— — — — — —
Tom's demands were, frankly, pretty reasonable—and convincing, too.
Quirrell may have graduated from Ravenclaw, but even he knew how deep the blood-purity bias ran in Slytherin. Just because Riddle was a favorite among professors didn't mean the other students would look up to him.
Gaining status by leading Slytherin to win the House Cup? That was actually a solid plan.
"Still a kid," Quirrell thought to himself, hiding a sneer. "He doesn't even know how to take advantage of a golden opportunity to blackmail someone."
Outwardly, though, he gave Tom an approving nod and even handed him a pouch containing a hundred Galleons as a "Shut up fee."
"Even as a professor, I can't hand out points without a reason," Quirrell explained with a warm smile. "But don't worry, Tom—when we have class, I'll make sure to ask you a few extra questions. That way, any points I give you will be perfectly legitimate."
"Thanks, Professor," Tom replied, taking the pouch. Then he looked curious. "By the way, how much does the school pay you guys each month?"
Quirrell didn't mind sharing the info. "I make about a hundred and fifty Galleons, which is actually considered a pretty decent salary for a regular professor. Heads of House get a bit more, but not much."
A hundred and fifty Galleons was excellent pay in the wizarding world. Most Ministry workers earned somewhere between thirty and fifty, with higher-ranking officials getting a bit more depending on the department.
So yeah, Quirrell's salary was basically Department Head level.
And by so readily revealing that number, Quirrell thought he was showing Tom how much he valued their partnership—he was practically handing over two-thirds of his paycheck.
Tom nodded thoughtfully. "Alright then. I'll come collect again next month."
"Sure… wait, what?"
Quirrell froze mid-nod, his smile stiffening. "Tom, what do you mean by that?"
Tom blinked innocently. "Didn't you give me a hundred Galleons a month?"
"…Right. Right, I did," Quirrell muttered, forcing his smile to stay. Inside, he was screaming.
This kid's a bloody vampire! Fuck you Riddle.
"See ya then."
Tom waved casually and strolled out of Quirrell's office, light as a feather—with a hundred Galleons in his pocket and not a care in the world.
The moment the door clicked shut behind him, Quirrell's face twisted into something monstrous.
"LET ME OUT!"
Voldemort's furious snarl echoed as Quirrell scrambled to unwrap his turban, dropping to his knees before the full-length mirror.
On the back of his head, the Dark Lord's hideous face appeared, still disfigured by bruises and scabs. He'd always been disturbing to look at, but now? After being clocked by that rogue Bludger? His nose was half-caved in, his whole face swollen and purple. He looked more like a rotting goblin than a feared dark wizard.
A cold, low chuckle rattled from Voldemort's throat.
"It's been years... YEARS, since someone last dared to threaten me."
"Master, why didn't you let me act?" Quirrell asked, still kneeling. "We didn't have to kill him inside the castle—we could've just used the Imperius Curse, wiped his memory afterward…"
Everything he'd said earlier had been scripted by Voldemort himself. Quirrell just didn't understand—why go through all that with a mere first-year?
"Fool!" Voldemort snapped. "Did you not notice the girl standing next to him when he called you back? A Slytherin, no less?"
"You think Tom Riddle is some naïve little boy? He was clearly prepared."
"And even if you did manage to curse him," Voldemort continued bitterly, "you'd have to re-cast it every few days just to keep control. And with Dumbledore already watching you, it wouldn't take long for Riddle to notice something was off. Honestly—do you ever think before you act?"
Voldemort laid into him, disgusted. In his prime, Quirrell wouldn't have even qualified as a minion—more like a minion's minion, one of those bumbling oafs always following Malfoy around.
But now, in his weakened state, Voldemort had no choice but to manipulate fools like Quirrell. Someone smarter might be harder to control.
Though, truth be told… there was another reason Voldemort hadn't wanted Quirrell to try controlling Tom.
That name.
"Tom Riddle."
The very sound of it made him want to grind his teeth to dust. He'd changed his own name for a reason.
But no matter how much he hated it, Tom Riddle was still Tom Riddle. Bearing that name meant something.
"Just keep him happy for now," Voldemort said, sounding distant. "Don't fuss over your gold. Once I return to power, I'll reward you a hundred times over. And Riddle… I'll deal with him personally."
"For now, you have two tasks. First: find out what defenses the professors have placed around the object on the third-floor corridor. Second: collect the materials I need. I'm far too weak—helping you is becoming harder by the day."
That Bludger hit had done more than disfigure his face—Voldemort had taken on nearly all the damage to protect Quirrell's body, draining what little strength he had left. He had spent three days unconscious.
Quirrell bowed low again, voice trembling with obedience. No matter how weak the Dark Lord got, he never dared disobey—not when his very life was already bound.
Still, he couldn't help but grumble.
"Master… Snape's been watching me like a hawk. He's acting like I stole something from him. The man was a Death Eater once—why's he so loyal to Dumbledore now?"
Voldemort scoffed coldly. "When someone dies, their cause dies with them."
"Snape's not the only one. How many of my so-called allies went crawling to Azkaban the moment I fell?"
"Those pure-blood families? They surrendered faster than anyone."
"But so what?" he sneered. "Once I return, they'll come crawling back—kneeling at my feet, kissing my boots. Snape included."
Quirrell hesitated, then asked nervously, "Should I reach out to him now? If he knew you were alive—and that I'm after the Philosopher's Stone for you—he might even help us…"
"WHO TOLD YOU TO DO THAT?"
Quirrell screamed and clutched his head, agony lancing through his skull like a thousand searing needles.
"You do exactly what I say, and nothing more! Don't you dare try using that pitiful excuse for a brain to improvise! Do you really think you've thought of something I haven't already considered?"
"Who do you think Snape would choose? Dumbledore—or me, in my current state, so weak I'm barely human?"
"Without me, you're nothing but a failure. Snape, on the other hand, is a Potions Master—he'll thrive under anyone. You're not even in the same league, you worthless worm!"
Quirrell sobbed, groveling, and begged for forgiveness until the pain finally subsided.
...
Meanwhile, Tom strolled back to the Slytherin common room with a pouch full of gold.
"Got anything to eat?" he asked cheerfully. "The waffles this morning were terrible. Didn't even fill me up."
The roommates playing Exploding Snap immediately tossed their cards aside and dove into their trunks. In no time, Tom's desk was piled high with snacks.
As always, the three of them eyed one another warily, forming a tense triangle.
That's how it always went when it came to Tom. The more snacks you gave him, the fewer others could offer.
And if you couldn't even stand out in that... how were you supposed to earn Tom's favor?
They might act all meek and humble in here, but outside—thanks to Tom's name—nobody would dare cross them. Well, except that one from House Greengrass.
But even the upperclassmen were wary of them these days. All thanks to Tom.
And in a few more years, once they were older students themselves, the benefits would only multiply.
Which was why the three of them were basically in a full-blown bootlicking contest. Trying to out-suck-up each other to see who could please Tom the most.
"Munching on some chips, Tom walked over to a cauldron in the corner and checked the potion bubbling inside. He nodded in satisfaction.
"Not bad, Blaise. This batch of Energy Potion looks pretty much done."
Blaise Zabini lit up with excitement.
Tom had taught him how to brew it a month ago. After four or five failed attempts, this was finally a success.
And honestly, that was something to be proud of—this potion was considered advanced, usually only tackled by fifth or sixth years.
Nott and Rosier exchanged a glance, both seeing the same helpless look in each other's eyes. They could compete in other ways, but not with this.
Blaise had both talent and genuine interest in Potions, and he didn't mind spending time or money on it. The other two? No interest, no skill—not a chance they could keep up with him in this area.
"Brew a few more tomorrow," Tom advised, giving Blaise a pat on the shoulder. "Practice makes perfect. Once you can do it without messing up for a few runs, it'll mean you've truly mastered it."
Energy Potions like Invigoration Draught were in constant demand. Both Daphne and Hermione needed them regularly, so it was nice to have a free laborer on hand.
And not only was Blaise brewing for free, he was also paying the bill for the ingredients.
Tom was getting the whole package deal.
Still, even if the kid was easy to manipulate, Tom wasn't stupid. He knew better than to burn out his resources. Sustainable exploitation, as it were. Correct capitalism.
So, he decided to throw the boy a bone.
Tom returned to his desk, pulled a notebook from his bag, tore out a page, copied something down, then used a Mending Charm to repair the book.
"Here, Blaise. These are some of my notes on the Stunning Spell. It should help you boost your casting and projectile speed."
Blaise took it like it was a priceless treasure. Rosier and Nott's eyes practically turned red with envy.
Stuff like this? In their families, it was kept under lock and key.
Same spell, sure—but the results could be wildly different. Why? A ton of reasons: raw magical talent, sure, but also technique.
A skilled wizard could fine-tune a spell to suit themselves better. Take it further, and you could even improve it—make it easier to learn or increase its power ceiling.
That kind of knowledge? That was real legacy material.
Every proper wizarding family had a few secret spells or forbidden curses up their sleeve. If you didn't, could you even call yourself a family?
Blaise might be pure-blood, but he wasn't from an actual noble house. His parents were both pure-bloods, sure, but his dad was long dead, and his mum had remarried multiple times.
Outside of money, Blaise didn't have much going for him compared to Nott and Rosier.
He just stood there, stunned for a moment, then swallowed hard.
Gulp.
"Tom... are you really giving this to me?"
The Stunning Spell might be basic, but mastering it in combat could give you a huge edge. This reward was so generous, Blaise could hardly believe it.
"Why would I copy it out if I wasn't giving it to you?" Tom rolled his eyes. "But hey, next time I need help brewing potions, don't even think about making excuses."
Blaise immediately nodded like a bobblehead. "Of course not! I swear, as long as I'm capable, I'll handle any potion you need, Tom. I'll even pay for the ingredients myself!"
Nott leaned forward eagerly. "Tom, is there anything I can help with? I'm no good at Potions, but I can do other stuff—run errands or whatever!"
Rosier nodded quickly. "Same here!"
Tom gave them a look—half amused, half scornful. "How about you two figure out what you're actually good at first? Then we'll talk."
Damn it. So this is the power of having a real skill?
Nott and Rosier fell silent, lost in thought.
What were they good at, anyway?
Eating snacks? Slacking off? Failing to study?
Ever since Tom had rewarded Blaise, the guy had transformed.
Not only was he laser-focused in Potions class, but after lessons he'd dive into the library or practice the improved Stunning Spell Tom had given him.
He stood in sharp contrast to the other two layabouts in the room.
"Weren't we all supposed to be useless together? Why are you suddenly grinding so hard?"
Rosier and Nott were floored.
Blaise's example lit a fire under them. Even if they still hated studying, they couldn't just sit around while Blaise left them in the dust. It'd be too humiliating.
They forced themselves to hit the books.
Granted, they didn't study as intensely as Blaise, but compared to the rest of the first years? They were ahead by a mile.
Take Harry, for example.
That kid seemed like he was born with a martyr complex—constantly worrying about saving the world.
He was dead-set on the belief that the professors were all incompetent, and that he couldn't protect Dumbledore's treasure if he just sat around in class.
So lately, he'd been totally distracted from his studies, instead focusing all his energy on figuring out who "Nicolas Flamel" was.
Hermione hadn't told him the answer, either. In her mind, something so valuable was bound to be well-protected by Dumbledore. And if his security failed, what could Harry possibly do?
She tried reasoning with him a few times, but when she saw he wasn't listening, she gave up trying to help and focused on improving herself instead.
As for Tom—he was leveling up faster than ever.
Thanks to the physical-boosting potion, his body and magical strength were developing at a crazy pace. His study speed hadn't changed much, but physically? Night and day difference.
And then there was Quirrell.
After that conversation with Tom, he really started holding up his end of the deal—shamelessly boosting Tom's grades like a man on a mission.
Naturally, someone took notice...
.
.
.