First Duel

The Wizarding World was like this. Unless you were as powerful as Dumbledore or Voldemort, a large family meant strength, just like in an ancient agrarian society: the more people, the greater the power.

The Malfoy family had only two adults. If they angered a few dark wizards, those wizards could wipe them out. And Tom Riddle himself wasn't above playing that part.

Tom thought the student had a good eye for people, so he casually asked, "By the way, what's your name?"

The student hurriedly bowed. "Marcel Nott. I'm a fourth-year."

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

Marcel smiled awkwardly. "He's my cousin. That kid never learns and is 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 dealt with him, he'd come complain to you. Why haven't you come after me? Instead, you came to warn me."

Marcel smiled freely. "He did come to me and ask me to teach you a lesson, but I refused. A higher-year bullying a younger student would be humiliating. He had better circumstances than you—his family taught him magic long ago. He just didn't apply himself, so he deserved what he got."

"Besides, he started it. If he dared to do it, he had to accept the consequences. It's better for him to learn that lesson early 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, shrewd, and able to weigh the pros and cons. He was far better than those reckless fools.

"You're pretty impressive, Marcel." He blinked. "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 fourth-year Shadow Prefect. The formal Prefects would be chosen from the fifth-years the following year, and the Shadow Prefect would have a very good chance of being selected. Marcel wouldn't let this opportunity slip by.

"I'll do my best," Marcel said modestly, though a fire burned in his eyes. The Nott family's motto 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 Tom Riddle might be that person.

Of course, he wouldn't throw himself at Tom's feet right away. Tom was only a first-year. Beating a few students showed potential, but no one could say whether he'd make it to the top.

Building a good relationship early was the safest choice. The benefits might not be the greatest, but he wouldn't lose out.

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

Meanwhile, in the Headmaster's Office, Snape had shown up unannounced—a rare occurrence. His face was dark, and his hand gripped his wand. Clearly, he needed to have a serious talk with Dumbledore about that troublesome boy, Tom Riddle.

Snape's footsteps had barely faded in the Headmaster's Office when they woke a group of portraits of headmasters who had been sleeping soundly.

Those old bones had nothing better to do. One by one, they leaned over the edges of their frames, peering out with eyes bright as if they'd just spotted some entertainment. Everyone knew Snape never came without a reason. Whenever he showed up, it was sure to be some fresh news about Voldemort.

To the headmasters, most of whom were dead, Voldemort was the ultimate source of amusement. They were portraits now. No matter how vicious Voldemort was, he couldn't drag them out of their frames and kill them all over again. Dream on!

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

He didn't bother with them. Picking a fight with a bunch of old geezers who'd been dead for centuries was embarrassing if he won and even worse if he lost. Besides, when he was younger, he'd had a stupid argument with those portraits and been cursed out thoroughly. Just thinking about it still put him in a foul mood.

Click. A door opened at the top of the spiral staircase, and Dumbledore came down in a colorful dressing gown, walking briskly. His hair was a mess, and he still looked groggy from sleep.

"Severus, forgive me, forgive me. This old man doesn't sleep well. I spent all night agonizing over which chamber pot to choose, and just when I'd managed to doze off, you woke me."

As he spoke, he plopped down behind the Headmaster's desk. With a casual wave of his right hand, he conjured honey water, bread, sausages, and a plate of dark Cockroach Clusters, as if they'd been sitting there all along.

Snape's face darkened to match his robes. He truly hated this habit of Dumbledore's. The man could see through everything, yet insisted on playing the fool and spouting disgusting nonsense.

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

"No, thank you, Professor. I'm quite full." Snape squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself not to look at the revolting things. That vile stuff— even a dog would think it was filthy! One of these days, I'll catch a few real cockroaches and mix them in. Let's see if you still enjoy them then.

Dumbledore didn't press him. He waved a hand while chewing on a Cockroach Cluster. "All right, then. What brings you here? Surely you didn't come 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 previous night.

He covered everything, from Goyle and Malfoy provoking Tom to Tom striking back, challenging all the Prefects, and introducing the Shadow Prefect system. He even told Dumbledore every rule Tom had laid down after Snape left.

Dumbledore listened with a perfectly calm expression, nodding along now and then, though he ate more and more slowly. When Snape finished, Dumbledore drained the last of his honey water, took out a flowered handkerchief, and wiped his mouth before speaking at an unhurried pace.

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

"Are you still pretending not to understand?!" Snape nearly slapped the desk. His brow knotted. "There's something deeply wrong with Riddle! He's only been exposed to magic for two months. What could you do after two months of studying magic?"

Dumbledore blinked, then actually fell into thought, his face full of reminiscence. "Oh, I was much more fortunate than he was. My father was a wizard, and I was exposed to magic when I was seven.

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

Snape's temples throbbed. He nearly choked.

He'd come to make the old man understand how serious this was, not to listen to him humblebrag! Dumbledore had learned for two months at age seven and could already Transfigure animals—a skill taught in fourth or fifth year—and he still thought he'd been behind?