"Pfft, !"
Dumbledore actually laughed out loud.
He couldn't help it. The first exchange between the two Toms , one scrawled in ink, the other seated across his desk , was so brief yet so explosive that it shattered all expectations.
He'd known handing the diary to this Tom Riddle was the right decision. If it had been him trying to start the conversation, he'd probably still be waiting for a response , maybe just a scathing "hmph" from Voldemort, if that.
But Tom had a special gift: he could get under anyone's skin, even his own darker self.
"Don't be so crude, my friend," Tom wrote with a smirk. "We're both Tom Riddle, aren't we? Heirs of Slytherin. Tell me , was foul language part of that noble heritage?"
The reply scratched itself angrily across the page:
[For filth like you, there are no words vile enough to match your treachery.]
Tom tilted his head. "Treachery? What have I done now?"
[You handed me over to Dumbledore! You betrayed Slytherin's legacy! I thought you were like me , born with power, ambition, and the will to rule. But instead, you became Dumbledore's pet dog!]
The ink bled into the paper, letters jagged, seething with rage.
Tom could feel it , the humiliation behind every word. It wasn't just anger. It was wounded pride.
The diary's soul fragment , Voldemort himself , could endure the pain Tom had inflicted on him before. He could tolerate the mockery, the isolation, even the feeling of being toyed with. But what he could not bear was being handed over like some trinket to Dumbledore, stripped of value and discarded.
They were both Toms , both Slytherins , and to Voldemort, that made the betrayal personal.
The fact that Tom Riddle had seen through him, beaten him, and then turned him in to Dumbledore… was the ultimate insult.
Humiliation burned hotter than any curse.
Tom lifted his head toward Dumbledore. "Professor," he said flatly, "he's swearing at me."
Dumbledore coughed lightly, covering his mouth to hide a smile. "It seems the two of you have some… unresolved tension. I assure you, my dear boy, I'm just an ordinary teacher trying to help his students."
"Then why," Tom drawled, "does it feel like I'm the one doing your job?"
The old man's eyes twinkled. "Mr. Riddle, I've never measured you by the standards of an ordinary student."
Tom's smile thinned. "So I'm the school's pet workhorse, then?"
"You may… phrase it however you like," Dumbledore said diplomatically, gesturing with one hand. "Go ahead. Pretend I'm not here."
"Can I teach him a lesson?" Tom asked, already raising a finger.
"By all means."
And that was the moment Dumbledore began to question everything.
Because Tom didn't just talk , he acted.
He pointed at the diary, whispered something sharp and deadly, and a surge of crimson energy burst from his fingertip, arcing across the air like lightning.
"Crucio."
The office erupted with sound.
The diary screamed. Not through words , through vibrations, a soundless shriek that tore through the air. It quivered violently, shaking the desk, the ink bubbling as though boiling in agony.
It looked like nothing more than an object , a book , but Dumbledore knew the truth. Its heart was a fragment of soul. And the Unforgivable Curses, especially the Cruciatus Curse, struck directly at the soul.
Even a fragment could feel pain.
All around the room, the portraits of former Headmasters froze, eyes wide.
A second-year student.
Casting an Unforgivable Curse.
Without a wand.
In front of the Headmaster.
Unbelievable didn't even begin to cover it.
Meanwhile , in the Gryffindor common room , chaos erupted.
Harry Potter, in the middle of plotting another prank on Malfoy with Ron, suddenly let out a horrified scream. His hands clutched his head, his eyes wide, his face pale as chalk.
Then, without warning, he collapsed, writhing violently on the carpet.
"Harry!" Ron shouted, frozen in panic.
Within seconds, half the common room had gathered.
"What happened to him?!" a sixth-year demanded.
"I, I don't know!" Ron stammered. "He was fine one second and then, and then, he just, "
"Don't just stand there! Get him to the Hospital Wing!"
It was Percy who took charge, his prefect badge gleaming as he barked orders. The students cleared a path as Fred and George carefully lifted Harry, whose body still twitched uncontrollably, and rushed him toward Madam Pomfrey.
Back in the Headmaster's office, Tom finally lowered his hand.
The diary lay motionless on the desk, smoldering faintly, its cover warped with heat.
Calmly, Tom picked up a quill, smoothed out the wrinkled parchment, and wrote:
"Well, Little Voldy, what do you think of my new spell? Quite the experience, isn't it?"
The reply came slowly, the handwriting weak and shaky.
[Dumbledore , you saw that, didn't you? He used an Unforgivable Curse , right in front of you!]
Tom snorted. "You're mistaken, my dear Voldy. If I used the Cruciatus Curse on another wizard, then yes , that would be illegal. But you?" He tapped the diary with a smirk. "You're just… a notebook. And what's wrong with a student testing his spells on school supplies?"
Dumbledore blinked. Then, against his better judgment, he nodded slightly. "Technically… he has a point."
No, he doesn't have a point! his conscience screamed. He's torturing a soul in front of you!
The portraits were aghast.
Inside the diary, Voldemort's rage exploded.
[Dumbledore! This is outrageous! You never treated me this way when I was at Hogwarts! You watched me like a criminal , and yet you let him get away with everything!]
Dumbledore sighed, picking up his own quill and , to Tom's horror , writing back.
[In fairness, I never truly targeted you, Tom. I was simply… cautious. Your behavior in the orphanage made it difficult to trust you.]
[Lies! Every time you looked at me, I could see it , suspicion, doubt, disdain! You never believed in me!]
Dumbledore paused, then wrote quietly:
[And history, I think, proved my instincts correct. If anything, I underestimated you.]
Tom couldn't resist jumping in again.
"You misunderstand me, Little Voldy. I only gave Dumbledore your diary because you were useless to me. That's not betrayal , that's efficiency. You should reflect on why you failed to stay relevant."
[YOU, !]
"Oh, and don't flatter yourself," Tom continued cheerfully. "Dumbledore hasn't exactly pampered me either. Last summer, I fought your little remnant, saved the school, and what did he do? Tried to give the credit to Harry Potter , you know, the boy who killed you."
"Mr. Riddle," Dumbledore interrupted gently, looking slightly embarrassed. "That wasn't suppression. You agreed, remember? I offered you the Philosopher's Stone and an introduction to Nicolas Flamel in exchange. And later, you won the House Cup."
Tom raised an eyebrow, smirking. "Oh, right. So I risk my life, save the castle, and my prize is an old man and a rock."
The portraits were trembling with laughter.
The diary, however, trembled for a very different reason.
Inside it, the echo of Voldemort's soul screamed in wordless fury.
And Dumbledore , watching the calm boy seated across from him , couldn't decide which version of Tom Riddle was more terrifying.
The one inside the diary?
Or the one smiling before him?