History has a way of repeating itself.
Once, long ago, Slytherins had rallied to defend the bloodline superiority of another half-blood wizard—a boy named Tom Riddle.
Now, here they were again, weaving legends around a different Tom.
"Say whatever you like," Tom muttered, pressing his palm to his forehead as he looked at his classmates, who were even more excited than he was. He truly didn't know how to argue with them anymore.
"But let me remind you of one thing."
His voice dropped to an icy chill. Instantly, the air in the common room grew cold, frost seeming to creep into their bones. The chatter died in a heartbeat.
Tom raised a finger, pointing upwards—or more precisely, toward Gryffindor Tower.
"Hermione is my friend. If I hear so much as a whisper of someone getting carried away and saying things they shouldn't…" His eyes gleamed dangerously. "Well, I've been practicing curses and dark magic lately, and I'd be delighted to use one of you as a test subject."
The little serpents shivered and nodded, cowed into silence.
—
Later that night, in their dormitory, Tom turned suddenly toward Theodore Nott, who was busy playing wizard's chess with Rosier.
"Nott, how close are you to your great-grandfather?"
Nott blinked, puzzled. "Which great-grandfather?"
Tom rolled his eyes.
"Oh—you mean that one. The one who wrote the book," Nott said at last.
"That's the one."
"I've never met him." Nott shrugged carelessly. "That side of the family has no one my age. Both of my uncles ended up in Azkaban, anyway."
"Why do you ask, Tom? Don't tell me you actually want your name in the family records?"
Tom rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. "Please. I'm an orphan. What bloody family tree would I even claim? What are you going to do, invent one for me?"
"Pfft!" Rosier snorted with laughter.
But Nott only grew thoughtful. "Why not? I could make one up for you. Plenty of powerful wizards in history came out of nowhere. Add a few clever embellishments, connect the right dots, and it'd look perfectly legitimate."
Tom glanced at him, caught between amusement and disbelief.
His roommates each had their quirks. Zabini had a gift for potions, already ahead of many fifth-years. Nott adored wizarding history and dreamed of revising the genealogies of wizarding families. And Rosier… well, Rosier's only talent was being aggressively average, which in a dorm full of prodigies was almost a gift of its own.
Tom chuckled. "Relax. I've no plans to claim an ancestor just yet. Don't waste brainpower worrying about it. I was just asking."
"Oh." Nott lowered his gaze, looking oddly disappointed. He'd thought, just maybe, this was a chance to contribute something meaningful.
But Tom hadn't asked on a whim. The idea had struck him sharply:
The book Pure-Blood Directory had enshrined the "Sacred Twenty-Eight" families for over a century, shaping wizarding culture more deeply than any potion or theory. Its influence eclipsed even his alchemical extraction method or his theories on magical creatures' evolution.
If Nott's ancestor could write such a book, why couldn't he?
If his papers were the science of the magical world, then Pure-Blood Directory was its literature—soft power, but no less impactful. And there was money to be made in both.
—
As his roommates slept soundly, Tom slipped into his private world, preparing a new home for the rune snakes.
Unlike common serpents that sought damp, shadowy burrows in grass or along riverbanks, rune snakes preferred dryness. Their glowing sigils naturally retained moisture, and they favored hollowed stones for their nests. Over time, as more snakes gathered, even massive boulders would be carved out from within.
Tom partitioned a spacious area for them, magically sealing it off from his other creatures. Rune snakes were classified as XXXX beasts by the Ministry—more than capable of swallowing a puffskein or bowtruckle in a single bite.
He provided rocky shelters, adjusted the heat and humidity for shedding, and laid the groundwork for food sources. It was far from complete—he lacked both time and materials tonight—but it was a start.
Satisfied, Tom left that world and entered his learning space, summoning Grindelwald.
"Old man, do you speak Parseltongue?" Tom asked.
Grindelwald's expression was one of mild disdain, as though the question itself insulted him. "Of course. What kind of dark wizard would I be if I didn't? Many curses grow stronger when spoken in Parseltongue. If one can't even hiss to a snake, one isn't a dark wizard at all—merely a dabbler."
Tom smirked. "High standards, as always."
He was used to Grindelwald's worldview by now. To him, humanity divided neatly into two categories: himself and Dumbledore. Everyone else was trash.
Tom, though still "trash" in terms of raw power, had potential. Enough that Grindelwald begrudgingly placed him in the first category.
"So tell me—can Parseltongue control a basilisk?" Tom asked.
At once, Grindelwald's brow furrowed. His tone grew colder, tinged with a rare flash of emotion.
"Parseltongue can command ordinary snakes. But a basilisk? No. You cannot bend such a creature to your will simply by hissing at it. If it is already tamed, Parseltongue can be used to give it orders—but never to break it."
Tom narrowed his eyes. "You sound awfully bitter. There's a story behind this, isn't there?"
Andeross, ever the sharp-tongued observer, leaned in with a grin. "Oh, there's definitely a story. The way his face twisted just now—it's personal."
Tom nodded, watching Grindelwald closely. "You mention a basilisk, and suddenly you're seething. Come on, out with it."
Grindelwald's jaw clenched. He knew if he stayed silent, Tom and Andeross would never let it drop. Finally, his lips curled in a grimace as he spat out the memory.
"During the wizarding war, I attempted to breed an army of basilisks. I had the roosters killed, the eggs secured. The process was nearly complete. And then—at the hatching stage—that damned Scamander ruined everything!"
Tom's eyes widened. "Wait… you mean—"