As it turns out, even the most wicked Dark Lord still has the fear of God in him.
When Voldemort and Quirrell heard the name "Merlin," a visible flash of terror crossed both their faces.
But then they considered Tom's current age. Even though they couldn't see his face beneath the hood, they could clearly hear his voice.
That youthful, immature voice couldn't possibly belong to Merlin.
If Merlin were actually still alive today, he'd be halfway in the grave—or older. Regardless, he certainly wouldn't sound like a kid.
"Merlin?" Voldemort sneered, his confidence returning once he realized the identity was fake. "Even if Merlin himself were here today, I'd send him right back to the grave!"
Someone's feeling bold, Mr. Voldemort, Tom mused to himself.
If the real Merlin had shown up, Voldemort would already be on his knees begging for mercy. Did he seriously think Merlin was some chump anyone could push around? Voldemort's reputation was terrifying, sure, but if he actually went up against a wizard of Merlin's caliber... Merlin could just stand there and let Voldemort exhaust himself without breaking a sweat.
"Who exactly are you, boy? And why are you hiding behind a hood?"
Tom let out a dry chuckle. "Actually, I'm your daddy. Tell me, Voldemort, do you really think you're invincible? Honestly, I don't give a damn if you resurrect. Even if you get the Sorcerer's Stone, it won't save you."
Tom shrugged casually. "You've got the raw power of a Dark Lord, but you don't have the mental fortitude to back it up. Being paranoid about everyone just means you're terrified of everyone. A true Dark Lord shouldn't know the meaning of fear."
He flicked his wand, leveling it at the Dark Lord.
It seemed like Voldemort was actively trying to suppress his own rising panic. Professor Quirrell, at least, had gone completely pale, his lips trembling uncontrollably.
Tom sighed internally. He really didn't get why these two were so terrified of him. I mean, you guys are the ones who look like actual monsters here. What kind of normal person walks around with two faces on one head, especially when one of them doesn't even have a nose? They should apply to work in a haunted house. With mugs like that, they'd win Employee of the Year hands down.
"Enough of your insolence!" Voldemort raised his wand.
BOOM!
As their magic clashed, Tom didn't take a single step back, and Voldemort failed to gain the upper hand. To Voldemort, the boy in front of him felt like an unkillable cockroach.
Every time he struck, his magic fell just short. No matter how much power he poured into his spells, he was always just a hair away from breaking Tom. And that razor-thin margin was exactly why Tom's face remained entirely devoid of fear.
SCREECH!
Fawkes circled near the ceiling before diving straight down, talons extended toward Voldemort.
"A phoenix?" Voldemort's heart skipped a beat as a sudden realization about Tom's identity hit him.
"Rip him apart, Fawkes."
Voldemort hastily broke his cast and threw himself to the floor. Fawkes's razor-sharp talons skimmed right over his head, narrowly missing tearing his scalp open.
"How do you possess a phoenix?!"
In the wizarding world, a phoenix was an incredibly rare and miraculous magical beast. It was a status symbol. Only the most noble and immensely powerful wizards could ever keep one as a companion.
There was only one other possibility: the Dumbledore family.
The Dumbledores were known to have a deep connection with phoenixes. Hogwarts' own Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, kept one himself. Judging by the name the boy had just used to call it, this was undoubtedly Dumbledore's bird.
Which meant the boy's identity... Voldemort bit his lip, his mind racing.
Dumbledore's grandson? Or some other relative? Rumor had it Dumbledore did have family, though they hadn't been seen in ages.
"What is your relation to Dumbledore?"
"Why don't you guess?" Tom pulled back his oversized wizard's hood. Beneath the hood... was another hat.
It was large, wide-brimmed, and clearly not meant to be worn like a regular hat. The hat suddenly opened its eyes. Its brim shifted like a mouth, grumbling, "Well, well. This is a rare sight indeed. You've done excellently, young man. You even managed to save Harry. Now, I assume you know what to do next?"
The Sorting Hat muttered internally. This little Tom Riddle really is something else. What kind of first-year can pull this off?! Only him!
Now, all he had to do was grab Harry and run. The other professors were already on their way. As long as Tom got Harry to safety, tonight would be a total, unmitigated victory!
Tom gave a slight nod. "Of course I know, sir."
He took the Sorting Hat off his head and quickly pulled his hood back up, ensuring Voldemort never caught a glimpse of his actual face.
"Hey, what are you doing?"
"Just a little magic trick. Gentlemen, please don't panic. Stay calm..." Tom reached his hand deep inside the Sorting Hat.
"Hey kid, watch the waist! I'm ticklish!" The Sorting Hat burst into uncontrollable laughter. Despite the incredibly tense situation, it just couldn't handle being tickled.
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the great Master Merlin's magic show. Quick question, Mr. Voldemort: Do you know the difference between sorcery and sleight of hand?"
"I don't give a damn about the difference! Avada Kedavra!!!"
Voldemort roared the incantation. He was beyond furious. The Dark Lord felt completely and utterly humiliated. This brat... from the very moment he showed up, he had been treating this like a joke! He wasn't even taking Voldemort seriously as an opponent.
Damn you! I'll make you pay with your life! Lecturing me on how to be a Dark Lord?! Am I Voldemort, or are you?! I don't need you to teach me anything!
The next second, he saw Tom pull something out of the hat. A glint of cold steel flashed, and his Killing Curse was cleaved straight down the middle by a gleaming blade.
Tom tossed the Sorting Hat aside. In his hands, he now held a medieval broadsword.
"Ta-da! The hero of Gryffindor makes a grand entrance. Tell me, Voldemort, have you ever seen this sword before?"
"What is that?" Voldemort stared in disbelief.
A sword? A simple sword just shattered his Killing Curse? And it looked entirely effortless, almost as if his deadly magic was terrified of the blade. What the hell was that thing?
"The Sword of Gryffindor. Ever heard of it?" Tom patted the flat of the blade. "Forged by Merlin himself back in the day. A genuine divine artifact. Oh, by the way, this sword can destroy Horcruxes. Which means, as long as I have this baby, your little soul-jars are as good as dead. We don't even need Harry to be the savior. Anyone can be the savior with this.
But, of course, not just anyone can pull it out. Have you ever heard of the Sword in the Stone, Voldemort?"
The Sorting Hat physically couldn't listen to this anymore. It wriggled along the floor, trying its hardest to hide behind Tom's legs.
How does this kid... how does he come up with so much BS?! The Sword of Gryffindor wasn't forged by Merlin! It was purchased from goblins by Godric Gryffindor himself while he was still alive, and eventually stored inside the Hat. That Sword in the Stone garbage was purely made up!
But wait... why was Tom able to pull the Sword of Gryffindor out of me? The Sorting Hat paused, genuinely confused. The Sword of Gryffindor could only be drawn by a true Gryffindor. And that didn't just mean someone sorted into the House. It meant someone who truly embodied the core virtues of Gryffindor.
Did I make a mistake sorting him? Maybe he shouldn't have been in Ravenclaw. Maybe he actually belonged in Gryffindor.
While the Sorting Hat was busy having an existential crisis, Tom had already raised the sword high and launched himself into the air.
"Open sesame, Mr. Voldemort!"
The cold steel slashed down toward Voldemort, a wildly uninhibited grin plastered across Tom's face.
Slash!
The blade tore through Voldemort's robes. The tough magical fabric split wide open instantly, and Professor Quirrell frantically commanded his body to scramble backward.
"Do not retreat!"
"Master, if... if we actually get hit by that sword, we will die! He... he might actually be Merlin! That's the Sword in the Stone!"
Voldemort sneered. "Merlin? Merlin has been dead for centuries! Why the hell would Merlin show up in a place like this, pretending to be a brat?! He's a fraud! The mythical Sword in the Stone can cleave mountains and sever rivers! Whatever he's holding is definitely not the Sword in the Stone. It's just an ordinary blade with a few magical enchantments attached. Probably some junk cobbled together by bored elves."
Those idiotic elves, making garbage like this. Voldemort ground his teeth. He swore to himself that once he fully resurrected, he was going to wipe out the entire elf race. Not a single one would survive!
"Whether it's real or fake, why don't you test it with your own body?" Tom beckoned with a finger, resting the Sword of Gryffindor casually against his shoulder. "Come at me!"
"Avada Kedavra!"
Tom gripped the sword with both hands, slicing cleanly through the incoming curse. Without breaking stride, he lunged, thrusting the blade directly toward Voldemort.
The sword pierced flesh. Quirrell felt an icy chill erupt in his chest as rampant magical energy surged through his body.
"No, no, NO!!!" He scrambled backward in a sheer panic.
But Tom wasn't about to give them a chance to escape. He relentlessly swung the sword, hacking into Quirrell over and over again.
Until the rest of the professors finally arrived.
By the time they showed up, Tom was covered in gore. His pitch-black wizarding robes were now thoroughly stained red.
A horrific shriek echoed through the chamber as Voldemort's spirit tore itself loose, shooting up toward the ceiling. It phased effortlessly through the thick stone walls and vanished from sight.
"What... what on earth happened here?" Professor McGonagall couldn't believe her eyes. She covered her mouth, hurrying over to Tom's side. "Quickly, tell us exactly what transpired."
But before Tom could even open his mouth, Professor Sprout practically tackled him into a massive hug.
"Oh heavens! Child, are you hurt?!" She frantically checked him all over for injuries.
Nothing. Not a single scratch. Thank Merlin.
"Thank goodness you're safe, my sweet boy," Professor Sprout said, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "Minerva, we need to let him rest. He's completely exhausted. The interrogation can wait until tomorrow. We don't need answers this very second! Besides, Harry is still conscious. You can take Harry out and question him. Right now, I need to thoroughly examine this brave little boy to make sure that vile Voldemort didn't hit him with any lingering curses."
Professor McGonagall seemed to realize she had been a bit too pushy. Acknowledging her haste, she nodded and escorted Harry out of the chamber.
BANG!
Professor Snape violently shoved the door open, completely ignoring McGonagall and Harry as they passed him, and marched straight toward Tom.
Only after seeing that Tom was unharmed did Snape finally let out a long, heavy exhale.
"You took a massive risk," Snape said. For the first time ever, his voice lacked its usual venom, replaced entirely by a profound sense of relief.
But Professor Sprout absolutely wasn't having it. She glared at Snape, grinding her teeth. "Severus Snape, if you have nothing nice to say, then keep your mouth shut! Tom just single-handedly saved Hogwarts! If you had to face Voldemort alone, do you honestly think you'd be half as brave?!"
"Was I wrong to say he took a risk?"
"Yes! You should be encouraging him! Supporting him! Not constantly complaining and blaming the poor boy! Snape, you are a truly atrocious godfather!"
Snape: "..."
Tom coughed weakly. "Professors, really, I'm fine..."
"Oh goodness! Tom, why are you coughing?! I'm taking you straight to the hospital wing. You need a full-body scan!"
"No, I just wanted to break the tension..."
"Nonsense! You're going to the hospital wing regardless. Mr. Hagrid, if you please. Carry Tom for us."
Hagrid easily scooped Tom up into his massive arms. For someone of Hagrid's size, carrying Tom bridal-style required absolutely zero effort.
"Thank you, little Tom," Hagrid sniffled, thick tears welling in the corners of his eyes.
---
Meanwhile, at the Weasley household.
Disobedient children always had too much on their minds. It was late, but they were still wide awake. The young Gryffindor witch—Hermione Granger—was one of them.
She was still awake. Or rather, she simply couldn't fall asleep. For the last hour, she'd been plagued by a terrible premonition. Hermione stood by the window, staring out into the dark. The night felt deeply unsettling.
Suddenly, a fiery red bird flapped its wings, gliding lazily toward her window. Tied to the phoenix's talons was a letter.
A phoenix? Using a phoenix to deliver mail?
Hermione instantly guessed the sender's identity. While Dumbledore did own a phoenix, he would never use something so incredibly flashy just to deliver a letter. There was only one person arrogant enough to do something like that.
Sure enough, she tore open the envelope and skipped straight to the signature at the bottom.
Tom Riddle.
Before Hermione could even finish reading, Molly Weasley was downstairs literally jumping for joy. She threw her arms around her husband, planting several excited kisses on his cheek.
Hermione tucked the letter away and hurried downstairs.
"Mrs. Weasley, did something happen? You both look so happy."
"You-Know-Who has been defeated, my dear!" Molly practically vibrated with excitement as she shared the news. "After all these years, someone finally defeated him in a head-on duel! The future of our wizarding world is going to be so much brighter now. Oh, we must prepare an absolute feast tomorrow to celebrate!"
Voldemort had been defeated?
Hermione's hand drifted to the envelope in her pocket.
It couldn't be... him, right?
---