Tom curled up in agony, his eyes blazing with resentment as he glared at Erwin. "Damn it! Just kill me already!"
Erwin shook his head. "No can do. The experiment's underway, and quitting now would waste all my hard work." He pressed on, his wand directing the Fiendfyre with effortless precision. The cursed flames licked at Tom's leg, charring it nearly to the bone before Erwin redirected them elsewhere.
Ten minutes dragged by in a haze of smoke and suffering. Tom's form—both soul and body—faded to a dim flicker. With a flick, Erwin snuffed out the Fiendfyre. "Now!"
Tom lay still, unresponsive. Erwin frowned. "I suggest you cooperate. Fail this, and I'll wait for your soul to recover before trying again. You won't get a chance to fight back—in your state, even suicide's off the table. Remember the pain?"
Tom's body shuddered violently at the threat. Gritting his teeth, he invoked the Horcrux-splitting ritual. Wisps of gray smoke uncoiled from his form, drifting like spectral mist.
Erwin swiftly retrieved a notebook from his enchanted ring. Tom guided the smoke into it. Moments later, black tendrils rose from the pages and vanished. Erwin tapped the cover with his wand. "Come out—show yourself!"
Silence. Had it failed? Erwin's brow furrowed.
Then Tom's weak voice broke through. "It's successful. But the fragment from my original Horcrux was too feeble. This new one holds my knowledge, not a full soul manifestation. Functions as intended, though."
Erwin nodded thoughtfully. To test it, he grabbed a quill and scribbled on a scrap of parchment: What's the best defense against the Disarming Charm?
Ink bloomed across the notebook's pages:
Option 1: Counter with a stronger spell to dispel it.
Option 2: Dodge—it's a straight-line curse.
Option 3: Shield Charm or duck behind cover.
A grin spread across Erwin's face. "Brilliant, Tom. Exactly what I needed."
Tom slumped against the stone floor. "That it, then?"
"Spot on. Rest up for a couple of days—we'll craft a second one. But stick to Defense Against the Dark Arts knowledge only, no Dark Arts themselves. You get me? Wouldn't want to repeat this agony, eh? At least you're still kicking."
Tom bared his teeth in a snarl. "Crystal clear."
Erwin chuckled inwardly. Ravenclaw had it right—even the Dark Lord was just a boy at seventeen. Easy to steer. Aloud, he said, "How many do you reckon we can make?"
"A hundred?" Tom sputtered, panic edging his voice. "Impossible! My soul can't handle that many splits!"
"Your essence replenishes," Erwin countered smoothly. "I know the drill."
"But the core power doesn't! One more's my limit!"
Erwin paused, then shook his head. "Not enough. Three more—at least one per house. No haggling, or I'll force it myself. Bit more hassle, but I can trim the useless bits."
Tom weighed his options, then sighed. "Fine, three it is. Don't welch on the deal."
Erwin shrugged. "Me? I'm as good as my word. Finish up, and I'll sort you a proper spot."
Unease twisted in Tom's gut, but resistance was futile. His soul needed time to mend. Erwin pocketed the notebook in his ring and turned away, satisfied. It wasn't the personalized tomes he'd first envisioned for each house, but it'd do. Professors could catch a breather, and more importantly, it'd lighten his load.
From now until next term, Erwin was stepping in as Defense Against the Dark Arts professor—or rather, filling in temporarily. He'd plotted Lockhart's downfall with the Heads of House weeks ago. The fraud's incompetence had drawn endless complaints anyway. Even without today's mishap, Lockhart's tenure was toast.
No replacement in sight, though. Other staff were stretched thin. That's when his godfather—ever the sly strategist—pointed out how many students already flocked to Slytherin's self-study sessions for Erwin's Charms lessons. Why not extend that to Defense?
The older years were exam-bound, no time for fluff. The younger ones needed sharpening. Erwin had the chops. He'd balked at first—daily classes sounded dull compared to slacking off as a student. But temporary? That beat lectures. A fair trade.
Still, Erwin wasn't one for burnout. Enter the Voldemort ploy: his bespoke tutor. One notebook per house for theory queries; Erwin handled practicals. Minimal fuss.
His gaze shifted to the basilisk, snoring fitfully on the chamber floor. A gentle nudge from his boot roused it. "Up you get. You've slumbered a millennium—enough lazing about."
The beast stirred, yellow eyes blinking open. It nuzzled Erwin's leg affectionately. He sighed, ruffling its scales. "Right, then. Meet me at the Black Lake tonight. Next weekend, we're busting you out of Hogwarts for good."
...
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