Astoria rolled her eyes. Back at home, her sister had always been fairly reliable, but ever since coming to Hogwarts, it was as if she'd somehow started aging backwards.
Was this all Tom's bad influence?
Trying to patch things up, Daphne quickly prepared snacks for the two of them.
"That Gilderoy Lockhart is absolutely dreadful," Daphne complained, raising her voice so everyone nearby could hear. "You lot don't know what happened in class today—he couldn't even control a handful of Cornish pixies! If it weren't for Hermione stepping in, several students might've been seriously hurt. As it is, many were scratched up already."
Daphne hadn't bothered to keep her voice down, and nearby students perked up at her words.
Lockhart had plenty of admirers in Slytherin, and one girl quickly jumped to his defense. "Maybe he just wanted to give us a chance to practice! Haven't you read his books? He's accomplished so many incredible things."
"Oh, come off it," Daphne shot back. "He even had his wand stolen by the pixies. A student had to kindly fetch it back for him. Even Quirrell never embarrassed himself that badly."
"Or maybe he's just a fraud who makes up stories and writes books," a boy chimed in, backing Daphne.
What had begun as idle gossip soon escalated into a heated argument between Lockhart's admirers and his detractors. Unsurprisingly, most of his supporters were girls, while his critics were almost entirely boys.
Tom found the entire squabble boring. He told Astoria to head back and rest, then returned to his dormitory.
Hogwarts' rumor mill worked fast. By the next morning, everyone knew about the fiasco in Defense Against the Dark Arts. Yet when they saw Lockhart striding down the corridors with his usual self-satisfied grin, most dismissed it as a one-off mishap. His fame was still too great; few paid it much mind.
What truly shook the school came from another direction—news that Malfoy had donated an entire set of Nimbus 2001s to the Slytherin Quidditch team.
The blow hit hardest at Gryffindor, especially their captain, Oliver Wood. At breakfast, he didn't even glance at his plate. He stared fixedly across the table at Marcus Flint, ignoring the fact that he'd just poured pepper into his milk instead of sugar. Flint noticed the look, grinned wickedly, and made a throat-slashing gesture in return.
Wood snorted coldly and shoved the cloudy, peppery milk toward Lee Jordan.
"Pfft—Wood! What on earth did you put in this milk!?" Lee spluttered, coughing.
By the time they reached the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom again, Tom and his classmates were prepared for another disaster.
Perhaps yesterday's humiliation had made Lockhart realize that he wasn't the all-powerful wizard his books claimed him to be. He behaved a little more subdued today. Well—relatively subdued.
He still spent the first ten minutes boasting about his accomplishments, but then, instead of summoning dangerous creatures, he handed out a quiz.
The quiz, however, wasn't about defensive spells or magical creatures—it was entirely about himself.
Tom didn't bother writing a single answer. He simply leaned over and copied a classmate's paper.
The rest of the class turned into Lockhart's personal fan club session. He graded the quizzes on the spot, praising anyone who had memorized his favorite color, his preferred aftershave, or his ideal Valentine's gift. Whenever he found an answer particularly flattering, he read it aloud to the whole class, smiling smugly as he emphasized his bravery and brilliance.
And just like that, an entire period slipped away. At the end, he assigned homework: two separate essays of "reflections" on his books.
"I'm certain of it now—he's nothing but a flashy fraud," Daphne declared loudly, and this time, no one argued back.
Even Lockhart's supporters found themselves speechless. This wasn't education; even a Muggle could have "taught" a class like that. Quirrell might have been nervous and stuttering, but at least he'd tried to explain things with his own understanding. Lockhart, in comparison, seemed like a magical illiterate.
Tom turned and gave the gathered Slytherins a sly smile. "If I recall correctly, didn't someone say Quirrell was the worst professor Hogwarts had ever seen, bar none? Do you still think so now?"
In the crowd, Selwyn's face flushed scarlet. Yes, he had said exactly that last year during the Halloween fiasco.
But instead of directing his anger at Tom, Selwyn cursed Dumbledore silently.
Bloody hell, is this how you pick teachers? Whoever's worse gets the job?
After another dreary day of lessons, Tom spent some time in the library, poring over herbology texts. Once he judged the time right, he made his way toward the Forbidden Forest to await the centaurs' decision.
His interest in Herbology had grown ever since Nicolas Flamel's advice.
The most crucial element of the Chatbook was the very paper it was made of. That paper wasn't ordinary parchment—it was imbued with mithril, dragonblood wood fibers, powdered runesnake skin, and other rare materials. It was the costliest component of all.
Flamel had suggested a solution: replace those rare ingredients with renewable alternatives. Plants. Even the violent Whomping Willow could be harvested safely by carefully trimming twigs or drawing sap without harming the tree's roots. Compared to mithril or runesnake skin, plants were cheap, sustainable, and far easier to acquire.
Thus Tom studied Herbology diligently—and set his sights on the centaurs as well.
The quarrel with them had already passed, the conflict born of misfortune rather than true malice. But so what?
Anyone who stood in the way of his path was an enemy.
Anyone who could become a stepping stone, even a former foe, might be turned into an ally.
That was pure Slytherin.
"It seems you've made the right choice," Tom said calmly as he stepped into their meeting spot.
Two centaurs awaited him—Firenze, and the tribe's leader, Magorian.
Magorian snorted. "Choice? Riddle, when did you ever give us a choice? From beginning to end, we've only had one path."