Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Harry staggered towards the entrance of Flourish and Blotts, his arms laden with the complete works of Gilderoy Lockhart. The flash from the cameras burned his eyes, forcing a tear to the corner. "Damn it," Harry swore under his breath. "Why is it always me?" He rubbed his eyes, grumbling angrily to Ron. Ron responded with an 'I-know-exactly-what-you-mean' look, but his words of comfort were cut off by a drawling, mocking voice from above.

"Well, if it isn't the Boy Who Lived and his faithful... sidekick."

Harry didn't need to look up to know who it was. Draco Malfoy was slowly descending the staircase, casually holding an old, black-bound book and tapping its spine rhythmically against his palm. A look of glee, as if he'd just found fifty Galleons, was plastered on his face.

"Making the front page just for visiting a bookstore? The Daily Prophet's standards are truly plummeting," Draco said, his shining grey eyes glittering with sarcasm. His gaze shifted to Ron, and his smile widened. "What surprises me more is seeing you here, Weasley. I suppose your mother will have to scrub someone else's pots and mop floors next month to pay for all this... rubbish?" He used the black book to cover his nose, as if the air smelled of Mimbulus mimbletonia pus.

"You—!" Ron's face turned as red as his hair. He slammed his old cauldron onto the floor and, like an enraged lion, lunged at Draco. "You bloody— maggot—" "How dare you insult my mother, I'll kill you!"

"Ron!" Harry and Hermione gasped in unison, hastily putting down their things to intervene. In the ensuing chaos, no one noticed—especially not Harry himself—a brief, sharp pain lancing through his scar.

Ron, fuelled by fury, was astonishingly strong. He slammed Draco into a bookshelf behind them, rattling it and sending a few books tumbling from the top. Draco grunted from the impact, and the black book flew from his hand, landing with a slap at their feet. Copies of Magical Me, piled high by the entrance, were sent scattering everywhere by Ron's shove. Everyone in the bookstore turned to look, craning their necks to see the commotion. Draco's hands gripped the wrist clutching his collar, his earlier mockery replaced by a flicker of genuine alarm. His eyes darted fearfully towards Ron's other fist, poised menacingly beside his head.

Harry threw his arms around Ron, straining to hold him back. "Don't be stupid, mate, we're in a bookstore!" he panted. In the struggle, Harry subconsciously used his foot to shove the offending black book aside. By sheer chance, his kick sent the book skittering straight into the shadow of his own cauldron, which was filled with Lockhart's books.

And in the moment Harry made contact with the book, a faint, almost imperceptible black glimmer seemed to flicker along its cover's edge. It was as if it had a life of its own, using the momentum of the kick to subtly adjust its trajectory, sliding smoothly and silently into the depths of the cauldron's shadow like a serpent returning to its nest.

"We can settle this at school! Let him go!" Harry continued to yell.

Ron was breathing heavily, murder blazing in his blue eyes, but Harry's words finally got through. He abruptly released Draco's collar. Draco immediately sprang back, hastily straightening his rumpled robes and hair. A semblance of haughtiness returned to his face, but the fear lingered in his eyes. He shot a look of pure disgust at the mess of books on the floor, as if viewing a pile of garbage.

Harry stepped in front of Ron, a low growl rumbling in his throat. "Get lost."

Draco's eyes darted across the chaotic floor. "My book...?" he muttered vaguely, as if searching for something. But when his gaze met that of the approaching shop assistant, he quickly composed himself. Without looking properly, he snatched up a book of a similar colour from near his feet—perhaps one of Lockhart's books with a dark cover—and straightened up.

"This isn't over," he sneered. He didn't even bother to check what he had picked up, holding it pinched delicately between two fingers as if afraid its dust and inherent poverty might contaminate him. He then turned and swiftly disappeared among the bookshelves.

Harry quickly bent down, hurriedly stuffing the scattered copies of Magical Me back into Ron's cauldron. "Come on," he urged, shoving the cauldron back into Ron's arms. "Your mum and dad are waiting for us outside."

Ron's chest was still heaving, and he glared venomously in the direction Draco had vanished. "One day... I'll make him pay for that!" He grabbed his cauldron and stormed out of the bookstore without a backward glance.

Harry and Hermione exchanged a look, seeing mutual exasperation and a tinge of fear on each other's faces. Silently, they gathered their own belongings and followed him out.

No one noticed the black-covered notebook, now lying quietly at the bottom of Harry's cauldron, lightly covered by a few sheets of colourful wrapping paper, as if it had been there all along.

It seemed to be home, exuding a smug, icy stillness.

Chapter Text

Ron's foul mood persisted all the way back to The Burrow. The moment he clambered out of the fireplace, he clenched his jaw and stormed straight upstairs without a word. The slam of his bedroom door was so violent it shook dust from the plaster beside the staircase, making everyone in the living room wince.
His gaze inadvertently swept over Ginny, and the girl's face turned as red as her hair before she turned around and ran away hurriedly, clumsily kicking over an old broom propped against the stairs in her haste to escape. Fred and George had their heads together, whispering. Noticing Harry's puzzled look, George winked at him, and then the two of them snickered their way into their own room.
Harry decided it was best to leave Ron alone for a while. After a full year of friendship, he knew his best friend's temper well—it seemed Ron wouldn't be emerging to see anyone anytime soon. Mrs. Weasley gave Harry's shoulder a kind pat, then, armed with a pile of laundry, headed into the bathroom, presumably to prepare their things for returning to school.
The living room, crowded just moments before, was now empty save for Harry. He stood there feeling a bit lost for a moment before slowly walking over to the sofa and sitting down to sort through his purchases.
"A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration... The Standard Book of Spells... Break with a Banshee..." He checked them off one by one against the list attached to his Hogwarts letter. "Right, that's all of them." Harry pushed the stack of brand-new Lockhart books aside, mentally cursing the flamboyant teacher and his row of shiny teeth once more. He bent down to drag his new cauldron over, intending to stuff the annoying books back inside, when his movements froze abruptly.
A faint, almost imperceptible glimmer of light had flickered against the inside of the cauldron.
Harry's heart gave an uneasy jolt. Hesitantly, he lifted the cauldron onto his lap. He pushed aside the colourful wrapping paper covering the contents, and there, lying serenely at the bottom as if it had always belonged, was the old black-bound book.
Puzzled, he picked it up. The moment his fingertips touched the cold cover, his scar gave a sharp, stabbing pain—brief but intense, like a silent warning.
This was definitely not a new book, Harry thought, running his fingers over the cover. It was old. Though it showed signs of careful upkeep by a previous owner, the corners were inevitably worn and slightly curled, silently speaking of its age. Curious, he flipped through the pages—they were completely blank, not a single word.
"Strange..." he muttered to himself, weighing it in his hand. He couldn't figure out how it had accidentally ended up in his cauldron.
Almost as if guided by an unseen force, Harry reached out and gently pressed a finger against the yellowed page, his fingertip slowly tracing the unnaturally smooth paper. At that moment, the page beneath his hand quivered almost imperceptibly, like it had been stirred by the soft breath of a sleeping person.
Harry jerked his hand back in surprise.
His heart was pounding as he stared at the seemingly animate diary—
"That— that thing!"
A voice, shrill and distorted by utter terror, shattered the dead silence of the living room.
Harry nearly jumped off the sofa. He whipped his head around to see a small creature with enormous, bat-like ears standing by the fireplace. Its tennis-ball-sized eyes weren't looking at him, but were fixed, wide with absolute horror, on the black notebook in his hand. The creature's scrawny body trembled violently, like a leaf in a storm.
"Bad thing!" the creature shrieked, its voice cracking with sobs. "Harry Potter must not touch it! It is speaking! Dobby can hear it... It is lying! It is poisoning the magic!"
Stunned by this sudden turn of events, Harry looked around wildly—thankfully, no one else seemed to have noticed the new arrival yet.
The creature began to cry, great, heaving sobs, large tears rolling from its eyes. Harry could hear Mrs. Weasley moving about in the bathroom. In a panic, he grabbed the creature and hurriedly pulled it into the nearby bathroom. After double-checking the lock, he got a proper look under the light. It was wearing nothing but a filthy, old pillowcase, its grey skin making it look like one of the wrinkled gnomes from the Weasleys' garden.
"Who are you?" Harry whispered.
"Dobby, sir. My name is Dobby, sir. Dobby the house-elf." The creature managed a grotesque smile through its tears.
"Oh—hello, Dobby," Harry said, attempting a friendly smile in return.
"Dobby has been hoping to meet you, sir... The Boy Who Lived..." Dobby's voice trembled with excitement as he bowed so low his long, pointed nose nearly touched the floor. "...It is such an honour, sir..."
The Boy Who Lived—Harry had always hated the title, but the obvious reverence made him swallow his protest. Nobody bowed that dramatically just to be polite.
"Hello, Dobby," he replied, then remembered the elf's earlier outburst. "You said... this book was talking? And... poisoning magic?"
The elf seemed jerked back into his terrified reality. Fear pooled in his eyes again, and his small body shook uncontrollably. Harry quickly steadied him, feeling the icy-cold skin trembling violently beneath his hand.
"Harry Potter must throw that thing away!" Dobby wailed, his huge eyes brimming with fresh tears. He clutched Harry's wrist tightly, as if it were a lifeline. "Dobby can hear it! The Dark magic is weaving a beautiful lie, sir!"
His voice dropped to a hushed, bone-chilling whisper: "It... it is mimicking you, sir! Dobby can feel it! Its blank pages, they crave your thoughts, your loneliness... It is making itself like you, so you will think it is the only one who understands you in the world!" Dobby pointed a trembling, spindly finger at the book, his voice tearing with fear. "But it is a broken mirror, sir! It shows not the real you, but a... a reflection that only wants to suck you in! It is spinning an invisible thread, sir, to bind your soul to its own! When you notice, it will be too late to cut!"
Harry looked down at the perfectly quiet black book in his hand, then at Dobby, who was nearly catatonic with fear. A strong sense of absurdity washed over him. The book looked... old, that was all. It hardly seemed dangerous.
"Dobby," he said, trying to sound soothing and reasonable, "I think you might be too worked up. It's just a blank diary. Maybe... a careless shop assistant put it in the wrong place."
"No! No!" Dobby let out a sharp wail, wrenching himself free from Harry. He began bashing his long nose violently against the edge of the bathtub with sickening, dull thuds. "Harry Potter does not believe Dobby! Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby!"
"Stop it! Stop!" Harry rushed over and pulled him away, his heart in his mouth, terrified Mrs. Weasley would hear the commotion. "Alright, alright! I... I'll consider what you said, I promise."
Dobby finally stopped, looking up at Harry with tear-filled, hopeful eyes. "Harry Potter will throw it away?"
"I... I'll think about it carefully," Harry repeated evasively, reaching to open the bathroom door. "But you have to go now, please. Don't let anyone find you here."
Dobby looked heartbroken. Just then, clear footsteps sounded from the direction of the bathroom. He gave Harry one last look, filled with pleading and despair.
"When you feel lonely, it will come for you..." he sobbed in a whisper. "Please remember Dobby's warning..."
With a soft pop, the house-elf vanished.
Harry stood alone in the suddenly, eerily quiet bathroom, the black diary clutched tightly in his hand. Dobby's desperate words echoed in his mind, sending a clear shiver of cold through him.
But as he looked down, his gaze once again falling on the smooth, secret-holding black cover, an indescribable, powerful curiosity, like a sinister vine, began to coil tightly around his heart.
In the end, he stuffed it into the very bottom of his backpack.
Perhaps, just perhaps, he should try to "talk" to it again sometime, when he was alone.

Chapter Text

The last few days at The Burrow passed in a blur. For the past month, Harry had been so blissfully happy that he had almost forgotten the black secret in his backpack. On their final night before returning to Hogwarts, Mrs. Weasley produced a feast fit for a king, filled with more delicious food than Harry had ever tasted in his life.
The next day, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley saw them off at King's Cross Station. Once on the train, Harry waved reluctantly at the Weasleys outside the window until the train started moving. The thought of spending the next summer with the Dursleys deflated his good mood like a pricked balloon.
Harry and Ron found Hermione on the train, and as they searched for an empty compartment together, a familiar, drawling voice sounded behind them.
"Look who it is. Our great hero, Harry Potter. We meet again." Draco Malfoy stood there, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, who seemed to have bulked out even more over the summer, resembling a pair of mobile trolls. "Weasley, tell me, what's it like having a house-elf trailing after the Chosen One? I suppose it suits your family's… level."
Ron's ears turned as red as his hair, and his fists clenched—a usually dangerous sign. Harry, not wanting trouble on the first day, pulled at Ron's arm and narrowed his eyes at Draco. "Maybe you should worry about yourself. Move."
"Don't get your knickers in a twist, Potter." Draco didn't move; instead, he took a step forward, his grey eyes glinting with malice. "I just wanted to make sure you Weasleys—oh, and you, Granger—" his gaze swept dismissively over Hermione, "—haven't brought anything… unwanted onto the train."
He paused meaningfully.
"My father says some ancient magical artefacts carry a… Mudblood-like stench that can contaminate a pure-blood's possessions. If I find my things have been touched by such filth, I promise you, your year will be very, very unpleasant."
The word "Mudblood" sliced through the air like a curse.
Hermione's face went chalk-white. Ron roared and lunged forward, only to be held back by Harry. But this time, Harry felt a wave of pure, white-hot fury surge within him—hotter and more ferocious than ever before, threatening to shatter his restraint.
And in that very instant, the diary deep in his backpack seemed to emit a faint, almost imperceptible chill, a strange resonance with his raging anger.
"Say that again!" Harry's voice was dangerously low, his green eyes blazing with a cold fire Ron and Hermione had never seen. He hadn't even realized he'd drawn his wand.
Draco seemed momentarily cowed by Harry's sudden, dangerous intensity, but he quickly regained his sneer, taking a step back.
"We'll see you at school, Potter… and company." He cast a final contemptuous look at Ron and Hermione before turning and disappearing into the crowd with Crabbe and Goyle.
"That bloody, foul-minded, git…" Ron seethed, glaring after them.
Hermione's lips were pressed into a thin, tight line, her eyes shining with humiliated, angry tears. Harry slowly put his wand away, the strange fury ebbing as quickly as it had come, leaving only weariness and an inexplicable… restlessness. He subconsciously reached back and touched his backpack.
The diary was still inside.
As they got off the train, the black sky tore open, and a torrential, unexpected downpour drenched them. Harry gave a cursory wave in Hagrid's direction, slung his backpack over his shoulder, pulled his robes over his head, and made a dash for the carriages.
The rain was so thick he could barely see. Running too fast, his feet slipped from under him, and he landed hard in the cold, muddy water. The rain instantly soaked through his robes and hair, clinging icily to his skin. Immediately, Draco Malfoy's signature, drawn-out laugh rang out from behind, accompanied by Crabbe and Goyle's dull guffaws.
"Shut it, Malfoy!" Ron's voice shouted nearby as he hurried to pull Harry out of the muck. The three of them stumbled into a carriage. Harry slumped onto the seat, seething. Not only was he soaked through, but his backpack hadn't been spared either; it now resembled a freshly fished Grindylow, dripping steadily and forming a small puddle on the carriage floor.
"What a great way to start the new term," Harry grumbled, his words punctuated by an untimely rumble from his stomach. Just his luck.
He thought irritably that he should have listened to Hermione and practiced the Impervius Charm before getting off the train. A restless, undefined anger churned inside him, mixed with the cold wetness and the humiliation of his mess, making him fidget.
"It's alright, Harry," Hermione said understandingly, offering him a dry handkerchief. "Look, we're here."
Harry looked up. The carriage had passed through the familiar gates. Hogwarts Castle stood tall and majestic before them, the warm, golden firelight from its windows like a mother's hand, instantly dispelling the chill from his body and the gloom from his heart.
He was back in his sanctuary. His home. A genuine, soothing smile finally replaced his earlier frustrations, touching the corners of his mouth.
Yet, as he subconsciously reached for the soaked backpack, his fingertips brushed against the cold, hard cover of the diary. That inexplicable restlessness, like an undercurrent in the lake, coiled quietly in the depths of his heart, refusing to leave.

Chapter Text

On the first day of school, the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall displayed a dismal, grey gloom. Harry stared blankly ahead as he ate his sausage, finding it dry and tasteless. He watched without much interest as Hermione, her cheeks flushed with excitement, had Gilderoy Lockhart's Wanderings with Werewolves propped up behind a jam jar, reading avidly. When Ron reached for the scrambled eggs further down the table, he accidentally knocked the book over, earning a displeased click of the tongue from Hermione. Ron's neck shrunk into his shoulders, offering a sheepish, apologetic grin. Hermione rolled her eyes at him and turned to Harry.
"Today we finally have Lockhart's class! Harry, have you read his books yet? They're absolutely brilliant! Harry? Harry!" She snapped her fingers in front of his glazed eyes. Harry jolted, snapping back to reality. "Sorry, Hermione, what did you say?" He pushed his barely touched sausage away, his appetite completely gone.
Hermione frowned, her expression shifting to concern. "Harry, are you alright? You look terrible. Didn't you sleep well last night?" Ron also paused his shoveling, looking at Harry questioningly.
Harry blinked his dry, tired eyes. He couldn't quite pinpoint the source of this listlessness but didn't want to worry his friends. "Might've caught a chill from the rain yesterday," he said, forcing a smile. "I'll be fine after I see Madam Pomfrey for a Pepperup Potion or something." Ron, seemingly satisfied, nodded and returned to his eggs. Hermione didn't press further, but the worry in her eyes remained.
"I, Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defence League, and five-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most-Charming-Smile Award — I see you've all bought a complete set of my books — excellent! Splendid!" Lockhart beamed his gleaming, perfectly aligned white teeth at the class. Harry heard a few vague, admiring sighs from around the room. He glanced sideways at Ron, whose face was contorted as if he'd swallowed a slug whole. Harry quickly pressed his lips together, stifling a laugh.
Lockhart, seemingly oblivious, was dressed in immaculate, wrinkle-free lilac robes, his golden curls artfully arranged across his brow. He lounged against the blackboard, arms crossed, his deliberate pose making him look less like a teacher and more like he was posing for the front page of the Daily Prophet.
"Now, let's get down to business," he said finally, straightening up and adopting a serious expression. "My task is to teach you how to defend yourselves against the foulest creatures, the darkest spells known to the wizarding world. Today, I am going to show you one of the most terrifying monsters! But rest assured, so long as I am here, you will come to no harm!" With a dramatic flourish, he bent down and lifted a large, cloth-covered cage from behind his desk, thumping it onto the surface. "I must ask you not to scream," he whispered, feigning gravity. "It will only provoke it!"
For a moment, the classroom was utterly silent, every eye fixed on the cage. Lockhart whipped the cloth away.
Inside, coiled within, was a large serpent covered in green, diamond-shaped markings. Two long, silver horns protruded from its forehead, the tips adorned with tufts of white hair. Its cold, yellow-slitted eyes slowly scanned the room, its forked tongue flicking in and out.
Nearly half the class gasped in unison. Harry found his own gaze locked with the snake's — and strangely, the snake instantly returned his stare, its attention seeming riveted on him, refusing to look away.
"A Horned Serpent, freshly retrieved from the Black Lake this morning," Lockhart announced in his theatrical voice. "As we know, the most famous and prized specimens possess a jewel on their forehead. Our young friend here is but a baby, its jewel not yet grown, but that does not diminish its danger in the slightest!" Lockhart nodded gravely at the students. Then, to everyone's horror, he used his wand to click the cage door open, releasing the snake! "Come on now!" he shouted to the students. "Let's see how you handle it!"
The snake slid out of the cage in a leisurely, unhurried motion, its smooth scales glinting ominously in the light. For a second, everyone was frozen in shock. Then, someone let out the first scream — and it clearly agitated the serpent! Instantly, chaos erupted: desks were knocked over as students scrambled away, some made a frantic dash for the door only to find it locked solid — it was far too early for the lesson to end!
"Petrificus Totalus!" Hermione was the first to draw her wand, sending a jet of red light at the serpent. The spell barely grazed its head, having little effect — it seemed ordinary charms were less potent against such magical creatures. She looked desperately at Harry and Ron. Ron was sheet-white, his normally vivid freckles standing out starkly; he was frozen rigid in his seat, not daring to move.
"Professor, do something!" Harry yelled towards Lockhart. But Lockhart merely stood with his arms crossed, a hint of a smug smile even playing on his lips. "You must figure it out for yourselves! If I step in now, what would you learn?" Harry's fists clenched so tightly his nails dug into his palms.
Just then, the serpent abruptly changed direction, swiftly slithering towards Justin Finch Fletchley. It reached the petrified boy's feet, reared its great head, and bared its fangs —
Harry's mind went blank, but his body moved on its own accord. He stepped forward involuntarily, his eyes fixed on the snake, and from deep in his throat came a low, guttural hissing, a sound he didn't even understand himself: "Leave him... Get away from here."
A miracle happened. The snake actually turned towards Harry, retracting its tongue. Its large head dipped in what seemed like a nod, as if it had understood him.
Seizing the opportunity, Lockhart finally directed the cage with his wand, swooping it down to cover the serpent. The snake slid back inside with unusual docility.
Almost simultaneously, the bell rang.
The fear that had gripped the classroom dissipated, replaced by an eerie silence and a swell of hushed whispers. Harry let out a sigh of relief and looked up at the shaken Justin, intending to offer a reassuring smile — he expected thanks.
But Justin Finch Fletchley's face held no gratitude, only pure terror and anger. "You... what kind of game do you think you're playing?!" he shrieked, shoving a desk out of his way and storming out of the classroom without a backward glance.
Harry stood bewildered. He looked around — his classmates, even Ron and Hermione, were staring at him with a look he had never seen before: a mixture of shock, strangeness, and a flicker of fear. Ron's mouth was slightly agape, as if he wanted to speak but couldn't find the words. Hermione's gaze, when it met his, shied away for a rare moment, deliberately avoiding his eyes. Even Lockhart was standing with his mouth open, momentarily forgetting to maintain his perfect smile. They were all gaping at him as if he'd sprouted a second head.

Chapter Text

The three of them walked back to the common room shoulder-to-shoulder in an eerie silence. The crowd parted for them as if they were avoiding a Blast-Ended Skrewt, their hushed whispers and bewildered stares weaving an invisible net that trapped Harry firmly at its center. The nameless fire in his chest smoldered, almost scorching his throat. Why was everyone looking at him as if he were a ghost? What had he done wrong? Was saving Justin Finch-Fletchley's life a crime now?

Ron and Hermione kept a firm grip on his arms all the way, steering him with an undeniable, almost controlling pressure until they had forced him into an isolated armchair in the common room.

"You're a Parselmouth," Ron said, his voice flat and distant in a way Harry had never heard before. "Why didn't you tell us?"

"A what?" Harry retorted, his voice sharp with a mix of anger and confusion.

"A Parselmouth!" Ron repeated, his face a mixture of astonishment and a barely perceptible fear. "You can talk to snakes!"

"I know," Harry said, trying to sound calm, but a faint, distinct pain shot through the scar on his forehead just then, cold and needle-like. "I mean, it's only the second time I've done it. I accidentally set a boa constrictor on my cousin Dudley at the zoo once... it told me it had never seen Brazil and I sort of set it free without meaning to. I didn't know I was a wizard then..."

"A boa constrictor told you it had never seen Brazil?" Ron asked in a near-whisper, as if this were the most shocking part of the entire story.

"So what?" Harry felt the fire in his chest explode. Were they looking at him like that too? Just like everyone else? "I bet loads of people here can do it."

"Oh, no they can't," Ron said, his tone hard as stone. "It's not a common thing. Harry, this is bad."

"What's bad?" Harry finally snapped, his voice rising. He felt like a cornered animal with no escape. "What's wrong with everyone? Listen, if I hadn't told that snake not to attack Justin—"

"Oh, that's what you said to it?" Ron cut him off.

"What do you mean? You were there... you heard me."

"I heard you speaking Parseltongue," Ron said, almost biting the word as if it were unclean in itself. "Snake language. You could have been saying anything. No wonder Justin panicked. You sounded like you were egging the snake on or something. It was... bloody creepy, you know?"

Harry stared at him, dumbfounded. In that instant, as if cursed by the words, a tearing, violent pain lanced through his scar, a poisoned icicle stabbing into his mind. He instinctively clapped a hand to his forehead, his nails digging into the skin.

"What's wrong, Harry? Is your scar hurting again?" Hermione leaned in immediately, her voice full of concern, but the sympathy only grated on Harry's nerves now.

Ron's face had turned as pale as Harry's felt.

"It's nothing!" Harry swatted his hand away, the frustration inside him coiling like a nest of tiny, venomous snakes, gnawing at his patience and reason. He'd had enough of the scrutiny, the fear, and the endless questions. "I'm going to the bathroom," he muttered roughly, and practically shoved his way out through the portrait hole, leaving his two friends and their unspoken shock behind him.

What was wrong with the world? Why was everything spiraling so wildly out of control?

Harry closed his eyes, his teeth gritted, his nails leaving deep, crescent-shaped marks in his palms. He pressed trembling fingers to his scar, which was now throbbing with a burning pain that grew stronger with each pulse. Forcing himself to take a deep breath, he drifted aimlessly through the corridors, his steps unsteady.

Within hours, the news that "Harry Potter is a Parselmouth" had spread through the castle like a plague. Wherever he went, pointing fingers and wary, evasive looks followed him. He fled to the edge of the lake, staring at the shimmering water. The Giant Squid's tentacles floated lazily on the surface, the carefree motion somehow stinging him.

A forgotten memory fragment struck him — the Sorting Hat's whisper in his first year: "Slytherin will help you on the way to greatness..." He had refused so vehemently then, but now his mind uncontrollably conjured the Slytherin crest, the silver and green, the serpent coiled and ready to strike.

No, it couldn't be!

His heart hammered. Was it really just a coincidence? He must have read it somewhere... Salazar Slytherin himself could talk to snakes... The thought struck him like a real serpent, sinking its fangs into his heart. He had to find the answer, now, immediately!

Harry shot to his feet, blood rushing to his head so fast spots danced before his eyes. He strode towards the library as if under the Imperius Curse, completely forgetting he was skipping Herbology — the panic of not finding an answer felt more desperate than any fear of breaking school rules.

He frantically searched the aisles, his fingers skimming over dusty spines, but found no direct references to Slytherin and Parseltongue, not even a decent biography of Salazar Slytherin. Frustration and anger surged through him like hot lava. He slammed his fist hard against a heavy bookshelf, rattling it and sending a few old books tumbling to the floor.

Unsurprisingly, Madam Pince descended upon him, wielding her feather duster and sharply ejecting him from the library.

Just great, Harry thought numbly. The best day of my life.

"Harry!"

The familiar voice stopped him the moment he stepped out. It was Hermione, her cheeks flushed, panting for breath, a few curls stuck to her forehead with sweat.

"Aren't you supposed to be in class?" Harry asked flatly, unable to muster even a semblance of an expression.

"I... I told Professor Sprout I needed the bathroom," Hermione said, catching her breath, her eyes fixed on his with deep concern. "You missed Herbology, you weren't at lunch... I was so worried. I came to find you. Harry, are you alright? You look awful. You can talk to me, you know. About anything."

Harry instinctively wanted to refuse, to push her away too, but the unmistakable, genuine care in her eyes was like a sliver of light, painfully breaking through the hard shell he'd built around himself. It made his heart ache.

"Thanks, Hermione, but—"

"It's about the Parseltongue, isn't it?" Hermione interrupted him softly, her gaze clear and steady. "I've been looking some things up. I thought we could talk."

Harry's eyes widened. "You—you know?" Of course he knew she read everything, but he hadn't expected her to be this quick.

"Mhm," Hermione nodded, pulling a couple of sandwiches wrapped in a napkin from her bag. "Come on, you must be starving. Let's find a quiet spot. We can talk while you eat."

All his pretended strength crumbled away. Harry blinked hard against the sudden blurriness in his eyes and nodded silently, compliantly.

Chapter Text

"Harry, I know it sounds terrifying, but it's alright. I will always believe in you and stand by you," Hermione's voice was filled with sorrow, but Harry just sat there, staring vacantly, silent. The facts about Parseltongue and the Heir of Slytherin raged in his mind like an ice storm, plunging him into an abyss. His parents had died protecting him, and he might carry the blood of the very founder of the house they fought against? If that were true, why would Voldemort have tried to kill him as a baby? Did his mum and dad... know? Countless questions exploded within him, leaving him feeling utterly shattered, as if the solid ground beneath his feet was crumbling.

He opened his mouth, but his throat was too dry to make a sound. He glanced at the long-cold sandwich beside him, and his stomach churned.

That night, Harry dreamt of his mother clearly for the first time. A flash of green light, her piercing scream jolted him awake. He sat up in the darkness, realizing his face was wet with cold tears.

Waking the next day, it took Harry several seconds for his consciousness to reassemble, and the weight of yesterday came crashing back onto his chest with full force. To make it worse, he saw Seamus Finnigan grab his schoolbag and rush out of the dormitory as if Harry didn't exist—just yesterday, the sandy-haired boy had cheerfully wished him good morning.

Harry dressed in silence. The hangings around Ron's bed twitched; he was already awake, but was slowly tying his shoelaces with his back turned, avoiding any possible eye contact. They walked wordlessly to the common room, where Hermione was already waiting, dark circles under her eyes betraying her own sleepless night. "Good morning," her voice was tight, and she quickly scanned them both, "We'd better not be late." She turned almost immediately, leading the way to the Great Hall at a pace that felt like fleeing. If the jeering looks from the Slytherin table were the appetizer, the undisguised whispers from the other houses were the nuclear bomb detonating Harry's composure.

"Can he read minds?" "That scar... could it be some kind of Dark Mark?" "How did he get sorted into Gryffindor? Merlin, we need to stay away from him." A plague seemed to have hit the Gryffindor table; a wide, glaring circle of empty seats surrounded the three of them. Harry mechanically chewed on a piece of toast, his fingers gripping his cutlery trembling slightly with suppressed rage. Ron was viciously stabbing a sausage as if it were someone's face, while Hermione had buried hers almost completely in a book, her shoulders slightly hunched.

In Potions, Harry was distracted and added too much Gurdyroot for the third time. He didn't even wait for Hermione's warning before his cauldron erupted with a pungent smoke.

"Twenty points from Gryffindor," Snape's voice was slick and cold, his face a mask of unconcealed scorn. With a flick of his wand, he cleared the mess, leaving Harry standing stupidly before the empty desk. He watched as his classmates handed in their finished potions. Malfoy passed by him with an especially piercing snort. "Need me to teach you how to count, Potter?" Malfoy whispered. Ron's ears turned instantly red. He whipped his head around, his lips pressed into a thin line, but ultimately said nothing, just slammed his own potion vial onto the desk with excessive force.

"...so, you must concentrate fully on the transformation, building a clear mental image of the target object. Now, begin practicing." Professor McGonagall's voice cut through; Transfiguration had started twenty minutes ago. Harry stared at the glass in front of him, his mind a perfect blank. Incantations rose around him. He mimicked Hermione's wand movement vaguely and muttered the spell at his cup—unsurprisingly, it remained stubbornly glass, not even a shimmer of light. Professor McGonagall shot him a stern look, and Harry hung his head in shame.

Just then, Draco Malfoy, sitting behind him, leaned forward and whispered in that poison-tipped voice, "I didn't know you were a Parselmouth, Potter. Wasn't your mother a Mudblood? Or did she have you with something else before she married your dad?"

"You—!"

Ron reacted faster than Harry. He shot halfway out of his chair, his fists clenched, knuckles white, the usual laughter in his blue eyes replaced by pure, unadulterated fury. He looked ready to lunge at Draco—

But Hermione's hand shot out from beside him, gripping his arm tightly. Her face was bloodless, and she shook her head at him in a panic, her eyes pleading, 'No, please, not more points!'

In that brief, electric moment of stalemate, Ron's motion froze. His chest heaved. He looked at Hermione's terrified face, then at the watching eyes around them. The fire in his eyes struggled for a moment before being extinguished by a murky mix of helplessness and resentment. He slumped back into his chair with a heavy thud, turning his face away from everyone.

And it was that brief silence, that failed attempt at defense from his friend, that was the final straw for Harry.

The words were like a thunderclap, instantly burning through the last thread of his sanity. Without thinking, driven by pure heat, he grabbed the glass in front of him and hurled it backwards.

"Potter!" Professor McGonagall exclaimed, her wand slashing through the air. The cup veered sharply just before it could hit Draco's forehead and landed neatly back on Harry's desk. All practice sounds in the class ceased. Professor McGonagall's nostrils flared as she scrutinized him severely. "I will not tolerate brawling in my classroom! Another twenty points from Gryffindor! And you will serve detention with me this Saturday evening!"

Harry closed his eyes and nodded numbly.

It wasn't fair. None of this was fair. How had his life come to this?

The entire week passed in a daze for Harry. He'd lost count of how many spells he'd messed up due to distraction, how many points he'd single-handedly cost his house—even Lockhart had started frowning at his performance in class. On Wednesday evening, Percy Weasley, in his capacity as Prefect, pulled him into a corner of the common room for a long, furious lecture and 'advice'. Apparently, the points Harry had lost in the past week exceeded those lost by the entire Gryffindor house in the first half of the previous year.

Worse, the suspicion surrounding his Parseltongue ability hadn't faded; instead, fueled by the plummeting house points, it had morphed into open hostility. "If you're Slytherin's heir, why don't you go back to your dungeons?" "Stop disgracing Gryffindor!" Comments like these drifted to his ears constantly.

Once, Harry even overheard Hermione arguing fiercely with Lavender Brown: "It's not the same thing at all! You can't judge someone as evil just because they're a Parselmouth!" Her voice was high and strained, carrying a note of near-desperation Harry had never heard before. And Ron sank more and more into silence, only meeting Harry's gaze with a complicated, unreadable look.

Hermini still comforted him, urging him to ignore the rumors. But Harry could sense it now—even her, the model student who lived for earning house points, had a flicker of poorly concealed disappointment in her eyes when she looked at him.

Now, he put down his quill. The essay Professor Flitwick had made him re-write lay in front of him, but he had no clue what it was about.

He'd had enough.

He stood up abruptly and announced stiffly to Ron and Hermione, "I'm going for a walk."

Hermione instinctively opened her mouth to remind him about the essay deadline, but seeing the look of utter desolation on Harry's face, the words died in her throat. She looked beseechingly at Ron, but the redhead just shook his head, his lips moving soundlessly before he let out a barely audible sigh, as if to say he was powerless too.

Just as Harry was about to climb out of the portrait hole, Neville Longbottom came running up, panting, clutching a note. "Ha... Harry!" The round-faced boy shoved the sweaty note into his hand. "Professor McGonagall asked me to give this to you..."

Harry impatiently unfolded it—it was the detention notice. Professor McGonagall ordered him to report to the Trophy Room that evening to clean all the trophies by hand, without magic.

He'd completely forgotten.

When would this nightmare end? He dragged his leaden feet, walking numbly towards the Trophy Room.

Chapter Text

Harry mechanically and skillfully rubbed the cleaning rag over the trophies, again and again. This was a craft honed at the Dursleys'; when it came to dealing with years of accumulated grime, he was far more adept than most of his peers raised in the magical world. In less than an hour, he had cleaned nearly half of them. "At least I can slack off tomorrow," he thought wearily, a pitiful consolation in these oppressive days.

The trophies before him were almost monotonously similar: Head Boys and Head Girls, Quidditch Cup Champions, Dueling Club Champions… all uniform gold metal bases engraved with black names. Harry could effortlessly pick out the grime from the engraved grooves with high efficiency, but it was mind-numbingly dull. However, this repetitive, thoughtless labor offered his overthinking brain a brief respite.

He dragged his bucket of water over to the last two untouched trophy cases. A heavy sigh escaped him as he opened the glass door. Just as he picked up the cold, damp cloth to continue the tedious work, a name struck him like a bolt of lightning—

James Potter, Quidditch House Cup Champion, 1971.

Harry felt his heart skip a beat.

His father's name.

It had crashed into his world, sudden and solid. This wasn't a blurred smile from a photograph or a legendary tale from someone else's lips, but ironclad proof that he had truly existed, been young, and achieved glory.

Harry's damp fingers involuntarily traced the cold engraving, the touch making his eyes prickle with heat. He could almost picture the scene: his young father raising the cup amidst thunderous applause, sunlight glinting off his sweat-dampened hair, his face lit with a proud smile Harry had never witnessed firsthand yet felt intimately familiar with. For a moment, all his troubles were washed away. He gently pressed the trophy to his lips, as if he could feel a distant warmth from his bloodline through the cold metal.

He couldn't bear to defile this sacred object with greasy cleaning solution, even though the trophy itself was tarnished by time. Harry carefully placed it back. Even if Professor McGonagall noticed, he had his excuse ready—he would never let anyone damage this treasure. Never.

"Impervius!" he cast the spell on it without hesitation. He had finally managed the charm successfully, only to use it on an inanimate object. If he weren't afraid of losing more points or even being expelled, he would have stolen it, to keep it forever close to his heart.

He gazed at the name for a long while longer before finally, with immense effort, tearing his eyes away.

Harry quickly cleaned the remaining trophies on the shelf, his eyes scanning every name with newfound urgency, hoping to find another familiar surname—"Evans." But there was none. With a strange, indescribable sense of loss, he moved to the final trophy case.

This case was sparse, holding only a single, isolated award.

Tom Riddle, Special Award for Services to the School, 1942.

This award was in a league of its own, far more ornate than any before it. It seemed forged from gold and some deep green jade, topped with a coiled serpent carved from translucent green crystal, its eyes two pinpricks of crimson light. The name "Tom Riddle" was inlaid with fine black diamonds, and below it were set four dazzling, unnamed gems. It was clearly under a permanent Dust-Repelling Charm, remaining pristine despite fifty years, as if time itself had paused before it.

Harry lifted it in his palm. Its substantial weight made him wonder what magnificent deed the winner had performed to earn it.

"Maybe he saved the whole school?" Harry had no way of knowing, but a feeling of inexplicable reverence rose within him.

Tom Riddle. A seemingly ordinary name, yet it evoked a warm, eerie sense of familiarity in Harry. The award felt almost alive with warmth in his hand. For a moment, he was reluctant to let it go. He raised it again for a closer look, his lips moving unconsciously as he whispered the name. His breath fogged briefly on the cool metal surface.

And in that moment of intense focus, a distinct, unmistakable warmth blossomed from the scar on his forehead.

When the trophy finally left his palm and was returned to the cold shelf, a clear sense of loss and sadness gripped him. The award itself seemed to flash with a faint light of its own, as if reluctant to part with that solitary warmth, sinking back into dead, lonely silence.

Chapter Text

Harry woke in the grey light of Sunday morning. The fatigue from Saturday's detention still clung to his bones, but heavier still was the desolate emptiness lodged in his heart. He buried his head deep under the covers, listening to the dull, stubborn thud of his heart in his chest, like a caged bird endlessly beating itself against the bars. The scorn from his classmates, his neglected studies, the criticism from teachers, even the hesitation of his best friends… all these fragments were like shards of ice, slowly flaying him alive. His heart beat so powerfully, and yet, he had never felt so fragile.

His world was crumbling, and the two trophies—the warm imprint left by his father and the mysterious pull emanating from Tom Riddle—acted like two opposing magnetic poles. One dragged him down into the icy depths of longing, the other lured him towards an unknown, mist-shrouded shore, locked in a fierce battle within his mind.

As if guided by an unseen force, he slipped out of bed, grateful his roommates were still asleep. He dressed as silently as a cat, his ears straining against the backdrop of carefree, rhythmic snoring, and then sneaked out of the common room. He had intended to slip into the Great Hall for breakfast like a shadow; he'd had more than his fill of the needle-sharp stares and poisoned whispers. He walked in a daze, yet his feet, as if pulled by invisible strings, carried him involuntarily towards the Trophy Room. He didn't intend to do anything, just… just wanted to see them again. It seemed like the last wellspring in this suffocating castle from which he could draw a moment's peace.

Through the cold glass door, he saw them.

James Potter's trophy stood undisturbed, protected by his Impervius Charm, glowing with a soft, gentle light in the gloom, like a silent comfort. Faint as it was, that light pierced the thick fog in his mind like a lighthouse beam, starkly illuminating the void within him that could never be filled—the space labelled 'father,' meant for love and companionship. Harry pressed his hands hard against the cold glass, his eyes greedily tracing the grooves of each letter, as if he could reach through this cold barrier and touch his father's young, warm hands in another time.

This warmth, so close yet forever out of reach, was a thousand times crueler than pure cold.

Harry spun around sharply, his back hitting the cold display case as he slid uncontrollably to the floor. He wrapped his arms tightly around himself, as if without this, the overwhelming grief would tear him apart completely. He stopped resisting, letting the tears flow like a burst dam, violently washing away all the forbearance, the sense of unfairness, and unspoken agony bottled up inside him these past days. He cried for himself, for his damned fate, and for the father who would only ever live on in trophies and tales.

He didn't know how long he sat there until a beam of the newly risen, golden sunlight, like a gentle hand, softly brushed through his sweat-dampened black hair. Harry's sobs gradually subsided. He lifted his tear-streaked face, wiped it roughly with his sleeve, rubbed his swollen, stinging eyes, and struggled to his feet. As if summoned by an invisible force, he walked to the other trophy case.

Tom Riddle's medal lay upon its velvet cushion. The crystal serpent seemed to meet his gaze with its crimson, living-like slitted pupils. The jade and gold made it seem as if it were breathing on its own in the shadows, whispering silently, emanating a faint, undeniable radiance. And as Harry's gaze fell upon the name—

A miracle, or something eerie and uncanny, happened.

He felt as if the letters, inlaid with black diamonds, had transformed into a warm and dangerous vortex. A golden radiance, invisible to the eye yet perceived clearly by his entire soul, shot forth from them, connecting precisely with the scar on his forehead.

In an instant, all sound ceased.

The cold, anvil-heavy despair that had been squatting in his heart began to melt away like residual snow under a spring sun, washed by this warm current. The circle of light formed an absolutely indestructible barrier, completely isolating him from all the external pain, doubt, and noise. A thrilling, tingling numbness emanated from his scar. It wasn't unpleasant; instead, it felt like countless tiny, warm notes dancing upon his taut, frayed nerves, playing a soothing melody.

Harry felt as if he were floating on warm clouds, gently held and caressed by invisible yet powerful hands. A profound, languid intoxication spread from the epicentre of his scar, seeping into his marrow, merging with his blood, flowing to every inch of his skin. He was so comfortable, so relaxed, that a soft, shallow moan, mixed with utter relief and a sigh, slipped uncontrollably from the depths of his throat.

Before the echo of that moan had faded, hurried footsteps and hushed calls came from the end of the corridor.

"Harry?"

"Harry, where are you?"

It was Ron and Hermione. They had found him. Harry was abruptly yanked back from that cloud-like bliss. He tore his gaze away like a thief caught in the act, severing the warm connection almost violently. An immense, aching emptiness opened up inside him as the coldness of reality rushed back in. He frantically wiped his face again with his sleeve, took a deep breath, and tried to piece together a normal expression.

"I'm here," his voice was hoarse and raw from crying.

Hermione reached him first, her eyes quickly taking in Harry's swollen eyes, the Trophy Room behind him, and the vulnerability he hadn't yet managed to hide. She understood instantly, her heart aching for him. "We didn't find you in the Great Hall, we thought you might be here…" Her voice was very soft, laden with unmistakable concern.

Ron followed, his steps slightly dragging. He saw the tear tracks on Harry's face, and he saw James Potter's trophy. In that moment, the last of the hesitation and awkwardness on his face vanished like mist blown away by the wind, replaced by a resolve mixed with guilt and determination. He strode up to Harry, his grey-blue eyes looking straight at him, his tone unprecedentedly serious and clumsy:

"Listen, Harry." He took a deep breath, as if lifting a heavy weight. "I… I've been a complete and total git."

Harry stared, stunned, his mouth opening, but Ron cut him off.

"No, let me finish! I know I've been acting like a… a right coward these past few days! But I never didn't believe you, never!" His voice rose with urgency. "I just… I just hated how they were looking at you, and I didn't know what to bloody do! The points, the rumours… they made me furious, but I was most furious with myself!"

He ran a hand violently through his red hair, and finally, as if using up the last of his courage, yelled what was in his heart:

"You're my best friend! I don't care if you're a Parselmouth or a bleeding… whatever! To hell with the Heir of Slytherin, you're Harry! If that ponce Malfoy spews any more of that rubbish, I swear I'll shove his head down a toilet, even if McGonagall turns me into a pocket watch!"

The words were messy, even crude, but they felt like a solid, searing warmth, more real and profound than the eerie light had been, flooding into Harry's heart. He looked at Ron's flushed, earnest face, at the relieved tears shimmering in Hermione's eyes, and the cord that had been pulled taut within him finally slackened.

Hermione stepped forward, linking an arm through each boy's, her voice light with relief. "Alright, you two idiots. Now, can we please go and save my stomach? It's about to start eating itself, and I have a strong feeling the treacle tart today will be epic."

Ron grinned, his usual self returning. He shoulder-bumped Harry—not too hard, not too soft—a signal unique to them, meaning closeness and reconciliation. "Come on, Saviour, don't keep the epic tart waiting. It might cry."

That small gesture was worth more than ten thousand words. The barrier between them crumbled to dust under that bump.

The three of them walked side-by-side down the corridor, gradually gilded by the sunlight. Hermione, in the middle, was already outlining a study plan for the new week, while Ron argued about new Quaffle strategies beside her. Harry walked alongside them, silent, but a small, genuine smile tugged irresistibly at the corner of his mouth.

He wasn't alone anymore.

Yet, as he turned to leave, he felt a needle-like gaze prickling the back of his neck from the direction of the Trophy Room. And deep inside, a tension quietly rose—the secret connected to that name was something he didn't want to, and couldn't, share with anyone. Not yet.

After breakfast, the long-absent sense of lightness led them on a detour to the Quidditch pitch. The morning breeze ruffled their hair. Ron pointed at the goal hoops, excitedly demonstrating a difficult save. Hermione frowned slightly, but a tolerant smile played on her lips. Harry took a deep breath of the crisp air, feeling the tangible texture of the world as if reborn, the boulder on his chest seeming to have shifted slightly.

Just then, a round figure came tumbling across the lawn towards them in a near panic.

"Harry!"

Neville Longbottom was ashen-faced, gasping for breath as he skidded to a halt in front of the trio, his words tumbling out incoherently. "It's… it's bad! Your dorm… I just went back… I saw… You need to come see!"

The smile froze on Harry's face.

A cold, sticky premonition coiled around his heart like a venomous snake. He didn't even have time to offer half an explanation to Ron and Hermione before he turned and sprinted at a full-out run towards Gryffindor Tower, his friends close behind, their faces a mask of shock and confusion.

He shoved past the Fat Lady's portrait, burst into the common room, ignoring the startled looks from the few early risers, took the stairs two at a time, and slammed open the door to his dormitory—

The sight that met his eyes was one of post-pillage devastation. His trunk and backpack had been forced open roughly, clothes and textbooks strewn everywhere. His pillow was torn apart, white feathers drifting in the air like mourning snowflakes. The sheet had been ripped from the bed and lay crumpled on the floor.

Harry stood frozen in the doorway, his pupils dilated with shock. He looked at Ron and Hermione, who were equally dumbfounded beside him.

"Harry, check what's missing! This could be a robbery!" Hermione was the first to react, her voice tense as she immediately bent down and started picking up scattered items. "Ron, help!"

Harry picked up his backpack, the large gash in it gaping open. It was empty.

"…Eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen. Harry, all your textbooks are here, your notebooks for every subject are here too. What about your clothes and other things?" Hermione stacked the counted books on Harry's bedside table, her voice urgent.

Harry nodded, his throat tight, saying nothing.

"So this bloke breaks in, doesn't take anything, just messes up your stuff? Is this some new, utterly pathetic brand of prank?" Ron spat with disgust.

But Harry knew Ron was wrong.

He had lost something.

The black diary was gone.

Chapter Text

Harry stood rigidly, a cold sweat breaking out all over his body. Time seemed frozen in the dormitory. The sound of Hermione counting items and Ron's disgusted complaints reached him as if through a thick pane of glass, muffled and distant. His gaze was unfocused, staring at the books scattered on the floor, but his mind was racing like it was under a powerful Searching Charm.
Don't tell.
The thought, absolute and leaving no room for doubt, seemed to rise from the very depths of his soul, splitting his consciousness in two. One half mechanically responded to the external concern, while the other plunged completely into a cold, misty abyss where he was utterly alone. Harry was terrified by this absolute, unfamiliar command from within himself.
Why? he asked himself chaotically. Why was he so certain that everything about the black book—its arrival, its disappearance, and especially the eerie feelings it evoked—had to become a secret never to be spoken aloud?
Feelings…
The word was like a stone dropped into murky water, sending up turbid, confused ripples in his mind.
On the sofa at The Burrow, the moment his fingertips touched the cold cover, the brief, sharp pain in his scar… like a venomous needle in the dark, a silent warning.
He had dismissed it then, but now, in his panic, the memory was branded on his nerves, horrifyingly clear.
Almost simultaneously, another memory forced its way forward, carrying a directly opposite, false warmth—
Just yesterday, the medal belonging to Tom Riddle, lying on its velvet cushion. When he had gazed at it, his scar had responded with… a soothing, intoxicating, dizzying warmth.
Pain. Warmth.
These two sensations, originating from the same scar yet utterly incompatible, now twisted together in his mind like two icy barbed-whips, tightening abruptly!
A bone-deep chill shot up Harry's spine, instantly freezing him to the core.
Two seemingly unrelated objects: one, a blank book of unknown origin; the other, a fifty-year-old medal. What connection could they possibly have?
The chain of logic snapped here, unable to proceed. But a deeper, more primal, beast-like intuition bypassed all rational thought, scratching and howling madly within him: There is a connection! There must be!
This intuition wasn't baseless. A heart-stopping memory surfaced: Dobby's face, twisted in utter terror in the Weasleys' living room, and his ear-splitting shriek: "Bad thing!" "It is poisoning the magic!"—it all painted the diary with an impenetrable veil of evil. On the other hand, the medal represented official, gleaming gold honor and service.
One brought pain, deemed sinister by a house-elf; the other brought warmth, celebrated by school history.
This extreme contradiction, like two giant forces tearing him in opposite directions, threatened to rip his insides out. He found himself on the precipice of a terrifying truth: both were somehow eerily connected to his scar, to him, the 'Chosen One,' in a way he couldn't understand, let alone explain to anyone. And now, one of them—the diary that might hold answers or a fatal curse—was gone.
"...Harry? Are you alright?" Hermione's voice finally pierced the glass pane, laden with unconcealed worry.
Harry jerked, violently pulled back from that cold, inner realm. He met Hermione's searching gaze and Ron's confused look, his heart hammering wildly. He couldn't explain this tangled mess built on scar pain; it sounded like the ravings of a ghost.
"I…" His throat felt like sandpaper, his voice dry and unlike his own. "It's too stuffy in here… I… I need to get out… get some air."
He gave them no chance to question or comfort him, almost staggering, pushing past them with a desperate force, fleeing the dormitory as if escaping a scene about to explode. Only one thought, forged by fear and intuition, burned clear and hot in his mind:
He had to figure this out alone. And the first step was to find the only other being who had reacted so violently to the diary—Dobby.
Harry shot out of the portrait hole like a bullet, running aimlessly through the castle corridors. Where is Dobby? He could be anywhere! Harry's frantic gaze swept every corner. The corridors were filled with unfamiliar faces in school robes; there was no sign of the small, slight figure in a ragged pillowcase. A deepening, icy despair, like the water of the Black Lake, threatened to drown him. He opened his mouth uselessly, gasping for air, sweat and tears mingling on his forehead, his robes already soaked and clinging unpleasantly to his skin. But Harry knew he couldn't stop. He had to find Dobby, or else… a feeling beyond reason told him something irreversible would happen.
Pushing his exhausted body on, Harry's eyes swept the cold suits of armour lining the corridors like searchlights, absurdly hoping Dobby might be hiding in some shadow. But lingering reason mocked him: How could that be? If it were that easy, the professors would have found him long before Harry could.
Sheer exhaustion and mental pressure finally overwhelmed him. Harry veered sharply into a seemingly long-abandoned bathroom, all his fear, anger, and resentment converging into an uncontrollable torrent. He yelled at the empty, dripping sinks:
"Dobby!"
Then, as if all his bones had been removed, he collapsed onto the dusty bathroom floor, his chest heaving like a broken bellows.
It was useless. He was almost certain Dobby is far from Hogwarts. He needed a plan, a careful, bold plan. Maybe he could sneak out the main gates, find the station, take the train to London, find a way to Diagon Alley… desperate, twisting vines of thought coiled in his overworked mind.
As he struggled in this quagmire of thought—
Pop!
A soft, yet thunderous crack sounded.
A familiar, small figure in a dirty, hole-ridden pillowcase appeared suddenly on the cold bathroom floor as if summoned by a hastily conjured nightmare—
Harry stared, stunned, his pupils contracting in shock. It was—
"Harry Potter, sir…" The elf's tennis-ball-sized eyes were fixed unblinkingly on Harry, his enormous, bat-like ears still twitching nervously from the sudden movement. "Was you… was you calling Dobby just now?"
"You—how did you—" Harry stammered, terrified, his gaze pinned on Dobby.
"Dobby heard Harry Potter calling him, so Dobby came," the elf squeaked, trembling, and bowed so low his nose touched the floor. "What can Dobby do for Harry Potter, sir?"
Snapping back to reality, Harry shot to the bathroom door, slammed it shut with a loud bang, and fumbled the bolt across with convulsive fingers. Then he frantically rushed to each stall, almost violently shoving the doors open, his eyes scanning every corner. Thankfully, apart from dampness and silence, they were empty. Now, this decaying, moisture-laden space held only him and Dobby.
Harry walked back to the elf, his shadow engulfing Dobby completely. Without hesitation, he ground out the words from between his teeth, his voice low as an echo from the depths:
"Dobby. My dormitory was torn apart. It was you, wasn't it?"
It wasn't a question, but a final judgment. As he spoke, he saw clearly how fear, like ink dropped into clear water, rapidly spread and filled the elf's enormous eyes.
"Dobby had to, Harry Potter, sir!" Dobby wailed, a mixture of sob and shriek. "Dobby begged you on his knees to stay away from the evil thing! But Harry Potter brought it back to this ancient castle, treasured it!" The elf's voice twisted with despair. "Dobby could not watch it consume you! So Dobby had to defy the ancient bonds, commit this crime!"
With that, Dobby let out a heart-rending screech, grabbed the edges of the sink, and began pounding his head furiously and dully against the hard ceramic.
"Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby!"
For a moment, immense helplessness gripped Harry's heart like a giant hand. But he forced himself to remain rooted, lunging forward, grabbing Dobby roughly by the arm and dragging him away from the sink with all his strength. The force was so great the elf's already ragged pillowcase tore with a sickening rip. Harry's iron grip clamped onto Dobby's frighteningly slender wrist, pinning him hard against the cold tiled wall. His other hand fisted in the fabric over Dobby's chest, holding him there, as a low, suppressed roar, held back for too long, erupted from the depths of his chest:
"Where did you hide it? Tell me!"
Scalding tears burst from the elf's eyes like a sudden summer rain. Dobby choked, his voice broken. "Dobby cannot say! Dobby would rather split himself in two than let Harry Potter touch those cursed pages again!"
Harry was consumed by a blinding rage. His fingers slowly, with cold resolve, moved from the bunched fabric and closed like a constricting snake around the elf's thin, trembling neck.
"Perhaps you don't know," Harry's voice was cold enough to freeze the air, "that thing belongs to me. It is my property. Now tell me, is it still in Hogwarts? Look at me and tell me the truth."
The pressure from his fingers tightened, cold and steady.
He watched as the elf's grey skin began to take on an ominous, ashen hue, as the huge eyes, filled with pain and a soul-shaking, canine loyalty, reflected his own face.
At that moment, the elf gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
As if struck by a white-hot bolt of lightning, Harry released his grip as if the skin were poisonous.
Dobby slid to the floor like a broken puppet, curling into a small ball, his coughs wracking, gut-wrenching, almost retching. A tidal wave of guilt, remorse, and self-loathing crushed Harry. His knees buckled, and he fell heavily to the floor before Dobby, his voice faltering from violent trembling.
"I'm—I'm sorry—Dobby—I... I lost control… I swear I never meant…"
The elf struggled to stop coughing, wobbling as he pushed himself up. He looked at Harry with eyes washed by pain and tears, his voice faint but oddly calm.
"It doesn't matter, Harry Potter sir. Whispers of death are familiar to Dobby. In Dobby's proper home, Dobby receives such 'greetings' from his master at least five times a day."
Harry looked at him, consumed by guilt, and was about to speak when unfamiliar, clear footsteps sounded outside the bathroom, growing nearer. Both Harry and Dobby froze. The elf scrambled up in a panic: "Dobby must go!"
Harry seized the last chance, lunging forward, hissing his final question almost directly into Dobby's ear: "Where did you hide it, Dobby? Please, tell me."
Dobby paused, a complex, indescribable gleam flashing in his large eyes. With his last bit of strength, he answered as if spitting out his final secret:
"In a place… where Harry Potter is not meant to find it, not for many centuries."
With a sharp crack, the elf vanished into thin air, his form erased like chalk dust.
Before Harry could even process the abrupt disappearance and that despairing verdict…
"Oooooooh! This isn't a popular spot, you know. Especially for boys."
A haunting, weepy, and slightly curious female voice drifted down from above one of the stalls.
Harry started, looking up sharply to see a pearly-white ghost with glasses and a mournful expression peering at him through the wall.
"Go away!" Harry snapped lowly, in no mood for any spectators.
"Tut, tut, temper," the ghost said, not leaving but instead floating out of a toilet and circling him. "I've seen plenty like you, hiding in here to cry. But… you look worse off than most."
Harry ignored her, turning to face the wall, trying to concentrate on how to find the book.
"Why aren't you crying?" the ghost floated in front of him again, pressing curiously. "It helps, you know. I do it all the time."
Harry stared disgustedly at the glowing ghost and spat out, "Who are you?"
"I'm Myrtle," she said, drifting lightly. "And I said, this is the girls' bathroom. But…" A sort of ugly white blush seemed to spread across the ghost's face. "You have nice eyes. Green. Like a freshly pickled toad."
The bizarre 'compliment' sent a shudder of revulsion through Harry. He muttered awkwardly, "Er… thanks." He just wanted to get out of this place and keep thinking about what 'not meant to find it for many centuries' could mean. He sidled, trying to slip past Myrtle.
"Oh, leaving so soon?" Myrtle's voice was instantly thick with disappointment. She drifted ethereally, blocking his path to the door. "It's always the same! No one ever wants to stay! You boys come bursting into my bathroom, making a racket, and then just run off without a thought for anyone else's feelings!"
"I didn't mean to burst in," Harry tried to explain, patience wearing thin. "I just needed a quiet place."
"Quiet?" Myrtle scoffed, her voice echoing off the tiles. "It's never quiet in here! The pipes gurgle and groan all day, I can't even have a proper cry! And silly girls are always coming in, weeping over silly little things—like their mascara isn't dark enough!" She sighed dramatically, as if bearing the world's sorrows.
Harry had no interest in hearing the troubles of Hogwarts' girls. He just wanted to get rid of her. "Look, I'm sorry I disturbed you, but I really have to go."
"Go? Go where? To those boring lessons? Or to your giggling friends?" Myrtle persisted, swooping closer. Though she was transparent, Harry felt a chill. "They don't understand you, do they? I can tell. You're like me. You have secrets."
The words unintentionally struck a nerve. Harry pressed his lips together, not answering.
Seeing his silence, Myrtle seemed to take it as camaraderie, her tone becoming slightly friendlier, though still dripping with self-pity. "I knew it. You're different from them. Most boys these days are so rude and loud, all Quidditch and pranks… Not like…" Her voice suddenly took on a hazy, nostalgic quality. "Not like him…"
Harry paused slightly. The 'him' sparked a flicker of weak curiosity.
"Who was he?" Harry couldn't help but ask, his eyes still fixed on the door handle as if ready to bolt.
A radiant look spread across Myrtle's face, as if she'd been waiting for him to ask.
"He…" she said in a near-dreamy tone. "…was special. He didn't ignore me or laugh at me like the others. When he came here to think… he was quiet. He'd even talk to me sometimes. He said crying was a sign of weakness, that truly powerful people used their minds and strength…" Her voice trailed off, filled with adoration.
Minds and strength…
The phrase sent a faint current, lightly touching the thread in Harry's mind connected to the 'Special Award for Services.' An image of an excellent, powerful, school-approved boy began to overlap vaguely with a hazy impression in his mind. His heart skipped a beat for some reason.
Myrtle, as if to prove the reality of her 'perfect gentleman,' said the name clearly, her voice a mixture of pride and sadness:
"Tom Riddle… He wouldn't have been in such a hurry to run away from a crying girl."
Tom Riddle.
The name was like a clap of thunder carrying the chill of fifty years, not sounding in his ears but striking directly into the core of his consciousness, instantly forging all the chaos, coincidence, and intuition into a single, cold, hard chain, binding him irrevocably to that unfamiliar name.
How… could it be him?!

Chapter Text

Shock gave way to a more clinging, viscous anxiety. The corridors of Hogwarts had never felt so long and hostile. The whispers from every portrait seemed to be about him, and the light from every window failed to dispel the chill in his heart. Tom Riddle—the name was a ghost, not only haunting the bathroom's air but also firmly entrenched in his thoughts, transforming his desire to find the diary into a near-obsessive urgency.

A place not meant to be found for many centuries… Harry racked his brains but couldn't fathom where in Hogwarts such a description could possibly fit.

He needed a plan.

A detailed, inconspicuous plan. He couldn't let anyone know the book was missing. For now, the only people he trusted were Hermione and Ron. Perhaps the brilliant witch's vast reservoir of knowledge could help him locate this place. Despite the risk of his friends' suspicion, the imperative to find it overrode everything else.

He slowly made his way back to the common room. Hermione and Ron were already waiting for him, seated on the largest sofa right in the middle. The moment Harry entered, Hermione turned her head immediately, and Ron waved him over vigorously. Harry sat down silently between them.

"So, Harry? Any clues at all?" Hermione asked eagerly, her brown eyes full of worry.

Harry blinked, replying with a certainty that surprised even himself: "No. I checked all the places I know, thoroughly. I didn't find anything missing." He paused, then added, "But the castle is huge. I might not have searched every corner yet."

Hermione nodded thoughtfully. Ron, however, let out a huge sigh of relief and slumped deeper into the sofa. "That's great! Don't worry, we'll catch the bloody bastard," he waved a fist for emphasis, "and when I find him—he's gonna get a taste of what I can do— Hey, mate, by the way, Hermione and I fixed up your bed and stuff. You can check it out later." Ron shot a look of minor triumph towards Hermione, who rolled her eyes in response.

Harry forced a smile, his throat tight. "Thanks, mate. Really… thanks a lot."

Then, in her usual, practical tone, Hermione said, "Harry, I strongly recommend you put protective charms on all your belongings from now on. That way no one can easily mess with your things. The spells are simple; do you want me to teach you now?"

Harry almost agreed immediately—Merlin knew if Dobby would be back to inspect his possessions. But the words died on his lips as he remembered the mission he had to undertake alone.

"Thank you, Hermione, I'll definitely learn them later," he tried to sound merely tired. "But right now, I still want to make sure nothing else is missing, maybe in some corner I haven't checked. So… do you know if there are any particularly hidden rooms in Hogwarts? Places specifically for hiding things, or suitable for this kind of prank?"

"Specifically for hiding things…" Hermione immediately fell into thought, her fingers tapping her knee unconsciously. "I know the professors have their own common rooms, and Filch has his office. I've heard he's stuffed all the contraband he's confiscated over the years in there. But where it is exactly, or how to get in, I don't know." She finally shook her head.

Harry's heart sank. He turned his gaze to Ron.

"Not really sure either," Ron scratched his red hair. "But I can ask Fred and George! They definitely know more than we do!" Without waiting for Harry's reaction, he turned and shouted towards a corner: "Hey! Fred! George!"

The twins looked up simultaneously.

"Over here! Got a question!"

Fred and George exchanged a glance, faces sporting 'what a bother' expressions, and ambled over.

"What is it? We're busy, make it quick," George said, crossing his arms and looking at Ron.

Ron seemed oblivious to their impatience. "Harry's dorm got torn apart this morning. Might've had something nicked and hidden in some nook or cranny. Do you know if there are any… secret rooms in the castle specifically for stashing loot?"

Upon hearing this, Fred and George looked at each other again.

"We know plenty of secret passages," Fred shrugged. "But rooms specifically for hiding things… that's not really our area of expertise. We operate on a broader scale."

"Sorry, Harry, can't help," George said with a hint of apology, patting Harry's shoulder before the two turned and walked off, arms around each other's shoulders.

Harry muttered a vague "Thanks" and slumped heavily back against the sofa, closing his eyes wearily.

He had asked everyone he trusted, and received only negative answers. It seemed the search for the diary was destined to be his alone, aided only by the slim chance of Merlin's mercy.

Just then, Ron jolted upright as if pricked by a needle, his face lighting up. "Harry! Remember that room last year where we found the Philosopher's Stone? The one under the trapdoor guarded by Fluffy! Maybe there…"

Harry's eyes snapped open, hope igniting in his chest—

"That room was sealed by Professor Dumbledore the very night last year," Hermione cut in dryly, her tone leaving no room for argument. "The Philosopher's Stone was destroyed by Nicolas Flamel. What purpose would that room serve now?"

The newly kindled flame was utterly doused. Disappointment, like a cold tide, washed over Harry again. He said nothing, closing his eyes once more, shutting out the outside world.

He tried to clear his mind, formulating a dauntingly vast plan for himself: start from the first floor, search every classroom, every bathroom, even every broom cupboard, by hand.

It was then that Hermione's firm, warm voice pierced the barrier he had built, as if from a great distance:

"…Harry, don't worry, I'll go check Hogwarts: A History! We'll find that place!"

In the days that followed, Harry split himself in two. One half was the distracted shell that appeared in classes and around friends during the day; the other became a tireless ghost haunting every shadow of the castle in the early mornings and late nights. From the first floor to the eighth, every disused classroom, every empty bathroom, even every musty broom cupboard bore the traces of his futile search. He scoured the most obscure shelves in the library, asked Nearly Headless Nick about forgotten corners, even risked sneaking into the abandoned classrooms under Filch's domain. Yet, hope stretched and thinned like a shadow at sunset with each failed search, finally dissipating into utter darkness. Despair grew like cold moss in his heart.

The only silver lining was that this single-minded search acted as armour against the outside world. The pointed whispers around him seemed to grow distant and blurred. Ron was particularly proactive, often deflecting taunts with glares and clenched fists before Harry even registered them. Harry knew, in his heart, that a large part of this was the redhead's clumsy attempt to make up for their earlier estrangement. He didn't comment on it. As long as Hermione and Ron were by his side, this silent support was the only reliable light in his dim world.

His schoolwork naturally suffered; Harry's mind was wandering again. Thankfully, Hermione, sharp as a hound, always corrected him before he mispronounced a charm or added the wrong ingredient. She even moved her seat directly next to his. This unfortunately left Ron, who was forced to partner with Neville or Lavender, grumbling—not about the work itself (he cared little for that), but because he'd lost the chance for surreptitious communication with Harry during lessons. This led to numerous small arguments between Ron and Hermione. During these times, Harry's mind would drift away completely, his soul seeming to detach from his clamorous body, floating over a cold lake named 'Loss,' dredging for answers in vain.

Another secret he held tightly within. During his aimless searches, his feet often carried him back to the Trophy Room. At first, he would pause before 'James Potter,' trying to draw warmth from that blood connection. But soon, that warmth felt distant and feeble against the immense, burning mystery before him. His steps, pulled by invisible threads, always ended before that ornate medal of dark jade and gold.

His father's trophy offered a painful comfort, but Tom Riddle's medal was like a psychic opiate grown just for him. Each time he gazed at it, the tingling warmth from his scar acted as the most effective sedative, smoothing out his inner turmoil and anxiety, bestowing an intoxicating, dangerous peace. He couldn't help but merge the 'minds and strength' Myrtle spoke of with this tangible glory, freely imagining in his mind the young face, the low voice, and the untold, glorious past—perhaps also filled with loneliness and struggle—that belonged to that name.

He was consciously sliding into a trap woven by his own fantasies, and he was willing.

Another week slipped through his fingers, the diary still missing. Having searched almost every known area of the castle, Harry's gaze turned outward, towards the dark realm he had been deliberately avoiding—the Forbidden Forest. The memory of his nighttime detention there with Malfoy a year ago still fuelled his nightmares. But the desperation of having nowhere else to turn was a powerful hand gripping his fear. He gave himself an ultimatum: if he found nothing more within the castle tonight, he would have to go there.

That evening, in the common room, the trio was battling a difficult essay assigned by Snape. Ron was scratching his head, Hermione was scribbling furiously, and Harry's gaze kept straying, drifting towards the window, towards the Forbidden Forest, which deepened with the sunset and finally melted into a crouching, living darkness on the grounds. It breathed silently, emanating menace, seeming to swallow even the starlight, leaving only faint, eerie rustling sounds that challenged his nerves.

He scrawled the last few lines, tossed his quill aside as if discarding something filthy, muttered a vague 'goodnight,' and escaped to the dormitory. Inside the curtains of his four-poster, he clutched the Invisibility Cloak tightly, as if it were his only lifeline, holding his breath in the darkness, waiting—waiting for his roommates' snores to signal his move.

When Ron's signature, undulating snore finally sounded, Harry moved. He slid out of bed like a true ghost, wrapped himself completely in the Cloak, and melted into the shadows of the castle at night.

He stopped before the massive stone wall. Just around the next corner, a short walk away, was the exit to freedom—and to terror. The endless dark of the childhood cupboard under the stairs and the shimmering silver blood of the unicorn in the Forest now merged into an icy fear that seeped into his very bones. A chilling draft from under the door wrapped around him. His heart pounded like a drum, adrenaline screaming under his skin, raising goosebumps. He swallowed hard, trying to step forward, but reason sounded the sharpest alarm in his mind.

He couldn't do it. Fear chained his ankles.

Harry spun around, pressing his burning, sweat-beaded forehead against the rough, cold stone of the wall, breathing heavily. He closed his eyes. All his struggle, fear, and suppressed longing, like boiling magma, finally broke through the thin shell of reason, transforming into the most devout, most desperate plea from the depths of his soul:

Merlin… I need to find it… I must know the answer… A place where I can find it… A place that can hold all my questions… Please… answer me…

And in that very moment, as his entire being was poured into this silent cry—

The wall answered.

At first, it was just a barely perceptible ripple of magic, like the first concentric circle from a water lily touching a still lake surface. Then, high up near the ceiling, a flawlessly smooth, arched line materialized out of nothing, as if an invisible divine craftsman was tracing the outline of fate with light. On the smooth stone surface, intricate, ornate ancient patterns began to emerge and spread, rising like living black vines, elegantly and swiftly intertwining and growing downwards, forming two imposing, magnificent doors in the blink of an eye. The entire process was utterly silent, yet brimming with heart-stirring magical power.

Harry held his breath, his heart slamming wildly against his ribs. He stared, dumbfounded, at this miraculous transformation.

Almost instinctively, he reached out a slightly trembling hand, grasped the suddenly appeared, cold and heavy brass doorknob, and turned it gently—

The door slid inwards without a sound, as if there had never been any barrier.

The sight that met his eyes stole his breath away.

It was a space vaster than he could have imagined, as if it contained all the secrets and silence of Hogwarts itself. It was the ultimate hall for lost things, forgotten by time. Countless shelves, reaching into a deep, vaulted ceiling, stood in orderly rows, displaying millennia of remnants: goblets with chipped rims, motionless portraits, rusted diadems, scrolls of parchment covered in unknown script… All bathed in a shimmering, shifting glow of magical dust. Time itself seemed to have fallen into an eternal slumber here. There was no visible light source; the walls and dome of the room emitted their own deep, tranquil, ink-green radiance, as if he were standing at the bottom of a mystifying, spell-frozen sea.

An invisible force pulled Harry forward. His gaze swept past this accumulated silence of centuries and locked onto the absolute center of the room—

There, stood nothing else.

Only a desk, polished to a mirror shine, seemingly carved from a single piece of ancient, black dragon-heart wood.

And right in the center of that desk—

The black diary lay, waiting.

Beside it, an exceedingly elegant black quill and a bottle of ink, dark as solidified midnight, stood like the most faithful attendants.

The entire scene declared, silently but unequivocally—that it was the sole master of this place. It had been waiting. And now, it had finally received its destined, its only, visitor.

Harry had finally, finally, found his black diary.

Chapter Text

Time seemed stretched to infinity within the room, each second precipitating into visible dust motes that drifted slowly in the ethereal, ink-green radiance. A profound silence reigned, broken only by the thunderous beat of his own heart, pounding heavily against his eardrums, like a war drum heralding this fateful encounter.
Harry's gaze, as if locked by the strongest Sticking Charm, was fixed on the dragon-heart wood desk at the room's far end, and on the black diary resting upon it. It looked so serene, so alluring, utterly distinct from the lost objects covered in the dust of ages surrounding it. Its smooth cover seemed to absorb the room's faint light, and the dust in the air coalesced and floated around it like orbital satellites, loyally circling a miniature, dark planet emitting a secret gravitational pull.
His feet began to move involuntarily, his movements slow as if wading through deep water. The soles of his boots met the floor of unknown material without a sound, yet seemed to stir vast, hollow echoes in the depths of his soul. With each step closer, the air seemed to grow thicker, the magic more dense. The stacked lost things on the shelves—the broken diadems, the motionless portraits—seemed to transform into a silent audience, holding their breath in the darkness, watching his pilgrim's progress towards the center.
His mind was a chaotic battlefield.
One voice shrieked, a combined alarm of Hermione's logic and Dobby's warning: Danger! Leave! Leave it here!
But another voice, deeper, more magnetic, like a warm current over ice—the faint resonance from his scar, the soothing memory from Tom Riddle's medal—whispered: Closer... The answers are here...
The two forces tore at him, threatening to split him apart. Yet, his footsteps did not stop. The craving for answers, the curiosity about that eerie resonance, overrode all rational warnings.
He finally stood before the desk. Now, less than an arm's length separated him from it. He could see the diary's details more clearly: the cover was of some cold, non-leather material, its edges with barely perceptible fine wear, proof it had indeed weathered time. It lay there quietly, yet seemed to possess its own breath, a low, steady vitality emanating from it, forming a strange duet with his own rapid, slightly erratic breathing.
Harry drew a deep breath, trying to steady his trembling hands, but it was futile. He could hear the rush of blood in his veins, hot currents pounding in his ears. Slowly, very slowly, he raised his right hand, his fingertips quivering faintly, uncontrollably, in the cold air.
Just as his fingertips were about to touch the dark cover—
Change occurred.
Beside the desk, the bottle of ink, carved as if from solidified night, flashed internally with a fleeting golden streak, like a slumbering dragon opening a single eye in its dream. The elegant black quill seemed to adjust its angle by a minuscule, almost imperceptible degree, more like a silent, almost fawning invitation for him to dip it and leave a mark upon the blank page.
The room's ink-green light itself seemed to pulse almost imperceptibly brighter and dimmer with his decisive movement, like a knowing, even encouraging, blink.
Harry held his breath. All hesitation was replaced in that moment by a desperate, burn-the-bridges resolve.
His fingertip finally made contact.
At the moment of touch, there was no pain, no warning.
Only a profound, reassuring, and intoxicating warmth flowed continuously from beneath the cold cover, flowing up his icy finger, swiftly spreading throughout his body, gently enveloping his frantically beating heart, soothing his taut nerves.
This was it. He had found it.
With a trembling hand, Harry opened the cover. The inner pages were as pristine white as before. He picked up the elegant black quill. Perhaps he had only meant to examine it closely, or perhaps to dip it, but his overwrought tension and unsteady wrist caused an overly full drop of ink to fall. It landed with a soft splat, like a droplet of black blood, upon the blank page.
NO!
Harry's heart plummeted. He instinctively reached out to wipe away the stain, his mind filled with the annoyance of the mishap and panic at defiling this precious.
But his hand froze completely just before his fingers could touch the paper.
The drop of ink did not spread and stain the purity as expected. Instead, as if dropped onto sand parched for millennia, it was greedily, rapidly absorbed by the paper itself. The mark contracted inward, its color fading from dark to light, until it vanished completely. In less than a second, the page was restored to a heart-stopping cleanliness, smooth as before, as if nothing had happened.
Harry stared, stunned. He quickly lifted the page, checking for any seepage, but it remained pristine and unchanged.
It absorbs...
Harry held his breath, his pupils contracting.
It's alive. Or at least, active. Dobby wasn't entirely wrong... But this feeling...
In stark contrast to the bizarre sight was the clear, unmistakable warmth, like a feather's brush, from the scar on his forehead—not a warning, but more like an... intimate confirmation. He subconsciously raised his hand, his fingertips touching the lightning-shaped scar. His gaze sharpened. All hesitation was now replaced by an excitement mingled with guilt.
He gripped the quill again, his wrist is much steadier now. He dipped it fully into the ink, hovered the tip over the page, paused for a moment, then with a testing pressure, wrote firmly:

Hello.

The moment Harry lifted the quill, the words were absorbed at an astonishing speed. Harry held his breath, his chest tightening slightly with anticipation, anxiously awaiting the unknown.
Would the book reply? Or would some kind of monster emerge? Harry's mind raced through various horrifying scenarios before he could settle on one. But then, an exquisitely elegant word slowly rose to the surface:

Hello.

Astonishment threatened to consume Harry. The book was actually conversing with him. Instantly, a multitude of questions exploded in his mind, each seeming inappropriate. For some reason, that name surfaced in his thoughts. After a moment of internal struggle, Harry wrote:

What are you?

He didn't have to wait long—almost the instant his quill left the page—new writing appeared. It was a script altogether different from his own, elegant and composed, as if it had been waiting.

A presence. A recorder. Perhaps, also, one who can answer your questions.

The writing paused, as if silently appraising him, before continuing:

You seem... troubled.

It's cunning. Harry was instantly alert, a mix of tension, urgency, and a certain feeling of being seen-through churning in his stomach. It's evading the question and trying to draw me out. He wouldn't take the bait. Empty promises meant nothing to him. He was like a discerning buyer, demanding a demonstration of 'value' first. The quill twirled once between his fingers, now slightly clammy with sweat. He wrote again, his script steadier, his tone brooking no argument:

Cut to the chase.Prove your value. Otherwise, you're just a weird book that swallows ink to me.

The diary seemed to 'hear' his assertiveness. The new reply appeared a little slower, carrying a cautious, assessing quality:

Value lies in exchange, not in one-sided demand. You seek answers, and I... perceive a puzzle worth exploring.

Let us start with the simplest: When you touch me, besides curiosity and wariness, do you also perceive something... else? A feeling not easily defined as 'normal'?

It's testing me... Harry's heart clenched as if by an invisible hand. He could vividly recall the diary's cover—thin and brittle yet strangely giving a sense of substance and solidity—and the lingering sensation, like a faint electric current, tingling at his nerve endings. But it was right. That warmth, that sense of connection... it wasn't normal. It knew!
The craving for truth burned through his reason like wildfire, overpowering pure caution. He realized the other was guiding him, but the urgency for answers made him decide to take this dangerous first step. He wrote, his script betraying his inner struggle:

...I feel a connection. It doesn't make sense. Now, your turn—Why this sense of... connection?

On the page, the flow of ink seemed to convey a hidden satisfaction, yet remained restrained:

'Connection'... a very apt word. It shows your perception is sharp enough, worthy of being my interlocutor.

This connection stems from us both possessing... gifts and depth beyond the ordinary. As for more specific answers, that depends on how much 'value' you are willing to exchange. A name, perhaps?

After a brief internal debate, Harry pressed his lips together, able to taste the faint salt of nervous sweat and the strange dryness in his throat. He maintained deep suspicion, but beneath it surged a powerful urge to uncover the truth. He gave only his first name:

...Harry. My name is Harry.

The elegant response seemed to acknowledge this beginning, and the scar on Harry's forehead responded with a stronger wave of warmth, spreading out like ripples, causing a slight, pleasant tingling through his limbs.

Pleased to make your acquaintance, Harry. A solid start.

Then, the ink, in a dignified and perfect form, traced out the final answer, like a timpani strike resonating in the silent, grand hall glowing with faint green light:

I am Tom Riddle.

Tom Riddle.
It’s him.

The name was no longer just a mere visual fact. It seemed to gain weight and warmth, pressing heavily upon Harry's heartbeat before melting warmly into his bloodstream. As if enchanted, he extended his middle and ring fingers, slowly, almost reverently, brushing the not-yet-fully-dried elegant script. Instantly, a clearer, more pleasurable tingling sensation, like a kiss of weak electricity, crept up from the tips of those two fingers, travelling along the meridians of his arm straight to his heart, provoking a silent shudder.
This shudder gave birth to an irresistible impulse. His lips parted slightly, and the name, as if possessing a life of its own, slipped from his throat in an extremely soft, breathy whisper. As he formed "Tom," his lips pursed with an almost lingering pressure, as if imprinting a silent secret upon the void, his tongue sensitively pressing against his palate, feeling the tiny vibrations the name created in his mouth. And as the syllables of "Riddle" flowed out, his tongue, like a shy yet bold explorer, slid lightly from between his slightly parted teeth, turning the final sound into a strand of warm, moist breath that silently dissipated in the still air, carrying an unperceived, intimate familiarity and possessiveness.
This involuntary exhalation seemed to complete a small sacrifice. Harry subconsciously drew a deeper breath. This time, he didn't just smell the quiet scent of ancient parchment. He clearly detected an indescribable, yet distinctly masculine, scent—like the chill of ancient, moss-covered rocks deep in the Forbidden Forest after rain, mingled with something warm and dangerous, like dragon-hide gloves warmed in the sun. This scent was no longer formless smoke; it was more like a tangible, sweet rivulet, actively, irresistibly seeping into his nostrils, sliding down his throat, gently infusing every corner of his body. Wherever it reached, it not only soothed the nerves madly pulsating with excitement and elation but also seemed to press a searing, resonant connection to another soul onto his frozen loneliness.
The surrounding ink-green light responded to this internal cataclysm. It no longer merely permeated the air; it was like a living, warm tide washing towards him from all sides, gently enveloping his body. The light waves pulsed slowly, rhythmically, like the calm breath of a vast consciousness, binding and enclosing him, this diary, and this name ever more tightly within an absolutely private cocoon belonging only to them. Here, all external rules and warnings faded into insignificance, leaving only the elegant script on the page before him and the increasingly overwhelming sense of belonging surging within him, threatening to drown him completely.
Harry Potter sat rigidly in the center of that grand, silent hall, as if turned to a statue petrified by magic. His vacant, emerald eyes, unblinking, were utterly captured by that line of ink which seemed to possess life, still faintly pulsing with warmth. His fingertips unconsciously stroked the scar on his forehead, from which waves of intoxicating warmth emanated. The motion was gentle as a caress, yet carried a desperate urgency to confirm reality, as if only through this repeated touch could he be sure this dizzying connection wasn't just another phantom born of his lonely mind.

Chapter Text

He had no idea how much time had passed before a deep blue pre-dawn light, like spilled ink, began seeping silently through the crack under the door, spreading a pool of itself across the floor. Harry jolted awake, realizing he had spent nearly the entire night in the secret room. He scribbled hurriedly:

"It's almost dawn. I have to go. We'll talk again soon."

As his quill left the page, he could still feel his racing heartbeat and a strange, lingering sensation on his lips and tongue, as if from silently forming that name. A steady, lingering warmth pulsed from the scar on his forehead.
The diary's response came quickly, its script as composed as ever:

"Of course. I will be here."

A wave of relief, warm and soothing, washed over Harry, and the corners of his mouth lifted into an involuntary smile.
Treating it like a priceless treasure, he swiftly yet gently gathered the diary and the ink bottle, securing them against his chest. His heart is still hammering like a drum, he slipped back to Gryffindor Tower.
In the dormitory, the boys' snores were fading. Harry slid into his bed with barely a sound, clutching both the diary and the Invisibility Cloak to his chest. The warmth and the faint, magical thrum from the diary's cover acted like a silent lullaby, lulling him back into recollections of that name and their conversation. He was acutely aware that he now possessed a secret he could never share with anyone. It was a weighty secret, bringing a thread of fear, but more than that, it was an unprecedented excitement that belonged to him alone. He was determined to protect it.
The next day, sporting faint dark circles under his eyes, Harry flashed a brilliant smile at Hermione and Ron, who were already waiting in the common room, before he couldn't suppress a massive yawn.
"Morning!"
Ron boomed in reply, but Hermione only offered a small smile, her sharp eyes lingering on his face for a moment. "Harry, didn't you sleep well? You look a bit pale."
Harry paused, then grinned even wider, nudging Ron with his elbow. "You'll have to ask this guy about that! His snoring last night was something else—felt like I slept next to the Hogwarts Express tracks all night, with trains running past my ears one after another!"
Ron's face instantly flushed crimson. With a low growl, he launched himself at Harry. The two boys tumbled together on the sofa in a laughing, wrestling heap. Hermione had to raise her voice to stop them before they separated, chuckling, and got to their feet.
"I'm starving," Ron announced. "Let's get to the Great Hall!"
"Me too," Harry agreed readily, putting extra effort into sounding his usual, cheerful self. "I think I can already smell the sausages! Come on!"
He slung an arm around Ron's shoulders, and the two of them led the way out of the portrait hole. Hermione watched Harry's retreating back, her brow furrowing almost imperceptibly. She paused for a beat before following them.
That evening, Harry sought out Hermione alone and asked to learn the Protection Charm. A look of pure gratification immediately spread across her face. To Ron's astonishment, Harry mastered the charm with startling speed.
"See, Ron?" Hermione said, unable to hide her approval. "If you just visualize the object's form clearly before casting and hold a strong intention to protect it, the charm itself becomes simple and fluid."
Ron gave a dismissive sniff and muttered under his breath, "Well, it's not like my dorm got turned upside down…"
Hermione rolled her eyes. Harry, feeling awkward and guilty, ran a hand through his already messy black hair, unsure how to respond.
The only thing he truly wanted to protect was that single, profound shade of black.
When the blue light of the Protection charm finally sank steadily into the diary's cover, a secret sense of security wrapped around Harry, as if he had completed a vital ritual. He couldn't resist placing his palm lightly on the cover, his fingertips tracing the unique, non-leather texture.
For a moment, a powerful impulse seized him—he wanted to tell Tom immediately that he had placed a special protection over their secret. But he forcibly suppressed the thought the instant it arose. He locked this strange, urgent desire to share deep within his heart.
That night, he sank into a hazy dream.
A young man with black hair stood in distant sunlight, his form blurred and melting into the dazzling halo. He beckoned to Harry, his gesture elegant and familiar. Harry strained to run forward, but his feet were stuck as if in a swamp, unable to move. He squinted hard, trying to make out the other's face, but all he could finally grasp was the faint, upward curve of his mouth—a sight that made Harry's breath catch.
Harry woke with a start.
In the darkness,for the very first time, he was aware of a strange, heart-pounding tightness against his lower belly, carrying an unfamiliar warmth that left him both disoriented and dizzy, spreading slowly through his body.
A change had come over Harry since that hazy dream, a change that had to remain hidden forever. Each morning upon waking, he would first check his pyjamas, ensuring no suspicious traces were left, and swiftly straighten his bedding before Ron awoke. During the day, he deliberately pitched his voice higher, masking the anxiety within with exaggerated laughter and an excess of energy. Whenever those untimely warm currents stirred low in his abdomen, he would jerk to his feet, feigning intense interest in Quidditch news or suddenly proposing an impromptu game of wizard's chess—anything to divert his attention.
To Ron, this was undoubtedly a heartening sight. His best mate had finally shaken off the gloom that had clung to him for weeks, reverting to the Harry who would fight him for the last treacle tart and laugh boisterously with an arm slung around his shoulder in the corridors. "You're finally back to normal!" Ron had exclaimed more than once, his smile beneath his red hair genuine and relaxed.
Hermione, however, grew increasingly worried. She found Harry's transformation too abrupt, like a carefully applied glaze, glossy yet fragile. During the lively Ravenclaw vs. Slytherin Quidditch match, while everyone else was cheering for the Seekers, Harry would suddenly drift off, his gaze wandering towards the distant castle, a private, soft smile playing on his lips. By the chessboard in the common room, he seemed to be watching the game, but his emerald eyes had lost focus, as if he had sunk into a peaceful harbour no one else could reach. Most unsettling of all, whenever her probing gaze settled on him, it would take only moments for him to startle back to awareness like a disturbed Bowtruckle, the vividness in his expression vanishing instantly, replaced by an overly polite, almost distant smile.
Meanwhile, the castle's whispers about the "Parselmouth" were quietly fading. Like an old poster peeling from a wall, the initial shock had been washed away by time, replaced by Peeves's latest prank—this time, he'd hung water balloons filled with something sticky over the entrance to the caretaker's office. Occasionally, as Harry walked the long corridors, he would still catch a swiftly averted glance or two, but he found he genuinely didn't care anymore. A strange, fulfilling fullness from within allowed him to regard it all with an almost arrogant indifference. Their world was narrow and noisy. His world held a black secret powerful enough to overturn everything.
On many late nights, as snores echoed through the dormitory, Harry would secretly take out the diary. In the clear moonlight, the pages seemed alive, faintly rising and falling, emitting a warm, reassuring aura. And lately, when he opened the cover, a nearly imperceptible stream of air would always escape—like invisible fingers gently combing through his black hair, lingering near his temples. The touch was feather-light, yet it made his scar bloom with a comfortable warmth; it drifted slowly down, caressing his cheek, finally coming to rest on the faintly pulsing vein in his neck. Harry couldn't help but bury his face in the pages, inhaling deeply the intoxicating scent from another time—a mix of ancient parchment, damp moss after rain, and something else, something uniquely, coldly Tom Riddle.
The feeling was simply, utterly intoxicating.
On the last weekend of October, a festive cheer descended upon the castle. The air was thick with the sweet smell of pumpkin pasties, the corridors floated with singing jack-o'-lanterns, and the suits of armour, enchanted, occasionally burst into unison with eerie Halloween songs. Filch was busy hanging decorations that spat out bat-shaped sweets, while Peeves showered everyone with magical streamers that stuck fast to hair. "I heard Dumbledore's invited the Weird Sisters!" students whispered excitedly to each other, the anticipation of the festivities washing away all shadows.
On this Sunday afternoon, Hagrid enthusiastically invited them to his hut to admire his masterpieces for the feast. Twelve enormous pumpkins nearly filled the entire space, their orange skins glowing healthily in the lamplight.
"Not bad, eh?" Hagrid lovingly patted the rinds with his massive, spade-like hands, making the pumpkin leaves rustle. Harry had never seen pumpkins so large; the tallest one came almost to his shoulder. Ron excitedly circled them, while Hermione narrowed her eyes shrewdly.
"Hagrid, I think they could grow even bigger. Do you need any help?"
"Spot on, Hermione!" Hagrid clapped his hands delightedly, shaking a few bits of dust from the ceiling. "By Halloween, they'll be taller than Ron, I reckon… But for 'em to really shine at the feast, they need the good stuff! That 'Silverfrost Mold' from the edge of the Forest, the kind bathed in moonlight, mixed with a bit of plump gnome dung, makes top-notch fertilizer. Right by the entrance, perfectly safe. I need to weed their patch. Could you fetch some for me?"
The trio readily agreed. Once they reached the Forest's edge, Hermione immediately took charge with her usual efficiency. Ron, pinching his nose, grumbled as he collected gnome dung with dragon-hide gloves; Hermione carefully scraped the topsoil nearby, jotting down soil notes in a small book. Harry was sent a little farther away, under some bushes, to gather the shimmering "Silverfrost Mold" that formed on a specific type of moss.
The Silverfrost Mold sparkled with a captivating silver sheen, its semi-fluid texture reminding Harry uncomfortably of his detention a year ago. He shook his head, trying to dispel the memory. Just as he crouched down, his fingertips brushing the cool, damp earth, a different, far colder sound came clearly from the depths of the thick bushes beside him—a cold, rhythmic hissing that seemed to freeze the blood in his veins.

"...sense the ground tremble... the scourge of two-legs returns."

"More than that... I smell something... different. The great Sleeper below the nest turns in its slumber. Its dreams are full of restlessness... like when the speaker came, fifty years ago."

"The King's awakening... means purification. Back to the dark fissure, now. Await the call... or await your doom."

Harry's heart seemed to stop. He scrambled backwards, his small trowel and the collected mold scattering across the ground. He stumbled and scrambled back to his friends, his face as white as the ghost that haunted his bedside.
"Merlin's beard! Harry, what's wrong?" Ron exclaimed.
"I... I saw a nest... a nest of particularly large, biting Doxy eggs!" Harry panted, grabbing for an excuse that sounded both disgusting and plausible. Ron predictably mirrored a look of sympathetic disgust, while Hermione gave him a scrutinizing look but ultimately said nothing.
What was that? Harry looked back, his heart still racing. The forest remained silent, only the cold wind rustling the leaves, as if it had all been an illusion.
Back in Hagrid's hut, warmed by the roaring fire, Harry was still shaken. As Hagrid inspected the fertilizer they'd brought back as if it were treasure, Harry's hand, clutching a wooden mug, still trembled slightly. The warm tea inside rippled, reflecting his pale face. Suddenly, his fingers slipped. The mug clattered onto the rough wooden table, dark tea spreading rapidly.
As he frantically tried to mop up the spill with his sleeve, a spider, gleaming jet-black, scuttled in a panic along the table's edge. Its eight slender legs tapped a frantic rhythm on the wood before it vanished into the shadows deep within the cupboard.
"Merlin's pants!" Ron shot up from his chair as if stung, his face turning a sickly green.
Hagrid's bushy eyebrows knitted tightly together in confusion. "Not again! Blimey..."
"What d'you mean, 'again'?" Ron squeaked, his voice a mixture of revulsion and fear, his fingers clutching his robes.
"Them Acromantula... Aragog's lot... been actin' like they're possessed these days," Hagrid shook his shaggy head with a heavy sigh. "Runnin' for the deepest parts o' the forest like there's somethin' in the castle they're dead scared of. Never seen 'em like this in all my years."
"Aragog and his... lot?" Ron's voice shot up an octave. "Who's Aragog? And he has a lot?"
"Aragog's an old friend o' mine, Ron. A beautiful Acromantula, he is." A fond, distant look came into Hagrid's eyes at the name. "Saved 'im from a nasty peddler in the Three Broomsticks, must've been fifty years ago now. Let 'im go in the Forest. He's made a proper life for himself there... got his own territory... a whole family... couldn't be better for 'im..."
Ron's throat bobbed violently, his whole face scrunching up as if he were about to be sick. Harry's gaze drifted unconsciously to the window, where he saw four or five spiders marching in a line, scurrying at an alarming speed across the yellowing grass, heading straight into the dense shadows of the Forbidden Forest without a backward glance. When he looked back, he met Hermione's brown eyes, full of scrutiny and concern—she had been quietly observing him. Harry's heart lurched, and he quickly, flustered, looked away.
Hagrid's words felt like a block of ice into the already turbulent waters of Harry's mind. The hazy dreams, the chilling serpent tongue in the Forest, and the sight of the spiders' frantic exodus wove together madly in his head, forming a vast, sinister web that trapped him completely.
Late that night, lying within the curtains of his four-poster, listening to his roommates' steady snores, Harry once again couldn't resist taking out the black diary. The light from his wand-tip pooled softly in the darkness. He ran his fingers over the smooth cover repeatedly before finally opening it. He picked up the quill, dipping it into the inkwell again and again, but kept the tip hovering over the blank page, trembling slightly. He had too many questions—about the lingering dream, the eerie Parseltongue in the Forest, the strange flight of the spiders, and most of all, about the name that made his heart race just thinking of it. A thousand thoughts jammed in his chest, leaving him unable to find a starting point. The intense desire to pour everything out warred fiercely with a deeper, self-preserving instinct, trapping him in wordless silence.
Frustrated, with a touch of angry defeat, he snapped the diary shut. As if seeking some anchor in reality, he tilted his head back and stared blankly into the thick darkness outside the dormitory window. The sight that met his eyes, however, made him catch his breath. In the cold moonlight, he saw them clearly—spiders, several of them, scrambling frantically against the cold glass. Their slender legs scrabbled uselessly, scratching at the smooth surface with desperate, frantic energy, as if something terrible were closing in behind them, forcing them to flee the solid sanctuary of the ancient castle at any cost.
In that moment, an icy dread, like a nest of serpents uncoiling, crept inch by inch up his spine.

Chapter Text

Halloween Eve in Hogwarts was like a candy box about to be ignited. The air was thick with the cloying sweetness of frosting and the scent of roasted pumpkin; singing jack-o'-lanterns drifted through the corridors, emitting gurgling, weird laughs. However, students had to be extra careful on their way to classes, as pranks from Peeves and the Weasley twins were a relentless stream—they might, when one least expected it, drop a large bag of ink squarely on some unfortunate soul's face. Beneath this bustling festive atmosphere, a hidden, ominous undercurrent was quietly surging.
Ever since returning from Hagrid's hut that day, Harry found his perception of his surroundings had become unusually sharp. The small creatures he usually ignored now felt like sharp thorns at the edges of his vision, impossible to overlook. In the castle's corners, within cracks in the walls, spiders were conducting a silent, determined mass exodus. Fortunately, the holiday frenzy temporarily masked this alarming anomaly.
On Halloween itself, the school had a half-day holiday. The trio visited Hagrid again; his pumpkins had swollen to twice their previous size. While Hagrid was happily boasting about his "traditional gardening techniques," Hermione's sharp eyes caught the obvious traces of an Engorgement Charm. As Hagrid awkwardly begged for their secrecy, Hermione and Ron nodded gravely, while Harry stifled a private chuckle—he had glimpsed the secret hidden within Hagrid's pink umbrella back in his first year.
"They're still running," Ron whispered in the common room, his eyes darting fearfully towards a corner. A thin, black line was pouring relentlessly from behind a tapestry, climbing determinedly towards a window crack and disappearing into the night outside. The three of them huddled on a sofa, waiting for the feast to begin.
"This is highly unusual," Hermione said, her brow furrowed, shooting a disdainful look at Ron, who was dramatically curled up beside her.
"Yeah," Harry mused, "when I lived in the cupboard at the Dursleys', there were loads of spiders too, but I never saw them so... panicked." The word slipped out, and he startled slightly, as if he'd touched upon a crucial truth.
"Mass migrations in creatures usually only mean one of two things: a drastic environmental change, or..." Hermione pressed a finger to her chin, striking her classic thinking pose, "... the appearance of a natural predator they cannot withstand."
"Predator?" Harry repeated instinctively, his heart skipping a beat for no reason he could name. Before he could ponder it further, Ron let out a loud, gagging sound.
"Who cares what it is!" Ron wiped his mouth, shuddering. "If it gets rid of them, it's fine by me. Hope this 'predator' has a good appetite, cleans the whole lot up."
"Ron, this is not a good sign! Abnormal behavior in creatures can signal a shift in the magical environment, it could affect everyone!" Hermione retorted angrily. The two promptly fell into a hushed argument about the right of spiders to exist.
But Harry's mind had already drifted far away. "Predator" and "Awakening"—the two words acted like lockpicks, sharply prying open a chest of memories. The cold hissing from the Forest, the conversation about the "Sleeper" and "Purification," roared back to life. He craved answers, but couldn't turn to Hermione. Not yet, at least.
His gaze drifted unconsciously towards the dormitory. Perhaps... he could ask him. The thought brought a strange, dizzying thrill, and an uncontrolled smile crept onto his lips.
That night, the dormitory was filled with astonishingly rapid post-feast snores. Harry almost eagerly pulled out the black diary. The moment his fingertips touched the cover, a familiar warmth rippled out, spreading up his arm and throughout his body, strangely soothing his inner agitation.
He took a deep breath, as if drawing courage, dipped the quill tip deeply into the inkwell, let it hover over the page for a moment, and finally wrote:

"Hello, Tom. Are you there?"

The writing bore a barely perceptible tremor. After writing, he bit his lower lip hard, feeling his thunderous heartbeat pounding in his eardrums.
The diary didn't make him wait. The elegant, familiar script appeared almost instantly:

"Hello, Harry. I am always here."

Just that line alone flooded Harry's mind with a thick, almost guilty sweetness, nearly making him forget his purpose. He had to take another deep breath, forcefully dispersing the intoxicating satisfaction, before he could continue writing:

"I have some questions... Recently, a lot of spiders have appeared at Hogwarts. They're fleeing the castle in groups. Hermione says it might mean some powerful 'natural predator' has appeared in the castle, something that's 'awakening.' I suspect this 'predator' might have been sleeping somewhere in Hogwarts all along, like deep in the Forbidden Forest. It's not for any other reason, but Hagrid mentioned his spider friend Aragog came here fifty years ago, and it and its offspring lived peacefully all this time. It's only now they've started fleeing madly. So, I suspect something ancient within the castle has been 'awakened,' not a new threat from outside."

As he wrote the word "awakened," his heart clenched as if by an invisible hand, beating even more wildly. He felt as if he were using the ink to bind himself and the name Tom Riddle even more tightly within the same dangerous secret.
The diary's response came quickly, the script seeming even more fluid and beautiful than usual, carrying an unconcealed admiration:

"A truly excellent and logical deduction, Harry. You have grasped the two key elements: time and place. Linking the present anomaly to a historical anchor is a masterful approach to uncovering the truth. 'Sleeping' and 'awakening'... your choice of words is very precise. This indeed points towards an ancient power belonging to Hogwarts itself."

"To confirm this, what we need is not more speculation, but solid knowledge. Perhaps you could consult Chapter Three of 'Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them'. Ancient magical creatures are often intertwined with the castle's history. The true answers often lie within forgotten texts."

Tom didn't give a direct answer. Instead, like a patient mentor, he pointed Harry towards the path to the truth. This feeling of being trusted, of being guided individually, fascinated Harry more than receiving a ready-made answer. He felt like Tom's unique protégé, working with him to solve a great puzzle that belonged only to them.
Before Harry could steady his emotions, a new line of writing surfaced:

"I would be very interested to hear your thoughts after you have looked."

A strange, sweet warmth instantly washed through Harry's entire body. This was a pact, a contract existing only between the two of them, one that allowed for no third party to know. He wrote his reply almost reverently:

"Okay, I will."

After a sleepless night of contemplation, Harry plunged into the library. He scanned the rows, his fingers brushing against spines that seemed untouched for centuries.
After a painstaking search, he finally found the heavy tome. He eagerly flipped to Chapter Three, squinting as he skimmed the dense text. Then his eyes locked onto the passage about spiders' natural predators—
His breath caught in his throat.
The book stated clearly: "...For the vast majority of arachnid magical creatures, their one and only eternal source of fear is the gaze of the Basilisk. Furthermore, the presence of certain particularly powerful, magical serpents is often sufficient to drive spiders away..."
Serpents!
The word exploded in his mind like a thunderclap laced with icy rain. All the fragmented clues were suddenly illuminated by a stark, white light, fitting together with terrifying precision—the eerie Parseltongue in the Forest discussing the 'Sleeper,' the spiders' frantic flight mentioned by Hagrid, the cold, factual words on the page... The truth was so horrifying, yet laid out before him with crystal clarity. There wasn't some abstract thing 'awakening' in the castle, but a specific, serpent-related terror, potent enough to send all spiders fleeing in panic!
A tangled mix of icy fear and fiery excitement surged through him, leaving his hands and feet cold yet his scalp prickling. He snapped the book shut, the sound unnaturally loud in the silence of the library. His heart hammered wildly against his ribs, threatening to burst out. He knew. An astonishing secret, one that even know-it-all Hermione was unaware of, one that could shake Hogwarts to its foundations.

"Tom," he scrawled, having raced back from the library and flung the diary open, his frantic heartbeat almost palpable through the quill, "I found it! The book says the one and only eternal enemy of spiders is serpents! It's serpents!"

The ink was absorbed swiftly. Tom's response appeared with its usual composure and praise:

"An excellent discovery, Harry. This confirms your intuition. Book knowledge provides the skeleton, but now we must flesh it out. Can you think of someone who might provide more direct information?"

Harry paused, then a name sprang to mind.

"Hagrid!"he wrote. "He kept spiders! He must know something!"

"A very sound line of reasoning, Tom's script seemed pleased. "Go and ask him, in your own way. Sometimes, people reveal far more in what they let slip than in what they intend to say."

"Okay. Wait for my news."

"Of course."

Buoyed by a sense of validation, Harry gazed at the bright moon outside his window and closed the diary. He let his head fall heavily onto his pillow, clutching the diary tightly to his chest. It seemed the answer was not far off.
The next day, the lingering warmth of Halloween still filled the common room, a cheerful tide enveloping everyone. After a busy day, Ron sat beside him noisily enjoying Honeydukes' Fizzing Whizzbees, comical puffs of white steam erupting from his nose and ears, drawing laughter from surrounding classmates. Ron had latched onto him early, showing off the sweets he'd gathered from the feast. Hermione, thoroughly annoyed, had already fled to the library to do homework, leaving Harry stuck by Ron's side, offering only absent-minded "Mmhm"s and "Yeah"s in response. Harry felt as if he were behind a transparent barrier, utterly detached from the surrounding merriment. He fidgeted, his eyes darting around; his mind echoed only with the memory of the cold serpent hisses and the scorching words from the book. He repeatedly glanced out the window, anxiously waiting for the moment he could slip away unnoticed to Hagrid's hut. He hoped Hagrid hadn't had too much mead the night before.
Suddenly, he stood and, as if pulled by invisible strings, walked over to a cold stone wall. He slowly pressed his palm against the rough surface, held his breath, and listened intently. He didn't know what he expected to hear—a blood-like pulse of magic within the walls, or that chilling, familiar hissing? But there was nothing. Only the dead silence of stone.
Yet this silence itself was a declaration. Somewhere within this thousand-year-old castle, a serpent had to be hiding. One perhaps immense, imbued with terrifying magic, potent enough to send all spiders fleeing in panic. Where was it? Would it awaken? Would it harm the innocent people in the castle? The terrifying, dizzying possibilities almost choked him.
Harry withdrew his hand, clenching it into a tight fist. He felt a constriction in his chest; the thoughts of spiders and serpents coiled around him like vines. His eyes fixed on a frantic line of spiders scrambling across a corner. He couldn't wait any longer. Making a quick excuse to Ron, Harry almost ran towards Hagrid's hut. The sky was already warming with the hues of sunset. The gamekeeper was sitting outside, mending a large saddle by candlelight.
"Hagrid!" Harry skidded to a halt before him, panting.
"Harry?" Hagrid looked up, surprised. "What're yeh doin' out 'ere? What's wrong? Yeh look all outta breath!"
"I need to ask you something. It's important." Harry sat on the stump opposite him, getting straight to the point, his right hand pressed to his chest as he caught his breath. "It's about the spiders, and... about fifty years ago."
Hagrid's hands, holding his tools, stilled abruptly. His face became uneasy. "...Fifty years ago? What brings that up?"
"The spiders in the castle are all running away, Hagrid. It's not normal. Hermione says they might have encountered a predator they can't fight. And I found out the spiders have an enemy." Harry stared intently into Hagrid's beetle-black eyes. "Fifty years ago, after Myrtle died, the school decided it was a monster... that monster was Aragog, wasn't it?"
"No! Not exactly!" Hagrid's voice rose sharply before deflating like a pricked balloon. He wrung his massive hands uncomfortably, his voice growing muffled. "Aragog... he was a good boy, wouldn't hurt a soul on purpose... It must've been... an accident back then..."
"An accident?" Harry pressed. "What kind of accident?"
"I... I don' know!" Hagrid's eyes grew evasive, filled with pain and struggle. "Who knows what ancient things hide in Hogwarts' walls... Some magics, dark an' tricky... Aragog was just... so restless, so scared back then... even attacked me sometimes... He must've sensed somethin', been... driven to it by somethin'..."
He was rambling, but key phrases struck Harry like ice picks—"in Hogwarts' walls," "ancient things," "sensed somethin'," "driven to it."
"So," Harry felt his throat go dry and tight, "you're saying there might have been something else in the castle back then? Something older, more dangerous? Something that drove Aragog out of control and caused the tragedy?"
"I—I never said that!" Hagrid shot to his feet, his large frame casting a heavy, agitated shadow in the twilight. His eyes darted nervously between Harry's face and the ground, filled with the agony of being cornered. "Listen, Harry, it wasn't like that! Aragog was... he wasn't himself, not at all, but takin' him away was enough! I didn't want him... disposed of... for somethin' he didn't mean ter do! An'..." His voice dropped to a near-whisper, laced with a superstitious fear, his thick fingers twisting together unconsciously. "...An' some things... they're best left buried in the dark! The castle's ancient, see? Behind the walls, under the floors... Who knows what's lurkin'? What happened back then is over! Let it be! Don' ask no more, I'm beggin' yeh!"
He almost fled back inside, as if staying a second longer might awaken something terrible with his words. He left Harry standing alone in the cold twilight, his heart pounding as if set ablaze. Hagrid's reaction was more convincing than any confirmation—not only was he desperately protecting Aragog, but the deep-seated fear of some unknown aspect of the castle itself, evident in his words and demeanor, mirrored the spiders' flight almost exactly.
He walked back to the castle almost on instinct. Hagrid's fragmented words, his large frame shrinking in fear, the skittering legs of fleeing spiders, the memory of eerie serpent hisses—it all threatened to split his skull. He needed to make sense of it all, and the only place that could understand, that could hold this chaos—he rushed back to the dormitory, flung the diary open again, his fingers trembling with excitement and fear, and poured out Hagrid's chaotic yet revealing words onto the page.

"Tom, I asked Hagrid. He denied it fiercely, trying to protect Aragog, but he's more afraid... He's afraid of the castle itself, afraid of things behind the walls, under the floors being dug up. He admitted Aragog was 'not himself' back then, must have sensed something. His fear is the same as the spiders' fear! That ancient thing that made everything go wrong, it's in the castle, and it's probably active again now, isn't it?"

Tom's response came a little slower this time, the ink flowing with a measured, thoughtful steadiness, as if each word was carefully weighed:

"Protection and fear often point to the same truth, Harry. Hagrid's defense of what he loves, and his reaction, confirms the oppressive presence of that 'being'—lurking in the castle's foundations, powerful enough to twist a creature's mind, ancient enough to silence those who know."

"Now, we hold both the book's record and the tremor of a witness. But the most irrefutable testimony often comes from those fleeing silently. Perhaps it is time to shift our gaze from words and read the spiders themselves. Their actions are more honest than any weak denial or vague warning. Observe closely, Harry. Observe their behavior, their direction, their source and path. In these subtle trails, you may find they are writing the answer for you in a language far more ancient than any tongue."

The ink settled, but the ripples of the conversation continued to spread within Harry. He gently closed the diary, his fingertips lingering on the smooth cover, feeling the warm pulse beneath it that seemed to be synchronizing gradually with his own heartbeat.
Read the spiders...
The phrase ignited a faint glimmer in his mind. He was no longer the boy passively waiting for a mystery to be solved. He had been given a new role—a decoder of truth, a hunter following silken threads. A strange sense of power, mixed with the tremor of stepping into the unknown, began to flow quietly in his veins.
He stood and walked to the window. Night had fallen, the castle lights casting his solitary reflection onto the cold glass. Just outside that reflection, in the impenetrable darkness, several thin, near-invisible black lines moved with determination along the folds of the wall, stubbornly heading towards the vast darkness beyond the window pane.

Chapter Text

In the aftermath of the Halloween, Hogwarts sank into a sugar-laden weariness and quiet. After the brief burst of noise, the castle gradually returned to its usual rhythm, yet the air held a new, almost imperceptible tension. As the weather grew colder, students huddled by the warm fires in their common rooms, spending less and less time outdoors.
To Harry, however, the ancient castle felt more 'active' than ever before. He had quietly begun a hunt of his own—a silent pursuit of the invisible fear permeating the air.
His gaze had grown sharp, like a nocturnal creature searching for prey, missing no dark corner: In the Potions classroom, pretending to tie his shoelaces, he glimpsed a few hairy spiders scrambling over each other to squeeze into a crack in the stone at the bottom of a storage cabinet, as if a wildfire chased them. In the corridors, he noted a line of spiders marching determinedly along a suit of armour's gauntlet, climbing towards the joints like pilgrims on a solemn, desperate quest. In Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, even more tiny black specks poured out from under the door, merging into a silent stream flowing steadfastly out of the castle.
Simultaneously, whenever Harry walked the long corridors, he found himself instinctively moving closer to the cold inner stone walls, holding his breath, both hoping and dreading to hear that remembered, chilling hiss pierce the thick rock. Yet, there was only dead silence. This silence brought no peace, instead fostering a deeper unease—if the serpents were quiet, was it some even more terrifying ancient creature that frightened the spiders so, or had some terrible, unknown magical distortion occurred within Hogwarts itself? As the weather grew colder, the spiders' exodus hadn't ceased; instead, they seemed more panicked than ever, a relentless tide, as if the castle itself was expelling them.
A formless anxiety, mingled with the impulse guided by his secret, fermented within him. Finally, one morning at the breakfast table a week later, the words slipped out almost uncontrollably, with a feigned casualness: "Hey, don't you think... the thing with the spiders is still a bit... concerning?"
Ron's reaction was as violent as if he'd been stepped on. He nearly spat out his pumpkin juice, splattering the table. "Can you please," he said, pale and annoyed, mopping up the mess, "not mention those disgusting things while I'm eating?"
Hermione shot Ron a disdainful look before turning to Harry, her brow slightly furrowed. "Yes, I've been observing them for a while too. Honestly, I haven't sensed any obvious environmental magical shifts, but the phenomenon itself is the greatest anomaly." She paused, a glint of inquiry in her eyes. "Harry, do you think we should do something about it?"
A secret, almost triumphant sense of anticipation abruptly seized Harry. He immediately realized this anticipation didn't stem from curiosity about the spiders themselves. He lowered his gaze, running his fingertips over the cool surface of his pumpkin juice glass, forcibly suppressing the complicated emotions surging within him. He replied in as composed a tone as he could muster: "Okay, but I'm completely lost. Where do you think we should start?"
The fire of inquiry instantly ignited in Hermione's eyes was precisely what his subconscious had been hoping for. When she immediately declared her intention to investigate further in the library, Harry felt a faint, almost imperceptible warmth from the diary against his chest, like a silent approval. A vague sense that things were moving on the right track settled him, but it was swiftly followed by a sharp pang of guilt. This borrowed assistance was like a mirror, showing him how he was steering his friends' concern towards the secret he shared only with Tom, pricking his conscience with fine, sharp needles. He told himself he had to do it, as if an invisible hand was gently, yet firmly, guiding his every action.
The real investigation had long since begun within him. On Friday evening, the common room fire crackled. Harry was curled in the most secluded armchair by the fireplace, a heavy History of Magic textbook open on his lap, providing the perfect camouflage. Beneath it lay a slightly crumpled piece of parchment, covered in a coded map—a key only he could decipher—charting the paths of the fleeing spiders.
Thick, dark lines snaked across the parchment, clearly tracing those desperate paths. Without exception, all the arrows pointed stubbornly out of the castle. The conclusion was inescapable: it was time to follow them, unnoticed, and find the final answer.
And the black diary lay nestled in the space between his thigh and the textbook, warmed by his body heat, feeling like a living presence. Its mere proximity offered a sense of comforting belonging and an ever-present feeling of being watched. The constant warmth seeping from its pages pressed against his upper thigh, causing an indescribable, subtle tension. Worse still, the familiar, dizzying, intangible breeze seemed to be growing more substantial, more viscous. Whenever the diary was near, it felt as if it had transformed into a warm, private medium, gently enveloping him. At times, it was like curious fingertips, lightly brushing through his black hair, tracing the outline of his scar, grazing his dry lower lip; at other times, like a mischievous sprite, skimming over the sensitive nape of his neck, kissing his earlobe, sliding down his spine, and even… tentatively drifting towards other, more secret parts that made his heart lose its rhythm. He felt his willpower is thinning, bit by bit, under this sweet erosion.
Harry raised a hand to his forehead, his throat bobbing involuntarily as a barely audible, stifled gasp escaped his slightly parted lips. He could almost taste it—the breeze, with an undeniable insistence, seemed to be trying to gently pry his teeth apart, to explore the deeper warmth and moisture within—
"Binns' essay is a nightmare! How much have you done, Harry?"
Ron's voice was like a boulder crashing into a calm yet undercurrent-ridden lake. Harry jolted violently, wrenching himself from the intoxicating fantasy. Almost reflexively, he snapped the textbook shut with a sharp thud, instantly hiding the path map beneath the parchment of his essay, his movements swift.
Simultaneously, a brief but sharp chill emanated from the diary pressed against his thigh—not hostile, more like a lofty, profound displeasure at being so rudely interrupted.
"N—not started yet," Harry's voice held a tremor he couldn't quite suppress. He didn't dare look Ron in the eye, afraid of revealing his previous lapse. "I'm... just checking some references first."
Ron was already busy unwrapping his Chocolate Frog. Harry quietly slipped his hand under the book, his fingertips meeting the diary's cool cover. Almost instantly, the displeasing chill receded like a tide, replaced by a familiar, forgiving warmth that gently coiled around his fingers, a wordless comfort and absolution.
This small interlude, like a beam of cold light, made him realize more clearly: the world he and Tom had built was so private, so exclusionary, so... fragile yet unshakeable.
Harry pulled out and smoothed the path map again, took a deep breath, and tried desperately to push the blush-inducing, heart-pounding distractions from his mind. The intangible breeze seemed to sense his resolve, giving the back of his head one last, rewarding caress, like a reward, before temporarily ceasing its mischievous antics.
A few days later, Hermione cornered Harry in a deserted corridor, a cold suit of armour acting as a silent witness to their conversation. She pulled a piece of parchment covered in her neat handwriting from her bag, her eyes alight with the fire of discovery.
"I've found something," she said, her voice excited yet instinctively hushed. "The records suggest that something capable of triggering such a large-scale, panic-driven migration is the constant oppressive aura of an 'apex predator.' It doesn't necessarily have to be a physical creature; it could also be... an ancient magical artifact, awakened, possessing a strong 'banishing' property. Its emitted 'aura' alone would be enough to send them fleeing for their lives."
"'Aura'..."
Harry repeated the word instinctively. It was like a key forged of ice and fire, sliding perfectly into the lock of his memory and turning, meshing seamlessly with the secret information the diary had conveyed. He felt the diary against his chest give a faint, almost imperceptible throb, like a silent resonance.
"So," Hermione looked up, her expression turning grave, her voice taking on a professorial sense of duty, "I believe we have sufficient theoretical grounds. We should report these findings to Professor McGonagall immediately."
"No!"
Harry's refusal was as swift as if he'd been burned, his voice sharper than he'd intended. He saw Hermione's eyes widen slightly at his vehement reaction, a flush of heat rising to his own cheeks. He immediately took a deep breath, trying to cloak the sudden panic in rationality, his voice carrying a barely detectable, almost possessive stubbornness. "It's... it's just theory, Hermione. We don't have a single shred of actual evidence... What if we're wrong? We'd just be making fools of ourselves." He paused, striving to sound more cooperative, more proactive. "But what you've found is really crucial. Maybe... maybe we should try to find the source of this 'aura' ourselves first? At least pinpoint the general direction?"
Hermione stared at him, her intelligent brown eyes sharp with an almost penetrating scrutiny that threatened to pierce the calm facade he was trying to maintain. Her gaze lingered on his face for a long moment, seemingly weighing the logic in his words against that反常 resistance. Finally, she let out a soft sigh and nodded, though the worry didn't leave her brow. "Alright," she conceded, but drew a clear line. "We can look into it ourselves first. But Harry, we must be very, very careful. And the moment we find any clear sign of danger, we stop immediately and report it to a professor. Agreed?"
"Agreed." Harry's reply was quick and crisp, without a moment's hesitation. He knew this flimsy promise was destined to be broken the moment it left his lips. His so-called "search for evidence" was a path whose endpoint was already set deep in shadows untouched by moonlight.
When night's curtain fell completely over Hogwarts and the dormitory finally echoed with long, steady snores, Harry slid from his bed like a true ghost. The cold Invisibility Cloak settled over his shoulders. He gripped his wand tightly in one hand, while the other pressed instinctively against his chest—where the diary lay, warm and reassuring against his pounding heartbeat.
The moment he pushed open the castle's side door, the unique scent of the Forbidden Forest—a blend of damp earth, rotting leaves, and untamed wild magic—hit him like a physical force, heavy in his lungs. Fear, like countless icy vines, crept silently from his feet, coiling around his limbs, constricting him.
He stopped dead, standing rigid for a moment, and took a deep, forced breath of the cold air. He pressed his hand more firmly against the diary at his chest. The unwavering, certain warmth emanating from it felt like the only unextinguished lighthouse in the darkness, piercing through the thick night and his fear.
He did not look back.
His form, hidden beneath the Cloak, wavered slightly, then moved forward resolutely, completely merging with the profound, absolute darkness that seemed to swallow all light and sound.
He crouched low, his eyes straining to search the blackened ground, closely following the panicked, scurrying tiny forms. The night was thick as ink; even the cold moonlight couldn't penetrate, leaving only a vague greyish-white smudge on the distant horizon. Before him was a near-blinding darkness; in his ears, a deathly silence broken only by his own drumming heartbeat, his suppressed breathing, and the horrifying, skittering rustle of countless tiny legs moving through the grass. He didn't dare use Lumos, relying instead on the faint, increasingly sparse glow from the distant castle windows and a near-instinctual pull, stumbling forward step by uncertain step.
The line of spiders was unwavering. Finally, Harry came to a halt before what seemed like an endless wall of deep shadow.
As expected, the final destination of the desperate procession was the all-too-familiar Forbidden Forest, standing before him like a massive, dark monster. It was blacker than the night sky, a solidified pool of ink exuding a heart-gripping chill. His heart hammered wildly against his ribs; cold sweat instantly soaked his hairline and back.
He looked back almost instinctively, pleadingly—the path behind was already swallowed by darkness, the warm outline of the castle a distant, unreal dream.
Suddenly, a burning, uniquely Gryffindor courage, like the roar of a cornered lion cub, burst from the deepest part of his being, momentarily overwhelming the bone-deep fear. He swallowed hard, almost viciously, tasting the sweetness of his own saliva, feeling the dryness and tightness in his throat. His hands clenched into tight fists at his sides, nails digging deep into his palms, using the faint pain to anchor his wavering resolve.
Then, he lifted his leaden feet and stepped across the boundary into the Forest, which gaped before him like a silent, waiting maw.

Chapter Text

The darkness of the Forbidden Forest was an aggressive, living entity. Thick, damp, and reeking of the cloying sweetness of decay, it pressed in from all sides like cold, black oil, seeking to seep through every crevice of the Invisibility Cloak. Harry, wrapped within it, sank with every step into the soft, treacherous mulch, his feet eliciting faint, heart-gripping crunches—whether from twigs or the remains of something else, he didn't know. High above, the twisted, gnarled branches of ancient trees shredded the pallid moonlight, casting a frenzy of dancing, phantom-like shadows before his eyes. Somewhere in the distance, an unseen creature produced a continuous, slick rustling, a sound which, far from breaking the deathly stillness, only deepened the terror that this realm itself was breathing.
His only comforts were the panicked shapes scuttling at his feet, merged into a single stream of despair, and the steady, reassuring warmth against his chest—the diary, pressed close to his heartbeat, felt like a second heart buried within his ribcage, beating for him alone, feebly yet stubbornly resisting the pervasive, invasive cold.
He didn't know how long he had trudged when the rustling at his feet suddenly swelled into a torrent, as if countless tiny claws were rapping at hell's own gate. Harry halted, and with a trembling hand, parted a clump of ferns beaded with icy dew. The sight before him stopped his breath and his thoughts as one.
It was an abomination, a desecration of nature. A vast, cursed hollow. Countless, viscous, deathly pale-grey webs, layered upon one another like the diseased lobes of some colossal beast's lungs, formed a vast, revolting dome, shimmering with a slimy sheen in the thin nocturnal light. And the scene beneath it was enough to shatter the sanity of the bravest wizard—thousands upon thousands of spiders, from the size of a fingernail to that of a saucer, seethed like a malevolent tide of black pitch, scrambling frantically, trampling over one another in their frenzy to reach the fathomless nest entrance at the hollow's center. This was no migration; it was a desperate, stampeding flight from an invisible inferno, a race over the corpses of their own kind.
Harry fought down the bile rising in his throat. Every inch of his skin screamed; every pore constricted. Primal, instinctual fear had him in its grip. The resolve, born of his courage, was being steadily crushed and drained away as the spiders in his view grew larger. The scene was the amalgamation of all his worst nightmares. A violent, physiological revulsion turned his limbs to lead, urging him to turn and flee. But then, the diary against his chest pulsed with its unwavering, constant warmth, like an invisible thread tethering him, compelling him to remain within this terror.
He forced himself to move. Time stretched and distorted with fear; it felt like a century had passed before he finally neared the edge of that seething black ocean. Yet, an even stranger phenomenon met him: the spiders were piling up at the nest entrance, a frozen black wave, no longer moving. Harry's heart plunged into an ice bath. Had he risked expulsion, even death, tracking them here, only to witness them collectively retreat into their lair?
But soon, his honed, unusually sharp observational skills pierced the veil of this horrific tableau. The first thing that struck him was an almost tangible aura of collective madness hanging thick in the air.
Not all the spiders had vanished into the nest. A great multitude had gathered just outside the entrance, forming a horrifyingly static perimeter. Without exception, they reared up on their hind legs, lifting their front halves and fangs high, all pointing directly towards Hogwarts—not a posture of alertness, but a collective, desperate obeisance to some distant, unseen terror. They showed no concern for their trampled kin, their entire awareness seemingly sucked dry, utterly consumed by that remote source of horror.
Next, Harry's gaze was nailed to the newly spun webs at the nest's edge. These webs were a complete perversion of natural structure, beaded not just with night dew but coated with a faint, iridescent film, like scum from rancid grease, which refracted the light from his wand-tip into dizzying, madly swirling patterns of evil hues. All webs tainted by this film had become brittle and grotesquely distorted, like the scribbles of a mind pushed past breaking point, exuding the specific, drained aura of corrupted magic. And through the scents of earth and decay, a sharp, metallic tang, like that of burnt circuitry, stubbornly insinuated itself.
"Merlin…" Harry's gasp was a mere thread of sound. The sight before him utterly overturned his understanding. This wasn't a flight; it was the slow, cruel, collective collapse—mental and physical—of an entire magical species, undergoing erosion by a powerful, dark magic that transcended the physical. The mere emanation from the awakening entity hidden deep within the castle was, for them, an apocalyptic calamity.
A cold conclusion slammed into his mind: the extent of the monster's awakening was unknown, but its threat to the castle was a countdown, imminent and dire. This place held no answers, only the final exhibition hall of fear. The spiders had fled here because they had nowhere else to go, waiting in this last stronghold for the intangible judgment to come from deep within the stone walls. A sense of crisis—a crisis concerning the lives of everyone—closed like an icy hand around his heart, threatening to crush what little courage he had left.
Before he could gather his thoughts, the diary against his chest suddenly flared with a scorching heat, like a brand searing his skin. An unmistakable, imperious command exploded in his consciousness: RUN! NOW! IMMEDIATELY!
And in the very same instant the warning arrived—
THUMP!
A dull, heavy thud, like the beat of a massive drum, echoed from the depths of the nest. It was followed by a sharp, distinct CLICK, the sound of Death sharpening its scythe.
"Click… click… click…"
The sounds rapidly multiplied into a hellish chorus. Harry's head snapped up, his heart hammering against his ribs as if trying to burst free. Dozens of Acromantulas, their bodies as large as small carriages, emerged from the shadows of the nest like nightmare gods made flesh. Their bristling great pincers rubbed together, and their eight single eyes burned with a bloodthirsty ferocity in the absolute darkness, unerringly locking onto him, the intruder who had dared to witness their final desperation. Simultaneously, the once-frozen black tide of spiders at the nest's entrance began to seethe, coalescing into living shadows that closed in on him, slow and inexorable, intent on his utter consumption.
Fear, like liquid nitrogen, flooded his veins, freezing him to the core. The burning in his chest had escalated into an undeniable, sharp pain, frantically urging him on.
MOVE!
The moment the thought of survival flashed through his mind, the giant spiders surged forward as if answering a battle cry. Like out-of-control knights in black armor, they charged, ruthlessly trampling the dense mass of their own kind in their path!
Harry gasped a mouthful of icy air, turned, and fled for his life. Thousands of spiders erupted into a frenzy at once; countless pincers, like scythes, weaved a net of death around him, promising a gruesome end. For a moment, the black tide surged, and Harry's mind went blank, wiped clean by pure terror. He could only rely on instinct, draining his lungs of their last dregs of air as he sprinted madly forward. Behind him, a thunderous rumble, like ten thousand stampeding horses, shook the very earth, as if the entire Forbidden Forest trembled with this pursuit. He couldn't think; he couldn't feel the passage of time. Fear compressed reality into a suffocating, narrow space containing only flight and imminent death. Icy tears streamed unbidden from his eyes, instantly whipped away by the wind of his passage.
After what felt like an eternity, the devastating rumble behind him seemed to fade. But Harry didn't dare stop. He was forced to slow only when his lungs burned like fire and his legs felt like lead. He halted, casting a terrified glance back—the pursuing blackness appeared to have truly vanished. A wave of near-collapsing relief threatened to wash over him.
But in the next moment, a deeper despair engulfed him. He was lost. An impenetrable darkness surrounded him; the massive trees blotted out the sky, severing any possible glimmer of light from the distant castle. With a trembling hand, he raised his wand like a final, desperate lifeline.
"L-Lumos!"
The feeble light illuminated only more unfamiliar, grotesque tree shapes. He began trudging forward aimlessly, praying his direction was correct.
Suddenly, a sharp pain and a powerful constriction seized his ankle—a root, thick as a python and hidden under the leaf litter, had coiled tightly around him!
"NO!"
He cried out in despair, his balance utterly lost as he was flung forward. The world spun. He tumbled wildly down a steep, earthy slope, the sound of his Invisibility Cloak tearing like the shriek of his sanity snapping. Finally, he landed with a heavy thud, his back crashing through a thick layer of mulch that reeked powerfully of mold and decay, plummeting into a deeper darkness where even his wandlight seemed unable to penetrate.
Cold, earth-heavy air flooded his lungs. Dazed and disoriented, Harry struggled to push his aching upper body up, coughing violently, the taste of iron filling his throat.
His foot, kicking out involuntarily, struck a hard object nearby covered in thick moss, sending a sharp, jolting pain through his toes. The agony, paradoxically, cleared his head a little. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he groped around, scraping away the slick vegetation—beneath the moss was a weathered, beneath the moss was a weathered, primitive yet sinister serpentine carving. It coiled with a primitive elegance, its head slightly raised, regarding the intruder with a cold arrogance that spanned millennia. The mark felt branded onto his very soul, causing a violent palpitation of his heart, as if he had accidentally brushed against a dark, time-sealed secret.
When his eyes finally adjusted to the deeper gloom, using the scant light filtering from the hole above to make out his surroundings, the blood in his veins froze solid. His heart seemed to stop.
He had fallen into a cave.
And the cave's walls and floor were coiled with countless magical serpents, their scales matte black like pitch. Disturbed from their slumber, they were slowly stirring awake. Hundreds of cold, venomous, glass-bead-like vertical pupils ignited one by one in the absolute darkness, gleaming with hungry malice, all focusing, in unison, on the uninvited guest who had fallen from the sky.
Time itself seemed to freeze in that moment.
The fear that had barely receded after his escape from the spider hell now returned with the force of a collapsing mountain and a raging tsunami, instantly swallowing him in a form far more potent and acute. Ultimate terror, like an invisible, cold, clammy hand, closed tightly around his throat, stealing his breath. As the forked tongues began to flicker dangerously, issuing a fatal, sibilant chorus, a series of hoarse, ancient, magical syllables—utterly incomprehensible to him—burst uncontrollably from his violently trembling lips, squeezed out like the last vestige of his life's breath:
"No! Away from me!"
The moment the words fell, the diary in his chest flared, burning like a brand, and began to vibrate with an intense, high-frequency tremor. It felt like a forcibly awakened, furious heart, pounding madly against his ribcage, threatening to shatter the bones.
The serpent horde froze for an instant. They raised their heads in confusion, hissing at one another in rapid, urgent communication. The sounds were no longer purely threatening; they were laced with incredulous bewilderment—they were questioning, debating, how this noble language of ancient blood could issue from a human who smelled so foreign.
But that glimmer of rationality lasted only a moment. A deeper, more sinister will, like an icy tide, instantly drowned their instinctual hesitation. Their vertical pupils once more filled with pure ferocity and the desire to kill. Their bodies, coiled like black springs full of power, launched from the shadows on all sides, fangs glinting with a deadly cold light!
"Protego! Immobulus!" Harry, his back against the icy cave wall, trapped like a cornered animal, slashed his wand in desperation. The feeble shimmer of his Shield Charm flickered uncertainly in the darkness; his Freezing Charm struck a few of the leading serpents, sending them rigid to the ground with heavy thuds. But there were too many, an endless black tide. The barrier of his spells was torn to shreds like paper. A cold, scaly body brushed against his calf, a fang snagging and tearing his trouser leg; the sound of ripping fabric and the icy touch against his skin shattered his courage.
Despair, thick and viscous like pitch, enveloped him, dragging him down into the abyss. He felt his magical energy being rapidly drained, his arm numb and aching from the relentless spellcasting.
At the critical moment, as countless serpents simultaneously drew back, poised to become lethal arrows and overwhelm him completely—
BOOM!
The diary at his chest, as if possessing a life of its own, tore free from his clutching hands and hovered in the air. It erupted with an unprecedented, blinding silver light, like the detonation of a supernova, instantly devouring all darkness within the cave. Harry's glasses were completely overwhelmed by the brilliance, his vision turning into a field of scorching white. He threw up a hand, shielding his brow, squinting his aching eyes against the glare, peering through his fingers—
He saw him.
At the heart of that light, pregnant with both destruction and vitality, a slender, translucent figure was forcibly tearing through some invisible bindings, coalescing into form. It was a form that flowed with the cold, brilliant radiance of diamond dust, its silhouette as elegant as a classical sculpture. Though its features remained blurred within the shifting luminescence, the absolute, icy, and overwhelming authority that accompanied its descent froze time and made the very air tremble.
The luminous youth turned slightly, a simple yet imperious gesture directed at Harry. Without a wand, a sphere of transparent, intensely warm and gentle light—a stark contrast to the deathly chill of the Forest—materialized around Harry. Like a loyal guardian spirit, it swiftly enveloped him, sealing him off from the outside world. Its inner surface shimmered with liquid gold, driving the bone-deep cold from Harry's body.
Then, the youth turned fully to face the seething, malevolent black tide. He merely lifted a hand gracefully towards the void and gave a casual, yet supremely authoritative, flick—
A soundless force, powerful enough to tear at one's eardrums, exploded outwards like a shockwave from the dawn of creation! The air screamed as if cloth were being ripped asunder. Every single venomous serpent, regardless of size, was simultaneously seized and hurled aside by an irresistible power, like puppets crushed by an invisible hammer, smashing one after another against the hard cave walls with sickening thuds. The cacophony of snapping bones was unnervingly dense. Thick, coppery-scented blood oozed from shattered scales, instantly permeating the air. The cave, moments ago boiling with killing intent, was now silent, littered only with limp corpses.
Yet, just as Harry's nerves began to settle, a needle-sharp, icy warning shot through the base of his skull. He whirled around in horror to see a colossal black serpent, thicker than his entire body, had risen silently behind him. Its eyes—unlike any other serpent's—burned with hellish scarlet vertical slits, and they were locked on him! A condensed, dark red beam of energy shot from its gaze, and like acid corroding metal, Harry's protective sphere let out a sizzling shriek of protest where the beam struck, its light rapidly dimming and dissolving under the assault.
Harry's mind went blank at this sudden reversal.
In that same split second, the luminous youth spun around with a speed that nearly tore the fabric of space. Without a moment's hesitation, he threw his arms wide, turning his entire translucent back to the danger, shielding Harry completely from the lethal beam—a posture of total protection. Then, he turned, hands cupping emptiness before his chest. The diamond-like radiance flowing through his form converged upon his palms at an unprecedented rate, compressing into an intensely condensed, terrifyingly potent sphere of light. With a decisive thrust of his hands, he hurled it forward.
The light sphere, like a falling star, slammed squarely into the giant serpent's head.
"Sss—!"
The serpent let out a sharp cry of agony, its massive body convulsing violently as it was utterly consumed by the pure, blinding power. It collapsed like a felled mountain of black flesh, crashing to the ground, silent.
Silence fell once more. But this time, it was a silence laced with the fragility and sorrow of a costly victory.
After unleashing such successive and powerful magic, the youth's form instantly dimmed, becoming as faint and fragile as a candle guttering in the wind, almost transparent enough to vanish into the air. Just before his spirit dissipated completely, he looked back.
In that moment, the light shifted, and Harry saw the face clearly for the first time—soft black hair that seemed to hold the sheen of night itself, a straight, noble nose outlining a perfect profile, and most captivating of all, eyes of a depth that mirrored inverted starfields. A beauty that transcended gender, transcended human imagination, hit Harry like a physical blow to the chest, stealing his breath. His mind seemed to explode with countless sweet, ecstatic bubbles, all reason utterly washed away by this breathtaking vision. His right hand lifted almost involuntarily, trembling, reaching towards the fading apparition. His dry lips parted, and with all his remaining strength, he breathed the name, a sound as soft as a sigh in a dream:
"Tom?"
The youth's form was dissolving into drifting threads of light, yet his gaze remained locked intensely on Harry. He did not speak, but within those profound eyes, astonishment, inquiry, a near-ravenous fervor, and a confused, intense palpitation that the youth himself did not yet understand, churned and intertwined like a storm.
Their eyes met across the void, as if completing some ancient rite. The next moment, his spirit completely dispersed, dissolving into motes of shimmering light that retreated swiftly into the diary, which now lay cold, dull, its cover almost devoid of all luster, light as an empty shell.
Harry stood frozen, gasping for air, his chest burning, utterly unable to process the world-shattering events of the past minute. Trembling, he crouched down and picked up the diary from the ground as if it were a sacred relic. Its icy touch sent a wave of panic through him.
A tremendous, unprecedented dread seized him—not for his own narrow escape, but for Tom's condition.
He had no capacity left to notice that, in the deepest shadow of the cave, a serpent even more massive, with pupils as crimson as blood, was slowly retracting its head. It flicked its tongue once, imprinting the powerful magical signature—both familiar and utterly alien—deep into its consciousness, before sliding away silently into the deeper, darker reaches of the Forbidden Forest, a moving harbinger of calamity.
Harry scrambled out of the cave, snatched up his torn Invisibility Cloak, and ran like a madman towards the castle, as if all hell pursued him.
Back in the silent dormitory, listening to his roommates' steady snores, Harry collapsed onto his bed, drenched in cold sweat, the diary in his arms still cold as ice. With utmost care, as if handling the most fragile treasure, he held it before him. By the trembling light of his wand, he took a quill with shaking, cramped fingers.

"Tom... Thank you. Are you... are you alright? I'm worried."

The ink soaked into the page. No response. A deathly silence stretched in the air. Harry's heart filled with a terror unlike any he had felt before, a fear that surpassed facing the serpents, even facing death itself—it was the bone-deep chill of potentially losing this unique connection forever.
After what felt like an eternity, words finally began to form on the blank page. They appeared slowly, laboriously. The ink was faint as a dying breath, the script broken and wavering, as if the writer was on the verge of extinguishing.
But the message itself struck his mind like a thunderclap tearing through the night, echoing relentlessly:

"You are a Parselmouth?"

Harry froze completely, his pupils contracting into dangerous pinpricks. He stared fixedly at the words, the cold diary pressed against his damp palm. That question was no longer a simple inquiry. It was a yawning, bottomless vortex, violently sucking in all his fear, shock, dependence, and nascent emotions, pinning him relentlessly to this silent, fate-turning night.

Chapter Text

The ink-stained question—"You are a Parselmouth?"—was not a fleeting flash, but a bolt of ice-forged lightning that continued to sear through the chaos of Harry's mind, leaving behind a scorching pain. Instantly, all the blood seemed to drain from his limbs, rushing violently into his constricting heart, freezing it into a solid block of ice, before pounding against his ribs with even more intensity. His heartbeat was so loud it hurt his eardrums and sent waves of physical nausea through him. Exposed. His greatest, most deeply guarded secret, the one he kept even from Ron and Hermione, was now laid bare before the very person he most wished to hide it from—stripped naked in the most wretched, most undeniable way, like a raw, bleeding wound.
Panic was an invisible yet powerful hand, not only choking his throat and stealing his breath, but also squeezing his lungs, making every inhalation short and labored. He snatched up the quill almost reflexively, his fingers trembling so uncontrollably they felt alien. The nib stabbed into the inkpot twice, splattering dark droplets onto the desk like tears of despair. His instinct was to deny it, but as the fatal question faded on the page, a survivalist impulse made him scrawl frantically, his handwriting as twisted and spasmodic as his insides:

"Yes... but I didn't mean to! I don't know why I..."

The ink soaked into the page, but instead of being greedily absorbed as usual, it pooled into a weak, ugly stain, just as it would on ordinary parchment. Harry held his breath, every muscle taut to the point of ache, his green eyes wide with terror, fixed unblinkingly on the anomalous writing, praying madly for it to sink and vanish as it always did. One second, two... ten... Dead silence. His words remained, stark and exposed on the paper, an eternal mark of shame.
Harry was utterly petrified, his mind a blank slate of sheer terror. His trembling hand touched the diary. Its deathly cold seeped from his fingertips, traveling through his veins like a lethal chill, freezing his heart. It was colder than the deepest frost of the Forbidden Forest, a perpetual ice against his skin, threatening to freeze his very soul.

"...Tom?"

He wrote again, biting his lower lip hard, trying to use the pain to shock himself awake from this nightmare. He bit down too hard; the fragile skin broke, and the warm, metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. The quill, shaking violently, punctured the delicate page with a tiny, tearing sound that echoed in his mind like thunder.
No response. The words still mocked him from the page. Only the torn fibres of the parchment remained, a silent, cruel sneer.
A deeper horror, one capable of drowning all reason, seized him, dragging him into the abyss. He felt he could see, right through the cold, rigid cover, that brilliant soul dissipating, shattering, returning to nothingness. The scenes from the cave flashed before his eyes—those eyes, flowing with diamond-dust radiance, looking back at him,that resolute form throwing itself protectively before him. and finally, the shock and indescribable complexity of emotion churning within them as the spirit fragmented... All to protect him... All for a complete and utter, disaster-prone nuisance like him.
"Tom, I'm sorry…" As he wrote the words, scalding tears finally breached their dam, flooding his vision and falling in rapid succession onto the page, mixing with the wet ink and smearing into a damp, desperate blotch. "Please, answer me. Don't… don't leave me alone…"
No response. The diary was like a true stone, abandoned in eternal ice, incapable of drawing even a sliver of his emotion or warmth.
"Please…" He repeated the futile plea, the quill scratching chaotic, meaningless lines across the paper, mirroring his shattered thoughts.

"Say something, anything…"

"Tell me what to do…"

He wrote and begged, over and over, his words devolving from incoherent apologies to pleas so desperately they scraped the dust. The script was blurred and ruined by his unchecked tears. A massive, suffocating despair and guilt, like a black, viscous tide, held him pinned in a lightless, abyssal trench, his lungs burning from lack of oxygen. At the very brink of drowning, an impulse born from the depths of his soul—a near-instinctual mix of sheer panic and bone-deep longing—broke free of all restraints. It emerged as a series of hoarse, ancient, tear-choked syllables from his violently trembling lips—Parseltongue. A lament, filled with a grief and desperate plea for him to stay, whose full meaning even he didn't grasp.
In the instant that those strange, emotion-laden hisses faded—
The diary pressed against his chest flared with a flicker of warmth. So faint, so brief it was almost illusory.
It was like a traveler drowning in an icy sea, their fingertips brushing the dying warmth of embers about to be extinguished. Like a prisoner exiled in absolute darkness, seeing a single, fleeting spark of electricity—so brief it seared the retina. It lasted for such an impossibly short time, shorter than it took for the word "hope" to form in Harry's mind, before that pitiful glimmer was utterly extinguished, swallowed by a deeper, more absolute, more despairing coldness, as if it had all been a prelude to madness.
"Tom?!" Harry jolted as if electrocuted, a sharp, disbelieving joy obliterating his accumulated despair, making him dizzy. He bent over again, calling out more urgently, with a fragile, desperate hope, in the ancient language, his Parseltongue hisses trembling in the silent air.
But this time—
Only silence answered.
A silence colder, more complete, and more suffocating than before. As if that fleeting, life-saving warmth had been nothing but a cruel mirage born of excessive grief and longing, a final, mocking phantom conjured by despair itself.
It had been there. It had proven the existence of a profound connection.
And then, more cruelly, it had vanished completely, leaving not a single trace of warmth behind.
No matter how many times he called in Parseltongue, his voice growing raw; no matter how frantically he wrote with the quill until its nib split; no matter how hard he shook the diary, his knuckles white, threatening to crush the cover—it gave no further response. It had fallen utterly, completely silent, transformed into an ornate, icy tomb, entombing the soul that had so recently blazed for him and, because of him, had fallen into "death."
Harry's fingers traced the smooth, cold cover in a futile, repetitive motion, each pass confirming the heartbreaking reality. The last of his strength seemed to have drained away with that illusory warmth, leaving behind a profound, bone-deep exhaustion and chill. He pressed his forehead hard against the diary's sharp corner, using the bite of pain to affirm he was still alive, though it was a feeble sensation against the void in his chest. His thin shoulders shook with uncontrollable tremors, suppressed, broken sobs of despair echoing softly in the silent dormitory, like a forsaken cub shivering in the cold.
No comfort. No farewell.
Only him, and the suffocating, seemingly eternal silence he had created with his own hands.
He had killed Tom.
The knowledge coiled around his young heart like a cold, slick serpent, tightening, squeezing, sending sharp, physical spasms of agony through him, threatening to shatter him completely. Harry buried his face deep into the cold pillow, as if to smother himself, and let out a muffled, agonized scream, its intensity barely contained by the fabric.
Yet, from the depths of this annihilating despair that threatened to crush every shred of his sanity, a stubborn, unyielding ember was ignited by the very extremity of the darkness. He clutched the diary even tighter, with a near-spasmodic force that hurt, pressing it against his tear-dampened, thin, cold chest, as if he could warm the silent soul within with his own heartbeat, his own body heat, his very life force—to pull him back from the boundless, icy darkness.
Tears still fell ceaselessly, dampening the leather cover, but deep within his emerald eyes, beneath the boundless pain, a near-frantic light was stubbornly coalescing.
He had to bring him back.
No matter how faint the hope is, how pitiful the self-deception is.
No matter what the cost would be, no matter how maddeningly long the wait is.
He would use everything he had—his scalding tears, his feeble warmth, his whispered words to this silent confidant, all his emotions, memories, even his very soul—to fill this deathly silence, until his strength was spent, until he awakened an echo within.
The night was long, cold, and lonely. And his vigil, his one-man, desperate war, had only just begun.
In the days that followed, Harry Potter became a walking husk.
His body still followed the routine of a student—waking, attending classes, eating, sleeping. But what drove this shell was no longer the vibrant energy and insatiable curiosity of a Gryffindor, only a hollowed-out, mechanical numbness. His soul seemed to have been left behind on that cold night, trapped with the silent diary in a state of semi-frozen stagnation.
Harry existed in a walking-dead state. He lost count of how many times he was forced to rewrite his essays; the stacked parchment by his bed resembled pale tombstones. Professor McGonagall detained him after class, her eyes behind their spectacles full of worry and confusion, but her earnest admonitions felt separated from him by a thick pane of glass, unable to reach his core. Snape, with particular viciousness, gave his Cure for Boils—which should have been a pale blue—a zero; the liquid swirled in an ugly, mud-colored mess before him, stinking of the same decay festering inside him. Even the usually genial Professor Flitwick reprimanded him with unusual sternness. Yet, all the professors' concern and discipline failed to penetrate the hard shell of despair and guilt he had built. His entire consciousness remained chained, as if by unbreakable bonds, to that diary; everything outside became blurred and distant. The frequent, worried, and confused glances from Hermione and Ron did not comfort him. Instead, they pricked at his raw nerves, making it hard to breathe. He tried, several times, to force a smile, to rally his spirits, but the grief, like a deep ocean current, would surge up when he was least prepared, crushing him back down into the depths with a suffocating weight.
Every night, the same futile ritual played out. He would place the diary carefully beside his pillow, trying to warm its perpetually cold cover with his own body heat, and then whisper everything into the void—complaints about tedious lessons, resentment over Snape's targeted malice, the minor triumph of a spell finally working, and more, much more… the boundless apologies and the bone-deep longing. His words were sometimes clear, sometimes mere murmurs on the edge of sleep, until darkness finally claimed him. And every morning, the first thing upon waking was to touch the diary with trembling fingers, only to be met, always, by the same, unmoving, heartbreaking coldness, before a fresh wave of despair and self-recrimination would drown him once more.
Nightmares became his regular nocturnal visitors. The spiders and serpents in his dreams were terrifying, yet they couldn't harm him; what truly tore him apart was the vision of Tom dissolving before his eyes—how those star-like eyes lost their light, how the brilliant spirit shattered into nothingness. This scene would jolt him awake, his pajamas soaked with cold sweat, his face streaked with tears. A mad thought once flickered through his mind like a will-o'-the-wisp: if he ventured into the Forbidden Forest again, into danger, would Tom appear to protect him, to look at him, just once more? He wanted just one more glimpse of that breathtaking face, to embrace that illusory yet warm spirit, to voice a belated, weighty "I'm sorry"... But such thoughts were ultimately absurd and selfish. He mocked himself bitterly. He could not, and must never, place the diary, the remnant of Tom's soul, into any potential danger again.
Each time he struggled awake from these nightmares, he would find himself drawn to the Trophy Room. In the silent moonlight, he would stand for a long time, gazing at the Special Award for Services to the School engraved with the name "Tom Riddle." His fingertips would hover, tracing the cold letters until his vision blurred with tears and silent sobs overwhelmed him. The guilt, so sharp it felt like his heart was being physically torn to shreds, was a torture more real than any nightmare.
He was wasting away rapidly. His school robes, once a decent fit, now hung loosely around a frame grown so thin it seemed it might snap. The dark circles under his eyes were like permanent shadows, never fading. He recoiled like a startled creature from all searching gazes, especially Hermione's, which were far too bright and perceptive. Yet, a sliver of remaining reason warned him not to worry those who cared. So, in front of his friends, he learned to forcibly pull the corners of his mouth upwards, performing the role of a Harry Potter who was 'getting better.' The strain of this fracture, this forced suppression of his true feelings, threatened to break him from the inside out. He was a prisoner trapped behind a transparent barrier, able to see all the light and warmth of the outside world clearly, yet forever unable to reach it, or be reached by it. All the world's sounds reached his ears as if filtered through a thick, cold layer of seawater, muffled and distant.
After several consecutive days of this despondency, Harry sat alone by the Black Lake. The early winter sun cast a shimmering, golden dance upon the water, but it couldn't penetrate the deep freeze within him. The cold diary lay still on his lap, a slumbering secret. He tried to empty his mind, staring at the rippling surface, grasping for a moment of peace where he didn't have to think. But a faint rustling sound shattered the fragile calm. He turned his head and saw several familiar, unsettling black creatures crawling steadily across a nearby blade of grass.
His eyes instinctively followed the line of spiders. His heart gave a violent, painful lurch, as if seized by an invisible hand.
It wasn't the creatures themselves. Their presence was a cold key, instantly unlocking the memory—the terror of that night deep in the Forbidden Forest, the deadly serpents in the cave, and… the figure who had stepped in front of him, only to shatter into brilliant nothingness.
It was Tom's sacrifice that allowed him to sit here now, watching these spiders.
A thought, woven from boundless guilt and a surging sense of duty, pierced the fog of his despair like the first light of dawn. He couldn't just sit here, drowning in a sea of self-pity. He had to do something—for all the potential innocent victims still within the castle, and for… Tom. If he could ultimately uncover the truth and resolve this crisis, it might, perhaps, serve as some small solace and atonement for Tom's sacrifice.
He clutched the diary tightly, desperately to his chest, as if to press it into his very flesh and bone. Scalding tears overflowed instantly, streaming down to dampen the cold leather cover. He bowed his head, pressing his feverish forehead against the diary, and whispered in a voice choked with sobs, "Tom… I know what I must do now. Perhaps this… this can make up for what I did to you…"
He allowed himself to weep bitterly for a few moments, as if expelling all the accumulated despair and helplessness with his tears. Then, he scrubbed his face roughly with his sleeve, drew a deep breath of the cold air, and a new light—a mixture of grief and steely resolve—kindled in his eyes. He stood up, his steps no longer unsteady, and walked with determination towards the castle library.
He forced himself to re-engage with the 'investigation.' In Potions, when Seamus Finnigan complained about the declining quality of spider venom in the storage cupboard, Harry's ears pricked up. After class, he slipped back under the pretence of having forgotten something, carefully examining the dark corner. Indeed, the once-active spider trails had nearly vanished, leaving only tattered, old, empty webs drifting uselessly in the damp air, like abandoned elegies.
He joined Hermione again, burrowing into the dusty corners of the Restricted Section. Hermione was genuinely relieved by Harry's sudden 'recovery,' eagerly sharing her latest findings on ancient magical guardians and sources of magical pollution. Harry struggled to focus his scattered mind, forcing his eyes to scan line after line of ancient, dense text. Yet, theories about 'dark auras' and 'mental repulsion' now felt like red-hot blunt knives, sawing and burning at his nerves—he knew better than anyone alive the true source of the 'aura' that terrified the spiders, and why it had so abruptly ceased.
Days slipped by in a semblance of surface calm and inner torment. Gradually, Harry began to notice that something was amiss. He couldn't pinpoint the exact day it started, but the few remaining spiders in the castle were no longer exhibiting that frantic exodus. They had returned to an unsettling 'normalcy.' He would have sworn on Merlin's grave that during a particularly dull History of Magic lesson, he saw a single spider calmly crawling into the classroom from the high window ledge.
Then came that seemingly ordinary morning.
The Great Hall was buzzing with noise and activity. Golden sunlight streamed through the high windows, forming bright pillars of light that illuminated the dust motes dancing in the air and the sizzling bacon and eggs on the plates. Everything was bathed in a false, deeply unsettling peace.
Ron, chewing a mouthful of bacon, said in a muffled, offhand tone, as if commenting on the next day's weather, "Hey, have you noticed? You don't really see those disgusting spiders running about anymore."
Harry was mechanically swallowing a piece of tasteless bread, forcing himself to focus on the chapter about Acromantulas in Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, which lay open before him. Ron's words drifted into his ears like a pebble dropped into a deep pool.
"...Must've started over a week ago, right after Halloween, maybe? A couple of days after? You know, Snape's dungeon's always been full of them, but that day in class, I didn't see any running. From that day on, they just… stopped. Or vanished. Thank Merlin, they were driving me mad…"
Over a week ago… Right after Halloween…
The words pierced his mind like icicles.
CLANG!
Harry's silver fork slipped from his suddenly nerveless fingers, striking the edge of his porcelain plate with a sharp, shattering clatter that seemed to tear through the Hall's din.
He froze. All the blood seemed to drain from his body in an instant, then rush violently back to his brain, bringing a wave of dizzying vertigo. Before everyone's eyes, the color drained from his face at an alarming rate, leaving it ashen, as if he'd just been hauled from a frozen lake. Both Hermione and Ron stared at him in astonishment, but he was oblivious.
He turned sharply to Ron, his face deathly pale, and grabbed his friend's arm, his voice low and hoarse from extreme tension. "Ron, which day? Do you remember the exact day?"
"It was… the day Snape had us make the Cure for Boils, I think. I'm pretty sure. Harry, what's wrong?"
The day we made the Cure for Boils…
Harry scrambled through his chaotic memories, the blurred fragments coalescing with terrible clarity. He remembered—
It was the day after he'd returned from the Forbidden Forest. He had stood befuddled before his cauldron, mindlessly adding eight snake fangs instead of six. The potion had instantly boiled over, seething and emitting billowing, acrid, foul-smelling smoke… Snape had stalked over with unconcealed disgust and fury, slashing his wand to inscribe a large, humiliating zero onto his grading sheet.
All the timelines clicked into place with dreadful precision.
The spiders' exodus had ceased… right after the night he escaped the Forest and lost all contact with Tom forever.
He didn't know how he left the Great Hall.
When his senses returned, he was standing alone in a deserted corridor, his damp forehead pressed against the cold stone wall. The sound of other students laughing carelessly in the distance felt like it came from another world.
Slowly, trembling, he drew the diary from his inner pocket. It was still silent. Still cold.
But now, that coldness held a new, suffocating meaning.
He was no longer guarding a slumbering friend. He was clutching a… silent secret, bought with the safety of the entire castle.
"Tom…"
He whispered the name, the sound no longer filled with mere longing and pleading, but tinged with a newfound, icy flicker of doubt that he himself did not yet understand.
The darkness seemed to seep from the diary, swallowing him whole.

Chapter Text

In the days that followed, the equation brutally confirmed at the breakfast table circled in his mind like a vicious curse, endless and inescapable. Harry felt his brain was a container stuffed with chaotic thoughts, ready to rupture, as fear, guilt, and a cold, dreadful logic wrestled madly, tearing at his frayed nerves.
Tom's silence = The spiders' calm.
These words brought a tidal wave of fear and self-loathing. He was terrified of the role Tom might have played in it all—a thought he didn't dare examine closely. And he loathed himself even more—for the shameful, wretched flicker of relief he had felt upon realizing the castle was safe again. The thought was like a slimy slug; every time it surfaced, it made him nauseous.
Yet, contradictions were everywhere. When he saw the increasingly sparse cobwebs in the dungeon storerooms, heard Peeves no longer singing his awful songs about 'spiders running for their lives,' noticed the obvious relaxation in Ron's expression, another, more complicated emotion would rise. Perhaps there were two sides to everything. He despised his own 'selfish' wish—to have everything return to the 'good' state when Tom was still there—as it undoubtedly ignored everyone else's desire for a peaceful life. This realization fell like layers of cold snow upon his already overburdened guilt, threatening to crush him completely.
He couldn't bear to meet anyone's eyes, especially Hermione's. Her inquisitive, overly bright gaze seemed to pierce through all the facades he tried to maintain. He feared he would shatter completely under her concerned questioning, spilling the icy, dangerous secret. He was like a sinner carrying the switch that had ignited an entire arsenal, walking alone amidst a crowd of laughing people, every step on invisible knife points.
He tried to confide in the diary as usual, to seek that sole comfort, but the words always caught in his throat. Every time he picked up the quill, the question "You are a Parselmouth?" and the all-consuming, cold silence that followed would rise like a ghost before his eyes. Each word he wrote felt like touching the betrayal and finality of that night with his own hands. Opening the diary, seeing his own desperate, messy script scarred permanently onto the pristine pages without any response—the pain and sorrow of it nearly felled him every single time. In the end, he abandoned writing altogether, only clutching the diary tighter, more fiercely, against his chest, as if he could warm it again with his feeble heartbeat, press it back into his heart, make it a part of him once more.
He still followed the routines of a student, but only through numb inertia. In front of his friends, he maintained a polite, distant calm—managing a nod at Ron's jokes, responding to Hermione's concerns—but his soul seemed separated by a thick, frosted pane of glass. All outside sounds and emotions reached him muffled, distorted, and distant. Deep within his eyes, the once fiercely burning Gryffindor fire was now but a weak ember, guttering in a bitter wind, as if it might be extinguished at any moment.
Every night, the futile ritual continued. He would place the diary carefully beside his pillow, trying to warm its perpetually cold cover with the heat of his thin body, and then whisper everything into the void—the trivialities of lessons, the professors' comments, Quidditch practice… and more, much more, the poison of boundless apology and bone-deep longing, frozen deep in his heart and only daring to seep out now, in these solitary moments.
But he never opened it again.
He was afraid. Profoundly so. Afraid of seeing his own desperate, abject words still scarred upon the page like unhealed wounds, constituting an eternal, silent rejection. It was enough to shatter all the fragile pretense of calm he clung to, sending him plunging back into the abyss of emotion.
Thus, an almost obsessive research—into spiders, into Slytherin, into Parseltongue—became his only mental refuge, a sandcastle into which he could pour all his energy and chaotic emotions, temporarily forgetting his pain and filling the vast void within.
Yet, the return of reason also brought more agonizing struggles. Certain "terrible conjectures," like venomous serpents stirring beneath the ice, would slither out periodically, their cold tongues flicking against and gnawing at his precarious sanity.
Tom's guidance. The night in the Forest. The Basilisk's existence. The spiders' calm. His own Parseltongue.
These fragments spun and collided wildly in his mind, attempting to form a chilling, complete picture—one that directly linked Tom to the legendary monster lurking in the castle's deep pipes. Whenever this thought surfaced unbidden, a wave of physical nausea and bone-deep fear would wash over him.
"No!" He would refute himself vehemently, almost hysterically within his own mind, clinging to the final memory from the cave like a last lifeline—those eyes, flowing with diamond-dust radiance, looking back at him; that resolute form throwing itself protectively before him. "He saved me! He traded himself for me! If… if he were truly allied with that monster, why would he do that? He could have just let me die!"
Emotion screamed itself hoarse in Tom's defense, building a fortress within his heart, refusing any form of slander or betrayal. But Reason became the coldest battering ram, slamming against the fortress walls again and again, coldly pointing out all the disturbing coincidences and logical cracks. He was torn apart, over and over, in this brutal tug-of-war between heart and mind, until he was utterly drained, mentally and physically exhausted.
Just when he felt the silent, deafening internal cacophony was about to drive him truly mad, a thought pierced the heavy clouds in his mind like a faint starlight, becoming his lifeline—he had to know the answer.
Hogwarts fell utterly silent in the deep winter. The corridor windows, which once reflected a vibrant world, were now etched with intricate, pale frost that would never melt, like carvings of frozen despair. The Black Lake had frozen into a vast, hard sheet of black glass, swallowing all light and sound, reflecting only a dead, leaden grey. The very air within the castle seemed seeped with a millennial chill emanating from the ancient stone walls. Each breath formed a visible puff of white mist, as if it could freeze one's very thoughts and last remnants of warmth.
For Harry, this external, pervasive cold was a perfect match for the season within his soul. The sharp, soul-shredding despair that had gripped him in the immediate aftermath of Tom's silence had not vanished. Instead, over the nearly two months that had mercilessly passed, it had slowly frozen over, becoming a heavy, numb weight. It was no longer a scorching wildfire that could consume everything, but had transformed into a layer of permafrost, sealing beneath it all vivid sensation and acute pain.
A dusty, quiet corner of the library became his only true habitat within Hogwarts. He curled up there, surrounded by towering stacks of heavy, musty-smelling tomes reeking of ancient magic, as if he could bury himself completely within those yellowed, fragile pages and escape all of reality.
His research split into two parallel tracks, destined to intertwine and point towards the same abyss.
One track was spiders’ behavior. He approached it like a rigorous scholar, attempting to construct a theoretical model from the annotated edition of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, the mildew-stained Manuscript on the Evolution of Medieval Magical Ecology, and Analysis of Stress Behaviours in Common Magical Creatures, to explain how a mass panic-migration could cease so swiftly and completely. He looked up terms like "Environmental Magical Threshold Mutation," "Establishment and Removal of Apex Predator Aura," "Purification of Regional Magical Pollution Sources..." His mind brimmed with arcane terminology. Yet all these seemingly profound theories felt weak, even pathetic, when applied to the specific context of Hogwarts. Why had the panic struck with the force of a cataclysm? And why had it vanished so utterly, as if it had never been? Each fruitless search, each broken chain of logic, felt like adding another heavy weight to the scale of that dreaded conjecture he dared not entertain, fueling his growing agitation and dread.
The other track, the one into which he poured his very soul and which truly made it tremble, was the tracing of Salazar Slytherin and his gift of Parseltongue.
Like a thief, with a mixture of reverence and terror, he turned the protected pages of rare editions of Hogwarts: A History, scoured the difficult chapters of Ancient Magical Bloodlines: Heritage and Traits, and even mustered immense courage to skulk into the deepest, least-lit recesses of the Restricted Section, his fingers brushing against ancient manuscripts with blurred covers and ominous titles.
Gradually, the dust of history was swept aside. Key pieces of information sharpened under his dogged pursuit.
Regarding Parseltongue, he realized his previous understanding had been superficial, and he uncovered a crucial distinction. History did record a few exceptionally gifted or powerful wizards who, through immense and arduous study, had acquired the ability to communicate with serpents. But nearly all accounts explicitly stated that these individuals were typically superb magical linguists, capable of understanding dozens of magical creatures' languages—it was a learned skill, a pinnacle of magical technique, a symbol of erudition and power.
Salazar Slytherin, however, in all credible and even legendary accounts, was never mentioned as a master of multiple creature tongues. His Parseltongue, like his silver and green colours, like the pride and prejudice flowing in his blood, was innate, unique. It was a mark of identity, not an acquired skill.
This discovery struck his heart like a dagger, twisting cruelly. He, Harry Potter, a boy raised in a Muggle cupboard, ignorant of the wizarding world, with a Muggle-born mother, a 'half-blood,' sorted into Gryffindor… possessed this same, inborn Parseltongue, this trait shared with Salazar Slytherin. This ability he had always viewed as freakish and shameful now took on a heavy, ancient, fateful hue, an invisible shackle binding him to a millennium-old shadow, chilling him to the bone.
He also read about the history glossed over by official records but chewed over relentlessly in unofficial ones: Salazar Slytherin and Godric Gryffindor had once been inseparable friends, kindred spirits who jointly built this sanctuary. Yet, an almost fanatical insistence on 'blood purity,' and the increasingly fierce disagreement with the other three founders—especially Gryffindor—ultimately led to an irreparable, sorrowful rift. Slytherin left the castle he helped build one night, as mysteriously as he had arrived, leaving behind a vast, tantalizing historical void that official histories treated with pointed silence.
With a soft thud, Harry closed the heavy tome, letting his head fall back against the cold, hard stone of the bookshelf as a wave of intense dizziness washed over him. Clues lay scattered in the corners of his consciousness like pearls gleaming with ominous light. He could feel it clearly—an invisible, yet incredibly resilient thread of fate connecting Tom, Slytherin, the Basilisk, Parseltongue… and himself. But though he stared wide-eyed and reached out, he couldn't see its full length, couldn't grasp it.
Beneath the frozen surface of his heart, turbulent undercurrents battered against the ice. He knew the fragments he possessed were far from enough. He needed more, more crucial, more core information, and that required risk.
Harry began secretly sifting through potential sources of information in his mind. Hermione was the first to be dismissed. He knew better than anyone the witch's astonishing intellect, but she was also one of his closest friends—a status that now formed an unbridgeable chasm. His mind was filled with too many unspeakable,nearly 'evil' conjectures and dependencies; he couldn't bear the consequence of complete exposure under the gaze of those clear, intelligent brown eyes. It would only drown him in the guilt he already carried. Approaching a Slytherin student was pure fantasy. The inter-house barriers and generational animosity made it impossible for any of them to divulge secrets about their 'noble' founder to a Gryffindor. Finally, his gaze turned to the professors. Snape? The mere thought of the sneer and deeper scrutiny that might appear on that greasy face made him shudder. Professor McGonagall was stern but fair, yet her concerned reproaches and potential for a long afternoon of earnest lecturing were more than he could handle now. He feared any form of deep scrutiny.
In the end, his focus settled on Professor Binns. The ghostly professor was not only notoriously ancient and forgetful but also seemed incredibly… safe, thanks to the legendary anecdote of him 'getting up one morning and leaving his body behind, yet still making it to class on time.' Professor Binns never clearly remembered any student's name, and moreover, as the History of Magic professor, he was a walking repository of ancient secrets. For delving into buried history, Harry reasoned, no one was more suitable, or less likely to cause follow-up trouble.
Merely deciding to seek confirmation required immense courage. During another dull History of Magic lesson the following week, Harry felt like a soldier heading for an unknown battlefield, his heart filled with trepidation and a desperate resolve. Actively approaching that forbidden, core secret so intimately tied to Tom sent waves of palpitations through him, his palms slick with cold sweat.
When Professor Binns, as usual, drifted insubstantially through the blackboard at the end of his monotone lecture, Harry took a deep breath. Amid the noise of his classmates packing up, he forced himself to remain seated, waiting for the room to empty. Ron and Hermione efficiently gathered their things. Harry fobbed off a grumbling Ron with a clumsy lie about needing to hand in his Potions detention essay. So focused was he on the impending conversation that he completely failed to notice the deeply worried, questioning glance Hermione cast between him and the bag he still clutched tightly to his chest before she left.
The classroom finally stood empty, save for the chalk dust floating slowly in the cold light from the high windows. Harry stood up, his heart pounding a heavy rhythm in his chest, and walked quickly towards the teacher's desk, feeling as if he were treading on his own nerves with every step.
"P-Professor?" His voice was unnaturally dry from tension, as if his vocal cords had gone unused for too long.
Professor Binns, who had been about to drift through the wall like a wisp of smoke, slowly turned his hazy form. His eyes, seeming coated with the dust of millennia, regarded Harry through thick spectacles, as if struggling to access a memory. "Ah... yes... er... Mr. Plint, was it? What can I do for you?" He had indeed gotten the name wrong, but this expected forgetfulness acted like a mild sedative, allowing the tight line of Harry's shoulders to relax slightly.
"It's about... about Salazar Slytherin, Professor." Harry tried to make his voice sound like that of a merely inquisitive student, though he felt every syllable trembled with guilt. "You mentioned in class that he left very suddenly. I... I was curious, especially about him personally, and... some records about snakes?"
Professor Binns made a faint, wheezing sound, like an old bellows leaking air, indicating thought. "Slytherin? Oh, yes. One of the four founders. A undoubtedly remarkable wizard. A pity he developed irreconcilable differences with us—I mean, the other three—regarding the admittance of students..." He began his flat, seemingly photocopied-from-a-textbook recitation.
Harry suppressed his impatience and listened until the professor's monologue hit a slight pause. Then, he carefully interjected, trying to steer the topic towards the dangerous abyss: "I read in some unofficial sources that he seemed to have… an extraordinary fondness for snakes? There's even a legend that he possessed a very particular, constant companion of a pet snake?"
"Pet snake?" Professor Binns seemed to muster a rare flicker of interest at this specific detail, which was quite abnormal for him. "Ah, you mention a rather interesting detail, Mr. Plint—"
"Potter, Professor," Harry corrected softly.
"—Yes,Mr. Potter. Indeed, the records do repeatedly mention that snake." The professor confirmed in his characteristic, monotone ghost-voice. "Most unusual. Far from an ordinary magical creature. In ancient notes, it is described as an extension of Salazar's will, a living symbol of his formidable power, almost never leaving his side. In early tapestries of the castle's founding and a few magically authenticated records, one often finds it depicted coiled at his hand or silently encircling his feet."
Harry felt his heart seized by an invisible hand, then begin to race uncontrollably. "And that… that snake, what became of it? When Mr. Slytherin finally decided to leave, did it… disappear with him?"
"That is the most intriguing part of the entire history, my boy." Professor Binns said, in the same tone one might use to discuss yesterday's weather, yet delivering earth-shattering news. "When Salazar Slytherin turned to leave on that fateful night, the majority of his personal effects—piles of books, a sumptuous travelling cloak, even some precious manuscripts pertaining to his private research—were left perfectly intact in his room in the South Tower. Only the snake…" Here, the professor paused, a rare occurrence, as if his eternal memory needed to sift through this dusty page. "...The man and the snake vanished together. Utterly and completely. No physical trace of its existence was left behind—not a single shed skin, not its daily-use, rune-engraved silver food and water bowls. As if it had never existed, or… had merged with the castle's ancient stone walls themselves, becoming part of its shadow. The official records are conspicuously silent on the matter, lacking any rational explanation. It has only spawned some romantic and groundless conjectures in later years. That he had lodged a part of his soul or will within the serpent, making it an eternal guardian, watching over the 'legacy' he left behind, waiting for the worthy, 'true heir' to appear, and so forth."
An extension of his will… vanished together… merged with the walls… guarding a legacy… true heir…
Each word was like a hammer wrapped in frost, smashing into Harry's already overburdened nerves. A wave of intense, dizzying vertigo washed over him; black spots danced at the edges of his vision, and he had to lean on the teacher's desk to steady himself. The clues were no longer floating fragments. They were now coalescing and twisting together at a terrifying speed, forming a cold, solid rope. One end was tied firmly to Salazar Slytherin and his mysterious serpent a millennium ago, and the other end, with utter clarity and cruelty, bypassed all the fog, pointing directly at the Tom Riddle in his arms, and at himself—this unnatural, inborn Parselmouth!
"I… I see. Thank you, Professor!" Harry's voice trembled uncontrollably. He practically fled, forgetting even the most basic courtesy of a farewell. Like a man pursued by an invisible terror, he desperately needed an utterly silent corner to face and process this soul-rending, overwhelming truth alone.
Professor Binns's words were a key, unlocking a door to deeper mist. The clues in Harry's mind were no longer scattered fragments; they began to stir and connect restlessly—Tom, Slytherin's monster, his own Parseltongue—a hidden, icy thread had emerged, but he couldn't grasp its ends, couldn't see its full length. The feeling of suspense gnawed at his sanity like a swarm of ants, driving him mad. A terrifying conjecture, so dreadful it nearly stopped his heart, surfaced: with his innate Parseltongue, was he… was he the true, legitimate heir of Salazar Slytherin? Had the Basilisk's awakening not been a coincidence, but triggered by him, using this damned ability unknowingly somewhere in the castle?
The thought spread like a drop of ink in clear water, darkening all his thoughts. Panic coiled around his heart like icy vines. If this were true… if he were the one who had caused the crisis… then he had to find the Basilisk. He had to silence it forever.
A near-obsessive impulse drove him. He began roaming the castle like a ghost again, his gaze sweeping over every faded tapestry, every statue's pedestal, every damp, dark corner like a searchlight, trying to catch any trace of evidence Salazar Slytherin might have left behind, overlooked by time. He pressed his palms against half the castle's cold, rough stone walls, listening intently, both hoping and dreading to hear the terrifying hiss that never came. He even mustered a measure of Gryffindor's reckless courage, entertaining the mad notion of returning to the terrifying snake pit in the Forbidden Forest—to confront the serpents who might know the truth. A more concrete plan formed: perhaps, under the Invisibility Cloak, he could shadow a Slytherin student, sneak into their common room, and search for clues. But these dangerous, flawed ideas were quickly, laboriously suppressed by his remaining reason, followed by a deeper, more corroding sense of helplessness. The fruitless investigation felt like struggling in quicksand; every effort only sank his meager hopes deeper.
He took out parchment and quill again, sitting for hours in the most secluded corner of the common room by the fire, trying to sketch a map of the castle's subterranean, labyrinthine pipes—the potential pathways for the Basilisk—based on memory and conjecture. Yet, the crucial difference now was the diary lying open beside him. It radiated a rejecting, deathly coldness, a stark contrast to the comforting warmth that had once constantly enveloped him from its pages. Whenever his quill paused, his thoughts would drift uncontrollably towards that bitter, heart-wrenching contrast. He could only shake his head violently, forcing his focus back onto the chaotic, intersecting lines before him with near-masochistic determination.
And throughout all of this, a pair of worried, scrutinizing brown eyes followed him like a shadow. Hermione Granger watched Harry go through the motions of a student's life like a pale ghost detached from reality, which frightened her more than his previous, overt emotional collapse had. His unconscious, repetitive habit of tracing the cover of the black diary had, in her eyes, converged into the focal point of all his abnormal behavior—an absolute core radiating both foreboding and allure.
On an bitterly cold day in late December, thick snow fell silently outside, blanketing the entire castle and the world beyond. Harry was curled alone in an armchair again, staring blankly at the diary on his lap. He had just returned empty-handed from the North Tower, his chest filled with the icy grit of frustration. Now, he was solemnly, even anxiously, contemplating how to sneak into the Slytherin common room undetected. He had observed previously that the dungeon entrance was also guarded by a portrait requiring a password. Perhaps… under the Invisibility Cloak, like a true spectre, he could wait by the portrait for a long time, eavesdropping on an incautious Slytherin to steal the password. The Slytherin dungeon is the only place left unsearched, a voice insisted stubbornly in his mind. If Salazar himself left any clues about his legacy within the castle, the most likely location would be the House that embodies his ideals. So absorbed was he in the details of this dangerous plan that he remained utterly unaware of a figure approaching with determined, silent steps.
"Harry."
Hermione's voice was like a cold crack of thunder directly above him, violently yanking him from his dangerous reverie. Harry started, his whole body jolting, instinctively shoving the diary deeper into his robes as if it were illicit contraband. He forced a deep breath and looked up, attempting a relaxed, friendly smile, but his facial muscles were stiff and uncooperative. "Hi, Hermione. What is it?" His voice held a thread of unmasked tension.
Hermione's expression was unprecedentedly serious, devoid of their usual warmth. Her gaze was like two precise scalpels, locked onto the spot Harry was trying to conceal with his robes. Her tone held an undeniable finality: "Harry, there are some things I need to ask you. Now. Come with me." It was not a request, but a command.
Alarm bells shrieked in Harry's mind; a sense of foreboding like ice water flooded his limbs. His eyes darted around desperately, hoping for anyone, even a passerby, to provide a temporary reprieve from the impending inquisition. But the empty corner of the common room offered only the mocking crackle of the fire. He swallowed with difficulty, his Adam's apple bobbing, and slowly rose to his feet, subconsciously pressing the diary tightly against his chest before stowing it inside an inner pocket of his robes, as if that could safely hide it.
Hermione watched this series of defensive movements, her lips pressed into a severe line. Without another word, she turned abruptly and strode towards the door with a kind of ruthless authority he had never seen in her before. Harry, like a puppet on an invisible string, could only follow her steps pathetically.
They entered a deserted classroom. Dust motes floated in the stark white light streaming through the high windows, illuminated by the snow outside. The moment the door shut behind them, Hermione deftly turned the key in the lock with a sharp click. She then spun around, tossing her bushy hair back, her eyes blazing as she came straight to the point: "Harry, what is wrong with you? Tell me what's really going on." Her voice echoed in the empty room, carrying an inescapable force.
Harry's heart constricted as if seized by an invisible hand, skipping a beat. He fought down the surging panic, using all his willpower to keep his voice even, even attempting a tone of nonchalance. "I'm fine, Hermione. Really. Everything's… everything's fine." But his eyes betrayed him, darting away from her overly sharp, all-too-perceptive gaze like startled moths.
"How can I believe that? Harry!" Hermione's voice rose, laced with suppressed anger and worry. She stepped closer, her gaze locked on the distinct bulge beneath his robes. "I know! I've known for a while that you're hiding that black book, Harry!" Her finger almost jabbed his chest. "What is it? Everything that's been wrong with you lately—the distraction, the distance, the muttering to yourself—it all revolves around that thing! Tell me!"
Harry's heart plunged into an icy sea, stuttering before beginning a frantic, erratic rhythm. Panic, like a solid wave of ice, flooded his limbs, leaving them cold and weak. "It's… it's nothing!" he stammered, his voice turning shrill and strained with extreme guilt. "Just a… a normal notebook! For my own use!"
"A normal notebook?" Hermione let out a derisive snort, her eyes sharp enough to flay him open. "A normal notebook that you guard with your life like a dying cub? That you treat as your only confidant, drifting around in a daze all day? Harry, don't take me for a fool! Show it to me!" She thrust out her hand, her tone leaving no room for argument.
"No!" Harry cried out, a reflexive, full-body flinch as he shielded the pocket with his entire frame, his arm pressing down hard over the diary, knuckles white.
But Hermione was faster, more resolute. She whipped out her wand, pointing it directly at Harry, her eyes holding a mix of concern and a steely resolve he had never seen before. "Harry, don't make me hex you! Give it to me!"
Seeing the wand pointed at him—her wand, which had faced a mountain troll with him, which they'd practiced countless spells with—drained all colour from Harry's face, leaving him breathless with shock. In the frozen moment of that threat, Hermione lunged. One hand pried his fiercely protective arm away from his robes, while the other unhesitatingly, almost roughly, plunged into his pocket and yanked—forcibly wresting the black diary, which held all his secrets and emotions, from its most intimate sanctuary.
The moment the diary left his possession, a vast, annihilating fear triggered a violent physical revulsion in Harry. His stomach convulsed; a sour liquid rose in his throat. He thought he might vomit right there. His mind went blank, a stark white. He could only watch, as if in slow motion, as Hermione, with a final, decisive thwack, opened the diary with the air of a judge passing sentence.
He felt stripped bare and thrown into the snow, his most private, darkest corner, soaked with tears and despair, about to be exposed under his friend's scrutinizing gaze. Shame and panic choked him. He almost closed his eyes, wanting to escape the expected sight of page after page witnessing his vulnerability and abject pleas.
However—
The expected dense script of his desperate outpourings did not appear.
The pages were a stark, complete,nearly eerie blank.
Clean… as if all his painful struggles, his midnight tears, his desperate pleas of the past months had never been written, had never existed.
Harry was utterly stunned, frozen in place as if Petrified. Hermione clearly faltered too, a flash of bewildered disbelief crossing her face. But she recovered quickly, raising her wand again, pointing it at the blank pages, and reciting detection spells clearly and rapidly: "Revelio!" … "Aparecium!"
A flicker of magical light passed over the diary. It remained unresponsive, lying quietly in Hermione's hand as if it had been nothing but a common, innocent blank notebook since the day it was made.
A wave of limp, post-crisis relief, mixed with the blazing fury of violated privacy, and a faint, inexplicable thrill of hope sparked by this profoundly abnormal blankness, surged through Harry. He exploded into motion, practically lunging forward, and with all his strength, he snatched the diary back from Hermione's grasp, clutching it tightly in trembling arms as if it were a recovered piece of his very soul. He looked up at his stunned friend, hissing through gritted teeth, his voice shaking and distorted with emotion: "Satisfied?! You see now?! I told you it was nothing!"
Hermione watched his overly vehement reaction with hesitation, her eyes darting between him and the 'ordinary' diary that had indeed shown no magical traces. Her brow furrowed deeply. Finally, as if forced, she conceded reluctantly, her voice dropping. "Alright… It seems… it really is just a notebook." But her eyes, still filled with inquiry and undissipated worry, told Harry clearly: This isn't over.
Harry lacked the courage and mental strength to decipher the meaning in her gaze any further. He turned sharply, like a deer startled by an arrow, yanked the door open, and fled the empty classroom without a backward glance. He ran down the corridors, the cold air whipping past his face, not stopping until he barreled into a dark, narrow broom cupboard smelling of disinfectant and dust. He slammed the door shut, his back against the cold, rough stone wall, all strength draining from him as he slid to the floor. His entire body shook uncontrollably, his teeth chattering.
Everything that had just happened—Hermione's sharp questioning, the cold wand, the rough seizure, and the blankness that had saved him yet terrified him—smashed through the thick layer of ice he had built around his heart like a frost-coated hammer. All the emotions suppressed, frozen, and buried deep over the months—despair, fear, bone-deep loneliness, heart-corroding guilt, and the burning, frantic craving for a response—surged up like a long-contained flood finally breaching its dam. It overwhelmed him, making him dizzy, his vision spotting, his stomach churning violently.
In the nearly suffocating emotional storm, in the stifling darkness, he trembled, opening the diary he clutched so tightly with something akin to reverence.
Blank. Still that utterly, disconcertingly blank page.
He took a deep breath of the musty, dusty air, and with spasming fingers, retrieved the quill he always carried from an inner pocket. He held it shakily, the nib hovering over the stark white page as if performing a sacred and dangerous ritual. Finally, with all his remaining strength, he carefully, yet clearly, wrote in the center of that emptiness the name that held all his hope, pain, and desperate longing:

"Tom?"

He held his breath, his green eyes wide in the darkness, staring fixedly, unblinkingly, at the fresh, black ink. Time stretched agonizingly. In the heart-gripping, absolute silence, one second, two…
Then, he saw it.
The black ink began to sink into the page. Slowly, inexorably. The edges of the writing blurred, faded, as if being gently, firmly absorbed, consumed, drawn in by some invisible, long-starved presence, until it vanished completely, returning to the waiting blankness.
It was back. The connection… was restored.
A great, scalding wave of pure joy instantly shattered all the frozen dams, flooding his entire being. Every cell trembled back to life. Harry Potter hugged the diary to his chest, tightly, desperately, as if to press it into his very flesh and bone, embracing this miraculously recovered, wonderfully warm miracle. He closed his eyes, burying his hot, tear-streaked face deep into the leather cover that now felt alive and warm once more. A real, unseen-for-months smile—a smile mingling boundless anguish and ultimate ecstasy, a smile with tears—finally broke through all the gloom and pain, spreading slowly, unmistakably, across his pale face.

Chapter Text

That smile was like the first crack chiseled into an iceberg, but what surged beneath was not icy seawater, but a torrent of scalding, almost burning joy. Harry curled in the cramped darkness of the broom cupboard, tear stains still wet on his face, yet unable to suppress a large, trembling smile. His hand trembled as he laid it flat on the page, and he could feel it—a faint warmth slowly seeping from the diary into his palm. It was real. Tom was back. That weak, ember-like warmth had not been an illusion. It had truly been there. Harry hugged the diary tightly to his chest and wept freely, as if to pour out all the despair, pain, and waiting that had accumulated over months along with his tears. Tom was back. The heavy burden on his shoulders felt significantly lighter.
After the tears subsided, Harry held the diary in his hands again. He carefully sensed the familiar yet unfamiliar magic and warmth emanating from it. To his slight surprise, the leather, which he had soaked with tears and body heat for months to coax out a single response, now clearly conveyed a sense of… a desire to absorb.
The name he had just written—"Tom?"—had been completely devoured, vanished without a trace, as if it had never been written, or as if it had been swallowed impatiently by a soul starved for far too long, leaving not even a mark behind.
This realization made his heart pound frantically against his ribs, threatening to shatter them. He looked down, staring in disbelief at the once-again blank page in his arms, which now seemed to faintly radiate vitality. A wave of dizziness, mixed with immense hope and a strong sense of unreality, swept over him.
Then, a powerful, almost shameful emotion rose within him. How could he converse with Tom here? The thought pricked his bubble of joy like a needle. The air was thick with the pungent mix of disinfectant and age-old dust; beneath him was the cold, rough stone floor; above, only a dim, flickering magical bulb. This place was dark, damp, dirty—a forgotten cage, utterly unworthy of being the site of Tom 's return.
He had to leave. Now.
Harry shot to his feet so fast he nearly knocked over a mop and bucket. He fumbled to steady them, then, with almost fierce intensity, pressed the diary even deeper and tighter against his left chest, right over his frantically beating heart. He pulled open the broom cupboard door and slipped out like a swift shadow, sprinting down the empty corridors.
The winter castle was silent, most students were indoor. Only the heavy, silent snow falling outside added an unreal purity to the stillness. Harry's goal was clear—he needed a place that was absolutely safe, absolutely quiet, and… good enough.
Finally, at the end of a secluded corridor on the eighth floor, he found a disused classroom. The door was unlocked. He slipped inside, gently closing it behind him. The room was clearly long untouched; fine dust motes floated in the stark moonlight streaming through the tall windows, illuminated by the snow, looking like drifting specks of gold. A few scarred old desks and chairs were piled haphazardly in a corner, and the air held the mild scent of old parchment and decaying wood.
This was good. Quiet, clean, and most importantly, no one would disturb them.
Harry practically threw himself at a relatively intact desk by the window. With immense care, as if placing a priceless treasure, he laid the diary flat on the dusty surface. He took a deep breath, trying to steady his trembling fingers, and once more drew the quill from inside his robes.
The nib, loaded with ink, hovered. Holding his breath, he touched it to the blank page, symbolizing infinite possibilities, and wrote again.
”Tom?
No response.
Yet Harry's heart beat even faster—because he saw clearly that this time, the fresh ink began to sink, blur, and be absorbed almost the moment it touched the page. It was as if the presence on the other side, with a rapidly reviving appetite, was greedily swallowing every signal he sent.
And… he couldn't resist placing his palm on the diary's leather cover. It was no longer the soul-frosting cold of solid ice. It now felt… cool. Like a stone warmed by the sun for a long time, slowly gathering reassuring heat within.
Hope, like a warm ocean, utterly drowned him. In the days that followed, this abandoned classroom became Harry's only sanctuary within Hogwarts. He came punctually every day, pouring everything out to the diary—he apologized incoherently, described the suffering of his months-long walking coma; he shared classroom trivialities, complained about Snape's increasingly bitter attitude; he even began to speak wistfully of the approaching Christmas, fantasizing that perhaps Tom could spend it with him.
Every sentence, every word he wrote, was absorbed by the diary at a steady, increasingly rapid pace. The temperature of the cover, just as he hoped, rose steadily day by day. From cool, to a definite warmth, until finally, when he pressed it to his cheek, he could feel a living warmth that nearly brought him to tears.
This slow, steadfast process of recovery became the pillar holding up Harry's entire world. Yet, beneath this sweet anticipation and growing hope, a thread of cold reality, like the chill seeping through the windows, began to intrude.
He started to notice that the spiders in the castle, which had once nearly vanished, seemed to be growing restless again. Not the panicked flight of before, but a sort of… agitation. At the feet of suits of armor in the corridors, in the shadows of tapestries, he occasionally saw one or two spiders scuttling quickly past, their movements marked by a visible anxiety, as if unsettled by something yet to come.
This unease also crept into Harry's heart. The bubble of joy remained, but beneath it, the icy water was spreading once more. He knew some things were not over. They had merely, like Tom, lain dormant for a while, and were now announcing their return in a way that could no longer be ignored.
"Hey, Harry, what are you doing for Christmas?" Ron shouted through a mouthful of Chocolate Frog, his cheeks were bulging. As the holiday drew near, the castle was once again filled with that particular pre-festive anticipation. Harry instinctively avoided the gaze Hermione sent his way—since their confrontation, a layer of ice had settled between them, and her scrutinizing eyes always left him unsettled. He'd been so entirely focused on the diary's recovery these days that he'd almost forgotten to think about the holidays. The thought of the possible 'hospitality' awaiting him at the Dursleys' made him envy Ron, who got to return to The Burrow. But this year was different. He had Tom.
"I'm staying," Harry said, putting on a semi-convincing expression of distaste. "No way I want to go back to the Dursleys and face their glares." Ron's eyes widened in surprise. "Come home with me, then! Mum and Dad love you, and Dad still wants to ask you what the underground looks like!" A wave of warmth mixed with guilt washed over Harry. He sighed inwardly. "Thanks, mate. But look at all those essays Snape's assigned. I'll probably be stuck in the library the whole holiday. If I don't catch up, he'll skin me alive." Ron heaved a great sigh, mumbling his understanding. Harry still couldn't bring himself to meet Hermione's eyes.
On Christmas Eve, students departed in succession. The once crowded, noisy castle deflated into sudden quiet. Harry saw Ron and Hermione off at the Hogwarts Express platform. Ron looked at him glumly. "You're sure you won't come? I wanted to play Exploding Snap with you." He slowly slid the compartment door open.
"It's fine. See you after the holiday." Harry forced a light smile and turned to Hermione. "Bye, Hermione."
"Goodbye, Harry." Hermione didn't smile, only looked at him deeply.
Harry shoved his hands into his robe pockets, watching Ron lean out the window, waving reluctantly. As the train slowly pulled away, he took a deep breath, feeling the warmth from the diary against his chest, and turned back towards the castle.
It felt as if the whole world had emptied. Harry strode through the corridors, enjoying an unprecedented sense of freedom. He had originally planned to tackle his homework in the library, but found he couldn't concentrate at all—the diary's warmth was growing more distinct against his chest, like a personal heater, making his heart flutter with excitement.
Back in the common room, he threw himself into the most spacious, comfortable armchair, almost sinking into it. He opened the diary, pressing his face lightly against the page, letting the faint, comforting scent envelop him.
He woke to find it was dusk. Harry sat up with a start, realizing the diary and his glasses had been neatly placed on the coffee table before him at some point. Rubbing his eyes and putting on his glasses, he saw the fire crackling, casting a warm, dancing light—strange, who had added wood while he slept?
As he puzzled over this, a fleeting glimmer passed over the diary's cover. Harry stared at the leaping flames for a moment, gathering his wits. Eagerly, he opened the diary, wondering if today would finally bring a response.
"Tom, it's almost Christmas. The castle's empty now. Fell asleep in the common room earlier. It was really comfortable."
He watched the page intently. Sure enough, the ink was absorbed faster than yesterday! A thrill shot through him. He was about to write more when new words suddenly surfaced—
"Hello, Harry. It's been a long time."
Elegant, flowing script. As composed as ever. Just seven words, but they stole Harry's breath. He clamped his left hand over his mouth, tears of joy springing to his eyes. A tidal wave of elation crashed against his ribs. He's back. Tom is really back. Harry fought the urge to scream, a grin spreading uncontrollably across his face as tears traced paths down his cheeks. His hand shaking, he gripped the quill and wrote a trembling, crooked reply:
"Long time no see, Tom."
—I missed you.

Chapter Text

Harry's fingers clenched the quill so tightly . His knuckles were strained into stiff, white curves, as if he were using all his strength to hold onto a fading illusion. The nib hovered over his still-damp reply, "It's been a long time, Tom," trembling uncontrollably, much like his frantically beating heart. A thousand words tumbled and crashed in his throat, ultimately resolving only into scalding tears that fell, one by two, heavily onto the parchment, blurring the ink like his own shattered composure.
I missed you. So much.
The silent scream reverberated in his skull, pulsing at his temples. He bit his lower lip hard, tasting the metallic taste of blood, terrified that if this longing spilled out, it would startle away this fragile connection. He could only stare greedily at the line of elegant script, as if trying to carve every stroke into the depths of his soul.
Just as he was being swallowed by this overwhelming, disorienting joy, new words surfaced at that familiar, unhurried pace:
"Your tears are falling on the page, Harry."
Harry flinched as if his deepest vulnerability had been exposed. He frantically wiped his cheeks and the page with his sleeve, his movements as hurried as a thief caught in the act, his face burning with shame.
"There is no need for embarrassment. I can… sense your emotions. The silence these past months must have been… difficult for you."
It wasn't warm comfort, but a cool empathy, with just the right amount of distance, yet it pierced precisely the softest, most undefended corner of his heart. He could almost picture Tom's expression—those deep eyes surely holding an all-understanding clarity, perhaps mixed with a trace of pity for his disheveled state.
"I thought I'd lost you forever, Tom," Harry finally mustered the remnants of his courage to write, his script slanting, each letter laden with months of accumulated fear and despair. "That day in the forest, when you saved me… I thought you…"
"Paid a price," Tom finished calmly, his script as steady as if stating an unrelated fact, devoid of any retrospective fear. "But as you see, I have returned. It proves your persistence, your waiting, was effective."
The diary's pages seemed to emanate a faint, reassuring warmth, like the first spring breeze piercing through the winter cold, gently brushing against his taut nerves, slowly soothing the restless panic.
"That's… really great." As he wrote this, a relieved smile unconsciously touched Harry's lips. Yet, before it could reach his eyes, an icy dread seized his heart—he remembered the question that had once sent him into an ice-cold cliff: "You are a parselmouth?" The smile froze on his face. Fear coiled around him like vines, choking him. How could he broach this? He feared Tom's words would thrust them back into the abyss.
"Indeed. Then, perhaps we should now discuss your… unusual gift."
The inevitable had come. There was no escaping it. Harry bit his lower lip until he tasted blood more distinctly. He wrestled internally, turmoil raging within him, before finally writing like a condemned prisoner placing his neck on the block:
"Yes. I am a parselmouth. But I swear to you, Tom, I didn't learn it. I never knew I had this ability. Please believe me. Each word felt like stripping away a layer of his protective shell, exposing the raw truth beneath.
"I believe you." Tom's response came so quickly it left him feeling weak with relief. But before that relief could settle, the next line unfurled like a cold chain slowly coiling around his neck: "But I trust you also understand this is no ordinary gift, Harry."
That familiar, suffocating feeling rushed back. Merlin knew how desperately he wanted to bury this damned, brand-like secret forever, especially from Tom. But he feared even more that any attempt to conceal it could be the reason that made him lose Tom again.But what he feared even more was that any attempt to conceal it could be the reason that made him lose Tom. He had no choice but to lay bare his most shameful part.
"I know. I looked it up in the library. In the historical records, the only known innate parseltmouth was Salazar Slytherin."
"Correct." The elegant script was unperturbed, yet carried the weight of an irrefutable verdict. "It suggests a high probability of a direct blood relation to Salazar Slytherin."
Tom's words were a dagger forged of ice, piercing precisely the wound he tried to hide. It felt like a complete overturning of everything he knew, a merciless sentence. Denials formed on his tongue but found no ground. Panic bred and fermented wildly in his mind: Would Tom turn away because of this? Would he look at him with disdain, this oddity with Slytherin's blood? Would he spurn this filthy 'gift' Harry desperately wanted to be rid of? The warm common room seemed instantly drained of all heat; the fire's glow could no longer provide any warmth. The earlier joy of Tom’s return was replaced by a deeper, bone-chilling despair. An icy cold spread from his limbs, threatening to freeze his mind solidly.
After what felt like an eternity, Harry gathered a remnant of strength and wrote, his hand trembling:
"...Perhaps. But I'm an orphan. My parents are gone, my only relatives are Muggles. I don't feel any connection to Slytherin. Even if it's true, there's no way for me to verify it. I swear to you, Tom."
A huge wave of sadness surged up, instantly blurring his vision—he hated how frequently, how uncontrollably, he had been crying lately.
Tom's response was delayed for a moment before slowly appearing:
"There is no need for distress, Harry. Salazar Slytherin was a rare and exceptional wizard in magical history. His talent and intellect remain unmatched. You should take pride in that."
Pride? Harry screamed silently inside. Why should a Gryffindor, through and through, feel pride for having the blood of his house's rival founder running through his veins? It felt like a grotesque betrayal.
"But I'm a Gryffindor..."he wrote, making one last, futile struggle, though he knew he was already standing on the cliff's edge, feeling the rubble crumble beneath his feet.
"You were Sorted into Gryffindor because of your qualities, your character, and who you are, Harry. Not because of your bloodline."
Harry hadn't expected Tom to say that. For a moment, the iceberg of shame and guilt he'd built seemed to melt at the edges. He could almost see, through these words, Tom offering him a tolerant and understanding smile, telling him "It's alright." His tense shoulders relaxed slightly, and he let out a soft breath.
"Thank you, Tom," he wrote, the trembling in his quill having eased considerably. "I just… don't know what it means."
"It means you possess a unique gift, Harry, not a curse." Tom's script held a guiding patience. "The key lies in how you perceive and wield it. In the magical world, power itself is neither good nor evil. The distinction lies solely in the wisdom and intent of its wielder."
Harry stared blankly at Tom's response. The massive boulder of anxiety about his bloodline seemed to shift slightly, but what followed wasn't pure relief, but a more complex bewilderment. He possessed this so-called 'gift,' this inexplicable link to the legendary founder, but what did it truly mean? Beyond causing trouble and drawing odd looks, what was its purpose?
Just then, his peripheral vision caught movement in the crevice of the rug near the fireplace—several spiders were scrambling into it, their speed unnervingly fast. The sight was like a bucket of cold water, instantly dousing his self-absorbed thoughts.
"Tom,"
 he wrote, his quill conveying fresh worry,
 "there's something… I don't know if I should mention it, but it might be important. I just saw spiders. They looked… frightened, just like around Halloween. Could this… be because of me?"
He was practically begging for a negative answer, hoping this was just another unfortunate coincidence.
"A very keen and timely observation, Harry." Tom's reply came swiftly. The calm tone used to discuss bloodlines was gone, replaced by a cool, scholarly focus, as if cutting to the heart of the matter. "It is no coincidence. In fact, it leads our discussion directly to its most critical point. Your personal gift and the safety of this castle are intricately linked, bound by some ancient magic we do not yet fully comprehend."
The magical emanation from the diary seemed to shift as well, no longer a soothing warmth, but more like a highly concentrated, poised energy.
"Let us set aside personal sentiments for now, Harry." Tom's script became even clearer, sharper, precise as a scalpel. "It is time to examine our situation from a more rational perspective. The data, after all, does not lie."
Harry instinctively sat up straighter. The shift in Tom's tone was like an invisible hand, instantly smoothing out all the chaotic ripples in his heart, leaving only focused tension. He held his breath, looking at the words declaring 'The data does not lie' as if hearing the opening of a grand narrative.
"I'm reading, Tom," 
he wrote quickly, almost feeling his nerves humming.
 "Please, tell me what you've found."
"Good." Tom's script conveyed satisfaction at having a focused audience. "To understand this, we must establish a clear logical framework. Discard all irrelevant emotion and conjecture. Focus only on the core facts."
Harry unconsciously straightened his spine further, his posture as if he were listening to Dumbledore himself, every sense fully engaged.
"The data does not lie, Harry," Tom began, his script were steady and cool, carrying an undeniable authority that instantly smoothed the chaotic ripples in Harry's heart. "Let us define two variables: Mark the starting point of my months-long silence as A. Mark the starting point of the spiders' ceased exodus and the castle's return to calm as B. Put these two points on the timeline—what do you find?"
Harry's mind raced backwards—the day after Tom fell silent was precisely in Snape's Potions class, when he had messed up the Cure for Boils due to his distracted state. His heart sank heavily.
"They coincide exactly," he wrote, stating the irrefutable fact.
"Correct." 
Tom's response was succinct and forceful. "Now, mark the moment of my regained strength and reconnection with you as A1. Mark the moment the spiders are now showing renewed agitation and flight as B1. Superimpose A1 and B1—" 
The script paused subtly, allowing Harry space to comprehend. 
"—They, too, align perfectly. The synchronicity of these two data sets transcends any coincidence. The conclusion is this: my soul's state and the 'source' causing the spiders' panic share an undeniable causal link."
This cold, rigorous logic was like a scalpel of finest steel, precisely dissecting all the mist. Harry's once vague fears and conjectures were now laid out clearly, defined, transformed into a 'problem' that could be analyzed and solved. He didn't feel offended; instead, he found a strange solace in this extreme rationality.
"We now face two core questions," Tom continued, advancing like a strategist deploying forces on a map. "First: what exactly is this 'source'? Second, and more crucially: how do we 'control' this connection to prevent the castle from descending into panic again, or worse… far more severe consequences?"
The words "far more severe consequences" were written with particular clarity and weight. Terrifying images flooded Harry's mind unbidden: the castle ransacked, students' bodies lying in the corridors, Hermione and Ron among them, lifeless… An icy chill crawled up his spine, making him clench his fists instinctively. Mere panic was now replaced by a heavier, inescapable sense of responsibility.
"To answer these questions, we must introduce a third, and most critical variable." Tom's script now carried a faint, exploratory nuance.
 "Variable C: You, Harry Potter. A Parselmouth."
Harry held his breath.
"Within irrefutable magical logic, the innate ability to communicate with serpents is the sole key to accessing the legacy of Salazar Slytherin. I hypothesize that this 'source' is likely a powerful, ancient magical construct that understands only the language of snakes. Perhaps…" Tom's script deliberately slowed here, as if placing a final card on the table. "...it is your voice that can communicate with it directly, and ultimately, 'control' it."
Control. The word was like lightning tearing through the night sky, instantly cleaving the gloom in Harry's heart.
"Therefore, I posit a hypothesis." Tom's conclusion arrived with a formidable force. "To terminate B: the spiders' panic, we cannot merely suppress A: my state; that is but a temporary pausing. The sole long-term solution is to utilize Variable C—you, Harry—to use your voice and directly 'manage' the 'source' that triggers B."
He wasn't just proposing a plan; he was bestowing upon Harry a unique, irreplaceable position.
"Find it. Face it. Use your innate gift to speak to it, to establish order." Tom's words were a final verdict, a sacred summons. "This is not a curse, Harry. It is a key. And now, it falls to you to decide whether to lock that door forever, or to master the power that lies behind it."
Harry felt his heart seized by an invisible hand. Intense fear and the tremor of being entrusted with a monumental mission intertwined, nearly suffocating him.
"For me to… control it?" he repeated the incredible concept, his script slanting and shaking from shock and a faint, yet fiercely burning excitement that had begun to kindle within him.
Just then, a slight, insistent cramp gripped his stomach. He glanced unconsciously towards the window and realized night had long since fully enveloped the castle; dinner in the Great Hall must have started ages ago. The conflict between his body's most basic need and the monumental, castle-fate-deciding discussion before him caused a flush of frustration and ill-timed embarrassment.
"I understand this requires time to process." Tom's script softened appropriately, as if sensing his most subtle fluctuations. "Even the most rigorous plan requires ample energy to execute. Perhaps you should go down to dinner? We can resume our discussion later, in a place you deem suitable, to go over the specific, operational details."
The considerate suggestion made Harry sigh with relief, and a wave of genuine gratitude washed over him. Tom hadn't belittled the crisis due to his physical needs, instead appearing so understanding.
"Alright," Harry wrote, feeling his taut nerves relax slightly. "I'll be back soon. We'll… talk more later."
He closed the diary, his fingertips lingering on the warm cover for a moment as if drawing strength from it. As he rose and headed for the Great Hall, his steps were no longer light, but weighted with thought. The rational world Tom had outlined, those cold variables and searing solutions, along with the immense risk and responsibility they entailed, had already taken root within him, a seed planted deep with its resilience.