The most agitated of all was Armando Dippet.
During his tenure, a student's death had been a permanent stain on his record. Only shortly after Myrtle's death, Dumbledore had taken over as Headmaster.
"It was Ginny Weasley who opened the Chamber of Secrets," Tom said evenly. "But it was not her intention—she was bewitched."
"Weasley? Sounds like a Gryffindor through and through," Phineas Nigellus Black barked. "Riddle, are you spouting nonsense? The Heir of Slytherin a Gryffindor? You might as well claim you're the Heir yourself, at least that would make more sense!"
Tom narrowed his eyes, turning his head just slightly.
"Phineas, if you want to hear the truth, then shut your mouth. Otherwise, I'll happily silence you myself."
"You—!" Phineas' eyes bulged, but before he could say another word, Armando Dippet hurriedly ducked into his portrait and clamped a hand over Phineas' mouth with surprising force.
"Tom, go on. I promise, no one will interrupt you."
Only then did Tom turn back around. He pulled out a notebook and placed it atop the vast oak desk.
Dumbledore's eyes narrowed. He could not immediately discern the true nature of the object, but he could sense that Tom had layered complex spells across it—powerful restraints woven one over the other.
Tom smiled lightly.
"Professor, isn't it a coincidence? This very notebook once belonged to a student here… a boy named Tom Riddle, some fifty years ago."
Dumbledore's gaze sharpened at once. Without a sound, the Elder Wand appeared in his hand. Tom glanced at it too—his first time seeing the legendary wand in person.
As described, it resembled the knucklebones of a hand, its shape noticeably distinct from ordinary wands.
But Dumbledore did not reach for the notebook. Instead, his voice was calm, deliberate.
"Tom… I must ask you to tell me everything, in detail."
Tom nodded, then recounted everything from the very beginning: his first suspicions of Ginny's strange behavior, her abduction in the Room of Requirement, and finally his own direct exchanges with the notebook's remnant of Tom Riddle.
His voice was steady, his manner almost disarmingly honest.
And that was precisely his strategy.
The moment Tom had decided to hand over the diary, he had already resolved not to hide his own ambition. What of it? Was ambition such a shameful thing? Better to display it openly than pretend otherwise. What could Dumbledore truly do to him for it?
Never in Voldemort's wildest imaginings would he have expected this boy to surrender the diary so readily. In Voldemort's eyes, Dumbledore was wary of every ambitious wizard who might someday surpass him.
But after years of regret over how he had once dealt with Voldemort, Dumbledore had changed. He was no longer the same man.
The office was utterly still, save for Tom's voice. Every portrait leaned in, listening intently.
When Tom finally finished—having squeezed out every detail he could—he pushed the notebook toward Dumbledore.
Phineas Nigellus couldn't help but grin. Classic Slytherin. Toss away a cursed, troublesome object the moment it lost its usefulness. The Sorting Hat had been spot on.
Even Dumbledore's eyelid twitched slightly. Tom's candor was… unsettling.
Yet he found himself oddly pleased. This level of straightforward honesty was something even Harry Potter had never offered. Dumbledore had sensed Harry's evasions during Penelope Clearwater's attack, but he had chosen to respect them.
Tom, however, was almost too forthright.
"Mr. Riddle," Dumbledore said gravely, "even if you are unharmed now, I must warn you: never trust anything that can think for itself, unless you can see clearly where it keeps its brain. Such objects are nearly always the work of Dark magic.
This diary is no exception. Prolonged contact with such an item is perilous."
"Professor, I have confidence in my own strength."
"And I hope you learn to restrain that confidence before it turns into arrogance."
"I will. But—Ginny's involvement must remain a secret. I gave her my word."
"That is only right," Dumbledore agreed at once. "Miss Weasley's secret will be safe. None of the other professors will hear of it from me. I trust that this ordeal will help her grow."
The old man paused, then his expression softened.
"Mr. Riddle, I must thank you. You have delivered this school from a terrible crisis. Fifty years ago, another Tom Riddle won himself an award through deception. But now… you have truly earned one.
And not only that—I intend to award your House four hundred points. But that will come once the matter is fully resolved."
His eyes gleamed.
"Now, please—dispel the protective magic you've placed on this diary. I must examine it further."
Tom inclined his head. He began carefully unweaving the spells. Some, Dumbledore recognized; others, he did not. In fact, many of the methods were unlike anything in modern magical practice, nor even in traditional British wizardry.
They were techniques passed down from Andros the Invincible—methods meant for restraining dark forces. Secrets never shared beyond a chosen few.
Dumbledore could only marvel. Tom's repertoire of unusual arts was astounding.
At last, the layers of wards dissolved. Tom opened the diary.
"Professor, allow me to demonstrate."
He dipped his quill to the page and wrote:
Old Tom, are you still unwilling to hand over Slytherin's true legacy to me?
Almost at once, words scrawled themselves across the page in reply.
Tom, I have said it before: give me ten pounds of dragon's blood, allow me to fully revive, and then the legacy will be yours.
Tom's quill scratched again.
"Then we have nothing left to discuss. It seems I must turn you over to someone who can deal with you properly."
What do you mean by that?
For the first time, a sharp pang of dread stirred within Voldemort's fragment.