Shadow Prefect

That is how the wizarding world works. Unless your strength reaches the level of Albus Dumbledore or Voldemort, a large family is synonymous with power. It is much like an ancient agrarian society: there is strength in numbers.

The Malfoy family only has two adults; if they were to provoke a few dark wizards, they could easily be wiped out. As for him, Tom Riddle, it is not as if he couldn't play that role himself.

Tom felt this student had a good eye for the situation and asked casually, "By the way, what is your name?"

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

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

Marcel smiled sheepishly. "He is my cousin. That boy has no ambition and is always looking for trouble."

Tom understood, his curiosity piqued. "Since you are cousins, you must know about what happened in our dormitory, right? Logically, since he was dealt with by me, he should have complained to you. Why haven't I seen you come to cause me trouble? Instead, you took the initiative to bring me news."

Marcel gave a carefree laugh. "He did come to me, wanting me to teach you a lesson, but I refused. For an upperclassman to bully a lowerclassman is too shameful. He had better conditions than you and was taught magic by his family early on; it is his own lack of focus that led to him getting what he deserved."

"Besides, he was the one who provoked you first. If one dares to act, one must dare to face the consequences. Understanding this truth early is better than regretting it later when you offend someone you cannot afford to cross. I ignored him, let it be a lesson for him."

Tom looked at Marcel with newfound respect. This is how a Slytherin should be: calm, shrewd, and capable of weighing pros and cons. He was far better than those reckless fools.

"You are quite good, Marcel." He winked. "I hope to hear good news from you on Monday."

He did not believe that someone so ambitious would pass up the chance to compete for the position of Shadow Prefect for the fourth year—next year, when the fifth-year official prefects are chosen, the Shadow Prefect is highly likely to be the successor. Marcel would never let this opportunity slip.

"I will do my best," Marcel said modestly, though his eyes burned with fire. The ancestral motto of the Nott family was to follow the strong. The previous generation chose the wrong path, and the family paid a heavy price; his parents were still in Azkaban to this day.

He knew he could not become the strongest, so he had been waiting for someone worth following. Now, it seemed, Tom Riddle might just be that person.

Of course, he would not bow down immediately. Tom was only in his first year; defeating a few students only proved he had potential. Whether he could make it to the end remained to be seen.

Building a relationship early was the safest choice. The benefits might not be the greatest, but it was a move that could never lose.

Tom said nothing more and turned to walk toward the dining hall. Marcel stood where he was, watching his back with a firm gaze. As long as he followed the right person, the Nott family would one day be able to stand tall again.

Meanwhile, in the Headmaster's office, Snape arrived uninvited, a rare occurrence. His face was gloomy and he gripped his wand tightly; clearly, he needed to have a serious talk with Albus Dumbledore about this troublesome boy, Tom Riddle.

As soon as Snape's footsteps fell in the office, they startled a group of headmaster portraits who had been sleeping soundly.

These old bones were bored out of their minds. One by one, they leaned against their frames and peered out, their eyes brightening as if they had found entertainment. Everyone knew that Snape never visited without a reason, and every time he came, it was surely about some fresh news regarding Voldemort.

In the eyes of these long-dead headmasters, Voldemort was top-tier entertainment. Besides, they were already portraits; even if Voldemort were fierce, could he drag them out of their frames and kill them again? In their dreams!

The office was so quiet that the ticking of the clock could be heard. Snape sat on the sofa, feeling entirely uncomfortable. He didn't need to guess to know that all those prying eyes were coming from the portraits on the walls.

He didn't bother with them. Getting angry at a bunch of old fossils who had been dead for hundreds of years was a lose-lose situation—winning brought no face, and losing was even more embarrassing. Besides, when he was young, he had a lapse in judgment and got into an argument with these portraits, only to be cursed at until he was speechless. He still felt disgusted thinking about it.

Click. The sound of a door opening came from the spiral staircase. Dumbledore walked down in floral pajamas, his steps light and airy. His hair was a mess, and he still carried the haze of having just woken up.

"Severus, my apologies, my apologies. This old man has poor sleep. I spent all night agonizing over choosing a chamber pot until dawn, and I had just dozed off when you woke me up."

As he spoke, he plopped down behind the headmaster's desk. With a casual wave of his right hand, honey water, bread, sausages, and a plate of dark, murky Cockroach Clusters appeared on the table, as if they had been there all along.

Snape's face turned as black as his robes. He truly loathed this habit of Dumbledore's—the man was clearly an old fox who could see through everything, yet he insisted on playing the fool and spouting nauseating nonsense.

Dumbledore picked up a Cockroach Cluster, bit off its head with a crunch, and gestured vaguely to Snape. "Severus, have you eaten? Want to grab a bite? I had the kitchen bake these Cockroach Clusters specifically; they're crispy on the outside and tender on the inside."

"No thank you, Professor, I am quite full." Snape squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself not to look at the disgusting mess, while cursing inwardly: This trash, even a dog would find it dirty! One day, I'll catch a few real cockroaches and mix them in to see if you can still eat it with such relish.

Dumbledore didn't press the issue, waving a hand while chewing. "Very well, then. Speak, what brings you here? Surely not just to keep me company for breakfast."

Snape took a deep breath, suppressing his revulsion, and recounted the events in the Slytherin common room from the previous night, point by point.

From Goyle and Malfoy's provocation to Tom's counterattack, to his challenge against all the prefects, the creation of the Shadow Prefect system, and even the rules Tom had set after he left—he left nothing out.

Dumbledore listened with a calm expression, nodding in agreement from time to time, though the speed at which he ate grew slower and slower. Once Snape finished, he drank the last of his honey water, pulled out a floral handkerchief to wipe his mouth, and spoke slowly.

"Severus, what are you trying to say? A Slytherin has produced a fine talent; you should be happy, so why do you look so bitter and deep in thought?"

"Are you still playing dumb?!" Snape nearly slammed the table, his brows knitting into a knot. "Riddle is too freakish! By any calculation, he has only been exposed to magic for two months. When you were exposed to magic for two months, what level did you reach?"

Dumbledore blinked, actually falling into a memory, his expression filled with emotion. "Oh my, I was much luckier than him. I had a wizard father and was exposed to magic at seven."

"However, after two months, I could only perform a simple animal transfiguration. Compared to Riddle, I was far behind."

Snape's temple throbbed violently; he nearly lost his breath.

He had come to tell this old man about the gravity of the situation, not to listen to him humble-brag! Learning animal transfiguration after two months of study at age seven—that was material for the fourth or fifth year—and he still claimed he was "far behind"?