"Girl, do you even realize how dangerous that sounded?!"
Tom had just finished lunch and was heading to the Black Lake for a relaxing walk when Daphne stopped him in the Entrance Hall. And the first thing she said nearly made him choke on air.
Daphne was stunned too the moment the words left her mouth. Her face flushed bright red like a boiling teapot, and she waved her hands wildly.
"No! That's not what I meant! I meant—could you teach me magic? I want to get stronger too!"
Damn it! Did I just blurt out what I was really thinking?!
These two thoughts couldn't be more different—how did you manage to mess it up this badly?!
Both of them were thinking wildly different things at the same time.
"That's such a simple request. How could I say no? Just train with me this afternoon," Tom said, stepping in quickly to rescue Daphne from drowning in her own awkwardness.
"Hehe, I knew it—you're the best, Tom!"
Beaming, Daphne looked up at him, clearly relieved, then pulled out a small pouch and handed it to him. "Here. For you."
"What's this?"
Tom took the pouch and opened it—and fell silent.
Daphne... you're really trying to sponsor me, aren't you?
The pouch wasn't big, but it had been enchanted with an Undetectable Extension Charm. Inside were piles of Galleons—just a rough glance told Tom there were easily over a thousand.
Am I worth that much now?
If this is now, imagine when I'm older...
"It's tuition," Daphne said before Tom could spiral too far into his thoughts. She spoke matter-of-factly. "You're going to be tutoring me, right? Isn't it normal that I pay tuition?"
This brilliant idea had popped into her head the night before, right after watching Tom duel the Prefects.
Tom was strong—his spell repertoire was insane—and she was a studious girl who loved learning. He had the knowledge, she had the gold. A perfect match.
She was so thrilled with her clever idea that it had taken her ages to fall asleep last night.
"I'm not charging you tuition."
Tom couldn't help but laugh as he placed the pouch back into Daphne's hands. "It's really not a big deal. Just some training. I don't need this kind of money."
From the moment they enrolled at Hogwarts, Daphne hadn't really helped him with anything major. Every problem he'd faced, he had solved himself through sheer ability.
But value isn't always measured by results.
From beginning to end, Daphne had never distanced herself from him, even though he came from an orphanage and wore Slytherin's infamy like a badge. She had always stood firmly by his side.
That attitude—loyalty without expectation—was the most precious thing of all.
That's why Tom wouldn't take her money. If it were anyone else, he'd think twice even if they offered him gold.
Daphne panicked when she saw him trying to return the pouch. "You can't just not take it!"
"I'm not learning textbook spells here—I want to learn the stuff you're good at, the kind of rare, powerful magic that's worth something. Valuable knowledge like that shouldn't be free!"
Tom chuckled. For a second there, she sounded exactly like a Ravenclaw.
After much back-and-forth, he finally gave in and accepted the pouch.
He could see what Daphne really wanted—an excuse to give him the money. Refusing it again would only make things awkward between them.
Damn it... I still ended up taking the money like a freeloader.
Still, Tom wasn't exactly flush with cash right now.
Some of the ingredients for the potion Andros had told him about could be "borrowed" from Snape, but others he'd have to purchase—and in large quantities. That meant serious expenses.
He'd been racking his brain trying to come up with a way to make money... and just like that, Daphne had shown up.
Fine. He'd treat this as a loan. One day, he'd pay her—and House Greengrass—back a hundredfold. That was a promise.
Daphne was grinning ear to ear, delighted that she could finally help Tom in some way.
"Come on. I'll show you something."
Now that he'd taken the money, it was time to deliver. Tom didn't wait until the afternoon—he grabbed Daphne's hand and pulled her upstairs.
Still a little dazed, Daphne followed him all the way to the eighth floor. Then they stepped into a hidden room.
"This place is..." Daphne's eyes went wide as the walls around her shimmered into something new and unexpected.
"I call it the Room of Requirement," Tom explained. "Just walk past this wall three times while thinking of what you need, and it'll give it to you. But keep your thoughts within reason—if it's too outrageous, the room can't handle it."
"Magic's not allowed in the castle corridors, and the Quidditch pitch is too public. So I use this as my training ground."
Realization dawned on Daphne's face. "So that's why I can never find you sometimes—you've been hiding here."
As long as it wasn't with Granger, that was fine by her.
Just thinking that made her smile even brighter.
Tom gave her a strange look—he had no idea what his little heiress was smiling about. With a flick of his wand, two dummies floated over and landed nearby.
"Wand out," Tom said, nodding toward them. "I'm not teaching you any new spells today. Your task is simple: pick any attack spell you already know, and cast it on the dummy a hundred times. That's today's training."
"That's it?" Daphne blinked, surprised. It sounded way too easy.
Tom smirked. "Let's see if you can actually do it first."
"Hmph."
Feeling underestimated, Daphne didn't argue. She'd prove him wrong.
"Stupefy!"
Daphne had already learned the basic Stunning Spell before she even got to Hogwarts. Her spell hit the dummy squarely, knocking it down. But it bounced right back up, like a weighted doll.
"Stupefy!"
"Stupefy!"
She kept going. The first few times were fine. But once she passed a dozen, the spell began to fizzle mid-air.
Daphne's face turned pale. She suddenly felt like she'd been woken up too early, her mind foggy and heavy.
"...What's going on? I feel so sleepy..."
"That's what extreme magical depletion feels like," Tom said. He turned one of the dummies into a plush armchair and helped her sit down. Then he pulled out a bar of chocolate he'd prepared in advance.
"Eat this. Magic drains more than just energy—it takes a toll on your whole body. You need to recharge."
Daphne hadn't realized how empty her stomach was. She'd only had breakfast a little while ago.
Mumbling a thank-you, she nibbled on the chocolate like a tiny hamster. Before long, she had eaten the whole thing, and her body began to recover.
But she was clearly no longer as energetic as before.
Tom watched her with a half-smile. "Once you're done resting, we'll resume. I've been keeping count, you know—you've only hit twelve successful spells."
Daphne's face immediately scrunched up. She looked at him pitifully and asked, "I was just too excited earlier... Can we make it fifty instead?"
"Are you seriously trying to bargain with me right now?" Tom laughed, flicking her forehead. "No way. Eighty, at the very least. That's your current limit based on my estimation. Draining your magic to the edge is actually good for your magical development. Fifty won't do."
In truth, Tom wasn't that sharp-eyed yet.
His original number—one hundred—was based on his own ability. But just now, he had accessed the study-space link and asked Andros to analyze Daphne's magic capacity.
The final number they settled on was eighty.
As for himself...
It was no longer appropriate to measure his strength by the number of spells he could cast—it should be measured by how long he could maintain full-power output. Just this realization was enough for Tom to understand how terrifying Andros truly was. His magical power was simply overwhelming. No wonder he could summon a ten-meter-tall Patronus. It was entirely possible that Andros possessed even more magical energy than Dumbledore himself.
"Developing?"
Daphne lowered her head.
Flat as a board—so flat that not just her toes but even her ankles were clearly visible with a glance downward.
"Bring it on!"
Summoning strength from who knows where, the girl shot up with fiery determination and flung another spell.
But this time, her stamina wore out even faster, and the success rate of her spells began to drop.
While she rested, Tom began his own training.
For the first time, Daphne saw the true extent of Tom's terrifying power.
He had practically turned into a spellcasting Gatling gun, launching curse after curse without pause. And they weren't just flashy light beams for show—each one packed more punch than her strongest effort.
If Tom had gone all-out like this during yesterday's duel with the prefects, forget the rotation battle—those students wouldn't have stood a chance even if they'd attacked him all at once.
A sudden sense of urgency gripped Daphne's heart.
The gap between her and Tom was widening. Even if she lacked the same innate talent, that was no excuse for giving up. If she didn't push herself harder, they would soon have nothing in common, no foundation left for friendship.
So when Tom paused to rest, Daphne didn't slack off. She gave it everything she had, squeezing out every last drop of her magical energy.
They trained in turns from 10 in the morning until 2 in the afternoon. Only then did Daphne manage to finish casting eighty spells.
The consequence? Her legs were shaking with every step. All she wanted was to crawl into bed and pass out.
Tom had no choice but to support her all the way from the eighth floor back to the Slytherin common room. There, he handed her off to an older girl, asking her to take Daphne back to the dorms.
The upper-year girl shot Tom a very odd look.
If they weren't still underage, her mind would've immediately run wild with very mature speculation.
What kind of intense activity could leave a girl so thoroughly exhausted...?
Tom watched as they climbed the stairs to the girls' dormitory. Then he turned and left the common room again.
He needed to borrow a school owl from the owlery and send an order to Diagon Alley—for potion ingredients. He wanted to prepare energy-restoring and fatigue-relieving potions for Daphne.
Constantly draining one's magical reserves might be painful in the short term, but this kind of training had a unique advantage: it helped unlock hidden potential and increased one's magical limits.
Of course, there was a natural ceiling based on talent, but this method could help one reach their peak much faster.
And the constant repetition of spellcasting? That was laying the foundation.
More often than not, magic relied on feel—on muscle memory developed by instinct. Building this internal rhythm would help tremendously when learning other spells in the future.
These techniques were all wisdom passed down from Andros—methods Tom was now using himself. Andros had even stricter standards for him.
Hard work could make up for a lack of talent. But for those who were gifted, hard work was essential—only through relentless effort could they unlock their full potential. Otherwise, it was all just a pretty illusion.
As for ordinary people... diligent ones had to push even harder—just to outpace other ordinary folk. And that was what created a culture of brutal competition.
Andros had lamented more than once: compared to the hunger for power that wizards once had, modern witches and wizards had grown far too complacent.
Despite having better education and a well-structured magical system, the backbone of wizarding society had clearly weakened.
In his eyes, Tom was still just a beginner wizard—but he could already defeat most adult wizards with ease. In Andros' time, that would've been unthinkable.
Even if you couldn't win, you'd fight with your life, tear flesh from your enemy if needed.
...
The holidays passed in the blink of an eye. By Sunday evening, the selection of Slytherin's "invisible prefects" had concluded across all year levels.
Now came a rather awkward situation.
Snape's judgment... wasn't exactly stellar.
The fifth-year boy and girl prefects, along with the sixth-year girl prefect—all of them had lost. Beaten by ordinary students.
Even Tom was surprised. Who would've thought that Slytherin hid so many... veteran players among its students?
If he hadn't stirred the pot and lit a fire under their ambitions, those students might've stayed hidden until graduation.
But now, a real problem had emerged.
The school's official prefects couldn't be changed on a whim. Even heads of house could only recommend replacements—they didn't have the authority to dismiss them. Unless a prefect committed a major offense, Snape had no grounds to replace them.
So what happens when the true leader—the invisible prefect—and the official prefect are not the same person? Who gives the orders?
Snape ultimately chose to fully embrace the rule of strength. Officially, those three losers were still prefects, but now they were just puppets—obligated to follow the orders of the invisible prefects.
Call it punishment. Or a very motivating push.
If they could reclaim their titles in the next term, then the matter would be resolved.
This method... was surprisingly effective.
The faces of the three official prefects turned green. They didn't even have the courage to linger in the common room. As soon as Snape finished speaking, they rushed out—probably off to train like mad and prepare for a rematch next term.
Meanwhile, the invisible prefects were surrounded by excited classmates. People naturally gravitated toward power. Before, there might've been uncertainty about who truly led each year—but now? It was crystal clear.
The atmosphere in the Slytherin common room was lively and warm—except for one dark corner.
Draco Malfoy and his two lackeys sat apart, out of place and full of venom.
He glared at Tom, who was now the center of attention.
After being left hanging upside down all night, Draco had only woken when he fell flat on his face.
Never mind the physical pain—the public humiliation was what shattered him.
Never in his life had he been so degraded. Not even the fallout from the duel incident compared to this embarrassment.
The first thing he did upon returning to the dorm was write a letter to his father.
He was going to make sure that mudblood got expelled from Hogwarts—banished back to his filthy Muggle world!
Could it be done? Draco was quite confident.
After all, his father was a school governor. As long as all governors agreed, even Dumbledore could be overridden.
By now, the letter should've reached home...
"Invisible prefect? Hmph. I'll make sure you can't even stay a student."
Muttering curses under his breath, Draco stormed out of the common room with Crabbe and Goyle in tow.
If not for Snape's mandatory attendance rule, he wouldn't have shown up at all—let alone endure the judging eyes of his peers.
...
Wiltshire. Malfoy Manor.
Draco's guess wasn't wrong. His father—Lucius Malfoy—had indeed received the letter.
But his reaction was far from the furious, vengeful rage Draco had imagined.
Instead, Lucius sat pale-faced, hands trembling as he clutched the parchment.
All because of that name... Tom Riddle.
Voldemort had always proclaimed the sanctity of pureblood heritage. But anyone with half a brain in the pureblood circles knew better.
He didn't crawl out of a stone—his records at Hogwarts were well-documented.
Any pureblood family with connections and insight knew the truth: that boy was plucked from an orphanage by Dumbledore and brought into the magical world. He went on to become the Dark Lord everyone feared.
Of course, most people only knew this much. The deeper ties between Voldemort and the Gaunt family were shrouded in deeper secrecy.
But knowing the truth didn't mean anyone spoke it aloud.
It would only enrage Voldemort—and worse, make them laughingstocks in the eyes of rebellious wizards.
Imagine the ridicule: a bunch of blood-purity zealots who followed a Muggle-born orphan?
They'd never live it down.
So the Death Eaters all silently agreed—Voldemort was pureblood. It wasn't about truth. It was about maintaining an ideology. One that brought power and unity under a grand, righteous cause.
Lucius had learned these secrets from his father.
And now, after all these years, that name had surfaced again.
Slytherin. Talented. Ruthless.
Could it be... him?
Lucius trembled.
He didn't believe the Dark Lord had truly returned. But to silence the creeping fear in his heart, he decided to visit Dumbledore the very next day.
If it truly wasn't Voldemort...
Then—and only then—would he help his son seek justice.