Chapter 113
Tom found himself sprawled on the ground.
Slowly, he opened his eyes, only to be met with the sight of a massive stone carving of a serpent's head glaring down from the ceiling above.
He rose, brushing the dust from his robes. His head throbbed with the aftershock of the strange transportation.
"Ow… my head! What happened? The moment I touched that handle, I ended up here!" he muttered.
He looked around carefully. The place resembled the Restricted Section of the Hogwarts library, yet it felt far darker. The air was heavy with a stench like that of rotting corpses, and the atmosphere was suffused with despair.
Tom, however, dismissed such things quickly. He would not let fear cloud his mind.
Every book, every scroll in this place was bound in black. Even the floor was tiled in green patterns, etched with the shapes of coiling cobras.
A thrill ran through him. He began to pull volumes from the shelves, his eyes alight with hunger.
Each book he opened brimmed with knowledge so vast and terrible that it seemed beyond human comprehension. Tom was astonished by the sheer depth of Salazar Slytherin's knowledge.
"I suppose I should not be surprised," Tom whispered to himself. "After all, he was one of the four founders of Hogwarts."
Whenever he found a book that promised valuable secrets, Tom set it aside in a small pile for later.
His mind wandered briefly to the voice he had heard when he first entered.
"That voice said I passed an entry test. Since I am a descendant of Salazar, that means no one but his bloodline could ever enter this place. Excellent. I don't need to worry about anyone else discovering these books."
Among the many works, Tom found volumes describing the origins of Dark Magic, including advanced curses such as the Imperius Curse, which bent the will and mind of its victim, forcing them to commit acts against their nature, murder, theft, betrayal.
He also found texts detailing the Cruciatus Curse, a spell of pure agony that shredded the nerves with pain so severe the victim begged for death. For those too weak-willed, it could kill outright.
And then, astonishingly, he discovered mention of a spell unlike any other. Not one of defense or attack, but a power to transcend both: flight.
Tom's eyes widened. He had never imagined such a magic could exist. A smile crept across his face, darker and wider by the second.
Already, a plan was forming. He would study everything here. With enough mastery, he would craft his own spell, a magic that could make him truly invincible.
After stacking aside the most valuable grimoires for future study, his gaze caught on a single volume resting high upon a shelf. It seemed to radiate a dreadful aura. Its cover was frayed, torn, as though time itself had tried to erase it.
Tom snatched it down eagerly.
The title read: "Herpo the Foul: On Ancient Magic."
The last words, Ancient Magic, drew him in like a magnet.
In the wizarding world, it was known that beyond ordinary advanced spells lay a higher tier of power: Ancient Magic. Few could even dream of wielding it, save for those of legendary talent, like Albus Dumbledore, Alberic Black, or Tom Riddle himself.
Ancient Magic, the text explained, was divided into two categories:
Offensive, overwhelming spells capable of devastating destruction. Dumbledore himself wielded one such spell, unstoppable save by its equal in the other category.
Defensive, enchantments that fortified the body, dulled pain, and conjured shields strong enough to repel even the most fearsome curses.
All of this knowledge, the book said, had roots in the Dark Arts.
Tom turned the pages feverishly, until his breath caught. Several pages had been torn out, vital knowledge ripped away.
Still, among the fragments he found one passage intact:
"This form of Ancient Magic allows the creator's body to resist death. Yet it leaves him in a state between life and death. This is called… a Horcrux."
Tom's eyes narrowed. He did not yet fully grasp the meaning, but one word shone in his mind like fire: survival.
To remain alive… no matter the cost.
He clutched the book tightly, tucking it away before making his way back to the door. The instant his hand touched it, he was wrenched away,
and awoke back in the Hogwarts Restricted Section.
Without hesitation, he hurried from the library and into the boys' lavatory, where he changed quickly into his standard Slytherin uniform.
His mind churned with possibilities. Where could he learn more about this Horcrux?
Then, an idea struck.
"Of course," Tom muttered, a sly grin spreading across his face. "Dumbledore will never tell me, too righteous, too fearful of the Dark Arts. That fool of a headmaster, Dippet, despises the nobility of pure-bloods. No… the only one I can turn to is Professor Slughorn. He adores me. I am his prized student. Yes… yes, I know exactly what I must do."