Harry Potter: I, Tom Riddle, am not the Dark Lord

A tremendous surge of magic erupted from him, and only then did Tom realize—he had underestimated Severus Snape.

This level of power was completely inconsistent with how he'd been described in the original books.

How the hell did Nagini ever manage to kill him?

The sarcastic thought barely flickered across Tom's mind before he snapped back to the present. This wasn't the time to get distracted—he had to deal with the incoming attack.

Snape's magic was still boiling, still growing. That spell just now had only been a warm-up.

The grass beneath their feet began to writhe. Countless blades of it twisted into hissing little snakes, slithering rapidly across the field. They coiled and lunged, closing off Tom's movement, disrupting his ability to cast.

Tom countered with a shockwave at his feet, blasting the snakes back temporarily. Then he tried to transfigure the incoming flaming spear—but failed. Snape had anticipated that and was still controlling the spell.

He wasn't casting spells one by one. He was multitasking—maintaining two different types of magic simultaneously.

It was effectively a hybrid of Transfiguration and a high-level Fire Spell.

If transfiguring it was out of the question… then he'd destroy it.

Tom's eyes gleamed with focus. He murmured an incantation under his breath. A glowing orb leapt from his wand, hovered above his head, then shot out a thick beam of raw magical energy, ramming directly into the giant flaming arrow.

BOOM!

A deafening explosion tore through the pitch.

Thankfully, Tom had set up a Muffliato charm around the Quidditch field beforehand. Otherwise, that blast would've woken up every student in three houses—and every professor.

Except the Slytherins, of course. They were buried underground. Sound didn't reach down there.

The flaming arrow shattered into a thousand blazing fragments.

Tom didn't waste a second. Riding the momentum, he transfigured the shards into hundreds of miniature arrows and launched them straight back at Snape.

But Snape was like a slippery eel, dodging and weaving. His robes were laced with defensive enchantments and shimmered as they absorbed the impact.

Beams of light streaked across the Quidditch pitch like shooting stars. Spell collided with spell, unleashing swirling magical storms in midair.

Tom had gone all out.

And yet… he couldn't win.

So what if he'd taken a potion? So what if he had a magical cheat?

It hadn't been enough time. All told, he'd only been studying magic seriously for half a year.

Snape wasn't just some average wizard—he was a tireless, focused genius who had devoted himself to the craft for decades.

In terms of spell variety, control, and raw power, Tom still had a long way to go.

Snape seemed to sense Tom's weakening momentum, because his spellcasting suddenly sped up again.

DUANG—!

A metal door slab appeared out of nowhere, slamming into place to block a gale-force spell. Snape actually flinched.

That... was solid.

Had Tom conjured that in a split second?

A closer look revealed it had actually been summoned from Tom's pocket.

Wait a second…

Was this kid carrying a shield into battle?!

Tom traced a square in the air with his wand, and the door slab morphed into a metal box, completely enclosing him. His muffled voice came from inside:

"Professor, let's call it a day. To be continued."

Snape actually laughed out of sheer rage.

I'm about to win and you're calling for halftime? "Next time for sure"?

"You despicable Riddle!" Snape bellowed. "Using a Tinnitus Jinx—how underhanded can you get?!"

Without another word, he resumed his assault, magic flaring with renewed fury.

Tom stared in disbelief from inside the box.

Is he seriously framing me?!

Could he be any more shameless?!

But no matter how many spells Snape hurled, the iron box didn't budge. It just started showing some scorch marks and scratches on the surface.

Snape finally threw up his hands in frustration.

"Riddle, where the hell did you get this thing? Why is it so damn sturdy?!"

"Don't bother wasting your magic, Professor," Tom's lazy voice drawled from inside. "I don't even know what this thing's limits are. Unless you plan on using some dark, forbidden curses, you're not cracking it."

He'd found the slab just earlier today in the Room of Requirement. At the time, he'd wished for the strongest defensive tool possible—and the room had spat out this bad boy.

Clearly, for once, the Room of Requirement had delivered.

Dark magic, huh?

Snape glanced around the battlefield. The Quidditch pitch was already wrecked beyond recognition from their duel—scorched, torn, and cratered.

If he unleashed anything worse… it would become a disaster zone.

"Get out of your bloody turtle shell," Snape snapped. "And if you ever use that thing again during our sessions, don't bother showing up."

"You promise not to hex me when I come out?" Tom asked cautiously.

Snape gritted his teeth. "I'm a professor. You think I'd lie to a student?"

"Say it the Slytherin way. 'Slytherins don't lie to Slytherins.'"

Snape turned on his heel. "Fine. Then spend the night in there."

Tom scrambled to dismantle the box, transfiguring it back into the original door slab and tucking it into his pocket. "Don't go, Professor! Look at this mess—I can't clean it all up by myself!"

Snape gave him a cold smirk. "Using an Undetectable Extension Charm illegally… If you weren't in my House, I'd dock points and ship you straight to Azkaban."

Tom pretended not to hear. He pulled out his wand and began casting Reparo to fix the pitch. Drawing a line down the center, he made it clear—half and half. No slacking.

Snape didn't argue. With a wave of his wand, he began repairing the other side.

Tom, of course, used the opportunity to pick Snape's brain about the issues he'd just run into.

"You're too obsessed with showing off," Snape said bluntly. His keen eyes narrowed. "What's the most important thing in a duel between wizards?"

Tom paused, then replied, "Disarming the opponent—or disabling them completely."

"Exactly. So why the hell were you so fixated on matching every spell I cast? You countered every attack and made it flashy, like you were performing in some magical talent show."

Tom fell silent, thoughtful.

He's right…

His attention had been glued to Snape's spells, rather than Snape himself. Aside from the opening moves, he'd just been reacting.

"Duels aren't just about spell-slinging," Snape continued, his tone softening now that he saw Tom actually reflecting. "Half the time, there are simpler, more efficient ways to counter a spell—but you chose the flashiest option. That cost you several chances to go on the offensive."

"Your magical reserves are abnormally high—definitely not what you'd expect from a student," Snape said, his tone heavy with implication. "But no matter how powerful you are, there will always be someone stronger in this world."

He gave Tom a long, meaningful look.

"If you haven't reached the top yet, then keep your head down. Don't draw attention. The one who laughs last—that's the true winner."

Tom nodded solemnly, committing every word to memory.

On the walk back to the castle, he couldn't resist asking a rather idiotic question.

"Professor… have you ever seen Professor Dumbledore duel? With my current level, how long do you think I'd last against him?"

Snape looked at Tom as if he were insane. After a long pause, he gave a faint laugh. "One to nine, maybe. He'd flatten you nine times over with a single spell."

Tom: "…"

"Okay, but compared to other wizards?" Tom pressed further. The wizarding world's power hierarchy was frustratingly vague, and the number of capable spellcasters he'd actually met was pitifully low. Only Snape could offer a reliable benchmark.

Snape stopped walking and stared at him for several seconds.

"With your current skills, you'd have no problem passing the Auror combat assessment—and with flying colors," he said slowly. "But those tests don't account for dirty tricks, backstabbing, or what goes on in the shadows. Don't let arrogance be your downfall."

He could guess Tom was planning something dangerous. This was his only warning.

"I understand," Tom replied, nodding again.

The next morning at breakfast, Tom was still mentally replaying last night's duel—and Snape's critique.

In the past, whether facing human opponents or magical beasts, Tom had always been the one with the upper hand. He liked to fight with flair, using clever, intricate spells to dominate his enemies. It was how he established overwhelming superiority.

It was also why so many upper-year students feared him. He looked terrifying in action.

But against Snape? Just a couple of rounds, followed by a plain, unremarkable spell that secured victory.

It didn't look impressive—but was there any doubt who was stronger?

Facing Snape had turned the tables. He had been the challenger this time. And that exposed all the flaws in his usual flashy, dramatic style.

Which led Tom to a conclusion:

Fighting style isn't something you change. Power is temporary. Style is forever.

He wasn't going to change. He'd rather die than change. The problem wasn't his aesthetic—it was that he wasn't strong enough yet. Weakness could be fixed through training.

Once he surpassed Snape in every way, fighting like this would be seen as casually stomping the weak.

With that realization, Tom finally felt at peace.

Damn that old bat—almost messed with my heart and soul.

"Tom! Tom!"

Daphne's voice snapped him out of his daze. "We still have to fill this out before we can board the train."

Tom looked down at the parchment in front of him—a formal letter titled:

"The Underage Wizard Holiday Magic Restriction Decree."

It stated in no uncertain terms: All witches and wizards under the age of seventeen were considered minors and strictly forbidden from using magic outside school. Muggle-born students were also prohibited from revealing any information about the magical world to their close relatives—parents, grandparents, anyone. No magical items were allowed to circulate in the Muggle world.

A long list of restrictions. Too long.

It was almost like… it was specifically designed to handicap Muggle-borns.

And that was exactly what it was.

The Ministry relied on a crude monitoring method called the Trace, which couldn't detect who cast a spell—only that magic was used near a particular wand.

For mixed-blood families, having an adult wizard nearby meant the Trace was easy to manipulate. Pure-bloods had it even easier. All they had to do was avoid using magic while the elders were at work.

But Muggle-borns? They got the worst of it.

An entire holiday without their wand. The feel of spellcasting faded from memory. By the time school resumed, it would take weeks just to get back into rhythm. Every year, they fell further behind. And when it came time to compete for jobs after graduation, how could they stand a chance against pure- and half-bloods?

Tom chuckled, but the sound was hollow—devoid of warmth.

He signed his name across the magically sealed parchment.

You couldn't win against the system—not yet. He wasn't even an arm, just a small fry.

But he would remember this injustice. One day, he'd settle the score.

The Statute of Secrecy was signed into law in the late 1600s. Every one of its creators was long dead.

Didn't matter.

The debts of the past would be paid by the descendants.

…

At nine o'clock sharp, the students boarded carriages bound for Hogsmeade Station. The first-years gawked in amazement at the seemingly horse-less carriages—no reins, no beasts, just magic.

Tom couldn't see the Thestrals pulling the carriage, but he reached out and felt a soft, velvety hide.

The creature didn't seem to mind. Gentle and hard-working, the Thestral faithfully carried the students to their destination.

Onboard the train, Tom, Hermione, and Daphne found a compartment to themselves. With fewer students returning home than arriving at school, the Hogwarts Express wasn't nearly as packed as it had been at the start of term.

As usual, Daphne bought a mountain of snacks. The three of them munched and chatted all the way, the journey flying by. Before they knew it, the train was pulling into King's Cross Station.

Platform Nine and Three-Quarters was already bustling with parents and guardians.

Hermione's parents had come, but without a magical escort, they couldn't access the platform. They'd have to wait just outside.

The train stopped. Tom and the girls stayed inside a little longer, letting the crowd thin before stepping out.

He spotted her instantly—a tall, elegant woman standing head and shoulders above the crowd.

She had to be Daphne's mother.

She wore a pristine white fur coat that draped perfectly over her slender frame—at least 175 centimeters tall—and carried a simple leather handbag with tasteful accessories. There was no mistaking her.

Sure enough, Daphne spotted her at the same time and bounced in excitement. "Mum!"

The woman smiled warmly as Daphne grabbed Tom's hand and pulled him along.

Tom glanced at Hermione and gave her a subtle nod, then made a phone-hand gesture.

Hermione smiled knowingly and slipped out through the stone pillar into the station beyond.

"Mum!"

Daphne threw herself into Mrs. Greengrass's arms. "I missed you so much! Life without you these past few months was horrible!"

"Is that so?" Mrs. Greengrass didn't buy a word of it. Her attention shifted immediately to the boy standing quietly to the side.

"And you must be Tom."

Tom bowed slightly and said with perfect manners, "Good afternoon, ma'am. I'm Tom Riddle."