Dumbledore loved his students—loved seeing their smiles, their youthful liveliness.
Even when they broke school rules, he often considered it a necessary stage of growth. Young people always brimmed with restless energy, and mistakes, in his eyes, were forgivable.
What he was best at was spotting the spark within each child.
Tom's alchemy had stunned him. The alchemical automaton Tom built was beyond impressive—something even he, Dumbledore, would struggle to replicate after so many years of neglecting the field.
But what surprised him more was Tom's attitude.
A whole crowd of students from other Houses had gathered around Tom, eagerly asking questions. And Tom, instead of showing even a trace of impatience, answered them with patience and humor. The students often burst into laughter, their joy infectious—Dumbledore himself couldn't help but smile as he watched.
Yet this harmony didn't last.
An unwelcome guest arrived. Just as the third group of students were about to step forward to experience the automaton, Gilderoy Lockhart wandered over, attracted by the lively commotion.
"An alchemical golem? Riddle, is this your creation?"
He squinted at the construct with his signature gleam, before announcing grandly, "Not bad! It bears a hint of my own brilliance. Why, I too was once obsessed with alchemy, and created works far stronger than this little toy. Of course, none could match the power of my own hands, so eventually I lost interest in them altogether."
He puffed up his chest. "Would you like me to advise you on how to improve it?"
The pompous voice drowned out the laughter and cheers of the other students. Tom only felt a wave of irritation.
"Professor Lockhart, if you wish to guide me," Tom said with deliberate politeness, "then by all means—try."
With a flick of his wand, the automaton's eyes flared—blue turning crimson. From its back unfolded several massive cannons, humming with terrifying magical energy, each barrel swiveling until they locked on Lockhart.
The smile on Lockhart's face froze instantly.
"I—I think… that won't be necessary," he stammered, his voice dry. "I'd hate to… lose control of my immense power and accidentally destroy your hard work. But… if you'd like to know more, feel free to stop by my office. I could share… some proper techniques…"
The way students looked at him shifted immediately—admiration turned into thinly veiled contempt.
By this point, a week had passed. Every student in Hogwarts had taken at least one of Lockhart's classes. And all had seen the chasm between the "hero" in his books and the reality before them. His lessons were nothing more than meaningless digressions about his favorite flowers, or dramatic recitations from his own works.
Now, given a golden chance to prove himself, he had shrunk away yet again. Their suspicions grew darker—was Lockhart nothing more than a fraud?
Tom said nothing. He only glanced at Lockhart—a glance dripping with cold, mocking disdain. The kind of look that sent chills down Lockhart's spine.
In the heavy silence, the automaton transformed into a fighter jet and folded itself neatly back into its case.
"Someone decided to spoil the fun today," Tom announced calmly. "I'll let you know when the next test session will be."
With that, he turned and walked away with the girls, leaving Lockhart stranded in the field, his dignity in tatters.
Once Tom left, the rest of the crowd soon dispersed too, but not without muttered complaints. If not for Lockhart barging in, they could have had their turn to pilot the automaton.
Later that afternoon, after tea with Hermione, Daphne, Astoria, and also Hannah and Susan, Tom made his way to Professor McGonagall's office.
Knock, knock.
"Enter," came her firm, resonant voice.
Tom stepped inside. McGonagall looked up, her expression stiffening slightly when she saw who it was.
That morning, Gryffindor had suffered a humiliating defeat at the hands of Slytherin, and now, in the very same day, here was Riddle standing in her office.
Of course, McGonagall wasn't one to misplace her frustrations on students. It wasn't Tom's fault her team had been trounced—it was Gryffindor's own failings. But still… there was no denying this boy had been fanning the flames all along.
"Mr. Riddle," she said coolly, adjusting her glasses. "What brings you here?"
Tom gave a sly chuckle. "Professor McGonagall, I came about what happened this morning."
Her face darkened.
What did he mean by that? Was he here to rub salt in the wound? Gryffindor had already been humiliated—did he really need to gloat face-to-face?
"Professor, don't misunderstand," Tom quickly added, noticing the spark in her eyes. "I'm not here to boast. I just wanted to say—you don't need to feel so disheartened. The gap between Gryffindor and Slytherin isn't as great as it seems."
McGonagall gave the faintest sniff. "Mr. Riddle, I don't need your comfort. I know very well this was a matter of experience. But losing is losing—no excuses. If my students ever faced true danger, do you think a Dark wizard would show mercy because they are 'just students'?"
Her eyes flashed. "Tell me, Riddle—why is it that Slytherin students face combat so fearlessly, while mine collapse in disarray?"
"Ah…"
Tom sighed, long and heavy, and tried to summon the shadow of old wounds. He wanted to look pained, burdened with bitter memories. But…
The truth was, he'd never been the victim. From the start, he had been the one bullying others. Still, for the sake of the performance, he played the part.
"Professor, I think you know the traditions of Slytherin," he said softly. "You can probably imagine what sort of treatment I endured when I first entered the House."
McGonagall's sharp eyes softened ever so slightly. Everyone knew what Slytherin was like. It wasn't just Muggle-borns—even half-bloods were often sneered at.
"In those first weeks," Tom continued, his tone laced with a sorrow he didn't feel, "not a soul would speak to me. Only Daphne did. Later, Malfoy even—"
He sketched out the story of his supposed hardships.
By the end of it, McGonagall's face was flushed with indignation. She slammed her palm against her desk.
"Outrageous! Using family name as an excuse to bully a classmate—Mr. Riddle, why didn't you come to me earlier?"
"Professor…" Tom forced a bitter smile. "Even if I had, you could only protect me for so long. Could you shield me for all seven years? It's Slytherin's tradition."
McGonagall fell silent.
At last, her expression hardened with resolve. "I'll summon young Malfoy immediately. If he dares target you again for your bloodline, I'll show him what real targeting feels like."
Tom quickly raised his hands in mock alarm. "No need, Professor. I've… already handled it myself. That very night, in fact…"