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The Burke family—one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, and among the oldest of the lot.
These days, the most well-known member was none other than the co-owner of Borgin and Burkes down in Knockturn Alley: Caractacus Burke.
To know, Old Burke had serious pull in the darker corners of the wizarding world. Even Lucius Malfoy—when he got his hands on some particularly sketchy dark artifacts—would pass them off to Burke. That said a lot. It meant Lucius trusted Burke to cover his tracks and keep the Ministry off his back.
The entire Burke family was shrouded in secrecy.
You almost never saw them working in the Ministry. For generations, they'd been obsessively collecting and experimenting with dark magic and cursed objects.
So naturally, Tom had already flagged Bork Burke, the seventh-year prefect, as someone to watch. He was probably the most low-profile, deep-cover type in the whole school.
It wasn't that Tom could sense overwhelming magical power from Bork—magic didn't exactly come with a readable number you could scan. Not even Dumbledore could measure it like that.
But Tom had been paying close attention to his reactions.
No matter how quickly or decisively Tom took down the other prefects, Bork never flinched. At most, he furrowed his brow and looked serious.
Not scared. Not shaken. Just… focused. Like he was already running calculations in his head.
That intrigued Tom.
Why are you so calm? You really that confident?
Honestly, it was a relief when Yorkshire Carrow surrendered. No need to waste time on a boring warm-up.
"Looking forward to our duel, Prefect Burke," Tom said politely.
As always, his manners were impeccable. Which somehow made it worse. At least, that's how Bork felt.
He had the distinct impression that Tom was studying him the way someone might watch a lab rat in a cage.
Snape gave the signal to begin—and Bork moved instantly.
"Nebulus!"
A thick fog filled the common room. Indoors, with little airflow, the effect was almost instant—visibility dropped to zero.
The younger students scrambled to hide under the stairs, not wanting to get caught in the crossfire.
Snape calmly cast a Shielding Charm over himself and stayed put, standing like a stone sentinel in the corner.
Tom, meanwhile, went with a familiar strategy—raising his wand to conjure a Windy Spell, hoping to blow the mist away.
But it didn't work as well as he'd hoped.
Because they were indoors, the fog had nowhere to go. It thinned slightly, but not enough to make a difference. Visibility was still awful.
"Smart," Tom muttered, genuinely impressed.
Bork had accounted for the layout of the room. You didn't see that kind of tactical thinking often—especially not in duels, where it was usually just spell vs. spell.
FWIP! FWIP!
Two spells zipped through the air.
Tom quickly raised his wand, batting them aside with expert timing—and returned fire in the same direction without missing a beat.
"Guess I should really look into some detection spells. Relying on eyesight alone isn't cutting it."
He'd found a flaw in his spell arsenal— there was no good way to handle vision-obscuring spells.
Then an idea sparked.
"Blowing doesn't work. What about… sucking?"
The tip of Tom's wand morphed into a trumpet-like shape. With a flick, he unleashed a powerful vacuum force.
Immediately, the fog started getting pulled toward him, sucked away like dust being hoovered up. Within seconds, the air began to clear—visibility improving by the moment.
Snape nodded in approval.
Say what you want about the brat but that was brilliant.
It wasn't some fancy, advanced magic—just a clever modification of a basic Cleaning Charm, the kind used to clear away dust and grease. Repurposing it to clear fog? That took serious creativity.
Snape's academic side was downright delighted. He even felt a flicker of temptation—"should I take him on as a personal student…?"
But he quickly shut that thought down.
With all the chaos Tom had stirred up tonight, Snape would've thought the kid was Voldemort reincarnated if Dumbledore hadn't personally vouched for him.
Powerful. Ambitious. Unpredictable. A dangerous combination.
He'd definitely need to report this to Dumbledore. Let him decide what to do about Tom Riddle.
Meanwhile, Bork was stunned that his fog had been dispelled so easily. He fired off two more spells, hoping to break Tom's rhythm—but Tom moved like a shadow, dodging both with minimal effort.
Realizing things were slipping fast, Bork played his trump card.
"Toxanima Nebula!" (Venom Mist)
The fog that still lingered suddenly turned a sickly, glowing green. The walls and floors began to hiss and bubble as if sprayed with acid.
This wasn't just a poison mist. It was more like magical acid.
Tom's face turned serious. He instantly recognized it as a dark spell—and not a common one.
And now, his wand's suction trick wasn't working anymore.
That was the thing with dark magic: it wasn't just about raw damage. It was insidious. Some of it couldn't even be reversed—no countercurse, no undo button.
Tom cast a quick glance at Snape. Seeing that the professor hadn't intervened, he figured it wasn't lethal—just very dangerous.
"Confringo!"
A fireball exploded into the toxic mist.
BOOM!
Half the venomous fog evaporated in a fiery blast. But the rest still lingered, thick and deadly.
HISSS!
Two serpent-like tendrils of toxic mist lashed out at Tom's legs, fangs bared.
But just before they could strike, they were stopped by an invisible shield.
"You cast a Shielding Charm when the fog went up, didn't you?" Bork's expression darkened. He realized Tom must've done it earlier—hidden during the confusion.
Tom didn't answer. With a casual flick of his wand, he unleashed two Wind Blades that sliced through the toxic snakes.
Then, holding his breath, he fired off a series of Exploding Charms—boom after boom lighting up the room.
What little poison fog remained was blown away, and Bork was left staggering, barely holding on.
Finally, the last of his shielding spells shattered.
He gasped—miscast his next spell.
One of Tom's fireballs streaked past his arm and smashed into the wall behind him, blowing out a massive chunk.
"Enough!" Snape barked, stepping forward to stop the fight. "Riddle wins. Bork, do you object?"
"No, no," Bork gasped, clutching his scorched arm and shaking his head. "I concede."
The fireball's heat had burned him badly—he couldn't even grip his wand anymore, let alone continue the duel.
"Monster," Bork cursed internally.
He'd learned the Exploding Charm ages ago, but his version barely lit a candle compared to that.
Snape shot Tom a long, unreadable look, then strode over to help Bork with a Healing Charm to stop the bleeding.
"Come with me to my office. I've got some dittany for the burns. No need to go to the hospital wing. Understood?"
"Understood, Professor," Bork said quickly. He knew exactly what Snape was doing—keeping the situation contained.
And frankly, he didn't want this getting out either. Losing to Tom was bad enough—letting the whole school know? Absolutely not.
Especially not those smug Gryffindors. He'd never live it down.
Before leaving, Snape unhooked Malfoy—still knocked out—from where he'd been left dangling like a curtain.
Then he glanced back at Tom.
"Riddle, don't take things too far. Lucius isn't someone you want to mess with."
And with that, he left, guiding Bork out of the common room.
"Don't worry, Professor," Tom called after him with a cheerful wave. "I won't do anything too cruel to Malfoy."
The second the door closed behind them, Tom lazily waved his wand again—and hoisted Malfoy and his two flunkies right back into the air.
A chill ran through the room.
"Yeah, we are never crossing Riddle. Ever."
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