As Tom recounted his plan, McGonagall's expression grew more and more complicated.
"Now you understand, don't you, Professor?" Tom said with a faint smile. "The real difference lies in ambition and competition. Once students feel motivated, they'll naturally push themselves to study harder and train harder."
"The Invisible prefects, under constant pressure of being challenged for their position, feel the urgency to improve. Meanwhile, the ordinary students—driven by pride and unwillingness to lose—work just as hard. Together, it creates a perfect cycle."
"This is far more effective than a few extra training sessions you might sneak in, Professor."
McGonagall's face flushed ever so slightly. She had considered secretly giving Gryffindor extra lessons to avoid future embarrassment, but she hadn't acted on it yet—and now Tom had already called her out.
Still, after so many years as a professor, she understood Gryffindor well enough. "Riddle, I'll admit the hidden prefect system may work in Slytherin, but that doesn't mean it applies to the other three Houses."
"But it's perfect for Gryffindor," Tom said with certainty. "Those competitive little lions would never admit they're worse than anyone else."
"The ones who slack off, we can't control. But the ones who still have ambition—this will give them even more drive, more purpose."
"All you'd need to do… is relax the restrictions on student rivalries, just a little."
McGonagall frowned. "Such an important decision is not mine to make. It would need to be discussed with Dumbledore first."
"You're being modest, Professor," Tom replied with a dismissive smile. "Everyone knows your influence at this school. Tell me, when has Headmaster Dumbledore ever rejected your suggestions? In all of Hogwarts, everyone knows—yes, Dumbledore may be the towering figure, but the weight of a thousand students rests on your shoulders, Professor McGonagall."
"Enough nonsense," McGonagall pursed her lips, glaring at Tom with feigned sternness.
Tom only chuckled, letting the subject drop. "I only say this because I want you to feel better, Professor. After all, this is about the long-term development of the school."
The boy's eyes shone with conviction—he wasn't just looking at Hogwarts, but the future of the entire wizarding world. "The quality of Hogwarts students represents the future of British wizardry. But right now, peace has made the younger generation complacent. If everyone slacks off together, it might not show—but compared to the wizarding schools of other countries?"
"What if, one day, there's a great international tournament? Wouldn't it be a shame if we lost miserably in front of the world?"
McGonagall's heart skipped.
Lately, Dumbledore had been reaching out to other schools more frequently, perhaps even considering reviving an ancient competition.
The image flashed in her mind: Hogwarts students being utterly humiliated on foreign soil. The thought left her uneasy.
"…Very well, Riddle. I'll consider it carefully. Thank you for bringing your ideas forward. Now, enjoy your weekend."
That was a clear dismissal, and Tom wisely took his leave.
After all, he hadn't forgotten—changing school rules and systems earned him plenty of academic credits and achievement points. Today's little conflict had been carefully guided by him into a duel, all so McGonagall would see the problem firsthand.
From her reaction, it was obvious she was already convinced.
Still, McGonagall was cautious by nature. She would likely think of ways to adapt the hidden prefect system to fit the other Houses before discussing it with Dumbledore. And persuading the Headmaster was no easy task—Tom knew results would take time.
…
By the start of the new week, tensions between Gryffindor and Slytherin had grown even sharper. Their humiliating defeat in Quidditch was impossible to conceal. Even if Harry and the others stayed silent, Flint and Malfoy were more than happy to broadcast it to the whole school.
By the weekend, the news had spread everywhere. In the Great Hall, Slytherins strutted about with their noses in the air, throwing mocking glances at Gryffindor students. The Gryffindors were seething—but facts were facts. A loss was a loss. Yelling and swearing wouldn't change the outcome, it would only make them look like sore losers.
So they retaliated with their own weapon: cold silence.
The Gryffindor Quidditch team members suddenly found themselves invisible—ignored, shunned, treated as if they didn't exist. Few were willing to speak to them at all.
The only way to change this situation? Either win a duel spectacularly, right now—or redeem themselves by defeating Slytherin in the next Quidditch match.
Tom, however, secretly hoped the Slytherins would grow even more arrogant, more unbearable. That way, McGonagall's anger would only fester, until she was forced to push forward with reform and establish the hidden prefect system.
"Riddle! Riddle!"
On Tuesday, during yet another dull Defense Against the Dark Arts class, Tom withdrew his consciousness from his private study space, still savoring the nuances of Durmstrang's version of the Shattering Curse. That's when he heard the gratingly familiar voice calling his name.
His brows furrowed. Just how thick was Lockhart's skin? Tom had already humiliated him twice—yet here he was again, shameless as ever.
"Riddle, come, I have something very important to tell you," Lockhart said, shouldering his way past Daphne. The girl's wand was already in hand, ready to hex him, but Tom stopped her.
"What is it this time, Professor?" Tom asked, his impatience written clearly across his face. But Lockhart didn't notice—or perhaps didn't care. He leaned in, lowering his voice.
"Riddle, I've been thinking. That Crumple-Horned Snorkack you're keeping—it's far too dangerous for a wizard your age. You can't handle it. Best to let me take it off your hands."
"Don't worry, I'll make it worth your while," Lockhart continued eagerly. "I'll pay you handsomely—five thousand Galleons. And if that's not enough, we can negotiate further."
Tom's eyes went ice-cold.
The next moment, his voice rang through the corridor, clear and merciless:
"Levicorpus."