Tom: "..."

"Mr. Riddle?" Dumbledore looked at the boy standing frozen in place, puzzled.

"Oh, nothing. I was just wondering how you managed to get here, Professor."

"Fawkes brought me to the door."

"And… how long have you been here?"

"Mm, just a little later than you."

"Remarkable concealment magic! I didn't sense you at all. Professor, would you teach me?"

"With pleasure."

Neither of them spared a glance at the enormous three-headed dog cowering in the corner, trembling like a leaf. They simply pushed the door open and stepped out.

Only when they were gone did Fluffy return to his senses, though his heart was brimming with grievance.

This job was definitely not fit for a dog. He never wanted to be a guard dog again!

…

By the time Dumbledore and Tom descended to the third floor, Neville and Professor McGonagall appeared—rather like police arriving fashionably late to a scene.

"Dumbledore? Good heavens! Potter? Weasley? What on earth happened here?!"

The moment McGonagall caught sight of Harry—pale-faced and unconscious—she almost fainted herself.

"Minerva, do calm yourself. Harry is not in any real danger, but Madam Pomfrey will need to examine him to be certain."

"Oh, thank goodness… thank goodness," she said, still visibly shaken. Then, her expression hardened. "And the Philosopher's Stone? Longbottom claims Snape tried to steal it—which is utterly absurd!"

Dumbledore nodded. "Quite right. Severus had nothing to do with any of this. It was Quirrell."

"Quirrell?"

McGonagall's shock gave way to fury. "But he resigned and left already, didn't he?"

Neville, trailing behind her, looked equally stunned. Who could have guessed that the one coveting the Stone wasn't the sinister-looking Snape, but the seemingly harmless, hopelessly timid Professor Quirrell?

"It was all part of a scheme," Dumbledore explained calmly. "Minerva, please see to sealing off the fourth-floor corridor. I'll explain the details to you tomorrow…"

Receiving her orders, McGonagall gave a sharp nod, then turned to Neville. "Longbottom, your voice is completely gone—go with the Headmaster to the hospital wing. You've had a hard day."

Neville nodded as well, opening his mouth… only for no sound to come out.

It had taken him ages to even get McGonagall's attention earlier, his hoarse throat refusing to produce a single word. In the end, she had grown impatient and made him write the whole thing down on parchment before she understood what had happened.

…

With Neville joining them, Tom and Dumbledore said nothing more until they reached the hospital wing.

Madam Pomfrey promptly launched into a scolding tirade at Dumbledore, declaring that strange, dangerous things like this had no business being anywhere near students.

There were only two people in the entire school who dared to speak to Dumbledore that way—Minerva McGonagall, and Madam Pomfrey herself. When it came to student safety, she would have no qualms about pointing her finger at the Headmaster's nose.

And Dumbledore didn't even try to argue—he just smiled meekly and took the telling-off.

After examining everyone, Madam Pomfrey said curtly, "Potter's fine—just drained his magic too much in a short burst. Weasley's injuries are purely physical."

What about me?

Neville quickly pointed at himself.

"Off with you, stop making a fuss! Don't talk for the next two days and drink plenty of water—you'll be fine."

"Then I'll leave them in your care, Poppy," Dumbledore said with a smile, before leading Tom toward the Headmaster's office.

"A truly busy day," Dumbledore sighed as soon as he sat in his chair.

"First I was called away to London, then had to rush back here—I feel like these old bones are about to fall apart."

"Mr. Riddle," he continued, his sharp blue eyes resting on Tom, "you didn't seem at all surprised to find Voldemort inside Quirrell. And you certainly showed no fear of him. When I learned the truth, I must confess it took me quite some time to recover from the shock."

"I'm Muggle-born," Tom said pointedly.

Dumbledore frowned. What did that have to do with anything?

"For those of us who never knew the wizarding world before, Voldemort is merely an abstract concept," Tom explained. "We don't feel anything about him—he's not even as frightening as certain villains in children's storybooks."

"As for him possessing Professor Quirrell—well, if magic itself exists, then what isn't possible?"

"So no, it didn't surprise me. I just thought Professor Quirrell had terrible taste—if you're going to choose a master, at least pick someone formidable, not a half-dead cripple."

Dumbledore chuckled and nodded at that.

"Indeed. A name is just a name—people are the ones who pile so many meanings onto it."

"But still, I must thank you, Mr. Riddle, for protecting the Stone and thwarting Voldemort's plans."

"You've misunderstood something, Professor," Tom corrected him.

"Oh?"

"I wasn't protecting the school's property."

From his pocket, Tom produced the Philosopher's Stone. "Since you arrived at almost the same moment I did, you must have overheard my conversation with Voldemort."

"I want this Stone."

For a brief moment, Dumbledore's gaze turned razor-sharp, as though cutting straight through Tom's flesh and peering into his very soul.

But the edge vanished quickly, replaced by the same calm voice. "May I ask why, Mr. Riddle? Immortality? At your age, fearing death seems a bit premature."

"Wealth? Even less reason—mere trinkets. Without the Stone, your talents would win you riches easily enough."

The supposedly "sleeping" portraits of past Headmasters stirred, cracking open their eyes to watch this bold young wizard who dared to challenge Dumbledore himself.

"Professor."

Tom met Dumbledore's gaze squarely, without flinching.

"Do you know of the Greengrass family curse?"

In an instant, Dumbledore's eyes softened, warm and gentle.