After lunch, Harry and Ron made their way to Hagrid's hut, just as they'd planned.
The half-giant welcomed them enthusiastically—with scalding hot tea and rock-hard pies that looked like they could chip a fang off a dragon.
"Another Weasley?"
The moment Hagrid caught sight of Ron's signature flaming-red hair, he groaned with a weary sigh.
"I haven't had a good night's sleep in years, thanks to chasing your brothers out of the Forbidden Forest."
Ron chuckled awkwardly and lowered his head, nibbling at a rock pie—and immediately winced in pain as his face twisted in agony. He nearly broke a tooth on the thing.
Harry, wisely, set his pie down without taking a bite. He blew on the hot tea instead and took a careful sip before launching into a recount of his first week at Hogwarts.
To Harry, everything about the school still felt like paradise—warm beds, endless food, and a surprisingly generous amount of spending money. Well, technically, a legacy, not pocket change.
Best of all, he was learning magic. Real, powerful, incredible magic. He had friends. A place he belonged. It was perfect.
Everything—except Professor Snape.
"Riddle told me Snape was trying to show some kind of remorse to my mum," Harry muttered, scowling. "I think that's complete nonsense."
He didn't notice Hagrid's reaction at first—but the moment he mentioned the name Riddle, the huge man visibly flinched. Twice. His mountainous frame actually shuddered.
"Do you think Snape hates me, Hagrid?" Harry asked earnestly.
"Rubbish," Hagrid replied, waving a meaty hand as he fiddled with a pie crust. "Why would he hate you? And even if there was something to apologize for… it wouldn't be his place to do it."
If anyone owed an apology, it was James Potter, in Hagrid's eyes.
He hadn't forgotten how rowdy the Marauders had been back in the day. Even the junior Death Eaters from Slytherin had learned to avoid them.
Snape had been their favorite punching bag, day after day. If James hadn't matured after graduation, Hagrid doubted they would've ever become friends.
"Hmm?" Harry caught that odd comment. "Then… who should apologize?"
Hagrid grunted and waved his hand again, clearly done with the topic. "No one needs to apologize. Snape doesn't hate you, Harry. Don't overthink it. Here, have another nougat."
"…Okay."
Harry knew he was dodging the question, but pressed no further. Instead, he listened to Ron excitedly recount stories of his second eldest brother raising dragons in Romania.
Out of the corner of his eye, Harry noticed a copy of the Daily Prophet sitting on the table.
The headline read: "BREAK-IN AT GRINGOTTS – INVESTIGATION ONGOING."
Curious, he picked it up—and was startled by the timing. The article said the break-in occurred on his birthday… the same day he'd visited Diagon Alley with Hagrid.
But Dumbledore had already retrieved whatever the goblins were guarding. Hagrid hadn't been given any special task, either. So Harry dismissed the coincidence and put the paper aside.
But across the castle, someone else didn't.
Tom Riddle, reading the same edition of the Daily Prophet, had a different reaction entirely.
In his previous life, many people believed Dumbledore had orchestrated nearly every major event at Hogwarts—placing Harry at the center of carefully designed adventures to help him grow into a worthy opponent of Voldemort. That he'd engineered the prophecy's fulfillment.
But Tom had never agreed with that theory.
Yes, Dumbledore had eyes and ears everywhere in Hogwarts. Yes, he had absurd control over the school's affairs. But omniscient? No.
Tom didn't believe Dumbledore wanted things like the Chamber of Secrets being opened in second year. Or Sirius Black breaking out of Azkaban in third. Or Barty Crouch Jr. sneaking into the castle disguised as Mad-Eye Moody.
If Dumbledore had known, he would've stopped those disasters. Which meant one thing:
He didn't know everything.
Still, there was no denying that Harry had been nudged into danger during first year.
And those laughably weak traps guarding the Philosopher's Stone? Those weren't there to stop a true threat. They were practically a magical obstacle course for children.
Tom had no interest in the Philosopher's Stone itself. Immortality without youth was useless. What did interest him, however, was Professor Quirrell.
More specifically: what was inside Professor Quirrell.
If the Stone was a lure, Quirrell was the fish. Tom figured the man would've agreed to anything—groveling, serving, betraying—all for the promise of power.
And if he didn't agree… well, the other Tom Riddle, nestled at the back of Quirrell's skull, surely would.
Not that this Tom needed a servant. He wasn't some deranged Dark Lord.
No, he just wanted Quirrell to help him earn a few more house points. That was fair, wasn't it?
———
"Tom? What are you thinking about?" Daphne's voice pulled him from his thoughts. She tilted her head curiously, watching him stare out over the Black Lake in a daze.
Tom blinked, then smiled faintly. "I was just wondering how Professor Quirrell managed to land the job."
Daphne made a face of deep disdain.
"Right? He can't even speak properly! I can't understand half of what he says in class. I'd rather just read the textbook."
She huffed, clearly frustrated.
"Honestly, what was Dumbledore thinking? Maybe he really is going senile. I mean, he's what, over a hundred now?"
Tom noticed something then: it didn't matter how progressive or indifferent a Slytherin might seem—every single one of them seemed to carry a grudge against Dumbledore. Even someone like Daphne Greengrass, who wasn't a blood-purity zealot.
What had Dumbledore done to earn that kind of hatred?
Tom wanted to know, but doubted Daphne had the answers. So instead, he played along.
"I heard there's a curse on the Defense Against the Dark Arts position. No professor's ever lasted more than a year."
Daphne's eyes lit up.
"You've heard that too? I love that story! There've been so many professors that quit for the weirdest reasons."
And just like that, she was off, animated and gleeful as she rattled off all the juicy gossip she'd gathered.
The last professor? A witch who got conned out of her gold and her heart by a scoundrel. She sliced off something vital in a fit of rage, looted his vault, and vanished. Still on the run.
The one before that? An elderly wizard, old pals with Dumbledore. Collapsed from illness during Easter. Now permanently confined to St. Mungo's.
The one before that? An illegal magical creature dealer. The one before that? Injured by a failed experiment. And another one? Caught with a criminal record.
Her voice eventually slowed… and softened… until she dozed off mid-sentence, using Tom's arm as a pillow.
Tom blinked at the weight on his shoulder, helplessly amused.
He didn't wake her. Instead, he shifted slightly into a position that was comfortable for both of them.
Then, with a final glance at the slumbering girl beside him, Tom closed his eyes—
—and entered his study space.