It was just like the hierarchy in the film industry—
Those who made films looked down on those who made television.
Those who made television sneered at those who made short dramas.
The same was true here.
Tom's earlier "Evolution Theory of Magical Creatures" sounded grand, but its practical application was far too limited. By contrast, the Illusion Draught could benefit vast numbers of students. It turned dullards into ordinary students, ordinary students into promising prodigies—raising the baseline of transfiguration across the entire wizarding world.
Just before he had left her office, Professor McGonagall had even hinted that if the potion truly performed as well as expected, a Merlin Medal was inevitable.
What grade medal, however, remained uncertain. First Class was impossible. But if an award really did come, Tom was already planning to decline—better to save that glory for a future, deliberate strike at First Class.
"Hmmph."
Back in the Great Hall, Astoria surprised him by showing a rare temper. She gave a little huffy hum, turned her head away in mock anger—but her eyes betrayed her, sneaking constant glances at Tom to gauge his reaction.
"Still sulking with me?" Tom chuckled. He gently but firmly turned her small face back toward him. "You know this is all for your own good."
"I know…" Astoria's voice was small, wounded. "But the potions taste so awful. Three different brews every single day. I'm sick of them."
Tom couldn't help but laugh. "Silly girl. You're not even in your later years yet. Daphne said you used to drink far more medicines before—stronger, fouler ones. You should be used to it. How can you resist these?"
Astoria's eyes went hazy.
Yes… once upon a time, she had to drink far more—strange concoctions with tastes so bitter and bizarre her tongue had long since gone numb.
So when had her taste begun to return? When had she started to dislike the flavor of potions again?
Ah—of course. It was from the day Tom had first given her a Strengthening Elixir.
From that day forward, she only needed a single restorative potion at intervals. Her body not only avoided decline—it grew steadily stronger.
And now, in front of Tom's startled expression, Astoria's wide eyes filled with tears. She suddenly threw herself into his arms.
"I was wrong, Tom! I'll listen to you from now on—I'll drink the potions on time, I promise!"
Tom stood there utterly baffled, feeling like Louis XVI facing the guillotine—utterly clueless. He hadn't said anything harsh! Why was Astoria crying like this?
Even Daphne froze mid-bite, crumbs still on her lips, staring blankly.
What just happened?
Other students glanced over curiously. One look from Tom—sharp, dangerous, a deathly glare—was enough to scatter them like startled birds.
Gently, Tom patted Astoria's back. His voice softened. "Astoria is the bravest girl I know. Just a little longer, and I swear one day you'll be free of every foul-tasting potion forever."
"Mhm…"
Realizing how dramatic her reaction had been, Astoria blushed furiously, keeping her head buried in his chest, refusing to let go. Tom had no choice but to scoop both sisters up and hurry out of the Hall, Astoria still pink-faced with embarrassment.
That same day, the Halloween Eve notices went up.
The lists of new Assistant Prefects were posted on every common room board.
Slytherin showed no surprises—their former Invisible Prefects were now formally recognized as Assistant Prefects.
In the other Houses, results were predictable: Hermione Granger was named Assistant Prefect for the girls, and for the boys—Harry Potter.
It was logical. Their performances had outshone their peers, and they best embodied Gryffindor's values in the eyes of Professor McGonagall.
Fred and George Weasley had strong cases, but Minerva McGonagall would have to be insane to hand them official authority. Even Lee Jordan, their close friend, was struck from the list. Instead, she picked a studious boy—whose dueling had improved remarkably in recent days, thanks to trials with Tom's very own Illusion Draught. Truly a deserved choice.
Tom had only just stepped into the Hall when his notebook pulsed faintly.
He slipped it from his pocket, eyes narrowing with sudden focus.
[Aberforth: Got what you asked for.]
[Tom: You're at the Hog's Head? I'll come at once.]
[Aberforth: Skipping the Halloween Feast?]
[Tom: A Runic Serpent is worth more than a feast. The banquet is meaningless.]
[Aberforth: Then come. I'm waiting at the bar.]
Tom shut the notebook, his expression sharpening.
Turning to Daphne, he said briskly, "I've got business to take care of. If Snape asks, tell him I went into the Forbidden Forest to gather herbs. He won't dare dock points."
"Alright."
Daphne's greatest virtue was that she never pried. She simply nodded.
Tom slipped out of the Great Hall against the flow of students, out into the night. Darkness had fallen fully by now. For safety's sake, he layered a Disillusionment Charm over himself before taking to the sky.
At his current speed, Hogwarts to the Hog's Head was a matter of minutes.
But he had forgotten one thing—at this hour, the bar was already open, and with the holiday it was full to bursting. Laughter, curses, and drunken shouts spilled from the doorway.
Unwilling to risk recognition, Tom transfigured his Slytherin robes into a dark green, gold-edged hooded cloak. He wove a subtle charm across his face so none could glimpse the features beneath. Only then did he push open the creaking door.
A stranger in such a cloak immediately drew eyes. The Hog's Head clientele were not the sort to trust anyone.
One drunk tried to pick his pocket.
With a cold snort, Tom released a ripple of dazzling blue lightning. The thief collapsed instantly, convulsing on the floor. The rest of the room shrank back quickly, muttering.
Behind the bar, Aberforth Dumbledore scowled, ready to shout at the disturbance. But when Tom lifted his notebook in one hand with a casual wave, recognition flashed across Aberforth's eyes.
"…Go upstairs. Wait for me there."
Tom gave a curt nod, climbed the creaky wooden steps, and slipped into Aberforth's private room.