Hodge and the projection stood in the moonlit boathouse, their eyes fixed on the diary. It was small and thin, its black cover creased and worn, giving no hint from its appearance that it housed a fragment of Voldemort's soul.
Hodge took a step forward.
"Let me handle it," the projection said. "Don't forget about that ring." Hodge knew it was referring to Marvolo Gaunt's ring, set with a black gemstone—one that Voldemort hadn't realized was the Resurrection Stone, one of the Deathly Hallows. Beyond using the ring as a Horcrux to anchor a piece of his soul, Voldemort had also laced it with a terrible curse.
Though the risk was small, it wouldn't hurt to let the projection check the diary first.
But then, something strange happened. As the projection picked up the diary, its silvery, semi-corporeal form began to flicker, pulsing between light and shadow.
"What's happening?" Hodge asked, raising his wand.
"It's fine," the projection said, frowning. "It's speaking to me directly—maybe because I'm a blend of magic and thought. It's telling me—" Its words cut off abruptly as the flickering intensified. With a soft puff, the projection's form collapsed, dissolving into a cloud of silver mist. The diary fell to the floor. The small black book began to flip its pages rapidly, flip-flip-flip, and then, a blurry figure emerged—a boy whose face was just discernible.
"Hodge Blackthorn?" the young Voldemort asked softly.
Before Hodge could react, the figure opened his mouth and inhaled sharply, drawing the silver mist into himself. His form solidified slightly, becoming more substantial. Hodge stepped back, wand trained on the figure. Even he hadn't anticipated that his projection magic would be so completely countered by the Horcrux diary—something the diadem Horcrux had never shown any sign of.
"Tom Riddle," the young Voldemort said politely, introducing himself when Hodge didn't respond. "You're a Hogwarts student, aren't you? Though fifty years separate us, I suppose I'm technically your senior. I'm delighted to see the school has produced a genius like you. By the way, what was that magic just now? I've never heard of it."
"Something I figured out myself," Hodge replied, his composure returning. He realized the projection and the shadow of Voldemort before him were similar in nature—both were manifestations of thought and magic, though the Horcrux was far darker and more intricate. With this in mind, the diary absorbing his projection wasn't entirely surprising. Hodge knew his projection magic well enough to start forming a plan.
"It's a long story," he said. "How about I show you instead?"
The young Voldemort's eyes gleamed with excitement. He gave a slight bow, saying, "It would be my honor." But the next moment, his expression froze, tinged with wariness, as Hodge waved his wand and summoned something silvery and solid—an animal. A Thestral.
It was Hodge's Patronus.
The moment the silvery Thestral appeared, it seemed agitated. It flapped its massive, bat-like wings, its dragon-like head snorting specks of glittering light. Its hooves pawed restlessly at the air, as if ready to charge at Voldemort.
Hodge reached out and stroked its slender neck.
"My projection magic," he explained, "is derived from an ancient spell—the Patronus Charm. Unlike the Patronus Charm, which relies on your happiest memory, my magic isn't so extreme. It simply reflects the caster's current state of being, like a mirror. It has its flaws—as I just discovered one—but it can think, cast spells, and sometimes knows more than I do."
"Oh?" Riddle said, licking his lips. "Why's that?"
"Because there are spells I don't dare use," Hodge said. "Dark magic, lethal curses, poisons that cause permanent harm… even the Unforgivable Curses." He noticed Riddle's eyes narrow with suspicion. "Books say those spells corrupt you, make you extreme. It makes sense—you have to truly mean them to cast them. Once or twice might not matter, but over time, your mindset shifts. Adalbert Waffling once said that a person's character shapes their magic, and the reverse is true too."
"But my projection magic gets around that."
As Hodge spoke, he twirled his wand in a slow circle, his gaze turning cold, his tone hardening. "By manifesting a part of your thoughts and magic outside your body… those forbidden spells suddenly have a use. Honestly, I've realized a wizard's body has limits—it's fragile, easily corrupted. Look at what became of you in the future. But for research, for understanding the mechanics and principles of those spells, the impact is much smaller. And with projection magic, even the Unforgivable Curses—"
Behind him, a new projection appeared, radiating an eerie, detached coldness.
"You know who I am?" Riddle asked, his voice laced with uncertainty.
"Tom Marvolo Riddle," Hodge said. "Also known as Voldemort."
"Yes, I know."
"Was it Peter Pettigrew who gave me away?" Riddle snapped, his voice sharp. "Damn it, I knew he couldn't be trusted—utterly foolish. He kept pushing me to find my true self, but he never wanted to serve me. But you've seen it—I'm just a memory. Besides that filthy rat, who else could I rely on?"
Hodge watched as Riddle conjured a yew wand. Silently, he stepped back, his Thestral Patronus and the new projection moving to stand between them. The projection held a wand of its own, its tip glowing faintly.
Tom Riddle clapped slowly, his applause dry and mocking. "Impressive," he said. "You've already surpassed the me from back then. But when you realize how vast the world is, when you understand that I'm not just a memory but something more fundamental, something that represents the ultimate secret of magic…"
"You mean Horcruxes?" Hodge cut in.
Riddle froze, his face twisting into an ugly grimace before he forced a smile. "So you know about Horcruxes too. But I'd wager you've never made one yourself. It's not like those shallow theories in books. Creating a Horcrux requires tearing your soul apart—one mistake, and you're dead. But if you succeed, you escape death entirely. Think about it—how many great wizards have been limited by their frail bodies?"
"Immortality," Hodge sighed, his voice tinged with longing. "It's a shame, though. I've seen what became of your soul fragment in my first year. It was clinging to a pathetic, terrified wizard. I also know about Nicolas Flamel, who created the Philosopher's Stone, capable of producing the Elixir of Life. Your fragment tried to use it to survive. But the Stone's been destroyed. The papers said Flamel donated all his research to his school. What do you think—should I go to Beauxbatons after graduation to study it? Of course, I'd come back eventually. One of my goals is to become Minister for Magic."
Riddle stood frozen, his eyes locked on Hodge.
"The Philosopher's Stone? Minister for Magic?"
He burst into a shrill, piercing laugh, so intense it sent ripples across the cold, still water on the other side of the boathouse. He doubled over, clutching his stomach.
"I get it," he rasped, his voice eerily reminiscent of his future wraith-like self. "We're the same kind of person!"
"You're me! You're me!"
Hodge said nothing, watching Riddle's contorted face. Behind him, the projection raised its ghostly wand, its tip flaring with a brilliant green light.
"Avada Kedavra!"
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