— — — — — —
Avery stared at Tom in complete shock.
He couldn't believe what he was hearing. In Slytherin, of all places—where hierarchy and status meant everything—someone actually dared to challenge the authority of a prefect?
For a moment, he was so stunned he didn't even know how to respond.
But Crabbe and Goyle weren't nearly as frozen.
Goyle charged at Tom with a roar, yelling, "Let Draco go, you filthy Mudblood!"
Crabbe followed close behind. Despite being first-years, the two were bulky and heavyset, probably stronger than most older students thanks to all the food they devoured.
Nott and Zabini exchanged a glance—no words needed—and immediately stepped in, dashing forward to intercept the charging duo before they could reach Tom.
Tom Riddle had officially reached god-tier levels of boldness. Ignoring a prefect's authority and attacking Draco Malfoy in full view of the common room? That took guts.
Tom didn't even need their help for this.
"Stupefy!"
Two bolts of light shot out almost simultaneously from Tom's wand and hit Crabbe and Goyle square in the chest. They dropped to the ground like sacks of potatoes, out cold.
"ENOUGH!"
Avery had finally drawn his wand and was now aiming it at Tom. "This is your last warning, Riddle. Let Malfoy go. If you don't, I will use force."
"You want to duel me?" Tom asked, wand now lowered and that usual smirk gone from his face.
Avery took a deep breath. "If you're asking to be taught a lesson, I'll gladly oblige."
He'd been wanting to put Tom in his place from the start, but he needed a solid excuse. Now, Tom had handed it to him on a silver platter.
"There are plenty of people who could teach me a lesson," Tom replied, raising his wand in formal dueling posture, "but you're not one of them."
"But fighting's a bit boring without some stakes, don't you think?"
Avery frowned. "What stakes?"
Tom shrugged casually. "You prefects act like you're such a big deal."
He looked around the room, his words making the prefects' expressions tighten with irritation. "Let's be honest. If I were in fifth year, I'd be a prefect too."
"But I'm tired of waiting."
He flashed a grin so dazzling that more than a few witches went dreamy-eyed.
"So here's my proposal: If I win, you create a new position just for first-years—'Shadow Prefect.' From now on, your prefect authority won't apply to us."
"Absolutely not!"
That came not only from Avery and the two prefects nearby, but also from the stairwell—where the rest of the Slytherin prefects had arrived, drawn by the commotion.
The newcomers quickly got the gist of what was happening, their jaws dropping as they heard what Tom had proposed.
Tom, on the other hand, looked completely unimpressed. "You're refusing? Sorry, but this isn't up for negotiation."
With a flick of his wand, Tom conjured six gloves and tossed them to the feet of the prefects.
A formal duel challenge.
{Note: One male and one female student are chosen from each house in their fifth year to serve as prefects. They would continue to be prefects in their sixth and seventh years until they left school. making a total of six prefects per house over the three years (fifth, sixth, and seventh).}
Again, a formal duel challenge.
In ancient wizarding tradition, this wasn't just a fight—it was a declaration of open defiance. Even war.
"Slytherin values strength above all. You lot talk so much about blood status—but let's be real: how many of you got sorted into Slytherin before the Sorting Hat even touched your head?"
"Huh? Anyone?"
His sudden shout made the whole common room flinch. People opened their mouths to argue—but stopped short.
Because…damn, he had a point.
Cases like that were extremely rare. Even Professor McGonagall had taken a good twenty minutes to get sorted. But Tom had been placed into Slytherin instantly, before the hat even had a chance to speak.
Could it be? Was Tom some secret heir of an ancient pure-blood family?
The idea began to stir in more than a few minds.
Seventh-year prefect Bork Burke stepped forward to stand beside Avery. "Prefects are appointed by the school. Even if we did agree to your terms, the school wouldn't approve."
Tom waved that off like it was nothing. "Don't give me that official nonsense."
"If you lot actually cared about school rules, you wouldn't be badmouthing Dumbledore behind his back every chance you get."
"And besides, I'm not stripping you of your prefect titles. I said shadow prefect, didn't I? You'll still have all your duties, your privileges, your benefits. I won't touch any of that."
"All I want is for first-years to manage their own business—without being bossed around by people who've clearly forgotten what it's like to earn respect."
"And once the strongest student from each year steps up as their shadow prefect—that's when Slytherin will have real order."
"You lot afraid of that? Then what right do you have to tell us what to do? Because you suck up to the professors better than we do?"
That one hit home. Several students shifted uncomfortably, glancing at the prefects with new skepticism in their eyes.
Tom was voicing something many Slytherins had thought privately for years. The house prided itself on ambition, cunning, and above all, power. Prefects were assumed to be the strongest in their year—not just politically, but magically.
But if a first-year openly challenged that and no one dared take him on?
Well, that kind of shattered the whole illusion.
People were beginning to stir, a rebellious spark lighting in their eyes.
Burke and Avery exchanged a look. They knew they were trapped. Like it or not, they had to accept the challenge now. Backing down would destroy their credibility completely.
"…He's yours," Burke muttered, clapping Avery on the shoulder before stepping back.
"Riddle, fine. If you beat all of us prefects, then sure—you can be the first-year Shadow Prefect."
Burke gave a lazy smirk. He'd heard some things about Riddle's talent, sure, but at the end of the day, the kid was just a first-year with good grades.
A sixth-year versus a first-year?
He couldn't even imagine how Riddle thought he had a chance.
But then—
"No, no, no."
Tom shook his head again, now grinning like he had an ace up his sleeve.
Everyone looked confused.
"…What, you're backing out now?" Avery snapped.
"Of course not."
Tom's expression turned cold and razor-sharp.
"I'm saying, if I beat all of you, and I've proven I'm the strongest student in this entire house…"
"…then why the hell would I settle for being just a first-year Shadow Prefect?"
"If I'm doing this, I'm going all in."
"I want to be Slytherin's Shadow Head of House."
.
.
.