The Younger Generation Is Formidable

As the tea cooled, Tom reached for it, but his heart suddenly skipped a beat; the alarm spell he had set had been triggered.

Tom's eyes sharpened, and he sneered inwardly: Poisoning me? It seems these fellows haven't learned their lesson yet.

"Petrificus Totalus!" The spell struck Zabini with precision as he pretended to read while actually watching Tom. Zabini froze instantly, his eyes filled with terror.

Nott and Rosier turned deathly pale, trembling all over: It's over! We've been discovered!

"It seems you're all in on this." Tom's tone was terrifyingly calm. He picked up the teacup, walked over to Zabini, gripped his chin, and forced the tea down his throat.

Three seconds later, Zabini's eyes rolled back, and he passed out cold.

"This potency? Is this the Draught of Living Death?" Tom raised an eyebrow.

With a thud, Nott collapsed to the floor, scrambling to beg for mercy: "Yes! It's the Draught of Living Death! It was all Zabini's idea."

"He wanted to drug you, hang you up, and whip you! He brewed the potion himself; Rosier and I just provided some ingredients and acted as lookouts. Please, spare us!"

Having been beaten to the punch by Zabini last time, Nott had made up his mind to confess first, yet he had held onto a sliver of hope, never expecting to be caught anyway.

Tom didn't respond, instead asking, "You say Zabini brewed the Draught of Living Death himself?"

Nott immediately pointed at the shivering Rosier: "Yes! Rosier watched him brew it; he told me!"

Rosier nodded with difficulty, unable to even speak.

Tom's attention wasn't on the poisoning, but rather on his surprise at Zabini's talent. The Draught of Living Death was an advanced sixth-year potion; for a first-year to actually brew it was unheard of.

He suddenly recalled that the sixth-year Potions professor was the opportunistic Slughorn. Perhaps Zabini had joined the Slug Club and obtained the recipe that way.

Seeing Tom remain still, Nott and Rosier felt a secret sense of relief, but before two seconds had passed, they were hoisted into the air by a spell, and even the unconscious Zabini was strung up from the ceiling.

Tom cast a follow-up Petrificus Totalus and sat back down to read: "We'll settle our accounts when he wakes up."

The two were instantly paralyzed, wanting to cry but having no tears. Who knew how long Zabini would sleep? If he slept all night, they would be hanging there all night.

The Draught of Living Death was indeed potent. After Tom and Daphne finished dinner and returned from a walk by the Black Lake, Zabini was still sleeping like a log, completely unaffected by his hanging position.

Tom grew impatient and raised his wand: "Ennervate!" Green light washed over Zabini; the Draught of Living Death was not Dark Magic, so standard revival spells were effective.

A few seconds later, Zabini slowly opened his eyes, looking dazed. Nott and Rosier were ecstatic: Merlin, he's finally awake!

"You're awake?" Tom asked with a smile. That smile was more terrifying to Zabini than a demon; he sobered up instantly, and seeing himself hanging there, he was scared out of his wits.

"I, I..." Zabini tried to beg for mercy, but Tom cut him off.

"Don't speak yet." Tom flicked his wand, and it transformed into a whip. "Enjoy yourself first, then confess. It's the third time; you should know the rules."

The next second, screams echoed through the dormitory, though fortunately, Tom had cast a silencing charm to avoid alerting anyone outside.

A quarter of an hour later, the screaming stopped.

The three were let down, their bodies aching. They knelt in unison, holding out tea and bowing deeply: "Big Brother, we surrender, we completely surrender! We won't dare do this again, please spare us!"

Tom took the tea Zabini offered, took a light sip, and spoke in a tone that was flat yet authoritative.

"Zabini, tell me the truth: did you brew the Draught of Living Death yourself? Was it your first time? Have you tried it at home before?"

After confirming the details, Tom finally understood: Zabini was, for heaven's sake, a Potions prodigy.

He had succeeded on his first attempt at such a high-level potion, and the potency wasn't bad either; in that cup of tea, the brat had only put two drops, and it had knocked him out cold.

The idea of using the Draught of Living Death to drug him had come from Vane.

During the first Potions class, Snape had mentioned the Draught of Living Death in passing, and Zabini had taken it to heart, immediately hatching a wicked plan.

He had looked up information, gathered materials, and spent two days tinkering in the boys' lavatory before finally brewing it.

This potion, filled with the "scent of the lavatory," had ended up entirely in his own stomach—a classic case of reaping what he had sown.

Tom set down his teacup, a smirk playing on his lips: "Blaise, you really have impressed me."

"With your talent for Potions, your bloodline and family background are just fleeting clouds. Sooner or later, you'll be able to earn back respect on your own merits."

To Zabini, these words felt better than a bucket of ice water on a sweltering summer day.

When others praised him, he would at most feel a bit smug, but coming from Tom—who had beaten him three or four times and kept him firmly under his thumb—the weight of the words was entirely different.

The recognition of an enemy was the highest form of validation; he finally understood that.

No, wait—now Tom was his Big Brother!

Zabini immediately lowered his head: "Riddle, I was ignorant before, my brain wasn't working right. I won't dare to retaliate against you ever again; it was all my fault."

"At least you have some self-awareness." Tom stood up, patted his shoulder, and glanced at Nott and Rosier, his tone lazy yet laced with pressure: "What about you two? Still planning on pulling any little stunts?"

The two shook their heads frantically: "We won't, we won't! We wouldn't dare even if you killed us!"

"Very good." Tom snapped his fingers and held out his palm. "Hand over your pocket money as a lesson, and as compensation for my mental distress."

Nott and Rosier's faces fell. They fumbled to pull out their Galleons, watching helplessly as Tom tucked the thirty-plus Galleons into his pocket.

Tom had intended to go back to his book, but to his surprise, Zabini took the initiative to strike up a conversation, and Nott and Rosier quickly followed suit, their eagerness a stark contrast to their former selves.

In the past, Tom had always ordered them around, and they had never engaged in idle chatter.

Tom couldn't be bothered to investigate whether they were sincere or fake, so he went along with the conversation.

Zabini rambled on about the troubles he'd faced while brewing the Draught of Living Death. Tom offered a few casual pointers, and to his surprise, he saw genuine, unadulterated admiration in the boy's eyes—much like the way Ron looked at Harry.

Nott and Rosier, standing to the side, turned green with envy.

The two of them couldn't make heads or tails of the potion-related topic the pair was discussing; they had always been brothers-in-arms who suffered beatings together.

Now, simply because Tom had glanced at Zabini a couple of extra times, Zabini's status had suddenly eclipsed their own.

Class, that sort of thing, just emerged so inadvertently.

Those at the top held the power of discourse; whoever they were willing to elevate could step over others. Tom didn't care about this in the slightest—if someone was willing to serve him, why not take advantage of it?

The next morning, Zabini followed Tom around like a little lackey, never leaving his side, while Nott and Rosier trailed closely behind.

The three of them walked in a line, drawing side-eyes from quite a few Slytherin students. It wasn't until Daphne frowned and glared at them that the trio reluctantly slunk away.

After finishing his homework with Daphne, Tom headed straight for the library; he still had books to input into his Study Space.

As soon as he walked through the door, he saw Hermione sitting in the corner, waving at him vigorously.