Chapter 111: Different People
For a moment, the atmosphere grew heavy and tense.
Riddle, his arm hooked to a transparent IV tube and thick bandages wrapped around his waist, glanced at Hoffa before straightening his back and tearing off the IV.
"I hate being sick," he muttered, almost to himself.
Hoffa said nothing, his gaze drifting to the bedside table. On it sat a few flower pots, a water glass, and Tom Riddle's yew wand.
After removing the IV, the dark-haired boy slowly rose from the bed. He was dressed in a blue-and-white striped shirt, wearing slippers as he stood across from Hoffa.
Tom Riddle's eyes were pitch black, his hair equally so, and against his pale skin, there was an almost otherworldly beauty about him.
For reasons unknown, Hoffa felt that Riddle resembled an Asian person more than he did, despite knowing the boy had no such ancestry.
The two stared at each other for a while before Riddle suddenly flashed a charming smile.
"How long has it been since we were alone together? Since we came back from the cave?"
Hoffa replied calmly, "You don't need to remind me. I haven't forgotten."
"So, have you come to kill me?"
Riddle tilted his head, interrupting Hoffa. "While I haven't regained my strength?"
Hoffa shook his head and chuckled. "Here, in school?"
"We're wizards," Riddle remarked. "If we can't even manage something as simple as that, what's the point of magic?"
Hoffa's smile faded as he strolled over to the bedside table under Riddle's watchful gaze. He picked up the yew wand, examining it in the sunlight.
"No, I don't think I'll kill you," he said evenly.
"And why is that?" Riddle's smiling face turned feral. "To prove you're different from me? Or to show how noble you are?"
Hoffa said nothing, placing the wand back on the table with an indifferent expression.
Lowering his head, Riddle cast a venomous look at Hoffa, his voice a rasping hiss.
"You know, looking at you makes me sick. Do you think I'd feel grateful just because you saved me that night? Hm?"
His expression twisted with disdain.
Hoffa calmly picked up the water jug and poured a full glass.
"There are many different people in this world, Tom, and many different choices."
Riddle let out a cold, mocking laugh. "You dare lecture me?"
Hoffa handed him the glass of water. "Drink some hot water."
"You!!!"
Riddle jabbed a finger at Hoffa's face, his chest heaving with rage. His eyes glowed red, and his refined features turned rough, almost beast-like. In that moment, he made no effort to hide his murderous intent toward Hoffa.
He was so furious that he didn't even notice his chest wound splitting open.
Hoffa simply stood there, holding the glass.
After about seven seconds of silent confrontation, Riddle finally reined in his killing intent. Breathing heavily, he sneered and said, "Fine, fine. Watch yourself, Hoffa Bach."
Snatching the glass from Hoffa, his hand trembled with veins bulging.
"I must admit, my judgment back at the orphanage was off. You're different from me—you're dumber."
He drained the water in one gulp before crushing the glass in his hand.
With water dripping from his mouth and blood from his hand, he sat back on the bed and said coldly, "Say what you came to say."
Hoffa, hands in his pockets, sat down on the bed across from him.
"I want to know what the person who attacked you that night looked like."
"What does it have to do with you, you meddling fool?" Riddle spat venomously.
"You don't talk like that to others outside, Tom," Hoffa said calmly, gesturing toward the door.
"Ha!"
Riddle wiped his mouth and spat out bloody saliva, his disdain clear.
Then, his expression darkened as he described, "A tall man, red eyes, wearing a suit and a crown."
"The Half-Blood King?"
"That's right. The one from the newspapers. That reckless fool who stirs up trouble everywhere he goes. Half-blood—what a ridiculous title, ridiculous outfit, and ridiculous behavior."
"Why did he attack you?"
"Why? Does he need a reason? He saw me, and I saw him."
"Who attacked first?"
"Of course, I did," Riddle sneered. "When you see someone like that, you think the whole world is as stupid as you, not acting first?"
"But he wasn't hurt."
"No, he wasn't. I used a chain curse, a severing curse, an ice curse, but nothing worked. Even my dark curses—hitting him was like hitting a block of wood."
Hoffa said nothing, recalling the moment in Barcelona when the man had shrugged off Ocilvia's Cruciatus Curse.
Riddle stared at the ceiling, his rare self-deprecating smile fading as he lowered his head.
"At that moment, I knew what I was facing wasn't human at all."
"Not a Muggle?"
"Muggle? Ha! Do you think a Muggle could do something like that? Don't be ridiculous. My curse magic is irresistible—it acts directly on the soul. Anyone cursed by me would fall."
Riddle stared into Hoffa's eyes with an intensity that seemed almost threatening. "But not him. None of my spells had any effect on him. I'm convinced he isn't human at all."
"And then he shot at you?"
"Exactly. But before he fired, he said something to me."
"What did he say?"
"He said, 'Run along now, little Slytherin brat.'"
"And then?"
"Then he pulled the trigger, deliberately missing my heart."
Riddle pointed to the bleeding wound on his chest.
"Deliberately?"
Hoffa frowned.
"That's right."
Tom's arm trembled, and his expression was nearly deranged with murderous intent. "He had no killing intent, no soul, nothing at all. He was just... doing something, like it was some kind of game."
After finishing, Riddle's breathing became labored, and he began coughing violently.
He wiped his nose, and flecks of blood dripped from it as his body heaved.
Even then, he kept a wary eye on Hoffa, as if afraid Hoffa might suddenly draw a knife and stab him in the stomach.
But Hoffa merely frowned slightly, realizing he wouldn't get any more answers.
"Fine. Get some rest," Hoffa said calmly.
With that, he stood and began walking toward the door.
As Hoffa approached, the two stone arms blocking the door withdrew into the ground.
Just as Hoffa was about to open the door and leave, a sudden sense of danger made him freeze in alertness.
Without thinking, he transformed his wand into a shield.
A dozen sharp icicles struck the shield, clattering harmlessly to the ground.
Lowering the shield, Hoffa saw Riddle standing there with his yew wand in hand, smirking coldly.
"Still can't even cast a basic shield spell, can you, Bach?"
Hoffa didn't respond. The shield in his hand morphed into a blade, and he pointed it briefly at Riddle before striding out the door.
Bang!The door slammed shut behind him.
Inside, Riddle kicked over the bed across from him in frustration.
Outside, Hoffa walked down the corridor without a glance back. With a flick of his fingers, the two nurses who had been pinned to the wall with their mouths covered were suddenly freed and fell to the ground.
The surrounding medical staff quickly gathered, helping the terrified nurses up and handing them tissues.
"Who was that?" one of the nurses asked in fear, pointing at Hoffa's retreating figure.
"A second-year student. I think he's the assistant for Transfiguration class," another nurse replied.
"Another second-year assistant?" The first nurse looked toward the ward in terror.
"Are all the students in this year so terrifying?"
(End of Chapter)
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