— — — — — —
Naturally, every young witch and wizard was dying to know what the professors were whispering about. They craned their necks and strained their ears, hoping to catch even a word. But the staff had clearly used some kind of charm — even though Laos wasn't lowering his voice, they couldn't hear a thing. It was like watching a bunch of mimes at work.
That, of course, only made everyone more curious. They were already praying that once the feast was over, Dumbledore would reveal what all the secretive fuss was about.
Tom was no different from the rest — he had no clue what Laos was up to. Over the whole holiday, Laos had only sent him one polite holiday greeting through the owl post and then completely vanished.
But unlike everyone else, Tom wasn't anxious. He could just ask Laos directly after the feast.
"Blaise, what's with you?" Nott finally snapped, shoving Blaise Zabini a little. "You've been grinning like an idiot for half an hour. Did someone curse you? Was it those Gryffindor lunatics?"
"Get lost. You're the one who's cursed."
Zabini tried to wipe the grin off his face but failed miserably. He made a show of pulling a sad expression, but it came out looking more like he was about to cry from happiness.
"My seventh stepdad caught dragon pox over the holidays and, well… he didn't make it."
Nott: "..."
Tom: "..."
Unlike the professors, Zabini wasn't keeping his voice down at all. Half the Slytherin table heard him — and then went completely silent.
After all, Zabini's mother was practically a legend in the wizarding world. She'd had eight husbands so far — the first one being Blaise's actual father.
The odd part? Every single one of those eight had been wealthy… and every single one had died not long after marrying her. Accidents, sudden illnesses, mysterious "unfortunate incidents" — take your pick.
Marrying Mrs. Zabini was almost as risky as accepting the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts.
The Ministry had even opened an official investigation once, just to be sure. Their conclusion: all of it really had been coincidence. Mrs. Zabini was cleared of any wrongdoing.
And even with a reputation like that, she never lacked suitors. That alone said plenty about her beauty.
Tom had seen her once himself, at King's Cross last year.
She was a cold, stunning beauty — all sharp edges and effortless poise. Platinum-blonde hair, flawless pale skin, and a face that could've passed for Vanessa Kirby's White Widow from Mission: Impossible. Only Mrs. Zabini was even hotter. Prettier. And, well… noticeably bustier.
Half the men on the platform had been sneaking glances at her.
What could you say? Boys will be boys, and apparently men stay boys forever.
"Uh… congratulations? I guess?" Nott struggled for words for a good ten seconds before blurting out something so awkward it made half the table burst out laughing.
Zabini just nodded, grinning like mad. "Thanks, thanks. Much appreciated."
Tom's mouth twitched. 'Is this what they call a happy funeral?'
At that moment, the once-empty plates filled with a dazzling spread of food, and the professors' voices finally carried across the hall.
Tom felt a blade-like stare cut across the table and land on him. He didn't even have to look — Snape, obviously.
To be honest, the man probably wanted to strangle him right there and then. Not only had Tom given him the weirdest Christmas present imaginable, but he was still nagging Snape to help with that insane potion research.
What did he think Snape was — his personal house-elf?
Tom suddenly looked up and flashed Snape the most innocent, wide-eyed grin — the kind that looked so stupidly sincere it could have been Potter's trademark.
Snape's blood pressure skyrocketed on the spot. His vision actually went dark for a second.
"Severus? Aren't you eating?" Dumbledore asked mildly, glancing at the mangled fork in Snape's hand.
"Ha. Already full... with rage."
Following Snape's very pointed glare, Dumbledore spotted Tom and just sighed, shaking his head.
Tom had brought Slytherin plenty of glory last year, so why was Snape still holding such a grudge against him?
...
When the feast finally ended, the students were disappointed to find that Dumbledore said nothing about the professors' earlier conversation. He just announced two more banned items Filch had insisted on adding to the list and dismissed everyone.
"Mr. Riddle, stay behind, please!" Professor McGonagall's sharp voice cut through the chatter, just as Dumbledore turned around, startled.
'Minerva, really? You stole my line?'
He had been about to call Tom himself — but McGonagall had beaten him to it.
Tom walked over, puzzled. "Professor McGonagall? What's going on?"
"I have some good news." McGonagall smiled. "Follow me. Oh! You too, Albus."
Tom obediently followed.
So did Dumbledore.
Tom gave him a very disdainful look, one that practically said: 'And you're the headmaster? You look like a student who just got called to the principal's office.'
Dumbledore read that look perfectly and, with a barely-there pout, chose to ignore it.
Not even Snape would rise to such cheap provocation, and he was supposed to? Please.
In this castle, who in their right mind would dare talk back to Minerva McGonagall?
What was Tom trying to do, get him to retire early?
Next, the three of them walked in awkward silence all the way to the Headmaster's office.
"Toffee Finger."
At the password, the stone gargoyle leapt aside with great dignity and winked cheekily at Tom as he passed.
"You two seem to get along well," Dumbledore muttered.
"Sort of," Tom whispered back. "Mostly it's scared of me. I think I recited the password so many times last term that it got sick of hearing it — probably more than in the last fifty years combined."
Dumbledore couldn't help but chuckle.
Once inside, Fawkes swooped down in a burst of warm light, completely reborn and full of energy, perching on Tom's shoulder and nuzzling his cheek.
Tom, never one to waste a chance, cooed back at the phoenix: "Look at you, absolutely gorgeous. These feathers — perfect..... Oops, sorry, that was a bit rough."
He pocketed two still-warm tail feathers like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Dumbledore simply turned away and sat down, pretending he hadn't seen anything.
If he didn't look, it didn't happen.
"Ahem."
Now that they were all in the office, Dumbledore reclaimed control of the conversation. "Minerva, we can tell him now."
"Good news."
McGonagall's stern face softened with a rare smile. She turned to Tom.
"Mr. Riddle, your Fantasy Draught has been recognized by a number of Transfiguration experts. Word of it has even reached the Extraordinary Society of Potioneers."
"Several of our colleagues say this potion is a breakthrough — it links Potions and Transfiguration closer than ever before. Some have even suggested we nominate you for an Order of Merlin."
"Albus, Hogwarts might soon see its youngest-ever recipient of the Order. As Headmaster, surely you'll want to do what you can to make sure Mr. Riddle and our school receive this honor."
Dumbledore immediately understood what she meant. She was asking him to back Tom publicly, to make sure the nomination succeeded.
He had no objection. The Fantasy Draught really was brilliant, and it had already made it much easier for students to get a grasp of Transfiguration. If anyone had earned the award, it was Tom.
Just as Dumbledore opened his mouth to agree, Tom spoke first — cutting him off.
"Professor… I think I'll pass."
McGonagall stared at him, startled. "I beg your pardon?"
"Uh…"
Tom casually shifted a step back, using Fawkes as a feathery shield. "Professor, I just don't think I deserve an Order of Merlin yet. I'd rather wait a while longer. Maybe you could write back and tell them not to submit the application. When I feel I've truly earned it, I'll apply myself."
It was complete nonsense.
What Tom really wanted was to save up his achievements and hold out for a First-Class Order of Merlin later.
True, the Order of Merlin wasn't something you climbed in ranks just by stacking achievements, but past accomplishments did weigh on the Wizengamot's decision, and sometimes that was what tipped the scales in a candidate's favor.
McGonagall looked at him for several seconds, just to be sure he wasn't joking. "… you truly mean that?"
"Of course, Professor. There will be plenty of opportunities like this in the future. No need to rush."
"Well… very well."
She sighed. "I'll write them back in two days. If you change your mind before then, let me know."
"Thank you for understanding."
"That will be all, then. Albus?"
"Mmm. Get some rest, Minerva. I still have a few things to discuss with Tom."
When McGonagall left, the portrait of Phineas Nigellus Black, who had been pretending to nap, suddenly popped up and shouted, "Riddle! Tell me you're joking!"
"An Order of Merlin might be common, but a Slytherin getting one? That would go down in history! And you just threw it away?!"
"Fine, cards on the table." Tom shrugged. "I just don't think the honor matches my level yet. What they're likely to give me is a Third Class medal. Second Class at best."
"And then what? I get lumped in with Gilderoy Lockhart? Is that the kind of company I want to keep?"
Almost every portrait in the office started chuckling.
'Good. Still the same arrogant brat,' they thought. For a moment, hearing Tom so politely refuse McGonagall, they'd wondered if Dumbledore had hit him with the Imperius Curse.
"That is… a very in-character reason," Dumbledore admitted with a faint smile. He hadn't expected Lockhart's name to pop up here, once again serving as the perfect example of what not to be.
"Professor, let's not waste time," Tom said quickly. He was eager to get back and grill Laos about whatever the professors had been talking about earlier.
He guessed this had something to do with Dumbledore's little "pity me" talk at Christmas.
Dumbledore pulled open a drawer and took out the black diary.
"Tom," he said, deliberately using his first name. "I'd like to give this back to you."
Tom blinked. "You're not joking?"
"I do know a few decent jokes," Dumbledore said mildly. "But right now I'm being very serious."
He waved his wand, undoing the seal. Blue threads of magic lifted from the diary and dissolved into the air.
"This diary holds secrets that shaped the course of Voldemort's entire life. But when I speak with him, he resists me completely. It's almost impossible to have a real conversation."
"But you, Tom — every time I mention your name, he… well, he perks right up."
Tom nearly laughed out loud. 'Nice way to put it, old man.'
"All I want is for you to chat with him casually. People let things slip when they're emotional. Whatever he says, no matter how small, could be valuable to me."
Tom frowned. "Professor, this is Voldemort we're talking about. What if he tries to manipulate me, or hex me through the diary somehow? That's a bit reckless, don't you think?"
"I trust you, Tom." Dumbledore's eyes twinkled faintly.
Tom had been carrying the diary for months now — not only had he not been corrupted, but he'd driven Voldemort halfway to a mental breakdown.
Really, if anyone was in danger here, it was lil Voldemort.
"If you agree to help me," Dumbledore said, "I'll share with you my knowledge and experience."
"My offer is as sincere as I can make it."
Tom immediately straightened up. "Professor, for the sake of peace in the wizarding world, I'm willing to risk it."
Dumbledore's knowledge and experience were basically worth a thousand free achievement points to him. Who would refuse that?
"Thank you for your understanding," Dumbledore said, though his smile was a little stiff. He hadn't expected Tom to accept so quickly. He'd prepared a whole speech to persuade him, but it was completely wasted now.
"I'll try to get a read on him first."
Tom opened the diary, grabbed a quill, and wrote his greeting: "Hi, Voldy."
The diary's response came fast and furious:
「Tom?! You sick bastard! Go to hell, you worthless piece of shit! Why the hell do people like you even exist? Isn't the world rotten enough already? Fuck you a million times.」
.
.
.