The next morning, when Tom came to the Great Hall for breakfast, most of his mind was already split off into the learning space, continuing his training with Grindelwald on a new spell—the Disarming Charm.
Now, multitasking was nothing difficult for him.
He wasn't the only one in a strange state that morning. All around the hall, many students looked pale and weary, showing the telltale signs of having pulled all-nighters. Summer homework was, without a doubt, the most pointless burden imaginable.
The diligent students didn't need it—they would study on their own anyway. The lazy ones wouldn't benefit from it either; the only thing homework gave them was sore wrists and the need to waste massive amounts of brain cells fabricating nonsense answers.
Tom strongly suspected that most professors didn't even bother reading summer assignments. Or if they did, it was only perfunctory.
At least he knew Snape certainly didn't. During the Christmas holidays, the man had only graded Harry's homework—everyone else's had been left untouched.
Daphne, at least, looked fairly energetic. She had downed two bottles of energy potion. Seeing that Tom appeared deep in thought, she didn't disturb him, quietly sipping her orange juice instead.
Suddenly—
"...Stealing a car! If they expel you, I wouldn't be surprised at all! When I saw you come home last night, do you know how furious I was? Do you have any idea what it felt like for me and your father when we realized the car was gone? He was so ashamed he nearly dropped dead on the spot!"
"Use that rusty brain of yours for once! You nearly got yourself and Harry killed—and your father nearly lost his job! If you ever pull something like this again, I swear I'll drag you straight home this instant!"
The shrill roar exploded through the Great Hall. Dust shook loose from the enchanted ceiling above. Even Tom jumped, abruptly withdrawing from the learning space.
At the Gryffindor table, every student looked stricken, their faces pale as parchment. Ron wanted to sink his whole head into his bowl of milk. The other Weasleys were flushed with shame, wishing the ground would swallow them whole.
By the time Mrs. Weasley's Howler screeched Ginny's name, the poor girl looked seconds from fainting, her face as red as her hair.
When the Howler finally burned away, the hall remained locked in a suffocating silence for several long seconds.
Then—
"Pfft—! Hahahahaha!"
The silence shattered.
Draco Malfoy stood up, cackling so hard he doubled over, clutching his stomach.
"Weasley? Did I hear that right? Your father's job is under review?" he sneered between bursts of laughter.
"If he really does get sacked, maybe he can have a little chat with that half-breed oaf. Who knows? Hagrid might share half the gamekeeper's hut with him. Then your family could build a nice little shack out on the lawns!"
The Slytherin table erupted in raucous laughter, loud enough to rival the Howler itself.
Tom glanced over. Say what you would about Malfoy—but that mouth of his was pure King of the Century material. His cutting words hit like a blade.
The Weasleys looked murderous. If looks could kill, Malfoy would have been ash on the floor. Normally, Harry would have jumped up to defend Ron, diverting Malfoy's spite onto himself. But right now, Harry's mind was blank, still reeling from his own mention in the Howler.
He couldn't even muster a retort—just sat there drowning in guilt.
To Tom, it was nothing but well-deserved humiliation.
Harry was an idiot—fine, that he could excuse. But Ron Weasley had lived in the wizarding world for twelve years. Not finding any other way to get to Hogwarts? Either he was truly useless, or he thought driving a flying car was "cool" and used the blocked platform as an excuse.
Either way, it was pure stupidity. And now, to be publicly executed in front of the school? Deserved.
Tom quickly finished his plate of crispy fried cod from Iceland, then rose with Daphne and left the hall for Charms class.
Professor Flitwick was by far the most indulgent of the teachers. He didn't demand summer homework on the very first lesson. Instead, he told them to turn it in by Friday. Many students sighed with relief.
This class didn't introduce any new spells either—just a review of last term's charms. After all, some students hadn't touched their wands all summer; teaching brand-new material now would only confuse them further.
Bored, Tom lazily practiced the Twist Spell. That was when the familiar ding of the system echoed in his mind.
[Detected: host has applied knowledge in practical use. Alchemical invention purchased by the British Ministry of Magic. Reward: 1000 credits, 2000 achievement points.]
Tom's eyes lit up at once.
Just as he had guessed.
Practical applications of his learning—creating new inventions—also counted as academic contributions, earning him system rewards.
But this was only the beginning. He had plenty more inventions up his sleeve. His credits would soon grow abundant.
Not to mention his pet project, WhatsApp. Once perfected, the academic points and achievements it could generate would be astronomical. He might even one day sustain his transcendent state indefinitely.
"Mr. Riddle, is something amusing?"
Professor Flitwick had appeared before him at some point, watching Tom sit there grinning to himself. At last, curiosity got the better of him.
Tom snapped back to reality and quickly shook his head.
"Nothing, professor. I just accidentally hit myself with a Laughing Spell."
He gave his wand a playful flick—and instantly, Zabini, sitting in front, burst out giggling uncontrollably.
Watching Zabini laugh like a fool, Nott cracked up as well. Soon the laughter spread contagiously through the classroom, until finally even Professor Flitwick himself was chuckling in defeat.
The lesson ended in waves of laughter, and students from both houses hurried off toward the greenhouses for Herbology.
But Professor Sprout wasn't her usual cheerful self today. Her face was tight and grim, as though something had deeply unsettled her.
"Professor, what's wrong?" Tom leaned forward, asking softly.
Sprout forced a strained smile. "Oh, it's nothing. Just before class, Professor Lockhart questioned my professional expertise in Herbology."
Tom blinked. Of course—if Lockhart was involved, then it was hardly surprising.
"Mr. Riddle, what brings you here?" Sprout asked, tilting her head.
Tom finally voiced his request:
"Yesterday I noticed the Whomping Willow dropped quite a few branches and leaves. Would you mind letting me have some?"