Snape stormed into the Slytherin common room, his black robes billowing behind him like a thundercloud.
It was highly unusual for professors—let alone Heads of House—to enter the students' private quarters. The common rooms were sacred spaces, meant for students to unwind without the prying eyes of authority. But tonight's events had spiraled far beyond the bounds of normalcy.
Everyone in Slytherin thought Riddle had gone mad.
So they figured—why not bring Snape here himself, and let him experience firsthand what it felt like to have his position usurped without so much as a warning?
"Riddle," Snape's voice sliced through the room, "I hear you want to be Head of Slytherin?"
He ignored everyone else. His dark eyes were locked solely on the root of the chaos. He barely spared a glance at the supposed "victim"—Malfoy—who lay slumped unconscious on the floor, having been silenced by Riddle's wand for being too noisy.
Snape was in an awful mood. Just that afternoon, he and Tom had worked together amicably, earning Slytherin a sizable chunk of House Points.
And by evening? This nonsense.
Was Riddle some kind of twisted gift from Dumbledore? A secret weapon sent specifically to give Snape headaches and distract him from tormenting Harry Potter?
"Surely, Professor, you jest," Tom replied with a harmless, almost innocent smile. "I'm just a student. How could I possibly become Head of House?"
"It's only that these pure-bloods can be so tiresome," he added casually. "So I thought—why not take matters into my own hands?"
"So your big idea was to take my job?" Snape sneered, voice dripping with sarcasm. "An invisible Head of House... such grand ambitions. First year, and you already think you can stand beside me. What's next? Headmaster by third year?"
Several students couldn't hold in their laughter, eyes glittering with amusement. All of them were waiting for Tom's comeback.
But Tom didn't take the bait. There was no flare of embarrassment, no anger—just an easy shrug, as if Snape's mockery barely registered.
"Nothing so dramatic," Tom said lightly. "I just want to study in peace and avoid unnecessary nuisances. Being an invisible head is quite enough."
He paused for effect, then added with a smirk, "Or if you prefer another term... perhaps—'the uncrowned king of Slytherin'?"
Snape's expression twisted as if he'd just swallowed a live dung beetle.
You might as well not have changed the title at all.
That sounds even more arrogant than before.
"No more word games," Snape snapped, flicking his sleeve sharply. "I didn't come here to exchange quips with you."
"Your title of 'Invisible Head' is ridiculous," he added, "but this idea of yours... 'invisible prefect'... now that has potential."
"If you can beat Avery," Snape said, gesturing to the sixth-year prefect, "then you'll be the invisible prefect for the first-years."
"The other years can do the same. Duel it out. Whoever's strongest earns the title of Invisible Prefect."
Snape's hatred for Voldemort may have been personal—rooted in love and betrayal—but at his core, he was still a Slytherin through and through. He respected power. If he hadn't, he never would've joined the Death Eaters in the first place.
He didn't oppose Riddle's plan—in fact, he expanded it.
And more than that, it gave him a perfect excuse to test Tom Riddle.
There was something about this boy that didn't sit right. Too composed. Too fearless.
People like that either didn't understand danger—or had something to rely on.
And Tom wasn't like Potter, the arrogant, blundering fool. Riddle was calculating. Sharp.
Clearly, it was the latter.
With Snape's announcement, murmurs erupted. Apart from a few dissatisfied prefects, the rest of the students were intrigued—eager, even. The common room practically buzzed with ambition. The scent of competition hung thick in the air.
Before Tom could respond, Snape raised his wand and swept it in a wide arc. Instantly, the room shifted. Tables and chairs floated up and neatly stacked themselves against the walls, clearing a wide space in the center.
"I'll serve as the referee," Snape said flatly. "Unforgivable Curses and uncontrollable Dark magic are forbidden. Standard curses and hexes are allowed—I'm confident I can patch you up."
Then, oddly, he smiled at Tom—clearly hoping to see the boy falter under pressure.
"I'm fine with that," Tom replied calmly.
"So am I," Avery nodded stiffly.
The two stepped back, raised their wands, and bowed formally.
With a sharp cry, Snape barked, "Begin!"
Avery sprang into action immediately. His steps were swift, incantations flowing smoothly from his mouth.
First came a glimmering shield, wrapping his body in translucent protection. Then a streak of red light shot forward—fast and aggressive—headed straight for Tom.
It was instantly clear: Avery wasn't just some pampered sixth-year. He had real dueling experience. His spellwork was crisp, efficient—clearly well-trained.
That was the advantage pure-bloods held over Muggle-borns and half-bloods: generations of magical heritage. Centuries of combat training, family knowledge, and tradition.
That was the true power of legacy.
Tom was something else.
With a subtle flick, he deflected the Disarming Charm effortlessly. Then, with a twist of his wrist, he pointed his wand downward.
The once solid floor turned fluid beneath Avery's feet, rippling like waves. Just as Avery prepared to cast again, he stumbled—nearly falling—before quickly muttering a hardening spell to steady the ground.
But it was already too late.
Tom's next spell struck.
A seemingly unimpressive Obstruction Curse crashed into Avery's magical shield—yet, to everyone's shock, the barrier shattered instantly.
Avery backed away, and a flurry of glowing embers burst forth from the fireplace—hot coals, enchanted and aflame, hurtling toward Tom.
A clever move. On unstable footing, targeted spells were harder to land. Wide-range curses were far more effective.
A sudden gale surged through the room. The wind roared, wild and uncontrollable. The coals reversed mid-air, swept back toward Avery.
He gasped and dove away, but two of the burning chunks struck him hard. He winced in pain, clutching at his side.
Tom's eyes narrowed in disappointment.
This is the standard for a sixth-year prefect?
He looked the part—confident, trained—but the moment he lost control, he panicked. No adaptability. No grit.
Just two spells, and he was already crumbling.
The disarming spell hit with pinpoint precision. Avery's wand flew from his grip, spinning high in the air before landing neatly in Tom's outstretched hand.
"Match concluded," Snape declared, his face expressionless. His cold gaze swept over Avery, who was clutching his burns and wincing.
"Tom Riddle is the winner. He is now the Invisible Prefect of Slytherin's first years."