Ding…
The diadem above his head let out a sharper, clearer chime than before. The massive sapphire flashed wildly for a few seconds before rapidly dimming.
It looked even duller than before Tom had polished it, as if some internal energy had been completely drained. Even the metal framework seemed to take on a dead, ashen hue.
"Meow?" Tom paused his swatting, blinking in confusion.
The maddening itch and invasive sensation inside his skull were gone. He felt much better.
He shook his head. The diadem was a little loose, but it stayed on.
He looked down at his paws, then up at Fred and George.
The twins were absolutely petrified. Jaws dropped, eyes wide as saucers, they stared blankly at Tom—and the suddenly withered diadem perched on his head.
The bizarre spectacle of Tom's head morphing, snapping back to normal, and him frantically smacking his own skull had completely shattered their understanding of magical pranks.
"Just... just now..." Fred's voice was hoarse.
"Boss Tom... your head... and that crown..." George gulped.
Tom looked at their dumbfounded expressions and decided to ignore the weird feeling he'd just had in his head. It was gone now, anyway.
He raised a front paw, elegantly adjusted the slightly crooked diadem, and puffed out his chest, doing his best to maintain his dignity as the "Boss," despite being covered in dust and debris.
"Meow~"
---
Inside the diadem, the shard of Voldemort's soul hadn't quite processed what had just happened. He had literally been punched back into the artifact by a bizarre, disproportionate brain that had suddenly sprouted arms and legs.
With a pop, that handsome face reappeared within the diadem's mental landscape.
Tom Riddle's striking, seventeen-year-old features resurfaced on the smooth facet of the sapphire, contorted by the lingering shock of the blow and an overwhelming, apocalyptic rage.
His dark, bottomless eyes were no longer filled with elegant calculation. Instead, they boiled with raw, almost tangible malice and humiliation.
He—the Heir of Salazar Slytherin, one of the greatest wizards in history—had just been punched in the face by a cat. A stupid cat whose empty head contained nothing but fish and shiny objects! Punched by a freakish brain with limbs!
An absolute disgrace!
The sheer humiliation momentarily eclipsed his shock over the bizarre mindscape and the mutant brain.
His gaze pierced the diadem's confines, locking onto the blue-grey British Shorthair outside. The creature was still wearing the crown, even puffing its chest out smugly.
Then, his eyes swept over the two dumbstruck, red-haired wizards nearby.
Young bodies... vibrant souls... They didn't look particularly bright, but as temporary vessels and assistants for his resurrection ritual, they would suffice.
As for this damn cat...
The Horcrux's remaining sanity was swallowed by pure malice.
Failed to read its memories? Mind invasion thwarted? Fine.
The most direct, brutal method would work just as well.
He would drain this stupid cat's life force dry!
He'd use its vibrant life energy as the foundation to forcibly construct a temporary magical body.
Then, he'd subjugate the two young wizards, prepare the ritual, and rebuild his perfect physical form!
Dumbledore? The wizarding world? The entire globe? They would all grovel at the feet of his rebirth!
And it would all start with this cat.
---
Without a second thought, the Horcrux unleashed its deepest, darkest magic.
This wasn't a subtle seduction or a slow corruption. It was a savage plundering.
Where the diadem touched Tom's scalp, an icy, bone-chilling suction erupted.
Like a miniature black hole, it frantically ripped away his life force and physical essence.
"Meow?!"
Tom's smug expression froze instantly.
The triumphant purr died in his throat.
A sensation far more terrifying than the previous mental invasion washed over him.
Not an itch. Not numbness. Just a freezing, marrow-deep cold and an instantaneous, overwhelming weakness.
He felt something warm and vital being violently torn from his body at a terrifying speed.
His sleek, glossy blue-grey fur lost its sheen right before their eyes, turning dry and ashen.
His plump body deflated like a punctured balloon. His round cheeks hollowed out, and a cloudy grey film rapidly veiled his bright blue eyes.
Thump.
A heavy, sickening thud.
Before he could even let out another cry, Tom collapsed forward onto the pile of junk, stiff as a board.
His once fluffy form was now light as a feather, practically just skin and bones. His life aura flickered like a candle in a hurricane.
---
At the same time, the Ravenclaw diadem levitated off Tom's shriveled head, hovering in mid-air.
The dull sapphire vibrated violently, emitting an ominous, grey-blue glow.
Tom's forcefully extracted life force intertwined with the diadem's dark magic, spiraling furiously beneath the crown to trace a blurry, human silhouette.
Magic and life energy wove together like dark threads, rapidly filling in the shape.
The outline sharpened—a tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed teenage boy slowly materialized. He was handsome, but his face was deathly pale and sinister.
It was the exact image of a seventeen-year-old Tom Riddle.
He wore an old-fashioned Hogwarts robe that seemed spun from smoke. His body was still slightly translucent.
But the terrifying magical pressure rolling off him flooded the Room of Requirement like a tidal wave.
The phantom of Voldemort slowly looked down at his semi-transparent, yet powerful hands. A cold, satisfied smirk curled his lips.
It worked! It was only a temporary shell that required constant energy to maintain, but it was enough to cast spells and take control.
Just as he was reveling in his new body and the intoxicating taste of renewed freedom and power—
"Stupefy!" "Stupefy!"
Two furious, desperate adolescent voices shattered the silence simultaneously!
Fred and George!
From Tom's head morphing, to his sudden, horrifying deflation, to the levitating crown and the manifesting shadow—it all happened in a heartbeat.
The twins had been paralyzed by shock, but their deep bond with Tom and their innate Gryffindor battle instincts (honed by years of surviving their own disastrous pranks) kicked in.
That creepy crown was hurting Boss Tom!
And this ghostly bastard was the enemy!
Without exchanging a single word or look, the brothers fought through their pain, dropping their stances.
Driven by pure instinct, they drew their wands, aimed at the newly-formed, incredibly dangerous phantom, and unleashed the strongest, most direct offensive spell in their arsenal—the Stunning Spell.
Two blinding red beams tore through the dim air from opposite angles, zeroing in perfectly on Voldemort's chest and back. A flawless, synchronized strike that completely cut off any avenue of escape.
Yet, facing an attack that could easily drop a fully-grown wizard, the phantom barely lifted an eyelid.
His dark eyes held nothing but contempt and mockery, like a man watching two ants try to topple an oak tree.
"Hmph."
A scoff dripping with absolute disdain.
He didn't even bother incanting. He simply raised a translucent hand and lazily swiped his sleeve at the incoming spells.
It was a casual, dismissive gesture, like brushing dust off his shoulder.
Bang! Bang!
The moment the heavy, powerful Stunning Spells struck the seemingly weightless black sleeve, it was like they hit an invisible, impenetrable fortress of iron. They shattered instantly into a shower of harmless red sparks that faded into the air.
The twins' full-powered combined assault hadn't even made the phantom flinch.
Fred and George stood frozen, wands still raised, every drop of color draining from their faces.
Their strongest combo attack... swatted away like a couple of gnats?
The sheer, terrifying chasm in power sent a jolt of ice straight into their hearts.
Voldemort turned slowly. A cruel, cat-and-mouse smile played on his pale, handsome features. His eyes slithered over their terrified faces like a cold-blooded snake.
"Admirable courage. But... utterly foolish," his voice was a low, melodic baritone, yet it carried a bone-chilling frost.
"Now, let us discuss... your new purpose. And how you will compensate me for the minor inconvenience caused by your... pet."
His gaze finally dropped to the shriveled, lifeless feline husk on the floor. A flicker of dark satisfaction crossed his eyes.
The air in the junk room thickened, dominated entirely by the silent, roaring chill of his dark magic.
Tom lay motionless, like a discarded, broken toy.
---
But just as Voldemort finished speaking, an incredible flash of wild, disbelieving joy erupted on Fred and George's faces.
Their eyes went wide. Staring right past the phantom's shoulder, they yelled in unison.
"Boss!"
The raw excitement and relief in their voices were impossible to fake. They sounded like drowning men who had just been thrown a lifeline.
Voldemort's cruel smile widened. He didn't even bother to turn around, merely letting out a derisive snort.
"Heh... a pathetic parlor trick," he drawled, sounding immensely bored by their apparent transparency.
"Attempting such a childish diversion? It seems I overestimated your intelligence. Your pitiful pet's life force has been utterly drained. Its very soul has likely shattered by now."
"No living creature could survive my direct, full-power extraction. Not even Dumbledore himself could recover from that instantly!"
He tilted his head slightly, catching a glimpse of the empty junk pile behind him out of the corner of his eye. Confirming nothing was there, his mocking sneer grew even more pronounced.
But right as he prepared to turn his full attention back to the twins and establish control...
A faint, yet absolutely undeniable presence—laced with the familiar scent of that stupid cat—quietly manifested right behind his neck!
He could even feel a cold, non-physical stare boring into him!
"?!"
The dark wizard's flawless composure cracked. His pupils shrank to pinpricks, and he whipped around!
What he saw froze him completely. For a split second, his mind simply blanked.
Hovering right behind his translucent form was a semi-transparent, pearlescent outline of a cat—Tom's soul!
It was slightly larger than his physical body, still maintaining the shape of a British Shorthair, just ethereal.
Those trademark sapphire eyes were currently wide open.
And they were burning with a very real, very furious fire.
The cat soul was glaring unblinkingly, right into Voldemort's face, from mere inches away!
How was this possible?!
How could its soul retain such a clear form and such overwhelming willpower?!
To willingly detach from a dying vessel and manifest as a near-solid entity?!
Before Voldemort could process this utter violation of magical law, Tom's soul moved!
"MEOW—!!!"
With a silent roar that detonated purely on the spiritual plane, Tom thrust out his front paws. They were translucent, but the outlines were sharp, the claws extended.
Like lightning, one paw shot forward and clamped down hard on the phantom's jaw, violently yanking it downward!
"Urgh?!" Voldemort was caught entirely off guard. His spectral mouth was forced open to a grotesque angle.
Then, as the Dark Lord watched in twisted, paralyzing horror...
Tom's other spectral arm plunged straight down his throat!
It wasn't a physical penetration. It was a raw, barbaric spiritual invasion!
Inside his newly formed temporary body—woven from Tom's stolen life force and the diadem's magic—Voldemort felt something core, something inextricably linked to that stolen energy, being violently grabbed and clawed!
Tom's arm rummaged around inside him without an ounce of mercy, thrashing and feeling around with the sheer brutality of a cat digging through a pile of laundry for a lost toy.
The phantom shuddered violently, letting out silent, agonized shrieks on the soul plane. He tried to fight back, but found himself completely defenseless against this direct, fundamental plundering of his 'essence'.
Especially against an attack this fast and singularly focused.
Suddenly, Tom's spectral arm jerked to a halt. He had grabbed something.
The cat's face twisted into what Voldemort could only interpret as a demonic sneer, and he yanked his arm back with all his spectral might—
He physically pulled a soft, warm, faintly glowing sphere—about the size of a ping-pong ball—right out of Voldemort's mouth!
Inside the glowing orb, blurry, shifting images of a cat playing, napping, and chasing shiny objects flickered. It radiated pure, vibrant life energy.
It was the core essence of Tom's life force—the energy Voldemort had just stolen but hadn't fully digested yet!
"NO—!!!" Voldemort shrieked on the spiritual plane, a sound of fury and utter denial. The phantom's glow dimmed considerably as he reached out to snatch it back.
But Tom was faster.
Without even sparing a glance at the lunging shadow, Tom hugged the glowing orb and darted back to his shriveled, husk-like physical body on the floor.
Using his spectral claws, he pried open the tightly shut jaws of his physical shell.
Then, he took the warm orb, aimed for the mouth, and ruthlessly shoved it in—just like stuffing a ball of yarn into a tight space!
Gulp...
A faint, almost imperceptible swallowing sound echoed.
Then, a miracle occurred.
The withered, grey, lifeless feline corpse swelled and revitalized at a visible rate, like parched earth drinking in a torrential downpour!
The dry, dull fur puffed back up, regaining its healthy, glossy sheen.
The sunken cheeks and deflated body rapidly filled out.
The cloudy film vanished from his blue eyes. Though they remained closed, a healthy, vibrant pink returned to his nose and paw pads.
His breathing restarted—faint at first, but quickly growing steady and strong.
In just a few breaths, Tom's physical body had mostly recovered.
He still looked exhausted and weak, but anyone could tell: he was alive, and he was healing fast!
Burp~
Tom's body let out an unconscious, highly satisfied, silent burp.
Then, with a swish, the spectral form dove back into the recovering body, slotting perfectly into place.
Leaving behind the phantom of Voldemort, who had just suffered a devastating spiritual extraction. The shadow flickered unsteadily, making involuntary retching motions.
He clutched his spectral throat, which still felt like it was burning. His handsome face was a twisted mask of shock, rage, and an indescribable horror.
He stared down at the blue-grey British Shorthair, whose breathing was now perfectly even, and who had even twitched a leg in its sleep.
The utterly absurd, logic-defying, magic-breaking sequence of events looped in his mind.
But rapidly, the shock and fury in his eyes were eclipsed by a much darker, far more intense glare of unbridled greed.
Plunder! Transmute! Absorb!
This cat... this seemingly ordinary cat...
Its spiritual essence, the nature of its life force, its bizarre immunity to Horcrux magic...
And that soul that could actively detach and execute a counter-plunder... it was all completely unprecedented!
This was no ordinary beast! It might very well touch upon some entirely uncharted realm of life and soul magic!
If he could completely dissect and harness this power...
If he could claim this creature as his own, or assimilate its essence...
Then his resurrection would merely be a stepping stone.
He would achieve an unprecedented, truly immortal, and infinitely more powerful rebirth!
Dumbledore? The entire magical community? They wouldn't even be speed bumps!
Voldemort's phantom locked its gaze onto Tom, the raw hunger and avarice burning so bright it practically manifested as physical flames.
"Fascinating... truly fascinating..." he murmured, his voice trembling with the dark ecstasy of discovering an unparalleled treasure.
"It seems my plans require... a slight adjustment. You, little creature, will be the core of my greatest masterpiece..."
---