Hogwarts: Chill, I'm Not That Riddle-Chapter 490: A New Term at Hogwarts

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Hogsmeade had changed beyond recognition in less than a year.

The Hog’s Head had practically been torn down and rebuilt from scratch as a new Astra Abyssum guild branch, expanded into a sprawling courtyard that even swallowed the old Owl Post Office next door.

Owls had fallen sharply out of favor. Unless it was a parcel or an especially important letter, everyone now used the Codex to stay in touch.

The post office couldn’t keep up with the rent and had relocated to the edge of the village, closer to the train station.

Aberforth, however, hadn’t moved.

The first floor was now used as office space. The second floor remained his private quarters, strictly off-limits to anyone else.

Except today.

After returning from Beauxbatons, Tom came straight to see him.

The two of them were upstairs now, digging into braised pork knuckles and Munich sausages, washing it all down with dark rye beer.

Aberforth grumbled nonstop. "Tom, why are you getting more and more entangled with Grindelwald? His people come here every day to take on jobs. And you even helped him take Spain."

"Don’t dodge the question. What kind of deal did you two make?"

Tom ignored the old man’s irritation, continuing to eat heartily and sip his beer with exaggerated calm. He even found time to comment, "This sausage is too lean. Where’d you buy it? Try another place next time."

"If you don’t like it, bring your own next time," Aberforth snapped. "Stop changing the subject. I want an answer."

"An answer?" Tom smiled faintly. "Aberforth, I don’t need your permission to conduct my affairs. Yes, I cooperate with Grindelwald. Quite a bit, actually. But if we’re talking about closeness, the Dumbledores were a lot closer to him than I ever was. You almost became family."

The words made Aberforth’s face flush red with embarrassment and anger.

For a split second, he wanted to storm into Hogwarts and purge the family shame himself. With an older brother like that, he couldn’t even scold a kid without being shut down.

"Wait... you even know about that?"

Aberforth stared at Tom in disbelief.

He had told Tom some of the history between Albus and Grindelwald before, but he had deliberately left out certain humiliating details. He’d only said their relationship was complicated and fraught with conflict.

Tom didn’t answer directly. He simply said, "Newt is practically my family. Nicolas is my teacher."

As elders, taking a little blame for the younger generation was perfectly reasonable, wasn’t it?

Aberforth followed that line of thinking without hesitation. After silently cursing his brother, he mentally added Nicolas and Newt to the list as well.

"Tom, you don’t need me to tell you what kind of man Grindelwald is. Look at what he’s done. Cooperating with him is a terrible choice. For all you know, he’s plotting how to swallow your Guild whole."

Tom nodded halfheartedly. "That’s why I asked you to keep an eye on things. You understand him better than most. If he makes a move, you’ll notice. For now, we’re getting along just fine. As for the future, who can say?"

"Maybe one day you’ll end up working for Grindelwald. Don’t speak in absolutes."

"Me? Work for that lunatic?"

Aberforth let out a cold laugh. "Kid, listen carefully. I, Aberforth Dumbledore, would rather starve to death, would rather be killed by Voldemort, than ever work for Grindelwald."

"Good," Tom said, nodding.

Aberforth squinted at him. "Why are you taking out that Lume-Lens?"

"Nothing. Just recording your oath for posterity."

He polished off the last bit of sausage, drained his beer in one go, and walked over to the velvet-draped portrait. With a swift motion, he pulled the cloth aside and began chatting with Ariana in the painting.

Aberforth paid him no mind and continued eating and drinking.

Tom often spoke with Ariana when he visited. The two of them got along unexpectedly well. It was one of the main reasons Aberforth had gradually warmed to him.

If his sister liked someone, how could that person be bad?

Tom, meanwhile, was reflecting on the nature of wizarding portraits.

They were extraordinary things. Close relatives, or sometimes the subjects themselves, would infuse the paint with magic and fragments of memory, allowing the portrait to resemble the original person more closely.

This portrait had been painted after Ariana’s death. The main sources of memory had been Aberforth and Albus.

Her personality was remarkably similar to how she had been when she first arrived in his space. Timid, skittish, like a frightened rabbit. The slightest disturbance would make her uneasy.

They said girls change as they grow up. Ariana, though, took that change to a whole new level.

Tom wondered what Ariana would think if she saw this portrait.

After chatting for a while and promising to visit again next week, Tom left Hog’s Head. With a single step, he returned to Hogwarts.

...

Not long after, the familiar whistle of the train echoed through the station.

Thunder rumbled overhead. The rain grew heavier.

The short stretch between the train and the carriages was enough to leave the students drenched and splattered with mud. By the time they reached the oak doors, they were pulling robes over their heads and sprinting for the entrance hall. The marble steps were slick, and more than a few students slipped and fell. Everyone looked like they’d just crawled out of a lake.

And that wasn’t the end of it.

Bang!

A giant red balloon, fat with water, dropped from the ceiling and exploded over Ron’s head, drenching him from hair to socks and making an already miserable situation even worse.

"Peeves!" Ron shouted at once. He didn’t need to guess.

High above them, Peeves cackled shrilly. One water balloon after another came hurtling down. Chaos erupted in the entrance hall. Students screamed, shoving and scrambling for cover, slipping over one another in the spreading puddles.

"Hahaha!" Draco Malfoy stood beneath a torch bracket, laughing like he’d just won the lottery as Harry and Ron took the brunt of Peeves’ attacks. "Weasley, couldn’t wait to put on that moldy excuse for dress robes, could you?"

On the train, he’d happened to glimpse the dark green robes Molly had picked out for Ron—and he’d never let Ron forget it.

Now that humiliation was dragged back into the open.

Ron exploded.

He lunged for Draco, ready to swing, but the stone floor was slick with water. His foot shot out from under him and he went down hard on both knees with a wet smack.

Draco and his two cronies laughed even louder.

Last year, Draco had mostly clashed with Harry. He tried to steer clear of Ron, but it wasn’t out of fear, and he certainly wasn’t intimidated by the Weasley numbers. What had kept him cautious was Ginny’s connection to Tom.

But he’d figured it out soon enough. Ginny didn’t bother interfering in her brother’s squabbles. As long as it didn’t involve the family directly, Draco was free to target Ron like old times.

And honestly, things were trickier with Harry now. Potter had a godfather. That alone had given him a spine of steel. Every time Draco tried to pick a fight, it ended in mutual damage. Neither walked away unscathed.

Ron, on the other hand, was easier prey. Not as quick with magic, terrible with words, and painfully proud. One jab and he’d crack. If Draco didn’t squeeze this soft fruit, who would?

"Malfoy, I’ll kill you!"

Ron’s face was blazing red. He charged again, fist raised—but Draco shoved Vincent Crabbe forward as a shield and slipped neatly behind him.

Crabbe locked an arm around Ron’s neck, and the two of them tumbled to the wet floor in a clumsy heap.

Harry tried to fight his way through the crowd to help, but the press of bodies was too thick. He couldn’t break through.

"Peeves!" a furious voice rang out. "Peeves, stop this at once!"

Professor Minerva McGonagall stormed out of the Great Hall and nearly slipped herself. Hermione reacted instantly, catching her elbow before she went down.

"Thank you, Miss Granger."

"It’s nothing, Professor."

"Peeves, get down here!" McGonagall shouted. "Don’t make me fetch the Bloody Baron!"

At the name of Bloody Baron, Peeves’ grin faltered. He still clutched a few remaining balloons and clearly considered tossing them—but under McGonagall’s withering glare, he stuck out his tongue instead and vanished through the ceiling, fleeing to the upper floors.

With Peeves dealt with, McGonagall finally noticed Crabbe and Ron still wrestling on the floor.

Hands trembling with fury, she pulled them apart.

"Fighting. On the first day of term. Wonderful. Just wonderful."

Her lips were thin with anger. First day back and already this. If only they’d pour half this energy into their studies.

"Minerva, what is the meaning of this?"

Professor Severus Snape swept out of the Great Hall like a looming bat, eyes landing on Ron with clear, predatory interest.

"Weasley," Snape drawled, lips curling, "is this the only way you can draw attention to yourself?"

Ron’s ears burned scarlet. Draco snickered behind him.

"Severus," McGonagall cut in sharply, "this was not Mr. Weasley’s doing. Peeves caused the flooding."

"Is that so..." Snape sounded disappointed. His dark gaze slid over Ron. "But you were fighting?"

"Yes," Ron shot back stubbornly. "But Crabbe started it. You can’t punish just me."

For the sake of what dignity he had left, Ron didn’t mention the robes. He would rather take detention than be publicly humiliated again.

But Draco saw right through him.

Draco’s eyes flicked sideways, calculating. Then he stepped forward, pushing Crabbe aside. His expression turned remorseful in an instant.

"Professor Snape, Professor McGonagall... this is my fault," Draco said smoothly. "I mocked Weasley’s filthy green rag—ah, I mean, his dress robes. They were so dreadfully ugly he lost his temper and tried to hit me."

A rag? Dress robes?

Someone snorted. Then another. Laughter spread like wildfire, echoing through the entrance hall and spilling into the Great Hall. More students poured out to see what the commotion was about.

Ron felt heat surge straight to his skull. For a heartbeat, he wanted nothing more than to pull his wand and hurl the nastiest curse he knew at Draco Malfoy.

As for Draco, he was brimming with joy—so much so that even Tom, standing nearby, felt a Patronus Charm would be effortless for the boy.

Then Tom froze. Something... crucial, vital, had slipped his mind.

"Dress robes?"

The words were soft, almost casual. Yet they cut through the noise, reaching every ear in the hall.

Tom stepped up from the dungeon staircase, his gaze sweeping over the gathered students and professors. A faint unease crawled into his chest.

Had he... forgotten something important?

Why did the words dress robes make his heart twist with dread?

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