The weather tonight was rather pleasant. The moon was bright, and stars scattered the sky. No clouds obscured the moonlight, which dimly lit the narrow, shadowy path ahead.
A small cluster of fireflies drifted past Tom. He didn't disturb them. These weren't ordinary fireflies—they were fire wisps. When they die, they release all the heat they've stored in one violent burst, producing terrifyingly high temperatures.
The Forbidden Forest was just as dangerous as Fred and George had claimed. It wasn't just magical creatures and enchanted plants that lurked here—there were intelligent species, like the centaur clans, who called these woods home.
Of course, Hogwarts wouldn't just allow such a dangerous place to exist unchecked right next to school grounds. The forest was actually divided into the Inner Zone and the Outer Wilds.
The Inner Zone was officially part of the Hogwarts grounds. Most of the truly dangerous beasts had been driven out—either chased away or naturally relocated to the outskirts. The Outer Wilds were what students referred to when they said "deep in the Forbidden Forest"—the domain of Acromantulas, Graphorns, Thestrals, and more. This section was connected to the untamed wilderness beyond Hogwarts.
In short, Fred and George Weasley were absolutely fearless. Or lucky. Probably both.
They'd wandered into the deep Forbidden Forest with zero protection or precautions—and somehow survived all the way to graduation. If they had wandered into the Acromantula colony instead of the Thestrals' territory, the Weasley family would've had to start funeral preparations.
But Tom was different. He wasn't reckless. He was... prudent.
Upon entering the forest, he activated his learning space, allowing Andros to observe everything happening outside.
"Well now, that's an ugly little thing."
Andros had spotted a Mottlerat and couldn't help but comment.
The Mottlerat looked similar to a regular rat but was three to four times larger. On its back were fleshy, sea-anemone-like growths that pulsed faintly. Definitely unpleasant to look at.
They were native to Britain—you wouldn't find these in Greece, so this was Andros' first time seeing one.
Compared to Greek magical beasts like the Sphinx, Pegasus, and Golden Bulls... British creatures looked borderline ridiculous.
"So it's ugly. Big deal. It's not like I'm marrying it."
"It's useful, that's all that matters."
Tom wasn't about to let this squishy rodent off the hook. A swift Impediment Jinx tripped it mid-scurry, followed by a Petrificus Totalus, freezing the poor creature in place.
The Mottlerat's antennae secreted a rare fluid with excellent medicinal properties. It could treat brain damage and was a key ingredient in potions related to mental strength. Snape's notes included two or three recipes that used it.
Tom harvested every last drop from the sea-anemone-like antennae, filling up two small glass vials he had prepared earlier. Only then did he release the dazed creature.
The rat turned and gave the boy a deeply resentful look before waddling away sluggishly.
Not that it didn't want to run. But after being squeezed dry, anyone would feel that weak.
Tom, however, was in great spirits. His Forbidden Forest trip had barely begun, and he'd already scored a valuable ingredient. A perfect start.
Each of those vials would go for at least ten Galleons in any potion shop. Hogwarts truly sat on a treasure trove.
And if anyone could be called the richest person on campus, it was probably Hagrid. He roamed the Forbidden Forest like it was his backyard and had good relations with several dangerous species.
It was just a pity that Hagrid wasn't the sharpest wand in the shed. If he ever decided to get serious—organizing and managing the magical creatures here—then even Voldemort would have a tough time dealing with him. Not necessarily defeated, but certainly annoyed.
———
With the Mottlerat released, Tom pressed forward.
According to Fred, after entering the forest, he should keep heading west.
Somewhere in the woods near a small river to the west, there lived a flock of Banshee Birds.
These avian creatures, originally from the Black Forest, came in various colors—though most were a soft pink—and looked adorably round and puffy.
But their charm was deceiving. Their cries had effects similar to the Imperius Curse, capable of clouding minds and pushing people to act in bizarre, irrational ways.
Tom needed to collect their feathers. Additionally, where Banshee Birds nested, there was a high chance of finding Sneezewort, an herb used to brew alertness potions.
After walking for about fifteen minutes, he found the small river the twins had mentioned. Or more accurately—a creek. He followed the flow for a bit and soon spotted his targets.
A flock of Banshee Birds had made their home in a large Patron Tree.
These magical trees were a favorite among flying magical beasts. Fights over nesting rights were common.
Sharing the tree were a few Bowtruckles—tiny stick-like creatures that helped maintain tree health. They coexisted peacefully with the birds, as they weren't competing for resources.
Tom strolled in boldly, instantly alerting both groups.
The Bowtruckles peeked out from holes in the bark, their long twiggy necks craning to get a look. They were friendly toward humans—or rather, toward most creatures—so they made no fuss.
The Banshee Birds, however, were not so forgiving. As soon as they spotted Tom, seven or eight of the plump little things puffed up and took flight, glaring at him with fierce little eyes.
Tom nodded politely at the Bowtruckles. So cute, he thought. If he were in Hufflepuff, he'd absolutely adopt two and keep them as pets. Add a Niffler to the mix and voilà—the perfect Hufflepuff starter kit.
Wait—no, something was missing.
Ah, right. A magical suitcase. A proper one.
Cheep! Cheep!
The Banshee Birds' shrill cries snapped Tom out of his thoughts.
Thankfully, they weren't using their mind-warping screeches yet—just regular bird calls. He was unaffected.
Though he didn't understand bird-speak, the message was clear: Get lost.
Polite birds.
But if they were going to play fair... well, Tom didn't plan to.
"Lumos Maxima!"
A blast of blinding white light erupted in the night like a miniature sun. The Banshee Birds froze midair, disoriented by the sudden flare. Two of the dumber ones forgot to flap and dropped like stones.
On the ground, enchanted ropes—woven from tough grass—whipped through the air and lashed around the birds' plump little feet. The rest weren't spared either. Tom took aim and tagged them all.
Spells weren't just for single targets. Even Disarming Charms could hit multiple enemies if used right. The Stunning Spell, too, could affect groups—it just required more magical power and precision. Most wizards preferred concentrating their magic into tight beams, but with Tom's finesse, spreading it out worked just fine.
"Silencio."
He raised a finger to his lips.
The birds opened their beaks to unleash their signature sonic attack—but no sound came out.
And that, right there, was why Banshee Birds were only ranked as XXX on the danger scale.
Level XXX meant they could be handled by a moderately trained witch or wizard.
One Silencing Charm and a couple of basic spells were all it took to subdue them.
"No need to panic. I'm just here to borrow a few feathers. You'll grow them back, right? So... no returns."
Tom crouched beside one of the fluffy prisoners and gave its squishy body a gentle rub.
"I'll be quick. Just a few snips."
"One... and done."
Three of the brightest, most radiant feathers were plucked from the top of the first Fwooper's head—then came the next.
Soon, feathers from six Fwoopers had been collected, their vivid colors gleaming like jewels. Two younger ones, not yet fully developed, were spared—for now.
These feathers weren't just valuable ingredients for potions or alchemical concoctions; they were also the most sought-after materials for high-end quills.
Tom carefully tucked the feathers away. But he wasn't done. As the Bowtruckle watched with wide, nervous eyes, Tom began to circle the area. Then, suddenly—his eyes lit up.
"Found it!"
Behind a large moss-covered stone bloomed several stalks of Sneezewort, delicate white flowers trembling in the moonlight.
Tom slipped on a pair of gloves, then transfigured a pebble into a sharp pair of shears with a flick of his wand. Carefully, he snipped the plants, one stem at a time.
Sneezewort was dangerous stuff. Mishandle it, get even a smear of its pollen on your hands, and inhale it? You'd be sneezing non-stop the entire day. Even he had to be cautious.
With that done, Tom finally released the Fwoopers and stepped away from the tree-guardians' territory.
The Fwoopers didn't come after him. They had understood by now—this human wasn't out to kill them, just to collect. And since they were no longer under threat, there was no need for retaliation.
That's just how nature worked. In the animal kingdom, survival trumped all.
By the time Tom reluctantly returned to the dormitory, it was 3 a.m.
On the way back, he made two more stops—harvesting Moonlight Moss and collecting a clutch of Ashwinder eggs.
Honestly, the travel time was the worst part. He should've brought a broomstick. Or better yet... invent a flight spell of his own.
But that was a dream for another time. He needed more study, more understanding, more breakthroughs. Still...
"Andros, do you know how to perform a flight spell?" Tom asked hopefully before turning in for the night.
Andros shook his head.
"I once tried to create one. Spent weeks on it. But I've never been good with original spellwork. Ended up only developing a few offensive curses. Eventually gave up on the idea of flying altogether."
"I see..." Tom murmured, slightly disappointed, but understanding.
After all, Voldemort's flight spell had been hailed as an unprecedented magical feat for a reason.
Maybe someone else in history had attempted it, maybe even succeeded—but none had made it known, or left it behind.
Call Voldemort cruel. Call him mad. Say he lacked empathy, lacked vision.
But weak?
Never.
…
The days that followed fell into a steady rhythm.
As it turned out, being an "Invisible Prefect" came with no real duties. It was more about status than responsibility—a quiet signal that Tom now moved in a different circle.
He simply wanted peace. A sanctuary where people like Malfoy didn't come to bother him. And in that, he had succeeded.
First-years were now behaving. They played among themselves, steered clear of him, and left him in peace.
As the new students settled into Hogwarts life, the professors began turning up the pressure. Lessons grew tougher. Assignments multiplied.
The cheerful faces from the first week were gone—replaced by worn expressions, arms full of heavy textbooks and rolls of parchment.
The common rooms turned into hubs of collective suffering, students hunched over desks groaning about essays and potion ingredients.
But the smiles hadn't vanished. They had simply… migrated—to the upper years, who now watched the first-years with smug satisfaction.
"Oh, not smiling anymore?"
You really thought Hogwarts was all fun and games, huh? Thought you could coast through?
In the Gryffindor common room, Harry and Ron were once again pleading with Hermione to "lend" them her Potions homework.
To their surprise, she was still writing it.
"Wait, what?" Harry blinked. "Didn't you finish the Potions essay yesterday?"
Hermione didn't even look up. Her quill flew across the parchment.
"That was the History of Magic essay. You're misremembering."
Ron and Harry exchanged glances.
Really?
Why did it feel like Hermione was always doing homework? She worked harder than both of them, yet somehow her assignments were never done?
They didn't know, of course, that Hermione was secretly doing Tom's homework, too.
What had started as an offhand suggestion had turned into a personal revelation for her.
Writing something twice meant reviewing it twice. Different arguments, new insights—it was like doubling her revision time.
She felt stronger, sharper. Her knowledge had never felt this firm.
Even if Tom didn't ask her anymore, Hermione would probably continue doing everything twice. That's just how terrifying she was.
…
Harry and Ron tried their luck again, only to be ruthlessly denied.
"If you have time to interrupt me," Hermione snapped without looking up, "you have time to write your own paragraph, Weasley."
Harry had to physically drag an indignant Ron away.
Even as they left the room, Ron kept muttering bitterly, "What's her problem? All she does these days is write essays and hang out with that Slytherin, Tom. She doesn't even treat us like housemates anymore."
"Tom's a good guy," Harry said quietly.
He hated Slytherins too—but only the ones like Malfoy, who wore their blood status like a badge of honor.
Tom had helped him out—given him that brilliant idea to get back at Malfoy, and even saved one of his potions from blowing up in class.
To Harry, that was a debt of honor.
"I know he's different," Ron grumbled. "But he's still a Slytherin. Hermione could at least be a little nicer to us."
Harry didn't respond. He just shook his head.
…
October passed quickly. The last week arrived with a sudden, bitter chill in the air.
Many young witches and wizards who hadn't swapped into warmer robes came down with colds, and the Hospital Wing now had queues snaking out the door daily.
But the Quidditch players? They still had to train—rain, wind, or frost.
The first match of the season was set for the weekend after Halloween: Gryffindor vs. Slytherin.
The rivalry alone was enough to make the match feel like a war.
In the days leading up to it, the pitch was constantly booked, sealed off for private practices.
No one else was allowed in.
Gryffindor's captain, Oliver Wood, had hoped to keep Harry as a secret weapon.
He hadn't counted on Ron.
In yet another heated argument with Malfoy, Ron had blurted it out—Harry Potter had joined the Gryffindor team. Not just that, he was their Seeker. The youngest Seeker in over a century.
Word spread like wildfire.
Wood could only sigh.
"Well, at least no one knows how well Harry can actually fly," he reasoned. "Maybe they'll underestimate him."
Tom, meanwhile, paid Quidditch no mind. That was the Chosen One's sport.
Sure, winning the Quidditch Cup earned your house a mountain of points. But honestly?
It didn't matter how far ahead you were. In the end, something always seemed to happen that let Gryffindor pull off a heroic, last-minute comeback.
He needed to be ready for that kind of narrative meddling.
Plus, there was another issue—his magic was growing too fast, too wild. His energy levels were skyrocketing.
Andros was pestering him daily to finish collecting the last few materials and brew the physical enhancement potion.
"Almost there, I know what I need," Tom said in the learning space, half-distracted.
"It's been two months," Andros scowled. "We made the plan in the first week."
"I'll get everything today. Promise."
Tom sounded sure.
After all, tomorrow was Halloween. There would be a feast tonight.
He could stay hidden—but someone else wouldn't.
Professor Quirrell… are you ready to run cover for me?