A flicker of competitive fire sparked in Tom's chest—that old drive to conquer, like back in his previous life when he'd been lost in the wilds of Advanced Mathematics.
Casting spells wasn't just about waving your wand and mumbling some incantation. No way.
The abstract nature of magic? It was on par with the mind-bending puzzles of math from his old life.
First off, Tom had to visualize. That's step one.
For Wingardium Leviosa, he'd picture himself as a bird soaring free.
For Lumos, he'd imagine being a glowing lantern.
But Sectumsempra? What the hell was he supposed to visualize for that?
He needed someone to step into, mentally. Who fit the bill?
Snape!
No question—Severus Snape was the perfect match. As the creator of Sectumsempra, and after all the time Tom had spent around him, this didn't feel like too steep a climb.
What kind of guy was Snape, really?
Tsundere? Nah, that was just the side he showed Tom. For this, Tom needed the public version—the brooding, greasy-haired Potions Master the whole school whispered about.
Tom ruffled his hair into a wild mess, schooled his face into that signature blank stare, and yeah... he kinda nailed the look.
"Sectumsempra!"
Nothing. Zilch.
For the first time, Tom found spellwork this damn frustrating. Back in the day—even with advanced stuff—he'd nail the basics in under ten tries, then polish it up from there.
...
Meanwhile, Hermione had picked up a little shadow. Or two, actually.
One lurking in the open, the other hiding in the shadows of the shadows.
"Hermione, you notice how Malfoy's been tailing us?" Harry whispered, glancing back. "We've looped this corridor three times now, and there he is again. Does he seriously think we haven't spotted him?"
Ron nodded vigorously. "Harry's right—some slimy Slytherin punk's got his eye on you. Can't blame him; you're the Boy Who Lived, after all."
"I never asked for that stupid title!"
To Harry, nothing beat the ache of missing his parents. He'd trade the whole "Boy Who Lived" schtick in a heartbeat if it meant getting them back.
Who the hell wants to be the Boy Who Lived, anyway?
"Maybe we should just call him out—ask what the heck Malfoy's deal is."
The trio was in total sync. Harry and Ron ducked into an alcove at the next corner, while Hermione kept strolling ahead like nothing was up.
Sure enough, Malfoy slunk into view moments later.
"Malfoy, what the hell are you playing at?!" Ron lunged, grabbing his shoulder to block any getaway. "You've been stalking us all day! Give us one good reason, or we're dragging you straight to Professor McGonagall!"
Harry chimed in, nodding hard. "If you're man enough, just own up to it!"
"Who said I was following you lot? Get off me!" Malfoy wrenched free, rubbing his shoulder with a scowl.
He nearly let fly with some trash talk—"filthy blood traitor Weasley" or "mudblood scum"—but memories of his last run-in with these three clamped his mouth shut.
"I was just tailing Granger."
Hermione whipped around, planting herself right in his path. "Why me, Malfoy? You've got even more explaining to do now!"
She crossed her arms, lips pursed into a thin line.
Truth be told, Hermione had zero warm fuzzies for Draco Malfoy—not a single Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Bean of goodwill.
"Tch, none of your business." Malfoy shot them a frosty glare and stormed off.
But as he rounded the corner, he snuck a couple more glances at Hermione.
Hermione Granger—a mudblood.
She was sharp, sure. A little pretty, even. And yeah, he'd admit it: her guts and skills outshone his own.
As a Malfoy, Draco couldn't stand owing anyone a debt.
And Hermione keeping quiet about his panicked escape last time? That put him in her red by one.
Too bad Tom wasn't around—he'd get a kick out of this.
Since when did Malfoy start gaslighting himself?
Look, Malfoy wasn't out to cause trouble by shadowing her. It was just... lately, that house-elf Dobby back home kept vanishing without a trace.
After some sly prodding, Draco pieced it together: Dobby was secretly tailing Hermione.
He'd grilled his dad about it, but Lucius stonewalled him. So here Draco was, playing detective.
...
"Malfoy's acting off," Harry said, scratching his head. Couldn't quite put his finger on why. "Hermione, you been chatting with him lately? You think he's plotting something against you? That troll business is still unsolved, and now You-Know-Who's popping up in the Forbidden Forest... yeah."
Deep down, Harry was convinced Hogwarts was rotting with some massive conspiracy!
And he was dead certain Snape was pulling the strings.
No clue why Hermione bought into Snape's act—probably brainwashed or something.
"But hey, Hermione, where are we even headed?"
"Just wandering."
That morning, she'd swung by the Potions lab—no sign of Tom.
Which meant he was holed up in one spot: the Slytherin Head of House's office.
Snape's office.
"Hey there."
The trio looked up—some third-year bloke.
He was on the chubby side, face flushed like he'd chugged a Firewhisky or two.
"I-I'm Laventon Chris, third-year Gryffindor. You're Hermione Granger, right?"
Hermione frowned, nodding. "Yeah. What's up?"
"Christmas—er, I mean, Christmas is coming up. I was hoping you'd come to the Yule Ball with me!" The older guy bowed awkwardly. "Please, Miss Granger! I'll do anything you want—I swear."
"I'm a first-year!" Hermione rolled her eyes. "Maybe try someone your own grade instead of hitting up us little sisters. Hogwarts is packed with students—can't you find one date?"
He shook his head. "I... I've tried everyone. Even first-year girls. But please, just this once—I'm desperate!"
"You could ask Lavender Brown. She's my dormmate—way prettier than me, more mature too. If she dolled up right, even the professors might not clock her age."
The guy flushed deeper. "Actually... Miss Brown told me to ask you."
Jerk!
"No way." Hermione shut him down flat. "But I've got a backup pick. If he says yes, you'll turn heads at the ball—big time."
"He?"
"Yep. Him." She grinned. "If it's all about the flex, go for Tom Riddle. First-year Ravenclaw. Get him in a dress, and you'll steal the whole show. Go on—don't come back to me!"
"Uh... any chance you could tell me where he is?"
He was actually going for it?
Hermione blinked, caught off guard.
Kids these days—what wouldn't they do for clout? Tom was a guy.
"Head of Slytherin's office. Help yourself."
"Professor Snape's office?!" The third-year yelped. "No shot—that's a hard pass."
"What's the matter? No guts for that, and you expect to land a date? No wonder you're striking out!" Hermione's words hit like a Stinging Hex, shredding his defenses. "One rule, though: don't you dare say I sent you."
...
Snape's office.
Tom had devoured the whole book cover to cover, memorizing every line like it was the key to the universe.
But pulling off Sectumsempra? Yeah, not yet.
He smoothed his messy hair, debating a ponytail for the longer bits, when—knock knock knock—the door rattled.
It couldn't be Snape—he never knocked. He'd just barge in, all snarls and suspicion.
Tom cracked the door. "Professor Snape's out right now. If you've got business with him, you might wanna wait."
"I'm here for you, Mr. Riddle. Hi—I'm Laventon Chris, third-year Gryffindor."
"Mr. Chris, what can I do for you?"
Tom drew a blank—no memory of this dude.
"I'd like you to come to the Yule Ball with me!"
Tom: "?"
You might be from England, but I'm not swinging that way!
"Sorry, I'm a bloke. And a first-year. No idea why you'd pick me..." Tom trailed off, scratching his head in total confusion.
Chris had wondered the same—until he laid eyes on Tom.
Slap some makeup on that face, drape him in a gown, and girls would straight-up riot with envy.
"Please, Mr. Riddle—I'll do anything! I have to go to this ball. I've begged everyone—even first-year girls—but..."
Tom's eyes narrowed. "So... did a certain Miss Hermione Granger put you up to this?"
The guy's guilty squirm and refusal to fess up? Instant replay of Hermione's devious smirk in Tom's head.
How is she screwing me over like this?
All because I'd made her grind out that "teensy" mountain of homework for me!
Boom—
A lightbulb blazed to life in Tom's brain.
He'd cracked it. The secret to Sectumsempra.
Why mimic? Why visualize some flowery BS?
This was a spell built for slaughter. All he needed was the intent to end someone.
Just like Hermione plotting to sabotage him.
Thanks for the assist, Hermione.
But if I catch you out there? Payback's coming.
"Sorry, Mr. Riddle, but please—come with me! I'm at the end of my rope here!"
The fact that he'd braved Snape's lair? Yeah, desperate times.
"No chance!"
That wasn't Tom—it was Snape, finally materializing like a storm cloud.
The Bat of the Dungeons glowered, eyes flicking between them.
"Riddle," he drawled, voice dripping ice, "you never mentioned you had this particular... inclination."