Chapter 179: History Repeats Itself
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Tom thought if Laos were here to hear Snape’s accusation, the poor man would probably cough up blood on the spot.
Just because he was the DADA professor, did that mean every problem automatically landed on his shoulders?
...Well, to be fair, from a certain angle Snape wasn’t exactly wrong. Laos really did come to Hogwarts with an agenda—an agenda far more dangerous than the basilisk.
But still, today’s mess had nothing to do with him.
Snape had made a career out of walking the knife’s edge between monsters, playing double agent to Dark Lords without blinking. His instincts were sharp. The tiniest slip of the mask never escaped him. Which meant Tom couldn’t openly defend Laos.
"Professor," Tom said smoothly, "if you really suspect Wilkinson, why didn’t you just say so to Dumbledore?"
Snape shot him a look that could have curdled milk. "How many times did I warn him about Quirrell last year? Did he listen?"
He gave a short, bitter laugh. "Don’t be fooled by that twinkle in his eye. Once the old man makes up his mind, no one is changing it."
"So what’s the point of telling me?" Tom shrugged. "You’re Head of House and you can’t sway him. I’m just a student. What difference would I make?"
Snape leaned closer, lowering his voice until it was little more than a hiss. "Watch him. Find out why he’s really here. If he’s just another pawn of the Dark Lord..."
Funny thing was, Laos was a pawn of someone—just more dangerous than the one Snape had in mind.
"You’re good at setting me up for impossible homework, Professor." Tom flashed a faint smile. "But dangerous errands like that should be your job, not a student’s."
Snape’s fists clenched on the arms of his chair. Student? The boy radiated menace just standing there. It was like being in the same room as some ancient predator, waiting to strike.
This term, Snape hadn’t once suggested sparring with him. Because if he couldn’t use every trick in his arsenal, he wasn’t confident of winning.
"You’ll regret it when this blows up in your face," Snape muttered darkly. Then, with his usual venom, "And don’t delay me. Get me those mandrakes."
"You’ll have them tomorrow morning." Tom gave a polite nod and left the office, heading back to the Slytherin common room.
The place was buzzing. Students huddled in groups, whispering about the Chamber of Secrets and the bloody words scrawled on the wall.
Even though Tom had crushed most of their arrogance flat, pure-blood pride still clung to them like a bad smell. Some whispered about how the school ought to be "purified." At least no more Muggle-borns.
The funny thing was, half of them knew their family trees weren’t as "pure" as they liked to claim.
"..."
The chatter broke off the moment Tom stepped inside. Guilty glances darted away from him.
Tom smiled faintly. "Don’t worry. I get it. You’re happy. I’d probably feel the same if I were you. But if you think a few scrawled words on a wall and some clumsy spellwork are enough to push me out of Hogwarts... you’re being a bit naïve."
"Tom, this doesn’t even involve you," someone suddenly said.
It was Rosier. He stood up, squared his shoulders, and looked around the room. His voice carried, firm and confident.
"Look at Tom’s magic. Look at the way he carries himself. Does he seem like a Muggle to you? Think about the other Muggle-borns we’ve seen—nervous, cautious, barely daring to step outside their little friend groups. Did any of them adapt to the wizarding world as quickly as Tom did?"
He didn’t wait for an answer.
"Have you forgotten what the Sorting Hat said? Tom is a born Slytherin. He called out for this House three times. The Sorting Hat carries the founders’ will. Do you really think its judgment is less accurate than our assumptions?"
Rosier’s voice rose with conviction. "Tom must be the descendant of a powerful pure-blood line. Maybe his ancestors lost their status for a generation, but all of it has returned in him. He’s one of us—through and through!"
Silence. Then every eye in the room turned to Tom.
Tom almost choked. ’Not bad. If I didn’t know that’s your BS, I might believed it.’
What shocked him more was that others actually seemed to buy it.
"That’s right!" Zabini was the first to speak up. "If someone as talented as Tom isn’t pure-blood, then how are we supposed to hold our own against the other Houses?"
"I agree." Draco drawled, as if he’d been waiting for the cue. "Tom and I had our clashes, but without his guidance I’d never have mastered the Shield Charm so fast. I wouldn’t have crushed Weasley or made Potter look like a fool."
Even Draco’s smirk softened into something almost admiring. "If families like the Weasleys can make the Sacred Twenty-Eight, then surely Riddle deserves a place too. Nott, isn’t it about time someone updated that book of your great-grandfather’s?"
Nott nodded. "My great-grandfather’s long dead. But if I ever do write a new edition, Riddle will be in. And Weasley and Longbottom can rot in the margins."
One by one, voices joined in. Before long, the room was humming with agreement.
If they couldn’t defeat him, they’d make him one of their own.
Better to stand beside power than against it. Supporting Riddle meant supporting Slytherin’s rise.
If their parents or grandparents had walked in on this scene, they would’ve laughed in bitter recognition. History repeats itself, after all.
Once before, they had convinced themselves that another boy named Tom Riddle was proof of their bloodline’s superiority.
"Say whatever you like," Tom sighed, rubbing his forehead. He looked at his classmates—half ecstatic, half worshipful—and didn’t even know where to start arguing.
"But let me make one thing clear."
His voice dropped. The common room chilled. Conversation died.
Tom raised a finger, pointing upward. More precisely, pointing toward Gryffindor Tower.
"Hermione is my friend. If I ever hear one of you getting carried away and saying something you shouldn’t..."
He let the pause hang, a faint, dangerous smile tugging at his lips.
"...then congratulations. You’ll get the honor of being my next test subject for curses."
Every snake in the room nodded stiffly, pale and silent.
...
"Nott, how was your relationship with your great-grandfather?"
In the dorm, Nott was playing wizard’s chess with Rosier when Tom suddenly tossed out the question.
"Which great-grandfather?" Nott blinked, confused—then his eyes lit with realization. "Oh, you mean my second great-grandfather, the one who wrote books?"
"Yeah. Him."
"Never met the guy." Nott waved it off like it was nothing. "That branch of the family’s practically gone. Two of my uncles are locked up in Azkaban, too."
"Why’d you bring him up all of a sudden, Tom? You planning to rewrite a family tree or something?"
Tom rolled his eyes from where he was sprawled on the bed. "What family tree? I’m an orphan. If there’s a tree, someone else has to make it up for me."
By now, his three roommates all knew exactly what Tom’s background was.
Rosier snorted with laughter, while Nott looked thoughtful. "Actually, I could help with that. Plenty of famous wizards in history had mysterious origins. All it takes is a few creative links and embellishments, and suddenly it all fits."
Each of Tom’s roommates had their own strengths. Zabini had a real gift for potions and was already ahead of plenty of fifth-years. Nott was obsessed with magical history—his dream was to one day compile a definitive history of wizarding Britain.
Rosier... well, in a dorm full of talented people, his lack of distinction almost counted as a talent on its own.
Tom couldn’t help laughing at Nott’s earnestness. "Relax. I’m not exactly in the mood to go ancestor-hunting. Don’t waste your brain cells on it. Just a random thought."
"Oh." Nott ducked his head, clearly disappointed. He’d been hoping to finally put all that knowledge to good use.
But Tom hadn’t asked idly—he’d had an idea.
That old Sacred Twenty-Eight genealogy had shaped wizarding society for nearly a century. Its influence was far greater than anything like his own potion extractions or magical creature theories.
If Nott could write one, why couldn’t he?
If his research papers were like science, then a revised genealogy was like the humanities—still academic, still powerful, and likely very profitable.
Turning the thought over in his mind, the hours slipped by until it was deep into the night.
Once his roommates were asleep, Tom slipped into his personal world to prepare a new habitat for the Runespoors.
Runespoors were different from ordinary serpents. Where most snakes preferred damp, shadowy places like reeds or riverbanks, Runespoors thrived in dryness, their etched scales naturally holding in moisture.
They liked to burrow holes into massive boulders, slowly hollowing them out as more snakes moved in.
Tom set aside a wide stretch of land for them, even layering protective wards to make sure none of the smaller creatures wandered in and got eaten. After all, Runespoors were rated XXXX by the Ministry. One snap of their jaws could take out a puffskein or even a bowtruckle with no trouble at all.
He laid the groundwork for their new home—food supplies, conditions for molting, the right balance of temperature and humidity. But materials and time were short, so for tonight, the setup was only temporary.
Leaving the snakes to their new home, Tom shifted to his study space—and summoned Grindelwald.
"Hey, old man. Do you speak Parseltongue?" Tom asked.
"Of course I do." Grindelwald answered like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Plenty of dark spells are amplified if cast in Parseltongue. A dark wizard who can’t even speak it? That’s not a wizard. That’s a dabbler."
Tom chuckled. "You set the bar pretty high."
By now, he was used to Grindelwald’s worldview. As far as the man was concerned, there were only two categories of people: himself and Dumbledore.
Everyone else was trash.
Well, everyone except Tom. His power was still "trash" now, but Grindelwald clearly saw the future, so he’d grudgingly counted Tom among his kind.
"Then let me ask you this—can Parseltongue control a basilisk?" Tom pressed.
That earned him a deep scowl. Grindelwald’s voice even picked up a hint of anger.
"Parseltongue can command ordinary snakes. But basilisk? Impossible. You might be able to give orders to one if it’s already been tamed, but that’s it."
"Funny," Tom said, narrowing his eyes. "You sound... touchy. There’s a story there."
Andross, ever the sharp observer, chimed in eagerly. "Oh, definitely. Did you see his face? Something happened."
Grindelwald glared, jaw tight. He could see there was no escaping it—Tom and Andross weren’t letting this one go. With a grimace, he spat it out.
"During the war, I tried breeding an army of basilisks. Got as far as the rooster eggs. But just before they could hatch... that damned Scamander destroyed every single one."
Tom stared. "...You’ve got to be kidding me."
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