Tom's eyes flickered as he scanned the system prompt.
A thousand achievement points—enough to buy the loyalty of another "Century King." Five thousand credits—enough to sustain him for a very long while. In all his time with the system, he had never seen such a reward.
But the requirements…
One hundred percent recognition?
That didn't mean universal acceptance. No. It meant his classification had to become the mainstream standard, acknowledged across nations and cultures. That wasn't merely difficult—it was monumental.
Harder than making the "Sacred Twenty-Eight" known across Britain. Harder, because this was global.
Tom only smirked. "Challenging," he thought, "but the rewards… worth it."
…
At the Slytherin table, Rosier slammed his copy of the Prophet down, eyes wide.
"Tom," he asked incredulously, "did you write this article?"
Every eye around the table turned to him.
Tom met their gazes calmly, lifting his teacup. "Yes. I've been reading through a great deal of historical material lately, and I realized our records of magical families are too biased, too incomplete. So I wrote this piece. Any problem with that?"
For a heartbeat, silence. Then Rosier all but jumped from his bench, shaking his head so hard it nearly snapped off. "Problem? Absolutely not! It's… it's brilliant!"
His cousin beside him was beaming too.
Yes, the article exposed at least five instances where the Rosiers had married Muggles. Yes, that shattered the illusion of their pristine blood. But compared to the grandeur of their lineage now laid bare—their wealth, their power, their spread across Europe—such "blemishes" seemed trivial.
In fact, for the Rosiers, this was vindication. Proof that theirs was a thousand-year-old house, with roots deep and wide. To see it in print, in the most circulated paper in wizarding Britain—it was glory. The wider the spread, the brighter their name would shine.
At another corner of the table, Nott's cheeks flushed red with excitement. "So that's why you kept pestering me with history questions! You were planning something this big? Redefining blood status beyond Britain, across the entire world? Merlin's beard, why didn't I think of it first?"
He leaned closer eagerly. "Who's next? Another great House? A Chronicle, a Family, or one of the seventy Accounts? When will it be published?"
Tom only chuckled. "Next one's a Lineage Account. But as to who—well, I won't spoil it. A good author never leaves his readers without suspense, right?"
But not everyone was smiling.
Even after a year of being "tamed" under Tom's shadow, some Slytherins stared at him with narrowed eyes, suspicion etched across their faces.
We accepted you because of your strength, they thought, because the Sorting Hat chose you.
But tearing away the House's carefully crafted facade? Exposing their family secrets for the world to see? That was betrayal.
For what were they, if not their names? Their heritage? The Sacred Twenty-Eight was their shield. Their weapon. Without it, how would they sneer at the rest of the school? Without it, what gave them the right to stand tall?
And the weakest families—the ones who clung to the name "pure-blood" like a lifeline—realized something chilling.
When Tom's list was complete… some of them wouldn't even make the cut.
Tom felt the malice pressing against him. He ignored it.
A duel over insults, he would never shy from. But this? This was scholarship. To answer anger with hexes would only undermine his work, make it look like bluster instead of truth.
No—the only solution was pressure from above. The great Houses. If the strongest and most respected endorsed his classification, then the weak could howl all they liked. They would be drowned out by the tide.
Tom finished the last bite of toast, rose under the weight of dozens of watching eyes, and strolled out of the Hall with Daphne at his side.
"Tom," Daphne murmured curiously, "where did you rank the Greengrass family?"
Tom smirked. "Not telling you."
"Ugh! You're impossible." She pouted, nudging him.
…
Beyond Hogwarts, chaos.
Across Britain, pure-blood households slammed newspapers onto polished tables, voices raised in outrage. Some spat curses at Tom's name, some ranted that this was an attack on wizarding heritage itself.
Petitions were sent. Threatening owls flew toward the offices of the Daily Prophet. Demands were made: never publish this boy's work again.
But in the Prophet's newsroom, those letters were tossed into the fire without even being opened. The editor-in-chief knew very well who had given the order.
The "big boss" had made it clear: publish the boy's work, or find another job.
And when a polished wand pressed cold against the back of your skull, you didn't argue. You obeyed.
…
Meanwhile, at Malfoy Manor…
Lucius Malfoy's silver eyes burned with fury as he read. Then cooled into thought.
Tom Riddle's redefinition was a dagger aimed at the foundation of their world. If his system took root, countless families once scorned as "mudblood-tainted" would be reborn as pure-bloods under the new standard.
It was blasphemy.
And yet… there was temptation.
The Rosiers were already basking in the glow of newfound glory. Their name, their history, spread across Europe by a single article. Recognition, prestige, respect—all delivered overnight.
Couldn't the same happen for the Malfoys?
Lucius steepled his fingers, a gleam in his eye. "Perhaps… if I were to have Draco offer young Riddle a gift or two… he might raise the Malfoy name higher. Perhaps omit a few… unpleasant details."
The thought lingered—until a colder one struck him.
Lucius froze, realization dawning.270
"Merlin's beard…" he muttered aloud. "I don't even know if the Malfoys have any good deeds to be written."
He sank back into his chair, pale.
For the first time, he wondered what truths Tom Riddle might dig up when it was his family under the quill.