Tom, of course, had been detained after Potions. Not for the usual reason—not for "writing letters during class"—but because Snape delivered the same warnings as Tina, albeit in his own scathing way.
In short: Riddle, you are not as invincible as you believe. Wait until you reach the level of a Dark Lord or a Dumbledore before you start making enemies on this scale. Until then, focus on your strength. Stop playing games.
Tom had brightly offered to demonstrate exactly how "invincible" he was now. Snape's expression had darkened like a stormcloud, and he'd nearly thrown Tom bodily from the room.
…
That evening, the Great Hall had been rearranged into five dueling stages. Compared to the first session, Professor Rouse looked far more relaxed; no need to waste time teaching etiquette this time. He jumped straight into strategy.
"Do not fixate on your own wand—watch your opponent's. Pay attention to their grip, their stance, their eyes. A spell begins before it's cast."
He raised his own wand. "At the moment their hand moves, you can already anticipate. Predict. Counter. Sometimes even strike first."
"Conversely, conceal your own tells. Do not let them read you so easily. Dueling is not only an exchange of spells—it is a battle of minds."
"I know it's difficult for you now. But habits matter. Form bad ones, and you'll never break them later. Now, pair off. Slow down your casting—victory isn't important. Learning is."
He clapped his hands once. "Oh, and if anyone has… personal grievances to settle—use the main stage."
Draco Malfoy immediately perked up, eager to challenge Harry again. But Harry wanted no part of it. The whispers hadn't stopped—about him speaking Parseltongue, about whether he might be the Heir of Slytherin. His friends still trusted him, but Hufflepuffs like Justin Finch-Fletchley? They bolted the moment they saw him.
So the first duel wasn't Draco versus Harry. It was Celeste Rowle.
"Melrose," she called, stepping onto the main stage. "You say we gang up, many against one? Fine. Here's your chance—one on one. Do you dare?"
Melrose's face drained of color. She wanted to flee, but dozens of eyes were on her. To run now would ruin her completely. With no choice, she climbed up.
It was a disaster. She could barely cast a spell before Celeste flattened her with a Nose-Tweaking Jinx and a Tickling Hex. Nothing serious—but humiliating all the same.
Tom had half a mind to summon Ariana's spirit to whisper encouragements to Celeste, bolster her confidence. But then a familiar voice rang in his ear—clear, girlish, urgent.
"Tom! Over here!"
He turned. A shock of fiery red hair poked from behind the oak doors. Ginny Weasley. She beckoned him, eyes wide and conspiratorial.
Tom arched a brow and strolled over. Outside, Ginny shut the doors quickly. Beside her stood Luna Lovegood.
Tom pinched Ginny's still-chubby cheek between his fingers, tugging just enough to make her squeak.
"Ow! What was that for?"
"Getting bold, are you? Ordering me around now?"
Ginny's freckled face scrunched in indignation. "I wasn't ordering—I was just asking you to come out!"
"And now you're talking back?"
Her resolve crumbled instantly. "I was wrong!"
Lately, Ginny had fallen into a strange routine—scribbling near-daily essays to Tom. At first, they were careful, detailed reports, but soon devolved into chatty tirades: this girl acts superior, that girl flirts too much…
Tom loved it. Gossip, grievances—this was his entertainment. Bit by bit, Ginny's fear had eroded. Tom wasn't gentle like the diary's echo of "Tom Riddle," who always knew the perfect sympathetic word. No, this Tom was biting, sardonic, but alive. His barbs often matched her secret thoughts so well that she couldn't help but laugh.
They were beginning to share a language.
"Riddle," Luna's dreamy voice floated between them. "It was me. I asked Ginny to call you."
Her silvery eyes blinked. "Thank you for your… intervention. But I truly don't mind Melrose and the others. Their pranks are only pranks."
"No need for thanks," Tom said evenly. "Consider it compensation. For last time. For dragging you off."
"Then… could it stop now?" Luna tilted her head. "They're frightened of me. I don't like that."
Tom smiled faintly. "Why should it stop? You said yourself—it was only mischief. If you don't mind, then surely they don't either."
"But…" Luna frowned, his logic tangling with her instincts. "But Melrose has cried. Several times."
"That only means she's got overactive tear ducts. Truthfully, she's enjoying herself. From a nobody to the center of attention among first-years? Isn't that an upgrade?"
He leaned closer. "Tell me, Luna. Do you care if people are afraid of you?"
She shook her head.
"Then stop fretting. They're irrelevant."
Tom swung the doors open again, the roar of spells and cheers spilling out.
"Come along, Ginny. Let's see whether the little tricks your other Tom taught you have stuck."
Ginny stiffened, eyes wary. "Tom… you haven't been… influenced by that diary, have you?"
"Of course not," he said lightly. "Stick with me, and you'll be far better off than with a diary. That's a promise."
If Voldemort had heard that, he would have cursed Tom until the pages burned.
Better off?
He was being bled dry! Reduced to a miserable scribbling machine, his "insights" wrung from him with dragon blood and unicorn blood, burned when not satisfactory—suffering enough to make him wish for death.
And Tom dared to call this "better"?