Shadow Prefect

That was how the Wizarding World worked. Unless you had power on the level of Albus Dumbledore or Voldemort, a large family meant strength, just like in ancient agrarian societies: the more people, the greater the force.

The Malfoy family had only two adults. A few dark wizards could wipe them out if they got riled up enough. And Tom Riddle himself wasn't above playing the part.

Tom thought the student was pretty perceptive and casually asked, "By the way, what's your name?"

The student quickly bowed. "Marcel Nott, fourth year."

"Nott?" Tom raised an eyebrow. "Are you related to Cassare Nott?"

Marcel smiled sheepishly. "He's my cousin. That kid's hopeless—always getting into trouble."

Tom understood, and his curiosity grew. "Since you're cousins, you must know what's been going on in our dorm, right? You'd think that after I beat him, he'd come complain to you. Why haven't you come after me? Instead, you came to give me a tip."

Marcel smiled breezily. "He did come to me and ask me to teach you a lesson, but I turned him down. It'd be embarrassing for an older student to bully a younger one. He has it better than you—his family taught him magic long ago. He just couldn't be bothered to learn, so he deserved what he got."

"Besides, he was the one who picked a fight with you. If he's bold enough to do it, he should be ready to face the consequences. It's better for him to learn that lesson now than to pick a fight with someone he can't afford to offend and regret it later. I ignored him, figuring it would teach him a lesson."

Tom saw Marcel in a new light. That was how a Slytherin should be: calm, clever, and able to weigh the pros and cons. Much better than those reckless fools.

"You're pretty impressive, Marcel." He winked. "I hope I hear good news from you on Monday."

He didn't believe someone so ambitious would pass up the chance to compete for the fourth-year Shadow Prefect position. Fifth years would be chosen as official Prefects the following year, and the Shadow Prefect was highly likely to be next in line. There was no way Marcel would let this opportunity slip by.

"I'll do my best," Marcel said modestly, though a fire burned in his eyes. The Nott family's ancestral rule was to follow the strong. The previous generation had chosen the wrong path, and the family had paid dearly for it. His parents were still in Azkaban.

He knew he could never become the strongest, so he had been waiting for someone worth following. Now it seemed that Tom Riddle might be that person.

Of course, he wouldn't immediately throw himself at Tom's feet. Tom was only a first-year. Beating a few students showed potential, but whether he could go all the way was another matter.

Building a relationship early was the safest choice. The benefits might not be the greatest, but there was no risk of losing out.

Tom said no more and turned toward the dining hall. Marcel stayed where he was, watching him go with a determined look. As long as they followed the right person, the Nott family would rise again one day.

Meanwhile, in the Headmaster's Office, Snape made a rare unannounced visit. His face was gloomy, and he clutched his wand. Clearly, he needed to have a serious talk with Dumbledore about the troublesome boy, Tom Riddle.

The moment Snape's footsteps fell silent in the Headmaster's Office, they woke a group of portraits that had been sleeping soundly.

The old fossils were bored out of their minds. One by one, they leaned over their frames to peer out, their eyes gleaming as if they'd just found some entertainment. Everyone knew Snape never visited without a reason, and whenever he did, there was bound to be some fresh news involving Voldemort.

To these long-dead headmasters, Voldemort was the best kind of entertainment. They were portraits now, after all. No matter how fearsome Voldemort was, he couldn't drag them out of their paintings and kill them all over again. Dream on!

The office was quiet enough to hear the clock ticking. Snape sat on the sofa, thoroughly uncomfortable. He didn't need to guess where all those spying eyes were coming from: the portraits on the walls.

He didn't take it personally. Picking a fight with a bunch of old men who'd been dead for centuries was a no-win situation: win, and it was nothing to be proud of; lose, and it was even more humiliating. Besides, when he was younger, he'd had a stupid argument with those portraits and been chewed out so badly that even now, remembering it made his skin crawl.

With a click, the door at the top of the spiral staircase opened. Dumbledore came down in a colorful dressing gown, his steps light, his hair a mess, and his expression still hazy with sleep.

"Severus, forgive me, forgive me. This old man sleeps poorly. I spent all night agonizing over which chamber pot to choose, and just managed to doze off when you woke me."

As he spoke, he dropped into the chair behind the headmaster's desk. With a casual wave of his right hand, honey water, bread, sausages, and a plate of dark, lumpy Cockroach Clusters appeared on the desk, as if they'd been there all along.

Snape's face instantly darkened to match his robes. He truly couldn't stand this habit of Dumbledore's. The old fox could see through anything, yet insisted on playing the fool and spouting disgusting nonsense.

Dumbledore picked up a Cockroach Cluster, bit its head off with a crunch, and beckoned to Snape through a mouthful. "Severus, have you eaten? Want to join me for a bite? I had the kitchen bake these Cockroach Clusters specially. Crispy on the outside, tender inside."

"No, thank you, Professor. I've eaten plenty." Snape squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself not to look at the revolting things. He cursed inwardly: That awful stuff— even a dog would turn its nose up at it! One of these days, I'll catch a few real cockroaches and mix them in. Let's see if you still enjoy them so much then.

Dumbledore didn't insist. He chewed on a Cockroach Cluster and waved a hand. "All right, then. What brings you here? Surely you didn't come just to keep me company at breakfast."

Snape took a deep breath, suppressing his disgust, and recounted everything that had happened in the Slytherin Common Room the night before.

He left out nothing: Goyle and Malfoy's provocation, Tom's retaliation, his challenge to all the Prefects, the creation of the Shadow Prefect system, and even the rules Tom had laid down after Snape left.

Dumbledore listened calmly, nodding along now and then, though he was eating more and more slowly. When Snape finished, he drained the last of his honey water, took out a flowered handkerchief to wipe his mouth, and spoke leisurely.

"Severus, what are you trying to say? Slytherin has a promising young talent. You should be pleased. Why do you look so glum?"

"You're still pretending not to understand?!" Snape nearly slapped the desk, his brows knotted together. "There's something wrong with Riddle! He's had barely two months of exposure to magic. What could you do after two months?"

Dumbledore blinked, then genuinely fell into thought, his face full of reminiscence. "Oh, I was much luckier than him. My father was a wizard, so I'd been exposed to magic since I was seven.

"After two months, all I could do was a simple animal Transfiguration. Compared to Riddle, I was miles behind."

Snape's temples throbbed. He almost couldn't catch his breath.

He'd come to tell the old man how serious the situation was, not to listen to him humblebrag! Animal Transfiguration was something students didn't learn until fourth or fifth year. And he still thought he'd been behind?