Strictly speaking, if you're inventing a spell, you ought to be doing it all by yourself, right? That's what "original creation" means.

But the reality of the wizarding world is… a bit more flexible. A lot of so-called "original" spells are just existing ones that have been tweaked, slightly reworked, or creatively combined. Take Grindelwald's infamous magical gas burner in Paris, for example. He called it Protego Diabolica, —sounded impressive. But in essence? Just a combination of the Fiendfyre curse and Legilimency, mashed together into a clever fusion.

Tom could've asked Grindelwald and Andros to craft spells tailored to his own casting style and strengths. Then he could learn them, modify them based on personal experience, and refine them into something uniquely his.

Other people might learn a spell and master it to about 50%, and after years of training, maybe reach 80%. But Tom? He started at 80%—sometimes even 90%. After his tweaks, it'd hit a flawless 100%. That kind of efficiency saved him tons of effort… assuming, of course, he had two legendary magical powerhouses working behind the scenes like overqualified tutors.

That was the trade-off. For Tom to stay ahead of the curve, Grindelwald and Andros had to work overtime.

When they heard Tom's idea, both were stunned.

"You little slacker," Grindelwald muttered, half-admiring, half-disbelieving.

Trust Tom to even find shortcuts in inventing magic. Sure, it saved him effort—but it meant the two of them were about to get very, very busy.

Andros didn't mind. He mostly spent his time either reading or in deep meditative sleep. Having Grindelwald around to chat with gave him something to do—throwing in some actual spellcraft work wasn't a burden.

Grindelwald, on the other hand, hesitated. He finally agreed… on one condition:

"Every time you go to Dumbledore," he said, "you have to open the Learning Space. I want to hear every word you two exchange."

Tom didn't argue.

Six credits an hour, ten minutes of sentimental eavesdropping for Grindelwald in exchange for uninterrupted study time? That was a bargain.

These days, Tom rarely brought the two mentors out of the Learning Space—it was always him going in. He chalked this arrangement up to a fair salary for his two world-class private instructors.

Once the terms were set, Tom didn't waste time. The very next day, he made plans to visit Dumbledore. But not immediately. First, he sent a house-elf with a message to check the old man's availability. When Dumbledore confirmed he was free in the afternoon, they scheduled a meeting for 4 p.m.

In the meantime, Tom invited Daphne out for a walk.

The weather was still frigid, but with Quidditch season starting next month, Gryffindor had already begun training. Even from a considerable distance, Tom could hear Oliver Wood bellowing at the Weasley twins. The man's obsession with the sport bordered on pathological.

Tom figured if Wood had been around a century earlier during Phineas Nigellus Black's tenure as Headmaster—when all Quidditch was suspended—he might've been the first student in Hogwarts history to assassinate the Headmaster.

It was one of those rare, sunny days at Hogwarts, and many students had ventured out to enjoy it. The air was crisp, the grass still frosted, and the atmosphere unusually relaxed.

As they strolled near Hagrid's hut, Tom spotted a few Gryffindor students standing far from the front steps, teasing Fang, the half-giant's massive boarhound. The dog was tied securely to the door, but even so, he snarled and barked, baring his teeth at the scraps of jerky they dangled just out of reach.

Tom didn't need to check their robes to know—only Gryffindors could be that obnoxious.

"They're awful," Daphne huffed, glaring at the cruel little scene.

Tom found Fang ugly—truly. But Daphne? She thought he was ugly in a cute way. "So ugly he's adorable," she'd say. Without hesitation, she pulled out two beef jerky sticks from her snack pouch and walked over to place them gently into Fang's dish.

The moment food hit the bowl, Fang stopped reacting to the other kids. With their 'toy' now uninterested, the Gryffindor boys shot Tom and Daphne a sour look and started to walk away—grumbling, annoyed.

Tom actually laughed. He didn't just feel annoyed—he felt vindictive.

"Locomotor Mortis!"

Before any of them could blink, their legs snapped together, locked tightly by invisible magical cords. Caught off guard, they toppled one by one like dominoes—faces first into the frosty grass.

"Riddle! What the hell are you doing?!" one of the older boys shouted, red-faced. "Undo the curse—now!"

Being Hogwarts' top student meant even upper years recognized him. But Tom simply stared down at them, coldly.

"You think it's fine to act worse than a dog?" he sneered. "Well, then crawl like one. Let's see if anyone bothers helping you now."

The insult hit harder than the spell.

Furious, humiliated, the older students could only lie there and seethe, swearing to get revenge one day—once they could stand up again.

As they awkwardly hopped and flopped their way back to the castle, Daphne couldn't hold it in. She giggled uncontrollably.

"Gryffindor Tower is all the way at the top, isn't it?" she teased. "That's gonna be a long climb."

"They had it coming," Tom said flatly. "They started it."

In truth, Tom thought Gryffindors were the actual problem children of Hogwarts.

Hufflepuffs were quiet, obedient—nothing to worry about there. Ravenclaws? Most were girls, making up nearly two-thirds of the House. That gender imbalance plus their obsessive study habits meant they were too busy for drama.

Slytherins only caused trouble when pride was involved—or when facing off against Gryffindors. Otherwise, they kept to themselves.

The real chaos always came from Gryffindor: adrenaline junkies with no impulse control, endlessly poking into things they shouldn't touch.

"Tom… what if they go to Professor McGonagall to tattle?" Daphne suddenly looked worried.

Tom shook his head.

"Don't worry. Gryffindors are too proud to tattle. If any tattling's going to happen, it'll come from a Slytherin." He smirked. "Gryffindors would rather swallow their teeth than admit they got hexed by a younger student."

Even if they did rat him out, what would they say? "Professor, we bullied a dog and then glared at a younger student who hexed us for it"?

Please. They'd be a laughingstock by breakfast.

Daphne nodded slowly. "You're right. Even Hermione's too proud to complain about stuff like that…"

Tom gave Fang a few scritches on the head before glancing at Hagrid's empty hut. The half-giant had gone to tend his garden. Taking advantage of the moment, Tom took Daphne by the hand and led her into the nearby grove.

There, away from prying eyes, he handed her a vial of fortifying potion.

"Drink it," he said.

She obeyed, grimacing slightly at the taste, and he guided her through how to circulate the potion's effects—helping her body absorb it properly.

As the warmth spread through her limbs, Daphne's eyes widened.

"I—I feel amazing!" she gasped, positively glowing. "Tom, you're incredible! You made this potion yourself?"

Even a reincarnated old soul couldn't help feeling smug at a beautiful girl staring up at him with pure awe.

Tom chuckled, ruffling her hair.

"Your body's still weak. You need to stop worrying so much about your sister and start taking care of yourself too."

"Astoria—oh!" Daphne's excitement doubled. "Do you think this potion could help her too? I feel so warm and energized—surely it could help her condition?"

Tom considered it. The potion wasn't a cure—it didn't heal, per se—but it definitely improved overall constitution. It wouldn't hurt, at the very least.

He nodded. "Yeah, it's safe for her."

Daphne was over the moon. She clasped his hands, eyes sparkling.

"Can I have one more vial? I want to send it home for her to try!"

"I don't have much left—just these few bottles," Tom said, pulling out two more vials. "Send these home, and don't forget to include those physical movements I just taught you. They must be used together for the potion to work properly."

"If the effects are noticeable, then ask Madam Greengrass to help me acquire some Sphinx eyes. It's a critical ingredient, and I'm out of stock."

They made their way straight to the Owlery to write the letter. Daphne owned a snowy-white owl named Winnie, a stunning bird even among magical owls.

As for payment, neither of them brought it up aloud—Tom never intended to charge, and the little witch had already taken the initiative. In her letter, she asked her mother to send an additional five thousand Galleons.

Even if the potion had no effect on Astoria, Daphne knew exactly how it made her feel. In her mind, it was worth every Knut of those five thousand Galleons.

Watching Winnie fly off into the distance, Daphne quietly prayed that this wouldn't end in disappointment.