Chapter 213: Young Tom
"Nothing," Russell said, shaking his head. Then, as if recalling something, he looked up at Albus Dumbledore.
"Professor… could this be related to the Slytherin locket you took earlier?"
"The locket?" Dumbledore's expression turned thoughtful. He reached into his robes and pulled out a Two-Way Mirror—far more refined than Russell's, its craftsmanship clearly superior at a glance.
"I entrusted it to Nicolas. If something's wrong, it's likely on his end."
Russell had been about to take the opportunity to meet Nicolas and perhaps bring up apprenticing under him—but Dumbledore merely made a feint and tucked the mirror away again.
So stingy, Russell grumbled inwardly.
"Russell," Dumbledore said with a faint smile, "I have the impression you're harboring some dissatisfaction toward me."
"Not at all," Russell replied solemnly, waving his hand. "Though, Professor, using Legilimency like that isn't exactly proper."
"Rest assured," Dumbledore said, his smile turning oddly knowing, "my Legilimency doesn't work on you."
"I'll be going," he added.
It wasn't the right moment to fully investigate what was happening with Harry. Though dark magic lingered around him, his condition was stable—for now.
Dumbledore decided to check on the locket first.
—
"Nicolas, has something gone wrong with Slytherin's locket?"
Dumbledore arrived at Nicolas Flamel's residence, his expression grave.
Nicolas was a man of artistic temperament. His malachite fireplace swirled with patterns reminiscent of The Starry Night, dreamlike and mesmerizing.
"Perfect timing!"
Nicolas rose from beside a pool of liquid mercury. In his hand, Salazar Slytherin's Locket was spraying emerald-green venom in all directions.
The liquid formed tiny serpents midair, gnawing at a floating dodecahedral alchemical array.
"I must admit," Nicolas said, shaking his head, "Voldemort's talent is extraordinary."
He tossed the locket into the mercury pool.
At once, it emitted a shriek like a crying infant. The serpent engraving on its surface opened a third eye, and every metal object in the room began to melt.
"The soul inside has awakened," Nicolas explained. "I'm trying to remove it without destroying the locket."
"Harry had a nightmare last night," Dumbledore said, pointing at the locket. "This is likely the cause."
"If it proves too difficult… destroy it," he added, his voice firm.
"That would be a shame," Nicolas muttered, reluctant to give up.
"Let me try one last time. I'm worried something might happen to Harry."
Dumbledore didn't object.
The alchemical array intensified.
The locket began to tremble violently, emitting pulses of green light that gathered into a figure in midair—
An elderly man, glaring with fury.
"How dare you tamper with my relic!" the old man roared, his rage so intense it seemed he might lunge forward at any moment.
A flicker of recognition passed through Dumbledore's eyes, but he remained calm.
"Tom," he said evenly, "enough of these theatrics."
"Oh, very well."
The old man's fury vanished instantly. With a soft pop, he dissolved into smoke, shrinking and condensing—
Until a handsome young man stood in his place.
"Long time no see, Professor," said Tom Riddle, his tone polite, almost courteous.
The soul within the locket was Tom as he had been only a few years after graduating—a young Tom Riddle, still applying for the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.
"Professor," Tom said with a faint smile, "the current Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher is a complete disgrace. Do you regret refusing my request back then?"
"Tom," Albus Dumbledore replied calmly, shaking his head, "I have always believed my decision was the correct one."
He raised his wand, pointing it directly at Tom.
"You wouldn't dare," Tom said confidently. "This is the only relic left behind by Salazar Slytherin. As for the other—his wand—it was taken to America long ago."
"If destroying you requires it," Dumbledore said, unfazed, "then it is a price worth paying."
"Then try," Tom snapped, his expression darkening. His form dissolved, sinking back into the locket as he attempted to awaken its full power against Dumbledore.
But he had underestimated him.
Perhaps because this fragment of soul lacked key memories, Tom never truly understood Dumbledore's strength. If Dumbledore hadn't hoped to preserve the locket, this Horcrux would have been destroyed long ago.
Even Nicolas Flamel had no solution. Though a master alchemist, he had never created a Horcrux himself and had no reliable method to separate the soul within.
"So be it," Dumbledore sighed.
He flicked his wand. A blinding green light flashed—
Tom's scream was cut off mid-cry.
The locket split down the middle with a jagged crack.
"I suppose now I can attempt to repair it," Nicolas said, picking up the broken Salazar Slytherin's Locket.
Even if it lost its magic and became nothing more than an ornament, Dumbledore still asked him to try—if only to preserve it as a keepsake.
—
Perhaps because of the nightmare the night before, Harry was in poor condition the next day. His head throbbed, his thoughts sluggish, and he kept yawning even as he ate.
Sirius was too absorbed in his reunion with Regulus to notice. Only Hermione picked up on it.
"What's wrong, Harry?" she asked, concern in her voice.
"I'm fine," Harry replied, fatigue evident as he spooned oatmeal into his mouth. "Just had a nightmare. I'll be okay after some rest."
But as he finished breakfast and stood up, a sharp pain suddenly stabbed through his forehead.
A flash of green filled his vision.
His body swayed—
Then, just as suddenly, the pain vanished.
A cool sensation spread from his scar, clearing his mind instantly. The fog lifted, and he felt more awake than he had all morning.
If Dumbledore had been there, he would have seen that the dark aura lingering around Harry's scar had nearly dissipated.
At that exact moment, the Horcrux had been destroyed.
Harry frowned, touching his forehead. That was… strange.
He returned to his room, intending to lie down, when something at the foot of his bed caught his eye.
A package.
Curious, he opened it—
Inside was something smooth as flowing water. A cloak.
He draped it over himself and stepped toward the mirror to see how it looked.
Then he froze.
His body had vanished.
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