— — — — — —
After being firmly put in their place by Dumbledore, the Heads of House cooled down and shifted their focus back to teaching.
All except for Severus Snape.
Snape had long since reached the stage of "I've been bitten so many times I don't even itch anymore." If Dumbledore had the guts, he could kill him or sack him.
Experts call this state: "I don't give a damn."
More than that, Snape had come to understand one simple truth: the strong fear the reckless, and the reckless fear the mad. As long as he still stood on solid ground, he might as well go all in.
So he carried on exactly as before. And by "before," that meant targeting the other three Houses with complete equality.
...
During Potions class that week, Snape brought out several mild poisons and ordered the students to brew their own antidotes. Each of them would drink the poison and cure themselves.
If they failed…
Snape had thoughtfully prepared fresh bezoars, dug straight from the gallbladder of an elderly cow.
The sight of the slimy lump made half the class turn green, whether they wore Gryffindor red or Slytherin green.
Draco Malfoy shot Snape a deeply resentful look.
Professor… have you stopped distinguishing friend from foe?
Making students poison themselves and then counteract it sounded insane, but technically it counted as practical training. With Snape's reputation as a Potions master, there was no real risk of a serious accident.
Well. Unless you factored in Neville Longbottom.
Neville was gifted in a way that defied logic. More than once, Snape had suspected the boy was inventing an entirely new school of potion-making.
And for the entire lesson, Snape kept his eyes glued to Neville's cauldron. Only after confirming the contents weren't some unidentified chemical weapon would he allow Neville to drink it. Five minutes later, Neville was escorted to the hospital wing.
Well... he wasn't alone.
Two Slytherins and six Gryffindors followed him out on stretchers, including Ron Weasley.
As Ron lay down, he stared at Harry in utter disbelief.
We did the exact same thing. Why are you fine and I'm the one dying?
Harry gave him an awkward grin.
He honestly had no idea. With Snape glaring at him every class, he barely absorbed a word. Yet every exam and test, he somehow scraped through without issue.
Was Snape secretly going easy on him?
Tom, watching from the side, almost laughed out loud.
Harry didn't realize he'd inherited his mother's talent. Lily Evans had been a genuine prodigy. She'd earned McGonagall's approval in Transfiguration and Snape's in Potions. Even Hermione hadn't managed that double achievement.
Harry's Transfiguration ability wasn't anything special, but his knack for Potions had clearly come from Lily. From James Potter, he'd inherited a talent for Defense Against the Dark Arts. The Half-Blood Prince's old notes had practically turned into cheat codes in his hands.
Honestly, Tom suspected Harry's aptitude for Dark Magic might be even stronger. After all, Voldemort's soul fragment had been fused with him for over a decade, shaping him in subtle ways.
With the right training, he might even grow into another Dark Lord.
"..."
Snape was mildly disappointed that Harry hadn't ended up horizontal with the rest, but overall the day's results were satisfying. In high spirits, he returned to his office and began drafting a request to McGonagall. He wasn't allowed to deduct points anymore, after all.
Ten points off for every student who ended up in the hospital wing. Perfectly reasonable.
He hadn't spared his own House. It just so happened that more Gryffindors had failed. What grounds would McGonagall have to refuse?
Back and forth like this, and forty points would be recovered in no time.
If Dumbledore objected again, he'd resign.
He'd once relied on Dumbledore because the old man was the only wizard in the world capable of standing against the Dark Lord. Snape's sole hope for revenge. But now that Tom had given him his word…
Who needed that old man?
..
...
Saturday arrived with a sharp drop in temperature.
Mid-October at Hogwarts turned suddenly cold and damp. Most people preferred to stay inside the castle, curled near the fireplaces, drifting into lazy half-sleep.
Unfortunately, there was a Quidditch match scheduled.
The Slytherin common room tables were covered with snacks and drinks. Tom made a rare appearance among the crowd. He had no particular interest in Quidditch itself. But the match was being held in his stadium, the first game there since the Quidditch World Cup.
Attendance wasn't spectacular. Around ten thousand, give or take. The stadium was enormous; filling it required either a major event or cooperation from the Ministry.
…
While Tom was lost in his thoughts, a roar erupted through the common room. The Golden Snitch had been caught.
He didn't particularly care who won. He barely knew where either team had crawled out from. Still, he left the broadcast running and watched idly.
In the stands, spectators poured out of the stadium, some cheering wildly, others grumbling under their breath. But before they even reached the exits, they all shuddered.
Dementors.
Two neat rows of them hovered at every gate like a line of grim receptionists. Anyone leaving had to walk straight past them.
The excitement from the match drained away within those short dozen meters. Some people even burst into tears.
On second thought, they weren't crying from emotion.
They were too terrified to move.
Watching the crowd's reaction, Tom nodded in satisfaction.
That's more like it. Keep the passion on the pitch. Once you step outside, behave yourselves. No riots. No nonsense.
At the same time, in the Headmaster's office, Albus Dumbledore stared at his codex with a troubled expression, as if wrestling with a difficult decision.
"Albus, what's the matter with you?" asked the portrait of Phineas Nigellus Black, unable to contain his curiosity after watching him sit there for most of the morning.
"It's nothing," Dumbledore said with a small shake of his head.
Was he supposed to admit he was worried about Gellert Grindelwald?
Embarrassing enough as it was. He'd never hear the end of it from Phineas.
His mood was complicated. Annoyance, frustration… and a thread of concern.
Since term began, Grindelwald's contact with him had dwindled sharply. Lately, there had been no word at all for several days.
Had he found someone new? Was he planning something?
Dumbledore told himself this was purely about the safety of the wizarding world. Anyone would feel uneasy if a Dark Lord suddenly went quiet enough to vanish off the map.
Yes. There was no personal sentiment involved. None at all.
But what on earth was Grindelwald up to?
---
At Durmstrang Institute—
Grindelwald stood atop the castle tower with Ariana. Heavy snow had already blanketed northern Europe. The entire fortress lay wrapped in ice and white silence.
"If I ended up fighting your brother," Grindelwald asked casually, "whose side would you take?"
"Neither," Ariana replied without hesitation. "Ideally, you'd both end up badly injured."
A flicker of helplessness crossed Grindelwald's cold features. "You don't have to wish me well, but your own brother too?"
Ariana's lips curved in faint mockery. "You know better than I do what Albus used to be like."
"Back then, all he cared about was glory and reputation. He spent more time writing to famous wizards than he did sleeping. Fine, maybe I don't get to judge. I was just the burden in the house."
"But in the end, I was the one who paid for your duel. You and he were both killers. Grindelwald, whatever score we had between us is settled after these past few years. But my account with him? That's still open."
Grindelwald looked at her and, for once, found himself at a loss for words.
He was eloquent. Persuasive. A master at bending hearts and minds.
But Ariana had learned from Tom.
And Tom's philosophy was simple: if he had reason, he would press it to the limit; if he didn't, he'd still create one out of thin air. Anything less than advantage felt like a loss.
Ariana had actually shown restraint. She hadn't gone so far as to demand a life for a life. If she ever said that to Dumbledore's face, Grindelwald strongly suspected Albus would raise his wand and cast the Killing Curse on himself without hesitation.
Suddenly Ariana narrowed her eyes at him, looking suspicious. "You're not scared, are you? Thinking about canceling our trip to Hogwarts?"
"Scared?" Grindelwald frowned.
"Afraid you can't beat Albus, and I'll get detained the moment we arrive. Honestly, Old G, that's embarrassing. In your so-called 'King of the Century' status, who exactly can you defeat?"
That hit.
Grindelwald's mismatched eyes narrowed sharply. Magic surged around him, whipping his coat into a frenzy as the wind howled louder. The temperature plummeted. Even the air seemed to freeze solid.
"Afraid of him?" he scoffed. "Hmph! I fear no one."
"Besides, things are different now. You know very well what Tom gave me. One Dumbledore? Even if there were two of him, I could deal with them."
"You succeeded?" Ariana's eyes widened with curiosity. So the old fox had been hiding something.
Grindelwald didn't answer. He simply drew his wand and aimed at a distant mountain peak.
A streak of blue energy shot out.
The ordinary summit was engulfed. In just a few breaths, it transformed into a towering crystal of flawless ice.
Ariana stared, stunned.
Grindelwald allowed himself a satisfied smile.
"Don't tell Andros," he said. "I'd like this to be a surprise."
.
.
.