"You—you… are you Michael or Riddle?!"
Rouse scrambled backward on hands and feet, staring at Tom as though his heart might leap right out of his chest.
"When I saved you, I was Michael," Tom said smoothly. "But my true identity… is Tom Riddle."
He shifted back into his original appearance. "At the time, I was short on money, so I used that identity to squeeze a bit of pocket change from old Borgin. The Galleons you sponsored me with were… rather helpful."
Hearing secrets that only the three of them—Tom, Rouse, and Borgin the broker—could possibly know, Rouse finally realized the truth: Michael was Tom.
"Then… how old are you really?" Rouse stammered, still reeling, his mind caught in a loop. Was Tom turning into Michael, or Michael into Tom? He couldn't tell anymore.
"Hogwarts' defenses aren't as weak as you think," Tom replied coolly. "It's impossible for someone far beyond school age to slip in as a student."
He strode over to the desk, settled comfortably into the chair, and gave a little wave. Instantly, the single sofa in the corner glided forward, scooping Rouse up and setting him across from Tom.
"I am exactly twelve years old. Oh, when we first met, I was eleven. But I've been blessed with a stronger gift than most, and a very powerful teacher. Naturally, I progress faster. Hard to accept, isn't it?"
"Hard? It's… downright outrageous."
Rouse muttered, but in his mind, he was already picturing Grindelwald—legendary, terrifying, and worshiped by the Saints. With that connection, Tom's talent suddenly seemed… believable. After all, a pupil of the Dark Lord himself had to be extraordinary.
"Master Riddle," Rouse said quickly, his tone shifting into eager respect, "Lady Rosier asked me to send her greetings. She also entrusted me with this gift for you."
He produced a beautifully wrapped box from his robes and placed it gently on the desk. The box floated into Tom's hands. Inside lay a brooch, a gemstone the size of a dove's egg gleaming at its center.
"I'll be sure to send Lady Rosier my thanks."
Tom tucked the gift away, then drew out a slim notebook. He scrawled something across the first page, then passed it over after teaching Rouse how to use it. "From now on, contact me through this. No one else will see a word. It responds only to your magic."
Rouse turned it over curiously, fiddling for a good while, before finally remembering the point of their meeting. He straightened his back. "Master Riddle, what exactly is my task here at Hogwarts? Dumbledore already trusts me to a degree—my cover is airtight."
"Your task," Tom said lazily, waving his hand, "is to keep teaching. Nothing clever, nothing reckless. Simply staying here, in Dumbledore's sight, is success enough."
"Huh?"
Rouse blinked. That was it? So simple he didn't even need the elaborate escape routes he'd spent two nights planning?
"Huh, what?" Tom's voice hardened. "Everything waits until Grindelwald walks free from that tower. Until then, keep your head down and gather strength. He is my teacher—and someday, I will see him freed. I, Tom Riddle, will be the one to care for the first Dark Lord in his old age."
Whether that meant clashing with Dumbledore someday was irrelevant. Tom had never been the kind to live by others' approval. Comfort in his own heart was enough.
"I… I understand," Rouse mumbled.
Most people would have been thrilled at such an easy mission. But not Rouse—he craved danger, adrenaline. Being told to behave left him oddly disappointed. Still, he wasn't about to defy Tom. Not when he needed him.
"Master Riddle～" Rouse' round face lit up with an obsequious grin. "Could you… ask Lord Grindelwald for an autograph? For me?"
Tom's eyelid twitched. "He's still in Nurmengard. You expect me to break in just to fetch you a signature?"
"But… can't you contact him?"
"I can only converse. If I could smuggle things out, I'd have freed him already."
"Then… please, at least mention my name to him once!"
Tom arched a brow. "Rouse, you're an American wizard. Shouldn't your attitude toward Grindelwald be hostile? Yet here you are, not just tolerant, but a Saint yourself. Why?"
Rouse gave a sheepish grin. "Oh, it's nothing really. I just… want to master his Transfiguration. Then I'll transform into Percival Graves and make Robert call me 'Grandfather.'"
Tom: …
Once again, he had underestimated just how absurd this man could be.
"You want Human Transfiguration?" Tom sighed. "Fine. I've already mastered it. Behave yourself this year, and I'll teach it to you as a reward."
Rouse' face lit up like a child on Christmas morning. "Generous Master Riddle! I swear to obey your every command. Oh—do you still need money? I've recently come into some funds…"
Tom waved him off. "No. I've a wealthy girlfriend now, and a wealthy teacher besides."
Rouse wilted in disappointment. He had been hoping to offer a fat donation as a token of loyalty. So Tom was eating soft rice now?
"…But," Tom added with the faintest smirk, "if you insist, I won't refuse."
Rouse: Now that's the style befitting the Dark Lord's heir.
…
"Tom, what did Professor Wilkinson want with you?"
Returning to the Great Hall with two thousand Galleons heavier in his pocket, Tom found the tables already laden with lunch. Daphne had prepared his plate as she always did—heaping piles of meat and bread, and a steaming bowl of thick soup to dip them in.
"Nothing much," Tom said casually. "He noticed I picked up the Shield Charm unusually fast. Said I had potential. Gave me a pass to the Restricted Section, told me to pick out a few advanced curses to self-study. If I get stuck, I can go to him."
He set the permission slip down. Astoria leaned forward to examine it, her eyes bright.
"I thought you'd gotten into another fight," Daphne muttered, a bit disappointed.
"Honestly, sister," Astoria sighed, "Professor Wilkinson has been very kind. Why would Tom need to fight him?"