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[Hogwarts] Ch 89: News of the Fire Dragon Heart
🕑 Added 2025-07-12 00:15:33 +0000 UTC— — — — — —
"So dark magic is more interesting than magical creatures?" Tom asked, feigning confusion.
On the inside, he was grinning like the devil. 'Heh, mission accomplished… that Dark Lord really can't resist stroking his own ego.'
"Of course, it's."
"I'll show you just how fascinating dark magic can be," Grindelwald said proudly. And to be fair, he had every right to brag.
"Alright, alright," Tom said quickly. "Just give me a second and we'll start."
No point pushing his luck. If he kept poking at Grindelwald's nerves, the old man might actually go full meltdown.
Not everyone could be like Snape, all cold stares and iron self-control... Ok, ok, Tom just enjoyed bullying these old men. Call it a hobby.
...
Tom turned to Fawkes with a bright smile. "Enjoying your meal, Fawkes?"
Phoenixes weren't exactly pretty birds at first glance—they looked a bit odd, actually. But if you stared long enough, you'd notice the sleek gloss of their feathers and the flickering flames dancing beneath the surface. Not so ugly after all.
"Chirp!"
Fawkes, now well-fed, stretched out his elegant neck. Tom reached out and gently stroked the phoenix's feathers.
And then—he grinned, flashing a hint of fang.
"It's Christmas, Fawkes. Your master gave me a gift, and I gave you a little something too. So… isn't it your turn to return the favor?"
Fawkes blinked at him, confused.
"I don't want much," Tom said with a disarmingly warm smile. "Just two tail feathers… and a few drops of your tears. Let's call it a friendly exchange."
Before Fawkes could react, Tom already had a small glass vial ready, holding it gently under the bird's eye.
"..."
Turns out, even an incredibly intelligent magical creature like a phoenix was no match for a Slytherin with a silver tongue. Fawkes ended up giving him not only two precious tail feathers but also a healthy amount of tears—before flying off in a flurry, probably emotionally scarred.
"You little snake…" Grindelwald muttered, the corner of his mouth twitching. "You're cunning that I gave you credit for."
Gone was the perfect student from the day before—this was the real Tom: cunning, calculated, and just a bit ruthless.
"Good," Grindelwald thought. "The last thing the world needs is another Dumbledore."
"Forgive me, sir," Tom said with mock regret. "Poor kids like me have to grow up fast. Especially orphans. Gotta make every drop of value count."
Grindelwald's tone turned cold and serious. "Once you truly master magic, everything else—wealth, power, influence—will come to you like a tidal wave."
"Remember this, Tom: Magic is power."
Inside the study space, maybe to prove his point—or maybe just to impress Andros—Grindelwald immediately launched a spell that was anything but basic.
After all, this was a battle of legacies now: one ancient king of a century, one modern king of a century. He couldn't afford to lose face.
"To truly kill a fire dragon," Grindelwald began, "you first have to ground it. Take away its flight advantage. Only then can you hope to defeat it."
"This is a dark spell of my own creation—Hell's Grasp."
BOOM.
The ground split open. Two enormous fists of glowing blue flame erupted from the cracks, clenched tightly, then burst apart in a shockwave.
Tom's eyes practically sparkled. "Coach, I want to learn THAT."
Grindelwald smirked. "Your headmaster—Dumbledore—is one of the most talented Transfiguration masters in history. We've fought more times than I can count. One of his favorite forms in battle? A fire dragon."
"This spell was made to counter that."
With a sweep of his hand, the ambient blue flames swirled into motion, drawn toward him. They gathered together, compressing into a basketball-sized orb of fire, glowing dangerously.
"There are more advanced forms of this spell, but those are for later. First, you need to master Fiendfyre. And by 'master,' I don't mean just setting things on fire—I mean full control. You must dominate the flames, bend them to your will. Any magic that a wizard can't control is trash. And any wizard who uses uncontrollable magic is even worse."
That reminded Tom of Gregory Goyle.
Yeah… he'd pretty much burned himself to death with his own Fiendfyre.
This was the difference between white and black magic. White magic emphasized slow, safe progression. Black magic? It didn't care. Want to start with Unforgivables? Go ahead.
Even then, killing a fire dragon was another matter entirely. Their vitality was leagues beyond that of a human wizard. Even a professor's Killing Curse might only make a dragon weak or give it a nosebleed.
No—you needed Fiendfyre Curse. Or dark magic with serious destructive power.
...
Thanks to his affinity with dark magic, Tom picked Fiendfyre up fast. Faster than any other subject he'd studied. Even Andros was beginning to wonder if Tom was just naturally born for dark wizardry.
Andros had joined in the lessons too, but back in his era, Fiendfyre didn't even exist. He'd barely managed to summon a tiny spark, while Tom was already conjuring entire waves of cursed fire and shaping it in precise directions.
The next steps? Refined control, focused forms, heat intensification—until eventually, like Grindelwald, he could toy with Fiendfyre like it was nothing.
...
The next few days, Tom barely left the house. He was locked in constant dark magic lessons, devouring spellwork and burning through skill points at a terrifying pace.
He activated "Turbo mode" twice a day just to keep up. Thankfully, he'd saved enough credits in advance to afford the extravagance. And since dark magic was still a relatively untapped field for him, he was earning more credits with each lesson.
— — —
Meanwhile, outside his study bubble—both the magical and Muggle worlds were undergoing major shifts.
More than a dozen new countries had seemingly popped into existence overnight.
A few others had mysteriously lost their 'big brothers.'
New governments sprang up in the Muggle world. New Ministries of Magic emerged all over the magical one.
Finally, on the last day of 1991, Tom decided it was time to head out again.
He, as 'Michael,' went to Knockturn Alley and found a message waiting for him from Borgin & Burkes.
Without delay, he made his way to the shop.
Old Borgin had just finished dealing with a cloaked customer whose entire face was hidden by magic. He was grinning so wide, the wrinkles on his face folded in like an accordion.
"Looks like you just made a tidy profit," Tom teased.
Borgin didn't mind the jab. "It's not just my lucky day—it's your lucky day too."
"Oh?" Tom raised a brow, then a realization hit him.
"You found something about a dragon's heart, didn't you?"
Borgin's smile turned sly. "Not the heart itself—but news about one. And you can have it for the friendly price of three hundred Galleons."
.
.
.
