The Sacred Twenty-Eight, a concept now familiar to any student of wizarding bloodlines, first emerged from the pages of Cantankerus Nott's infamous work The Pure-Blood Directory. Revered by some, scorned by others, the book left its mark on the magical world.

As expected, many Slytherin-blood purists swore by it, proudly citing it to justify their own bloodline supremacy. Meanwhile, others—like the Weasleys—openly ridiculed the book's elitist tone. Still, even the most vocal opponents of blood purity like the Weasleys unconsciously followed its dogma. Take Molly Weasley herself from one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight.

The book's author, Cantankerus Nott, belonged to the same Nott family as Tom's roommate. Unsurprisingly, his writing shamelessly glorified the old Slytherin-blooded houses. Tom had never taken his praise at face value.

But Snape's words made Tom pause.

Did Nott actually get something right?

"Eternal prosperity"? That can't be right.

Tom raised a brow. "Even the Gaunt family, Salazar Slytherin's own descendants, fell into ruin. What's so special about the Greengrasses?"

Snape gave a slow shake of the head. "I don't know. I was never part of that circle."

Ah yes, the circle. That invisible ring of old families and pure-blood alliances. Even with his prodigious talent and high standing among the Death Eaters, Snape—tainted by his Prince heritage and Muggle lineage—was never truly accepted.

The Malfoys had maintained a cordial relationship with Snape due to their shared school years and Snape's later rise in Voldemort's ranks. But that was transactional. Affection had nothing to do with it.

"But," Snape hesitated, "even at the height of the Dark Lord's power, the Greengrass family remained strictly neutral. He visited them once… and afterward issued an explicit command not to interfere with them."

He added dryly, "That command was mostly symbolic. No one was ever foolish enough to cross the Greengrasses."

Snape leaned back, his voice quieter. "Some even said the Head of the Department of Magical Transportation position was practically reserved for them…"

"If you want to know what makes them untouchable, you'd have to ask Lady Greengrass. She's a formidable woman."

Tom's curiosity deepened, but he could tell Snape had shared all he knew.

So, time to pivot.

"Professor, what do you think of the paper?"

Snape narrowed his eyes. "Besides the potion you detailed in your experiments, have you tried this method with other types of brews?"

Tom gave an exaggerated shrug. "Professor, I'm still a child. I have classes, homework, a life. I don't have time to run dozens of trials. That's where you come in."

He flashed a grin. "I'll even list you as second author. Not bad, eh?"

Snape snorted.

He had published more first-author papers than most Potioneers dared dream of. Why would he care about a second author slot?

…Well, maybe he did care a little.

Especially if this idea of Tom's proved revolutionary.

If proven viable, it would redefine the process of potion-making—a generational leap forward. Even knowing Tom was cleverly offloading the boring parts onto him, Snape couldn't resist the pull.

"I'll verify the results," he said, copying the manuscript with a swift Duplicating Charm before stashing it into his desk drawer.

He looked Tom in the eye. "If your data holds, this paper alone will earn you formal admission into the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers."

He clicked his tongue in approval. "An official member… at eleven. Unprecedented."

The Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers was no mere club. It was the pinnacle of magical pharmacology—an academic behemoth hoarding innovation. Even Snape, master of his craft, had worked long and hard to be accepted into its ranks.

Tom's eyes, however, glinted with a different kind of ambition.

He leaned forward slightly. "Professor… do you think this paper could win me the Special Award for Services to the School?"

That made Snape's gaze sharpen instantly.

That award meant house points. A lot of them.

If Tom won it, Slytherin could get another 100… maybe 200 points. Seven consecutive House Cups would be guaranteed.

"I'll pull some strings," Snape said without hesitation. "We'll make it happen."

"Slow down, Professor," Tom smiled slyly, whispering a few more lines.

Snape's face twisted—then shifted to an oddly resigned expression.

"…Fine. We'll do it your way."

He looked at the boy appraisingly.

"Riddle, you really are a born Slytherin."

"Professor, I can tell you meant that as an insult."

"…"

Tom flashed a cheeky Muggle hand gesture behind his back and walked out of the office.

—

As it turned out, Tom's streak of good fortune wasn't over.

The very next morning, amidst the flutter of wings and rustling of newspapers, a letter finally arrived—one he'd been waiting for with bated breath.

A tawny owl swooped through the Great Hall, nearly skimming a goblet of milk before dropping an envelope into Tom's hands.

On it was written the sender's name in elegant script:

Newt Scamander

Tom lit up, ripping it open at once.

…

Dear Mr. Tom Riddle,

I'm delighted to hear from such a bright and passionate student. Your enthusiasm for magical creatures brings me great joy.

As luck would have it, I was rescuing a pair of Pallid Banshees when your letter arrived. Perhaps your message brought me that luck.

Magical beasts are endlessly fascinating. Each one unique, each demanding a different kind of understanding. I never say I "tame" a beast—only that I've learned from them. Still, I'm happy to offer some advice.

Unicorns are extraordinarily pure. For us men, even getting close to one is a challenge.

Always meet a unicorn's eyes. They can sense intent through your gaze. If they see no malice, you'll have your best chance.

I've also included several dietary mixtures—they're favorites of unicorns. Perhaps they'll help you gain their trust.

And remember: All creatures, at their core, strive toward strength and evolution. If you ever discover a method by which a unicorn might transform or ascend, then it may choose to follow you willingly.

Yours faithfully,

Newt Scamander

…

Tom's eyebrows lifted in surprise.

He hadn't expected a man of Newt Scamander's status to respond with such warmth—and thoroughness. And yet, here he was, sending not only kind words, but formulated unicorn dietary plans. Sincere to the point of embarrassment.

A rare breed of wizard indeed. No wonder he was beloved by the magical world (Grindelwald being the obvious exception).

And it explained why the baby unicorn, while willing to eat the food Tom provided, never seemed enthusiastic about it—it was tolerable, but not desirable.

Time for an upgrade.

That very day, Tom placed multiple orders with the potion shops and magical menageries in Diagon Alley, requesting every ingredient Newt had listed.

Once the materials arrived, Tom, knowing his own limitations in the kitchen, didn't even attempt the recipes himself. He handed them over to Parra, one of the Greengrass family's house-elves, who had recently become Daphne's personal cook.

Parra had already inherited most of Hannah's culinary tricks, though she still paled in comparison to Hannah's mother, Madam Elbow, the true matriarch of magical cuisine. Everything Hannah knew, she had learned from her.

Tom watched Parra bustle off with the ingredients.

Everything was going according to plan.

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