Before school started, Tom had imagined his student life would look like this: Harry Potter causing chaos left and right, while he himself stayed quietly tucked away in his ivory tower, studying in peace, enjoying his own little world.
But once school began, reality painted a different picture: Harry Potter was still as restless as ever, but Tom, too, found himself caught up in endless schemes—gradually taking on the air of a puppet master, perhaps even showing signs of becoming the next Dark Lord.
Of course, it was all the world's fault. This world clearly had no intention of allowing him a stable environment to study in, so if the world refused to give him peace, he would simply have to change the world.
Why leave Dumbledore running about like a headless chicken? Wouldn't it be better to give the old man a little help?
Inviting a Saint to come over as a teacher was, in Tom's eyes, absolutely not about spying or planting an agent at Dumbledore's side. He only wanted someone trustworthy around—someone who could keep things from spiraling out of control, someone who would save him a bit of worry.
But obviously, Vinda Rosier didn't see it that way.
Yesterday, when Grindelwald finally understood Tom's plan, he had praised it to the skies. He was convinced that driving out Lockhart had been part of Tom's long-laid scheme all along. To maneuver so cleverly—why, such foresight was worthy of a Dark Lord's successor, more than capable of inheriting his mantle.
What a misunderstanding! Tom only wanted to study properly. The world had simply judged him too harshly.
With a sigh, Tom reached out and clasped Daphne's small hand.
Only the soft warmth of the little girl's hand could give him a moment of comfort.
Daphne was poking at a flower basket with her wand when her other hand was suddenly taken. She didn't really understand what was going on, but still turned to Tom with a radiant smile that lit up her face.
Tom smiled too.
When the day's classes ended, Tom—as usual—headed into the Forbidden Forest for extra lessons with the centaurs.
Dealing with Lockhart never interfered with his studies. These days he hadn't missed a single centaur herbology session, and already he had made progress, discovering formulas for two substitute herbs that could replace rare and precious ingredients.
He and Nicolas Flamel's approach was proving correct. Centaurs viewed magic differently from wizards, which allowed their knowledge to connect across boundaries. With Firenze and Magorian, both masters of herbology, the pace of improvement had only quickened.
What Tom didn't know, however, was that Firenze and Magorian had been suffering these past few days. Many of the ideas Tom threw at them were so complex they couldn't provide accurate answers on the spot. After every lesson, they were forced to work deep into the night, frantically researching to ensure they'd have proper responses the next day.
For the sake of centaur honor and dignity, they had to pretend calm indifference, which only made Tom ask increasingly sharp, bizarre questions…
The next morning, Tom received a message from Rosier.
The candidate had been chosen. Rosier sent over the dossier, assuring him that if Tom had no objections, the man could arrive in Britain by tomorrow.
Tom studied the file, his expression flickering with surprise.
The world was vast—yet sometimes, it felt very small.
After jotting down his approval, Tom closed his notebook, already a little eager to meet his new teacher.
The weekend passed quietly. On Monday morning, Professor McGonagall informed Dumbledore—who had just returned from being turned away by an old friend—that someone had come forward to apply for the position on their own.
Curious, Dumbledore hurried back to Hogwarts to meet this so-called "brave soul."
"Professor Dumbledore, sir, it's such a pleasure to meet you—finally, in the flesh! Ha-ha!"
The corner of Dumbledore's mouth twitched. And what, pray, did you expect me to be before—dead?
"This is…" Dumbledore deliberately paused, giving the applicant space to introduce himself.
"Oh dear, forgive me, I was so excited to see you that I forgot my manners!"
Beaming, the applicant shook Dumbledore's hand again. "My name is Rouse Wilkinson. I'm a wizard from America, a graduate of Ilvermorny—Horned Serpent house, to be exact. There was a small… incident a while back, so I've been residing in Germany."
That's right—Rosier's chosen Saint was none other than Rouse Wilkinson, the man Tom had once rescued from four Aurors, the same reckless soul who had once slept inside a cube.
Wilkinson's relatives in Germany belonged to the Saint lineage. Hardly a sensitive connection—after all, in the magical world, pure-blood families were all interwoven. The great wizarding war had mostly been relatives dueling relatives. As long as Wilkinson himself and his immediate family weren't entangled in scandal, there was no problem.
Besides, ever since Grindelwald had betrayed the Graves family, Rouse had developed a kind of worship for him. That was why he had recently joined the Saints, passing their contract tests to prove loyalty. No one needed to worry about his faithfulness.
Grinning broadly, Rouse said, "When I heard Hogwarts was looking for a professor, I thought, why not? I've admired you for ages, sir. And besides, I had nothing better to do, so I figured I'd give it a shot."
"Wilkinson…"
Hearing that thick West Coast accent, Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. "Any relation to Charity Wilkinson, one of the original Twelve Aurors?"
Rouse's face lit up. He gave a thumbs-up. "Now that's why you're the greatest wizard of the century! Your knowledge is astounding—spot on. Yes, indeed, I'm a thirty-third generation descendant of the Wilkinson family of New Salem."
So—he was from a noble line.
But Dumbledore did not lower his guard. Too many dubious characters had applied for this cursed position: those hiding from the Ministry under false names, poachers after the magical beasts in the Forbidden Forest, dark wizards eyeing the Restricted Section… nothing surprised him anymore.
Still, outwardly he offered a gentle smile. "Mr. Wilkinson, you mentioned… an incident in America. Would you mind telling me the details? Please don't misunderstand—it's only for the students' sake. A headmaster must know a little of his professors' histories."
"Of course, no problem!" Rouse answered cheerfully. "It's no secret—you could ask around America and hear it yourself.
"See, I had a bit of a feud with Percival Graves—the current head of the International Auror Office. So last year… I slept with his wife. He was furious and slapped a wanted notice on me. I had no choice but to run to Germany. Things have been quiet lately, but I still don't dare return to the States."
Dumbledore blinked.
"I came to apply for three reasons," Rouse went on, utterly unbothered. "First, my admiration for you, the greatest white wizard of our age. Second, I've always been curious about Hogwarts—you know, Ilvermorny's founders dreamed of studying here. And third… well, I could use a little help from you."