Chapter 230 – The Mysterious Tom Riddle
In this vast underground world, a powerful, turbulent sea-like wave of magic was born from nothingness. The magic was deep and heavy, yet strangely youthful and vigorous.
The source of that magic was a tall, black-haired boy. He stroked his own hair, eyes, teeth, and ears almost frantically, as if reassuring himself of his existence. Yet his outline was blurry and strange, as though he was being viewed through a foggy window, a shimmering haze surrounding him.
"Your name—Tom Riddle."
The voice belonged to Dumbledore, who looked at the boy with complicated eyes.
As soon as Dumbledore spoke, the boy's outline sharpened, revealing a face of startling beauty, features like stone and jade, and eyes that gleamed brightly with charm and danger.
"Long time no see, Professor Dumbledore."
The boy's voice was magnetic, elegant, and refined. Even just listening to it could send chills through anyone.
In Alexander's previous life, if this boy had been a voice actor, he would have had countless fans who swore his voice alone could make them fall in love.
There was no doubt—apart from Grindelwald, only a young Tom Riddle could possess such charisma. He was the kind of presence that could captivate even the most jaded of souls.
"Long time no see. I think I don't need to say much more, do I, Tom?" Dumbledore's voice was calm but steady. His eyes now resembled piercing X-rays, stripping away all falsehood.
"Ah, I think not."
"As expected of you, Professor. Not a single life was lost. Typical Dumbledore magic—hypocrisy, waste, and stupidity." Riddle's tone was mocking.
"This ritual is fascinating. It squeezes my life force in exchange for independence, but it's like a chain bound deep around my neck. Do you need me to call you 'master,' Professor?" Tom smirked and even winked at Dumbledore.
"Just call me Professor. As you once did."
"I've simply made a choice. Compared to Voldemort, I would rather deal with Tom Riddle—monitored by me." Dumbledore's words were light, but unshakable.
Riddle's handsome face twisted into something feral. "I've said many times—I hate that name. Don't call me Tom."
"Are you going to play the teacher-student game with me?" His voice grew rough, animalistic.
"No," Dumbledore said calmly. "I want you to repent—for Myrtle."
"Cherish this new life, Tom. A life still unstained by blood." His gaze hardened.
Riddle sneered. "Pure? Investigate me properly, Professor. Even as a boy in Wool's Orphanage, I killed two children. And Myrtle? It was my basilisk that ended her life. Even your loyal 'servant' Hagrid was framed by me!"
"Hagrid is no servant—he is my student. And we are all equal in worth."
"You may not understand love, Tom, but you still have a conscience. That is what Voldemort despises most. That's why he locked you away in the only Muggle item he valued—a diary."
Dumbledore's words were firm.
Riddle curled his lips, disdainful—but his ears twitched.
"You remember their names, don't you? Benson and Bishop, the children you once terrorized. But they're alive. Benson is a lawyer now. Bishop runs a shop."
Though Riddle laughed coldly, something flickered in his expression. They had been his victims, yes—but also, in a strange way, his only childhood companions.
"Tom," Dumbledore said again, and this time Riddle listened. "You may be cruel, domineering, and addicted to power. But you are not a mindless killer. You keep people—Muggles, wizards alike—like possessions, but not disposable ones."
"What happened to Myrtle was not your intent. Your scapegoating was clumsy—too clumsy for your usual style."
"Oh, it's you indeed, Professor," Riddle muttered.
"This is why you never destroyed the orphanage, even though you loathed it. Why you stayed abroad instead of wreaking havoc in Britain. Why—even after killing your Muggle father—you did not return here to burn the land. Because here, there are people you still remember."
Dumbledore's voice softened. "Tom, the worst choice you ever made was abandoning your conscience. The greatest magic springs from it."
Riddle snapped impatiently, "What do you want me to do?"
"Defence Against the Dark Arts needs a teacher," Dumbledore said cheerfully.
Riddle's eyes widened. "You're mad."
"When I was young, I applied to teach and you blocked me. Later, as headmaster, you rejected me again. Now you invite me back? One of the greatest dark wizards to lead Defense Against the Dark Arts?"
"This is a choice, Tom. A chance to start over."
"And what if the other Voldemort learns of me? He is stronger, crueler, more ruthless than I am. Would he permit it?"
"I believe you understand what choice to make." Dumbledore extended his arm.
Tom Riddle's face twisted with gloom, but at last—he grasped Dumbledore's arm.
With a crack, both vanished into the air.
(End of Chapter 230)
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