Chapter 231 – Voldemort in the Principal's Office
In a castle hidden deep within Nottingham Forest, Alexander lay on his side on the sofa, his mind replaying everything that had just transpired.
If that fragment of Voldemort's soul truly represented his conscience, then perhaps it explained why—in the original timeline—the young wizards who were attacked had not actually died.
But what shocked Alexander most was Dumbledore's choice.
In the original worldline, Dumbledore had deliberately allowed the diary to wreak havoc at Hogwarts, all to deceive Voldemort. He wanted Voldemort to believe he remained ignorant of the Horcruxes. At the same time, it served as a test: could Voldemort sense the destruction of his own Horcruxes?
This test would become a critical reference for Dumbledore's later plans.
If Voldemort had truly been capable of sensing his Horcruxes being destroyed, then Dumbledore's method for handling them would likely have shifted. Instead of destroying them in secret, he might have trained Harry to accompany him and rapidly sweep through all the Horcruxes, locating and eliminating them together.
Even if he still held doubts about the Resurrection Stone, Dumbledore's sense of duty would have driven him to abandon personal obsession. He would not have been so easily tempted by its lure at the Gaunt shack.
So in the original worldline, Alexander thought, the reason Dumbledore wavered was because he already had a foolproof plan—one that would continue even after his death.
He cleared his throat. At once, Jack appeared beside him, carrying Jerry, the black cat, still fast asleep. Alexander stroked the cat absently and turned back to the unfolding vision before him.
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Inside the headmaster's office at Hogwarts:
"Ah, Riddle, how could you—"
"Dumbledore, what is going on?" demanded an old wizard in a portrait, frail and breathless.
"Hello, long time no see, Professor Dippet." Tom Riddle inclined his head slightly.
"Armando," Dumbledore said calmly, "it is just Tom."
Another portrait—a sharp-eyed man with a pointed goatee dressed in Slytherin green—spoke up. "I understand now what all those materials you gathered were for."
It was Phineas Nigellus Black, Sirius's ancestor and one of the most knowledgeable in the ways of dark magic.
"The diary has vanished," Phineas reminded.
"Ah, I see."
"Dumbledore," Dippet said weakly, "though we are bound to serve the Headmaster, I warn you—I made mistakes with Riddle before. Whatever you intend, you should reconsider."
Riddle smirked. "So hurtful, Professor Dippet. You were willing to recommend me for a professorship once."
"Silence, Tom!" Dumbledore snapped.
"I understand, Master~" Riddle replied mockingly, his voice dripping with pretension.
"Use dark magic to fight dark magic, is that your plan? Fight Voldemort with Voldemort?" Phineas said with conviction.
"No, Phineas," Dumbledore countered. "Tom, enough games. I want a complete Defence Against the Dark Arts curriculum—years one through seven. Quickly. I'll need time to review and revise." His tone was casual, as if discussing dinner plans.
The portraits collectively gasped.
"He's only sixteen! How could he be a professor?"
"Dumbledore, are you mad? There was one last year, one this year, another next? Do you love appointing Voldemort so much?"
"I thought you were infallible, Dumbledore…"
Portrait voices overlapped in protest.
"I say we trust Dumbledore—he's the greatest among us," declared a witch with a birch-like wand.
"No need to explain! I believe in him!" shouted a fat red-nosed wizard.
"Thank you, Fusco," Dumbledore said with a rare trace of emotion.
At once, Riddle's voice cut through softly. "Florin Fusco… is he still alive? Last I knew, he was. I remember him well—proprietor of Florin's Soda Shop. He fascinated me once. Knowledgeable in magical history, unofficial tales… He was one of my chosen targets."
"I'll be sure to warn my descendants, you fiend," Fusco muttered.
"Ah, has he forgotten he grew fat on cold drinks?" Phineas jeered, then scowled. "Better than my good-for-nothing great-great-grandson who refused the blind date I arranged!"
"Children have the right to their own choices," Dumbledore said mildly, ever the bachelor defending Sirius.
"Don't forget why we're here," reminded Doris Crockford, the silver-haired witch in another portrait.
"Quite right, Doris," Phineas muttered, tugging at his goatee.
Before Dumbledore could continue, Riddle interjected. "There's something I want to know. What do they mean by 'one last year, one this year'? If true, does that mean you've been resurrecting my Horcruxes one by one just to kill them off?"
Dumbledore met his eyes steadily. "Your main body was attached to Quirinus Quirrell last year, clinging to the back of his head. So yes, in a sense, you were the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor for 1991–1992. This year and next, you will fill the role again—1992–1993."
"Oh? So he died, then." Riddle's tone was casual, but his expression darkened. "Where is his corpse? What became of him? You defeated him, didn't you?"
"No," Dumbledore said quietly. "Quirrell was defeated by Harry Potter. Both he and your main body fell to Harry's hand. And your main body barely escaped with its existence."
Dumbledore's voice dropped lower. The weight of Quirrell's death still lingered on his conscience.
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(End of Chapter 231)
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