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[Hogwarts] Ch 194: The Effect of Killing on the Soul
🕑 Added 2025-09-03 22:05:09 +0000 UTC— — — — — —
After shutting Phineas up, Tom heard a noise behind him.
He turned and spotted Dumbledore standing at the door, wearing a strange expression.
"Good evening, Headmaster," Tom greeted warmly.
"Good evening, Tom," Dumbledore replied, quickly regaining his composure as he walked to his seat. "You've come at just the right time. I was actually planning to invite you for tea in a few days."
Tom caught the implication. "Professor, I don't recall stirring up any trouble lately, did I?"
Dumbledore gave a wry smile.
No trouble? The only reason things were quiet was because he had been the one holding back the tide.
Ever since Tom's first article was published, Hogwarts had been drowning in letters from pure-blood families—complaints, protests, curses, you name it.
Some scolded him outright, some tried to pressure him into stopping, warning that accidents could happen if he didn't. Others sneered that their noble families didn't need some student's commentary—much less his judgment.
And today, after Tom's piece on the Lestranges hit the stands, the backlash doubled. The Rosiers had gotten off lightly in the first article, but the Lestranges? That was a direct slap in the face.
Dumbledore had spent the whole day fending off furious pure-bloods and had only just found time to breathe when night fell.
But he wasn't here to tell Tom to give up.
Even if the world saw him as soft as cotton, Dumbledore wasn't about to let outside interference stifle a student's academic work. What kind of Headmaster would he be then?
Still, he needed to warn Tom. Inside the castle, he could shield him from anything. But once the holidays started, Dumbledore couldn't exactly serve as his bodyguard around the clock.
...
After listening to the advice and venting, Tom nodded. "Thank you for the reminder, Professor. I'll keep that in mind."
Then he added, almost casually, "But… if some pure-blood idiot really tries to ambush me outside, odds are they'll be the unlucky ones."
He paused. "If I may ask, would you mind if I hit back… a little hard?"
Dumbledore blinked. "Such as?"
"Such as sending them to meet Merlin."
The office seemed to drop several degrees. After a long silence, Dumbledore sighed.
"If it were any other student, I'd say they were just being childish—tossing the word 'death' around like it meant nothing. But Tom… I know your mind has long since surpassed your peers."
He leaned forward slightly, pale blue eyes locking on Tom's with unusual intensity—there was even a hint of pleading in them.
"Tom, I don't know the full extent of your strength. But from the way Severus speaks of your progress, I can tell—it's more than enough to handle most threats. Even so, I ask you this: unless it's absolutely necessary, don't take lives so lightly."
"This isn't just me being sentimental. Every killing leaves a mark on your soul. It twists things—your magic, even your personality. The change can be subtle, but it's real."
"Killing should be your last resort."
Tom smiled and nodded. "Professor, I've read about that in plenty of books. It's also why wizards rarely carry out executions themselves."
Wizards were born with a strange curse-like trait: if a human killed one of their own, something unpredictable would always rebound on the killer. Countless studies had proven it.
The Ancient Greek Dark wizard, Herpo the Foul, had built on that very principle when he invented the method of making Horcruxes—the key step being murder, using that violent distortion to split the soul.
So yes, Tom was cautious about killing. Even the poachers he'd disposed of (during the first trial) had required weeks under Grindelwald's guidance to wash away the lingering effects.
But that didn't mean he'd shy away if someone really pushed him. Grindelwald had killed plenty and was still alive and kicking. If he let fear hold him back, he might as well retire and start farming pumpkins.
"Professor," Tom said with a grin, "my dream is to do research in peace and build dozens of estates, becoming a capitalist. I don't actually enjoy solving problems with violence. Unless someone comes for me first, I'll never strike first."
Dumbledore's mouth twitched. That "simple dream" nearly choked him, but the promise still eased his mind.
"By the way, will you be visiting Nicolas over Christmas?" Dumbledore suddenly asked, half-teasing. "From the sound of his letters, the two of you are working on something extraordinary. He won't even tell me."
Tom blinked innocently. "You'll understand once you get my Christmas gift."
With a chuckle, Dumbledore nodded. "In that case, I'll be eagerly waiting for the holidays."
"Don't forget mine either," Tom said.
"Honestly, finding a gift for you is a nightmare," Dumbledore muttered. "I have no idea what young people like, and you don't even have a sweet tooth…"
"I do like Philosopher's Stones, though. Or at least something of equal value."
Dumbledore: "..."
And that killed the conversation.
"Tom, was there something you actually came here for?" Dumbledore asked tiredly, brushing aside Tom's outrageous request.
Tom nodded. "Yes, Professor. I've found the one who opened the Chamber."
A spark flashed in the old man's eyes, his gaze sharpening at once. "That's… a startling claim, Tom. Tell me everything."
Not just him—the portraits of past headmasters all snapped awake.
"Who?!"
Armando Dippet was the most agitated. A student dying under his watch had been a permanent stain on his record, and Myrtle's death had led directly to Dumbledore replacing him as Headmaster.
"The one who opened the Chamber was Ginny Weasley," Tom said evenly. "But it wasn't her choice. She was manipulated."
"Weasley? That's a Gryffindor name if I ever heard one!" Phineas Black barked. "Riddle, are you talking nonsense? The Heir of Slytherin a Gryffindor? You might as well claim it's you!"
Tom narrowed his eyes at him. "Phineas, if you want to listen, keep your mouth shut. Otherwise, I'll drop the curtain over your frame."
"You—!" Phineas' eyes bulged, but before he could continue, Armando Dippet lunged across from his frame and clamped a hand over his mouth.
"Go on, Mr. Riddle," Dippet said hurriedly. "I'll make sure no one interrupts you."
Only then did Tom turn back and place a notebook on the enormous desk.
Dumbledore couldn't see its true nature at a glance, but he recognized the dense web of restraints layered over it—Tom had gone to great lengths to suppress whatever lay within.
Smiling, Tom said, "Funny thing, Professor. This notebook once belonged to a student fifty years ago. His name was Tom Riddle. Tom Marvolo Riddle."
Dumbledore's eyes hardened. The Elder Wand had appeared silently in his hand, and Tom's own gaze flicked toward it.
It was his first time seeing it in person. Just as described: knobby, bone-like segments, nothing like the smooth finish of a normal wand.
But Dumbledore didn't reach for the notebook. Instead, his tone remained calm. "Tom, I need you to tell me everything, in full detail."
Tom nodded and recounted it all—from noticing Ginny's strange behavior, to the incident in the Room of Requirement, to the conversations he'd had with the "Tom Riddle" within the diary.
He didn't bother hiding the truth of his own ambitions, either. Why should he? Having ambition wasn't shameful, and if he laid it bare, what could Dumbledore really do to him?
The Dumbledore of today was not the same man who had once mishandled Tom Marvolo Riddle. Years of reflection had changed him.
...
The only sound in the office was Tom's voice. Every portrait listened intently.
When he finally explained that he'd wrung the diary dry of useful secrets and so chose to hand it over, Phineas Black gave a sharp grin.
Throwing away a useless burden the instant it lost value? That was pure Slytherin.
The Sorting Hat had judged him well.
Even Dumbledore twitched slightly at that. But the blunt honesty helped ease the tension; it was more open than even Harry had ever been. Dumbledore had sensed Harry wasn't telling him everything after Penelope's attack, but he'd chosen to respect the boy's silence.
Tom, though… maybe he was too honest.
"Tom," Dumbledore said sternly. "Even if you've come out of this unharmed, I must warn you: never trust anything that can think for itself, unless you know where it keeps its brain. Objects with minds of their own are almost always born of Dark Magic."
"This diary is no exception. Contacting it so casually was dangerous."
"Professor, I trust my own strength," Tom replied smoothly.
"I hope you learn to restrain that confidence before it becomes arrogance," Dumbledore said gravely.
"I will. And… please keep Ginny's involvement private. That was the condition I gave her."
"Of course." Dumbledore nodded. "Miss Weasley's secret will stay with me. I won't tell the other professors. With this experience, I believe she'll grow from it."
He paused, then added, "Tom, thank you. You've lifted a great danger from this school. Fifty years ago, Tom Marvolo Riddle tricked his way into a Special Award for Services he didn't deserve. While fifty years later, you've earned this honor fairly."
"You'll also receive four hundred points for Slytherin after this matter is completely settled."
He gestured at the notebook. "Please lift your protections. I'll need to study it further."
Tom nodded and began unraveling the web of wards. Some, Dumbledore recognized. Others were unlike anything he'd ever seen—not the theory of modern British spellcraft at all, but something foreign.
In truth, they were suppressive magics passed to Tom by Andros, never shared beyond his line.
Dumbledore watched closely, impressed despite himself. Tom's arsenal of odd, exotic techniques was nothing short of eye-opening.
When the last seal dissolved, Tom opened the diary. "Professor, let me demonstrate."
He wrote across the page: "Are you sure you won't hand me the core of the Slytherin legacy?"
Almost at once, words bled across the parchment.
「Tom, I've told you already. Give me ten pounds of dragon blood to fully restore myself, and then the legacy will be yours.」
"Then we have nothing to discuss."
"I suppose I'll have to hand you over to someone who can deal with you."
「What do you mean by that?」
A chill of dread crept through Voldy's heart.
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Comments
Austin
Love it thanks for the chapter
