"Decline! Decline it!"
The moment Tom heard the system's notification, he jolted upright and barked the command.
What kind of reward was that supposed to be? This was no prize—this was an assassination attempt!
An Obscurus wasn't some gift; it was a curse. Born of children who repressed or resisted their magic, twisted when their magic turned inward, warping into a parasitic dark force. The hosts of such things were called Obscurials.
Back in Andros's age, when witches and Muggles still coexisted, Obscurials had almost never appeared. But by the Middle Ages, when witches were hunted by the Church and persecuted by Muggles, conditions became the perfect breeding ground.
Every Obscurial was short-lived. The Obscurus fed on its host's negative emotions and magical core, growing stronger as it devoured, until it consumed the host's very life.
Most never lived past ten. Those with stronger innate magic could last a little longer. Ariana, for instance—she survived until fourteen, and if not for that tragic stray spell, she might have lived decades more.
And then there was her nephew—Aurelius Dumbledore—who clung to life into his twenties before being hollowed out.
Tom believed his constitution was sturdier than Ariana's or Aurelius's, but even so, the last thing he wanted was some parasite gnawing away at him from the inside.
As if sensing his unease, the system flashed another line across his vision:
[Rest assured. This reward has been optimized. It will not harm the host.]
"…Bloody hell, could you not have said that first?" Tom grumbled.
The system, mechanical and stiff as always, silently logged the complaint as an adjustment for future protocols.
Only then did Tom open the reward's description:
[Obscurus (Purified): Consciousness removed. Now a reservoir of raw dark magic, fully under the host's control. Current state: embryonic. Requires magical nourishment to grow.]
[Note: Host possesses the Heart of Dark Magic. Channeling the Obscurus through this trait amplifies its effects.]
Tom considered this carefully. Then he Apparated to the mountains behind the village. Once he confirmed no one was nearby, he finally accepted the reward.
At once, he felt it—a ripple through his magic, a small, hungry presence nestled inside, pulsing with wordless desire.
"You want it? Fine. Gorge yourself."
He extended his palm. A small, wispy black mass, no larger than a glass bead, floated above his hand. As he poured magic into it, the Obscurus swelled rapidly.
The drain on his reserves was about the same as casting spells nonstop.
Even so, the growth was slow. After consuming nearly a third of his magic, it had only grown to the size of a basketball.
Tom stopped feeding it. He still felt its hunger clawing at him, but it didn't seize his magic by force. That alone reassured him.
So the system really had made it safe—instinctive hunger intact, but bound by control. No risk of rampaging, no sudden collapse.
Not a parasite. A weapon.
Now Tom was willing to admit—this reward wasn't half bad.
After all, Aurelius had once leveled half of Manhattan. Given time, he could have reduced all of New York to rubble.
And the best part? The Obscurus didn't need a wand or incantation. It obeyed thought alone.
"Go."
Tom flung it toward a nearby tree. With a crack, the trunk split clean in two before the entire tree exploded into splinters, shredded by raw black fury.
And this was only the beginning—barely nurtured, yet already so devastating. Small wonder Grindelwald had coveted such power.
Given time, when it could engulf his whole body, he too would become living darkness—a storm of shadow, half-seen, half-felt, impossible to grasp.
Tom clenched his fist, and the Obscurus dissolved back into his magical core.
"Yes… I'll need to consult Grindelwald," he mused.
The instant he decided to integrate the Obscurus, he had shut off the study space. Ariana must never glimpse this. Her own history with the Obscurus was too raw, too painful.
But Grindelwald? Though not an Obscurial himself, he had schemed to weaponize them, even planning to unleash one against Dumbledore. If anyone had studied their secrets, it was him.
As for Ariana…
Tom frowned as he walked back toward Hogwarts. Her issue was thornier.
Winning Ariana's full trust—raising her approval to one hundred percent—hinged on untangling her deepest knot: accepting both her own strength and her Obscurus.
She might seem gentle now, but when it flared, her emotions swung to dangerous extremes.
And he wasn't ready yet. He needed her approval to climb higher first, step by step, before he could risk that confrontation.
Power reveals the horse; hardship reveals the heart. And any Riddle worth the name knew how to play the long game.
By the time Tom reached Hogwarts, it was already afternoon. Asking around, he learned that Daphne was in the courtyard garden.
Sure enough, he found her there with Astoria. Around them clustered a small circle of girls, Lavender, Susan, Hannah, Padma. Every House was represented save Gryffindor.
As he drew closer, Tom's expression twisted into something between amusement and disbelief.
So that's what Daphne was doing—captivating them all with his "revised" version of Journey to the West.
"Tom, you're back!"
Astoria spotted him first, leaping up with delight. Daphne broke off mid-story, smiling as she and her sister shuffled aside to make space for him.
Tom dropped into the circle, eyeing the spread of delicate pastries on the table. He waved a hand. "Don't stop on my account. Keep going. I've not had lunch, so I'll just help myself."
"What? You didn't go to the Three Broomsticks?"
"No. I dropped by the Hog's Head. But the barman only opens in the afternoon—I didn't even manage a drink."
He popped a macaron into his mouth mid-sentence, not caring in the slightest that he usually hated them.