Cursed Toasters and Lock Picks.
Harry stood at the front of his classroom, staring down at the rows of students who sat stiffly in their seats, their expressions ranging from mildly apprehensive to outright terrified. It was rare to see a group of Hogwarts students this quiet, and Harry suspected it had everything to do with the *incident* during last week’s lesson.
He cleared his throat. “Alright, class. Let’s try this again, shall we?”
A few students flinched. A Ravenclaw girl near the front—the one who had nearly cried when her enchanted quill sprouted tentacles last week—actually shrank behind her textbook.
Harry sighed. “I promise today’s lesson won’t involve anything... overly complicated.” He paused, glancing meaningfully at the Gryffindors who were still avoiding his gaze after the magically animated muggle explosives demonstration. “Or explosive.”
There was a collective sigh of relief from the students, though their postures remained tense.
Harry raised an eyebrow. “You’re all acting like I’m about to throw a cursed toaster at you.”
No one laughed.
“Right.” Harry clapped his hands together, determined to move on. “Today, we’ll be discussing something simple: Muggle locks. Specifically, how to pick them.”
This caught their attention. A few students exchanged nervous glances, while a Slytherin boy in the back muttered, “Isn’t that illegal?”
“Only if you get caught,” Harry replied smoothly, causing the Slytherins to snicker and the Hufflepuffs to look scandalized.
He strode over to the front desk, where a collection of locks—ranging from basic padlocks to a more complex combination lock—was neatly arranged. “Locks,” he began, “are a simple yet effective way for Muggles to protect their belongings. They don’t rely on magic, which makes them vulnerable to anyone with the right tools and enough patience. Today, we’re going to learn how to bypass them. For... educational purposes, of course.”
The Ravenclaw girl raised her hand hesitantly. “Professor Evans, why would we need to know how to pick locks if we can just use magic?”
Harry gave her a faint smile. “Because magic isn’t always an option. And because knowing how something works—be it magical or mundane—can be the difference between survival and disaster.”
The room fell silent again, the students absorbing his words.
Harry turned to the blackboard and began sketching a simple diagram of a lock’s inner mechanism. “Now, this is what’s going on inside a basic lock. Your goal is to manipulate the pins with a tool—like this—” he held up a lockpick, “—to align them just right and open the lock.”
He demonstrated on a small padlock, opening it with ease. “See? Simple.”
A Gryffindor boy tentatively raised his hand. “Sir, how long did it take you to learn that?”
Harry’s smile turned sly. “Oh, I’ve had... *a lot* of practice.”
Before he could demonstrate again, however, a faint ripple of magic brushed against the edge of his awareness. It was subtle, but unmistakable—like a shadow slipping into a room where it didn’t belong.
Harry’s hand stilled, his grip tightening on the lockpick as he scanned the room. That was when he saw him.
Sitting near the back, where Antonin Dolohov was supposed to be, was a boy with sharp features, pale skin, and a presence that practically radiated danger. Tom Riddle.
Their eyes met, and for a brief moment, the classroom seemed to shrink around them. Riddle’s expression was calm, almost curious, but there was an unmistakable glint of calculation in his dark eyes.
Harry felt his magic stir, a quiet warning that set his nerves on edge. Of course Riddle would be here, watching, waiting, trying to figure him out.
“Something wrong, Professor?” Riddle asked, his voice smooth and polite, but with just enough edge to make it clear he was testing the waters.
Harry forced himself to relax, slipping the lockpick into his pocket. “Not at all, Mr. Riddle,” he said, his tone light. “It’s just... unusual to see you in Muggle Studies. I wasn’t aware you were interested in the subject.”
Riddle smiled, a sharp, calculated thing. “I find it fascinating. After all, there’s so much we can learn from Muggles—if we’re willing to look.”
Harry held his gaze for a moment longer before turning back to the class. “Well then, I hope you enjoy today’s lesson. Now, everyone, pick a partner and grab a lock from the desk. Let’s see how quickly you can open them.”
The students hesitated, glancing nervously at each other, but Harry’s sharp look spurred them into action. As they shuffled forward to collect their locks, Harry kept one eye on Riddle, who seemed content to sit back and observe.
“Let the games begin,” Harry thought, his mind already working through the implications of Riddle’s presence.
If Tom Riddle wanted to play, then Harry would let him. But this time, it wouldn’t be on Riddle’s terms.