The weekend arrived. While Harry and Ron visited Hagrid, Tom sat by the Black Lake, reading the Daily Prophet. The article about the Gringotts break-in, which had happened on Harry's birthday, confirmed his suspicions. Quirrell, and by extension Voldemort, was after the Philosopher's Stone.
The stone itself held no interest for Tom. Immortality without youth was a fool's prize. But Quirrell… Quirrell was a resource. A walking, talking, Dark-Lord-infested source of potential conflict, chaos, and, most importantly, opportunities to earn points. If he could manipulate Quirrell, he could create scenarios that would force Dumbledore's hand and funnel points towards Slytherin.
"What are you thinking about so intently?" Daphne asked, startling him. She had been sitting beside him, quietly watching him stare at the lake.
"Just wondering how Professor Quirrell ever got a teaching job," Tom replied honestly.
Daphne launched into a tirade about Quirrell's incompetence and Dumbledore's questionable hiring choices, a common Slytherin sentiment. She then began gossiping about the infamous curse on the Defense Against the Dark Arts position, listing the bizarre fates of previous professors—one a wanted criminal, another in St. Mungo's, a third a smuggler of magical creatures.
As she talked, her voice grew softer, and soon she had drifted off to sleep, her head resting on Tom's shoulder. Tom didn't wake her. He simply adjusted his position to make her more comfortable and retreated into his Learning Space.
When Daphne awoke at sunset, she was mortified to find a small damp patch on Tom's robes where she had drooled. Tom, pretending to have just woken up himself, stretched and complained about the wasted afternoon, completely ignoring her embarrassment. The small, considerate gesture did not go unnoticed. Daphne, already smitten, felt a surge of affection. She resolved that she had to do something for him. She knew he was an orphan and had seen him extort money from their roommates. He must be struggling financially.
That evening, she wrote a letter to her mother, spinning a tale of hardship at Hogwarts and asking for five hundred Galleons.
Meanwhile, Tom had a different kind of preparation in mind. His training with Andros was progressing, but the Learning Space lacked real-world feedback. He needed a place to practice magic with actual consequences, to feel the drain on his own magical core.
He knew just the place.
He made his way to the eighth floor, to a stretch of blank wall opposite a tapestry depicting Barnabas the Barmy being clubbed by trolls. He paced back and forth three times, concentrating.
I need a place to practice.
A gleaming, ornate door materialized in the stone. He had found the Room of Requirement.