the offer. "What brings you here this morning?"
Snape gave a rundown of everything that had happened last night in the Slytherin common room: from Goyle and Malfoy's provocation, to Tom Riddle stepping in, challenging the Prefects, proposing the whole "Shadow Prefect" system, and beating every single year's Prefect in a row.
Even after Snape had left, Tom had established a whole set of new rules — and Snape had kept tabs on it all.
Dumbledore didn't react much. He just listened, nodding occasionally, chewing slower and slower until finally finishing his honey water. Then he conjured a napkin and calmly wiped his mouth.
"And what exactly are you trying to tell me, Severus?" he asked, looking Snape straight in the eye. "That there's another talented student in Slytherin? Well, congratulations."
"Are you seriously still playing dumb?"
Snape's patience snapped, his brow furrowing deeply. "You know what the problem is. There's something off about Riddle."
"From the moment you met him to now, it's only been — what — two months? And in that time, he's achieved more than most kids do in a year. When you were two months into learning magic, what were you doing?"
"Me?" Dumbledore blinked and actually started thinking about it, nostalgia in his eyes.
"Well, I was luckier than Riddle. My father was a wizard, so I started learning magic at the age of seven. But even so, two months in, all I could manage were transfigurations. Compared to Riddle, I was positively slow."
You smug bastard.
Snape's temples throbbed.
I'm trying to tell you this is a serious issue — not ask you to humblebrag about how much of a prodigy you were!
Seven years old, two months into training, and already managing transfiguration spells?! That's fifth-year-level material!
"Dumbledore, I don't care about your talents or your dazzling academic record," Snape snapped. "Even if Riddle is as talented as you, the point remains: you had magical guidance. He didn't."
"You really think it makes sense for a Muggle-raised first-year to advance this fast, just from our lessons alone?"
"I think there's something he's hiding. This level of ability isn't normal. Are you sure he's got nothing to do with... HIM?"
"Ah, but isn't that the beauty of magic?" Dumbledore said, smiling again — and once again testing Snape's last nerve.
Fortunately, Dumbledore knew when to stop pushing. He didn't want Snape snapping, pulling out his wand, and dueling him right here in the office. Again.
"Severus," Dumbledore said more seriously, "some people seem like prodigies — and they are. But you can't reduce their achievements to talent alone."
"What you don't see is the effort they pour in behind the scenes — the hours of work no one notices."
"I've heard from more than one source that young Mr. Riddle is studying over books in the library late into the night. Honestly, that kind of dedication is even rarer than talent. So while his progress may seem extraordinary, it's not without explanation."
"So yes, his progress is surprising — but not impossible."
Snape nodded reflexively.
Staying up late in the library, studying tirelessly... that kind of work ethic? Honestly, not succeeding would be the real surprise.
Wait — hold on a second!
That's not dedication — that's night roaming! That little brat's been sneaking out!
He nearly missed the hidden meaning in Dumbledore's words, but caught on just in time. "Riddle's been sneaking around the castle?! And this wasn't a one-time thing, either, was it?"
"Dumbledore, I fully support punishing him. Detention, disciplinary warnings — whatever you decide. Just... don't bother with taking House Points. He's so active in class that he'll earn them all back in no time. That won't send any message."
Snape could feel his blood pressure rising at the memory of trying to assign Riddle detention—only for the boy to remain utterly unfazed and stubborn.
Hehe~ Let's see how cocky he acts when it's Dumbledore handing out the punishment.
"Ha?"
Dumbledore blinked in surprise, clearly caught off guard by Snape's "fair and unbiased" attitude.
Was this really the same Head of Slytherin who usually defended his students to the bitter end?
Something felt off.
.
.
.
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