On Friday evening, most of the students had already slipped into weekend mode—lazily lounging about, their minds temporarily free from homework and classes, soaking up the relaxed atmosphere.
Tom knew how to balance work and rest. Right now, he was playing Gobstones with Daphne.
According to Andros, Tom had entered a new phase—not one of strength, but of magical understanding.
He had brushed against the essence of magic itself—just the outermost layer, but even that was enough to make his studies drastically more effective.
Many wizards go their entire lives without ever reaching this point. To them, magic was just a talent—something they wielded by instinct. They learned whatever spells their teachers gave them, without understanding the deeper "why" behind the magic.
Sure, they could use magic, but by Andros's standards, they weren't true wizards.
Tom had already risen past that stage. He might not know as many spells as a grown wizard, but with his intuitive grasp of magical principles, he could bridge that gap quickly. He was entering a phase of explosive growth.
This transformation was thanks to:
-> One part Andros's guidance,
-> One part the magical learning space,
-> One part his transcendent mental state and sheer dedication,
-> And just one part—his natural talent.
It was clear now how much good teachers and a solid learning environment could matter.
Harry was the clearest counterexample. He had inherited Lily Evans's gift for Potions, but it never showed—because he clashed with Snape.
Swap in Slughorn and hand him Snape's old annotated textbook?
Harry soared to the top of the class and even won a vial of Felix Felicis.
"You lost again, Daphne."
Tom flicked her pink Gobstone cleanly back into her starting pit. As it landed, it immediately sprayed a foul-smelling liquid straight at her face. She had braced for it, but still couldn't dodge in time.
Gobstones was the wizard version of marbles—your goal was to knock your opponent's stones back into their starting pit. Every successful shot resulted in the loser's stone spraying a revolting liquid as punishment.
They'd only been playing for half an hour, and Daphne had already been sprayed six or seven times.
"Ugh, come on, Tom. Can't you just let me win once?"
Fuming, the girl grabbed a deodorizing spray and gave herself a thorough misting. The putrid stench disappeared instantly, and in its place returned the scent of a sweet, fresh princess.
"Alright, alright—how about I play left-handed this time?"
Tom raised his left hand in mock solemnity and tucked his right one behind his back.
Daphne pouted. "Nope! I get two turns for every one of yours."
"Fine. Whatever you say."
Her face lit up—not just because she was getting her way, but because she enjoyed being indulged like this.
Just as she was about to take her shot, a shadow fell over the game board.
"Having fun, Riddle? Did you know your noise is disturbing my studying?"
Daphne blinked in disbelief. It was Goyle who had spoken.
Goyle. The guy who never studied a day in his life, who trailed behind Malfoy like a lost dog, constantly stuffing his face with snacks and never doing a scrap of homework.
He was the poster child of incompetence—a professional slacker who excelled only at eating.
Once the shock passed, Daphne's expression turned icy.
"Goyle, if you're bored, go eat another chocolate frog and quit looking for attention over here."
"Oh? Greengrass, sticking up for your little pretty boy?"
Malfoy strolled over, a smirk of disdain twisting his lips. He patted Goyle's shoulder approvingly.
"I actually think Goyle has a point. Riddle is being too loud. It's distracting."
"Maybe this is how Muggles act—loud, unruly, no sense of decorum."
"But hey, don't worry. I'll teach you the rules. From now on, wherever I'm present, you stay silent and invisible. Got it?"
By now, a crowd had begun to gather in the common room, drawn by the commotion. Most wore the same expression—eager to watch the show.
Even a blind troll could see what was going on. Malfoy was clearly here to stir up trouble, and his target was obvious: Tom Riddle, the boy who had recently stolen the spotlight.
Daphne finally understood too. She didn't know why Malfoy was throwing a tantrum, but frankly, she didn't care.
If someone tried to bully Tom, they were her enemy—plain and simple.
Her fists clenched, her magic flaring with anger, but before she could make a move, Tom gently caught her hand and guided her back down.
"Tom..."
"I've got this. Trust me—I've handled worse."
Zabini and Nott, who had been casually playing Wizard's Chess nearby, both twitched at Tom's words. They exchanged a glance—and their expressions turned from curiosity to sympathy.
They knew something was coming.
And then Tom made his move.
With a flick of his wand, a shimmering light blasted Malfoy off his feet. The force sent him flying through the air, slamming into the stone wall beside the fireplace.
Then, with another lazy wave, the stone bricks behind Malfoy shifted and moved, forming four massive stone hands that shot out and pinned him to the wall.
Gasps rippled through the room.
Tom strolled over, calm and unhurried, stopping right in front of the now-struggling Malfoy.
"Well, well, Lord Malfoy Junior. Until now, I only thought you were a coward who couldn't show up to a duel. But it turns out, you're also a loudmouth."
He tilted his head, a dangerous gleam in his eyes.
"But if your mouth stinks so much, why must you make me smell it too?"
Malfoy couldn't respond.
His mouth was now foaming—literally—filled with soap and bubbles. He kept trying to spit them out, but no matter how much he gagged, the taste just wouldn't go away.
Tom had attacked without hesitation—no posturing, no warnings.
It took several moments before anyone could process what had just happened. Finally, someone shouted in alarm:
"Riddle! What the hell do you think you're doing?!"
"Let him go—attacking another student in the common room? Do you think we Prefects are just here for decoration?!"
The speaker was Stephen Avery, a sixth-year boy and one of the Prefects. His face was red with fury, finger trembling as he pointed at Tom.
Tom turned toward him slowly, tilting his head in mock confusion.
"Prefect? Oh... so there was a Prefect in the room this whole time?"
"Funny. Because when Malfoy started running his mouth, you were just sitting there watching."
Avery's expression darkened even further, nearly boiling over.
What could he even say? That it was fine when pure-bloods bullied Muggle-borns, but not the other way around?
He thought it—but he couldn't say it.
Because the Headmaster of this school... was Albus Dumbledore.
All those little pure-blood "rules"?
They died the moment the old man took over.
"Riddle," Avery said grimly. "As a Prefect, I order you to release Malfoy. And if you do, we'll end this here."
Tom rubbed his ear with a bored expression.
"Prefect? And that's supposed to mean something?"
The entire common room fell utterly silent.
You could hear a pin drop.