"Put the book down. Right now. Immediately!"
Snape's voice cracked like a whip through the dimly lit Potions lab. He pointed at the door. "Bed. Go."
Tom closed the heavy tome with a reluctant sigh and followed Snape out. On the long walk back through the chilly stone corridors, he refused to let the silence win.
"Professor Snape, are you hungry at all? Fancy a late-night snack?"
Silence.
"Professor Snape, the kitchens do some incredible stuff after hours. Last time I saw these massive crabs—"
More silence.
"Professor Snape… do you know who the Half-Blood Prince is?"
Snape's steps faltered for half a second. Then he whipped around, black eyes flashing, and jabbed a long finger right at Tom's nose.
"Tom. From this moment on, I want complete silence." His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "And stop with the little schemes."
Tom blinked innocently. "I'm actually starving, Professor. Just a tiny bite of something or I won't sleep well. Want to join me?"
Snape sped up so fast his robes billowed like bat wings. Tom had to jog to keep pace.
"Sandwich? Pizza? Or… or maybe I'll bring you back one of those giant crabs?"
Snape's stride slowed—just a fraction.
Tom hid a tiny, triumphant grin in the dark.
---
The next morning, Tom was in the Potions lab before the sun had even thought about rising.
Two fresh vials sat on the workbench, glowing a richer, creamier gold than the ones he'd brewed yesterday. A faint, comforting scent of warm milk drifted through the air.
Magic-power potion… with milk.
"Still standing there?" Snape snapped without looking up. "Drink it and get over here. You're taking this for a full week. I refuse to have you assisting me while you stumble around like a half-awake troll."
Tom downed the first vial in one go and reached for the second.
"I never said you could have two," Snape growled. "Tom, did your family raise you to expect everything handed to you on a silver platter?"
Tom froze, then lowered his hand. He walked over and stood quietly beside the tall man.
"Professor Snape…"
"Speak."
"I… I came from an orphanage. I never met my parents. I don't have any family. I'm sorry…"
The lab fell deathly quiet.
---
Tom's days at Hogwarts blurred into one long, glorious grind.
Every morning at four o'clock sharp—yes, he'd pushed his wake-up time back another hour—he met Snape in the lab, downed his magic-power potion, and threw himself into brewing.
His Potions skill skyrocketed.
Two weeks vanished in a flash. Term started next week.
> [You successfully brewed a potion. Rating: Perfect! Potions +100]
> [You successfully brewed a potion. Rating: Perfect! Potions +100]
> [You successfully brewed a potion. Rating: Perfect! Potions +100]
> [Potions skill level up!]
> [Potions LV.3]
> [Title Acquired: Potions Prodigy]
> [Potions Prodigy: You have a deeper understanding of brewing timing. 30% chance to yield an extra bottle when harvesting potions. Slight quality boost to every successful brew!]
Textbooks? They couldn't keep up anymore. He and Snape were flying through material that would make most third-years cry. Even the week Hermione had been in his body hadn't slowed him down.
The word "effort" looked at Tom and took notes.
His spellwork had exploded too. A full week of concentrated magic-power potion had swelled his reserves. His casts were faster, stronger, longer-lasting. Anyone watching him fling first-year charms would swear he was at least a fourth-year.
Hagrid had put it best, scratching his beard in awe: "Blimey, little Tom… aside from Defence Against the Dark Arts, the rest of first-year classes might as well be a holiday for you."
---
Another Monday.
Tom reached the lab early; Snape wasn't there yet.
He moved on autopilot—ingredients in, stir three times left, three times right. No more nerves. Just calm, practiced ease.
Brewing was actually the most relaxing part of his day now. He could even practice Charms on the side while a cauldron bubbled.
When the potion was done, he carefully decanted it.
Luck was on his side. The new title kicked in—he pulled three perfect vials instead of the usual two.
That was when Snape swept in.
"Tom!" The man lunged forward and grabbed Tom's collar. "Tell me exactly what you think you're doing! Did I or did I not specifically forbid you from brewing unsupervised? You could have ruined the entire stock of ingredients! Answer me!"
Tom didn't struggle. Instead he lifted both hands, offering the three shimmering vials.
"Professor Snape, these are from ingredients I bought with my own Galleons. I… I have to leave for a little while. I need to go back to the orphanage and check on my friends."
He met Snape's eyes, voice steady and sincere.
"Thank you for letting me stay with you all this time, and for teaching me so much without holding anything back. I found these recipes in an extra-curricular book. They're for you."
Snape's grip loosened.
"This one is a vitality tonic. I noticed you haven't been sleeping well—probably because I keep disturbing you in the dorm. I hope it helps."
"This is a pepper-up potion. It cures colds. You've seemed a bit off lately, Professor. Seasonal bugs are normal, but I wanted to fix it for you."
"And this is an all-purpose magical stain remover. I didn't dare clean your rooms myself—too many precious things of yours. I know I'm as thick as a troll sometimes—you say it all the time—but maybe these can still be useful."
Snape stood frozen, letting Tom place the vials gently in his palm. For once, the sharp-tongued man had nothing to say.
Tom's voice grew softer. His jade-green eyes shimmered with unshed tears.
"Next week when I come back it'll be the Sorting Ceremony. I probably won't be able to stay with you anymore… or bring you midnight snacks. That makes me really sad."
He gave a deep, respectful bow, then turned toward the door.
"I never thought you were as thick as a troll," Snape muttered to the empty air. "If I did… I wouldn't have taught you at all."
But Tom was already gone.
A flicker of something complicated—something that absolutely should not have been there—stirred in Snape's dark, bottomless eyes.
---
"Professor Sprout, all the weeds are cleared and the ingredients sorted. The Mandrakes are still in their pots exactly as you said—I didn't touch them."
"Little Tom, you are such a hard-working, wonderful boy." Sprout beamed, ruffling his curls. "Here's today's pay. I truly hope you end up in Hufflepuff, dear."
Tom grinned. "Professor Sprout, that's not up to me, you know. But I have to leave today. Thank you for everything these past weeks. See you in a week!"
"Oh?" A shadow of sadness crossed her face. "You're off already? I was hoping we could have afternoon tea together."
"I want to spend as much time as I can with the kids back at the orphanage. There's a little angel there who's really attached to me. I didn't even say goodbye when I left last time—I was scared she'd cry. I've got one week left before term starts, so I'm going back to be with her."
"Such a kind child." Sprout smiled warmly. "Off you go, then. We'll see you soon."
"Goodbye, Professor."
Tom said his farewells to the other two people who mattered—Hagrid and Dumbledore.
When Dumbledore heard Tom wanted to return to the orphanage, he insisted on escorting him.
"Hold my hand, young man."
Tom hesitated for a split second—everyone knew Dumbledore's… preferences.
"You weren't planning to take the train, were you? That would waste precious time. We'll Apparate."
"Apparate? Isn't that banned inside the school grounds?"
"Normally, yes. But I am the Headmaster, it is still holiday, and you, little Tom, do not want to waste time."
"Sir, could we stop at Gringotts first? The one in Diagon Alley."
At the bank Tom withdrew every last Galleon he had saved—392 in total. Tips from Sprout, the Weasley twins, and the little extra he'd made selling potions on the side.
He exchanged 200 for Muggle money: a crisp 1,000 pounds.
"Professor Dumbledore, could we make one more stop? Number 23 Magpie Lane. There's this amazing bakery the kids at the orphanage love. I want to bring them some treats."
"Of course, my boy."
Tom bought five of nearly everything in the shop, including a box for Dumbledore himself, then finally headed home.
---
St. Redelia Orphanage.
Dumbledore set him down gently, reminded him to report back next week, and vanished with a soft pop.
"Tom?!" A kid spotted him and clapped both hands over his mouth. "It's really you! Misha! Come quick—Tom's back!"
The little angel still looked adorable, though her cheeks were flushed with fever.
She shuffled out of the storage room on shaky legs. The moment she saw Tom, her whole face brightened.
"Tom!"
"Hey, Misha… you look awful. Caught a cold?"
She coughed into her sleeve and nodded. "Mr. Middle checked me. I'll be better soon. Tom, why are you back? Did the school kick you out?"
Kids say the darndest things.
Tom flicked her forehead gently. "It's holiday, silly. I leave again next week, and after that… it'll be a long time before I can come back. I brought loads of cake—your favorites."
Misha's eyes sparkled, then dimmed. "But… I'm sick. I can't eat any."
"Come with me." Tom led her back into the storage room, pulled out the vials he'd kept aside, and pressed them into her small hands. "These are cold remedies. Drink one, sleep, and when you wake up you'll be all better. Then we can eat cake together with everyone."
Misha's mouth formed a perfect little "O."
"Don't worry, I won't let the others touch the cake until you're awake. We'll share everything."
Misha reached up and covered Tom's mouth with both hands, eyes serious.
"We're family. It should be—we! All! Eat! Together!"