One by one, the white pieces were replaced by eager young witches and wizards.
Only when the match began did Astoria realize the flaw in this arrangement.
Every sacrifice wasn't just a pawn—it was a classmate. Each move now carried hesitation, her commands faltering whenever a capture loomed.
And the black pieces were merciless. After defeating a white player, they would either pull grotesque faces and hurl insults, or spray water over the poor victim's head, or worse—boot them off the board with their behinds, or, in the case of the black knight, the horse's rump.
The damage was minimal, but the humiliation was enormous. The crowd of students watching roared with laughter.
Astoria, red-cheeked, shot Tom a rare glare, her eyes brimming with a playful pout. She regretted letting so many students replace the original chessmen. If more enchanted pieces had stayed on her side, the match would have gone much smoother.
The spectacle drew an even larger audience. Word spread quickly through the castle. Ron and Harry came running to see what the fuss was about.
The moment Ron laid eyes on the towering chess set, his eyes lit up.
"This is it! This is just like the game I won against Professor McGonagall's enchanted board!" he shouted proudly.
But no one paid him much attention. Everyone was too busy enjoying the chaos. His three older brothers had already elbowed their way to the front, eagerly offering Astoria tactical advice.
Harry's gaze, however, wasn't on the board. His attention had locked onto Megatron.
He remembered vividly—on his tenth birthday, Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had gifted Dudley a Transformer toy. Dudley had guarded it like a treasure, never letting Harry so much as touch it. Even now, Dudley still kept it close, a prized possession.
But compared to Tom's Megatron, Dudley's toy was utter trash.
A wild thought crossed Harry's mind: If Dudley saw this Megatron, maybe he'd actually fall in love with magic.
As the games went on, even the professors began arriving. Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick appeared first, followed by Professor Bathsheda Babbling of Ancient Runes, and Professor Sprout.
"A marvelous piece of Transfiguration, Mr. Riddle," McGonagall said, her eyes twinkling with rare delight.
Creating wizard chess that could think was no small feat. Tom's pieces didn't merely follow orders—they reasoned, they jeered, they acted with unnerving personality. It was as though they possessed fragments of souls.
"The spellwork is exquisite as well!" Professor Flitwick declared, nearly bouncing with excitement. "If this were a classroom exercise, I'd award you top marks without hesitation!"
Tom played it modestly. "I'll take the points when you give them in class, Professor. I'm a bit short at the moment."
He was short on credits, especially with his need to access advanced magical modes in his research.
Flitwick blinked, then burst out laughing. "Fair enough! But only if you share the mimicry charms you used to animate their movements. Their precision is flawless."
"With pleasure," Tom agreed smoothly.
The sun dipped lower, painting the sky orange. The day of laughter and spectacle was drawing to a close.
For the final round, Professor McGonagall herself stepped onto the field. Unlike the students, she conjured her own black set on the spot, animating it with such flawless Transfiguration that the pieces fought like extensions of her own will.
This time, Tom lost.
McGonagall's mastery of Transfiguration was absolute, and she generously shared insights and techniques during the battle. Tom left the match humbled yet enriched, his mind buzzing with new possibilities.
Ron itched to play, but he and Harry had arrived too late. By the time their turn might have come, dinner was already calling. They left grumbling, alongside dozens of disappointed students who had queued in vain.
At last, McGonagall approached Tom. She hesitated, then said, "Mr. Riddle, I believe this exercise is an excellent form of training. It teaches teamwork and exposes students to high-level Transfiguration. Could you set up the board again tomorrow?"
Tom shook his head and smiled. "Professor, I'll leave the board in your care. You can organize it however you like."
"Your contribution is appreciated, Mr. Riddle. Gryffindor will award you thirty points," she said warmly.
Of course, McGonagall was more than capable of crafting such a set herself—perhaps an even stronger one. But something created by a professor was a test, while something provided by a student was entertainment. The spirit was different, and the students responded to that.
Nearby, Wilkinson scratched his head sheepishly. "And, erm… about Megatron—could I borrow him for a while?"
Even he felt awkward, asking for something when he hadn't contributed much.
Tom considered, then nodded. "You may, but return him by Monday. I need to make modifications."
He handed Megatron over, sealing it with a magical lock that recognized Wilkinson's magic. The controls were tied to power signatures—no unauthorized person could access the inner workings.
"On behalf of the students, thank you, Mr. Riddle," Wilkinson said with a wide grin. "Oh—and Slytherin, fifty points."
Now that was clever. Tom gave him an approving look before bidding the professors good evening and heading back to the castle.
The next morning, being Sunday, both the chessboard and Megatron were set up again on the grounds. McGonagall and Flitwick maintained order, while Tom himself was nowhere to be seen.
Instead, Tom used the permission slip Wilkinson had provided to enter the Restricted Section of the library.
Lady Greengrass had already supplied him with much of pure-blood Britain's private lore, but the Restricted Section might still hold treasures even the old families lacked. Today, he was here to fill the gaps.
"Riddle?"
The voice was soft, almost hesitant.
Tom turned, surprised. By the window, Cho Chang sat alone, a book in her hands, bathed in golden morning light. She looked every bit the image of a literary dreamer.
Because of their awkward Journey to the West encounter, Tom felt a flicker of embarrassment. But coincidence was coincidence—they'd run into each other two days in a row now.
She had already greeted him, so he walked over.
"Cho," he said, managing a polite smile. "What a coincidence."