"The upcoming holiday is Christmas, not April Fool's Day, Mr. Riddle."
Snape's voice was calm, but even a troll could detect the sarcasm in it.
"Professor, I do know how to read a calendar."
"Then why don't you take back what you just said?"
Tom tilted his head slightly, feigning innocent confusion. "Why would I do that, Professor? Don't tell me you think our relationship is close enough to joke around like that?"
Snape's face darkened instantly.
Would it kill you to keep that mouth shut for once?
Tom, seemingly oblivious to Snape's growing irritation, sighed dramatically. "Professor, I've just come to a realization—this path of learning magic is far lonelier than I imagined. There's no clear benchmark, no standardized system. I honestly have no idea how far I've come."
"The students in our house… let's say the room for improvement is considerable. But as for me, it feels like they're no longer a valid point of comparison."
Oh, he's waxing poetic now.
Snape's expression twitched as he tried to keep his composure. He took a slow, deep breath. "So now you've decided to make me your benchmark?"
"Exactly," Tom replied, utterly unapologetic. "You're my Head of House. Isn't helping your students improve part of your job description?"
"You should be flattered to have a student as brilliant as me. It's just a duel—it won't take long."
What Tom wanted was a test.
Snape's strength, in Tom's view, represented a sort of dividing line within the magical world. Above Snape, the number of stronger wizards was extremely small. Exclude Dumbledore and Voldemort, and even someone like Mad-Eye Moody—often touted as the strongest Auror—might just barely edge him out in magical power due to experience, not raw talent.
Some elite Death Eaters were also in Snape's league.
Below Snape? You'd find elite Aurors like Kingsley Shacklebolt—who, in a duel against Snape, wouldn't stand a chance.
Go another level down, and you'd hit the realm of mediocrity.
That's where people like Lupin and Sirius Black sat—not weak, per se, but more hype than substance. Sirius especially: reckless, aggressive, and ultimately just a well-packaged paper tiger.
So Snape was perfect—a living gauge of Tom's current level. If he could gain Snape's recognition, it'd give him more freedom to execute some riskier plans over the holidays.
And if he surpassed Snape?
Well then, against most wizards, he could just say: "I don't eat beef"—a cocky phrase meaning don't waste my time.
Tom's holiday plans weren't exactly safe. He couldn't afford to rely solely on brief moments of peak performance.
Snape stared at him, eyes narrowing.
He had to admit—he was a little curious.
The boy had beaten seventh-year students within his first month at Hogwarts. After a full term, how much stronger had he grown?
Had he reached Snape's expectations?
Of course, that wasn't the important part.
What was important… was that Snape finally had a legitimate excuse to give this smug brat a proper thrashing.
Merlin's beard, how could he not take this opportunity?
"I accept. Today—"
"Stop right there! What do you think you're doing?!"
Before Snape could finish, a sharp, furious voice echoed from the stairs.
Professor McGonagall had arrived.
Seeing students brawling in the corridor sent her face red with anger. She stormed over, barking orders for them to stop. But once she got a closer look, her rage shifted into something like horror.
Not because two of her students were involved—but because of Snape.
The fight was clearly escalating right in front of him, and what was he doing? Having a casual chat with a student a few steps away.
Snape's normally pale face flushed. He had gotten so caught up in Tom's ridiculous challenge that he'd completely forgotten about Malfoy.
Tom turned to look too.
Malfoy wasn't doing great.
His pristine school robes had a massive tear, his face was scratched up, and his usually immaculate platinum-blond hair looked like a bird's nest.
Still, he was in better shape than Harry and Ron.
After all, it had been three against two. And with Crabbe and Goyle in the mix, their sheer size alone was enough to swing the tide.
Luckily, Harry and Ron had been smart enough to focus all their efforts on Malfoy, barely managing to even the odds.
"Minerva, you're just in time," Snape said, trying to recompose himself. "I was just about to intervene. I saw it clearly—Weasley started the fight with Malfoy. Crabbe and Goyle merely came to their friend's aid."
"Malfoy started it with his mouth!" Harry's glasses were cracked, but he'd already repaired them with a quick Reparo. He turned to defend Ron immediately.
"Professor McGonagall, Malfoy insulted Ron's family. He said… Hagrid's hut would be a palace compared to their home!"
Rage turned Ron's face crimson as he glared at Malfoy.
Professor McGonagall's sharp eyes zeroed in on the Slytherin boy. "Mr. Malfoy, is what Potter said true?"
With both Heads of House present, even Malfoy didn't dare lie. He turned his face away in sullen silence.
"Very well. Just marvelous."
McGonagall took a deep breath. "Holiday or not, you're all causing trouble. Twenty points will be taken from each of you! In addition to your regular homework, you'll all write a five-thousand-word reflection over the break—and hand it in when term resumes."
"Also, you'll all serve two weeks' detention when you return!"
She really hit them with the full package—academic, moral, and disciplinary consequences.
She didn't even bother consulting Snape on the punishment. After issuing the verdict, she sent them all straight to the Hospital Wing for treatment.
"And if any of you speak to each other again before getting there, your punishment will double."
With no other option, Harry and Ron could only glare daggers at Malfoy on their way upstairs, their mouths clamped shut.
Snape was absolutely livid.
And it was entirely Riddle's fault.
If that blasted boy hadn't stalled him, none of this mess would've happened. Gryffindor had already written off the House Cup—whether they lost points or not, they were dead last.
But Slytherin? Slytherin still had a real shot at the Cup.
And now they'd lost points from three students?
A complete disaster.
Snape hadn't expected it—Minerva bloody McGonagall, with her big honest eyes and stern expression, had gone full devious. She'd dragged Slytherin down just to make it look like she was being fair, while Gryffindor had nothing to lose.
Snape shot Tom a murderous glare and muttered under his breath, "Midnight. Quidditch pitch. I've got potions for days—you'll need them. If you don't show up, well… you know what happens."
And with that, he turned and stalked off, robes billowing behind him like a storm cloud—classic bat-mode reactivated.
…
The final dinner before the holiday was especially lavish. The Great Hall glittered with winter cheer—walls decked in holly and mistletoe, and twelve towering Christmas trees topped with enormous glowing crystal orbs.
Students chattered excitedly about their holiday plans, laughter echoing across the hall. Even the professors at the head table looked warm and relaxed, for once.
But Tom noticed something odd—Quirrell wasn't here.
He had planned to remind him to send over that promised Christmas present.
Too late. Judging by his absence, Quirrell had likely left the castle early.
After the feast, the Slytherin common room was still bustling, but Tom slipped out quietly. He went to the Room of Requirement for a bit of light training, then made his way to the Quidditch pitch by 11:30.
At precisely midnight, Snape arrived.
Same long black robes, same cold expression—but Tom could immediately tell something was different.
Tonight, Snape radiated deadly intent. His robes rippled slightly from the pressure of the magic surrounding him. A long, thin wand was already in his grip, angled downward but ready.
Tom could feel it.
He really wanted to beat him senseless.
The way Snape held himself, the intensity—anyone watching might think he was preparing to duel Dumbledore.
Speaking of which…
Tom tilted his head and glanced up at the castle's tallest tower—the one with the best view in all of Hogwarts. Even with the high walls of the Quidditch pitch, someone watching from there could still see.
With a mischievous smile, Tom teased, "Professor, do you think... Professor Dumbledore might be the only spectator to our duel tonight?"
"No need to worry," Snape said, dragging out each syllable coldly. "He's left the castle. No one will disturb us. And no one's coming to save you."
He raised his wand in formal salute—the traditional start of a duel.
"Let's not waste time. The sooner this ends, the sooner I can stop freezing out here. Riddle, as your professor, I'll give you the first move."
Tom raised his wand and gave a slight bow. At the exact same moment, a thundercloud materialized above Snape and crashed down with a lightning strike.
It was sudden, brutal—but Snape was no rookie. His reflexes kicked in before his brain had even processed the danger. A barrier of raw magical energy snapped up just in time to deflect the bolt.
He wanted to yell at Tom for breaking the rules—but technically, he hadn't.
Tom had completed the dueling salute.
He'd just… cast a spell while doing it.
Typical Slytherin. Even the blurry gray areas of etiquette weren't safe from manipulation.
Snape's counter was immediate. He whipped the air around him into a swirling mass, shattering the storm overhead into streaks of black flame that hurled themselves at Tom like living shadows.
"Parlor tricks won't help you."
Even while attacking, Snape found time to taunt. Today—no one was saving Riddle. Tom Riddle was about to learn why they called him the Half-Blood Prince.
Tom smiled. "Come now, Professor. That was just my way of saying hello."
From the ground around him, a soft white glow erupted—light radiating outward like a beacon. It wrapped around him, melting the black flames like snowflakes under the sun.
"Patronus Charm?" Snape frowned.
Could that really be a Patronus?
Since when could that spell neutralize dark magic?
Snape didn't know it, but this was where Andros's ancient teachings came into play.
The modern magical world treats the Patronus as a narrow tool—specifically for repelling Dementors and Lethifolds. Its fame came from how terrifying those creatures are, and how hard the spell is to master.
If a student managed to produce a full Patronus before graduation, it was considered a huge achievement—an instant ticket to bonus exam points.
But Dementors only entered magical history in the 15th century, alongside Azkaban.
The Patronus Charm? That thing had been around for thousands of years.
And in ancient times, when wizards didn't have as many spells to counter curses and hexes, the Patronus was the universal defense—raw, radiant power designed to resist corruption and darkness.
Modern magic, with its safer, simpler methods, had long since buried its deeper uses.
The bar was just too high.
After all, just learning the basic Patronus was hard enough. Pushing it further? Nearly forgotten art.
The black smoke dissipated further—but some of it condensed, hardening into a swarm of shadowy daggers. With a flick of his wand, Snape raised a protective spell—dragging earth and soil into a dense suit of armor. The daggers hit with loud metallic clangs.
Tom spun sharply, his motion releasing a ring of flame that circled the pitch.
Two fiery serpents slithered toward Snape from behind, but he blasted them apart. His robes whipped around as he launched himself forward, bouncing across the ground like a giant bat—unnaturally fast, almost graceful.
"Professor, can you teach me that spell?"
"If you defeat me," Snape replied evenly, though his heart was pounding with excitement, "I might consider it."
He was having the time of his life.
Tom's progress was astonishing. His ability to manipulate and reshape spell constructs in midair—especially Snape's own spells—was something only Dumbledore and McGonagall had ever managed in front of Snape's eyes.
He might be able to do it himself, but in a real duel? Too risky. He wouldn't dare try.
"Who taught you Transfiguration like that?" Snape asked, unable to hold back.
He was starting to suspect Dumbledore had been giving Tom private lessons.
"A teacher," Tom replied honestly.
Andros was a teacher, after all. If he could alter the form of a Patronus, his Transfiguration skills were clearly god-tier.
Right now, that was Tom's strongest branch of magic—everything else was slightly behind.
"Fine. Don't tell me."
Snape's expression darkened. "Let's see how many more tricks you've got."
He flicked his wand. Two invisible blades of air slashed toward Tom.
Tom raised an eyebrow and conjured a solid wall of water, pushing it forward like a shield. Suddenly, two gashes split through it.
Tom instantly reinforced those weak points—clang, clang—and the blades shattered against his defenses.
"Professor, this one—I want to learn too."
"Sure, sure—take 'em all, Riddle!"
Snape had stopped holding back.
He realized something now: Riddle was a worthy opponent. And that long-frozen fire in his blood... was boiling again.
Tom couldn't find a real challenge at Hogwarts. But neither could Snape.
Dueling Dumbledore? Suicide.
Challenging other professors? Too inappropriate.
And the Death Eaters? The battle-hungry ones were either dead or imprisoned. The ones still loose were… unimpressive, to say the least.
And yet—here he was, dueling a first-year student, and loving every moment of it.
Snape let go completely.
He yanked one of the Quidditch goalposts clean off the ground with magic, reshaping it midair into a massive flaming arrow—or rather, a missile—and hurled it at Tom with violent force.
Tom's expression finally shifted.
"You flaming bat! Have you got any shame?!"