Avery's eyes went wide with disbelief.
In a place like Slytherin, where hierarchy and bloodline ruled supreme, someone actually dared to challenge a prefect's authority?
For a long second, he was too stunned to even respond to Tom's blatant defiance.
Avery stood frozen. But Crabbe and Goyle? They knew exactly what to do.
With a furious roar, Goyle charged straight at Tom.
"Let go of Draco, you filthy Mudblood!"
Crabbe followed right behind him. Though they were just first-years, both boys were thickset and meaty—bulkier than most older students.
Zabini and Nott exchanged a glance. No words were spoken, but the meaning was clear.
They moved instantly—rushing forward to intercept Crabbe and Goyle before they could lay a hand on Tom.
Their loyalty had solidified.
To them, Tom was no longer just a roommate. He was the one. He had ignored the prefect's commands, humiliated Malfoy in front of everyone, and stood unshaken.
This was what fanatical loyalty looked like: once they'd submitted, they needed to believe they had chosen wisely. Tom's strength, his defiance—it ticked every box of what they imagined a true leader to be.
Had Tom backed down now, shown even a hint of cowardice, Zabini and Nott might have quietly started looking for someone else to follow.
But to deal with these two brutes—who relied purely on brawn?
Tom didn't even need help.
"Stupefy!"
Two beams of red light streaked from Tom's wand in perfect unison. Both Crabbe and Goyle dropped like felled trees, knocked out cold before they even realized what hit them.
Such was the power of youth—so easy to put to sleep.
"Enough!"
Avery had finally drawn his wand, pointing it directly at Tom.
"This is your last warning, Riddle. Release Malfoy, or I will attack you!"
"You're challenging me to a duel?"
Tom's wand lowered. The usual smirk vanished from his face.
Avery took a deep breath.
"If you're asking for a lesson, I don't mind teaching one."
Oh, how he wanted to beat Tom down. But he needed justification—hence all the posturing.
"A lot of people could probably teach me a lesson," Tom replied coolly. "But you're not one of them."
He raised his wand vertically in a formal dueling salute.
"But if we're going to fight, let's make it interesting. How about we add a wager?"
Avery frowned. "What kind of wager?"
"I think you prefects aren't all that special."
Tom shrugged, as if stating a fact. His next words made Avery—and the other prefects still present—bristle in offense.
"Honestly, if I were a fifth-year right now, I'd be a prefect too."
"But I'm tired of waiting."
The boy's easy, bright smile spread across his face—dazzling enough to make more than one witch momentarily forget how to breathe.
"So here's the deal: if I win, from now on, first-years get their own 'Invisible Prefect'—a position outside your authority."
"No way!"
It wasn't just Avery and the other two prefects nearby who shouted this.
Voices echoed from the staircase as well—three more prefects had arrived, drawn by the noise, followed by a small crowd of curious young students.
The newcomers quickly asked what was going on, and the moment they heard the story, their expressions turned from curious to shocked.
Tom smirked.
"Refuse? Sorry—you don't get to."
With a flick of his wand, six gloves materialized in midair and dropped to the feet of each prefect.
In wizarding tradition, throwing down a glove was the mark of a challenge. In older times, it was a literal declaration of a duel to the death.
"Slytherin values strength above all. As for blood purity—try me."
His voice dropped, deadly and sharp.
"Which of you got sorted into Slytherin the moment the Sorting Hat touched your head?"
"Well? Speak up!"
His shout stunned the entire room into silence. Many wanted to retort—but realized, to their horror…
He had a point.
Cases of "Hat-Stall" were incredibly rare—Professor McGonagall being the most famous example in the past century.
But for someone to be sorted into Slytherin before the hat even touched his head?
That was nearly unheard of.
Was it possible that Tom Riddle was a lost heir from some ancient pure-blood family?
That thought flickered across more than a few minds.
Seventh-year Prefect Siswell Burke stepped up beside Avery and said, "Prefects are appointed by the school. Even if we agreed, the school wouldn't approve of this wager."
"Oh, spare me the self-righteous excuses."
Tom waved a hand dismissively.
"If you really followed school rules, you wouldn't be whispering behind Dumbledore's back every other day."
"And let's be clear—I'm not stripping you of your positions. Invisible. You understand what that means, right?"
"You'll still hold the title, you'll still get the school's assignments and perks. I won't touch any of that. All I'm asking is that the first-years fall under my command."
"And as for the other years—they should have their own invisible prefects too. Chosen by strength. That's the only system Slytherin should live by."
"If you don't even have the guts to agree to that, how dare you claim the right to lead us? Just because you know how to flatter professors?"
That struck deep.
Many students looked down, their eyes glinting with something unreadable.
Because Tom was right. Slytherin never hid its ambition. And ambition required more than scheming—it required power.
Cunning was a form of strength, yes. That's why most assumed the prefect was the strongest of their year.
But if they didn't even have the nerve to accept a first-year's challenge…
Were they really the strongest?
Some in the crowd were already beginning to stir—whispers, glances, restless shifting.
Burke and Avery exchanged a look. They realized what Tom had done: he'd cornered them. Backed them into a situation they couldn't refuse.
"It's yours."
Burke clapped Avery on the shoulder, stepping back.
"Riddle, we accept your terms. If you can defeat all of us prefects, then you'll be the first-year Invisible Prefect."
He smiled faintly, lips curled in amusement.
He'd heard the rumors about Riddle too—a brilliant student, clever with books.
But no matter how good he was at theory, he was still a first-year. He clearly didn't understand how dramatically wizard strength increased with each year.
Older students didn't just know more spells—they had more magic. More raw power, more stamina, more strength.
Especially after fourth year, when magical cores began to develop rapidly—first-years simply couldn't compare.
A sixth-year against a first-year?
Burke couldn't even imagine how he could lose.
"No, no," Tom said, shaking his head once again, confusing everyone all over again.
"You're backing out now?" Avery asked impatiently.
"Not at all."
Tom gave him a chilling smile.
"If I defeat all of you… then why would I settle for being the first-year Invisible Prefect?"
"That would be far too small-scale."
"If I win… I'll be Slytherin's—Invisible Head of House."