The Mending Charm was a staple in any wizard's daily life—yet ironically, it was also one of the most problematic spells in magical society.
Its convenience had come at a cost: thanks to the fact that nearly every wizard could cast it, objects could last across three generations—still being used long after their original lifespan. No one knew how many times some heirlooms had already been magically repaired.
And what did that mean for the wizarding economy?
No one was buying new things anymore. And if no one was spending, how was anyone supposed to make money?
Today, Professor Flitwick was teaching only the most basic form of the Mending Charm, the kind that could repair simple, single-material items. If the object was complex in structure or made of multiple materials? No use. And magic-infused artifacts? Forget it.
Each young witch or wizard was handed a plain white porcelain plate. Professor Flitwick told them to break it themselves and return a fully repaired one before class ended.
A crisp symphony of shattering porcelain filled the classroom.
Harry gawked at Ron. "Why did you smash yours into powder?!"
His own plate had split into five or six clean pieces, but Ron's? It was rubble.
Ron shrugged without a care. "When else do you get a legitimate reason to break things? Gotta make it count, right?" He looked slightly regretful—maybe he should've jumped up and slammed it down harder.
Harry looked both amused and exasperated. "But the more you wreck it, the harder it is to fix! We have to return these to Professor Flitwick before class ends!"
Ron's grin faltered.
On the other side of the aisle, Malfoy was smirking.
Compared to dealing with someone like Riddle, these two buffoons were far more manageable rivals.
Malfoy had been lying low these days, steering clear of Tom Riddle while carefully reflecting on Lucius's teachings. It all boiled down to a few simple principles:
— Pick fights only with people you can actually afford to bully.
— Only reason with people who are reasonable.
— Follow the strongest.
— Align with those who offer benefits.
The last one? Still out of reach. But the rest? Totally doable.
Malfoy drawled with a smug tone, "Weasley, if you can't fix that plate, you'll have to pay for it. Got enough pocket money?"
Ron's ears turned red. Harry instantly stepped in to defend his best friend, and he and Malfoy were bickering in no time—loudly and evenly matched.
Perfect. A rival worthy of his current level.
Meanwhile, over by Daphne's side, Tom had already restored his plate to pristine condition—smooth, flawless.
No bonus points this time, though. Hermione had beaten him by a few seconds.
Tom, however, wasn't focused on points. He was pondering something deeper—what were the true limits of the Mending Charm?
Take wands, for instance—arguably the most common magical artifacts. The longer a wizard used one, the more magic it absorbed and internalized.
By popular understanding, a broken wand could never be properly repaired. A snapped wand was done for. Even if it was patched together with Spellotape or a Mending Charm, the magic core would be damaged. It might look fixed, but spells would behave unpredictably.
And yet... Harry had managed to repair his wand using the Elder Wand. So what was the truth? Had the Mending Charm defied its limits, or was the Elder Wand the true miracle here?
Tom tossed the question to Andros.
The answer? So ridiculous it was almost laughable.
"We didn't even have a Mending Charm in my time. You're asking the wrong guy."
Tom changed tactics. "What about the Elder Wand? Or the story of the Deathly Hallows? Were the Peverell brothers real?"
This time, Andros delivered something worthwhile.
Within their shared mental realm, Andros cast his mind back over the centuries.
"The Peverell brothers? Sure, I've heard plenty. They existed only a thousand years before my time—not that far back, relatively speaking. There were plenty of records and tales."
"All three were exceptionally powerful wizards. Whether they were truly Death's sons? No clue. But brothers, yes."
"The eldest was a warrior, skilled in battle. The second was an artificer, obsessed with magical objects. And the youngest? A prophet—he had the gift of foresight."
"But something happened. At a certain point, the three of them fell out. Bitterly. They vanished from history and reappeared only in whispers and bedtime stories."
"In my time, they were historical figures. Not myths."
"As for the Elder Wand... well, I did hear that the eldest had a particularly mighty elderwood wand. But let's be honest—wands grow stronger with their wielder. Just because it was powerful doesn't mean it was Death's gift. I even fought one of the youngest brother's descendants once. Guy was terrible."
Tom listened intently—more engaged than he ever was in class.
Really, the story of the Peverell brothers wasn't so different from that of Andros himself. In the Muggle world, Andros was remembered as a Hercules-like figure. In the wizarding world? Real enough—but half of what was known came from scattered clues or wild rumors.
Only the most absurd parts were true. Like his ten-meter-tall Patronus.
"Legends," Andros said, "are the least reliable things... and the ones rooted in the deepest truths."
After his nostalgic detour, Andros turned serious.
"A wizard is a god. Even in your time, this truth holds. When gods fall to earth, only a rare few—century kings—still rise above all others."
"And one day, you'll reach that level too. You'll become part of myth."
That night, Tom led Hermione to the Room of Requirement and introduced it to her for the first time. He gave her the same training plan he'd given Daphne.
Everyone had to start with the basics. It was like football or basketball—you didn't jump straight into complex tactics or high-skill moves. First, you had to build a feel for the game.
And here, their differences became clear.
Daphne had managed eighty consecutive Stunning Spells. Hermione? Sixty. That gap came from magical reserves—from bloodline.
Half-bloods produced powerful wizards all the time. Snape. Voldemort. Dumbledore.
But first-generation Muggle-borns?
Flip through any history book—you'd be hard-pressed to find a single example of one who rose to greatness in their first generation. Maybe a few forgotten stars here and there, but those were rare exceptions.
Still, in terms of spell learning speed, Hermione was far ahead. She hadn't even known the Stunning Spell until today, and within thirty minutes, Tom had already taught it to her.
And if there was one thing Hermione beat Daphne at completely—it was willpower.
All Tom had to do was set a plan, and Hermione would give it her all, no complaints. With Daphne? He had to coax, coddle, and tiptoe around her princess moods.
So on their second training session that Saturday, Tom had an idea.
He brought both girls to the Room of Requirement—to train together.
Predictably, their rivalry kicked in instantly. No need for Tom to push. The moment Hermione started casting, Daphne pushed herself to match her—and she ended up progressing faster than usual.
It wasn't until the next day that Daphne realized what had happened.
She'd been played.
Naturally, she responded the only way she knew how—pouting and throwing a small tantrum.
"Tom, I really don't want to study with Granger all the time. She's absolutely insane," Daphne finally voiced her true complaint. "Can't we split our classes?"
"I don't have enough time," Tom replied simply.
He shook his head. "At most, we can split during the weekday lessons. But weekends? That's a full afternoon—I have other things to take care of."
Daphne thought about it and realized he had a point. The potions Tom prepared for her alone took a huge chunk of his time.
So, she agreed.
From then on, Tuesday evenings would be Daphne's, Wednesday nights for Hermione, and weekends would be shared among the three.
With the clingy girl settled, Tom turned his attention back to his own plans.
At eleven o'clock sharp, he walked into the Hogwarts kitchen, just like he always did at that time. He ordered himself a light snack and ate slowly, patiently waiting for his targets to arrive.
Fifteen minutes later, right on schedule, the Weasley twins appeared.
This was their usual sneaky-hour kitchen run. They weren't the least bit surprised to see Tom there—after all, it had become pretty common to bump into him.
"I'm here specifically for you two," Tom said as he finished his snack, dabbing his mouth with a napkin before diving straight into the point.
Fred and George exchanged glances, then broke into mischievous grins.
"Looking for us? That sounds like something interesting is about to happen."
Tom waved them off casually. "Nothing that fun. I just need to know a secret passage that leads outside the castle."
Hogwarts locked its gates at night, and sneaking out through the main entrance was way too risky. Tom preferred a more... discreet route.
"What for?" the twins asked in unison, eyes gleaming with curiosity.
Tom didn't hide it. "I want to take a walk in the Forbidden Forest. I've always heard it's off-limits to students... but the more I hear, the more curious I get."
Curiosity was only part of the truth. What Tom really wanted was to stock up.
The magical ingredients sold in Diagon Alley weren't nearly as comprehensive as he had hoped. And with such a rich natural resource right next to the school, not using it felt like a sin.
He had considered befriending Hagrid, the half-giant groundskeeper. The guy seemed decent enough, and if they got along, asking for some ingredients might've worked.
But in the end, Tom gave up on that idea.
His background was too problematic. A Slytherin, named Tom Riddle? Yeah—forget making friends. If he even dared step near Hagrid's hut, the man might report him to Dumbledore immediately.
Fred and George, on the other hand, were thoroughly impressed. This guy—just a first-year—and he was already thinking about sneaking into the Forbidden Forest?
A kindred spirit.
"Passages? Nobody knows them better than me and George," Fred said proudly.
"Safe, reliable, and faster than a broomstick. We offer a premium escape experience," George added with a wink.
"But—"
They spoke together, grinning, "You have to answer a question first. Only then will we tell you where the passage is and how to open it."
Tom blinked. "A question? What question?"
The twins leaned in close, lowering their voices like it was a state secret.
"We've noticed... you're getting very popular in Slytherin lately."
"Extremely popular," they echoed.
"And you even got summoned to Dumbledore's office."
"So what's the story?"
Tom thought for a second, then replied, "Last weekend, Malfoy—probably because Harry got under his skin—tried to bully me. Thought he could raise his status in Slytherin that way.
But I dealt with him... let's just say he spent the night hanging on a wall."
"Since then, people seem a lot more... respectful."
He wasn't lying. Just selectively telling the truth.
"Whoa~"
The twins whistled together. To them, Tom was practically an honorary Gryffindor—doing the exact thing they'd always dreamed of.
They had the brains and the skills to pull it off, sure, but not the guts.
Hanging a Slytherin up on a wall like a painting? In broad daylight? With Snape still alive and breathing?
The reason the twins could get away with so much mischief was that they knew their limits. They always toed the line, never crossing it.
But Slytherin's inner politics? Snape wouldn't dare pick sides too openly. If two snakes wanted to eat each other, he'd let them.
For a brief second, the twins even wondered: What if we transferred to Slytherin?
Then immediately killed the thought. Even if Snape did accept them, McGonagall would shred them into bits and mail the pieces home to Mum.
"Riddle, you're something else," George said with genuine admiration. Fred nodded enthusiastically.
"Now can you give me the info?" Tom asked, unmoved by the praise—or teasing. He had no interest in banter. He just wanted to sneak into the forest, grab his stuff, and head back to bed.
He was still growing, and eight hours of sleep was non-negotiable.
"If you're going into the forest," Fred said, "your best bet is the hunchbacked witch statue in the west corridor of the main building. That passage will take you straight to the barn.
To activate it, twist her hand and point it toward her chest."
Tom nodded and mentally made note of every word. Just as he turned to leave, Fred grabbed his arm again.
"Don't be in such a rush, Riddle. The Forbidden Forest isn't just a bunch of trees—it's a labyrinth of magical insanity. One misstep and you'll regret it."
George chimed in, "Last time we wandered too deep, we accidentally stumbled into something... weird. Couldn't even see it. It kicked us ten times before we crawled out. If we'd stayed longer, we'd be hobbling back."
Tom sat back down, suddenly much more interested. He listened closely as the twins shared their stories and warnings.
The key takeaway? Know where the magical creatures were.
That was pure gold—many of these creatures were guardians of herbs and ingredients. Find them, and the good stuff wouldn't be far.
And some creatures... well, they were the ingredients.
Aside from Hagrid, no one probably knew the Forbidden Forest better than Fred and George.
After thirty minutes of storytelling, their enthusiasm began to wane. Tom thanked them sincerely and left the kitchen.
He cast a Disillusionment Charm on himself and headed quietly to the second floor. There, the crooked statue of the hunchbacked witch stood in shadow. He turned her arm toward her chest, just like the twins had said.
A low grinding sound echoed as the statue's base began to rotate, revealing a deep tunnel beneath the floor. With the flickering candlelight along the wall, Tom began his descent.
"Lumos Maxima."
His wand glowed warmly, casting a gentle white light that guided his steps through the narrow passage.
After ten minutes of walking, he reached a long staircase. At the end was an exit.
He stepped out—straight into the barn.
Just at the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Not far from Hagrid's hut, though the lights were out by now. The half-giant was already asleep.
Tom dabbed on a bit of colorless, odorless mosquito repellent and then—with a determined breath—disappeared into the forest's shadows.