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Technically speaking, if you're calling it custom magic, then yeah—you should be creating it entirely from scratch, like a true original.
But let's be real—in today's wizarding world, most so-called custom or even original spells are really just modified versions of existing ones. A little tweak here, a small adjustment there.
Take Grindelwald, for example. That fiery inferno he conjured in Paris—he called it "Protego Diabolica". But at its core, it was just Fiendfyre combined with a bit of Legilimency. A combo spell.
Tom didn't see any problem asking Grindelwald and Andros to design spells that suited his unique style. Once they crafted the framework, he could learn the spells, test them out, and then refine them based on his experience and understanding—tailoring them until they were truly his own.
Naturally, Grindelwald and Andros were stunned when Tom pitched the idea.
"You little rascal," Grindelwald muttered, half laughing. "You really found the laziest way to go about this, didn't you?"
Tom got to relax, while they had to buckle down and do all the work.
Andros didn't mind. He spent most of his time reading or napping anyway. At least now he'd have someone to talk to besides himself. And Grindelwald, after thinking it over, agreed too—on one condition.
"Every time you go see Dumbledore," he said, "you open the Study Space. I want to hear what you two are talking about."
Tom didn't object.
Six credits per hour? He could spare ten minutes so Grindelwald could spy on his old lover. The rest of the time was for serious learning, so it wasn't like it was a waste.
Once everything was settled, Tom planned to talk to Dumbledore the very next day.
But he didn't go in the morning. Instead, he had a house-elf send a message to check Dumbledore's availability. They agreed to meet at four in the afternoon.
With that out of the way, Tom took Daphne out for a walk.
"HARDER!!!"
It was still cold, but the next Quidditch season would start, and Gryffindor had already begun training. They weren't even close to the pitch, and yet Tom could hear Oliver Wood shouting at the Weasley twins from all the way across the grounds.
The guy was so obsessed with Quidditch it defied explanation.
Tom thought if someone like Wood had attended Hogwarts a century earlier—when Phineas Nigellus Black was Headmaster—he probably would've been the first student in history to actually assassinate a headmaster.
---
After some time...
Near Hagrid's hut, his massive hound Fang was barking loudly. He'd been chained to the door, and a group of students were taunting him with bits of jerky—just close enough to tease, but not close enough to reach.
Even without seeing their uniforms, Tom could guess which house they were from. Only Gryffindors would be that despicable.
"They're so mean," Daphne said, frowning at the sight of poor Fang snarling and baring his teeth.
Tom personally thought Fang was ugly as sin, but Daphne insisted he was "still a cute puppy." She immediately pulled out two pieces of beef jerky from her snack pouch and walked over to drop them in Fang's food bowl.
With actual food in front of him, Fang ignored the teasing students completely. Now that their toy had lost interest, the group turned their attention to Tom and Daphne—glaring like they wanted to curse them, maybe even attack outright.
Tom couldn't help but chuckle. He raised his wand casually.
"Locomotor Mortis!"
Instantly, the students' legs snapped together like they'd been tied up with invisible ropes. Off balance, all of them toppled over onto the ground with loud thuds.
"Riddle! What the hell are you doing?!" one of them yelled. "Undo the Leg Locking spell, now!"
Tom looked down at them, arms crossed and expression cool.
"You act worse than a dog, and then glare at us like you're the victims? Pathetic. Let's see who's stupid enough to help you now."
Being humiliated like that by a younger student was beyond infuriating. Their faces flushed red with anger, and they looked like they wanted to fight—but with their legs still magically bound, they had no choice but to swallow their pride and hobble away, fuming.
Watching the Gryffindors hop awkwardly toward the castle, Daphne burst out laughing.
"They live in a tower, right? That's gonna suck."
"Serves them right," Tom said with a shrug. "They started it."
Honestly, Tom thought Gryffindors were the most troublesome bunch in the whole school.
Hufflepuffs were chill—hardworking and obedient.
Ravenclaws? More girls than boys, and the girls didn't usually stir up too much trouble. (Because they're the trouble, primarily for boys.)
Slytherins were intense, sure, but their mischief was usually either focused on Gryffindors or tied to some twisted sense of honor. They didn't cause chaos just for fun.
Well—unless you counted Snape. He caused his fair share.
But Gryffindors? That house was a breeding ground for hyperactive little maniacs. Half of their trouble came from unchecked curiosity alone.
"Tom… do you think they'll tell Professor McGonagall?" Daphne asked, her smile fading to concern.
Tom just shook his head. "Don't worry. Gryffindors have too much pride for that. The biggest tattletales are in Slytherin. Gryffindors would rather suffer in silence than admit a first-year got the better of them."
It made sense. Reporting that they got cursed because they were harassing a dog? That'd be social suicide. The whole castle would laugh them into next week.
Even Hermione was ridiculously prideful. The others were no different.
After rubbing Fang's head for a bit, Tom took advantage of Hagrid being off tending the garden and led Daphne into the small grove nearby. There, he gave her a physical enhancement potion and helped guide her through absorbing it properly.
Once the effects kicked in and she'd processed most of the potion's energy, Daphne looked at him with bright, starry eyes—clearly stunned by how amazing she felt.
"Tom, this is incredible! You made this? It's so strong! Can I get another one?"
Forget being a reincarnated and living his second life— if a teenage girl looked at an eighty-year-old grandpa with eyes that sparkled like that, even he'd feel ten years younger.
Tom chuckled and gently ruffled her hair. "You're still not in great shape yourself. Don't just worry about your sister—make sure you're taking care of your own health too."
Daphne was clearly touched by his concern, but her big-sister instincts flared up again as her eyes lit up. "Do you think Astoria could take this potion too? I feel so warm and full of energy right now—it's amazing!"
Tom thought about it for a second. The potion wasn't a cure for illness, but it did strengthen the body. It wouldn't cause any harm even if it didn't help much. He gave her a small nod.
Daphne instantly perked up, more excited than ever. She practically begged him for another bottle—she wanted to send one home for Astoria to try.
"I don't have much left," Tom said, pulling out two more vials. "But here—send these. And make sure to explain the moves I taught you. The potion only works properly when used with the full regimen."
"If it does help," he added, "ask Lady Greengrass to help me collect sphinx eyes. They're an essential ingredient, and I'm fresh out."
The two of them headed straight to the Owlery to write a letter. Daphne had her own owl named Winnie—snow-white, sleek, and one of the best-looking owls in the whole tower.
Neither of them mentioned money. Tom had no intention of asking, and Daphne casually wrote in the letter for her mother to send over five thousand Galleons.
Even if it didn't work for Astoria, she knew exactly how it made her feel—and in her eyes, that was worth every bit of those five thousand Galleons.
As Winnie soared off into the sky, Daphne silently clasped her hands together, praying this wasn't just false hope again.
...
At four in the afternoon, Tom left the Room of Requirement, said goodbye to Hermione and Daphne, and headed to the headmaster's office.
The stone gargoyle guarding the door perked up the moment it saw him, ready to open the passage—only for Tom to stop it.
"Hold on now, Mr. gargoyle. Aren't we supposed to guess the password? Skipping the rules is bad, y'know."
The gargoyle looked deeply offended. "Kid, are you really still holding a grudge over that little joke? It's been a whole semester!"
"Nope." Tom kept a perfectly straight face. "You were the one who told me the rule. Everyone says the password. No exceptions."
"But you know the password! Why do you have to run through the entire candy menu every time?!"
The gargoyle looked like it was about to lose its stone mind.
Other students just said the password. Tom, on the other hand, insisted on naming every single candy he could think of—intentionally skipping the right one—only to say it last, after thoroughly torturing the poor creature's patience.
At this point, hearing candy names gave the gargoyle a splitting headache.
It gave up, slumping to the side and turning back into an inanimate statue.
Tom snorted and walked right in. "So sensitive."
Dumbledore was already waiting, seated behind his desk with that usual kind, twinkling smile. He motioned for Tom to sit before speaking.
"So, I finally get to be useful as a headmaster?"
He smiled warmly. "Mr. Riddle, the house-elf said you needed my help. I'm honored. Please, go ahead."
He really was happy about it. In Dumbledore's eyes, friendship and trust were built through helping one another. He didn't mind being asked for favors—he worried more about Tom keeping his distance like a certain other Riddle had done before him… ending up cold, isolated, and eventually, a Dark Lord.
"Well, Professor, it's like this." Tom gave him a sheepish smile. "I read an interview from 1955, where you mentioned that Newt Scamander was your favorite student. I really admire him, and I've run into a bit of trouble with magical creatures. I was hoping to reach out and ask for his advice. Would you happen to have a way I could contact him?"
Dumbledore's smile froze ever so slightly.
All that buildup—he'd been prepared to hand Tom a note for the Restricted Section if needed—and it turned out Tom just wanted to… mail a letter?
Even Grindelwald, watching through the Study Space, broke his composure.
(Tom, you're asking the damn Scamander for help?! I told you to go see Dumbledore so you could ask HIM?!)
"Magical creatures, is it?" Dumbledore quickly composed himself and gave a small laugh. "Yes, in that area, I must admit—Newt's the expert. I'd be of little help."
"Newt was not only my student, but he's also a dear friend. I'm sure he'd be happy to hear from you."
"Thank you so much, Professor." Tom pulled out a letter he'd already prepared and handed it over. "Could I trouble you to send this to Devon for me?"
Dumbledore chuckled as he took the envelope, an amused glint in his eye. "And who told you Newt lives in Devon?"
Tom blinked. "Isn't that what the books say?"
"That's just a cover," Dumbledore said with a sigh. "He and his wife, Tina, actually live in New York. Always have. Devon's just there to keep the less friendly faces off their trail. Newt made quite a few enemies in his youth, you see."
His voice turned thoughtful, almost nostalgic. "Even now, there are people out there looking for revenge. Some of them… doing it in the name of old friends."
Tom fell silent. There was no need to guess who one of those old friends was.
"…Mr. Grindelwald."
Tom's voice dropped into his mindspace. "Didn't you lose? Why are the acolytes still so strong? Even someone like Scamander has to hide from them?"
"My loss doesn't mean their defeat," Grindelwald replied, eyes narrowing within the Study Space. "Do you know who followed me back then? Mostly pure-bloods—and quite a few half-bloods who believed in the magical world's supremacy. They were the backbone of the wizarding world."
"If the acolytes were all wiped out, Europe's entire magical society would collapse. Generational bloodlines gone. Possibly extinction-level damage."
Tom went quiet again. It made sense. The people who believed in Grindelwald's ideology were also the ones propping up the current magical order.
"So… they didn't pay any price at all?"
"Oh, there was a price," Grindelwald said quietly, his voice tinged with memory. "I didn't follow up, but many of them suffered. For at least a few generations, they've been completely cut off from power."
"They've been punished… just not destroyed."
.
.
.