Tom's attention snapped to it instantly.
He lowered his head, leaning in close to the crown—especially that massive central sapphire.
Even under layers of dust and grime, the gem still caught the faint light filtering through the high windows, shimmering with deep, liquid starlight—like an ocean of trapped wisdom or frozen constellations.
Tom's eyes lit up. All traces of earlier embarrassment and confusion vanished, replaced by pure, instinctive fascination.
He reached out with both front paws, delicately lifting the crown.
Then—facing the sapphire—he huffed out a long, forceful "HAAAH!" of hot breath.
A puff of dust lifted away.
Satisfied with his progress, Tom raised one hind leg.
Using the softer fur on the inside, he began polishing the gem in earnest—back and forth, back and forth—treating it with the reverence usually reserved for the shiniest, most prized trophy.
After a few careful strokes he paused, tilted his head, raised the crown to eye level, squinted one eye, and inspected it against a stray beam of light from somewhere high above.
Under his rough-but-determined polishing (and sheer focused intent), the sapphire really did seem brighter—its ghostly blue glow noticeably clearer.
Tom gave a small, approving nod at his handiwork.
Then—without a second thought—he lifted the slightly oversized, rather heavy crown with both paws.
Adjusted the angle with care… and solemnly placed it back on his fluffy head.
It slipped a bit. Tom had to dip his chin slightly to keep it balanced.
But the freshly "shined" sapphire now sat dead centre on his forehead—framing his dust-covered but still undeniably majestic cat face in a strangely perfect, almost regal way.
He gave an experimental head-tilt, testing the weight.
Felt… pretty good, actually.
Right then the junk pile beside him shuddered violently again.
"Pffft—HAH!"
Fred and George finally erupted from the wreckage like twin red-haired mushrooms—coughing, spitting dust, wheezing.
"Merlin's… lace-trimmed knickers… I'm never mocking an antique broom again…" Fred groaned weakly.
"Seconded… feels like my skeleton got reassembled backwards…" George moaned, fishing an old copper Knut out of his ear.
Then—both of them froze.
They were staring at Tom: still grey with dust, but now inexplicably dignified thanks to the ancient crown perched on his head.
Their eyes went wide. Mouths fell open. Pain forgotten.
"Merlin's sodding beard!" Fred gasped.
"That's… a crown? With a massive bloody sapphire!" George rubbed his eyes.
"Looks… really old. Really… Ravenclaw?" Fred squinted at the style.
"Boss Tom!" George yelped. "Where the hell did you find that thing?!"
"There's actual treasure hidden in the Room of Requirement?!"
Tom—catching their awe—tilted his crowned head even higher, making the sapphire flash in the dim light.
He was just beginning to bask in the regal feeling—the cool, heavy "kingly" weight—and the twins' open-mouthed admiration—
—when something shifted.
Not a physical jolt.
Something deeper. Subtler. Colder. Slimier.
Like icy tendrils sliding silently through the point where crown met scalp—probing, searching, trying to worm their way into his… brain?
Tom shook his head sharply. Ears flicked. No flies. No bugs.
But the invasive sensation didn't fade. It grew stronger.
A thread of consciousness—cold, curious, probing, laced with faint greed and manic delight—was brushing against the outer edges of his mind, hunting for an entrance.
Because deep inside the crown, the slumbering soul fragment—Tom Riddle's Horcrux—had finally been roused.
First by the violent tumbling, crashing, and avalanche.
Then by Tom's earnest huff of hot breath and vigorous fur-polishing.
The faint natural magic and living warmth clinging to Tom's fur.
And finally—most crucially—by that utterly shameless, pure "shiny thing is MINE now" possessiveness, which acted like a rusty key, scraping open the tiniest crack in the Horcrux's outermost seal.
When Tom solemnly reseated the crown—establishing firm, sustained contact—the fragment woke fully.
"I… where…?"
The crown-Voldemort's awareness rose like something surfacing from black water—disoriented, wary.
First sensation: fur. Soft. Warm. Ticklish.
Second: an absurdly low vantage point.
Third: two nearby thought-waves—young, excitable, wizardly—buzzing with curiosity and glee.
'A cat? I'm… perched on a cat's head?'
The sheer absurdity sparked instant outrage—followed immediately by far greater delight.
'A living host! And two young witches—young, malleable souls… and this idiotic cat… perfect starting point! Read the memories first, assess the situation, then…'
No hesitation. He gathered the Horcrux's power and—habitually—extended a probing tendril toward the carrier's mind: Tom the cat.
Ready to flip through memories, emotions, thought patterns like pages in an open book.
Ready to find leverage. Prepare for possession or manipulation of the two boys.
But the instant his tendril slipped inside—
—he stepped into emptiness.
A vast, echoing, strangely warm void.
'…Huh?'
Crown-Voldemort blinked (metaphorically).
'Why is this cat's mind… so empty?'
He stood (in consciousness form) inside a smooth, endless, gently curved chamber—walls glowing with a soft, oddly comforting light that smelled faintly of sun-warmed fur and fish.
No structured memories. No coherent trains of thought.
Just fleeting, disjointed flashes:
A sizzling tray of perfectly crisped roast fish.
A smiling human face.
Fred and George's grinning red-haired mugs.
The roaring wind of an out-of-control broom ride.
That shiny blue sapphire…
Fragments. Random. Gone in a blink. Impossible to stitch into anything logical.
'Impossible! Even an animal should have clearer instinct-memories, emotional imprints!'
He was Tom Marvolo Riddle—Salazar Slytherin's heir, Occlumency and Legilimency prodigy, greatest dark wizard in history!
How could he fail to read the shallow mind of a pet cat?!
'Wrong approach. Or maybe this idiot feline has an unusual brain structure…'
Unwilling to accept defeat, he redoubled his effort—pouring more Horcrux power into the probe—driving deeper, more aggressively—searching for the "core": the mind's mapped centre.
The moment he pushed harder—
Outside, Tom froze.
That cold, slimy thing inside his skull suddenly started thrashing around!
Poking. Prodding. Itchy. Numbing. Violating territory!
"MROOOW!"
Tom yowled in irritation—shook his head violently—trying to dislodge it.
The crown just wobbled. The intruder kept digging.
And as crown-Voldemort forced deeper—Tom's fluffy head visibly began to swell.
Fast.
Left side bulged. Right side caved in. Top sprouted a new lump.
Like an invisible rat was rampaging under his skull, looking for an exit.
Fred and George stared—open-mouthed—at Tom's ballooning, morphing head.
"Merlin's pants! Fred—look at Boss Tom's head!"
George pointed, voice cracking.
"It's moving! Something's inside!" Fred gaped—pain forgotten.
"Is it the crown? Is it… alive? Possessed?"
Tom—driven mad by the churning inside his skull—was furious.
Instinct took over. Both front paws flew up—clamped around his deformed head—and began smacking his own ears and crown with solid "thump-thump" thuds.
"MROOOW! MRRROW!"
He hit hard enough to rock his whole body. The crown teetered dangerously.
Inside the forcibly "expanded" mind-space, crown-Voldemort was having an even worse time.
His aggressive probe hadn't found the expected memory core—instead it triggered some bizarre defence or rejection mechanism.
Now an invisible force had him—dragging him faster and faster through the smooth, endless, labyrinthine void!
Walls blurred past. Endless forks appeared—each reeking of something different but equally illogical.
Milk sweetness one way.
Furnace ash another.
Ink from quill tips ahead.
Sulphur from Weasley prank fireworks to the left…
"STOP! Damn it—what IS this place?!"
The handsome shade of crown-Voldemort tried to brace himself—useless.
His legendary magical control meant nothing here.
Just as dizziness peaked—his footing slipped.
"WHOA—!"
He tumbled—face-first—into one unremarkable side passage.
Narrow. Twisting. Dim. Smelling of sun-warmed cat fur and faint, ancient catnip.
"Thump."
Crown-Voldemort (shade form) picked himself up—brushed nonexistent dust—fury mounting.
He'd never been this humiliated—not even facing Dumbledore!
He scanned the narrow tunnel—trying to orient himself.
Then his gaze locked on the far end.
A small, faintly glowing "platform."
On it sat… something.
Thumb-sized. Pink. Wrinkled. Grooved like a… miniature, extremely underdeveloped brain?
Or more accurately—a catastrophically stunted walnut kernel.
But unmistakably some form of "thought core" or brain-map.
Except… it was tiny.
Crown-Voldemort's perfect少年 face cracked for the first time—pure shock, absurdity, existential doubt.
'This… this is the cat's… brain?'
'That little?! Barely bigger than a Veela's! No wonder the memories are empty! How does this thing even support complex thought? Does it think with its spine?!'
While crown-Voldemort stood paralysed—questioning his entire existence and magical common sense—
—the tiny pink walnut-brain twitched.
Then—right in the centre—a deep groove split open.
A single round, sapphire-blue cat eye snapped open—staring straight at him.
Full of warning. Impatience. And incandescent territorial rage.
The eye locked onto crown-Voldemort.
Then—from the base and sides of the walnut-brain—four thick, cartoonishly over-muscled arms and legs burst out!
Pink. Bulging. Ridiculously disproportionate.
The "muscle-brain" rose from the platform. Cracked its "knuckles" with an audible mental pop.
Next instant—it launched.
Crossed the short distance in a blur.
Crown-Voldemort saw one massive, veiny pink fist fill his vision.
"Wai—?!"
"BOOOOM!!!!!!"
A soul-shattering conceptual haymaker smashed dead-centre into crown-Voldemort's face!
He had zero time to react.
A force—pure, overwhelming owner-rejection—launched him backward like a cannon shot.
"AAAAA—!!!"
The shade screamed—spiralling wildly—hurtling back through smooth walls, illogical forks—black comet streaking in reverse—
"WHOOSH—thump!"
Outside—Tom was still furiously smacking his own ears.
Suddenly—he jolted.
The cold slimy intruder inside his skull spasmed once—
—then rocketed out at high speed—taking a chunk of his "skull cap" with it—blasted straight back into the crown!