Tom was certain of one thing—Draco Malfoy hated Ron Weasley more than anyone else. Ron was the rock wedged between him and Harry Potter, the obstacle that blocked his way.
If that rock were finally kicked aside, Malfoy's sights would be fixed solely on Harry.
Right now, however, Draco firmly believed Ron was the stronger of the two. So in his mind, once he defeated Ron, Harry would be nothing more than a toy for him to torment at will.
To ensure victory, he had even begged money off his family—just to buy Tom's goodwill.
Tom weighed the heavy pouch Draco had slipped him. Two or three hundred galleons at least. Such pocket change no longer stirred any emotion in him, but he couldn't deny one thing: whether out of genuine respect or careful pretense, Draco was learning to behave normally in front of him. Perhaps he even wanted to earn Tom's favor.
This, Tom decided, was a favor worth granting.
"Draco," Tom asked lightly, "have you learned the Shield Charm yet?"
Malfoy blinked. "You mean the one Professor Wilkinson taught? Not really… it only works sometimes."
Tom nodded thoughtfully. "That's still progress. Enough to begin. If you can master the Shield Charm, neither Weasley nor Potter will be able to break through your defense. Even if your attack spells are sloppy, you'll stand unshakable. It's an almost foolproof way to win."
Draco's eyes lit up. He nodded furiously.
Yes—just like that hulking machine in the Muggle films, impervious even when swarmed. Only the professor's demonstration had managed to bring it down. If Ron's curses bounced off him just the same… wouldn't that make him invincible?
But then Draco's face fell. "Tom… the duel's only a week away. How could I possibly master the Shield Charm by then?"
Tom stroked his chin. "There is a way. A shortcut. By the end of the week, you'd be able to cast it reliably. The process is painful, though. Do you want to try?"
"What way?!"
By now, half the Slytherin common room had gathered around them, listening with wide eyes. Malfoy's rival might be Potter, but the rest of them hated Gryffindor just as much. If Draco lost, not only would Gryffindor mock them, but Slytherin's own would never let him forget it.
So when Tom hinted at a shortcut, they all leaned forward eagerly.
"Getting hit," Tom said flatly.
"Getting… hit?"
A chorus of baffled murmurs rippled through the room.
"You duel. One casts attacks, the other cannot dodge—only block with the Shield Charm. Over and over. The essence of the spell is to repel anything that threatens you. Real combat training will get you there far quicker than endless theory."
His tone was calm, matter-of-fact. "Unless you're truly brainless, a week is enough."
"A whole week of being hexed?" Draco shivered.
"You'll also need a potioneer," Tom added. "Nothing fancy—just someone who can brew basic Purifying Potions to remove status effects. Stick to curses without physical impact; broken bones are harder to heal."
"Purifying Potions?" Blaise Zabini stepped forward, chest puffed out, smirking at Draco. "That's child's play for me. So, Malfoy—want my help?"
Suspicion flickered in Draco's eyes. "Since when are you so generous?"
"I'm not," Blaise sniffed. "I just don't want you embarrassing Slytherin by losing to a Weasley. But if I help, I insist on being your sparring partner."
Draco realized instantly—Zabini simply wanted an excuse to pound him with spells.
He swore under his breath, but he couldn't refuse. Even Tom had praised Zabini's brewing skills, and Snape had publicly lauded him more than once. If there was anyone to trust with the potions, it was Blaise.
Besides, what mattered more? Enduring Zabini's hexes… or humiliating Potter afterward?
That wasn't a choice. It was destiny.
"Fine," Draco snapped. "But if you pull anything dirty, I'll tell my father. Now come with me."
He stalked out, Zabini trailing behind with a satisfied grin.
Inspired, the other Slytherins began pairing off too, grabbing friends to form their own dueling practice partnerships.
To make room, Tom casually expanded the common room to four times its size. One half remained cozy and livable; the rest became a training hall where they could hex each other to their hearts' content. With daily recasting, it would hold. True permanent expansion… well, that would take far more power than they had now.
Back in his dormitory, Tom sat down and unfolded his enchanted notebook, WhatsApp.
Gabrielle had written again. Apparently, she'd been praised for a painting today and was so thrilled she had to boast to him. Unfortunately, the notebooks still only transmitted text—no images, no photographs.
Tom was already considering how to fix that, but cost came first. And not just that—he needed a clever way to limit the notebooks' memory. Once the messages reached a certain threshold, they'd cut off, forcing users to buy another volume to "expand their storage."
It wasn't just about earning galleons. It was about dominance—controlling the flow of wizarding communication itself.
After all, if one notebook could last a lifetime, where was the profit? Where was the leverage of constant updates and new releases?
Just then, fresh ink scrawled across the page.