Snape was not in a good mood right now.
Avery's performance had been utterly disgraceful—so disgraceful, in fact, that even Snape, his Head of House, felt embarrassed. A sixth-year student had been toyed with like a monkey by a first-year and defeated so cleanly, so completely, it was painful to watch.
He hadn't even managed to show off any of the decent skills he supposedly possessed.
This wasn't just a defeat—it was a complete intellectual and tactical annihilation.
And yet, what truly rattled Snape was the mere tip of the iceberg Tom Riddle had revealed.
You couldn't judge a wizard's strength by the power of their spells alone. Mastery in casting, the ability to strategize mid-duel, and the seamless combination of different spells—all these mattered just as much.
And Tom? Tom had controlled the entire tempo of the duel. First, he transfigured the floor beneath Avery's feet into a soft, unstable surface, throwing off his footing and limiting his range of movement. That not only disrupted Avery's positioning but also reduced the accuracy of his spells. Then, with a beautiful gust charm, Tom effortlessly deflected Avery's magic back at him.
Tactics like these would be impressive even coming from a grown wizard.
But Tom Riddle had been at Hogwarts for less than a month.
This wasn't just impressive—it was downright terrifying.
What baffled Snape the most, though, was the very first move Tom had made—the effortless way he parried Avery's Disarming Charm.
To most students, it just looked like a block, similar to a standard Shield Charm.
But amateurs watch the show. Experts watch the technique.
That single move showed an intricate control of magical power and a deep understanding of the mechanics of the Disarming Charm. The precision and finesse with which Tom nullified it—light as a feather, consuming almost no energy—reduced the need for a full-blown shield and preserved stamina for sneak attacks or unexpected counterstrikes.
"Professor."
Tom's voice cut through Snape's thoughts.
Snape looked up instinctively.
Tom offered a polite smile. "You said that if I defeated Avery, I'd be named the Invisible Prefect. Logically, that should mean today's business is finished."
He paused, a flicker of mischief in his eye.
"But… I've already thrown down my glove. And unlike Malfoy, I'm not exactly someone with... flexible standards."
Even in the tense atmosphere, more than a few people chuckled at that.
"Reputation matters to me. So, with your permission, I'd like to finish the remaining duels."
Overstepping.
That was the word that immediately appeared in every Slytherin's mind.
Riddle had already won. He had made his point. And yet, he still wanted more—he wanted to challenge every other prefect.
Did he intend to grind the reputation of every senior student—and even Professor Snape—into the dirt?
Only the seventh-year prefect, Burke, and Snape himself understood what Tom was truly aiming for.
"Very well…"
Snape exhaled slowly. "If you want to test yourself against your seniors, then carry on. But you'll get no rest. Phyllis, you're up first."
The fifth-year female prefect stepped forward, her expression still laced with fury. Clearly, she was angry at Tom's audacity.
But Tom Riddle was a strong believer in equality—he had no intention of holding back just because his opponent was a girl. The moment Snape announced the start of the duel, he sprang into action—firing off two silent spells without hesitation.
Imogen Phyllis never even saw it coming. She had only just begun to chant a Shield Charm when Tom's spell hit her squarely.
Her wand flew from her hand. She collapsed, fast asleep.
"Next," Tom said coolly, as if he had just completed a minor chore.
The remaining prefects were now furious.
"I'll go!"
Enrique Flint, the fifth-year male prefect, didn't wait for Snape's cue. He leapt into the arena of his own accord. He was the brother of Marcus Flint, Slytherin's Quidditch captain.
Marcus wasn't present today. He'd been given detention by Professor McGonagall for repeatedly copying homework—and now he'd missed one hell of a show.
Flint had learned from the previous matches. As soon as the duel began, he conjured a large wooden door as a shield. Then he began transfiguring surrounding objects into animals—not only to distract Tom, but also to act as living shields against his spells.
Seeing this, Snape's icy expression finally softened a little.
At least someone was thinking. Flint was using his strengths wisely.
He had talent in Transfiguration and was a member of Professor McGonagall's Transfiguration Club.
Every professor at Hogwarts had their own unique club—a long-standing tradition. They would personally invite students they favored, offer rare opportunities for advanced magical training, and share knowledge far beyond the standard curriculum.
Even the animals Flint conjured were impressive enough to make many sixth and seventh years feel inadequate.
For the first time, the duel didn't end in a flash. Tom finally became alert, his blood starting to race.
"Incendio Maxima!"
A blazing inferno erupted from the fireplace. The room temperature surged as Tom gracefully waved his wand, drawing the flames out of the hearth and molding them into three enormous fire serpents.
With their elemental bodies and massive forms, the fire snakes rampaged across the dueling space, incinerating Flint's transfigured animals back into their original objects—then into ash.
"Magiform Manipulation…" Snape spat the words like a curse, nearly gritting his teeth.
That was a transfiguration technique even more advanced than material transformation—so advanced it wasn't even part of the N.E.W.T. curriculum.
How in Merlin's name had Tom learned that?
How was he even capable of learning it?
While Snape questioned his entire existence, Flint's makeshift wooden shield was already charred and crumbling. The three fire serpents hissed and flicked their blazing tongues at him.
Flint gave a bitter smile, lowered his wand, and conceded.
Next came the sixth-year female prefect. She was worse than Flint—frantically casting Shield Charms on herself, but not nearly fast enough to block Tom's relentless attacks. She too fell, defeated.
Every Slytherin was wide-eyed and speechless.
Tom Riddle had now defeated every fifth and sixth-year prefect—in four straight duels.
And he hadn't even broken a sweat. Not a single gasp for air. Not even a blink.
Are you a statue, Goyle? Don't your eyes burn from watching this?
Whether or not Tom's eyes hurt, Daphne's were already sparkling. If it weren't for the crowd, she would've shouted and cheered right then and there.
She wasn't the only one. Quite a few older girls were now giving Tom a very different look.
Such a charming young cub—raise him for a couple of years and he'd become a heart-stopping heartthrob. Definitely worth the investment.
"I concede."
Everyone turned toward the voice.
It was Yorkshire Carrow, the seventh-year female prefect.
Faced with the students' surprised stares, she smiled faintly and even tossed a flirtatious wink at Tom.
"I'm no match for Riddle. I won't embarrass myself by getting on that stage. Burke's far stronger than I am—save your strength for him."
Burke inhaled deeply and stepped out from the crowd.
He gave Snape a respectful nod, then turned to face Tom—his gaze calm, but intense.