Chapter 233 – Reasons
Love has great magical power—and Riddle knew it well. After all, the greatest threat in his eyes, Albus Dumbledore, had preached about it endlessly.
But to Riddle, this power was limited and passive.
It was the kind of power sheep used to defeat lions. And why should he, a lion, learn from sheep?
A lion who mimicked sheep would only blunt his claws and soon fall prey to jackals.
In Riddle's view, Dumbledore was that lion. Once a prodigy at Hogwarts, already the strongest wizard of his generation, yet hemmed in by the weak Ministry of Magic—his strength restrained by his principles.
If Horace Slughorn had taught Riddle the importance of building networks and spreading influence, then Dumbledore had become the perfect negative example of restraint.
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"Tom," Dumbledore said quietly, "you do know much about the downfall of Gormlaith Gaunt. But you do not know the real truth behind it."
"The chamber where that story reached its climax—the room where Isolt Sayre's twin daughters slept—was preserved exactly as it was. It became the place where both the British and American Ministries of Magic studied the true power of love."
"The twins, who should not have died, sacrificed themselves for their mother. It was that sacrifice which triggered the ancient magic of love. That was the real reason Gormlaith fell."
"After all, though the Pukwudgie William was powerful, he alone could not have slain Gormlaith."
Riddle frowned. "Then… the same is true for the fragment of my soul that occupied a body? The Ministry studied the site of my body's collapse—was that also because of Lily Potter's love?"
"No," Dumbledore said firmly. "The power of love you faced was far stronger than what Gormlaith encountered. Lily's sacrifice was not confined to a single room—it was engraved directly into her son, Harry. That was why you were defeated again this June."
"The power that dwells within Harry is a miracle beyond replication. He can wield it instinctively, turning love itself into his sword—not merely as a shield when struck."
Dumbledore's eyes softened, recalling. He thought of the red sparks of Harry's spell in the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, and the phoenix that had been born in the heart of the restricted chamber.
Riddle leaned forward, his interest sharpening. "This… is beyond the known boundaries of magic." He whispered Harry's name to himself, as though testing it.
"Very well. Where is my office? I want to prepare my lesson plan! I cannot wait to meet this miracle boy."
"You will find your office on the fourth floor, the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor's quarters," Dumbledore replied. He lifted his wand.
With a flick, a dusty wine bottle and two goblets appeared. The bottle tipped, filling each glass with honey-colored liquid, which then floated into their hands.
"Mrs. Rosmerta's finest oak-matured mead," Dumbledore said, raising his glass.
Riddle took his own and sipped. His frown smoothed at the rich taste. "Rosmerta? A name I've never heard of."
Then he smirked. "But I'm still only seventeen, Headmaster. Should I really be drinking?" His sarcasm did not stop him from taking several more mouthfuls, savoring the sensation of taste and the weight of a body again.
Dumbledore smiled faintly. "You were born on December 31st, Tom. By wizarding law, you are of age. Wizards come of age at seventeen—not eighteen as in the Muggle world."
Riddle pursed his lips, but drank again. The bottle floated back and poured him a refill.
"Mrs. Rosmerta is the landlady of the Three Broomsticks," Dumbledore added. "She only began working there in the 1970s—by then, you were long gone from Hogwarts, wandering abroad."
He set his glass down and grew serious.
"Now, to the point. There are three main reasons I asked you to become the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor."
Riddle's smirk faded. He leaned in, suddenly solemn. Around them, the portraits of former headmasters pricked up their ears.
"First—the curse on the Defense Against the Dark Arts position. It comes from the authority you seized in the Chamber of Secrets. It became bound to Hogwarts itself. Unless we abandoned the castle entirely, or renamed it, the curse would remain.
But," Dumbledore continued, "if the course is taught by you, the curse cannot act. The curse recognizes only you as its rightful professor."
"That is why poor Quirinus Quirrell, with you clinging to the back of his head, still suffered. The curse viewed him as a separate person—an unworthy professor—and punished him."
"Next year, however, when you become the official professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts, the curse will end."
Riddle raised a brow, sipping his mead again.
"Incredible," muttered Phineas Nigellus Black from his portrait, frowning. "So all of Slytherin's legacy, all of that power—used for something as petty as a curse?"
Riddle chuckled, shaking his head. "Principal Black, that authority only has meaning while I am bound to Hogwarts. Outside, it is worthless. Even here, it has limits—I could never curse another professor at random, not even Dumbledore. Only myself.
"And I cursed the Defense Against the Dark Arts position because Hogwarts denied me the job." His voice dripped with scorn.
He leaned back, swirling the golden mead. "But tell me, Dumbledore—just because of this, you want me to live independently? You truly are obsessed with morals. You will never use dark means to prolong your life.
"But I," Riddle's eyes gleamed coldly, "I am immortal."
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