"Sacrifice?" Hearing that word, Malfoy visibly startled, his pupils dilating with alarm.
Sacrifice was not a pleasant term—it conjured images of blood rituals and inhumane slaughter performed on stone altars in forgotten places.
"You only need to sacrifice the diary to me," Dudley clarified, recognising the fear flickering across Malfoy's pale features.
"Al... all right," Malfoy agreed quickly, relief flooding his voice.
As long as he was not sacrificing himself, he would comply with anything.
Dudley then transmitted the sacrifice ritual to Malfoy's mind, every gesture and word modelled after the process Mr Fool used in the Tarot Club meetings. The method was precise, requiring specific hand movements and carefully pronounced phrases in ancient languages.
Malfoy concentrated intensely, committing each step to memory with the focus of someone whose life might depend on perfect execution.
Afterward, Dudley once again manifested a paper angel to cleanse the creeping corruption from Malfoy's body. Golden light washed over the boy, burning away the tendrils of dark power that had been slowly draining his vitality. Only then did Dudley sever the prayer connection.
"Tom Riddle—I should have heard that name somewhere," Dudley muttered to himself as his consciousness returned fully to his physical body in Hagrid's hut.
Though he was not entirely certain what secrets lay within that diary, the fact that Malfoy had been corrupted by dark forces twice despite divine protection demonstrated the diary contained dangerously powerful dark magic.
After returning to full awareness, Dudley fed Fang some scraps and left Hagrid's empty dwelling. Rather than returning to Herbology class, he wandered directly toward the castle, turning Tom Riddle's name over in his mind like a puzzle piece that almost fit but not quite.
An hour of aimless wandering later, Dudley found himself standing in the Trophy Room. His gaze swept methodically across the gleaming displays until it locked onto a particular medal gathering dust in the corner.
"Tom Riddle!" Dudley breathed with satisfaction. "So here you are."
The brass plaque beneath the medal read clearly: "Tom Marvolo Riddle – Special Services to the School Award."
The date engraved below placed the award exactly fifty years ago—perfectly coinciding with when Hagrid had been expelled from Hogwarts.
"That means this Tom Riddle is very likely the person who framed Hagrid back then," Dudley reasoned aloud, his voice echoing faintly in the empty trophy room.
"This Tom was either genuinely foolish and truly mistook the giant spider Hagrid raised for the monster in the Chamber," Dudley continued analysing, "or he was devastatingly clever, using the classic misdirection of having the thief cry 'stop thief' to divert everyone's attention to Hagrid while he himself was the one who opened the Chamber."
The more Dudley considered it, the more the second option seemed probable. Someone who earned a Special Services award would hardly be foolish.
Having confirmed Tom Riddle's identity and historical connection to the Chamber, Dudley stopped obsessing over speculation. He would wait for Malfoy to complete the sacrifice ritual and deliver the diary. Only then could he conduct proper research—there was no sense in premature theorising.
Two days passed uneventfully.
Then Borgin sent word through their established communication method that all the giant spider corpses had been successfully sold. The proceeds were excellent—nearly five thousand Galleons in total, an absolute fortune by any standard.
They agreed to meet that evening at the Shrieking Shack, where Borgin would deliver the payment in full.
Originally, Borgin had suggested opening an account at Gringotts, depositing the coins there securely, and simply giving Dudley the vault key for convenient access. However, Dudley firmly rejected this practical approach.
This money was not his alone—he needed to share it properly with Harry, Ron, and Hermione, who had all faced death fighting those giant spiders in the Forbidden Forest.
Giving them a small brass key felt inadequate and impersonal. But placing several thousand golden Galleons directly before them? That would create an entirely different impression.
It was like Muggle currency—when money existed merely as numbers on a bank statement, it felt abstract and distant. But stack several million in physical cash on a table where someone could see it, touch it, and smell the metallic tang of it, and the psychological impact was profoundly different.
At nine that evening, Dudley entered the Shrieking Shack directly through the tunnel beneath the Whomping Willow. For someone who possessed the imprisonment ability, the violent tree guarding the secret passage entrance posed no difficulty whatsoever—a whispered word in Hermes froze it mid-swing every time.
"Mr Justiciar, I am delighted to see you again," Borgin greeted him with a smile that showed too many teeth, rubbing his hands together with barely concealed eagerness.
"Have all the giant spiders been sold? Or did you keep some for personal inventory?" Dudley asked directly.
"Basically all sold. I kept a few specimens for emergencies—you never know when a rare ingredient might be needed for a desperate customer willing to pay premium prices," Borgin admitted honestly, his business instincts showing through.
Dudley did not press for details. Some discretion benefited both parties.
"This is your money," Borgin announced with obvious pleasure, waving his right hand theatrically.
A mountain of golden Galleons materialised before Dudley, piled high enough to catch the dim light and reflect it back in dazzling cascades. The sheer volume of precious metal emitted an almost hypnotic golden gleam that filled the dusty room.
Dudley's breathing quickened involuntarily at the sight. Even having handled significant wealth before, seeing so many gold coins at once made his heart race, his eyes reflecting that gorgeous golden light.
This reaction might stem from having grown accustomed to poverty in that strange otherworld. Each advancement there had required enormous resources—rare materials, expensive Sealed Artifacts, bribes to the right people. Money flowed out as quickly as it arrived, leaving him perpetually calculating costs.
Moreover, except for Miss Justice in the Tarot Club, none of the other members were particularly wealthy. They all understood the constant struggle for resources.
"A total of four thousand nine hundred and eighty-six Galleons," Borgin announced proudly, as if personally responsible for the impressive sum.
Dudley's hand moved swiftly through the pile, counting out one hundred and eighty-six coins with practised efficiency and pushing them toward Borgin.
"This is your compensation," Dudley stated simply.
"No, no, no, Mr Justiciar, I have already earned my commission from the sales. This amount is entirely yours," Borgin protested, not reaching for the coins.
"This is additional compensation I am giving you. Just take it," Dudley said in a tone that allowed no argument, authority flowing naturally into his words.
"This... all right then," Borgin finally accepted the coins, unable to resist the weight of command in Dudley's voice.
When Dudley spoke with that particular inflection, the natural authority that emanated from his Sequence 6 Judge abilities made resistance extraordinarily difficult for ordinary people.
"Four thousand eight hundred coins remaining—that divides to exactly twelve hundred each. Perfect," Dudley calculated with satisfaction, storing all the gold in the Mirror of Erised's infinite storage space.
"If there is anything you need my help with, Mr Justiciar, feel free to come find me anytime. Borgin and Burkes is always open to you—day or night," Borgin said with an elaborate bow, his voice warm with sincerity.
He could tell Dudley's future stretched toward unlimited potential, and his background was probably far more extraordinary than a typical twelve-year-old student. Latching onto such a rising star's coattails early would prove invaluable.
His shop had remained the largest and most successful in Knockturn Alley precisely because he excelled at reading people, identifying future power before others recognised it.
That pale young man who had interviewed at his shop years ago—he had recognised that one's extraordinariness immediately. And later, that young man had indeed accomplished terrifying things, rising to dominate the entire wizarding world.
Borgin had managed to maintain his shop's operations even during that dark reign by carefully betting on multiple sides, offending no one who mattered.
"I will keep that in mind," Dudley replied with a knowing smile.
How could he not see through Borgin's calculations? However, this man's abilities and connections were genuinely formidable. There were many situations where Dudley could use someone with Borgin's particular skills, so mutual cooperation remained the wisest choice.
"Additionally, my true name is Caractacus Burke. Of course, you may continue calling me Borgin if you prefer," the shopkeeper said with sudden gravity, revealing his real identity as a gesture of trust and alliance.
"I will remember that," Dudley acknowledged, accepting Borgin's gesture of goodwill with appropriate seriousness.
"I will not disturb you further. Good night, Mr Justiciar." With those parting words, Borgin performed Apparition and vanished with a sharp crack of displaced air.
"He really is quite a formidable character," Dudley mused to the empty room. "His mother was the daughter of Headmaster Black, and he himself comes from the Burke family, one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight pure-blood lines."
Dudley had thoroughly investigated Borgin's background, understanding his complex family connections and the social capital those relationships provided. Knowledge was power, and knowing who you dealt with prevented unpleasant surprises.
After securing the Galleons safely away, Dudley entered the secret passage and began the long walk back to Hogwarts, his mind already turning to the mysterious diary and what dark secrets it might contain.