Apart from Snape, who sat with his brow tightly furrowed, the other two Heads of House looked at Dumbledore in puzzlement.
"Invisible Prefect?" Sprout echoed.
"That was young Riddle's idea," McGonagall explained, since neither of them had been told. Patiently, she laid out the concept of the Invisible Prefect system, along with the criteria for selection.
The moment she finished, Professor Flitwick's face lit up with approval. Ravenclaws were notoriously scattered, each lost in their own thoughts and pursuits. The lack of coordination often crippled their efficiency in group matters. "If each year had its own organizer to manage things," he said eagerly, "it would improve our House tremendously."
Professor Sprout, however, hesitated. Hufflepuff had plenty of students, but few problems. Their Prefects already did their jobs well—adding another layer of authority seemed unnecessary.
And yet, with the other three Houses either already adopting or preparing to adopt the idea, refusing would make her seem obstinate. With a resigned sigh, she nodded. Best to go with the flow.
With the unanimous support of the four Heads of House, the decision was all but settled.
That afternoon, students crowding around the noticeboards saw what they'd been waiting for:
"Two weeks from Friday evening, Hogwarts will host an elective class: Dueling. Interested students may gather in the Great Hall at eight o'clock."
"The Headmaster really agreed!" Seamus shouted, his eyes alight with excitement. "I've been waiting ages for a proper fight!"
"Please don't," Neville muttered, face pale. "You'll blow your opponent to bits."
A Ravenclaw, ever eager for drama, spotted Harry and Ron in the crowd and deliberately raised his voice. "Oi, what about the duel between Weasley and Malfoy? Why's that not on the notice?"
Ron's ears went scarlet. "I'll challenge Malfoy that day myself! Tell him to be ready!" he bellowed before storming off.
Many students grinned in anticipation. A public declaration like that—if Ron failed to follow through, his humiliation would be legendary.
"But why two whole weeks?" another student groaned, voicing the collective impatience.
"Professor Wilkinson probably needs the time to prepare. Still, two weeks will fly by," someone else reasoned.
By now, Rouse's standing among the students had soared. He was approachable, genuinely skilled, and—best of all—shone all the brighter when compared to certain less-than-competent predecessors. Small wonder he was adored.
"Guess I'll spend the time learning a few new spells," one boy said grimly. "Can't risk making a fool of myself."
The remark struck home. Quietly, several students slipped away from the gathering, determined to raid the library for every book on dueling they could find.
"You certainly know how to stir things up," Tom remarked later in Rouse's office, sipping a cup of coffee.
He hadn't known anything about this "dueling class" beforehand. Lockhart's Duelling Club had fizzled out, and now—out of nowhere—here came a fully fledged course. Was this fate tugging the story back on track, or sheer coincidence?
"If you disapprove, I can think of a way to scrap it," Rouse said quickly, misinterpreting Tom's tone and watching him warily.
"No need." Tom waved it off. "I already told you—so long as you're not stupid enough to expose yourself, do as you please. This could even be amusing to watch.
"I just didn't expect you to be this… dedicated. Going beyond your own subject, putting real effort into improving Hogwarts students' dueling skills."
Seeing Tom wasn't angry, Rouse let out a breath of relief and gave a sheepish grin. "Well, truth be told… it was Lady Rosier's idea."
"Rosier?" Tom's brow arched. "What is she playing at?"
If it had been Rouse acting on his own, Tom would have believed it was boredom driving him. But Rosier never acted without deeper motives.
Rouse explained honestly, "Lady Rosier told me to serve Dumbledore with all my strength. If I impress him enough, when the time comes and our master returns, Dumbledore may even draw me into the Order of the Phoenix. That way, we'll have access to much more information."
Tom's eyelid twitched violently. Of course. That's Rosier—Grindelwald's most trusted aide. Always thinking ten steps ahead. The man isn't even free yet, and she's already planning to plant spies beside Dumbledore himself.
It almost made Tom, with his supposedly "pure" beginnings, feel corrupted by association.
"Well then," he said dryly, "work hard. Win the award for Hogwarts' 'Outstanding Teacher of the Year.' Then you'll be Dumbledore's right-hand man in no time."
Rouse blinked. "Outstanding Teacher? Does Hogwarts even have such an award?"
No, it didn't. But Rouse didn't seem bothered. His dream wasn't recognition or power—only to stand face-to-face with Grindelwald someday, and afterwards mock Graves and his grandfather to their faces.
A rare sort of employee—loyal, motivated, and oddly incorruptible in his own way. Rosier had chosen well.
By the next morning, dueling fever had swept through the entire school.
Everywhere Tom went, he heard students arguing over which spell was most powerful, or strategizing about how to seize the upper hand in a duel. Gryffindors especially were itching for the chance to fight. Their Quidditch team's defeat by Slytherin still stung, and here was their chance at redemption.
Even the professors weren't immune to the craze. Their lessons shifted subtly, as though every subject had become an extension of Defense Against the Dark Arts.
In Transfiguration, Professor McGonagall transformed books and teaching aids into small animals, setting them scampering across the desks.
"Do not think Transfiguration has no place in combat," she told the class sternly. "A master of this art is a duelist that no opponent wishes to face."