The First Duel

That is how the wizarding world works. Unless your strength reaches the level of Albus Dumbledore or Voldemort, having a large family is synonymous with power—much like an ancient agrarian society where 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 Tom Riddle, it wasn't as if he couldn't play that role himself.

Tom felt this student was quite perceptive and asked casually, "By the way, what is your name?"

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

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

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

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

Marcel gave a carefree smile. "He did come to me, wanting me to teach you a lesson, but I refused. A senior bullying a junior is too shameful to speak of. He had better conditions than you and was taught magic by his family early on; it's his own lack of focus that led to him getting what he deserved."

"Besides, he was the one who provoked you first. If he dares to act, he must dare to bear the consequences. Understanding this principle early is better than regretting it later when he provokes someone he can't afford to offend. I ignored him, just to teach him a lesson."

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

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

He didn't believe that someone so ambitious would pass up the chance to compete for the Shadow Prefect position for the fourth years. Next year, when the fifth-year official prefects are chosen, the Shadow Prefect has a high probability of being next in line; 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 had chosen the wrong path, and the family had paid a heavy price; his parents were still in Azkaban to this day.

He knew he couldn't 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 wouldn't 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 in advance was the safest choice. The benefits might not be the greatest, but it was a move that couldn't 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 had to have a serious talk with Albus Dumbledore about the troublesome boy, Tom Riddle.

As soon as Snape's footsteps ceased in the office, he woke a group of headmaster portraits who had been sleeping soundly.

These old bones were bored to death, and one by one, they leaned against their frames, peering out with eyes as bright as if they had found entertainment. Everyone knew that Snape never visited without a reason; whenever he came, it was always about some fresh news regarding Voldemort.

In the eyes of these long-dead headmasters, Voldemort was top-tier entertainment. Besides, they were just portraits now; even if Voldemort were fierce, could he pull 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 completely uncomfortable. He didn't need to guess to know that all those prying gazes came from the portraits on the walls.

He didn't mind them; getting angry at a bunch of old fossils dead for hundreds of years was a lose-lose situation—not to mention that when he was young, he had once had a row with these portraits and been scolded into the ground, a memory that still made him cringe.

Click. The sound of a door opening came from the spiral staircase. Albus Dumbledore walked down in floral pajamas, his steps light, his hair messy, and his expression still hazy from sleep.

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

As he spoke, he plopped down behind his 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 the head with a crunch, and beckoned to Snape vaguely. "Severus, have you eaten? Want a bite? I had the kitchen bake these Cockroach Clusters specifically; they're crispy on the outside and tender on the inside."

"No need, Professor, I am quite full." Snape closed his eyes tightly, forcing himself not to look at the disgusting mess, cursing inwardly: This piece of trash, even a dog wouldn't touch it! 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 matter, waving his hand while chewing. "Very well, speak then. 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 in full detail.

From Goyle and Malfoy's provocation to Tom's counterattack, his challenge to 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? Slytherin has produced a promising talent; you should be happy, so why do you look so miserable?"

"Are you still playing dumb?!" Snape nearly slammed the table, his brows knitting together. "Riddle is too bizarre! He has only been exposed to magic for two months at most. When you were first exposed to magic for two months, what level did you reach?"

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

"But 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 fourth or fifth-year material—and he was claiming he was "far behind"?