Tom fell silent, his fragnt of a soul flickering uneasily. He dismissed Erwin’s words as pure rubbish. Wasn’t it obvious?
Erwin pressed on. "The second condition is straightforward—just buy so diaries. They don’t cost much in Galleons. But the first one? That’s the real hurdle. After all, it’s a Horcrux. These things are notoriously tricky to handle!"
"Since you know that," Tom retorted, "I suggest you quit while you’re ahead!"
Erwin smirked. "If I quit, I’ll have to find another way to be rid of you. Are you truly ready to vanish?"
A shadow of dread crossed Tom’s ethereal form. Of course he wasn’t. If death was the goal, why bother clinging to existence as a Horcrux?
"I can help you," Tom offered quickly. "Even at seventeen, I was Voldemort. I know things—secrets that could aid you!"
Erwin waved him off. "Spare . Your only real value is your dark magic knowledge and the defenses it brings. But none of that impresses . So, you’ve got two paths: I repurpose you into a mass-produced tutor, or you cease to be."
Panic seized Tom. "This is on you, not ! If you fail, that’s your shortcoming—not mine. I won’t cooperate just for you to wipe out anyway!"
Erwin snapped his fingers. "So, Tom, you’ll play along then?"
Tom nodded vigorously. In his mind, Erwin’s failures were no fault of his own, so why risk annihilation? He figured Erwin had no grounds to destroy him.
He couldn’t have been more wrong. Erwin wasn’t one for fair play. But luckily, he did have a plan.
"I’ve got an idea," Erwin announced. "Worth a shot, at least."
Tom half-listened, skepticism etched into his spectral features. This was a Horcrux, after all. Even he, steeped in the Dark Arts from a young age, had barely managed one at seventeen. He doubted this boy wizard had the chops for soul-splitting wizardry.
Erwin ignored the doubt. "Here’s my angle: You’re a Horcrux—a soul fragnt, sure, but a complete entity in your own right. What if we split you further? Create a sub-fragnt from the fragnt?"
Tom’s eyes bulged. "Are you mad? Do you have any idea how agonizing it is to cleave a soul? And it requires murder! I can’t cast spells or harm a soul in my state!"
Erwin nodded thoughtfully. "I’ve mulled that over. I’ve got a theory—untested, mind you—but it feels solid. You’re the perfect guinea pig to prove it."
Tom scowled. "I’ve studied Horcruxes too. Explain yourself."
"It’s simple," Erwin said. "Murder enables soul-splitting for two reasons. First, even the coldest killer’s soul ripples during the act—making it fragile, easy to tear. Second, the victim’s soul lashes out in terror or rage, amplifying that vulnerability. Together, those forces weaken the caster’s essence just enough to sever it."
Tom frowned, the logic nagging at him. He’d never dissected it that way before—never even entertained the notion.
"How can you be certain?" he challenged.
Erwin shrugged. "I’m not. That’s why you’ll test it. You’re a soul shard—impervious to normal death. Ideal for experintation."
His reasoning wasn’t baseless. Ever since tapping into the Power of Death during that last clash, Erwin’s grasp on souls had sharpened. In the Forbidden Forest skirmish, slaying those vampires had left his own soul oddly suppressed, like a weight pressing down.
Later, peering into this very Horcrux, he’d sensed the sa clinging malaise on Tom’s fragnt. It stuck to him like tar.
Erwin had even consulted Headmaster Black on the matter. Piecing it together, he theorized that killing birthed a taphysical "knife"—born of killer’s detachnt and victim’s fury—that sliced the soul. That explained the murder prerequisite for Horcruxes. It all fit.
"So, what’s your sche?" Tom asked warily.
Erwin grinned. "I’ll forge that knife myself. Burn your fragnt with controlled Fiendfyre. You’ll hate for it—fear —and those emotions will shape the blade to carve you anew. Then, we get our tutor."
Tom stared, a chill rippling through his form. Unease twisted in him like a curse. He swallowed nothing—ghosts didn’t need to—but the gesture ca anyway.
"You... what exactly do you intend?"
Erwin’s eyes glead. "Simple: Fiendfyre, dialed back to a simr. It’ll scorch just enough to stir your resentnt and terror. Those will forge the soul-knife. Sound brilliant?"
Tom’s form shuddered. Burn him with Fiendfyre? Soul-devouring flas? Even if it didn’t end him, the agony would be exquisite torture.
"No!" he blurted. "Absolutely not!"
Erwin raised his wand. "Choices are die or endure. Life’s full of trials—you grit your teeth and push through."
Tom eyed the wand tip, dread coiling tight. Erwin wasn’t bluffing.
Monts later, anguished screams echoed through the chamber.
Fiendfyre kindled slowly around Tom’s fragnt, blue-black flas licking at the edges. Erwin gripped his wand, sweat beading on his brow as he wrestled for control.
This was no easy feat for him either—balancing the curse’s wild hunger without letting it consu everything. But if his theory held, it would work. And Tom? He’d just have to bear it.
...
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