Chapter 110
Forty-Five Years Ago
Inside the halls of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, students gathered around the long tables of their respective Houses.
At the Gryffindor table sat a fifteen-year-old Minerva McGonagall, while at the Ravenclaw table was a much younger Filius Flitwick, who at this age did not yet sport the long mustache he would one day become known for.
And at the Slytherin table sat the boy many at Hogwarts referred to as the prodigy—admired by all for his brilliance, charm, and extraordinary cunning: Tom Riddle. Surrounded by his usual companions, who were already regarded as his followers, he laughed and smiled as though the entire school were his stage.
Headmaster Armando Dippet rose from his chair at the staff table, raising his hands for silence. Immediately, the Great Hall fell still—even the professors turned their attention to their headmaster's words.
Standing just behind Dippet was Professor Albus Dumbledore, then the Deputy Headmaster and teacher of Defence Against the Dark Arts. His gaze, sharp and unreadable, lingered on young Tom Riddle.
"Welcome to the Feast of a New School Year!" Dippet's voice rang across the hall. "Now that the Sorting Ceremony has concluded, I ask Professor Dumbledore to announce the two students who excelled above all others last year. They will be rewarded for their efforts, and I hope this will inspire you all to strive with equal diligence—to graduate from Hogwarts as powerful and capable witches and wizards!"
Dumbledore stepped forward, carrying a large sheet of parchment. He was not yet the white-haired figure students of later generations would come to know; at fifty-eight, the signs of age were only just beginning to touch him, and he still carried himself with energy and vitality.
At the Slytherin table, anticipation buzzed. Everyone expected Tom Riddle to take the first place, and Riddle himself sat poised, his eyes fixed on Dumbledore, determined that this year he would be rewarded with what he desired most.
The prize had been announced the previous year: the student who ranked first overall, both in theory and practical examinations, would be granted temporary access to the Restricted Section of the library. For Tom Riddle, obsessed with knowledge of ancient and forbidden magic, this was the ultimate reward.
Dumbledore glanced once more at Riddle before reading aloud. "In first place… Filius Flitwick!"
Cheers erupted from the Ravenclaw table, applause echoing so loudly it seemed to shake the enchanted ceiling. Flitwick's classmates shouted his name in triumph.
At the Slytherin table, however, a stunned silence fell. Never before had Riddle been denied the top honor, and for the first time, his carefully composed mask cracked, rage and hatred flickered across his face.
Flitwick descended from his seat and bowed respectfully to Dumbledore before turning to the headmaster.
Dippet reached inside his robes and drew out a small key, pressing it solemnly into Flitwick's hand. He patted the boy on the head and said warmly, "Well done, my boy. Continue as you have begun, and you will go far. Do we have an agreement?"
"Yes, Headmaster," Flitwick replied earnestly. "I will do my very best to live up to your faith in me."
Dumbledore then continued, "In second place, Tom Marvolo Riddle. Please step forward for your reward."
There was some applause from Slytherin, but it was scattered and half-hearted compared to the uproar that had greeted Flitwick.
Riddle strode forward, his expression composed but his eyes burning with suppressed fury. Headmaster Dippet handed him a pale-white book.
"This book will be of great use to you," said Dippet. "It concerns the four founders of this school, their enchantments, and the reasons their magic grew so much stronger than their peers. I believe you will find it invaluable."
Riddle accepted the book, though his features betrayed the envy and bitterness he felt at having been denied the prize he coveted.
As he passed Flitwick, he placed a hand on the smaller boy's shoulder and smiled faintly. "Well done, my friend. You bested me this time. But be careful, one day I may surpass you. Don't let it make you arrogant." With that, he returned to his place at the Slytherin table, still smiling faintly.
One of his companions noticed the smile and asked, puzzled, "Why are you smiling? You didn't win first place."
Riddle lied smoothly, saying that he was simply pleased to have received such a valuable book from the headmaster. But in truth, the book was meaningless to him. His smile had another cause, one he kept carefully hidden.
The feast continued, the students eating until they were satisfied before departing for their dormitories.
But throughout the celebration, Riddle's eyes kept drifting toward the Ravenclaw table, fixed on Filius Flitwick.
Later, back in the Slytherin common room, Riddle went to a concealed corner where he stored books and ingredients. From his pocket he drew a single strand of Flitwick's hair, placing it carefully into a vial. Adding oil and several strange substances, he heated the mixture until it boiled furiously, then drank it down in one swift motion.
"Well," he muttered, "half the plan is complete."
His intent was clear: he would assume Flitwick's form, infiltrate the Restricted Section, and take by force what he had been denied.
"That fool Armando Dippet," Riddle hissed. "He never intended to let me be first, he feared what I might learn. But he underestimated me. I will enter that place. Only one step remains: obtaining the key."
With that, he left the Slytherin dormitory and hurried back toward the Great Hall, waiting patiently. Minutes later, the Polyjuice Potion took hold, and he transformed into the likeness of Filius Flitwick.
At first his steps were awkward; unused to Flitwick's diminutive stature, he stumbled and swayed. But soon he adjusted, making his way quickly toward the entrance to the Ravenclaw common room.
Then he froze.
"Damn it," he whispered. "I don't know the Ravenclaw password."
Before he could panic, the guardian of the common room portrait appeared. Seeing Flitwick standing there, the guardian said nothing, merely swung open, granting him entry without asking for a password.
Riddle blinked in surprise. "If the guardian opens the door without a password, what is the point of having one at all?"
The truth was simple: the portrait trusted Flitwick implicitly. The boy was diligent, disciplined, and brilliant. The thought that this might not be Flitwick never once occurred to the guardian.
And so, smiling with satisfaction, Tom Riddle stepped inside. His plan was now within reach.