— — — — — —
It was midnight in the Slytherin common room. A handful of students lingered by the firelight, chatting in low voices. Tom was waiting, and finally Daphne slipped in.
"So? Your roommates all… 'asleep'?" Tom asked with a smirk.
Daphne's eyes curved into crescents. "Hehe, they're out cold. Slept like babies. Though, uh, first time using that spell… maybe I overdid it. Not sure when they'll wake up tomorrow."
"No worries. I'll give them a Reviving Charm in the morning. Trust me, I've got experience with this."
A couple students by the fire noticed the two of them. One girl teased, "Tom, Daphne, sneaking out for a moonlit stroll? Pretty romantic."
Since the Lockhart fiasco, Slytherins' attitude toward Tom had shifted. Fear was still there, sure, but now it was mixed with respect—even a hint of friendliness. After all, under his lead they'd defied Dumbledore himself. For the first time in decades, Slytherins (and their parents) felt proud.
Unity wasn't Gryffindor's monopoly. Shared struggles—and victories—knit people together. Even the other Riddle had commanded a fiercely loyal House once. As long as his authority held, few were inclined to challenge him.
"Exactly," Tom answered easily. "It's Friday night. Might as well stretch our legs."
Daphne planted her hands on her hips. "If you're jealous, Cynthia, go wake up Shafiq and take him out."
Cynthia laughed. "Forget it. That boy's dead to the world. Waking him up is harder than learning Transfiguration."
Everyone chuckled. Daphne jabbed a finger at her. "Fine then, sit here and sulk. Tom and I are going to have fun."
With that, she grabbed Tom's arm and bounced toward the door like an overeager rabbit.
Their first stop was the kitchens. Pala had already prepared supper: shrimp on toast and Provençal fish soup for Daphne; roast beef, fried sausages, honey-glazed chicken wings, and double-cheese macaroni for Tom.
It was always at night that Tom burned through the most energy. Lessons with Grindelwald drained him more than a week's worth of Hogwarts classes. The old man believed in force-feeding knowledge: if the duck could swallow, he'd keep shoving it in. And Tom happened to be one very resilient duck.
Daphne had envied his bottomless appetite more than once. He could gorge every night and never gain a pound, while she only indulged for a week before the mirror betrayed her with a rounder face. In a panic, she'd begged Tom for a Strengthening Potion—an incredibly rare brew meant to purify life essence. She'd used it as diet medicine.
When they'd eaten their fill, they slipped upstairs under Disillusionment Charms, heading for the Room of Requirement, and stepped into Tom's hidden world.
The change in Daphne was instant. Her eyes sparkled; she looked giddy. Here it was just the two of them, their own private world. It reminded her of the summer, when Tom had stayed at her family's home.
Of course, her excitement didn't last. Before long she was curled against him, fast asleep mid-story, clinging like he was her personal pillow. Tom had learned that Daphne's sleep was like some epic quest: she'd start in his arms and by morning she might be curled into a ball at the far end of the bed.
Luckily, the Greengrasses were rich enough to have beds nearly three meters wide, or she'd have rolled right off.
Tom shifted into a more comfortable position and let his consciousness slip into the study space.
First, he dropped by Ariana's little house to tell her the good news: tomorrow they'd be visiting Aberforth.
The girl's face lit up. She was far happier about seeing her gruff brother than she'd ever been about meeting Dumbledore. Her approval rating ticked up to forty-seven points—just shy of unlocking a talent.
Of course, it wasn't only Aberforth she was happy about. Ariana had suffered too much, and suffering makes people sensitive. She'd thought Tom's promise of a Hogsmeade trip was just empty comfort. Now that he'd followed through, she felt his sincerity—and her trust deepened.
After giving her some fresh copies of the Daily Prophet and other magazines for company, Tom moved on to the training grounds.
...
"Andros?"
He blinked. It was Andros standing there, not Grindelwald. Usually at this hour, it was the old wizard who handled his lessons.
"Give him a night off," Andros said with a booming laugh. "You've been cramming foreign magic nonstop. Time to change gears—learn something different."
Tom grinned. "Fine by me. Honestly, I've been wanting a break. It's weird, trying to empty my mind while stuffing it full of new spells at the same time."
"So what's today's subject?"
Andros's smile turned secretive. "Tom, do you know about Ancient Magic?"
Tom snorted. "Come on. Every spell you teach me is ancient—sometimes downright prehistoric."
Andros shook his head. "That's not what I mean. You've misunderstood. When Grindelwald and I compared notes, I realized your era's 'ancient magic' was what we once called Astral Magic."
"Astral… magic?" Tom's curiosity sparked instantly. "Never heard of it. Tell me."
"This touches on the origins of magic itself," Andros admitted, rubbing his head. Explaining theory wasn't his strong suit; he was a warrior, not a scholar like Grindelwald.
"There are many theories about where magic comes from. In my time, the most popular belief was that magic flows from the cosmos. Different Celestial Objects influence our world, creating the foundation for us to wield spells.
"And Astral Magic—well, that's the raw, natural form of it. Magic not invented by humans, but transmitted here from the stars themselves."
He pointed at Tom. "In fact, you already command one piece of Astral Magic."
Tom's eyes narrowed. "The Patronus?"
"Exactly." Andros nodded, relieved to be talking to someone quick on the uptake. "The Patronus Charm was born when wizards stumbled into places steeped in overwhelming positive energy. They shaped those forces into a spell, refined it generation after generation. Even though I've tinkered with it, its core remains unchanged."
Tom leaned back, thoughtful. "A hundred years ago, the lands around Hogwarts still held traces of that ancient aura. Back then you could harness those sites to work powerful old magic. But now, those traces have faded completely. They're gone."
"You don't need to worry about that," Andros said with a booming laugh. "Tom, haven't you realized? You and I—we are walking wells of that ancient power."
The words hit Tom like a revelation.
So when the Sorting Hat once claimed that his magic ran deeper than Salazar Slytherin's, it hadn't just been about his bloodline. There was more to it than that.
Andros rubbed his chin, studying him. "My guess? When we became your teachers, you inherited pieces of our talents. My specialty has always been raw magic."
Tom didn't respond, but the thought stirred something sharp and hungry inside him. Of course Andros had noticed. Grindelwald too. They weren't fools. They simply hadn't said it aloud.
Lately though, Andros had felt himself slipping into irrelevance. So once he confirmed that Tom had the foundation to handle it, he'd jumped at the chance to snatch a lesson slot from Grindelwald.
"You'll never have to worry about special sites or rituals," Andros continued. "Once you learn this, you'll wield it anywhere—though don't think you can just toss it around like a Patronus. Ancient magic is wild, dangerous. Hard to rein in."
He conjured an object into the space between them—a heavy wooden door. Tom recognized it instantly as the very slab he'd once used like a turtle shell, much to Snape's everlasting irritation.
"Most ancient spells don't have names," Andros said. "But you can call this one… the Smashing Curse."
He raised his wand, something he rarely bothered with, and flicked it through the air. A streak of violet light burst forth, so fast Tom's eyes barely caught it. It struck the door—quietly, almost anticlimactically. Then—
Boom.
The unbreakable door, the one Tom had tested again and again with his strongest curses, the one his magic could only bore five centimeters into at best—exploded. Shards turned to dust midair, then dissolved further into specks of starlight that winked out of existence.
Tom stared, stunned.
He knew that door. He knew how impossible it was to destroy. Yet Andros had erased it in an instant.
For the first time, Tom truly felt the yawning gulf between himself and a wizard who had once ruled an age.
"Teach me," Tom blurted, yanking his wand out so fast it nearly slipped from his fingers. "I want to learn that!"
Andros's grin widened. At last, a flash of pride—like a real teacher. Still, he kept his tone steady. "Patience. Ancient magic isn't like what you've studied before. It demands emotion, precision—and most importantly, the crafting of runic circles to bind the raw forces of the world into your spell. That's what multiplies the power."
He raised his wand again. "I'll show you the basics of runes first."
The lure of that magic was too strong. Tom drove himself all night in the study space, burning through energy, slipping twice into his Turbo state before finally stopping.
By the time he returned to his body, Daphne was just waking.
They ate breakfast together in the Great Hall. Daphne whisked Astoria off to see Hermione, while Tom pocketed a slip from Dumbledore and made his way to Professor McGonagall.
McGonagall read the note for a long time, brow furrowed.
If not for Dumbledore's unmistakable magical signature and signature scrawled at the bottom, she'd have accused Tom of forging it. The parchment didn't explain a thing—just that Tom Riddle had permission to visit Hogsmeade that Saturday. Nothing else.
"Professor," Tom explained smoothly, "it's Newt Scamander. He asked me to deliver a message to the Hog's Head's owner."
Understanding flickered in her eyes. She gave a short nod, then personally escorted him to the castle gates.
Just before parting, she said firmly, "Mr. Riddle, finish your errand quickly. Stay within the village."
"I understand, Professor."
Tom dipped his head politely, then strode down the road to Hogsmeade.
The village was quiet, not one of the usual student weekends. He walked half an hour, empty streets stretching before him, until the main road forked. To the left stood Madam Puddifoot's tea shop. To the right, the post office.
Beside the post office lay a narrow lane, and at its entrance hunched a shabby little tavern. A rusted sign creaked above the door, painted with the severed head of a wild boar.
The Hog's Head Inn
Tom pushed the door open, activating his study space as he entered.
The place was deserted. Dusty tables, stale air. At the bar sat a tiny rust-stained bell. Tom reached out and gave it two light taps. The shrill ring pierced the silence.
Five minutes dragged by. Then from upstairs came a furious bellow:
"Can't you read? Bar's not open till evening! Get out!"
.
.
.