— — — — — —
Under Tom's relentless questioning, Ginny finally confessed.
It wasn't that she'd been slacking off or forgotten his orders. The problem was that George and Fred were just too sharp. She tried to use a few little bits of leverage against them, but those barely counted as threats. Worse, one time she'd acted a bit too obvious and the twins—always quick to notice—caught on immediately. It took every trick she had to throw them off.
Since then, Ginny had been far more careful. But with Quidditch practice eating up her time, she'd had almost no chance to get close to them recently.
"Useless," Tom muttered, ruffling her hair with a scowl. "I actually put my hopes on you, and this is how you repay me?"
"So now I've got to step in myself."
Ginny shoved his hand away, glaring. "And what exactly are you going to do? Just snatch it right out of their pockets?"
Tom stroked his chin, looking her over. "Hmm… what if I turned into some dark wizard, kidnapped you, and then offered to trade you to George and Fred? You think they'd agree?"
…What a bastard.
Compared to Tom, Voldemort sounded like an innocent little choir boy.
"Hey! I'm on your side, remember? Don't you feel even a little guilty screwing me over like that?"
"And if they tell Mum, I'll be the one getting yelled at! If you're dead set on kidnapping someone, why not just grab them instead?" Ginny snapped.
"That won't do," Tom shook his head solemnly. "Those two are pretty much my only friends at Gryffindor. Every other Gryffindor either hates me or is terrified of me. Fred and George are the only ones who still invite me to sneak into the kitchens with them. How could I kidnap my friends?"
Ginny's eyes went wide. "So it's fine if you kidnap me instead?"
"You're not my friend," Tom shot back, rolling his eyes. "You're at most my little maid. Completing your master's task is what you're supposed to do."
Ginny yanked out her wand, furious. "That's it—I'm fighting you!"
"Relashio," Tom murmured lazily. Ginny collapsed against him like a rag doll, all strength gone.
"Really? You dare raise your wand at me? You've gotten bold." He pinched her cheeks until her face looked like dough, then tilted her chin up. "Half a month. That's all you've got. If you don't bring me the map by then, I'll kidnap you."
"Mmph! You bully!"
---
"Professor, you're the only one who can help me."
In McGonagall's office, Tom's smile was polite and charming. You'd never guess that just minutes earlier he'd been tormenting a Gryffindor student to tears.
The British wizarding elite all moved in a small, closed circle, though even within it, there were cliques. Dumbledore's friends weren't automatically McGonagall's friends. And Tom would bet anything that McGonagall was better liked than the Headmaster.
Dumbledore inspired real devotion from some—but he also inspired resentment and fear in just as many. He was simply too far above the norm, too much of an enigma. Even though he treated everyone with calm kindness, that only made some people more suspicious, more envious.
McGonagall, though, was different. Her reputation was as solid as Newt Scamander's. Newt might be a recluse, but McGonagall had spent decades teaching, guiding generations of students and meeting their families. In Tom's opinion, she was far more reliable than Dumbledore.
So when she heard Tom's request, she didn't bristle at his inconsistency—denying him once before when he applied for a medal, only for him to show up today asking for help.
Instead, she felt oddly reassured.
That was Slytherin. The Sorting Hat hadn't been wrong.
Tom was different from the usual lot in one way: his ambition was enormous. So big he couldn't even be bothered with a second- or third-class Order of Merlin. He only had eyes for First Class.
Was that a problem? Of course not.
Chasing glory wasn't just a Slytherin thing. Gryffindors did it too. And McGonagall actually admired that Tom said it out loud. It was far better than those who secretly yearned for it but pretended they didn't care.
"Mr. Riddle, you needn't worry," she told him firmly. "Without your careful planning, the basilisk wouldn't have been dealt with so cleanly. That First-Class Order of Merlin is rightfully yours."
Tom was touched.
Professor McGonagall really was straightforward and fair. He hadn't even named his terms, and she'd already agreed.
That made him feel guilty for suspecting her motives.
And Tom didn't like taking advantage of others. He didn't freeload, and he didn't let others freeload off him. If he owed someone, it gnawed at him.
So this time, McGonagall was going to benefit too—whether she realized it yet or not.
"Professor, aside from the Order of Merlin, I actually came to you about something even more important."
Tom's expression turned serious. McGonagall straightened instinctively, gesturing for him to go on.
"In two months, Ilvermorny and Castelobruxo will be here. And next year's dueling tournament will bring even more schools to Hogwarts. Officially, the first visit is about 'cultural exchange'—but we both know the truth. It's competition. Every school wants to prove they're better than us."
McGonagall gave a small nod. "Every head wants their school to be seen as the best in the world. I'm no exception."
"Exactly. We've never had this chance before, but this time—even if the outcome isn't decided outright—it'll definitely influence our reputation. Which is why we have to be careful."
Tom wore the kind of earnest, self-sacrificing look that made McGonagall feel a strange déjà vu. It was just like when he'd pitched her that bizarre 'Shadow Prefect system.'
"You always have the oddest ideas," she said, unable to keep a faint smile off her face. "Go on then. What is it this time? The professors are already working themselves ragged. Filius hasn't left the castle on a weekend in months. We can't endure too much of your scheming."
Tom shook his head quickly, honest as ever. "No, Professor, this one isn't about the professors. It's about the students. Well—technically for their own good."
"And what, exactly, is Hogwarts' biggest problem right now?" he asked.
McGonagall raised an eyebrow. "What do you think it is?"
"Not enough exams!" Tom slapped the desk with a look of righteous outrage. "One measly final at the end of the year? How is that acceptable?"
He leaned forward, voice quick with conviction. "We cram a year's worth of knowledge into students, then test them once on a single sheet of parchment. That can't possibly cover it all. You were a student once, Professor—you know just as well as I do. Most of them pull all-nighters for two weeks, spit out answers during the exam, and then immediately dump everything from memory. The only spells they keep are the ones they actually use."
As Tom spoke, McGonagall's expression turned thoughtful and grim.
She knew he wasn't wrong. Students procrastinated on summer assignments until the last week, then crammed just before exams. As a professor, all she could do was lecture and encourage them; she couldn't stand over every desk daily to enforce study habits.
"So you're suggesting that if exams were more frequent, they'd be forced to study throughout the year instead of coasting until the end," McGonagall murmured.
"Exactly." Tom nodded. "Not only more exams, but heavier weight on them. Like Muggle schools—we divide them into three levels: small quizzes, mid-level tests, and the big ones—exams. Each one counts for a percentage of their final grade. Give it a year or two, and I promise the average performance will climb. They'll retain far more than before too."
McGonagall pressed her lips together in thought. By his system, students would suffer a quiz every month, a test every two, and still face a final exam at the end.
Brutal. But in the long run… wasn't that for their benefit?
Her decision came quickly.
"Mr. Riddle," she said, "I'll seriously consider your proposal. Perhaps it is time to put a bit more weight on their shoulders."
[Ding…]
[Detected... host attempting to reform academic environment.]
[New mission issued…]
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