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[Hogwarts] Ch 111: The Dark Lord's Escape
🕑 Added 2025-07-29 14:36:26 +0000 UTC— — — — — —
Harry wasn't some unstoppable weapon—if he slammed into a wall, he'd be the one to crack first.
But against Quirrell? He was that weapon.
More accurately, it was the Voldemort possessing Quirrell who was in trouble now.
Harry's mother's protection—the magic Lily left in him—had been building up inside him for a whole decade with nowhere to go. Today, it finally had its moment.
"You fool! Get out of the way!"
Even Voldemort panicked this time. Sure, it was Quirrell who was physically hurting, but the pain was his.
That soul-ripping agony? He'd endured it countless times, but it never got easier.
And the worst part? Harry was glowing!
That light… Voldemort remembered it clearly. Back in the Forbidden Forest, a single punch powered by that light had nearly killed him. He barely escaped and had to recover for half a month—sucking out nearly two-thirds of Quirrell's life force just to stay alive.
Ever since then, Voldemort knew: he had a new nemesis.
"Damn it! Shame on you!"
"You are a Tom Riddle! Since when did Riddles start casting goody-two-shoes spells?"
Quirrell wasn't having a good time either. He scrambled and flailed, desperately dodging Harry's incoming rocket headbutt. Just before Harry hit the ground, he abruptly stopped—like a car slamming the brakes.
Then, spinning like a flail, he kicked Quirrell in the chest, sending him flying.
"AAAHHHH!" Quirrell screamed in pain as smoke rose from his torso.
Tom moved his fingers, and Harry moved in sync. If Professor Flitwick had been here, he would've instantly recognized the moves— the same technique Tom used in his exam to control a floating pear.
Harry charged like a battering ram, smashing Quirrell back. Then came a follow-up combo — clawing at Quirrell's face with both hands.
The combined power of Harry's Patronus and Lily's protection magic made both Quirrell and Voldemort howl in agony.
Quirrell barely managed to lift his wand—only for an invisible blade to slash down, slicing off his entire wand hand. Then his whole body started rotting.
And then, like a black ghost erupting from the back of Quirrell's skull, Voldemort's spirit screeched, "Tom Riddle! I'll be back!"
A dark cloud of smoke burst out, carrying Volde away at full speed. At the same time, Tom released Harry and summoned thick Patronus mist to block Volde—though he knew it probably wouldn't work.
Sure enough, Voldemort's soul wasn't really hindered. Most of the black mist got dissolved, but the core spirit slipped into the wall and vanished.
As for Quirrell?
His body had completely rotted away. Silent. Dead. And not a pretty sight.
Now, the room was quiet—just one person still standing.
Tom.
With a hollow look on his face, he tossed the limp, chubby body of Harry onto the floor without much care.
Then, something caught his eye.
A massive, ornate mirror standing in the center of the room.
The Mirror of Erised.
It showed you your deepest, truest desire. The last line of defense protecting the Philosopher's Stone.
Only someone who desperately wanted the Stone—but only to protect it—could retrieve it.
By that standard, Tom wasn't eligible.
But he didn't care about the Stone. He just wanted to know—what was it that he truly desired?
He'd asked himself this before… but never had a clear answer.
Now, standing in front of the mirror, an image slowly began to form.
Tom's eyelid twitched violently.
In the reflection, he saw Dumbledore—in the Great Hall, no less—completely losing his usual calm and wise demeanor, face lit with excitement, his beard literally quivering with joy.
He was shouting: "Mr. Riddle has saved Hogwarts! I'm awarding him FIFTY THOUSAND house points!"
Tom: "…"
Oh no. Did he just study himself stupid? Was this the academic brain rot?
But then again… the more he thought about it… this was actually kind of brilliant?
Fifty thousand house points? That's fifty thousand credits!
Also, ten thousand achievement points! That's like hiring two SSS-tier professors!
With those resources, he could easily become the strongest wizard in the world—free to do as he pleased, even to the point of saying, "I don't raise my wand for ants."
Damn it, this mirror really got him.
"What do you see?"
A familiar gentle voice sounded behind him.
Without turning around, Tom replied casually, "I see you, Professor—crying tears of joy as you award me fifty thousand points and thank me for saving the school."
Dumbledore had no idea what kind of face to make in response.
Fifty thousand points… seriously?
"You really value house points that much," Dumbledore said with a dry chuckle, stepping up to stand beside him.
"Fifty thousand is… a bit excessive. That would burst the House point hourglasses. But your bravery today will definitely earn Slytherin a good chunk of points."
"The more the better," Tom replied flatly, then added with curiosity, "Professor, what do you see in the Mirror of Erised?"
As he asked, Tom activated the Study Space. Inside, Grindelwald narrowed his eyes, staring intently at Dumbledore.
"Wool socks," Dumbledore said with a warm smile. "A lot of people think I love books the most, so every winter I get flooded with them. But Mr. Riddle, the gift you gave me was the one I truly cherished. I was still wearing them last month."
Tom's expression twisted oddly.
That gift? It was May, and Hogwarts was over twenty degrees. Who the hell wears wool in this weather? Was Dumbledore not worried about getting a rash?
"He's lying," Grindelwald declared flatly within the space. "When Dumbledore lies, he subconsciously blinks faster, clasps his hands behind his back, and sticks out his chest—to give himself confidence."
Andros looked at Grindelwald in horror. Dude… for real? What kind of person understands their mortal enemy this well?!
"Well, we can chat more later. But for now, Harry's not in great shape. Let's get him to the infirmary first."
Tom nodded. With a flick of his wand, Harry's unconscious body floated up.
Technically, if they were in a hurry, Dumbledore could've had Fawkes transport them straight to the hospital wing.
Instead, he walked.
Right into the potions challenge room.
Tom had no choice but to follow.
They passed through the potion room, the troll chamber, and into the chess and flying rooms. Dumbledore's eye twitched at the wreckage everywhere.
The effects of Tom's Booster Potion had worn off… and yeah, maybe he had gone a bit overboard.
"Good thing Minerva's not here," Dumbledore sighed. "She spent all summer setting up that chessboard. She'd be heartbroken."
Tom, of course, didn't feel bad at all. He had a thick skin. As they walked, he casually levitated Ron's unconscious body too, floating it beside Harry's.
Finally, they reached the Devil's Snare room.
Tom lit a blue flame at the tip of his wand, looked at Dumbledore, then up at the trapdoor above.
So… could Dumbledore fly? They were probably about to find out.
But Dumbledore, as always, defied expectations. He didn't bother flying. Instead, the rubble from the previous rooms floated toward them, piecing itself together into a neat staircase that stretched from the trapdoor all the way to their feet.
Tom: "…"
"Something wrong, Mr. Riddle?" Dumbledore asked, raising an eyebrow as Tom remained rooted in place.
"Oh, nothing," Tom said casually. "Just wondering how exactly you got here before me."
"Fawkes dropped me off right at the entrance."
"And how long have you been here?"
"Hmm… only slightly later than you."
"Incredible Disillusionment Charm. I didn't even notice you were there, Professor. Can you teach me sometime?"
"I'd be delighted."
Neither of them spared even a glance for the trembling Fluffy still cowering in the corner. They pushed the door open and walked out without another word.
---
When Dumbledore and Tom reached the third floor, Neville and Professor McGonagall arrived—late, like cops after a crime scene had been cleaned up.
"Merlin's beard— What happened to Potter?!" Professor McGonagall gasped as her eyes landed on Harry, pale and unconscious. She nearly fainted herself.
"Calm down, Minerva," Dumbledore said gently. "Harry's fine. But we'll need Madam Pomfrey to do a full check-up to be sure."
"Oh, thank goodness," McGonagall exhaled, visibly shaken. "And the Philosopher's Stone? Longbottom said Snape was trying to steal it—utter nonsense!"
Dumbledore nodded. "You're right. Severus had nothing to do with this. It was Quirrell."
"Quirrell?!" McGonagall's face twisted in shock and fury.
Neville, standing just behind her, was equally dumbfounded. Who would've thought the real threat to the Stone wasn't the sinister-looking Snape— but the mild-mannered, stuttering Professor Quirrell, who everyone assumed was harmless and incompetent?
"It was a carefully laid plan," Dumbledore said calmly. "Minerva, please go secure the third-floor corridor. I'll explain everything in detail tomorrow."
McGonagall nodded, but then turned to Neville. "Longbottom, your voice is completely gone. Go with the Headmaster to the hospital wing. You've done well today."
Neville gave a tired nod and tried to speak, but only silence came out.
It had taken McGonagall a while to understand what happened, precisely because Neville couldn't talk. He'd waved his arms and gestured for ages before she finally made him write everything down on a piece of parchment.
With Neville now joining them, Tom and Dumbledore fell silent again. They didn't exchange another word until they arrived at the hospital wing.
Madam Pomfrey wasted no time giving Dumbledore an earful, scolding him about letting dangerous, magical oddities anywhere near the students.
Only two people in the entire school dared yell at Dumbledore: McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey. And when it came to student safety, Pomfrey wasn't afraid to point a finger right in his face.
Dumbledore took it with a sheepish smile and didn't argue back.
After checking on Harry and Ron, Pomfrey huffed, "Potter's fine—just exhausted from overusing his magic. Weasley has a few minor injuries, nothing serious."
Neville quickly pointed to himself.
"You? Shoo. Just drink plenty of water and rest your voice for the next couple of days."
"Well then, I'll leave them in your care, Poppy," Dumbledore said with a smile. Then he turned to Tom and led him toward the Headmaster's office.
...
"What a day," Dumbledore muttered as he sank into his chair. "First I'm pulled away to London, then I rush back here… I swear, these old bones are about to fall apart."
He looked across the desk at Tom. "Mr. Riddle, I noticed you didn't seem even the slightest bit surprised that Voldemort was possessing Quirrell. Nor did you show any fear, which is… unusual. When I first realized it myself, I was shocked for quite a while."
"I'm a Muggle-born," Tom replied bluntly.
"And what does that have to do with it?" Dumbledore asked, puzzled.
"Well, for people like me, who didn't grow up in the wizarding world, Voldemort's just some abstract boogeyman. It's hard to really feel anything about him. Honestly, he's no scarier than the villains you read about in fairy tales."
"And as for him possessing Quirrell? Magic itself exists, doesn't it? So what can't happen at this point?"
"That's why I wasn't shocked," Tom added casually. "Though I do think Quirrell had terrible taste. If you're going to pick a 'master,' why choose a barely-alive half-ghost clinging to the back of your head?"
Dumbledore listened to Tom's explanation and slowly nodded.
"You're right. Sometimes a name is just a name—it's the meaning people attach to it that gives it weight."
"But still," Dumbledore said with a smile, "I must thank you, Mr. Riddle. Thank you for protecting the Stone and stopping Voldemort's plan."
"You've got it wrong, Professor," Tom corrected him. "I wasn't protecting school property."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the Philosopher's Stone. "Since we arrived around the same time, you probably heard my conversation with Voldemort."
"I want the Stone."
For a moment, Dumbledore's gaze sharpened—like a blade cutting through air. It was as if he could see straight through Tom's body into his soul.
But that look quickly faded. When he spoke again, his voice was calm.
"May I ask why, Mr. Riddle? Immortality? That seems like an awfully premature concern at your age."
"Money? You hardly need the Stone for that. With your talent, you could achieve anything you wanted."
The portraits of former headmasters stirred ever so slightly, quietly opening their eyes to watch the bold student who dared to demand something from Albus Dumbledore.
"Professor," Tom said, looking up and meeting Dumbledore's gaze without hesitation.
"Have you heard of the Greengrass family curse?"
Suddenly, Dumbledore's sharp look softened, his expression turning warm and… almost paternal.
.
.
.
