The greedy stare of the diadem Horcrux clung to Tom like a sticky spiderweb.
Tom, still a bit dizzy from his sudden "resurrection," shook his head. The rush of his soul returning and the life force he'd just shoved back into his body made him instinctively stretch in comfort.
He extended a front paw and dusted off the debris and grime on his fur, his movements regaining their usual, slightly snooty crispness.
Then, he looked up.
Right into the dark, bottomless eyes of the diadem Voldemort.
What churned within those eyes wasn't just pure murderous intent or rage anymore.
It was something... Tom was incredibly familiar with.
Feverish, hyper-focused, and fiercely determined. It carried a burning desire to seize and possess.
Just like... just like how Tom himself stared at a sizzling, top-tier grilled fish a house-elf just served!
Or how he looked at the color-changing Gobstones the Weasley twins secretly hoarded!
That primal, ooh, shiny and tasty, it's MINE look!
Except, right now, it was projecting from this handsome but deathly pale and sinister human face.
And it was magnified a million times over, laced with a deeply unsettling, icy calculation and greed.
It was ten thousand times worse than the look those poachers he hated so much gave his tail!
Tom's fur puffed up instantly!
"Meow-ow!"
Every muscle went taut. His tail bottle-brushed dangerously. His blue eyes burned with offended fury and high alert.
Being sized up as "prey" or "property" pissed Boss Tom off. A lot.
Almost instinctively, he kicked his hind legs, taking a half-step back, and aggressively thrust his rear out—
Poof. A soft sound, as if something was squeezed out from his fluffy fur.
In the next second, Tom's two front paws firmly gripped a metal object that appeared out of nowhere—one that seemed entirely too massive and heavy for a cat.
A gun!
A classic double-barreled shotgun, its wooden stock scarred with age and use!
The barrel gleamed with cold, hard steel. The two gaping muzzles sat side-by-side, absurdly large—looking less like a bird-hunting rifle and more like a tool to blow a flimsy wooden door off its hinges.
The barrel alone was longer than Tom's entire body. He clutched it to his chest in a strained but fiercely determined stance.
Without a second of hesitation, bracing his weight on his hind legs, Tom shoved the heavy shotgun forward with his front paws—
Thud! The cold, unyielding muzzles were shoved firmly, even rudely, right under the chin of the phantom Voldemort, who was still lost in his manic "I found the ultimate treasure" high.
To be precise, it rested against the semi-transparent, cleanly defined magical construct of his jawbone.
The freezing touch and sudden physical contact snapped Voldemort slightly out of his greedy fantasy.
He lowered his gaze, looking at the object shoved in his "face."
When he registered what it was, a flicker of bewilderment crossed his pale, handsome features, only to be instantly drowned out by overwhelming contempt and mockery.
He let out a short, incredibly condescending scoff.
"Heh."
"A... Muggle toy?" His voice dripped with raw disdain, as if looking at the most pathetic joke in the world.
"You intend to challenge the great Tom Riddle with this... crude, magically inert lump of iron?"
He didn't even bother raising a hand to swat the barrel away. He just looked down his nose at Tom with his dark eyes, his expression practically oozing pity.
Like watching a stupid rabbit try to fight a dragon with a dandelion.
"Your stupidity has once again exceeded my expectations, little cat. Perhaps I should consider preserving this... laughable trait of yours?"
This naked contempt—like trampling Boss Tom and his newly drawn "treasure" straight into the mud—ignited the cat's rage completely!
"MEOW—!!!"
Tom's whiskers stood on end. His blue eyes blazed with a "death before dishonor" inferno.
Why waste breath on this annoying idiot?
As Viktor always said: there's no point reasoning with a moron who doesn't speak your language. Just shoot 'em!
Without a hint of hesitation, he hugged the stock tight, channeled every ounce of his strength and the anger-fueled vitality he'd just regained into the paw gripping the trigger, and yanked it back hard—
BANG—!!!!!!! It wasn't an ordinary gunshot.
The sound was savage, brutal, bursting with an unreasonable, physical destructive force. It was the roar of a metal beast unleashed in a confined space!
The muzzle didn't just spit a little fire; it erupted with two massive shockwaves of blinding white light and thick black smoke!
The colossal recoil violently shoved Tom's entire body backward. He slid across the pile of junk on his rear for a short distance, but his paws maintained a death grip on the stock.
In the exact microsecond Tom pulled the trigger!
Right before the deafening boom fully detonated and the white flash even appeared!
A primal, bone-chilling premonition of death—like a surge of high-voltage electricity—rocketed up Voldemort's spine and slammed into the back of his skull!
This wasn't just a magical threat perception. It was a cruder, more barbaric omen of destruction aimed at his very form of existence!
The sneer on his handsome face didn't even have time to transition to shock before his body reacted ahead of his conscious mind—
It was an absolute, instinctual evasion honed through countless brushes with death against Dumbledore and other powerful wizards!
Swoosh! His entire upper torso, especially his head and neck, snapped back and shrank down with a speed and flexibility that outright defied physics!
It was so fast it left a faint afterimage!
It was as if his neck had instantly turned into a spring, or like a turtle yanking its head back into the "shell" of its chest and shoulders!
BOOM—!!! The explosive roar and shockwave finally fully erupted, completely obliterating the space where his head had just been, along with a massive chunk of the junk pile behind him!
A suffocating cloud of acrid gunpowder smoke, flying dust, and shattered debris instantly bloomed, engulfing the area where Tom and the phantom Voldemort stood in a churning gray cloud.
"Cough! Cough cough cough!"
From the smoke came the sound of Tom hacking sharply, followed by the whoosh-whoosh of his paws frantically swatting the air to clear the fumes.
A few seconds later, as the room's dust slowly settled and a faint breeze scattered the worst of the gunpowder smoke, the scene cleared.
Tom was back on his feet, still clutching the double-barreled shotgun that looked far too menacing for his size.
He coughed while using one front paw to swat the air away from his face in sheer disgust, his blue eyes watering from the smoke.
And opposite him...
The phantom of Voldemort had "stood up" straight again.
His retracted head slowly, with a hint of stiffness and lag, "popped" back out of his chest, restoring his neck to its normal proportions.
But...
His once-lustrous, jet-black hair—flawlessly slicked back—was gone.
In its place sat a smooth, shiny, faintly oily... massive oval wasteland right in the center of his scalp.
Surrounding this "wasteland" was a stubborn rim of thinning but still-black hair, clinging desperately around his ears and the back of his head.
It was the classic, undeniable, and jarringly neat—due to the sharp edge of the blast—British middle-aged male combover-turned-bald-spot!
Voldemort didn't seem to fully realize the change in his cranial landscape yet.
His face still carried the lingering shock of the extreme evasion, mixed with the resurgent fury of being disturbed by such a barbaric attack.
Instinctively, he raised a hand, as if to smooth his hair or check his condition.
The moment he raised his hand—
Because his turtle-neck dodge had been so aggressive and fast...
The Ravenclaw diadem, which had been levitating above him and anchored to his magical form, had reacted a half-second too late.
Now, ending its delayed descent, the dull crown landed with a distinct clack. It settled perfectly, securely, and squarely right in the dead center of Voldemort's fresh, gleaming bald spot!
The cold metal edge rested flush against the remaining ring of black hair.
The large, now extremely dim sapphire dangled perfectly over his forehead, swaying slightly.
The crown was placed upon a truly "brilliant" (and bald) head.
For a moment, an eerie silence fell over the junk room.
Only the lingering, acrid smell of gunpowder remained, along with Tom's curious, schadenfreude-filled stare once he finally stopped coughing.
Voldemort froze.
His half-raised hand hung suspended in mid-air.
Slowly, excruciatingly slowly, he brought his other hand up to touch the top of his head...
A smooth texture.
The cold chill of metal.
And the familiar, but now horribly out-of-place, outline of the diadem.
His dark eyes strained upward, trying to look at the top of his own head, though he obviously couldn't see the full picture.
He snapped his hand down and glared deadly at Tom, who was still hugging the shotgun, and then at the twins behind the cat, whose jaws were unhinged wide enough to swallow a Doxy egg.
From the twins' terrified yet agonizingly suppressed, contorted faces... he read everything.
"..."
Voldemort's pale, handsome face flushed a violent crimson at a visible rate.
Though he was a phantom, the rippling magical aura clearly broadcasted his absolute rage and... humiliation.
The diadem on his head seemed to emit a faint hum in time with his trembling body.
"YOU... DAMN... CAT!!!"
He ground the words out, syllable by syllable. His voice sounded like it was squeezed from the depths of hell—bone-chilling, carrying a murderous wrath that the waters of all the oceans couldn't wash away.
A terrifying wave of dark magic erupted from him like a physical black tide!
Instantly, the entire junk section of the Room of Requirement began to violently shake!
But Tom? Faced with this apocalyptic fury and magical oppression, he just tilted his head.
He took one look at Voldemort's glaring new "hairdo," perfectly framed by the diadem, and the sapphire that somehow looked even duller from pure anger.
Then, slowly, with slightly clumsy but absolute determination, Tom leveled the double-barreled shotgun again.
The dark muzzles rose.
This time, aimed right at Voldemort's... chest.
There wasn't an ounce of fear in Tom's blue eyes.
Only the reckless, unhinged glint of a cat thinking, I don't care what kind of demon you are. You look at Boss Tom like that, you mess up my fur, you get the boom-stick. "Meow."
Bring it, baldy. He bared his sharp little teeth in a silent snarl.
Voldemort's dark eyes, burning with rage and disgrace, locked onto Tom and the black muzzles aimed at him once more.
He had enough. He was completely done with this stupid cat's repeated offenses and absurd, logic-defying tactics!
"Your tedious parlor tricks end now."
His cold voice rang out; he didn't even bother fully incanting.
The diadem-wearing, bald-spotted phantom simply, elegantly raised his right hand and pointed a long finger at the shotgun in Tom's grip.
An invisible wave of magic, heavily laced with the intent to "disarm" and "soften," crossed the space instantly.
It wasn't a destructive blasting curse or lethal dark magic.
It was more like an advanced, hybrid transfiguration softening charm.
Precise and highly efficient—a minor trick for a magical genius of his caliber.
More than enough to deal with a Muggle contraption.
Tom felt a sudden heaviness in his paws. Immediately, the cold, hard, terrifyingly metallic shotgun took on an incredibly bizarre texture.
The barrel... was bending?
The wooden stock... was turning to mush?
It was as if the gun had been tossed into a blast furnace, or had all its bones removed, rapidly losing its shape and rigidity!
"Meow?!" Tom looked down in shock.
The heavy rifle in his paws had turned into a boneless, dead snake. Or like a massive lump of over-proofed dough, drooping limply.
The metal took on a sick, matte grey color, the wood grain melted and twisted, and the muzzles flopped downward. It didn't look like a lethal weapon anymore.
It looked like a weird, cheap rubber toy.
Tom gave it an experimental shake. The "limp gun" wobbled powerlessly, even giving a somewhat bouncy jiggle.
Now he couldn't even hold it straight!
Watching Tom's bewildered expression, the corner of Voldemort's mouth finally curled back up into the cold, triumphant smirk of a victor.
Even though the smile looked utterly ridiculous paired with his current haircut, the cruelty and dark joy in his eyes were entirely real.
"What do you have left to rely on now, little beast?" He drifted a step forward, his slow pace amplifying the phantom's oppressive aura. "Submit, and become my—"
Before he could finish his monologue about "collections" or "research subjects"—
Tom's shock quickly gave way to the irritated glare of a provoked cat and a decisive, screw it, let's just do this attitude.
Looking at the limp, useless "scrap metal" in his paws, Tom didn't try to "fix" it or look for another weapon.
Without a second of hesitation, he went straight to a pissed-off feline's most primal instinct—
Meow-ow! Screw you! He hoisted the limp gun with both paws, not to aim, but treating it like a hot potato or a disgusting piece of garbage.
Using every ounce of his strength, he wound up and violently chucked the soft, putty-like shotgun right at Voldemort's still-smirking face!
It was a completely formless attack, a throw driven purely by rage.
But precisely because it had no warning, no magical signature, and was aimed right at the infuriating face practically an inch away...
It caught Voldemort—who had just finished his spell and was basking in his "master of the situation" high—completely off guard!
The limp, squishy mass of "gun putty," carrying the full kinetic energy of Tom's throw, hit its mark dead-on with a sickening SPLAT!
It slapped right onto the phantom's face!
The putty flattened out, covering half of his features. A chunk of it even lodged into the mouth he had opened in surprise.
The sticky, clammy texture, reeking of a weird mix of metal and wood, combined with the physical impact, rocked the entire phantom backward. He stumbled, almost losing his footing, and staggered back a step in utter disgrace.
"Urgh... Pfft!" Voldemort reflexively swatted at his face with a sleeve, only to get a "handful" of the gooey substance.
His handsome features contorted under the sludge, his fury threatening to blow the roof off his skull—if his skull still had hair to cover it, that is.
Meanwhile, having successfully plastered his enemy's face, Tom instantly switched gears.
He reared up slightly on his hind legs, brought a front paw up to his face with lightning speed, and used his pink beans to pull the corner of his mouth back, baring his sharp little teeth and pink gums.
At the same time, his nimble tongue rolled out, vibrating rapidly right below his nose.
Pbbt-pbbt-pbbt-pbbt! Ptooey! Baldy ugly-face! A textbook, completely juvenile, gloating raspberry!
But he wasn't done.
With his other paw, Tom smugly and ostentatiously rubbed the top of his own head. Sure, it was dusty, but his blue-grey fur was incredibly thick, fluffy, and practically glowing with health in the dim light.
He rubbed it a couple of times, then purposefully shook his head, making his luxurious, thick coat ripple like a wave.
The message in his eyes couldn't be clearer:
Look at Boss Tom's luscious, glossy fur! Now look at your shiny, bald dome! Die mad about it! Pbbt! This rapid-fire combo—from physical face-slapping to psychological annihilation—completely shattered what was left of Voldemort's sanity and his so-called "Dark Lord poise."
"I—AM—GOING—TO—PLUCK—YOUR—FUR—OUT—ONE—HAIR—AT—A—TIME—!!!"
The roar was no longer cold; it was a rabid, hoarse screech, like a wild beast howling.
He abandoned any thought of elegant spellcasting, advanced magic, or the cautious first steps of his resurrection plan...
Right now, only one thought consumed him.
Catch the damn cat! Torture it in the most horrific way imaginable! Make it pay for all eternity for what it had just done!
But Tom, the moment he finished his raspberry and fur-flex, had zero intention of sticking around to admire the fallout.
Tom, a veteran of many battles (or rather, provocations), knew the golden rule: gloat and bolt! He dropped onto all fours, crouching low, and then—
ZOOOM! His four furry paws instantly turned into a blur of motion!
It was like tiny propellers were attached to his feet, spinning at a frequency the naked eye could barely track!
His paws churned so fast they kicked up a miniature tornado of dust!
Tom looked like a blue-grey, furry cannonball as he launched himself forward with a loud woosh.
He sprinted straight into the deepest, most chaotic, obstacle-ridden depths of the junk piles.
Toppled cabinets, mountains of old textbooks, scattered scrap metal... the perfect terrain for a cat to use its agility to run circles around an enemy.
"YOU CANNOT ESCAPE ME!"
Driven completely mad by rage, the phantom Voldemort roared and shot forward without a second thought!
His long legs, made of smoke and magic, blurred out as well, turning into two frantically spinning black vortexes!
It looked bizarrely similar to Tom's "propeller paws," just much larger, more ethereal, and accompanied by the crackling hiss of leaking magic.
A ghostly figure—sporting a diadem, a middle-aged combover, and a twisted face—whipped his "propeller legs" at terrifying speeds. Crashing and rumbling through the debris, he chased relentlessly after the "four-wheel-drive" blue-grey furball, plunging headlong into the depths of the junk room.