Chapter 175: Asking For Willows

Chapter 175: Asking For Willows

(For the Cho haters out there—don’t worry, she won’t be showing up anytime soon. Enjoy.)

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The next morning

It was Saturday, and most students were still sleeping in. By the time they finally dragged themselves to the Great Hall for breakfast, it was already past nine.

Last night’s Dueling class had been a huge hit.

Sure, a few matchups were uneven, but overall the feedback was glowing. The only complaint was that it ended too quickly—half the students who came in itching to settle old grudges never even got the chance.

Everyone was already wondering: why couldn’t this become a regular class? At least once a week!

In reality, though, getting even one session every two weeks was the best Professor Laos could fight for. The original plan was just once a month.

The Heads of House thought dueling lessons weren’t really that useful in excess. Their reasoning was simple: to fight well, students needed a foundation of knowledge first. One duel a week wouldn’t make anyone a better fighter, but it could make them sloppy in class.

Laos argued back that dueling wasn’t just training—it was also an outlet. Students had to burn off their energy somehow.

That argument hit home with Professor McGonagall. Merlin knew how hard it was for her to handle a castle full of overexcited kids day after day.

...

"Tom, what are you doing later?" Daphne asked, wiping her mouth after polishing off the last bite of cod.

"Absolutely nothing. Maybe lie by the lake and soak up some sun?"

Tom had decided to give himself a real break for once. Ever since the term started, he’d been grinding.

"Sounds perfect." Daphne nodded eagerly. "I’ll ask Pala to pack some desserts."

Astoria opened her mouth, ready to say "Please, sis, stop eating or you’ll turn into a pig," but thought better of it. She could already imagine the pinch her cheeks would get if she dared to speak.

So she shut up. After all, it wasn’t her body on the line. If Daphne wanted to cry over her weight later, that was her problem.

Next, the three of them dragged Hermione—who had been dead set on spending the day in the library—out to the Black Lake and sprawled on the grassy shore.

The autumn chill had started creeping into the air, so Tom cast a Windy spell and conjured a few floating blue flames to keep them warm. Then he promptly collapsed into a state of lazy bliss.

Astoria curled up beside him and, before long, drifted off to sleep.

Meanwhile, Hermione and Daphne were whispering about last night’s duels.

Hermione had been on fire. She mopped the floor with the Gryffindors until even the older students were hanging their heads. She only lost when the fifth-year prefect finally stepped in and ended her winning streak.

But Hermione wasn’t bragging about it—she was annoyed.

"I just don’t get it," she said, frowning. "They lose to me and instead of reflecting on what they did wrong, they act like it’s my fault for beating them?"

She huffed. "It’s like winning was some kind of crime. Because I’m younger, I’m supposed to be weaker. And this morning, half of them pretended I didn’t even exist."

"They’re just jealous," Daphne said bluntly. "Mum always said: aside from a few decent ones, Gryffindors are full of people who can’t stand to see anyone doing better than them."

She smirked. "They love thinking they’re the best. The second someone proves them wrong, they sulk."

Hermione couldn’t help nodding. That was painfully accurate.

She used to go out of her way to point out mistakes and help her classmates improve, but all it got her was resentment. Ron had been the most obvious example—though, to be fair, he did apologize later. Compared to the rest, Ron almost counted as one of the better Gryffindors.

The truth was, she regretted it now. Back when the Sorting Hat had given her the choice, she’d picked Gryffindor only because she’d read too many books praising Dumbledore’s old house. Surely, she thought, it had to be the best.

What a joke. Too late to undo it now.

"Ugh..." Hermione sighed, shaking her head. "Never mind. I don’t even want to be friends with them. It’s just... so frustrating."

"Forget them. Here—try this. Pala just brought it back from Diagon Alley. Basque cheesecake." Daphne pushed a slice toward her.

Tom lay on his back, staring up at the sky. He’d promised himself a lazy weekend, but his mind wouldn’t stay idle for long.

Problems were piling up.

The centaurs, for one, had been offering less and less help. Most of the materials were ready, yet the projects had ground to a halt. The problem was simple: centaurs weren’t alchemists. Half the techniques Tom needed weren’t even in their vocabulary.

And he didn’t want them working for free anymore—partly because he didn’t trust Firenze or Magorian not to drag their hooves if they weren’t properly motivated. So he’d tossed them a carrot: if the centaurs ever faced a survival crisis, he’d send Usaki to help.

That didn’t impress them much. As far as they were concerned, the forest was stable now, and as long as Tom didn’t meddle, he was already removing the biggest threat.

But the other "gift" he offered? Magorian couldn’t refuse.

Tom promised to help find them some mares or even Centaurides. The herd had a disastrous gender imbalance, and without more females, the next generation would shrink. Worse, pent-up frustration could easily turn into violent infighting.

Magorian, shamefully, had taken the bait.

So now the proud centaurs were reduced to Tom’s little helpers, diligently assisting with his research.

But raw materials were still a problem. He’d pretty much cracked the secrets of the Whomping Willow, and its properties could replace a lot of things. Trouble was, Hogwarts only had one tree—and its branches alone weren’t nearly enough.

He needed to plant more.

Then there was Aberforth. Tom was starting to wonder if the old man had run off with his pocket money. Every time he asked, Aberforth gave the same answer: "Soon. Just wait."

Maybe the geezer really was planning to scam him, and just stick it to Dumbledore?

Fine. Tom decided to give him one more month. If there was still no progress, he’d butcher Aberforth’s whole herd of goats and have himself a feast of skewers.

Tom spent the rest of the weekend in full lazy mode. On Saturday he mostly napped around the dorm, and on Sunday morning he took his pets for a walk.

That afternoon though, he wandered into Professor Sprout’s greenhouse, casually fishing for news about any Whomping Willow seedlings.

Unfortunately, Sprout had never looked into it.

The tree was valuable, sure—but it was also dangerous. Most wizards couldn’t handle it, let alone grow one. That’s why there was only a single Whomping Willow in the whole of Britain.

So Tom decided it was time to lean on his elders.

『Tom Riddle』: Professor, I’ve finished researching the Whomping Willow. It works great as a substitute material—but now I’ve run into a new problem.

『Nicolas Flamel』:You don’t have your own Willow, do you?

『Tom Riddle』: You’re sharp as always. There’s only the one at school, and I don’t want Professor Sprout chasing me down with a shovel. So I have no choice but to come to you.

He could’ve asked Lady Greengrass for help, but that would’ve cost him a huge favor. Nicolas, on the other hand, was already invested in Tom’s efforts to make alchemy more accessible. Lending a hand now would hardly be a burden.

『Nicolas Flamel』: Leave it to me. How many do you need?

『Tom Riddle』: At least twenty adult Willows. If they’re not mature, I’ll have to grow them—but I do have a Herbology master and a Potions master helping me, so it’s doable.

『Nicolas Flamel』: Adults won’t be easy to find. I’ve got some friends over in Africa, I’ll ask around.

Truth be told, Tom was more than a little envious of the resources over in Africa. Half the rare materials in the wizarding world came from there. Even the goblins had chosen to put Gringotts’ headquarters in Egypt.

『Nicolas Flamel』: By the way, drop by at Christmas. I want to introduce you to some people.

『Tom Riddle』: ???

『Nicolas Flamel』: Old friends of mine. Some are respectable alchemists, others are influential in their own countries. If you want alchemy to spread, you’ll need allies with their backing. It’ll make the whole process a lot smoother.

『Tom Riddle』:

『Nicolas Flamel』: Newt? Hm... it’s been a while since I saw him. The tricky part is the French Ministry. They’ll only let him travel if he leaves his case behind—and you know that’s never going to happen.

『Nicolas Flamel』: I’ll try, but don’t get your hopes up. Worst case, you can just head to America for a few extra days after the holidays.

To Flamel, Tom’s schooling was the least important thing in his life. Missing a few days didn’t matter at all.

...

After asking Flamel about some other problems, Tom ended the call.

Then, as usual, he fired off a message to Aberforth. And again, he got a half-hearted excuse. Tom stopped caring.

By Monday, the weather had turned even colder. The sudden drop had a wave of young witches and wizards catching colds. Madam Pomfrey was run ragged, pouring doses of Pepper-Up Potion down their throats.

The potion worked instantly, but for the next few hours smoke would billow out of their ears. The castle looked like it was wrapped in mist.

Still, not even freezing rain could stop the Slytherin and Gryffindor Quidditch teams from training. Their first face-off was scheduled right after Halloween.

This year, the rivalry was fiercer than ever. George and Fred kept sneaking around the pitch to spy on the Nimbus 2001s, and every time they saw those brooms, their confidence sank lower. The gap in performance was like putting an RTX 2060 graphics card up against a 3060.

Their only real hope was that Harry could grab the Snitch before Slytherin racked up a 150-point lead. Once again, the "Chosen One" was their only salvation. Wood’s training sessions had turned into endless tactical drills built entirely around Harry.

Meanwhile, Tom had been coaching the Slytherin team with his own brand of "strategies."

Shoulder feints, taunting, tugging, maneuvers, and other tricks to throw the opponent off—none of it had much to do with the Quaffle itself.

Dirty? Please. If it broke the rules, there were penalties for that. Fouls were part of the game.

---

"Astoria, did you drink your potion today?"

The rain hammered the castle windows like a thousand bullets. It was the fourth day in a row of downpour. Tom and Daphne had just left Potions class when they spotted Astoria on the stairs.

But instead of bounding over as usual, she saw them and bolted. Tom caught her in one stride.

The girl scrunched up her face miserably. "Tom... that potion tastes awful."

"It’s better than being stuck in bed with a fever." Tom ruffled her hair. "Daphne, make sure she drinks it every day before she leaves her room."

"Heh, little sis," Daphne grinned wickedly, grabbing Astoria by the arm, "looks like you’ve fallen right into my hands."

Astoria’s face drained of color as Daphne dragged her off.

Tom could only shake his head. Astoria was fragile, and with half the school sneezing around her, he brewed a stock of potions for her. The only problem was the taste—indescribably foul.

Adding sugar or milk didn’t help. Honestly, you could mix it with honey, and it would still be disgusting.

Getting her to drink it had become a battle of wills. Today, Tom finally hardened his heart and left Daphne in charge of "enforcement."

Once the sisters disappeared down the stairs, Tom took another flight up, winding through the corridors until he reached Professor McGonagall’s office. He waited for about five minutes before she arrived, fresh from class.

She looked startled to see him waiting there.

"Mr. Riddle? What brings you here?"

"Professor," Tom said, straightening, "I’ve invented a new potion. I’d like to publish it in Transfiguration Today."

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