Chapter 178: Screw The Plot (Bonus)
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Harry felt like he was living under a curse lately. First it was the relentless daily training, then getting caught by Filch for tracking mud into the castle, and in the process stumbling across some of the caretaker’s embarrassing secrets.
Headless Nick had saved him at the last moment, and in return, Harry had agreed to attend Nick’s Deathday Party.
Worst decision ever. That was hands-down the most miserable dinner he had ever sat through. Ghosts everywhere—when one drifted through his body, it was like having a bucket of icy water dumped straight through his bones.
And the food... rotten, moldy, nothing you’d dare put in your mouth.
He barely lasted until the end, and when he thought he might sneak off to grab something edible before the real feast ended, he ran headlong into something truly bizarre.
A student and Filch’s cat were "dead." And of course, Filch immediately decided Harry must be the killer.
Just as Filch was about to throw himself at Harry in rage, an old yet firm hand pressed him down.
"Calm yourself, Argus. Your cat isn’t dead."
At Dumbledore’s words, Filch’s eyes lit with desperate hope.
But the headmaster didn’t look at him again. Instead, he crouched to check the student on the ground, touched them lightly with his wand, and Harry saw him exhale in relief.
"My judgment wasn’t mistaken. They’re not dead—only petrified."
"Petrified?" Snape murmured from behind, stroking his chin. "More like... the living dead."
"A very apt description." Dumbledore straightened, pocketing his wand.
Filch jumped in at once. "So how do we cure it, Headmaster? Mrs. Norris—she’ll be fine, won’t she?"
"I don’t know yet. More study is needed." Dumbledore’s tone was grave. "Right now, what matters most is figuring out what actually happened here."
"Ask him!" Filch screeched, pointing at Harry. "It’s his doing!"
"Calm down, caretaker." Professor Laos pressed down his arm. "This is advanced magic—even I can’t cast it. You really think a second-year could?"
For the first time in his life, Harry felt there were advantages to being considered useless. At least this time, it gave him a solid alibi.
But Filch wasn’t letting go. "It’s him! He was in my office—he saw the letter—he knows I... I’m a Squib! And the writing on the wall proves it!"
Only then did the crowd of students who had rushed in notice the message scrawled in blood across the wall beside the extinguished torch.
"Enemies of the Heir, beware!" Malfoy read loudly. Then, with a sneer: "You’re next, Mud—"
He froze, words stuck in his throat, sweat running down his neck. His eyes darted around the crowd until he confirmed Tom wasn’t there. Only then did he relax slightly.
The other Slytherins looked just as uncomfortable.
Bloody hell... when did "Mudblood" become a taboo in Slytherin of all places?
It wasn’t the time to laugh, but Dumbledore’s lips twitched anyway. The irony of the situation was too rich.
"Until we know more, don’t throw accusations around, Argus." His voice was sharper now.
Filch clutched his cat and whimpered. "But I saw Potter and Weasley here when I arrived..."
Dumbledore turned to Harry. "Mr. Potter, would you care to explain why you were here?"
He’d have preferred to move the boy and professors somewhere private, but too many eyes had witnessed the scene. Harry’s name had to be cleared publicly.
"Professor, Ron and I went to Headless Nick’s Deathday Party..." Harry rushed to explain, insisting there were hundreds of ghosts who could vouch for them.
"And afterward?" Snape asked smoothly, dark eyes gleaming. "Why not return to the feast? Why here?"
"I..." Harry’s heart pounded. Should he admit he’d heard the strange voice, the one talking about killing? That excuse would never hold up.
"We were tired and wanted to get to bed early," he blurted.
Snape’s smile widened. "Potter, still clinging to lies? At a ghost’s banquet, what could you possibly have eaten? Is your stomach made of iron?"
"We weren’t hungry!" Ron shouted, just as his stomach growled loudly in betrayal.
Harry wished he could hit Snape’s annoying face. Every time something went wrong, Snape was right there, gleefully trying to kick him out of school. It was like this bat man enjoyed seeing him suffer,
"..."
And as expected, the other students’ gazes turned hostile.
Sure, nobody thought Harry and Ron could cast something that advanced—but anyone could see they were hiding something.
And if you’re hiding something, you’re guilty.
"Make way."
The calm voice came from outside the crowd. Students parted instantly, and Tom Riddle, freshly returned from Hogsmeade, stepped into the circle of professors.
"Riddle." Snape’s eyes narrowed. "You weren’t at the feast either, were you?"
He wasn’t accusing Tom so much as demanding an explanation—for Dumbledore’s benefit.
"I was restocking alchemy supplies," Tom answered casually. "Used up quite a bit lately. Took Usaki for a walk while I was at it. Professor Snape... surely you don’t suspect me?"
Snape stayed silent, glancing at Dumbledore instead.
"I trust my students," Dumbledore said evenly. "And this level of dark magic is clearly beyond what a student could perform. We’ll know more once the victims wake."
"Professor, don’t underestimate us," Tom said with mock irritation. "It’s just a petrification curse. Give me a little time, and I’ll happily demonstrate."
Dumbledore: "..."
Snape: "..."
"...." xN
Every student present twitched.
Seriously? Now’s not the time to brag. And why would you be studying curses anyway?!
Tom’s reasons, of course, were simple. Curses were convenient—silent, deadly, and effective. Just look at how miserable the DADA professors or even the Greengrass family’s suffering.
And on top of that, the more he understood curses, the better chance he had of finding a cure for Astoria.
Dumbledore let out a faint sigh. "Tom, what I need isn’t another curse. I need a way to undo it."
"Mandrake Restorative Draught," Tom said, sounding surprised. "Don’t tell me our Head of Slytherin can’t brew something that simple?"
"Riddle!" Snape snapped, his face dark. "Don’t insult me with beginner-level potions."
"But the ingredients are troublesome," he added, folding his arms. "The mandrakes in the greenhouses still have a long way to go before they’re mature."
"Oh, so that’s the issue." Tom smiled at both Snape and Dumbledore. "Mr. Scamander just happened to gift me a few mature mandrakes."
While he spoke, his gaze flicked quickly around the hall. No sign of Ginny Weasley.
Stick to the script?
Screw the script.
He’d gotten rid of Lockhart within two weeks—if he’d been following the plot, he’d have had to put up with that clown a lot longer.
And he still wasn’t sure if Lucius had even slipped the diary into Ginny’s cauldron this time.
But one thing he knew for certain: the diary was inside the castle, and the basilisk had already been awakened.
Tom had studied the First-Class Order of Merlin recipients. Aside from the politicians, most had earned it by saving lives.
Like Tilly Toke, who saved scores of Muggles during the Ilfracombe Incident in 1932. Or Orabella Nuttley, who used a Reparo charm to fix the Colosseum before the Muggles caught on in 1754.
If you wanted that kind of medal, you needed something big—something historic.
And what was a basilisk if not the perfect tool?
Killing it quietly in the Chamber would be too dull. The whole school, maybe even the entire wizarding world, had to see Tom Riddle rise up, save the day, and become the hero of his generation.
If that didn’t earn him a First-Class Order of Merlin, fine—he’d just blow up the Ministry later and crown himself Minister instead.
"That’s excellent news," Dumbledore said warmly. "Then consider your mandrakes on loan to the school. Once Professor Sprout’s are ready, you’ll have them back."
"Not a problem, Professor," Tom replied smoothly.
Even Filch gave him a grateful nod, his opinion of Tom improving by leaps and bounds. They’d never had much interaction before—Tom was the kind of student who rarely broke rules, but when he did, it was a hundred-point deduction at minimum. Filch never caught him anyway.
But now? Filch quietly decided that if he ever saw Riddle breaking a rule, he’d look the other way.
Harry looked just as relieved. If it weren’t for the crowd, he probably would’ve rushed over to hug Tom.
How could Slytherins be so different? Compared to Snape and Malfoy, Tom was a saint.
"Severus, I’ll leave the potion in your hands," Dumbledore said. "I want these children restored as quickly as possible."
"Three days," Snape replied flatly.
"No faster?"
Snape hated anyone second-guessing him in his own field. Folding his arms tighter, he gave a cold snort. "Dumbledore, potions are a precise science. I don’t ’speed up’ a cauldron with a charm."
"That is... unfortunate." Dumbledore sighed, then raised his voice so all the students could hear. "But rest assured, Miss Clearwater and Mrs. Norris will recover. When they do, the truth will come out. Now, everyone back to your dormitories."
The crowd dispersed reluctantly. At Dumbledore’s gesture, Harry and Ron also trudged off—but their classmates kept a wide berth, glaring at them like they carried the plague.
Tom, meanwhile, studied the petrified girl.
A Ravenclaw. Penelope Clearwater.
So she was the one. He’d thought she was pretty before—wavy blonde hair, striking features. Now, frozen pale as a corpse, her beauty was all but gone. No wonder Filch had thought his cat was dead.
"Wingardium Leviosa."
Dumbledore levitated Penelope and Mrs. Norris with a flick of his wand and headed off toward the infirmary. Before leaving, he invited Tom to join him for tea in the headmaster’s office the next morning.
Tom nodded politely.
"Riddle, come with me," Snape said curtly.
"Daphne, Astoria—you two head back first," Tom told the girls before following Snape.
Neither spoke on the walk. It wasn’t until they were inside the office that Snape finally asked: "Riddle, who do you think did this?"
Tom didn’t answer directly. "Professor, you already have someone in mind, don’t you?"
Snape gave a low, humorless chuckle and leaned back in his chair.
"There’s only one stranger in this school. And in all my years at Hogwarts, one rule has always held true: when something goes wrong, blame the DADA professor."
His eyes gleamed coldly. "If it isn’t Laos Wilkinson, then who else could it be?"
Tom: "..."
.
.
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