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HRHL# CHAPTER 162
🕑 Added 2025-04-24 20:13:22 +0000 UTCPansy instinctively leaped backward.
Voldemort?
Tom Riddle?
What connection could there possibly be between the two?
“What are you talking about? I don’t understand!” Pansy retreated a few steps.
Harry snapped his fingers, and writhing vines coiled around Pansy’s legs.
“You know exactly what I’m asking, Miss Parkinson,” Harry said calmly, with an air of unruffled composure. “If you’ve made it to Slytherin’s Chamber, it proves you’re holding a certain notebook… one that belongs to Tom Marvolo Riddle… or rather, someone who calls herself Merope, doesn’t it?”
Pansy’s face twisted in shock, her hand instinctively moving to shield her abdomen.
How could she not recognize the name Harry had just spoken?
The notebook she clutched now belonged to Tom Riddle himself.
As for Merope…
Wasn’t Miss Merope the one who tutored Slytherin students last year?
What was the connection between the three of them?
“But he didn’t tell you, did he?” Harry continued. “In truth… he is Voldemort.”
Harry flashed Pansy a smile. If one ignored the context, he might have seemed the villain here.
“Impossible! Absolutely impossible!” Pansy shot back. “How could Mr. Riddle be the Dark Lord? You’re lying!”
As she spoke, a red glint flickered in Pansy’s eyes.
Harry discreetly cast a detection charm, noting an eerie red glow emanating from her body.
At that moment, Harry was nearly certain: Pansy was under Voldemort’s control.
But he didn’t know where Voldemort’s true form was hiding, and he couldn’t destroy Voldemort by harming Pansy Parkinson—not only was he unsure if Pansy was acting willingly, but she was still a Hogwarts student. No matter the circumstances, Harry couldn’t bring himself to do it.
There was another issue: if he killed both Pansy and Voldemort, he’d have no way to explain himself to Dumbledore—or to the professors who had always cared for him.
So, he decided on a different approach.
“Let me remind you,” Harry began, “the so-called pure-blood families you follow—your precious Voldemort—is actually a half-blood.” His tone turned biting. “Did you know? Voldemort’s real name is Tom Marvolo Riddle…”
As he spoke, Harry waved his wand, tracing a hissing line of fire in the air.
It spelled out Voldemort’s name.
“Look closely. Rearrange the letters, and it becomes… I am Voldemort.”
“And I know you come from a pure-blood family—the Parkinsons, right? You should know there’s no pure-blood family named Riddle.”
“What does that have to do with the Dark Lord?” Pansy asked, her eyes blazing red.
Harry glanced at her, the crimson glow in her eyes intensifying, and continued, “Let me tell you about last year’s so-called Miss Merope. My word—after Professor Dumbledore’s investigation, he discovered that Voldemort’s mother was named Merope Gaunt…”
“Did you know? That shameless Merope, infatuated with a handsome Muggle gentleman, stooped so low as to use a Love Potion. For an entire year, she violated that poor Muggle man. I can’t even imagine the torment it caused Mr. Riddle. When the potion’s effects wore off, he was furious and cast out the pregnant Merope.”
“How dare you speak of a witch like that! She did it for love!” Pansy’s hair seemed to bristle with rage.
“Idiot,” Harry scoffed. “If a goblin-faced man used a Love Potion to force you to bear his child, wouldn’t he deserve death? So… isn’t Merope, who deceived Mr. Riddle, just as vile? Honestly, Parkinson, can you stop with the double standards? Just because the perpetrator was a woman, she gets a pass? I wonder what kind of nonsense fills that head of yours.”
“Fine, let me continue,” Harry said, spreading his hands. “So, Merope Gaunt lost the will to live. After giving birth to Tom Riddle, she left him in an orphanage and ended her life in a snowy night.”
“Of course, the child was innocent—if only little Tom Riddle had grown up to be an exemplary student.”
“But you know what happened next. As a half-blood wizard, he somehow championed the cause of pure-blood supremacy, even fooling families like yours… My word, the greatest advocate of pure-blood ideology is a half-blood born of a Muggle union. Isn’t that the greatest irony in the world?”
Before Harry could finish, Pansy raised her hand and fired a sickly green beam.
A massive stone hand erupted from the ground, seizing the green light and snuffing it out.
“Getting desperate, are we?” Harry said, jerking his thumb at Pansy.
Pansy’s hair whipped about as if caught in a windless storm, standing on end. She was clearly furious.
“I was talking about that shameless predator Merope. Why are you so worked up?” Harry asked coolly. “Unless… oh, unless you’re her son, Tom Marvolo Riddle?”
“My word, if your father knew your mother forced herself on him, named you after him, and used her last magic to make you look like him—I bet he’d be sick to his stomach.”
At that, Harry covered his mouth, feigning last year’s mock surprise. “Oh, I forgot—Tom, your father didn’t love you either!”
“Harry… Potter!” Pansy hissed, flinging another curse.
“You’re awfully naughty, Tom,” Harry said, catching the spell with another stone hand, relentlessly peeling back Voldemort’s disguise. “Look at you. Last year, you were wreaking havoc in the Slytherin boys’ dormitory—fine, you’re all boys, I’ll let that slide. But this year? You’ve escalated to deceiving girls. You disgust me, Tom… What would your Death Eaters think if they knew?”
“Shut up!” Pansy screamed, frantic. “Shut your mouth, Potter! I challenge you to a duel!”
“You’re really desperate,” Harry said, shaking his head. “I’m just stating facts, and you’re falling apart. Come on, then—show me your true face… Tom, or rather, Voldemort. Didn’t Dumbledore teach you manners? You bow before a duel.”
With that, Harry gave an elegant bow.
Seeing Pansy still standing rigid, Harry’s expression darkened.
“I said… bow!”
An overwhelming force pressed down on Pansy’s shoulders. She let out a muffled groan and reluctantly bent into an awkward bow.
“No more hiding, Tom,” Harry said gracefully. “It’s time to show yourself, not cower behind a woman’s form. Like mother, like son, I suppose?”
As Harry’s words landed, Pansy’s eyes rolled back, and she collapsed.
“This girl… so fragile,” came a voice.
A dark mist rose, revealing a noseless face.
“Oh, so you’re not the Tom who posed as Merope,” Harry critiqued sharply. “You look familiar. Aren’t you the one who clung to Quirrell’s head?”
“Enough chatter!” Voldemort hissed, turning to roar at the distant Slytherin statue. “Speak to me, Slytherin—greatest of the Hogwarts Four!”
At his words, the statue’s mouth gaped open, revealing a massive, rounded black tunnel.
Voldemort cackled maniacally at the sight.
“Hahahaha, Potter! I must say, you’re the most impressive young wizard I’ve ever seen. Even at your age, I wasn’t your equal… But soon, it’ll all be over. You’ll kneel, begging for mercy—and I’ll deny you! Your anguished screams will be the ultimate proof of my wild power!”
Harry did nothing, standing calmly and watching Voldemort’s performance.
Voldemort suddenly realized that, after a long pause, nothing had emerged from the tunnel.
“No! Impossible!” He drifted back, unable to accept the truth.
Reality slapped him twice—there was no Basilisk slithering out to tear Potter apart as he’d envisioned.
Where’s my Basilisk?
Where’s my massive Basilisk?!
“Damn you, Potter! What have you done?!” Voldemort whirled, glaring venomously at Harry.
Harry sighed and opened his wallet.
“Alfonso, your old pal Tom’s here.”
A furious hissing erupted from the wallet. Even those unfamiliar with Parseltongue could sense the venom in its words.
“You filthy half-blood Mudblood! How dare you pose as Slytherin’s heir! If Master Ominis hadn’t woken me, I’d have been fooled by you forever!”
Voldemort froze.
His supposed loyal Basilisk was calling him a half-blood Mudblood?
He was shattered.
Harry snapped the wallet shut, tucked it back into his pocket, and gave Voldemort a playful look.
“Well, Tom, your trump card… seems to have switched sides entirely.”
“What trickery is this?!” Voldemort roared, livid. “Who are you? Why do you outrank me?!”
“You see, you’re just the son of a Gaunt daughter, not even bearing the Gaunt name—just a Muggle surname,” Harry said, gazing at Voldemort with pity. “The Basilisk obeys the purest Slytherin bloodline, and clearly… Ominis Gaunt is purer than you.”
“As for Ominis Gaunt?” Harry’s tone grew leisurely. “By chance, I attended Hogwarts a century ago for five and a half years. During that time, I had a dear friend named Ominis Gaunt… who happens to be your grandfather, Marvolo Gaunt’s brother.”
At that, Harry paused, struck by a realization.
Oh no—Ominis is technically one of Voldemort’s grandfathers too?
Which means…
“I just realized,” Harry said mockingly, “Ominis and I are like brothers, and Ominis is your grandfather’s brother… So, doesn’t that make me your grandfather too? Come on, little grandson, call me Grandpa!”
Voldemort let out a choked hiccup.
He’d never imagined this twelve-year-old boy could trace his lineage to his grandfather’s era.
Wait a minute!
Harry Potter?
A century ago, there was a legendary Harry Potter at Hogwarts, a name Voldemort had heard whispered even in his youth.
Could this boy be that Harry Potter?!
“You… who are you?” Voldemort stammered, his tone shifting.
Losing to a twelve-year-old was humiliating, but if this was the legendary wizard from a century ago, Voldemort could almost accept it—perhaps even take pride in it.
“Voldemort…” Harry began.
“Call me Tom,” Voldemort interrupted, his voice unnervingly compliant.
Harry blinked, caught off guard. Moments ago, Voldemort had been insufferably arrogant; now he was groveling.
Voldemort, however, was grappling with his own fears. Against an ordinary Harry, he’d fight to the end. But this Harry—from a century ago? Who knew what bizarre magic he wielded, the kind that could obliterate souls?
Think you’re smarter than your ancestors?
Yet, Voldemort now fully believed Harry. He’d clashed with him multiple times.
The first time, with baby Harry, didn’t count—Lily had tricked him.
But the next two encounters nagged at him. Were Hogwarts first-years this ferocious now? Cruciatus in the Forbidden Forest, Avada Kedavra in the basement—chained and tracking, no less. It was outrageous.
If this Harry was the one from a century ago, though, it all made sense. Best of all, Voldemort could save face.
Still, he secretly gathered his strength, waiting for a chance to flee from this formidable foe.
Voldemort feared death—truly, deeply feared it.
“Alright, Tom…” Harry said. “You’ve heard of Ancient Magic, haven’t you?”
Voldemort’s shadowy form nodded eagerly. “Yes, yes, I’ve heard of it…”
“Ever seen it?” Harry asked.
Voldemort shook his head. “No, never.”
Harry smiled, raising his wand and aiming it at Voldemort.
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T/N: If you find any typos or incorrect names, please leave a comment. Thanks, and enjoy reading!
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