Lights-out hit the castle. Torches along the corridors snuffed themselves one by one. Portraits yawned and shuffled off to bed. Outside, clouds drifted lazily across a dim moon, and Hogwarts settled into that deep, velvet quiet only old stone can hold.
Behind his desk, Melvin listened to the answer and let a thoughtful look settle in his eyes. In the glass dish, the black onyx ring (rough, ancient) drank the last drops of silvery potion, glowing faintly.
"Splitting the soul boosts your magic," he said, curious. "Any other side effects? I mean, the soul's still uncharted territory, the final frontier of magic. Rip it apart over and over… does it feel wrong?"
"I'd pay any price," Riddle snapped, smirking at the implication. "You knew me, Melvin. We were close once. Muggle orphanage, half-blood, no family name, no connections. Without Horcruxes, Tom Riddle is just another nobody. Graduate, waste my life in some Ministry cubicle, claw my way to department head after fifty years of kissing arse. No thanks."
"Even without Horcruxes, your talent would've made you famous," Melvin said. It wasn't flattery; Riddle was that good.
"But I wanted an army," Riddle hissed, face twisting like he was tasting an old memory. "Death Eaters. A name that makes people flinch. Immortality. Power that never fades. A few 'minor' costs? Any smart wizard would take that deal."
"Smart," Melvin echoed.
"The real Dark Lord will return," Riddle whispered, voice silky. "I'll have a body again, stronger, unstoppable. Even Dumbledore will fear the name. And it's because of you, my friend Melvin Levent. I'll share the secret of eternity and limitless power."
Melvin didn't take the bait. "I know the Dark Lord's coming back. Just… needs a little more time. Be patient."
The revealing solution in the dish ran dry. Riddle's ghostly form winked out. The office suddenly felt bigger.
"Rip the soul for immortality and power," Melvin murmured, shaking the ring. "Looking back… that price wasn't exactly pocket change."
From everything Voldemort became, the cost was brutal: mind swallowed by darkness, rage, cruelty, even sanity slipping away.
Splitting the soul boosted magic; maybe even sly old Herpo the Foul never noticed that perk.
In just over a decade, Riddle made five Horcruxes. Voldemort's power skyrocketed; he could stand toe-to-toe with a century-old legend like Dumbledore. Greatest dark wizard in history, hands down.
Melvin had his own way to grow power, slow, steady, clean. Naturally he compared.
Tearing the soul is like wringing your own magical core dry: fast, explosive gains, but the soul isn't infinite. Even Voldemort hit a hard limit at seven pieces.
Absorbing stray emotions from the world? Slower, but endless. No risk of going mad.
Though… Voldemort might've hedged his bets. During his reign of terror, he plastered his name everywhere, even cursed it so saying it summoned him. Melvin suspected the guy had at least tried to siphon fear into raw power.
Right now, somewhere in the Albanian forest, was a snake-possessed Voldemort hunting rodents and dreading winter? The butterfly Melvin flapped its wings had already torn through the wizarding world. Would the loyal little Death Eater still show up on schedule next year to rig the Triwizard Tournament?
Melvin kinda wanted a face-to-face chat.
---
Monday morning, staff table in the Great Hall.
Melvin cracked open a fresh jar of raspberry jam, claimed every breakfast item in reach, and started building the ultimate sandwich: thick bread, jam, bacon, fried egg. Slow, deliberate, like he had all the time in the world.
Everyone else looked like death warmed over.
Dumbledore was AWOL again. McGonagall ate in silence, full teaching load plus Halloween prep. Lupin shoveled food with the enthusiasm of a ghost, still wrecked from the full moon and Wolfsbane aftertaste. Pomfrey, Sprout, and Snape (the potion dream team) all looked like they'd been up all night brewing Pepperup for half the school's sniffles.
"Hey! Some of us have actual mornings!" Flitwick squeaked from Melvin's elbow. "No classes, no duties; come help Hagrid and me with Halloween decorations if you're bored."
"I have duties," Melvin said, totally unbothered. "Elective professor is still a professor. And Muggle Studies is basically required these days. Plus I'm on procurement for the Halloween feast; Hogsmeade vendors insist on dealing with me. I just have fewer Monday periods. Still busy."
The core-subject professors looked ready to hex him. Flitwick's mustache bristled. "Procurement isn't solo, Minerva already scheduled it! End-of-month weekend trip to Hogsmeade, we'll all go!"
"Should be quick," Melvin said smoothly. "Plenty of time for a round at the Three Broomsticks after."
"You're buying!"
"Happy to pay."
Free drinks? The staff table instantly lit up. Juice and milk clinked like champagne. Jam got passed, bread torn, everyone suddenly best friends.
"Silvanus says he's joining too," Sprout added, slicing a roasted tomato. "Ever since Neville's parents woke up, the Aurors are grateful. They patrol Hogsmeade and always stop by his street to say hi."
"It's been three, four months since that breakout," Vector (Arithmancy) said, glancing at Lupin. Everyone knew he and Black went way back. "Aurors still doing regular sweeps?"
"Not just Aurors, not just Hogsmeade," Flitwick grumbled. "You seen the Dementors still circling the gates? Honeydukes' delivery owls can't even find the castle anymore."
The table went quiet except for clinking cutlery.
Lupin set his fork down, wiped his mouth. "I'll… skip the pub this time. I—"
"Word is the patrol Aurors sometimes grab a butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks," Melvin cut in. "We can ask when this lockdown ends. I know a few; Tonks, Kingsley, you met them at the gala, Remus."
Lupin opened his mouth, closed it, and couldn't find an excuse.
---
House tables.
Under the enchanted ceiling, owls swooped through open skylights, dropping letters and parcels. Breakfast was winding down; some kids frantically copied homework, others checked schedules.
Gryffindor third-years clustered mid-table. Most heads were down, scribbling. Neville sat straight, grinning like an idiot at a thick letter and a signed permission slip.
"Isn't that the Hogsmeade form from summer?" Ron asked, peering over. "Did you forget it at home again?"
"Gran didn't trust me not to lose it," Neville said, beaming at the two signatures: Frank Longbottom and Alice Longbottom. "She mailed it. Used to be her name, now it's Mum and Dad."
Harry poked at his chickpeas, mood dark.
Seamus, oblivious, leaned in. "Harry, your aunt and uncle sign yours?"
"Yeah," Harry muttered. "Before term started, Professor Levent suggested I owl them from the Leaky Cauldron. No reply, but the form came back signed…"
Ron slung an arm around him. "Brilliant! Honeydukes, Zonko's, maybe sneak into the Shrieking Shack—"
"Quidditch supplies," Neville added.
"Butterbeer," Dean sighed.
Harry's gloom cracked. He glanced at the staff table. Professor Levent had this weird take: didn't push Harry to "fix" things with the Dursleys. Just said both sides had their reasons, and as long as nobody was making life hell, a little distance was fine.
---
Mid-October, Hogsmeade weekend looming.
The weather, feeling the excitement, actually cooperated. Sunshine, crisp air, perfect for sneaking outside between classes.
Quidditch pitch: Madam Hooch's whistle shrilled as first-years wobbled ten feet off the ground. Forbidden Forest fence: Hagrid let students pet Kneazles while girls squealed. Greenhouse Three: third-years emerged stinking of dirt and bubblepods, purple goo on their sleeves.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione wrestled a particularly fat pod. Pop. Juice everywhere.
"Ugh," Ron sniffed, face scrunched. "Should've stayed farther from Lavender."
Lavender had been off all class, setting off pods left and right. She was crying again now, Parvati's arm around her.
Harry and Hermione exchanged a look and drifted closer.
"What happened?" Hermione whispered.
"Urgent owl this morning," Parvati said. "Her rabbit, Binky; got eaten by a fox."
Gasps and sympathy from the group.
Lavender wailed louder. "I knew it! Professor Trelawney warned me at the start of term; something I feared would happen on the sixteenth of October! She was right!"
The line erupted.
"I should've believed her," Lavender sobbed. "If I'd warned my parents to watch Binky—"
Hermione bristled. "Her prediction never mentioned a rabbit! Did you even think you were scared of foxes before?"
"I was scared he'd die!"
Cue the world's most pointless debate: logic vs. feelings, prophecy vs. coincidence. The crowd ate it up.
Harry stood in the sunshine, but a chill crawled up his spine.
Out of the corner of his eye, in the tree line: a big black dog.