After lunch, Harry and Ron headed to Hagrid’s hut, just like they’d planned.
The half-giant greeted them warmly—with scalding hot tea and rock-hard pies that could probably dent a cauldron.
Hagrid groaned the moment he saw Ron’s unmistakable red hair. "I’ve barely gotten any sleep these past few years trying to keep your brothers out of the Forbidden Forest."
Ron gave an awkward chuckle, lowering his head to nibble on the pie. Big mistake—he nearly cracked a tooth. His face twisted like he’d bitten into a brick.
Seeing Ron’s expression, Harry quietly put his own pie back on the plate, blew on his tea, and took a careful sip. Then he started chatting about their first week of classes.
To Harry, Hogwarts was nothing short of a dream. Cozy dorms, food he could eat until he was full, and a decent amount of spending money—well, inheritance technically.
But the best part? Magic. He was learning spells, making real friends... It was everything he’d ever wanted.
The only thing that put a damper on his mood was today’s run-in with Snape.
"Tom Riddle even claimed Snape was apologizing to my mum," Harry grumbled. "I mean, come on. That’s gotta be total nonsense."
He didn’t notice how Hagrid’s massive frame twitched slightly at the mention of that name—Tom Riddle.
"Hagrid," Harry continued, "I really think Snape hates me. As if I made a mistake and didn’t apologize."
"Rubbish," Hagrid muttered distractedly, fiddling with the leftover pies. "Why would he hate you? And even if someone owes an apology, it wouldn’t be you."
"If anyone should be apologizing," Hagrid thought, "it’d be James Potter."
He remembered all too well how arrogant that group—the Marauders—had been back in the day. Even the Slytherin kids training to be Death Eaters didn’t dare mess with them. Snape had been the only one stubborn enough to keep standing up to them, and he’d gotten battered for it.
It wasn’t until James matured after graduation that Hagrid actually saw a decent side of him. They even became friends—eventually.
"Huh?" Harry blinked. "Then... who should apologize?"
Hagrid waved his enormous hand dismissively, clearly done with the subject. "No one needs to apologize. Snape’s not out to get you, Harry. Don’t overthink it. Here, have another nougat."
Harry could tell Hagrid was dodging the question, but he didn’t press it. Instead, he listened to Ron talk about one of his older brothers who worked with dragons in Romania. While they chatted, Harry’s gaze drifted to a newspaper on the edge of the table.
The headline caught his eye: "Latest on the Gringotts Break-In."
He picked it up and skimmed the article. Huh—what a coincidence. The break-in happened on his birthday... the very same day he’d gone to Diagon Alley with Hagrid.
Still, Dumbledore had picked up whatever it was they were supposed to get before the robbery happened. And he hadn’t given Hagrid any special mission. So Harry didn’t overthink it.
He glanced at the paper once more, then let it go.
After reading that day’s issue of The Daily Prophet, he fell deep into thought.
In his past life, many people believed Dumbledore had orchestrated everything at Hogwarts—every danger and adventure laid out like stepping stones to help Harry grow stronger.
That all of it had been a master plan to train Harry, preparing him to eventually defeat Voldemort and fulfill the prophecy.
But Tom never bought into that theory.
Sure, Dumbledore had a tight grip on the school. He definitely knew more than he let on.
But that didn’t mean he was omniscient or had every detail planned out in advance.
If he’d really known what was happening, there’s no way he’d have let the Chamber of Secrets open in second year, Sirius Black escape in third, or let Barty Crouch Jr. impersonate Moody in fourth.
Still, there was no doubt that first-year Harry had been carefully pushed along a very specific path. Those so-called "obstacles" guarding the Philosopher’s Stone? They felt less like defenses against a real threat and more like a puzzle trail meant for a curious young wizard.
Tom didn’t care about the Philosopher’s Stone. Immortality that couldn’t stop aging? Useless.
What he did care about... was Quirrell.
If they dangled the Philosopher’s Stone like bait, Tom figured Quirrell would bite.
Hell, he’d probably play fetch if you threw it far enough. And even if he didn’t want to, Tom Riddle—the one inside his head—would probably give him a shove.
Not that this Tom needed a servant or anything. He wasn’t a Dark Lord.
All he wanted from Professor Quirrell... was a few easy credits.
Not an unreasonable ask, right?
"Tom, what are you thinking about?" Daphne’s voice cut through his thoughts. She’d been watching him stare off toward the Black Lake, lost in thought.
He blinked, then smiled faintly. "Just wondering how someone like Professor Quirrell ever got hired."
Daphne pulled a face. "Right? The man can barely form a sentence. I’d rather read the textbook than listen to him stutter through a lecture."
"I mean, what was Dumbledore thinking? He’s over a hundred—maybe he’s just gone senile?"
Tom couldn’t help but wonder just what Dumbledore had done in the past to make purebloods despise him so thoroughly.
Not that Daphne would know anything about that kind of ancient wizarding drama. Still, he humored her.
"I heard there’s a curse on the Defense Against the Dark Arts position," Tom said casually. "No professor lasts more than a year."
"That’s what I heard too!" Daphne’s eyes lit up. "Every single one quits or disappears. It’s like clockwork."
She perked up immediately, diving into gossip mode as she eagerly shared all the juicy tidbits she’d picked up.
The last Defense professor? A witch who got cheated out of her money and her heart by some shady wizard. She ended up castrating the guy during a dark and stormy night, then looted everything he had and fled the country. She’s still wanted by the Ministry.
The one before her was a super old wizard—an old friend of Dumbledore’s. Came down with something nasty around Easter and got carted off to St. Mungo’s.
And the ones before that? There’d been smugglers, shady experimenters who injured themselves, and even someone who turned out to have a criminal record.
As Daphne’s stories went on, her voice got softer and softer... until finally, she trailed off completely—curled up beside Tom, using his arm as a pillow.
Tom glanced at the sleeping girl, helplessly amused.
He didn’t wake her. Instead, he shifted into a more comfortable position for both of them—and let his mind drift into the Study space.