The Burke family—one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight pure-blood families—was also among the oldest lineages in wizarding Britain.
Their most well-known member today was none other than Caractacus Burke, the proprietor of Borgin and Burkes, the infamous shop tucked away in Knockturn Alley. People rarely called him by his full name anymore. Most simply referred to him by his store's name or just "Old Burke."
Old Burke wielded considerable influence. Even someone as high-ranking and careful as Lucius Malfoy would offload shady Dark artifacts to his shop whenever he found himself in trouble. That alone showed just how much faith Lucius had in Burke's ability to stay a step ahead of the Ministry's investigators.
The Burke family itself was shrouded in mystery. Very few of its members had ever served in the Ministry of Magic. For generations, the Burkes had harbored an intense—almost unnatural—fascination with Dark magical objects.
Tom was sure that this Burke prefect wasn't as simple as he appeared. In fact, he suspected Burke might be the most deeply concealed talent in the entire school.
It wasn't that Tom had sensed some overwhelming magical power emanating from him. Magic was intangible, slippery, impossible to measure—something even Dumbledore couldn't fully quantify.
No, Tom had simply been watching Burke's expressions.
No matter what method Tom used to win a duel, whether quick or crushing, Burke never showed fear—at most, his brows would furrow slightly, his expression turning serious. And yet, that seriousness wasn't tinged with worry. It wasn't fear. It meant that, even after seeing Tom's power, he believed he could handle it. It would be troublesome, sure—but not impossible.
That intrigued Tom.
You're just a prefect, and you're this confident?
So when Carrow forfeited earlier, Tom didn't mind at all. It saved him from a tedious warm-up round.
"Prefect Burke, I look forward to our match," Tom said smoothly.
His manners were flawless, as always—so impeccable that they came off as condescending. At least, that's how Burke felt. He had the distinct impression that Tom was studying him the way one might watch a lab rat in a glass cage.
"Begin!" Snape declared.
Burke moved at once.
"Obscuro!"
A dense fog exploded into the common room. Because they were indoors, the effect was immediate and extreme—the mist was so thick it was impossible to see even an inch ahead.
The younger students quickly fled to the lower staircase to avoid being accidentally caught in the crossfire. Only Snape stayed put, an Ironclad Charm shimmering faintly around him as he stood firmly at his post.
Tom tried the same trick he'd used before—Ventus!—a gust of wind to blow the fog away. But the spell didn't work as well indoors. With limited airflow, the mist only thinned slightly, doing little to clear visibility.
"Clever," Tom murmured.
Clearly, Burke had accounted for the terrain—a rare tactical move in a wizarding duel, where most relied purely on spellfire.
Fwoosh! Fwoosh!
Two sharp sounds sliced through the mist—spells flying toward him. Tom instinctively flicked his wand, deflecting them with precision, then fired a few back in the direction they'd come from.
So I'll need to improve my sensory magic, he noted silently. Can't rely on vision alone.
Suddenly, his eyes lit up.
If blowing doesn't work… what about sucking?
The tip of his wand twisted, morphing into a trumpet-like shape. A moment later, a tremendous suction force burst forth. The mist surged toward the wand like water down a drain, and the visibility improved visibly by the second.
Snape gave a few approving nods from the sidelines.
Regardless of what he thought of the boy personally, that was a beautiful counter.
It wasn't some obscure high-level spell, either—it was a clever variation of the Scouring Charm, typically used to clean dust and grease. Tom had simply adapted it to handle the fog.
Such ingenuity made even Snape's cold heart stir with interest. For a moment, he even felt the impulse to take Tom on as an apprentice.
But the thought was quickly suppressed.
After everything Tom had pulled today, if it weren't for Dumbledore's assurances, Snape would genuinely believe he was the reincarnation of Voldemort.
So ambitious. So gifted. Undeniably dangerous.
Snape made a mental note to inform Dumbledore. This boy needed watching.
Burke, meanwhile, was stunned. His terrain advantage had just been nullified in seconds. He fired off two more curses in desperation, but Tom was already moving—graceful, fluid, weaving through the spells with agile footwork alone.
Burke grimaced.
No choice.
"Soul-Eating Venom Mist!" he roared.
The remaining fog instantly shifted color—turning into a noxious, inky green vapor. The walls and floor hissed and bubbled where it touched, releasing a harsh, acidic stench.
This wasn't just poison.
It was practically acid fog.
Tom's expression turned serious.
This was clearly Dark Magic—his wand's suction spell had no effect now.
Dark magic was dangerous not just because of its cruel power, but also because many curses caused irreversible harm, often with no counter-curse at all.
Tom glanced at Snape.
Seeing no intervention, he assumed the professor deemed the spell tolerable. Dangerous, but not fatal.
"Confringo!"
A raging fireball shot into the green fog. The blast erupted like a bomb, vaporizing half the poisonous mist. The rest remained, swirling hungrily.
Ssshhh!
Two venomous snakes slithered from the fog, fangs bared, lunging at Tom's legs.
But they were halted—stopped dead by an invisible shield.
"When did you cast Protego?" Burke's face darkened as he realized—it must've been during the mist-covered moments earlier.
Tom spun, flicking his wand. Slicing Curses took out the two serpents in an instant. Holding his breath, he began hurling Explosion Hexes one after another. The relentless barrage shredded the remaining venomous fog, and forced Burke completely on the defensive.
Finally, with one last shattering sound, Burke's shield broke.
He stumbled, chest heaving—his spell had failed.
A fireball whizzed past his arm, exploding against the stone wall behind him and blasting a deep crater into it.
"Enough!" Snape barked, stepping forward. "Riddle, you've won this duel. Burke, any objections?"
"N-No! None!" Burke clutched his burned arm and shook his head frantically. "I concede!"
His wand hand was trembling—burned by the heat of that last fireball. He could barely hold onto it.
Burke cursed silently: Monster.
He knew the Blasting Curse too—but his version couldn't hold a candle to Riddle's.
Snape gave Tom one final, lingering look. Then he moved to Burke's side, casting a healing charm to stop the bleeding.
"Come with me to the office," he said. "We'll apply some dittany to the burn. No need to visit the hospital wing. Understood?"
"Yes, Professor," Burke replied quickly.
He understood perfectly—Snape wanted to contain the situation. What happened today shouldn't spread beyond Slytherin.
Which was fine by him. The last thing he needed was the other Houses, especially those brainless Gryffindors, getting wind of this. He'd never hear the end of it.
Before leaving, Snape levitated the still-unconscious Malfoy down from the wall.
Then, just before walking out, he turned and gave Tom a final warning:
"Riddle. Don't take things too far. Lucius… is not someone to cross."
With that, he and Burke left the room.
Tom gave a casual wave behind them. "Of course, Professor. I wouldn't dream of hurting Malfoy."
But the moment the door shut behind them, he turned and gave his wand a flick.
Malfoy—and his two usual cronies—rose into the air again, limbs dangling.
The students watching shivered.
One thought echoed in their minds:
Riddle holds grudges. Best not to cross him. Ever.