Astoria wasn't finished.
Her wand flicked, a jet of red light hit Melrose squarely in the stomach, and the Ravenclaw girl collapsed to her knees, clutching herself in agony.
The display stunned even the Slytherins.
Astoria Greengrass had always been seen as delicate, soft-spoken, a porcelain doll trailing quietly at Tom's side. She rarely raised her voice, let alone her wand. No one could remember a time she had ever been angry, and certainly never this furious.
But now, with her eyes burning and her posture imperious, the pampered heiress looked every inch the noble lady of an ancient pure-blood line—commanding, dangerous, untouchable.
"Remember this," Astoria said coldly. "This is only the beginning. The next week will be your nightmare."
She turned sharply, wand vanishing into her sleeve, and swept out of the room with a flock of Slytherin witches behind her. She didn't bother with threats; her words weren't promises, but statements of fact.
And indeed, for Melrose, the week that followed was pure misery.
Her robes tore inexplicably as she walked the halls. Her shoes vanished, only to be found later covered in the sticky slime of Flobberworms. Her cauldron cracked in class, her ingredients were mysteriously spoiled, her homework ink was swapped with disappearing ink.
It was open, blatant, and merciless.
The rest of Ravenclaw couldn't help but notice. A few upper-years tried to intervene for the younger girl—but Slytherin students of the same year blocked them with equal force. And when Melrose went crying to Professor Flitwick, the punishments he handed out barely scratched the surface. Everyone knew: in school, tattling never solved the problem. All she did was dig her own grave deeper.
If it had been Gryffindor or Hufflepuff, this would have exploded into inter-house warfare. But Ravenclaw?
"Scatterclaw" wasn't just a cruel nickname. Unless their personal interests were threatened, most Ravenclaws had no appetite for conflict. And with Slytherin pushing so hard, few were willing to bring trouble upon themselves.
The truth became obvious soon enough anyway: Melrose and her friends had brought this on themselves. They had mocked and tormented Luna Lovegood, never realizing she was under Tom Riddle's protection. Now they had slammed into a wall made of iron.
Even Cho Chang, when she learned the details, merely shook her head. She felt no sympathy, only distaste for their behavior. Tom, standing beside her, had only smiled.
"Every House has its rotten ones," he said smoothly. And with that, the matter was dropped.
That week, Tom poured his real attention into wringing more from the other Tom—the fifteen-year-old memory trapped in the diary.
A few drops of dragon blood stirred the Horcrux into life again, but when Tom demanded more of Salazar Slytherin's knowledge, the phantom Voldemort tried to bargain.
Tom didn't bother arguing. He went to his Thunderbird, "Da Bao," and borrowed a few drops of unicorn blood. When the silvery liquid touched the diary's pages, black smoke hissed up at once.
Unicorn blood was power incarnate, a pure, sacred force. The year before, Voldemort had used it himself to cling to life—but a Horcrux was not a man. It was an object, a dark thing, and to such a vessel, purity was poison.
The diary writhed. The shade of Voldemort buckled. And then it broke.
Knowledge spilled out in desperate waves. This time, it wasn't scraps—it was substance.
The founders of Hogwarts had each mastered their own domain. Gryffindor with courage and dueling, Hufflepuff with loyalty and charms, Ravenclaw with wisdom and mind-magic… and Slytherin, without doubt, with Dark Arts.
And of those Dark Arts, his most infamous specialty was poison.
Not mere potions, but venom woven from raw magic itself. Slytherin's research showed how sorcery could corrupt, transmute, and weaponize even the essence of living things.
And that, to Gellert Grindelwald, was fascinating. The old revolutionary examined the notes with hungry eyes, marveling at Slytherin's genius. To him, poison was not about ingredients—it was about understanding the very essence of magical energy.
Tom himself didn't rush to study. He left Grindelwald to do the analysis; once the older wizard broke it down, Tom could reap the knowledge neatly packaged. For now, his priority was forcing "the other Tom" to yield even more.
By Friday, Hogwarts buzzed with excitement.
The long-paused Dueling Club was set to return that evening, and rumor swirled of a clash between Ravenclaw and Slytherin. Would Melrose and her friends dare challenge their tormentors in public?
The Great Hall was loud with speculation when the morning owls swooped in. Newspapers and packages rained down across the tables, parchment rustling, letters opening.
The Prophet. Nearly every student and professor had a subscription. With so few entertainments in wizarding Britain, the paper was both news and gossip, lifeline and distraction.
And today, it carried a surprise.
Eyes widened across the hall. Students craned their necks. Professors lowered their utensils.
On the second page of the Daily Prophet, in a prominent column near the fold—
An article.
Its author?
Tom Riddle.