"Harry Potter- Ravenclaw"Chapter 31: Shifting Letters—Tom and Voldemort
Staring at the Pensieve resting on the desk, Wyzett had already guessed what was coming.
"Headmaster Dumbledore, do I have the honor... of being your confidant tonight?"
"Of course, Wyzett!"
Dumbledore drew his wand, touched the tip gently to his temple, and slowly pulled forth a shimmering strand of silver memory.
He dropped it into the swirling depths of the Pensieve.
"Let's begin."
Wyzett immediately thought of Rita Skeeter's latest report.
"The poisoning incident over Christmas break?"
"Precisely." Dumbledore nodded.
"Alright."
Wyzett leaned forward and plunged his face into the Pensieve.
...
A sensation like tumbling through empty space seized him, and then he found himself standing beside a hospital bed in the infirmary. On the bed was a hulking boy—so large, in fact, that "lying" seemed the wrong word. He looked more like he'd been wedged into the bed, legs bent awkwardly into an O-shape.
His mouth hung wide open, exposing troll-sized teeth. He seemed to be groaning, brow knotted tight in agony.
Wyzett recognized him at once.
"Marcus Flint!"
Marcus Flint, captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team and, like Wyzett, a Chaser. They'd clashed on the pitch last year, so the face was familiar.
Dumbledore, dressed in emerald-green robes, stood quietly at the foot of the bed, as if waiting for something.
The real Dumbledore appeared by Wyzett's side, whispering, "Here he comes."
A moment later, Snape swept in, black robes billowing, a steaming potion clutched in his hand.
He set the potion on the bedside table and flicked his wand at Marcus Flint.
With a series of "click-clack" noises, Flint's mouth opened even wider.
The potion rose from its bottle in a steaming arc, pouring itself into Flint's mouth.
The effect was immediate. The pain faded from Flint's face, though his skin remained ghostly pale.
Snape lowered his wand.
"This isn't a matter of antidotes versus poisons. You can see that for yourself."
Flint's jaws snapped shut, his oversized teeth nicking his lip and drawing a thin trickle of dark blood.
"Oh?" Snape arched an eyebrow, then strode to the far end of the infirmary, retrieving a bottle of Pepperup Potion from a cabinet.
He repeated the process: mouth open, potion poured in.
Most hospital potions were Snape's own brew, so the results were swift. Some color returned to Flint's cheeks.
But within minutes, the color drained away again, leaving him paler than parchment.
"A most unexpected discovery..." mused Dumbledore in his green robes. "Now it's clear—the greatest loss is to his life force."
"And it's a continuous drain," Snape added. "The pain and nightmares are the poison's doing. The coma is his body's own defense."
Listening to their exchange, Wyzett pieced it together.
"Soul, blood, body... Could there be a soul, drawing life force through blood?"
He recalled what Salazar Slytherin had told him in the mirror world—blood magic, the interplay between body and soul, the way one could regenerate the other.
The soul, in command, could sap the body through the blood. Pallor meant blood loss; blood loss meant life force slipping away.
Normally, a Pepperup Potion would do the trick. If it didn't, a blood-replenishing draught might help. If the potion worked as it should, the color in Flint's face would last much longer.
But not this time. The potion worked—yet its effect faded too quickly.
The only explanation:
A soul not belonging to Marcus Flint was feasting on his life force.
"You've begun studying blood magic already?" The real Dumbledore looked genuinely surprised.
"I remember there's precious little about blood magic in the library—and what there is, is dangerous."
Wyzett didn't deny it. He nodded, matter-of-fact.
"I learned a bit about it elsewhere."
"Guardian indeed..." Dumbledore sighed softly. "Let's continue this conversation outside."
...
Back in the headmaster's office, Wyzett returned to his earlier question.
"Headmaster, it was Lockhart, wasn't it?"
"Today's Daily Prophet says Lockhart brewed an antidote and cured the students."
"But now it's clear—he simply stopped draining their life force. He may have even given some back, which is why they woke up."
"Your deduction is sound." Dumbledore nodded. "But I believe Lockhart is only an accomplice. This whole affair reminds me of the Voldemort of old..."
"The Voldemort of old?" Wyzett echoed, tasting the words. "You mean... there's a second Voldemort soul?"
"Exactly. Magic is nothing if not unpredictable..." Dumbledore smiled faintly. "Have I ever told you what Voldemort's real name was? His true name?"
"I don't think so..." Wyzett thought for a moment, then shook his head.
"Then let's remedy that."
Dumbledore raised his wand, tracing golden letters in the air.
I AM LORD VOLDEMORT
With a gentle flick, he rearranged the letters.
TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE
"This..." Wyzett stared at Dumbledore, a strange sense of déjà vu washing over him.
Now he understood why Dumbledore and Snape had looked so odd when they'd explored the Chamber of Secrets together.
"Yes, it's rather marvelous, isn't it?" Dumbledore fished a sherbet lemon from his pocket. "But we trust you. It's just an interesting little trick, nothing more."
As Wyzett accepted the sweet, Dumbledore smiled in satisfaction and continued,
"Let me tell you about Tom Riddle, as he was back then..."
"He was purpose-driven—always eager to learn what the professors liked, always building relationships, using every advantage he had..."
As Dumbledore spoke, Wyzett's expression grew increasingly complicated.
When he'd used Dobby's memories, he'd felt only a fleeting sense of absurdity—how could he possibly be like Voldemort?
But hearing Dumbledore recount those old days, he suddenly understood why Lucius Malfoy would mistake him for Voldemort, all because of a diary...
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