In the end, Blaise Zabini and the others decided to use the simplest weapon in the world: tattling.
Low cost. Fast results. And if they just asked their Head of House not to inform their families or spread it among classmates, they could even avoid the humiliation.
Perfect.
The three of them huddled together, whispering like conspirators planning a grand assassination, then agreed on a time. They would report it as soon as possible. The earlier they spoke, the more "fresh" their injuries would look. The more righteous they would seem.
What they failed to notice was that Daphne Greengrass was sitting not far away, quiet as a cat, posture elegant, eyes lowered as if she was focused on her own thoughts. Not a single movement suggested she was listening.
But she heard everything.
Every word. Every plan. Every petty, trembling little excuse wrapped in pureblood pride.
A flicker of worry crossed her face. She bit her lip, then looked toward the dormitory corridor, as if she could already see the future unfolding.
…
Close to eight o'clock, Tom woke up properly rested.
For the first time since arriving, he felt that rare, precious sensation of having slept enough. His mind was clear. His limbs felt light. His irritation from the previous night had been burned away, leaving only calm practicality behind.
He washed up, smoothed his robes, and stepped into the Slytherin common room.
Last night, it had been too dark to properly appreciate the one thing Slytherin could boast about without lying: the view.
The common room's floor to ceiling glass looked out into the depths of the Black Lake. In the early morning, pale sunlight tried to push through the water, only to be swallowed and softened, like candlelight behind thick curtains. Still, it was enough to see.
Fish drifted between strands of lakeweed, weaving through green shadows. They looked relaxed, aimless, almost smug in their peace.
Tom stood there for a moment, hands behind his back, watching them glide.
Then a huge shadow rolled across the glass.
The fish vanished in an instant.
Not fled. Not scattered.
Simply gone.
A heartbeat later, the shadow passed and the water cleared again, leaving only a few thick tentacles trailing behind, slow and casual, like the lazy wave of a monster that knew nothing here could threaten it.
Tom's eyes narrowed slightly.
So that was the giant squid.
Well. "Carefree" was not always a compliment. If you were so unbothered that you did not even react while death drifted toward you, that was not peace. That was stupidity.
"Pretty overwhelming, isn't it?"
Daphne appeared beside him without warning. She had a way of moving that made her seem like she had always been there, just outside the edge of your attention. Her blond curls caught the faint green light from the lake, giving her an almost unreal glow.
She lifted her chin, staring out into the water with genuine wonder.
"I heard about the underwater view," she said softly, "but seeing it myself… it's much more impressive than anything in a book."
"It's not bad," Tom admitted.
Then he added, with the faintest hint of dry humor, "It feels like living in a seaside hotel suite. Except the sea is on the wrong side of the glass."
Daphne giggled, then quickly tried to hide it behind a polite smile.
Tom did not say the rest out loud.
Because as far as he was concerned, the view was basically the only selling point.
Everything else about Slytherin's living space was… questionable.
Dark. Damp. Permanently starved of sunlight. Even in the daytime, the green heavy decor made the room feel like it was trying to convince you that happiness was childish.
Honestly, if you locked most people in a place like this for seven years, of course their personalities would twist. The fact that Slytherin produced dark wizards so often could not be blamed entirely on "House culture." Environment mattered.
Tom, of course, was the exception. A bright, cheerful young man. Totally.
What bothered him most was not even the gloom. It was the damp.
This morning, he had woken up feeling like his blanket had gained weight overnight. The fabric clung to him like it had absorbed the lake itself. If he had twisted it hard enough, he half suspected water would drip out.
Britain was already humid. Scotland's highlands and rain did not help. Add a dungeon, add a massive lake, and you had a living space that felt like it was designed as punishment.
Dungeons were traditionally for prisoners, after all.
Tom could not help thinking: What kind of person chooses this as a student dormitory? Was Salazar Slytherin afraid his students would be too emotionally stable?
…
On the way to the Great Hall, Daphne leaned closer and whispered what she had overheard.
Tom listened, nodded once, and thanked her calmly, as if she had merely told him there were more eggs on the breakfast menu.
He did not look shocked. He did not look worried. He did not even look annoyed.
If anything, he looked mildly bored.
"I'm telling you because I thought you should know," Daphne said quickly, eyes flicking toward the staff table as if Snape might hear her thoughts through the air. "Aren't you worried, Tom? I heard Professor Snape is very strict. And you… you hit them…"
"Strict people can still be reasonable," Tom said, voice steady. "Zabini provoked me first. I only defended myself. As long as Professor Snape can tell right from wrong, he'll know who deserves punishment."
Daphne hesitated.
"Is it really that simple?"
Something about it felt off. Snape and "reasonable" did not belong in the same sentence, at least not in the way people spoke about him. But Tom looked so confident, so composed, that her anxiety loosened a little.
She followed him into the Great Hall.
Breakfast was already laid out. Warm bread, butter, porridge, fruit, sausages, eggs, and enough tea to drown a small army. But what caught every first year's attention was the neatly placed parchment in front of each of them.
Their timetable.
Tom picked it up, scanned it once, then broke into a grin so wide it almost looked suspicious.
Light. It was ridiculously light.
Lighter than his primary school schedule back in the Muggle world.
First year was the foundation year. No electives yet. Just core classes. And most of them were not even double sessions.
Tom checked today's plan.
Morning: Transfiguration at nine, shared with Gryffindor.
Afternoon: Herbology at one, shared with Ravenclaw.
Total class time for the entire day: barely one hundred minutes.
Then… nothing.
He looked ahead through the rest of the week. Two classes most days. Sometimes three. A few double blocks here and there, but overall, it was almost insulting.
"So this is Hogwarts," Tom thought. "The legendary school. The place where geniuses are forged."
He could not decide whether to be thrilled or offended. In the end, he chose thrilled.
This meant time.
Time to study on his own. Time to use the Learning Space. Time to build spells quietly without constantly being interrupted by homework that treated him like a toddler.
After eating, Tom leaned toward Daphne.
"Once we're done, let's explore the castle," he said. "I heard the corridors move. Easy to get lost."
Daphne nodded quickly, enthusiasm returning.
They finished breakfast fast. Before leaving, Tom grabbed two extra slices of bread and a thick smear of butter. Not because he was greedy, but because he knew his body. Small meals were dangerous. Hunger made you sloppy. Sloppy got you hurt.
Across the hall at the Gryffindor table, Hermione watched them leave and instinctively wanted to follow. But Lavender Brown was chatting her ear off, and Hermione got trapped in polite conversation.
By the time she glanced up again, Tom and Daphne were already gone.
At the Slytherin table, Zabini, Nott, and Rosier exchanged looks.
Now.
They rose together.
A short time later, Snape stood up from the staff table and swept out of the hall like a bat gliding through a cave. The three boys hurried after him, catching him near the entrance hall and cutting him off before he could disappear down the stairs.
Snape's eyes narrowed at once.
"Rosier," he said, voice sharp, "what is it?"
Of the three, Rosier was the only name he bothered remembering. Rosier's parents were Death Eaters. Not just supporters, not sympathizers. Actual members.
Colleagues.
That history carried weight.
"Professor," Rosier began, trying to sound wounded and respectful at the same time, "you have to do justice for us…"
Snape's expression tightened, as if he had smelled something rotten.
Before he could respond, Zabini stepped forward and did something so catastrophically stupid that time itself seemed to pause.
He grabbed his robe and yanked it open.
"Professor, look!" Zabini cried, baring his skinny chest like he was about to offer a sacrifice. "These whip marks! Riddle did this!"
A scream exploded from nearby.
A witch walking into breakfast took one look at the scene and shrieked at a pitch that could shatter glass.
Teacher and little boy?
No. Wait.
Wasn't this supposed to be something that happened with priests?
It was peak breakfast traffic. Students and staff filled the entrance hall. Heads turned. Eyes widened. Whispers ignited like sparks in dry straw.
Snape froze for half a second.
Then his face turned the color of a storm cloud.
"Idiots," he hissed.
His voice dropped into a low, murderous growl.
"Follow me."
He spun on his heel and practically fled down the staircase toward the dungeons, robes billowing, moving so fast it looked like he might actually take flight. The three boys scrambled after him.
Because if they stayed in that entrance hall for even another ten seconds, nobody could predict what kind of rumors would be crawling through the castle by tomorrow.
This was Britain, after all.
By the time they reached Snape's office and the door slammed shut behind them, the air felt colder.
Snape turned slowly, eyes like knives, and stared directly at Zabini.
"If you do not explain what you thought you were doing," he said, voice dangerously calm, "I will assign you detention until you forget how to speak."
Zabini hurriedly clutched his robe closed again, face burning with embarrassment.
"But Professor, those marks are real," he said, pointing at the red welts. "Riddle did it!"
His voice cracked with grievance. And for a moment, Tom could almost hear his unspoken complaint: My mother and her six stepfathers never hit me like that!
Nott and Rosier jumped in, talking over each other, describing last night and this morning in frantic detail. They carefully left out the parts that made them look too pathetic, and emphasized the parts that made Tom look like an uncontrollable menace.
Snape listened.
His expression grew darker with every sentence.
When they finished, the room fell silent.
The only sound was the faint crackle of the fire.
Snape's fingers tightened around his wand.
His jaw clenched.
And then, from between his teeth, came a low, venomous whisper that carried the full weight of disbelief and fury.
"This is… outrageous."
Outrageous.
A first year, a Muggleborn, in Slytherin, whipping pureblood boys into submission on the first night, and doing it with enough skill to leave clean marks and no broken bones.
Snape's eyes narrowed further.
Slowly, he raised his wand, as if deciding whether to punish the three idiots in front of him for their stupidity, or summon the true source of the problem.
"Bring me Riddle," he said coldly.
And in that instant, the three boys felt a surge of satisfaction… followed immediately by fear.
Because what if Professor Snape did not punish Tom?
What if he decided Tom was exactly what Slytherin needed?
And what if, when Tom walked through that office door, he was not the one on trial at all?