My partner at Hogwarts is Tom

Voldemort's greedy gaze, like a tangible, sticky spiderweb, was firmly wrapped around Tom, who had just "resurrected" and was still somewhat dazed.

Tom shook his head, the feeling of fullness from his soul returning to its place and the vitality he had just "stuffed" back into him made him instinctively feel comfortable.

He stretched out his front paws and patted off the dust and debris that had settled on his body, his movements returning to their usual, slightly reserved, and efficient manner.

Then, he looked up.

It met Voldemort's dark, unfathomable eyes.

What surged within was no longer pure murderous intent or anger.

It was something...something Tom was extremely familiar with.

Fiery, focused, and determined, with a desire to seize and possess.

It was like... like him staring at the sizzling, top-quality grilled fish that the house-elf had just served!

Or like seeing the Weasley brothers' secret hidden magical marbles that change seven colors!

That instinctive look of "It's shiny and smells delicious, it's mine!"

However, at this moment, it was projected onto this handsome but pale and gloomy face.

This gaze was magnified countless times, mixed with an extremely unsettling, chilling calculation and greed.

It was a million times more annoying than the way those poachers he hated stared at his tail!

Tom's fur stood on end instantly!

"Meow!"

His muscles were tense, his tail stood up dangerously, and his blue eyes were filled with offended anger and vigilance.

This feeling of being looked at as "prey" or "possession" made Mr. Tom extremely unhappy!

Almost instinctively, Tom pushed off with his hind legs, taking half a step back, while simultaneously sticking his rear end out sharply—

"Pfft."

A soft sound, as if something was squeezed out of the fluffy fur.

Immediately afterwards, Tom's two front paws firmly grasped a metal object that appeared out of nowhere, which seemed too large and heavy for a cat's paws.

That's a gun!

A classic double-barreled shotgun with a wooden stock bearing the marks of age and use!

The gun barrel gleamed with a cold, hard metallic luster, and two dark muzzles stood side by side. The caliber was exaggeratedly large, making it look more like it could blast open a flimsy wooden door than kill a bird.

The gun barrel was even longer than Tom's body at that moment, and he held it to his chest with a rather strenuous but unusually firm posture.

Then, without the slightest hesitation, Tom braced himself with his hind legs and forcefully pushed the heavy double-barreled shotgun forward with his front paws—

"Thump!"

The cold, hard muzzle of the gun, solid and even somewhat rude, pressed against the chin of the illusory figure of Voldemort, who was immersed in the frenzy of "discovering a priceless treasure."

To be precise, it pressed against his translucent yet clearly defined jawbone, which was formed by magic.

The cold touch and the sudden physical contact brought Voldemort back to his senses from his greedy fantasies.

He lowered his gaze slightly, looking at the thing pressed against his "face".

Upon recognizing what it was, a flicker of surprise crossed his pale, handsome face, which was quickly replaced by overwhelming disdain and mockery.

He even gave a short, extremely contemptuous sneer.

"Oh."

"A... Muggle toy?" His voice was filled with undisguised contempt, as if he had seen the most ridiculous thing in the world.

"Using this... crude, magic-free lump of iron to fight against the great Tom Riddle?"

He didn't even bother to lift his hand to pry the gun barrel away; he simply looked down at Tom with his dark eyes, a look of pity on his face.

It's like watching a silly rabbit trying to fight a dragon with dandelions.

"Your stupidity has once again exceeded my expectations, little cat. Perhaps I should consider keeping this... laughable trait of yours?"

This blatant contempt, which seemed to trample Tom and his "treasure" into the mud, completely ignited Tom's anger!

"Meow--!!!"

Tom was so angry that his mustache stood on end, and his blue eyes burned with the fierce flame of "I would rather die than be humiliated".

Why waste words on this idiot and annoying guy?

Just like Viktor said, you don't need to reason with a mute idiot, just shoot him!

Without the slightest hesitation, he gripped the butt of the rifle tightly, channeling all his strength and the rage from his recently recovered vitality into the tips of his forepaws, which were gripping the trigger, and shoved them back with all his might—

"Bang--!!!!!!!"

That wasn't an ordinary gunshot.

The sound was violent, savage, and filled with some kind of unreasonable physical destructive power, like the roar of a metal behemoth in a confined space!

What spewed from the muzzle was not a tiny flame, but two huge, violent shockwaves mixed with blinding white light and thick black smoke!

The immense recoil caused Tom's entire body to lurch backward, landing on his bottom and sliding a short distance across the pile of debris, but his paws remained firmly gripping the gunstock.

Just as Tom pulled the trigger!

Just as the deafening roar had not yet fully dissipated and the white light of the gun muzzle had just flashed!

A chilling, deadly warning, originating from the very core of his being, surged like a high-voltage current up Voldemort's spine to the back of his head!

That was no longer a magical sense of threat, but a more primal, more brutal omens of destruction directed at the "form of existence" itself!

Before the disdain on his handsome face could fully transform into astonishment, his body reacted before his mind could process it—

That was his almost instinctive, ultimate dodging ability, honed through countless brushes with death and battles against powerful wizards like Dumbledore!

"Whoosh!"

His entire upper body, especially his head and neck, suddenly jerked backward and tucked downward with a speed and amplitude that almost defied the laws of physics!

It moved so fast that it left a faint afterimage in its place!

It was as if his neck had instantly transformed into a spring or a turtle's neck, and in a flash, it retracted into the "shell" formed by his chest and shoulders!

"boom--!!!"

The violent gunfire and shockwave then erupted, completely engulfing the spot where his head had been, along with a pile of debris behind him!

A large amount of acrid smoke, flying dust, and broken debris instantly spread out, forming a small, swirling cloud of smoke that completely enveloped the area where Tom and the phantom of the Crowned Voldemort were located.

"Cough! Cough cough cough!"

From within the smoke came Tom's slightly shrill cough as he choked, and the whooshing sound of him waving his paws as he tried to disperse the smoke.

A few seconds later, as the dust in the storage room slowly settled, the lingering smoke was also dispersed by a faint airflow from who-knows-where.

The scene inside gradually became clear.

Tom had already stood up, still holding the double-barreled shotgun that looked even more imposing than his own size.

He was coughing and fanning his face with one of his front paws in disgust, and a few physiological tears welled up in his blue eyes.

And opposite him...

The phantom of the crowned Voldemort also "stood up" again.

His head, which had been retracted, was slowly, with a hint of stiffness and sluggishness, "popped" back out of his "chest cavity," returning to its normal neck-head connection.

but……

His once handsome, jet-black hair, meticulously combed back... is gone.

Instead, there was a smooth, shiny, oval-shaped empty area in the center of the ceiling, reflecting a faint oily sheen.

Around this "open area," a sparse but still black ring of hair stubbornly remains, connecting the back of the ears and the back of the head.

A standard, authentic, and even somewhat awkward style—the classic Mediterranean hairstyle for middle-aged British men!

The Crowned Voldemort didn't seem to be fully aware of the changes above his head.

His face still bore the lingering fear from his near-miss and the fury from being startled again by this brutal attack.

He subconsciously raised his hand, as if to tidy his appearance or check his condition.

The instant he raised his hand—

Because his movement of ducking and dodging was too fast and too fierce.

The Ravenclaw crown, which had been hovering above his head and connected to his phantom magic, reacted a beat too late.

At that moment, the slightly dim crown finished its sluggish descent and, without missing a beat, landed squarely and perfectly in the center of Voldemort's freshly made, gleaming "Mediterranean" hairline!

The cold metal edge clung tightly to the remaining ring of black hair on his scalp.

The darker sapphire in the center hung directly in front of his forehead, swaying slightly.

The crown was placed on the head of the "exceptionally intelligent".

For a moment, an eerie silence fell over the storage room.

There was only the lingering, pungent smell of gunpowder, and Tom's curious yet gloating gaze as he finally stopped coughing.

Voldemort, the Crowned Demon, froze.

His hand, which was halfway raised, stopped in mid-air.

He slowly, extremely slowly, raised his other hand and touched the top of his head...

A smooth touch.

The coldness of metal.

And the familiar, yet now jarringly jarring, outline of the crown.

His dark eyes struggled to move upwards, as if trying to look at the top of his head, but clearly he couldn't see it all.

He abruptly lowered his hand and stared intently at Tom, who was holding a shotgun, and the two twins behind Tom who were dumbfounded, their mouths agape as if they could fit a fox's egg.

He understood everything from the twins' distorted expressions, a mixture of fear and barely suppressed laughter.

"..."

Voldemort's pale, handsome face flushed red at a visible speed.

Despite being an illusion, the magical fluctuations clearly displayed extreme anger and... humiliation.

The crown on his head seemed to hum slightly as his body trembled.

"You...you...damn...cat!!!"

He spoke each word slowly and deliberately, his voice seemingly squeezed out from the deepest hell, icy cold, carrying a fury and murderous intent that even the waters of the Three Rivers and Five Lakes could not wash away.

A terrifying magical pressure, like a tangible black tide, erupted from his body.

In an instant, the entire cluttered area of ​​the House of Requirement began to tremble!

Tom, faced with this overwhelming rage and terrifying magical pressure, merely tilted his head.

He glanced at the other person's "new hairstyle," which stood out conspicuously against the backdrop of the crown, and at the sapphire that seemed to have dimmed even more in anger.

Then, slowly, with slightly clumsy but unusually firm movements, he leveled the double-barreled shotgun once more.

The dark muzzle of the gun was raised again.

This time, the target was Voldemort's...chest.

There was no fear in Tom's blue eyes.

There was only one kind of fierce, unruly radiance: "No matter what kind of monster or demon you are, if you dare to look at Grandpa Tom with those eyes and mess up Grandpa Tom's fur, you'll have to taste this."

"Meow."

"Come on, bald guy."

He grinned silently, revealing his small, pointed teeth.

Voldemort's crowned eyes, burning with rage and humiliation, were fixed on Tom and the dark muzzle of the gun that was once again pointed at him.

He'd had enough, enough of this stupid cat's repeated offenses and its bizarre, incomprehensible methods!

"That's enough of this boring charade."

His cold voice rang out, and he didn't even bother to recite the complete incantation.

The illusory figure, wearing a crown and sporting a Mediterranean hairstyle, simply and casually raised his right hand, his slender fingers lightly touching the double-barreled shotgun in Tom's arms.

An invisible wave of magical energy, carrying a strong intention to "resolve" and "soften," instantly traversed space.

It wasn't a powerful blasting spell, nor was it deadly dark magic.

It's more like a combination of a high-level transmutation softening spell.

Precision and efficiency are his easy tricks as a magical genius.

That's enough to deal with Muggle creations.

Tom felt a sudden weight in his hand, and then the double-barreled shotgun, which had been cold, hard, metallic, and intimidating, suddenly gave him an extremely strange sensation.

The gun barrel... is it bent?

The wooden gunstock...is it getting soft?

The entire gun seemed to have been thrown into a high-temperature furnace in an instant, or as if all its bones had been removed, quickly losing its shape and hardness!

"Meow?!" Tom looked down in surprise.

The heavy hunting rifle in his hand hung limply, like a dead snake with its tendons pulled out, or a large lump of dough that had just been kneaded and over-fermented.

The metal parts had an unnatural, dull gray sheen, the wood grain was twisted and melted, and the muzzle drooped limply, no longer resembling a weapon.

Instead, it looks like a strangely shaped, low-quality rubber toy.

Tom tried shaking his paw, and the "soft gun" swayed weakly, even bouncing back with a bit of elasticity.

Now, he can't even hold the gun steady!

Looking at Tom's astonished yet somewhat bewildered expression, Voldemort, the crowned figure, finally managed a cold, victorious smile return to his lips.

Although the smile looked somewhat comical given his current hairstyle, the cruelty and pleasure in his eyes were unmistakable.

"Now, what do you have left to rely on, little thing?" He slowly floated forward a step, the oppressive aura emanating from his phantom growing even stronger. "Become mine obediently..."

He hadn't finished talking about his "collection" or "research materials."

After a brief moment of surprise, Tom's blue eyes flashed with a hint of annoyance at being provoked and a decisive "whatever, let's do it first" attitude.

Looking at the limp, useless lump of "scrap metal" in his hand, Tom didn't try to "repair" it or look for other weapons.

Without even hesitation, he made the most instinctive reaction typical of an angered cat—

"Meow! Get lost!"

He used his two front paws to exert force, not to lift it up, but to throw it like a hot potato or a piece of annoying garbage.

He used all his strength to swing the shotgun, which had turned into a mushy mess, and hurled it at Voldemort's still-smirking face!

This throw was completely haphazard, purely driven by anger.

But precisely because it was without warning, without any magical fluctuations, and the target was that infuriating face so close at hand.

Instead, it caught Voldemort, who had just finished casting the spell and was basking in the pleasure of "taking control of the situation," completely off guard!

That soft, fluffy "gun mud," yet imbued with the full force of Tom's throw, landed squarely on the face of the illusory Voldemort!

The soft mud instantly spread out, covering most of his face, and even some of it was stuffed into his slightly open "mouth" due to astonishment.

The sticky, metallic, and woody sensation, along with the physical impact, caused his entire phantom to lurch backward, stagger, and nearly lose his footing, stumbling backward a small step.

"Uh... Pfft!" The Crowned Voldemort instinctively waved his sleeve to brush the thing off his face, but because it was a soft, slimy substance, his "hand" got all over it.

His handsome features were contorted beneath the mud, his rage almost bursting through his skull—if his skull were still covered by hair.

Tom, after successfully hitting the mud in the face with a shot, instantly switched modes.

He straightened his hind legs slightly, and with lightning speed, he raised one front paw to his face. His pink paw paws rubbed against his cheek, pulling the corner of his mouth back to reveal more of his sharp little teeth and pink gums.

At the same time, the nimble tongue stuck out and moved quickly below the nose and in front of the lips.

"Hehehehehe—!!! Ptooey ptooey ptooey! Bald, ugly monster!"

A standard, provocative, and childishly gloating grimac!

But that's not enough.

Tom used his other paw to vigorously rub his head, which, though covered in dust, was still fluffy, thick, and clearly defined, its blue-gray fur seemingly gleaming with a healthy sheen even in the dim light.

It rubbed it a couple of times and deliberately shook its head, making its thick, beautiful fur ripple like waves.

The meaning in their eyes couldn't be clearer.

Look at Tom's shiny, healthy fur! And look at your gleaming bald head! It'll make you so mad! Hehehe!

This series of punches, from physical blows to mental attacks, completely shattered Voldemort's remaining rationality and so-called "Dark Lord demeanor"!

"I'm going to pluck out every single hair from your head!!!"

The roar was no longer cold, but filled with a ferocious hoarseness, like the howl of a wild beast.

He no longer cared about elegant spellcasting, profound magic, or the need for caution in the first step of the resurrection plan...

He has only one thought in his mind right now.

Catch that damned cat! Torture it in the cruelest way possible! Make it pay for its actions for all eternity!

Tom, after making a face and showing off his fur, had no intention of lingering to appreciate the other's rage.

Tom, who is experienced in combat or provocation, knows that the best strategy is to provoke and then run away!

He suddenly lowered his limbs, and then—

"call out!"

The four furry paws instantly transformed into four blurry phantoms!

It's as if each claw is equipped with a miniature propeller, scratching at a high speed that's almost impossible to detect with the naked eye!

The claws flew about, even stirring up small whirlwinds of dust!

Tom the cat was like a blue-gray plush cannonball that was suddenly launched, and he darted away with a "whoosh".

The direction was towards the more chaotic and obstructed areas deep within the pile of debris.

There were overturned cabinets, mountains of old textbooks, and scattered scrap metal... a perfect terrain for a cat to maneuver around with its agile body.

"You're not getting away!"

The illusory image of Voldemort, blinded by rage, roared and shot out without thinking!

His long legs, made of smoke and magic, blurred instantly, turning into two wildly spinning black phantoms!

It looks remarkably similar to Tom's "propeller claws," only larger, more elusive, and accompanied by a hissing sound of emanating magic.

A ghostly figure with a crown, a Mediterranean hairstyle, and a distorted face swung its two "propeller legs" and crashed through the debris in its path at an astonishing speed, relentlessly chasing after the "four-wheel drive" blue-gray fur ball, and charged deep into the debris area.