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[Hogwarts] Ch 176: The Fantasy Draught
🕑 Added 2025-08-22 21:43:44 +0000 UTC— — — — — —
Professor McGonagall suddenly wondered if she'd stopped understanding English altogether.
If her ears weren't failing her, young Riddle had just claimed he'd invented a potion—and wanted to publish his paper in {Transfiguration Today}.
"I see," she said slowly, blinking. "Have you spoken to Professor Snape? He should be in the Great Hall shortly. You could discuss it with him there."
"…Huh?" Now it was Tom's turn to look lost. "Professor Snape is an editor for Transfiguration Today?"
McGonagall: "..."
Right. That was not what he meant. Her mistake.
"Mr. Riddle," she said gently, "I think perhaps {Brewed Glory} would be a more appropriate journal for your submission than {Transfiguration Today}. Of course, if you've made any discoveries in actual transfiguration, I'd be happy to guide you."
"Ah, but professor," Tom grinned, "it really does belong in Transfiguration Today. The potion I've created is specifically designed to aid in transfiguration training."
"A potion to help with transfiguration?"
Now that caught her interest. She was about to press him for details when she realized they were still standing out in the hall. She ushered him inside, conjuring a steaming cup of lemon tea and setting out a silver tray with a few neat little cakes.
"Thank you, professor. Please take a look at my paper first." Tom passed her a stack of parchment, then picked up his tea.
McGonagall skimmed the first pages with a furrowed brow—potion theory was hardly her strong suit—but once the text veered into her own discipline, her expression grew intent.
Tom had named his invention the Fantasy Draught. Its effect was simple but astonishing: it sharpened the imagination.
Normally, when a person tries to picture something, the image in their mind is hazy, blurred around the edges, like looking through mist. Concentrating on the details might clear it a little, but the sense of distance always remained.
The potion swept away that fog. Visions in the mind became sharp and vivid.
And for transfiguration, that clarity was everything.
The sharper your mental outline of the object, the more precise—and more successful—the spell.
No wonder he'd argued it was a potion for transfiguration.
"Mr. Riddle," McGonagall said at last, setting the parchment aside, "do you have a sample?"
"I do. Three bottles, actually."
He placed the crystal vials on her desk, then added, "I've already let Hermione and Daphne try it. Both reported strong results."
McGonagall nodded thoughtfully. "That would explain their recent progress."
"But I'll need to test it myself."
"Of course."
She picked up one vial and downed the silvery liquid in a single swallow.
The thought of poison never even crossed her mind. Not with this student. Tom was one of the most promising young wizards in the school. Even if it had been one of the surliest Slytherins standing before her, she still wouldn't have hesitated. Trust in her pupils was the bedrock of her decades of teaching.
The potion worked quickly.
The world wavered before her eyes—not blurred, exactly, but doubled, as though two realities overlapped. She took a steadying breath, forcing her thoughts into focus, careful not to let her imagination wander to anything ridiculous.
The moment she did, she understood.
A flick of her wand, and the quill holder on her desk turned into a rat, which promptly bolted across the floor.
Hardly advanced work for her, but she recognized at once what that extra clarity of vision could mean for students.
"How long does it last, Mr. Riddle?"
"About an hour per vial is ideal."
"An hour…" Her eyes lit. "That's nearly perfect. A double-period lesson leaves just enough time for practice."
She flipped back through the paper, checking the ingredient list. Mostly common materials. The priciest were murtlap tentacle juice and powdered African tree-snake skin—but the recipe only called for two grams of the latter.
Not cheap, but hardly extravagant. A student could take one whenever they hit a wall.
McGonagall felt herself wavering. Transfiguration was notoriously the hardest subject at Hogwarts. A potion couldn't give talent where none existed, but it could ease one of the greatest hurdles: the mental image.
Most students stumbled not because they didn't know the incantation or the wand movement, but because their imagined object was half-formed, blurry.
With the Fantasy Draught, that problem vanished.
She set the parchment down firmly. "Mr. Riddle, you're right. This paper belongs in {Transfiguration Today}. Give me some time—I'll need to arrange a few student trials before we move forward."
"No rush, professor." Tom smiled. "I'll bring you ten more vials tomorrow. Use them however you like. And if the paper needs polishing, I'd be grateful for your feedback."
McGonagall, who rarely smiled herself, allowed a small one now. "It's the least I can do. Having one of my students published in Transfiguration Today… it reminds me of when Professor Snape did the same."
Tom left her office in excellent spirits.
Soon there would be money in his vault again.
And more than money—the Fantasy Draught was bound to make a far bigger splash than his paper on magizoology evolution.
After all, transfiguration stood higher in the hierarchy of magic. That had been true for centuries, and wouldn't change overnight.
And more importantly, the potion was practical. Evolutionary theory might sound impressive, but its applications were far too narrow. The Fantasy Draught, on the other hand, could help countless students. It could turn fools into average spellcasters, and average spellcasters into prodigies, lifting the entire baseline of Transfiguration talent in the magical community.
Before he left her office, Professor McGonagall had even hinted—half-grudgingly, half-proudly—that if the potion worked as advertised, an Order of Merlin was guaranteed.
What class it would be, she couldn't say yet, but certainly not the lowest. Tom, however, was already planning ahead. When the time came, he'd politely decline. Better to save the recognition, then cash it in later for a First-Class medal in one fell swoop.
---
"Hmm."
When he reached the Great Hall, Astoria greeted him with an uncharacteristic little huff. She turned her head away, pretending to be annoyed, though her eyes kept darting back to gauge his reaction.
"Still sulking, are we?" Tom teased, gently turning her head back toward him.
"It's all for your own good, you know."
"I know," Astoria admitted in a small, pouty voice. "But the potions are awful. Three different ones every single day—I feel like I'm drowning in them."
Tom chuckled. "Silly girl. You're not even showing yet. Daphne said you used to drink far more potions than this, and nastier ones too. Weren't you used to it by now?"
Astoria froze, her eyes going glassy.
He was right. Back then she had choked down far more medicine every day, with tastes far stranger than anything she endured now. Her tongue had long since gone numb.
So why did the potions suddenly seem unbearable?
She remembered. It had been the day Tom handed her the very first Strengthening potion he brewed himself.
From then on, she had needed nothing but that—once in a while, one potion, and her health not only stopped deteriorating but slowly improved.
Tears welled up in her wide eyes, and before Tom could react, she threw herself against his chest.
"I'm sorry, Tom. I'll listen from now on. I'll take every potion you tell me to, right on time."
Tom blinked, completely baffled. He hadn't scolded her at all—where on earth had this outburst come from?
Daphne stared up from her plate, sauce still smeared on her mouth, equally lost.
What on earth just happened?
A few nearby students craned their necks curiously, only to flinch and look away when Tom shot them a cold glare.
He stroked Astoria's back, his voice gentler now. "Astoria's the bravest of them all. Just a little longer. I promise one day, you'll never have to touch these foul-tasting things again."
Realizing she'd overreacted, Astoria ducked her head in embarrassment but still clung tightly to him. With no other choice, Tom ushered the sisters quickly out of the Great Hall. Only once they were gone did Astoria finally lift her face, cheeks flushed crimson.
...
..
Another year, another Halloween.
On the eve of the feast, the notice board revealed the new roster of Shadow prefects.
No surprises in Slytherin: whoever had been the "shadow prefect" before was simply made official.
In the other Houses, though, the changes caught Tom's eye. Their heads of house were the ones choosing the shadow prefects—unlike in Slytherin, where it went to whoever was strongest.
Gryffindor for example:
Hermione was, of course, named a Shadow prefect—no contest there—and Harry was the boys' choice. Truthfully, no other Gryffindor boy in their year came close to matching his record.
As for the rest, the Weasley twins had plenty of talent, but Professor McGonagall would've had to lose her mind to put either of them in authority. Even Lee Jordan, guilty mostly of being too close to them, was quietly excluded.
Instead, she chose a studious boy with solid marks. Combat skill had been questionable, but McGonagall had conveniently been using him as a test subject for the Fantasy Draught these past few days. His rapid improvement spoke for itself, making the appointment seem well deserved.
...
Tom had just stepped into the Hall when his enchanted notebook buzzed faintly in his pocket.
He pulled it out, and his pulse quickened.
『Aberforth Dumbledore』: Got it. The thing you wanted.
『Tom Riddle』: You at the Hog's Head? I'll come now.
『Aberforth Dumbledore』: Skipping the Halloween feast?
『Tom Riddle』: A Runespoor is worth more than pumpkin pasties. The feast can wait.
『Aberforth Dumbledore』: Then get here. I'll be at the bar.
Snapping the notebook shut, Tom leaned toward Daphne.
"I've got something to take care of. If Snape asks, tell him… tell him I went to the Forest for ingredients. He won't dare take points off me anyway."
"Alright."
Daphne, ever practical, didn't pry. She just nodded.
Tom slipped against the tide of students flooding toward the feast and out into the night. The sky was already dark. Just to be safe, he layered a Disillusionment Charm over himself before taking to the air.
At his speed, the flight from Hogwarts to the Hog's Head was only a matter of minutes.
What he hadn't considered was the timing. The pub was already open, and with the holiday, it was packed. The drunken shouts of the patrons could be heard from outside.
Tom couldn't risk being recognized. With a flick, his school robes shimmered into a hooded green cloak trimmed with gold. A subtle glamour blurred his face in shadow. Only then did he push open the door.
His entrance turned heads instantly. Anyone walking into the Hog's Head looking like that was bound to.
The crowd wasn't made of saints, either. When a thief tried to slip a hand into his pocket, Tom gave a sharp snort. Lightning crackled across the floor, knocking the man flat.
That was enough to convince the rest to keep their distance.
Behind the bar, Aberforth looked up, irritation already brewing, only to pause when Tom lifted his notebook just enough for him to see. Recognition dawned.
"Upstairs," Aberforth muttered, jerking his chin toward the staircase.
Tom nodded and headed up, slipping into the older wizard's private quarters.
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