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Riddle stared at the rusty crown before him, feeling the unmistakable aura that resonated from the same source as his own soul. It was as if a silent whisper called out from its depths, stirring something ancient within him. His fingers twitched, a pulse of dark energy rippling through his veins, setting fire to the hunger buried in the depths of his being.
A sinister glint flashed in his pitch-black pupils. The corners of his mouth curled into a smile—cold, knowing, and filled with the kind of malice that could shatter even the most unyielding souls.
Then, without hesitation, Riddle's hands shot forward, seizing the crown. With a deliberate, forceful motion, he slammed it onto his head, fingers locking around its edges like a predator sinking its claws into prey. The crown trembled violently, resisting—an entity unto itself, unwilling to be subdued.
A terrible force erupted from it, waves of searing energy bursting forth, tearing into Riddle's soul and body in a desperate bid for dominance. His robes billowed as the dark magic surged around him, clawing at his very essence, trying to cast him into oblivion.
And then, from the place where the sapphire lay embedded in the metal, a flicker of malevolent red light pulsed. The jewel seemed to crack open like an eye, and from within, a figure emerged—a bald man with gleaming scarlet eyes, his very presence an embodiment of dread. Without pause, the spectral figure lunged forward, slamming directly into Riddle's forehead.
Riddle's body jolted violently. His eyes—once burning with cruelty—suddenly turned glassy, vacant, frozen in a battle invisible to the outside world.
Inside, within the endless abyss of consciousness, the struggle raged.
Scarlet and jet-black light intertwined in a vicious clash, twisting and writhing like two serpents locked in a death grip. The force of their battle rippled outward, rattling the very foundations of Riddle's spectral form. His body flickered between solid and ghostly, caught in an agonizing limbo between existence and nothingness. He was an old, broken signal, a dying transmission on the edge of static, struggling to define itself.
But time was a cruel master. And as the moments stretched, the crimson glow—the defiance of the soul within the crown—began to wane. It flickered, dimmed, and, at last, was swallowed whole by the abyss of darkness.
A chilling breath filled the air.
Riddle's eyes snapped open.
Cold, piercing, and sharper than any blade.
His body solidified in an instant, the wavering illusion of his form ceasing. He stood there, no longer a mere fragment, no longer a whisper of the past—but something more. Something real. Something terrifyingly whole.
A low, dark chuckle spilled from his lips, his voice dripping with cruel amusement. "You truly disappoint me, my main soul," he murmured, his words like venom. "You thought I would beg for strength, like some desperate fool? No… I am not one to kneel." His laughter deepened, resonating in the empty space around him. "I am just like you. The only thing I care about… is taking what is mine."
If Voldemort were here to witness this moment, he would be paralyzed with fury.
Because this was never supposed to happen.
The Tom Riddle of the Horcrux Diary was meant to be nothing more than a fragment, a sliver of a soul—disposable, insignificant. Yet now, he had absorbed the remnants of the Horcrux Crown, consuming its power as if it were nothing more than kindling for his infernal flame.
Though the Diary and the Crown both contained fragments of similar size, the difference was in their nature. The Diary had been steeped in Voldemort's youth—his thoughts, his knowledge, the very essence of his being. It had been a vessel of growth, absorbing and evolving over time, drinking in the magic of those who encountered it. It had become something more than a simple remnant.
And now, it had devoured the weaker soul in the Crown.
The transformation was complete. His once-illusory body now carried the weight of something terrifyingly real. Flesh-like, solid, unbreakable. His presence alone sent ripples through the air, a tangible force of malevolence.
The crown, now void of its purpose, clattered to the ground like a discarded relic, rolling onto an old wooden crate. Its aura, once echoing the same origins as Riddle's, had been utterly extinguished. It was nothing now. A husk.
And yet, as the darkness withdrew, a strange change overtook the ancient artifact.
The corroded metal, once dulled and rusted by time, began to shift. The decay melted away, vanishing like whispers on the wind, revealing a pristine silver sheen beneath. The crown no longer bore the marks of time's erosion—instead, it gleamed with an eerie perfection, untouched, untainted. It was as if the passage of centuries had been erased, leaving behind something impossibly beautiful, yet haunting in its emptiness.
But Riddle did not linger on its beauty.
His gaze was drawn elsewhere.
Through the high window, beyond the stone walls of Hogwarts, two luminous moons hung in the abyss of the night sky. Their silver glow painted the world in a pale, haunting light. And Riddle… he scowled.
There was only one wizard in Hogwarts he had deemed a true obstacle. One Dumbledore.
And yet, there was another.
Dracula.
The mere thought of that entity—of the ancient, magnificent, and nightmarish power he wielded—sent an unpleasant chill through Riddle's spine. His fingers tightened around the Diary, his grip betraying his frustration. He despised unknown variables.
"This school already has a Dumbledore," he muttered, voice low, dark, filled with venomous contempt. "Why must it have a Dracula as well?"
Unconsciously, his fingers brushed against the diary's cover, an idle gesture born of irritation. But then—
His hand stilled.
He glanced down.
The diary was open to the first page. And something about it felt… wrong. It was empty. Incomplete. A void where something vital should have been.
His eyes narrowed.
Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he let his magic flow. Letters began to form, curling into existence like serpents slithering from the abyss.
Tom Marvolo Riddle.
And then—
His eyes widened.
And he knew.
A way to finish what had begun.
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Two days later, on the fourth floor of Hogwarts Castle, the school infirmary.
Madam Pomfrey stood with her arms crossed, her expression firm as she blocked Dumbledore's path.
"Albus, the patient needs rest!" she said sternly, her voice leaving no room for argument. "Mr. Potter doesn't even understand what he's been through yet. His spirit is weak, and it is in his best interest not to be disturbed."
Dumbledore, however, merely offered her a gentle smile, his twinkling blue eyes full of reassurance. "Fear not, Poppy," he said smoothly. "I only intend to visit this young hero. He'll be just fine soon enough."
Madam Pomfrey huffed, clearly unconvinced, but after a long moment, she sighed in resignation. "Well, since you are the Headmaster," she said grudgingly, stepping aside. But as Dumbledore passed through the infirmary doors, she called after him sharply, "Never again!"
Inside, the infirmary was still and quiet, dimly lit by the soft glow of lanterns hovering in midair. Dumbledore walked straight to the hospital bed where Harry lay. His breathing was slow and even, but his face, though peaceful, bore a faint shadow of distress, as though he were trapped in a dream he couldn't escape. Dumbledore's gaze softened as he studied the boy, his thoughts drifting to the life Harry had been forced to endure. The weight of it all—the years of loneliness, the hardships he had yet to face—settled like an ache in Dumbledore's heart.
He wiped the corners of his eyes discreetly, then lowered himself into the chair beside the bed, his gaze lingering on the lightning-shaped scar carved into Harry's forehead. His expression darkened as his thoughts wandered.
Then, without warning, the tightly sealed window of the infirmary creaked open on its own, a rush of cool night air sweeping into the room. A figure perched casually on the windowsill, silver hair gleaming under the pale light, his lips curling into a smirk.
"Professor Dracula," Dumbledore sighed, turning to the visitor with a knowing look. "You might want to close that window before Madam Pomfrey notices. She is rather particular about maintaining the right temperature in the infirmary."
Dracula chuckled, his crimson eyes flashing with amusement. "Is that so?" he mused, hopping down from the windowsill in one fluid motion. With an easy flick of his hand, the window shut behind him. "How is Potter's condition?"
Dumbledore observed him carefully, recognizing the curiosity in his tone. "Thank you for your concern, Professor Dracula," he said with a small smile. "Harry's condition is quite stable. He should wake soon."
Dracula scoffed, waving a hand dismissively. "You misunderstand me, Albus. I'm not concerned about the boy." He stepped closer to the bed, his eyes narrowing slightly. "I'm simply curious. How exactly did Potter burn Quirrell with his bare hands? I've lived for centuries, yet I've never encountered magic quite like that."
Dumbledore watched Dracula carefully, noting the way his gaze lingered on Harry with keen interest. "Harry's mother died to save him," he explained, his voice quiet. "And Voldemort, well… he is a creature who has never known love. He cannot comprehend it."
Dracula arched an eyebrow and held up a hand. "Wait," he interrupted. "You're not going to start on that sentimental 'power of love' speech again, are you?" His tone was dry, unimpressed. "You might be able to fool Potter with such words, but spare me the theatrics."
"But I am quite serious," Dumbledore said, adjusting his glasses. His gaze met Dracula's, steady and unwavering. "Harry's mother left him an amulet of love, imprinted deep within his skin and blood. That is why Quirrell could not touch him."
Dracula crossed his arms, clearly unconvinced. "And you expect me to believe that love alone was enough to repel a servant of Voldemort?"
Dumbledore's expression remained serene. "Quirrell had already surrendered himself to Voldemort's will," he continued. "In doing so, he became tainted by the darkest of magic—cursed, sustained only by unicorn blood, a half-dead fragment of a soul. When a soul as corrupted as his comes into contact with the purity of a protective enchantment like Lily's sacrifice, the reaction is… quite destructive."
Dracula let out a low, skeptical hum. "So, according to you, a weakling filled with love could theoretically destroy any powerful dark wizard?" He gave a dry laugh. "Tell me, Headmaster—does that sound logical to you?"
"Professor Dracula," Dumbledore said gently, his fingers running along the smooth wood of his wand. "Love is not bound by logic. It is, by nature, unreasonable. But it is also one of the greatest forces in this world." His eyes glimmered with something faraway, something sorrowful. "Love is the most profound projection of the human soul. It can create miracles where none should exist."
Dracula's crimson eyes narrowed slightly, but he said nothing for a moment. Then, without warning, he reached out, his sharp nails extending just as his hand hovered near Harry's neck.
Dumbledore immediately stood, his posture tense. "What are you doing?"
Dracula withdrew his hand with an amused smirk, flashing his sharp fangs. "Relax, Albus. You're so jumpy." He flexed his fingers, his gaze flickering back to Harry. "I was simply confirming something."
"And what, precisely, were you confirming?" Dumbledore asked warily.
Dracula's smirk widened. "That this is nothing more than blood magic," he said, tapping a clawed finger against his temple. "I fail to see why you need to dress it up as something poetic." He exhaled, crossing his arms. "From what I can tell, when Potter's mother sacrificed herself, she condensed a massive surge of positive magical energy. She then used a specific blood magic technique to infuse that power into Potter's veins. That's why he carries an enchantment woven into his very being."
He glanced at the faint blue lines of veins running along the side of Harry's neck, his expression darkening with something akin to greed. "It's… an impressive piece of work. Magic like this doesn't come around often."
Dumbledore remained silent, watching Dracula's gaze linger on Harry's blood for a little too long. He knew what the vampire was thinking.
Before Dracula could act on his intrigue, a sudden gasp filled the room.
Harry stirred, his eyelids fluttering before his emerald-green eyes snapped open. He blinked, disoriented, his breathing ragged. Then, in a rush, he bolted upright, panic flaring in his gaze.
"Sir!" he gasped, his voice raw with urgency. "The Philosopher's Stone! Voldemort—he got off Quirrell! He must have the Stone!"
Dumbledore leaned forward, placing a calming hand on Harry's shoulder. "Be at ease, dear child," he said warmly. "What you fear has not come to pass. Voldemort did not obtain the Philosopher's Stone."
Harry froze, his panic giving way to bewilderment. Then, memories resurfaced, and his eyes widened.
"I remember!" he said suddenly. "The last thing I saw before I blacked out—Professor Snape! He—he was coming from the other side of the door!" His voice wavered with something close to awe. "Sir, was it him? Was it Professor Snape who saved me?"
His voice was thick with gratitude, his eyes shining with the weight of the realization.
Dumbledore merely smiled.
And Dracula… chuckled.