Chapter 61: The Wisdom of Gargoyle
— — — — — —
Dumbledore was right—it really was a strange twist of fate.
Tom hadn’t chosen that book with Nicolas Flal in mind. In fact, he couldn’t possibly have known Flal had written that unpublished manuscript.
As for the tiny line of text in the corner marking the author? It was nearly impossible to notice, even when looking closely.
Tom only spotted it after Dumbledore pointed out that the book was special.
Well, now that it had co up... Tom was genuinely curious about eting Nicolas Flal soday.
After all, when an ordinary person lives a long life, it’s just clinging to existence.
But when soone brilliant lives that long? That’s when things get terrifying.
Flal was a legend in alchemy—a true milestone in magical history.
Over six centuries, who knows how much wealth and knowledge he’d accumulated? He might even rival Hogwarts itself in terms of magical resources.
Because when it cos down to it, Hogwarts is still a school. It caters to the general wizarding population. But Flal? His entire collection is for his own use. If a book isn’t top-tier, it wouldn’t even catch his eye.
Still, Tom wasn’t going to bring up the idea of contacting Flal just yet. That would be too presumptuous. For now, he simply promised Dumbledore he’d return the book within a week and left the Headmaster’s office.
As he reached the doorway, the stone gargoyle moved to block him again.
"You need sothing else?" Tom raised an eyebrow.
"Kid, since you’ve already uncovered my secret... I might as well co clean," the gargoyle said mysteriously.
Tom stared, thoroughly confused. "Why is this thing so dramatic all of a sudden?"
The gargoyle’s face took on an oddly smug expression, like it was proud of its own mystery. "Salazar Slytherin was only one of my creators. I was forged by all four founders. Salazar gave
life and layout, Helga gave
my unbreakable body, Godric gifted
strength, and Rowena blessed
with great wisdom."
Tom gave the statue a skeptical once-over. Okay, sure, the first three kind of checked out—this thing looked like it could easily punch a hole through a wall. But the last one?
Rowena’s wisdom? Really?
"Are you mocking
again?!" the gargoyle shouted, scandalized.
Tom held up a hand. "No, no. Just wondering why you’re telling
all this."
"Oh." The gargoyle visibly relaxed, then smirked. "It’s just been a while since I bragged to anyone. Needed soone to appreciate how aweso I am."
Tom: "..."
— — —
"Hey, you okay?"
Tom returned to the Great Hall just in ti for lunch. All eyes turned to him as he walked toward the Slytherin table. News spread fast—everyone already knew both he and Malfoy had been called to the Headmaster’s office.
But only Tom had co back so far. Malfoy was still MIA (missing in action).
Daphne imdiately scooted over as Tom sat down beside her, speaking in a low voice full of concern. She might have acted calm earlier, but truthfully? No one ever knew what kind of punishnt Dumbledore might dish out.
"Fifty points docked. That’s it," Tom said casually, scooping a generous serving of mashed potatoes onto his plate and pouring thick beef gravy over them.
The Slytherin students nearby didn’t react much to the point loss.
—or rather, they reacted internally but didn’t dare show it.
Out of the four houses, Hufflepuff cared the least about the House Cup.
Ravenclaw went with the flow—if they could win, great; if not, no big deal.
But Gryffindor and Slytherin? Those two were obsessed with house pride.
Gryffindors often charged in with all the fanfare, only to self-sabotage and lose their lead without even realizing it.
There’s an old saying: lions and snakes are two sides of the sa coin.
A clever lion becos a snake. A bold snake becos a lion. Not just poetic—there’s truth to it.
Normally, anyone else losing fifty points would’ve been crucified by the Slytherins. Look at how they treated Malfoy and Goyle—pure-bloods or not, the second you beca a liability, the group turned cold.
But Tom?
No one dared say a word.
This wasn’t about whether he would be isolated—it was about whether he’d decide to isolate you.
Tom had just proven himself as the strongest in the house. He was untouchable now.
Besides, Tom was great at earning points. He could make up that loss in a month without breaking a sweat.
Malfoy? That guy was just dead weight.
...
The only person visibly distressed was Severus Snape, who stood staring at the house point board like he’d just aged five years.
"Dumbledore..."
"I told you to punish Riddle however you liked—detention, cleaning, even a disciplinary mark—but docking points?"
"Are you punishing him, or are you punishing ?"
"Now I need to team up with him again..."
— — —
"Tom, Malfoy really went and ratted you out. Want
to take care of him?"
After lunch, Zabini eagerly slid into step beside Tom. "Don’t worry—you won’t need to lift a finger. I’ve still got so of that Draught of Living Death left over. Just say the word and I’ll have him running to his daddy crying."
Nott nodded enthusiastically. "And I’ve got so healing potions ready. Was planning to use it myself, but I’d be honored to gift it to Malfoy after beating him."
Rosier turned red but forced out a gruff, "Sa here."
Out of the trio, he was definitely the least eloquent. Just didn’t have the words.
The three of them weren’t even trying to keep their voices down. Goyle and Crabbe, a few seats away, definitely heard every word.
But they acted like nothing happened, just kept shoveling food into their mouths.
Even followers had to look out for themselves. If sticking with Malfoy ant more trouble, maybe it was ti to rethink so things.
For once, Goyle and Crabbe had a mont of clarity—whenever sothing involved Riddle, they’d play deaf and blind.
But the rest of the ti? Keep pretending they were loyal to Malfoy and ride the gravy train.
Perfect way to survive.
"Don’t act on your own," Tom warned, waving them off. "I already said—whatever happened between
and Malfoy is over. If he stirs things up again, then sure, go nuts. But for now, behave."
"Oh." Zabini looked genuinely disappointed but nodded obediently.
What a missed opportunity—to humiliate Malfoy and earn Tom’s favor at the sa ti.
Still, thinking back, Tom always kept things clean. If you ssed up, he’d punish you once, no grudges held.
"Man," Zabini thought, "maybe Tom’s actually... a good guy?"
"Oww, we really don’t deserve him. Especially after plotting against him at the start of term..."
Zabini’s thoughts got weirder every second
...
Draco Malfoy didn’t show up again until the afternoon Herbology class.
His expression was carefully neutral, ignoring all the curious stares. But every ti his eyes landed on Tom’s back, he couldn’t help but flinch, his father’s advice echoing in his mind.
All Malfoy could do now was pray Tom ant it when he said the feud was over.
He wouldn’t ss with Tom Riddle again.
...unless Tom was clearly on his way out. Then, well, striking when the iron was hot wasn’t betrayal—it was strategy.
...
"Oooh~ These beans are adorable!"
Daphne squeezed the plant until it popped, sending a puff of steam and a bright green bean flying. It bounced off the table like a rubber ball.
Everyone wore gloves for this—those beans were hot.
Tom caught the one Daphne popped, blew on it, wiped it clean, and popped it in his mouth. His eyes lit up.
"Not bad."
Daphne perked up imdiately and squeezed out another one. "Let
try... Mmm! You’re right. Sweet and squishy."
Professor Sprout watched them from the back with a mix of exasperation and amusent.
"Riddle, Greengrass—don’t eat too many of those beans, they’ll give you pimples."
Tom didn’t react, but Daphne’s face turned pale. She quickly spat out the bean she was chewing.
"It’s fine," Tom said, amused. "Didn’t Slughorn ntion there’s a potion that clears that up?"
"No way!" Daphne shook her head furiously. "I have to stay cute. Pimples are not happening."
Professor Sprout just chuckled. She didn’t even scold them for goofing off in class—honestly, she felt a little regretful.
With an appetite like that, Riddle really should’ve been in Hufflepuff.
After class, Tom originally planned to head back to the dorms to brew so potions. But just as he stepped into the entrance hall, a Slytherin boy stopped him, speaking in a rushed, almost awkward voice:
"Riddle, Professor Snape wants to see you. His office."
Tom paused. Was Snape losing it again? Maybe he wanted to have another go at pushing his buttons.
Still, he didn’t overthink it. He nodded and followed along—might as well swing by and scout the place out again.
He needed to borrow—well, more like steal—so rare materials from his favorite Head of House, after all.
.
.
.
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