Dumbledore sighed softly.
Every young witch and wizard present felt their eyelids twitch.
Merlin's beard, not now! Was Tom seriously boasting about mastering curses—here—and in front of the headmaster? This was hardly the time to flex.
But Tom's reasoning was simple.
Curses were efficient. They killed swiftly and invisibly, as both the Defence Against the Dark Arts professors and the decline of the Greengrass family could attest. And the deeper his research, the greater the chance he might one day find a way to help Astoria.
Dumbledore's smile held a trace of weariness. "Mr. Riddle, what we require now is not more petrifying curses—but a cure."
"The Restorative Draught?" Tom raised his brows. "Don't tell me our esteemed Head of Slytherin can't brew something so basic?"
"Riddle!" Snape snapped, his expression thunderous. "Do not insult me with beginner's concoctions. The Restorative Draught is hardly beyond me. What we lack are the necessary ingredients. The school's mandrakes are still immature."
"Ah… so it's the ingredients you're missing." Tom's lips curved into a sly smile. "As it happens, Mr. Scamander recently gifted me several mature mandrakes."
His sharp eyes swept the hall as he spoke, searching instinctively for any trace of the other diary-Tom—no sign.
The script? To hell with the script.
He'd already sent Lockhart packing weeks ahead of schedule. He had no time to waste humoring that clown. And as for Lucius Malfoy, who was to have slipped the diary into Ginny's cauldron… that he could not confirm. The only thing certain was that the diary was inside the castle, and the basilisk had already stirred awake.
Tom had studied the history of the First-Class Order of Merlin. Outside the politicians, nearly all true recipients had been honored for saving countless lives.
Take Tilly Toke, who had shielded hundreds of Muggles during the Ilfracombe Incident of 1932. Or Hephaestus Gore, who used a simple Repair Charm to restore the Colosseum, preventing exposure of the magical world.
If Tom wanted the highest class of honor, he needed a grand spectacle—a world-shaking event.
And what better opportunity than a rampaging basilisk?
No silent slaying in the Chamber would do. No. The whole school, the entire magical world, must see him as the one who stood against it, the savior who turned disaster into triumph.
If even then they denied him the First-Class Order of Merlin, he would simply take matters into his own hands: bring the Ministry to its knees and pin the medal on himself as Minister of Magic.
"That is most fortunate indeed," said Dumbledore, relief glimmering in his blue eyes. "Mr. Riddle, we will borrow your mandrakes for now. When Professor Sprout's crop matures, they will be returned to you."
"Not an issue, Headmaster," Tom replied pleasantly.
Filch even bobbed his head toward Tom in genuine gratitude, his opinion of the boy climbing rapidly.
He'd never had much contact with Riddle before—the boy never gave him the satisfaction of catching him in petty mischief. If Tom caused trouble, it was the kind that lost entire housefuls of points at once, far beyond the caretaker's reach.
Still, Filch made up his mind right there: if he ever did catch Tom breaking a rule, he would turn a blind eye.
Harry, meanwhile, was nearly trembling with gratitude. If it weren't for the crowd, he might have hugged Tom right then and there.
How could two Slytherins be so different? Snape and Malfoy were snakes he hated to the bone. But Tom—Tom was different. Tom made the castle feel safe again. Tom meant hope.
"Severus," Dumbledore said, turning back, "the Restorative Draught is yours to oversee. I expect to see our young patients restored as soon as possible."
"Three days," Snape growled.
"Not sooner?" Dumbledore pressed gently.
Arms folded, Snape's lip curled. "Magic is not a toy, Headmaster. Brewing is precise. Do not ask me to insult my craft with time-warping charms."
Dumbledore sighed, conceding. Then he raised his voice so the gathered students could hear. "Children, fear not. Miss Clearwater and Mrs. Norris will recover soon. When they awaken, the truth will emerge. Until then, you must all return to your dormitories."
Grumbling, whispering, the students dispersed. Even Harry and Ron slunk away, guided by Dumbledore's firm look—but the rest of the school kept their distance, parting around them like a plague.
Tom lingered, his eyes drawn to the petrified girl.
Ravenclaw. Blonde curls, striking features, even in her frozen pallor. Penelope Clearwater, if he wasn't mistaken.
She might have been beautiful once, but the waxy, corpse-like sheen of petrification robbed her of it. No wonder Filch had thought Mrs. Norris dead—their grayish stiffness was nearly identical.
Dumbledore's wand twitched, and both Penelope and Mrs. Norris rose gently into the air, drifting toward the hospital wing. The old wizard paused just long enough to invite Tom for morning tea the following day.
Tom inclined his head. "Of course, Headmaster."
"Riddle. A word, in my office."
Snape's voice broke the moment. Tom quickly waved Daphne and Astoria off. "Go back to the dormitory. I'll join you later."
The walk to Snape's office was silent, heavy with unspoken tension. Only once the door shut did Snape finally speak.
"Riddle… who do you think did this?"
Tom cocked a brow, answering with a question of his own. "Professor… it sounds like you already have someone in mind."
A cruel smirk twisted Snape's lips as he leaned back in his chair.
"In this castle, only one man lacks a past. And in my years at Hogwarts, whenever there is trouble… the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor is always at the center of it."
He sneered, eyes gleaming. "If not Rouse Wilkinson—who else?"
Tom's lips curved ever so faintly.
If only you knew how close you were… and how wrong.
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