"Did you guys hear that? This professor's last name is Gaunt. Is that the Gaunt family I'm thinking of?" Harry whispered, unable to focus for half the lesson as he mulled it over.
Ron, sitting next to him, thought he was overthinking it. "Does it even matter?" he muttered back. "Not every Gaunt is tied to Slytherin. Though, I guess, pure-blood families are all tangled up with each other, so maybe there's a connection."
"Hermione, what do you think?"
They were seated a few rows back in the classroom, close enough for Hermione, up front, to turn slightly and join the conversation.
"…"
Hermione didn't chime in. She was too busy scribbling notes. This Professor Gaunt was incredibly knowledgeable, weaving in extra tidbits beyond the textbook. Just talking about the Fwooper, he'd branched out to thirteen similar magical creatures and even mentioned potions with related effects.
If Professor Lewitt hadn't cut him off, he might've veered into Dark Magic territory.
This wasn't some assistant teacher—this was the most erudite Defense Against the Dark Arts professor she'd ever encountered.
"Huh? What'd you say?" Hermione asked, looking up after jotting down a tip for dealing with Fwoopers. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Professor Gaunt's shadowy figure drifting between desks, patiently answering students' questions with a faint smile.
Soon, Gaunt reached their table. "This lesson's been a bit rushed. I only gave a quick introduction about myself, so I haven't had the chance to get to know you all. May I…?"
"Hello, Professor. I'm Hermione Granger," she said promptly.
Gaunt nodded. The name didn't ring a bell—likely Muggle-born or half-blood.
"Hi, Professor. Just call me Ron—Ron Weasley."
The redheaded Weasley, from the poorest pure-blood family.
"Harry. Harry Potter."
Harry shifted uncomfortably under the professor's gaze.
"Oh, Mr. Potter," Riddle said, studying his face, lingering on the scar. "I can hardly believe it. Meeting you at last—it's an honor. I can't quite describe how thrilled I am."
Harry felt like the professor might lunge at him. He'd been through moments like this before, but something about Gaunt's enthusiasm felt off, unsettling in a way he couldn't pinpoint.
Yet, when he looked closer, nothing seemed obviously wrong. It reminded him of the lesson they'd just had: walking alone down a dim path, sensing an unseen creature watching from the shadows.
Professor Gaunt's smile was warm. "Mr. Potter, any questions about the Fwooper?"
"Uh… no, none."
"I figured as much. Defense Against the Dark Arts? For the one who defeated the Dark Lord, it's probably child's play. Honestly, I doubt you even need these lessons, do you, Mr. Potter?"
"Professor, I don't know what you've heard, but I'm just an average student. My grades are decent at best. I actually failed my Defense Against the Dark Arts exam last year."
"Failed?" Riddle blinked, his composed facade slipping for a moment, disbelief flashing in his eyes.
Before he could press further, the bell rang.
…
Night had fallen, and Melvin sat behind his desk in the Muggle Studies office, quill in hand, making final edits to a paper. Beside him, a silver tray held a sluggish young snake, belly bloated from a recent meal, eyes glazed and lazy.
On a nearby shelf sat the Goblet, treated with a revealing potion, its shadowy form pacing back and forth in the air.
"Harry Potter," Riddle muttered, incredulous. "No talents outside of Quidditch, just an ordinary student who failed his exams last year… How could he defeat the Dark Lord?"
Tom Riddle, ever since unlocking the secrets of his heritage in the Chamber of Secrets, had been the top student—perfect scores across every subject, not because he maxed out their potential, but because that was the highest the system allowed.
When he graduated from Hogwarts with twelve O.W.L.s, his skills surpassed most adult wizards. Many elective professors couldn't even match him. During his two years at Borgin and Burkes in Knockturn Alley, mingling with dark wizards, none could best him. In Riddle's mind, if he'd had twenty years to grow, he'd have become the true Dark Lord, leading the Death Eaters to sweep across Britain, with only Dumbledore as a worthy rival.
His unanswered questions festered into anger, his voice rising with a mix of frustration and humiliation. "What's so special about him?!"
"You've got plenty of time to ask him yourself," Melvin said without looking up. "But I've got to warn you—Dumbledore's still the headmaster, up in his office on the eighth floor. If you keep acting like a dark wizard, teaching Dark Magic in class or doing anything suspicious that gets you noticed, our deal's off."
"…"
Riddle's expression flickered. He knew how formidable the old man was. Back in the day, just framing Hagrid had put Dumbledore on his guard, never letting up until Riddle graduated.
"I understand," he replied, his face darkening.
The office fell quiet. The window was open, and Riddle glanced at the Goblet, its rim facing upward. He had no desire to return to it—soul fragments didn't need rest, and who wouldn't want to linger in the real world?
"What are you writing?" His ghostly form drifted to the desk.
"A paper for Muggle Studies," Melvin answered calmly, still focused.
Riddle frowned slightly. He had little respect for Muggle Studies or the wizards who taught it. But with only the two of them in the room—and a snake too dim to speak Parseltongue—he had nothing else to do. Floating up, he skimmed the paper.
"Discipline, Punishment, and Domestication… The Birth of Azkaban…"
Riddle's brow furrowed tighter as he read on.
When Melvin set down his quill after finishing revisions, Riddle drifted closer, offering his thoughts. "The part about prisoners being exploited is pointless. They're guilty wizards—tortured or treated like livestock, no one's going to care."
Melvin didn't bother arguing. What was the point of reasoning with a sociopathic extremist?
"The discussion on Dementors, though—that's interesting," Riddle added.
"Oh, you've studied Dementors?" Melvin asked.
"Of course. They're filthy, low creatures, but their immortality fascinates me. No spell can destroy them; even a Patronus only drives them off. That trait… it's intriguing."
As Riddle spoke at length, Melvin set aside his work, listening intently like a student.
No wonder he was the most powerful dark wizard in centuries—his insights were profound. He'd make an excellent substitute Defense Against the Dark Arts professor!