Tom spent the entire weekend in full slacker mode. Saturday afternoon, he napped in his dormitory. Sunday morning, he walked his pets.
In the afternoon, he strolled through Professor Sprout's greenhouse, casually probing for any news about Whomping Willow seeds.
No luck.
Sprout had never paid attention to such things. The Whomping Willow was valuable, yes, but also dangerously aggressive. Ordinary wizards could neither manage nor cultivate it. If it were simple, there would be more than one tree in all of Britain.
So Tom made up his mind: time to lean on his elders.
[Tom: Teacher, I've finished all my research on the Whomping Willow. It's a wonderful substitute material. But now I've run into a new problem.]
[Old Nick: You don't have another Willow, do you?]
[Tom: Sharp as always. Hogwarts has only the one. I'd rather not have Professor Sprout try to strangle me over this, so… I'll have to rely on you.]
Of course, Lady Greengrass could have handled it as well. But that would burn through "favors." Nicolas Flamel, however, was different. He was already invested in Tom's push for alchemy popularization. A little extra effort from him would cost nothing.
[Old Nick: Leave it to me. How many do you need?]
[Tom: At least twenty fully grown Willows. If they're saplings, we can raise them ourselves. I have a master herbologist and a master potioneer on hand—it's doable.]
[Old Nick: Twenty adults? That won't be easy. I've got some friends in Africa. I'll ask around.]
Tom's eyes lit up.
He had long coveted Africa's riches. From the wizarding perspective, that land was a treasure chest overflowing with magical flora and fauna. Even goblins had placed Gringotts' headquarters in Egypt.
To Tom, the way others squandered such resources was nothing short of sacrilege.
[Old Nick: Oh, and at Christmas, you must come. I'll introduce you to a few old friends.]
[Tom: ?]
[Old Nick: Some are decent alchemists, others hold influence in their countries. Promoting alchemy is a vast undertaking—having their support will smooth the way.]
[Tom: Understood. Should we invite Newt as well? I'd planned to visit him over Christmas.]
[Old Nick: Newt, eh? I haven't seen him in a while. Trouble is, the French Ministry doesn't trust him. Unless he comes without that suitcase of his—but that's impossible. Still, I'll try. Don't get your hopes up. Worst case, after term begins again, we'll take a trip to America.]
In Flamel's eyes, school was the least important thing Tom had on his plate. Missing a few days meant nothing.
Tom pressed him on a few other problems before they ended their exchange.
As usual, he also fired off a message to Aberforth. And as usual, the man's reply was dismissive. Tom stopped caring.
By Monday, the weather turned sharper. The sudden chill swept through the castle, and a wave of colds spread among the students. Madam Pomfrey was overwhelmed, handing out doses of Pepperup Potion left and right.
The potion worked instantly—sluggish students perked right up—but the next few hours came with smoke hissing from their ears, leaving the hospital wing smelling like a bonfire.
Still, neither the plunging temperatures nor the endless rain could stop Quidditch training. The first match after Halloween was the fiercest rivalry of all: Gryffindor versus Slytherin.
This year, the rivalry burned hotter than ever. Fred and George were constantly spying on the Slytherin team, eyeing the sleek Nimbus 2001s with mounting dread. The gap in quality was like putting a GTX 960 against a 5080—completely unfair.
Their only hope was Harry. If he caught the Snitch before the score gap exceeded 150 points, they could still win.
Once again, the fate of Gryffindor rested entirely on the Boy Who Lived. Oliver Wood's training sessions grew more and more ruthless, every tactic designed around Harry's speed and instincts.
On the other side, Tom happily shared "techniques" with Slytherin's team.
Iron Mountain Slam. Earthquake Shake. Shoulder Drop Feints.
Not one had anything to do with the Quaffle.
Dirty? Maybe. But fouls only meant penalties. Penalties were part of the rules. How could anyone call it underhanded when it was right there in the book?
"Astoria, did you drink your potion today?"
Rain rattled against the castle windows like gunfire. It was the fourth straight day of downpour.
Tom and Daphne stepped out of Potions class, only to spot Astoria at the stairs.
But instead of bounding toward them as usual, the girl froze. The moment she saw them, she turned to run. Tom reached out in a single stride, catching her by the arm.
Her small face scrunched up, pitiful. "Tom… it's too disgusting. I can't drink that potion anymore."
"It's better than being bedridden with a fever." Tom ruffled her hair gently. "Daphne, keep an eye on her. She doesn't leave the dorm until she finishes it."
"Heh heh. Finally, little sister—you're at my mercy."
Daphne grinned wickedly, dragging Astoria off as the younger girl wailed.
Tom could only shake his head helplessly.
Astoria's constitution was fragile. Surrounded by sick classmates, she was at high risk. That's why Tom had brewed extra preventative potions for her. But the taste… indescribable.
Not sugar, not milk, not even frying it up with pork and chili could save it.
So the only solution was force. Today, Tom finally hardened his heart, letting Daphne handle the "enforcement."
After watching the two sisters leave, Tom climbed a different staircase, weaving through corridors until he reached Professor McGonagall's office.
He waited five minutes before she appeared, fresh from class. Her eyebrows rose in surprise when she saw him.
"Mr. Riddle? What brings you here?"
Tom met her gaze calmly.
"Professor, I've invented a potion. I'd like to publish it in Transfiguration Today."