All eyes turned toward Severus Snape.

It was only then that Snape rose to his feet, as though a sudden realization had struck him.

"Ah, yes, Riddle. I almost forgot if you hadn't reminded me."

"Grading certain people's essays lately has been dulling my mind," he drawled, letting his gaze deliberately linger on Harry and Neville for a few extra seconds.

"Severus… what paper is this?" Dumbledore asked, a flicker of unease crossing his face, though he pressed on with the question.

Snape reached into his robes and pulled out a piece of parchment he had clearly prepared in advance. Leaning past Professor McGonagall, he handed it to Dumbledore.

"Mr. Riddle has been meticulously studying the art of Potions and has created an 'Active Substance Extraction Technique.' Not only can it significantly enhance the efficacy of potions, but it also reduces the consumption of raw ingredients."

Snape gave a low whistle and shook his head in apparent admiration. "A remarkable innovation. Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers has already verified the method, and just a few days ago, they published a special feature in their journal. They are also submitting Mr. Riddle for the Silver Cauldron Medal and inviting him to join the Association."

Britain had its Order of Merlin; the global high-tier potioneers' organization had its own hierarchy of honors.

At the lowest level was the Bronze Cauldron, above that the Silver Cauldron, and finally the Gold Cauldron.

Tom's extraction method wasn't quite worthy of the Gold Cauldron, but it was more than enough for the Silver—putting him instantly on the same rank as Snape.

That didn't mean Tom's overall potion-making skill equaled Snape's, but it did mean his contribution to the field matched the man's.

When Snape finished, the room's focus shifted from him entirely—landing squarely on Tom.

"Professor, there's something I don't understand," Tom said with a playful blink. "You might have only just remembered this, but the journal publication happened this school year, didn't it?"

Inside, Snape was almost giddy. For the first time in his life, he answered what he considered a stupid question with saintly patience.

"Of course, Mr. Riddle. The criteria aren't based on my memory, after all. Isn't that right, Dumbledore?"

Dumbledore had finished reading the parchment, a soft sigh escaping him.

"This was our oversight, Severus."

Recovering swiftly, the headmaster smiled again.

"I am proud to have a student like Mr. Riddle at Hogwarts. He is fully deserving of a Special Award for Services to the School. And for that, I will award Slytherin two hundred points."

The Philosopher's Stone business was over, and the hundred points he'd already given Harry had been the limit.

It wasn't Harry's fault—Tom Riddle was simply too exceptional. Dumbledore accepted it without bitterness. If he couldn't inspire Harry's courage and determination through points and competition, he would find another way.

A loss was a loss. There was no shame in acknowledging it.

Still, this episode made Dumbledore realize he had underestimated Tom's sheer dominance—What I want, no one can take from me. Not even you, Dumbledore. Not even a headmaster.

Perhaps it was better to avoid such behind-the-scenes manipulation in the future. The last thing he wanted was to create a savior while also cultivating another Dark Lord.

"Splendid," Snape drawled, drawing out the syllables. "In that case, the Hall's decorations—"

"No need to trouble the Headmaster, I can handle it," Tom said, flicking his wand.

The scarlet-and-gold lions of Gryffindor appeared for only five fleeting minutes before being replaced by silver-and-green serpents.

To the Gryffindor students, it was as though a massive emerald snake had opened its fanged jaws and swallowed the lion whole. They sat frozen, speechless.

The hard-won House Cup… gone.

The reaction in Slytherin was the exact opposite—pure-bloods abandoning all pretense of noble restraint, shouting themselves hoarse. Malfoy even jumped onto a bench and wiggled his backside at Harry in triumph.

He could not stomach the idea of Gryffindor beating Slytherin, much less because of Harry Potter.

Tom's last-minute stroke of genius had been like saving Draco's life.

At the high table, Snape extended his hand toward Professor McGonagall again—this time with an even brighter smile than before.

Even with her usual composure, McGonagall's mood had been badly rattled by the dramatic reversal.

Hiss—!

Snape glanced at the three long scratch marks now adorning his hand.

"Sorry, Severus. I've been forgetting to trim my nails lately," McGonagall said with zero sincerity, before fixing her eyes on her empty plate as though it held some rare delicacy.

"Eat, children," Dumbledore said with a wave of his hand.

The empty dishes filled instantly, a mirror of the welcoming feast at the start of term.

Slytherins ate with gusto, piling the best dishes in front of Tom until the food in front of him formed a small mountain. They raised goblets of pumpkin juice as though it were champagne, the sound of clinking glass filling the hall.

Across the room, the other three Houses picked at their food like it was sawdust. Even Ron Weasley, who could normally devour five chicken legs in a sitting, stopped at three.

Tom could feel the resentment-laden glares from the Gryffindor table boring into his back, but he didn't care.

Those who blamed their own failings on others would never be more than a nuisance to him. He had Gryffindor friends who were worth his time—like the twins, with whom he often snuck into the kitchens for food and banter, or Neville.

If anyone decided to cut ties over this, so be it. Not everyone was worthy of his friendship.

…

The feast ended in that bittersweet split of triumph and dejection.

Back in the Slytherin common room, the celebration had only just begun. Several older students had slipped out to Hogsmeade, returning with arms full of drinks and snacks. In moments, the common room had transformed into a raucous party.

"To our greatest hero—Riddle!" Bock declared, raising his glass.

"To Riddle!" voices echoed in unison.

The way they looked at Tom had changed. Before, they had respected his sheer strength; now, he had brought them glory.

It didn't matter that it was only reputation, not tangible benefit.

Fanatically pure-blood Slytherins thrived on this kind of prestige—using the House Cup as proof that a House of pure-bloods was stronger than one of half-bloods and Muggle-borns.

What's that? Tom's Muggle-born?

Impossible.

Absolutely impossible.

No Muggle-born child could be Sorted into Slytherin the moment the Sorting Hat touched their head. He must have an ancient, noble bloodline—merely hidden until it blazed forth in his generation.

And so, the "great scholars" of Slytherin rewrote reality to suit their pride.

Tom was the undisputed center of the party. After making his rounds to politely toast those who approached him, he slipped into a corner.

Daphne, flushed from a bit of drink, was curled up against his chest, quietly dozing.