Hogwarts: Chill, I’m Not That Tom Riddle

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At lunchtime, practically everyone in the Great Hall noticed two shocking things: Gryffindor's house points were almost wiped clean, and Slytherin's total had been slashed by nearly half.

Professor McGonagall explained the deductions clearly in front of the whole school.

She gave the official reason—everyone involved had been out of their dorms at night. Not a single word about the duel.

Still, she couldn't control how the students interpreted things. And right now, pretty much everyone believed Malfoy had chickened out of a fight.

Not only had he embarrassed his own house, he'd also dragged Slytherin down with him, losing them a huge number of points and destroying their lead in the House Cup.

Unsurprisingly, a lot of Slytherins were now giving Malfoy some very unfriendly looks.

As for the Gryffindors—sure, losing points stung, but dragging Slytherin down with them? That was satisfying.

If Slytherin suffered, then Gryffindor losing a few points didn't feel so bad. They figured they'd probably get docked for something eventually anyway, so better now than later.

And besides, Harry had warned everyone to keep the whole thing quiet—technically, they were all guilty.

Tom was in a great mood. Ravenclaw had now taken the lead, and Slytherin was falling behind.

Surely now Professor Snape would realize how valuable he was.

And sure enough, by the time Friday's Potions class rolled around, Snape did it. He practically treated Tom like his favorite trivia partner for the first half of class.

Snape kept firing off questions, and Tom answered each one smoothly, like they'd rehearsed.

And every correct answer? Another point to Slytherin, of course.

Snape didn't go too far—he threw in the occasional question for other students, trying to appear fair. Like Longbottom. Or Finnigan.

But they rarely knew the answers, so really—was it his fault if Gryffindor didn't earn any points?

By the end of class, Tom and Snape exchanged a look—and both actually smiled. It was the first time they'd ever seemed to be on the same wavelength.

Snape quickly composed himself, face returning to its usual stone-cold expression as he packed up his materials and left.

Still, even he had to admit... having a student like Tom was actually kind of nice.

Smart, fast, well-read—and when it came down to it, Snape trusted his reasoning over the textbook.

It felt... amazing, actually.

But why—why—did it have to be Tom Riddle?

Snape was conflicted.

So was Hermione.

She was currently complaining to Tom about how unfair Snape had been.

"Then go complain to Snape," Tom said casually, clearly in a good mood.

Another professor had recognized his brilliance, and this was only the beginning.

Give Snape a taste of success, and he'd start handing out points like clockwork.

Still, if Tom wanted Snape to get a little bolder, he had to make winning the House Cup harder for Slytherin.

Or rather—he wasn't creating difficulty. 

He was just evening things out, correcting the one-sided advantages their biased Head of House kept handing out. Honestly? Yeah—he just wanted things to be fair. That's all.

Hermione, however, puffed her cheeks like an annoyed hamster—adorably frustrated.

Go argue with Snape?

What, did Tom think she was into psychological self-torture?Or that Gryffindor had too many points and needed to give some away?

Daphne couldn't stop grinning at the way Hermione pouted. Hermione shot her a glare, and Daphne shot one right back.

But with their soft, still slightly baby-faced features, neither glare had any real bite. It just looked like two friends bickering.

Even Tom didn't bother stepping in.

Those two had been butting heads forever. At least it never went beyond words—just a little verbal sparring here and there.

"Hey, how about some afternoon tea?" Tom suggested.

"Aye!" both girls answered at once.

"Alright then, let's head to the courtyard. Won't be too many days left where we can enjoy the outdoors."

They all agreed. The weather had been getting colder by the day, and once October hit, no one would want to step foot outside the castle.

The three of them climbed the stairs, chatting and laughing.

None of them noticed the bitter, venomous glare following them from behind.

Malfoy's week had been nothing short of a nightmare.

It wasn't just the taunts and snickering from other houses—even some of his own housemates felt he had dragged Slytherin's name through the mud.

He was being quietly iced out. Aside from his two usual cronies, only Pansy Parkinson still talked to him.

And to make matters worse, someone had informed his parents.

His father had written him the most brutal letter Malfoy had ever received—full of harsh insults and foul language he'd never imagined Lucius Malfoy would use.

Already in a bad mood, seeing Tom in the spotlight today pushed him over the edge.

Why was he the one being ridiculed and rejected—while Tom, some Mudblood with no name and no heritage, was living it up at Hogwarts?

Tom had even turned his three roommates into loyal followers—smarter ones than Crabbe and Goyle, no less.

And Slytherin's prettiest first-year girl was practically glued to his side every day.

Meanwhile, he, Draco Malfoy, heir to a noble pure-blood family—was stuck with Pansy Parkinson, whose face made him lose his appetite.

(And no, don't picture her from the movies—this version of Pansy was not easy on the eyes.)

Looking at the two of them side-by-side, Malfoy realized something:

His enemies weren't just Harry Potter and that redhead Weasley.

There was someone else stealing his spotlight right here in Slytherin.

A nobody. A bookworm. A filthy Mudblood.

If he could just drag Tom down, he'd send a message—and maybe even win back some of his status.

A nasty little plan started forming in Malfoy's head. His eyes gleamed.

"Goyle, here's what you're gonna do…"

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