So it wasn't a simple hunt this time.
Tom had to kill a basilisk outside the Chamber of Secrets , or worse, raise one himself. The alternative task? To slay the King of the Acromantulas.
He grimaced. "Well… that can only mean one spider."
Aragog.
The name alone made him sigh.
In myth, Hercules had slain a crab sent by Hera. But in Tom's trial, that crab had been replaced by a venomous, eight-legged monstrosity the size of a carriage.
"Brilliant," he muttered dryly. "Legs. Too many legs. Great logic."
It felt like a cosmic joke.
And to make matters worse, killing Aragog seemed… wasteful. The creature had lived for fifty years; its venom was one of the rarest substances known to wizardkind. He'd been planning to visit it soon , maybe even convince it to cooperate. But apparently, fate had other plans.
Just as he was about to start strategizing, the golden text of the Trial System began to flicker , and shift.
[Trial Parameters Adjusted.]
[Subduing the Eight-Eyed Spider King shall be recognized as trial completion. Rewards remain unchanged.]
Tom exhaled, shoulders relaxing.
"Well, would you look at that," he murmured with a crooked smile. "The system's learning."
It was evolving. Or perhaps it was his connection to the Twelve Trials that had deepened , his will subtly influencing the rules themselves. The stronger he grew, the more responsive the trials became.
He reread the rewards list and couldn't help but grin.
Eyes of Death Perception. Immunity to All Venoms. Mastery of Poisons. The Body of Longevity.
"Out of all that," he mused aloud, "the Eyes are the real prize."
He'd seen what true death-sight could do , the basilisk's gaze was pure, lethal authority. He wouldn't have Fawkes there to blind it this time, so his anti-gaze magic would finally be put to the test.
But the real problem wasn't killing the serpent.
It was finding it.
The basilisk had slept for decades, slumbering under Slytherin's command seal. Only Voldemort's voice , the true Parseltongue command , could awaken it.
Tom's fingers drummed against the table as his thoughts swirled.
There had to be another way.
So, as he'd done countless times before, he retreated inward , into the Learning Space , where two of the most dangerous minds in magical history were waiting.
Time to consult the old masters.
The next day, sunlight spilled through the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom as Professor Rouse demonstrated a deceptively mild jinx , the Stinging Hex.
It wasn't officially classified as dark magic, but its intent certainly leaned that way. A quick flick of the wand and , zap! , the target's skin erupted in sharp, itching welts, like being stung by a swarm of hornets.
By the end of class, half the students were covered in red marks, gasping and scratching furiously.
"Excellent reflexes build through pain!" Rouse boomed proudly. "Now you'll never forget to dodge again!"
When class ended, Tom was the first to rise, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve. But before he could leave, Rouse's deep voice called after him:
"Mr. Riddle , wait up!"
Tom turned, feigning curiosity. "Yes, Professor?"
Rouse caught up with him, lowering his voice. "Heading to the Headmaster's office, are we?"
Tom nodded calmly. "I have some things to report to Professor Dumbledore. You as well?"
A grin split Rouse's scarred face. "What a coincidence. I need to see him too. And since you don't require the password to get in…" He winked. "I'll tag along."
Tom's lips curved. "Then by all means."
They ascended the marble staircase together, their small talk effortless , meaningless chatter to any passerby. But once they reached the deserted fifth floor, Rouse's tone shifted.
"I heard," he began quietly, "that you intend to participate in the Duel Championship. Is that true?"
Tom didn't stop walking. "And if it is?"
"Nothing , nothing, of course." Rouse's voice wavered. The image of Grindelwald's heir sparring with schoolchildren clearly didn't sit right with him. "It's just… well, it feels like putting a dragon in a chicken coop."
Tom ignored that, instead asking, "How many from Ilvermorny will be attending the exchange?"
"Not many," Rouse said. "Twenty students at most."
He hesitated, lowering his tone again. "But don't let that fool you. The tournament next year , the true one , will be far from simple. I suspect… other motives."
Tom tilted his head, feigning mild interest. "Other motives? Like what , assassinating Dumbledore?"
Rouse grimaced. "Not quite that direct. But I've heard whispers from home. The Magical Congress of the United States is shifting , fast. They've been negotiating with goblins to move Gringotts' main branch to New York. More witches and wizards are joining the International Confederation. The old balance is changing."
"Go on."
"According to my uncle," Rouse said grimly, "leaders like Graves intend to make North America the new capital of the magical world."
Tom stopped mid-step, his eyes narrowing slightly. Then, after a moment, he continued climbing toward the eighth floor.
"Understandable," he said coolly. "The new rich always want a bigger slice of the pie. Let them. If the sky falls, there are taller men to hold it up."
Then, with a faint smirk, he added, "And for now, I'm not one of them."
He glanced sideways at Rouse. "So unless you want me involved in politics, just keep me updated. Quietly."
Rouse inclined his head. "Understood."
They said nothing more.
The stone gargoyle guarding the office yawned and stepped aside at Tom's approach. Together, the two wizards ascended the spiral staircase into Dumbledore's office, the air faintly humming with ancient magic.
Whatever awaited him there , it would soon tie directly into the serpent's awakening.
And this time, Tom wasn't just entering Dumbledore's office.
He was stepping closer to the heart of the Sixth Trial.