Enough of this game, Tom thought. If Voldy wants to play stubborn, let him. He can try his luck against Dumbledore instead.
"Riddle, Headmaster Dumbledore isn't in at the moment," the stone gargoyle muttered as it slid aside to reveal the spiral staircase.
Tom blinked. "He's not? Will he be back tonight?"
The gargoyle's stone face creased in something like uncertainty. "He should be. Fawkes is still here, after all. These days are… unusual. The Headmaster doesn't stray for long."
"Then I'll wait inside." Tom's tone was casual, but resolute.
The gargoyle hesitated, then stepped aside.
Such privileges were rare in Hogwarts. Only McGonagall and Tom had this right. McGonagall, because she was essentially the true backbone of the school. Tom? Because he had frightened the gargoyle into submission through sheer force of presence—and because he had visited the office so often, the poor stone beast no longer dared to bar his way.
The Headmaster's office was hushed and fragrant. Strange silver instruments puffed white vapors into the air, filling the room with a subtle perfume that calmed the nerves.
On the massive desk sat the battered Sorting Hat, perched on its shelf. Tom's gaze lingered on it. He had always wanted to sit down and properly talk with it, to "catch up," but every visit to this office brought more pressing business. Today was no different.
Instead, his eyes slid to the corner.
There, upon a carved perch of aged walnut, stood Fawkes. Not the brilliant creature Tom had seen before, but an ancient, haggard bird, feathers dulled and ragged.
Tom approached, his voice soft. "Fawkes..."
Fawkes leaned forward, pressing its head against the boy's fingers. A weak, weary croon escaped its throat.
Tom chuckled. "So that's it… You're telling me you're usually radiant, but you don't understand why I wonder why you haven't burned yet."
The phoenix was on the cusp of death. Once a phoenix reached the end of its cycle, it would age rapidly—plumage fading, body weakening—until it erupted into fire and was reborn, fresh and magnificent. Fawkes could have ended this cycle at any time. Yet he waited.
Another frail warble.
Tom's smile deepened. "So you're building up for a greater fire? Accumulating it… to burn hotter than ever?" He stroked the bird's head gently. "That's up to you. When you've risen again, I'll take you out for a proper flight."
Fawkes closed his eyes with a faint trill. Tom turned away, leaving him in peace, and was about to sit on one of the sofas when a voice hissed his name.
"Riddle. Riddle!"
He turned sharply.
From a frame on the wall, Phineas Nigellus Black was waving at him.
Tom arched a brow. "Phineas. Don't tell me you've finally seen reason and want me to move your portrait elsewhere?"
"Pah! Don't toy with me, boy," Phineas huffed, his beard twitching with indignation. "I'm not going anywhere. The Headmaster's office is my rightful place."
Tom shrugged. "Then why call me? I've better things to do."
"Wait, wait! Don't be so impatient." Phineas leaned forward conspiratorially.
The other portraits stirred awake, blinking as they leaned in, clearly eager to eavesdrop on whatever drama was about to unfold.
"You've been stirring the cauldron quite a bit lately," Phineas said. "This whole 'History of the Wizarding World'—a massive project, and dangerous too. Many enemies you'll make. But…" His eyes gleamed. "I say good on you! A Slytherin should aim high—earth-shaking deeds, not mediocrity."
Tom folded his arms, unimpressed. "And?"
Phineas cleared his throat, coughed, and rubbed his hands sheepishly. "Well… it's inevitable you'll write about the Black family. One of the most noble, most illustrious lineages in wizarding history. Without us, whole swathes of magical heritage would vanish. Don't you agree?"
Tom's lips curved. "Go on."
"I was thinking," Phineas continued, "when you do write about us, perhaps… emphasize the positives. We've had our little scandals, sure, but those can be left vague. No need to dwell. Let others dig for the dirty details if they insist. You—focus on our grandeur." His eyes gleamed with hope. "What do you say?"
Tom laughed softly. "Ah. So that's your angle."
The other portraits looked at Phineas with open disdain. Typical Slytherin opportunism—even in death, still scheming for his family's reputation.
"You want me to gloss over the filth," Tom said mildly. "It's possible. But tell me, Phineas… what will you give me in return?"
Phineas froze. "What…?"
"I said," Tom repeated, his smile sharp, "what benefit will you offer me for such kindness? Did you think I'd do it for free?"
Phineas' mouth twisted. "Benefit? What can I give? I'm a portrait, boy! A dead man! I have no gold, no lands, no vaults to offer."
Tom's expression darkened. "So you want a free favor? That's the Black family way? Taking without giving? How… miserly."
"You dare?!" Phineas' beard bristled. "Let me tell you something, Riddle—aside from the Greengrasses, no family in Britain surpasses the Blacks in wealth! We fear no one—"
"And yet here you are," Tom cut in smoothly, "trying to get me to do your dirty work without offering a single knut. Pathetic."
Phineas' face turned purple with rage. "I can't give you money, but I can speak well of you to Dumbledore. Whisper in his ear, make sure he teaches you powerful magic—"
Tom spread his hands. "And what good is that? The Headmaster would teach me regardless. You add nothing."
Then he leaned forward, his voice a blade. "Tell me, Phineas… you strut about your 'illustrious family.' But your last heir rots in Azkaban. No wife, no children. Do you know what Muggles call that?"
He sneered. "An extinct line. A house with no future."
The portrait trembled violently, Phineas' finger stabbing at Tom, yet no words came. Fury, humiliation, and helplessness choked him into silence.
And at that very moment, the office door swung open with a quiet creak.
Albus Dumbledore stepped in. He had heard enough to catch Tom's last remark. His gaze flicked from Phineas' trembling form to the calm boy standing in the center of the room.
For a moment, the old wizard said nothing.
Because deep down, he too felt the sting of Tom's words.
He was, after all… an "extinct line" himself.