My partner at Hogwarts is Tom

Chapter 96 Sex Sex Sex Sex

The air in the office became both tense and comical amidst the sounds of "pop pop" and screams of "Ooh ho ho ho!"

That miniature Voldemort that Tom forcibly "pulled" out of his diary, tied up like a dumpling, and topped with a bow.

At this moment, it was tethered to a thin rope hanging from the chandelier, like a comical Christmas decoration being blown by the wind, spinning and swaying in mid-air as Tom rhythmically lashed it with his pointer.

The handsome features of his face, once those of young Tom Riddle, were now completely distorted by extreme shock, humiliation, and persistent pain.

His wide, bloodshot eyes were filled with the bewilderment of a worldview collapsing.

who am I? where am I?

I, Voldemort, the greatest dark wizard of all time, a pioneer beyond death, one of my most important Horcruxes—how could I be spanked by a cat with a cane?!

This is wrong! This is completely wrong! Horcruxes should be invincible! They should be the foundation of immortality! They should be the most exquisite and powerful creations of dark magic!

Layer upon layer of protection, telepathy, it can only be destroyed by a very few specific methods—definitely not by a cat drawing a door, taking it out, and then using it as a spinning top!

Is something wrong with the world?

Dumbledore pushed up his crescent-shaped glasses, and his blue eyes behind the lenses sparkled with an undisguised smile.

But he controlled the curve of his mouth well, making it look more like a gentle and slightly sentimental smile.

He cleared his throat and his gaze fell on the spinning "top".

"Long time no see—" he began habitually, but a glance out of the corner of his eye revealed Tom, who was puffing out his chest, hands on his hips, with a "I'm amazing, praise me" look on his face. He quickly changed his tone, "—yes, Riddle."

This call, like a pebble thrown into muddy water, barely managed to pull Voldemort out of his endless cycle of pain and existential doubt, leaving him with a sliver of clarity.

He struggled to turn his head, which was still a bit dazed from the slap, and looked at the old principal he had both feared and hated since his student days.

"Long time no see, Professor." His voice was hoarse, with the hollow echo unique to souls, and a comical quality as he tried to maintain the last shred of arrogance but was distorted by pain.

He tried to make himself look more respectable, even if he was tied up and hanging in the air being beaten.

Dumbledore nodded, as if it were just a normal reunion between teacher and student in the hallway or at the classroom door.

"Why did you return to Hogwarts?"

His tone was calm, even gentle, as if engaged in an academic discussion.

A sneer, like a cold laugh, escaped Voldemort's throat from the diary, though it sounded somewhat broken due to the spinning of the pages.

"What—our great Dumbledore—still has doubts? In order to—fulfill Lord Slytherin's—great will—purify this school—"

He struggled to organize his thoughts, trying to regain a sense of control.

"If you give me that damn cat, perhaps I can answer your questions in more detail."

He hadn't finished speaking.

"Meow--!!!"

Tom, who was enjoying Victor's gentle scratching of his chin and Professor McGonagall's complicated gaze, suddenly perked up his ears.

Handed over to you? You want to tattle on me? You want my master to hand me over?!

Seeing the still stubborn diary, Voldemort Tom instantly became furious.

It reached its paw behind its round rear end and pulled out a plain-looking wooden fly swatter with worn, shiny edges.

Immediately afterward, before Voldemort could even react or see what was happening, the diary...

Tom pushed off with his hind legs, leaping lightly into the air, his body tracing a graceful arc. He grabbed the fly swatter, and with all his might, smacked the spinning, gray-green spirit's rear end hard!

This time, it landed solidly, with a crisp and loud sound that even drowned out the creaking of the chandelier as it rotated.

"Oh ho ho ho ho!!!!"

Voldemort let out an unprecedented, piercing, and distorted scream from his diary!

The soul twisted and vibrated violently, almost breaking free from the ribbon binding it.

The enormous impact made him spin like a top being whipped, suddenly accelerating his rotation!

The chandelier also began to groan under the strain, creaking and swaying as it rotated.

Tom landed firmly, looked at the mini Voldemort that he had slapped so hard that it was spinning wildly and screaming in agony, and narrowed his emerald green eyes in satisfaction.

It didn't stop; instead, as if it had found a new toy, it leisurely adjusted its stance, gripped the fly swatter handle with both paws, and assumed a standard battering posture.

One spin, two spins—when the gray-green "top," blurred by its rapid rotation, returned to Tom's front—

Snapped!

Another incredibly precise and powerful slap! The spot was perfect, right on the butt!

"Aaaaaah!!!"

The spinning accelerated again! The scream rose an octave!

Snapped!Snapped!Snapped!Snapped!Snapped!

Tom was completely in the zone.

Instead of waiting for a complete spin, it continuously swung the fly swatter with dazzling speed and amazing precision, based on the rotation speed and trajectory of the gyroscope!

Each strike was accompanied by a crisp "smack" and an even more pitiful "Oh ho, hoo hoo, ughhhh—"

—

O

The sounds in the office suddenly became very rhythmic.

The creaking of the spinning chandelier, the slapping of the fly swatter, and Voldemort's furious cry from the beginning in the diary, "I am the Dark Lord! How dare you!"

.

Later, with an attempt at negotiation, came the line, "Stop! We can talk—Dumbledore! Professor!"

Finally, it completely devolves into meaningless, mechanical wails that rise and fall with the rhythm of the blows: "Ah—ah—ah ah ah—uh—".

The dense "pattering" sounds almost blended together, like a sudden rain pounding on banana leaves.

The chandelier spun like a disco ball in a ballroom, causing the "decorations" above it to transform into a blurry gray-green light and shadow.

Dumbledore had somehow already sat back in his armchair, and even conjured up a small dish of cockroaches.

He picked one up with relish, put it in his mouth and chewed slowly, all the while watching the spectacle unfold before him with a smile.

Whenever Voldemort struggled to turn his face toward him in his diary, trying to make a "negotiation" request with his eyes or broken voice, Dumbledore would at the opportune moment show a bewildered expression as if to say, "I'm too old to hear properly, what did you say?"

Then they would focus more intently on studying the color of the next pile of cockroaches, or look up to admire the rotating art of the chandelier, completely immersed in the sights of a bystander.

Professor McGonagall went from being shocked and speechless at first, to frowning, and then looking at Voldemort's disheveled appearance and Tom's "hard work" spirit.

His lips twitched a few times, eventually turning into a barely audible sigh. He shook his head, but his gaze remained fixed on her.

Victor, arms crossed, leaned against the edge of the desk, looking at Tom with an expression that was a mixture of helplessness, amusement, and indulgence.

He could sense that Tom was not just "punishing" or "playing" him, but rather using it as a way to assert dominance and vent his anger.

A complete crushing of "Bad Tom," who tried to harm Ginny, threatened Hogwarts, and dared to disrespect his master.

Finally, after being whipped countless times, Voldemort's mechanical wails on the chandelier had become weak and intermittent.

His translucent soul seemed to have dimmed and thinned considerably, and the handsome features that once belonged to sixteen-year-old Tom Riddle on his face were now only numb and dull, his scarlet eyes lost focus.

It just blinks instinctively as it spins and strikes, as if its soul has been emptied out, leaving only an empty shell that reacts by inertia.

Just as his rotation reached its peak due to a slightly heavier blow from Tom, his consciousness completely dissipated into a blank.

Viktor, who had been standing quietly by observing, finally moved.

He raised his wand silently, his wrist moving steadily and gently.

The tip of the staff emanated a silvery-white light, not from offensive spells, but from ancient runes that were complex and contained the power of exploration and connection.

These runes were not written on parchment, but appeared out of thin air in the office, like living silver stars, slowly rotating and arranging themselves.

At the same time, behind him, the air distorted slightly, and a semi-transparent phantom quietly appeared.

It was a creature with an elegant and agile physique, smooth lines like a cheetah, yet possessing the unique mystery of felines—the cat-leopard.

Its enormous, azure eyes opened, their gaze deep and unfathomable, as if they could see through appearances and glimpse the very essence of the soul.

At that moment, those eyes slowly overlapped with Viktor's eyes, and in Viktor's black pupils, the wise and sharp gaze of the cat-leopard was faintly reflected.

Viktor's "vision" penetrated physical barriers, ignoring the residual, chaotic self-protective consciousness on the surface of the soul, and directly probed into the depths of the "mind" of the rapidly spinning, disoriented mini Voldemort.

That place holds the core fragments of sixteen-year-old Tom Riddle's memories and personality, storing his deepest secrets, knowledge, and plans.

There was no resistance, no traps, and not even much distracting thought.

It was like entering a treasure vault whose gates had been forcibly broken open and whose guards had all been knocked unconscious.

Viktor's thoughts, like the most precise probe, swiftly swept past the vast and useless stream of information about ambition, hatred, black magic research, and the desire for immortality, heading straight for two of the most crucial and clearest "coordinates."

The location of the basilisk and how to open the secret room.

Images and information flooded in like a torrent.

A cold, dark, and enormous natural cave buried deep beneath the castle's foundation.

Perception travels down a vast, damp pipe, thick with years of accumulated slime and shed scales, deeper and deeper, into unimaginable depths beneath the foundations of Hogwarts Castle.

There is a naturally formed, dark cave that has been enlarged and reinforced by magic.

The cold, lifeless air was almost stagnant, with only a pool of dark green, foul-smelling water in the center shimmering faintly.

And in the shadows at the edge of the puddles, a massive, chilling silhouette lurked.

Its bright yellow, lantern-sized vertical pupils were tightly closed, its eyelids covered with a thick layer of keratin, and its body, which snaked like the roots of an ancient tree, coiled in circles. In the absolute darkness, its scales occasionally reflected a dim, faint light belonging to a cold-blooded animal.

It was asleep, but even in its slumber, the ancient and deadly aura emanating from it was enough to freeze the blood of any intruder.

Salazar Slytherin's pet, the Thousand-Year Basilisk.

Then there was the snake-shaped faucet in the abandoned bathroom.

But the perspective is different; it's not about observing from the outside, but about "understanding" from the inside.

It was not just a decoration; it was an intricately designed magical "keyhole."

The key is not a specific spell or prop, but a sound.

A specific hissing sound that implies commands and authority.

When the correct "password" is given, the mechanism is activated, and the pool will disappear like an illusion, revealing a dark, vertical pipe entrance below, large enough for one person to pass through, leading to the deep underground kingdom.

"Open it." Viktor "heard" that voice from his memory, cold, slippery, and commanding with an unquestionable tone.

Information acquisition complete.

Viktor slowly withdrew his magic, and the cat-leopard phantom behind him let out a silent whistle before dissipating into specks of silver light.

The ancient runes in mid-air also dimmed and disappeared.

Almost as soon as he withdrew his magic, Dumbledore's gentle yet inquisitive voice rang out, drowning out the fading "snap" sounds: "Looks like you've gained something, Victor?"

The focus in the office shifted instantly.

Tom also stopped waving the fly swatter, letting the chandelier slowly stop spinning, carrying the mini Voldemort whose eyes had become vacant and whose soul seemed to have become more transparent.

It slammed the fly swatter to the ground like an old soldier leaning on a cane, one paw on its hip, panting heavily, but its chin held high, waiting to hear Viktor's "battle report".

Viktor nodded, rubbed his slightly throbbing temples, and answered in a steady but clear voice.

"The basilisk is dormant in a very deep natural cave beneath the castle. Its location is extremely well hidden; its magical energy is almost blending into the rocky strata, making it very difficult to detect with conventional methods."

He paused, then looked at Dumbledore. "As for the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets, it is indeed the faucet in that washroom."

How to activate — requires Snake Language.

Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully and smiled approvingly.

“Excellent work, Victor. Now, there are two things to prioritize: first, make sure the Basilisk is under our control, or—properly dealt with. Second, completely eliminate this,” he gestured to the chandelier, “and its other brothers and sisters.”

His gaze sharpened again as he looked at the miniature Voldemort, who had finally regained some clarity from his daze and was looking at them with eyes that were a mixture of resentment, humiliation, and a hint of barely perceptible fear.

"Well then, Tom Riddle," Dumbledore's voice returned to its calm tone, but with a sense of finality, "your little adventure is over."

Voldemort's spirit trembled violently in the diary; he seemed to want to say something, to threaten, to curse.

But when his gaze fell upon Tom the cat beside him, who was stretching his wrists and staring at him with hostile eyes, all the words stuck in his throat, turning into only a weak and unwilling hiss.

Seeing his expression, Tom grinned, smiled silently, and then—

It pulled out a small, brass-looking manual air pump from somewhere.

Amidst the puzzled gazes of the crowd, Tom skillfully connected one end of the hose to the air pump, and the other end—

It was shoved directly into the "mouth" of the miniature Voldemort's translucent soul form!

"Ugh! Waaah—!" Voldemort stared wide-eyed in terror, struggling in vain.

Tom ignored it all, pushed off with his hind legs, grabbed the pump handle with his front paws, and started pumping air vigorously!

"Pfft pfft pfft—"

—

As Tom moved, the mini Voldemort's soul began to expand at a visible speed, like a balloon!

From the size of a human head, it swelled to the size of a pumpkin, and then to the size of a bucket —

The soul became increasingly transparent, and the gray-green mist was "stretched" thin, stretching the outline of the handsome young man inside into a distorted and comical shape.

"No—stop—you—damn cat—" Voldemort's broken voice squeezed out from the "air valve," filled with despair.

Tom ignored him and hit even harder, his little face full of focus and a serious expression of "I'm doing a good deed".

Finally, when Mini Voldemort swelled to almost half the size of a chandelier and was as thin as a giant, about-to-burst soap bubble, Tom stopped.

It pulled out the hose and nimbly jumped back a few steps.

Then, it raised its paw, extended a sharp claw tip, and gently poked the huge, transparent, swaying soul balloon.

"Pfft!!!!!"

A long, loud sound, like a deflated balloon, echoed throughout the office!

The enormous soul balloon collapsed and deformed inward from the puncture point, and then with a "whoosh," it darted and spun wildly and erratically in the air like a deflated balloon, while rapidly shrinking!

"Waaaaaaahh ...

The spirit rampaged through the office for a few seconds, then grew smaller and fainter.

Finally, with a soft "pop," it turned into a wisp of insignificant gray-green smoke and completely dissipated into the air, leaving not a trace.

A brief silence fell over the office.

Tom put away the air pump, clapped his paws, as if he had just finished a trivial chore.

It walked to Viktor's feet, rubbed against his trouser leg, raised its head, and blinked its big, bright green eyes, as if to say, "See, done! Clean and hygienic!"

Dumbledore stared silently at the spot where Voldemort had vanished. After a moment, he sighed softly, whether with emotion or relief, it was hard to tell.

He looked at the diary on the table, which now showed no magical fluctuations whatsoever, and whose cover was even beginning to crack slightly.

"Then, this greatest creation," he walked slowly to the table, picked up the diary, and ran his fingertips along the rough cover, "has also completed its historical mission."

He took the diary, walked to the fireplace, and without using any magic, gently tossed it into the leaping flames.

The flames shot up with a whoosh, greedily licking the paper.

This time, there was no black smoke, no screams, only the slight crackling sound and burnt smell of ordinary paper and leather burning.

Soon, the diary turned into a small pile of ashes, which rose with the hot air currents and eventually disappeared deep into the chimney.

Beneath Hogwarts Castle, in a deep, dark cave.

The enormous serpent monster, coiled like a mountain, had its tightly closed, lantern-sized, yellowish vertical pupils tremble almost imperceptibly.

A thin, almost invisible gray-green film of light quietly peeled off its body, which was covered with thick scales, as if shedding a layer of dead skin, and then dissipated into the cold air.

The extremely subtle and coercive connection that bound it to a particular entity, invisible yet deeply ingrained, has quietly broken.

Inside the office, Dumbledore turned around, the firelight dancing on his silver beard and half-moon spectacles, yet now casting a warm glow.

He looked at Victor and Tom, a genuine, relaxed smile spreading across his face.

"I think," he said, his voice regaining its usual gentleness and strength.

"We can begin preparing for the next step. Regarding the sleeping serpent, and—how to properly visit—Salazar Slytherin's Chamber of Secrets."

His gaze swept over the unconscious Lockhart. "Of course, before that, we still need to deal with the issue of our memory master." "Minerva, please inform Mrs. Pomfrey and ensure that Professor Lockhart, once awakened, is in a safe and easily communicable condition."

Professor McGonagall nodded seriously and immediately took action.

Victor bent down, picked Tom up, and placed him on his shoulder.

Tom nuzzled his cheek affectionately, purring contentedly.

Outside the window, the night at Hogwarts remained deep, but the crisis in a corner of the castle had quietly been averted.

Dumbledore walked to the window, gazing at the vast night outside the castle and the direction of the Forbidden Forest, and murmured to himself.

"The pursuit of immortality—sometimes, is not as practical as having a reliable cat."