After Tom had finished snapping back at Phineas Nigellus, he heard movement behind him.
Turning around, he found himself face-to-face with Albus Dumbledore, who stood at the doorway with a rather peculiar expression.
"Good evening, Headmaster," Tom greeted him warmly.
"Good evening, Mr. Riddle," Dumbledore replied, quickly composing himself before walking to his chair. "You've come at quite the convenient moment. I had actually been planning to invite you for afternoon tea in a few days."
Tom caught the hidden meaning in his words.
"Professor, has there been… unrest lately because of me?"
Dumbledore, already seated, let out a weary little smile at the question.
Unrest?
It was more accurate to say all the unrest had been intercepted by him.
Ever since Tom's very first article was published, complaints and letters of protest from pure-blood families had descended upon Hogwarts like a blizzard. Some letters were openly furious, others tried coaxing or threatening Tom into restraint, hoping he would "think carefully before writing again."
Some had gone further, declaring that their noble families had no need for a mere student's judgment—and that he certainly wasn't worthy of passing it.
And now that today's paper had released Tom's piece on the Lestrange family, the number of outraged letters had multiplied. The first article on the Rosiers had at least been relatively positive… but the Lestranges? That was no critique—it was an open insult.
Dumbledore had spent the entire day placating infuriated pure-bloods, barely finding time for himself by evening.
But he hadn't come to advise Tom to retreat.
Though the world at large painted Dumbledore as a soft-hearted figure—and though some suspected he might disapprove of Tom's writings—he had no intention of letting external pressure dictate Hogwarts' scholarship. If even a student's serious academic work could be muzzled by outside influence, then what kind of Headmaster would he be?
Instead, he wanted to caution Tom: to be careful. Inside Hogwarts, Dumbledore could protect him. He would make sure no one reached their hand inside these walls.
But once holidays arrived… he could not be Tom's guardian every hour of every day.
Tom listened, nodded thoughtfully.
"Thank you for the warning, Professor. I'll keep that in mind."
Then, with a slight pause, he added, "Although… if some foolish pure-blood truly tried to ambush me outside… chances are, they'd be the ones regretting it. Forgive my bluntness, Professor, but… would you mind terribly if I were to strike back—rather hard?"
Dumbledore blinked. "How hard, exactly?"
Tom's lips curled. "For instance… hard enough to send them off to meet Merlin."
The air in the office seemed to chill by several degrees. After a brief silence, Dumbledore drew in a slow breath.
"If any other student said such words, I would dismiss it as childish bravado—treating life and death as if they were casual topics. But you, Tom…" His pale blue eyes fixed on the boy with piercing intensity, tinged with something almost like pleading. "…your thoughts, your vision—they are already far beyond your peers."
Leaning forward slightly, he continued:
"Tom, I do not know the full extent of your power. But every time Severus speaks of your work, it is clear you can already handle most dangers that come your way. Still, I beg you: unless absolutely necessary, do not resort to killing.
This isn't sentimentality. Every act of murder leaves marks upon the soul—marks that no words can fully describe. It can alter your magic, even your very character. That is not a burden to take lightly."
Tom smiled calmly and nodded.
"Professor, I've read of this in many books. It's precisely why executions in the wizarding world are so rarely carried out by wizards themselves. We seem almost cursed—whenever one wizard kills another, something strange is etched upon the killer."
"Countless studies prove it. Herpo the Foul discovered this very phenomenon when he devised the method of making a Horcrux—the essential act being a murder, using that unnatural rupture to tear the soul apart."
That was why Tom had always been cautious. Those poachers he had killed before—under Grindelwald's guidance, it had taken him significant effort to purge the aftereffects.
But that did not mean he was unwilling to kill. If someone dared provoke him, he would not shy away. Grindelwald had slain countless people and still walked the earth unbroken. To live in constant fear of consequences would make him no better than a farmer raising pumpkins.
"Professor," Tom promised, smiling faintly, "my dream is simply to conduct research in peace… and to build dozens of grand manors. Violence has no appeal to me—unless others bring it to my doorstep. I will never strike first."
Dumbledore's mouth twitched, clearly caught off guard by the blunt modesty of such a "dream." But Tom's assurance nonetheless brought him some comfort.
Then, a thought crossed Dumbledore's mind. His eyes gleamed with a hint of amusement.
"By the way, will you be visiting Nicolas this Christmas? From the tone of his letters, you two seem to be up to something remarkable. He won't even tell me the details—keeps it shrouded in mystery."
Tom blinked innocently. "You'll understand when you receive my Christmas gift, Professor."
Dumbledore chuckled softly. "If you say so… then I look forward to Christmas with great anticipation."
"Don't forget my gift either," Tom teased.
"To be honest," Dumbledore sighed, "choosing a gift for you is dreadfully difficult. I have no idea what young people truly enjoy these days. And you aren't particularly fond of sweets—"
"Oh, I'm rather fond of the Philosopher's Stone," Tom interrupted smoothly.
Dumbledore: …
There was simply no continuing this conversation.
"Mr. Riddle," he asked tiredly, ignoring the outrageous suggestion, "was there something in particular you wanted from me this evening?"
Tom nodded. "Yes, Professor. I've discovered who opened the Chamber of Secrets."
In an instant, a spark of sharp light flashed in the old wizard's eyes, his gaze growing intense.
"That is… astonishing news, Mr. Riddle. Please—tell me everything."
Not just him—the portraits of former Headmasters on the walls had all opened their painted eyes.
"Who was it?!"