Tom was certain that if Professor Rouse were here to hear Snape's accusations, the poor man would have vomited blood from the injustice.
Just because he was the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, did that automatically mean he had to shoulder the blame?
Well… from one angle, Snape's suspicion wasn't entirely unfounded.
Rouse did come to Hogwarts with ulterior motives—and in terms of severity, his intentions might prove even more dangerous than the basilisk itself. If one compared influence, Grindelwald was a world-class threat, whereas Voldemort had never extended his reach beyond the British Isles.
But tonight's events had nothing to do with Rouse!
Still, a man sharp enough to juggle double loyalties between two Dark Lords was not to be underestimated. Snape's keen eyes could catch the faintest slip. Tom knew that meant he couldn't defend Rouse too openly.
"Professor," Tom said smoothly, "if you suspect Wilkinson, then why didn't you speak to Dumbledore about it earlier?"
Snape gave him the sort of look reserved for idiots. "Last year, I warned Dumbledore about Quirrell more times than I can count. Did he listen? No. Don't be fooled by that genial facade of his. Once the old man has made up his mind, no one can sway him."
"So?" Tom raised a brow. "He's the Headmaster, you're just a Head of House. If you can't overrule him, what good does telling me, a student, do?"
"Keep an eye on him." Snape's voice dropped to a whisper, as if afraid the shadows themselves might overhear. "Find out his true purpose. He could be another piece on the Dark Lord's board."
The irony nearly made Tom laugh out loud.
Rouse was a pawn of a Dark Lord—just not the one Snape imagined.
"You do know how to set a challenge," Tom replied with an easy smile. "But shouldn't dangerous work like this fall to professors rather than students? Investigating him sounds like your job, not mine."
Snape's hands clenched into fists at his sides.
This boy… is he even human?
Just standing near Tom filled him with an inexplicable sense of danger, as though he were facing some ancient predator that had slipped into the body of a schoolboy. This term, Snape hadn't breathed a word about dueling Tom. He no longer believed he could win—even holding back the darker spells, even aiming only for a stalemate, the risk felt too great.
"One day, when disaster strikes, you'll regret this," he hissed.
Tom didn't bother replying. He simply said, "Bring me the mandrakes tomorrow morning. Don't delay my brewing."
Grinding his teeth, Snape spat, "Fine."
Tom gave a polite nod, left the office, and made his way back to the Slytherin common room.
—
The room was buzzing with excitement. Students clustered in groups, whispering about the Chamber of Secrets and the ominous words scrawled on the walls.
Even under Tom's quiet dominance, the arrogance of pure-bloods still festered. Many dreamed of Hogwarts "cleansed," if not of Muggle-borns entirely, then at least rid of what they considered the lowest bloodlines.
Deep down, though, most of them knew the truth. Their own family trees weren't as pure as their rhetoric. If they truly were, most of those lines would have already gone extinct. The Gaunts stood as the perfect example: pureblood pride carried straight to ruin.
The chatter about what the Chamber really was and whether it had been opened ceased the moment Tom stepped into the room.
Every head turned away, eyes dropping, as though guilt had stolen their tongues.
Tom smiled faintly. "Don't worry—I know you're all excited. I understand the feeling. But if you think a few words on a wall and some crude little magic tricks will drive me from Hogwarts… then you're being far too naïve."
"Tom, this has nothing to do with you."
The voice came from Rosier, who suddenly rose to his feet. He looked around the common room boldly, his voice ringing with conviction.
"Tom's magical talent, his conduct, his bearing—what part of him resembles a Muggle's?"
A murmur rippled through the room.
"Think of the other Muggle-borns," Rosier pressed on. "How many have adapted to the wizarding world as swiftly as Tom? Most skulk about nervously, hiding in their little circles. But Tom? He shines."
"Have you all forgotten what the Sorting Hat said? It called him a born Slytherin! He shouted it three times, in fact!"
"The Sorting Hat carries the Founders' will. Are you saying its judgment is less accurate than your own?"
Rosier's confidence swelled as he spoke. "So hear me clearly: Tom must be the descendant of some ancient, powerful pure-blood line. Perhaps his ancestors lost their honor in a bygone generation—but in him, their glory is reborn. He belongs to us. Tom is one of us."
The Slytherin common room fell utterly silent.
Tom stared at Rosier in shock.
Bloody hell… he's good. If I didn't know the truth, even I'd believe him.
But what stunned him even more—was that others began to believe it too.
"Yes!"
The first to speak up was Zabini, his dark eyes gleaming. "If someone as exceptional as Tom isn't pure-blood, then what hope do the rest of us have to stand against the other Houses? We'd be nothing!"
"I agree," Draco Malfoy added lazily, though his words cut sharp. "I may have quarreled with Tom before, but without his guidance, would I have mastered the Shield Charm so quickly? Would I have humiliated Weasley and toyed with Potter?"
He smirked. "Even the Weasleys, paupers though they are, count among the Sacred Twenty-Eight. I'd say they don't deserve it. That spot should go to the Riddles instead. Nott, your great-grandfather's book is outdated. Time for a revised edition, don't you think?"
"Shove it," Theodore Nott growled. "My great-grandfather's dead. You expect him to write from beyond the grave? But fine—if I ever rewrite the book, I'll strike out Longbottom and Weasley, and I'll put Riddle's name in their place."
Voices swelled. One after another, the students echoed Rosier, building on his story, weaving a new legend for Tom. In mere minutes, they had erased his Muggle heritage and elevated him into their world.
If we can't defeat you, they seemed to say, then we'll claim you.
We'll follow you. We'll call you our own.
All for the glory of Slytherin.
If their parents or grandparents could have seen this moment, they would have gasped in astonishment.