— — — — — —

The strong fear the reckless, and the reckless fear the mad.

Right now, in Dumbledore’s eyes, Tom was exactly the last kind of person.

Push him too far, and he’d absolutely stir up chaos in your personal life. And yet this kid, already drowning in his own pile of trouble, still had the nerve to invite Ariana to a ball?

What, trying to drag me down with you?

But age had dulled his edge. And when it came to his most precious sister, Dumbledore had to admit it... he backed down.

"Ahem..."

He cleared his throat, putting on a calm front. "Tom, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I only mentioned it as a possibility. Whether the ball will even be held hasn’t been decided yet, and there’s no concrete plan."

"Once I’ve discussed it with Mr. Crouch, I’ll give you a definite answer."

The boy’s smile stayed bright and easy. "Need any help? You know, Crouch and I get along pretty well. I could save you some trouble."

Dumbledore smiled politely and refused. Inside, though, he was already cursing.

Discuss, my ass. Judging by Ariana’s reaction today, even if there had been plans for a ball, he’d shut it down himself.

It wasn’t that Dumbledore looked down on Tom. Quite the opposite. Of everyone he had ever met, including himself and Grindelwald, no one surpassed Tom in sheer brilliance.

But he had never believed love had anything to do with status or ability.

In his eyes, Ariana had only just returned to life. She hadn’t fully grasped the world yet. Of course she’d be drawn to someone like Tom, someone flawless in both talent and presence. It was only natural.

Still, Tom’s situation was far too complicated. Too many people were entangled around him.

That was the worst kind of husband anyone could wish for.

"What a shame," Tom said, though his face showed no trace of regret. If anything, he lifted a brow at Dumbledore in open provocation before turning away. As if to reassure her, he reached out and gently ruffled Ariana’s hair, then left.

"Brother, aren’t you the headmaster? The greatest white wizard? How come you can’t even manage a simple ball?"

"Ariana, it’s really not up to me. Crouch says the Ministry doesn’t have the budget."

Even after walking some distance away, Tom could still hear Ariana’s complaints. The old man was utterly helpless in front of his sister, forced to respond with a wry smile.

"....."

McGonagall, meanwhile, seemed deep in thought. She had the distinct feeling she’d just been used.

Dumbledore hadn’t truly wanted to hold a ball. It was probably about Tom from the very beginning.

Once Ariana had calmed down and the two of them were alone, McGonagall voiced her doubts.

Dumbledore gave a bitter smile and slowly explained everything. But even she had no solution to offer.

This wasn’t just a family matter. It was a global mess.

...

..

As the term drew toward its end, there was still some time before the next task of the Tournament. People relaxed a little—but only a little. One major hurdle still loomed over everyone: final exams.

Hogwarts’ sheer number of exams left students from Uagadou and Ilvermorny stunned, their faces full of despair. Only the Mahoutokoro students took it in stride—after all, compared to the exam culture in their country, this was practically mild.

There, as long as exams didn’t literally kill you, they’d keep piling them on.

The inter-school tournament was the champions’ battlefield. But the exam hall was also a continuation of that rivalry in another form.

Top students might not be fully measured by test scores, but the overall results reflected each school’s true level of education. A genius here or there could be luck. Collective performance, though, didn’t lie.

So this round of finals mattered immensely. For McGonagall and the other professors, it was a chance either to make their schools famous.... or lose face entirely.

To ensure fairness, the exam papers were jointly written by professors from all schools. Every question was drawn from material all students had studied. Translations were carefully prepared in multiple languages to prevent misunderstandings.

In class, the professors were far more intense than usual, cramming knowledge into students’ heads again and again, afraid anyone might miss even a single point.

Daphne, on the other hand, was quietly delighted.

Champions had special privileges—they didn’t have to take final exams.

Every day in class, she’d just slump over her desk and sleep, head resting on her arms, sometimes even drooling a little. The professors didn’t bother her, assuming Tom’s special training had worn her out.

One more thing worth mentioning—

Thanks to the efforts of the Slytherin students, the secret of the golden egg had finally been cracked.

And the one who figured it out was... Pansy Parkinson.

That alone made half the house stare in disbelief.

Pansy was no model student. If it weren’t for Crabbe and Goyle dragging the average down, she’d practically be dead last in every class.

So how had someone like her beaten out all those top students and even upper-years?

Under a barrage of questions, Pansy scratched her head and admitted the truth, a little embarrassed.

She’d found a clue in an old book. And that book, of all things, was Gilderoy Lockhart’s Travels with Merpeople.

Lockhart might be a fraud, but once you stripped away the exaggerated nonsense, the knowledge in his books was real enough. After all, most of it had been stolen from other people’s genuine experiences.

In that book, there was a section about merpeople: how their voices sounded beautiful underwater, but turned into harsh, piercing screeches the moment they surfaced.

So, on a whim, Pansy had snuck the golden egg into a bathroom and submerged it in the bath.

And it worked.

With everyone pooling their ideas, the Slytherins pieced together the riddle. The gist was simple: retrieve something underwater, within a strict time limit.

With the next task figured out, Daphne relaxed even more. For her, the hardest part was already over. Underwater survival? That was easy. A few spells and she’d be fine.

...

..

In History of Magic class, Tom was unusually awake.

He idly played with the young lady’s soft, chubby hand while plotting how to get back at Dumbledore.

The old man’s plan might have failed, but Tom wasn’t the type to take a hit and let it slide.

Now that he thought it through, Dumbledore had probably intended to use the ball to corner him, to force him into doing something.

Luckily, he’d reacted quickly. That was the only reason he hadn’t walked straight into the trap.

So what now...

Using Ariana to strike back was out of the question. That kind of trump card wasn’t meant for petty retaliation.

So what else did Dumbledore care about?

The man was annoyingly hard to deal with, almost untouchable. He had too few weaknesses.

Aberforth? No good. Even if something happened to his brother, Dumbledore would probably just shed a few tears.

Target the school? Also pointless. Hogwarts wasn’t his alone.

Harry?

Tom’s eyes lit up. Now that was an idea.

At the moment, Dumbledore only suspected Harry’s status as a pseudo-Horcrux. In the original timeline, it took a chain of events, along with Harry’s dreams revealing Voldemort’s secrets, for Dumbledore to fully confirm it.

If he were to deliver this "good news" now, Dumbledore definitely wouldn’t have a peaceful Christmas.

The moment the idea struck, Tom acted. He reached out to Grindelwald through the study space. This was better handled by him.

Grindelwald had been lounging in his dorm, studying the properties of dark magic that Morgan had given him. The instant he felt Tom’s call, his expression turned complicated.

This kid... was seriously petty.

And the method? Pure irritation. No real damage, just the kind of thing that made your skin crawl.

"Do we have to do this now?" Grindelwald hesitated, feeling a bit sorry for his old friend. "What about after the New Year? He’s bound to find out eventually anyway."

"No." Tom shut him down immediately, leaving no room for negotiation. "You offend me and still expect a peaceful holiday? Not happening. Even a lock-picking charm won’t open that door."

"Wait a few days. Tell him right before the banquet starts."

...That’s just vicious.

Grindelwald had nothing left to say. He wasn’t in a position to argue. Compared to Tom, he didn’t even count as an arm to twist.

So Dumbledore would just have to suffer.

And the blame...

Wait.

The blame was going to fall on him?

Grindelwald could already imagine the look Dumbledore would give him after hearing this "good news."

.

.

.