"What happened next?" Dylan asked.
Harry pressed his lips together. "Professor McGonagall said she'd keep checking, but even after all this time, she hasn't found anything."
"Wood keeps pestering her about it," Harry continued. "He's been driving her up the wall, and she finally snapped at him."
Harry gave a wry smile. "McGonagall told Wood he cares more about winning the match and getting the Quidditch Cup than whether I survive."
Dylan raised an eyebrow. "Why'd she say that?"
Harry's mouth twitched. "Well, you already said it—she thinks Wood's obsessed with the Cup. But the real reason is, Wood told her that as long as I catch the Golden Snitch during the match, he doesn't care if I get thrown off my broom."
Dylan nodded, smirking. "So that's why McGonagall lost it."
Ron's eyes widened. "How could he say that? I'm ready to hex him myself!"
Harry let out a bitter laugh. "When Wood told me about it, I was gobsmacked. He even asked why McGonagall was yelling at him like that."
Ron gaped. "Does he seriously not realize what a daft thing he said?"
Harry opened his mouth, then shrugged. "Maybe it just didn't click for him? You know how he is about the Cup. He even said if he could catch the Snitch, he'd fall off his broom a hundred times and not care."
Dylan chuckled. "If anyone else said that, it'd be awful, but coming from Wood… it's almost understandable."
Harry nodded, half-laughing, half-exasperated. "Yeah, he's a bit over the top."
That was an understatement. Wood had tumbled off his broom more than once chasing the Quaffle, so it wasn't exactly shocking he didn't care if someone else took a dive for the Snitch.
Harry scratched his head. "Wood also said he probably can't get that top-of-the-line broom back for me. He even apologized for it."
Ron blinked, rubbing his head. "Is Quidditch that fun? It's driving people mental. I'm half-tempted to try out myself."
Harry grinned. "With your skills, Ron, I reckon you'd help Gryffindor win if you joined the team!"
Ron beamed. "You think so?"
"Definitely," Harry said with a nod.
Ron, chuffed, wandered off with a goofy smile.
Harry turned to Dylan, hesitating before speaking. "By the way, Dylan, when Professor Lupin was teaching me the Patronus Charm last time, he looked really rough."
Dylan glanced at the small potions setup in their dorm. "Did he say something to you?"
Was Lupin dropping hints about Snape behind Harry's back?
Harry shook his head, then nodded. "He did, but I didn't quite get it. He told me to stay in the dorm, not go wandering off or running around."
Dylan shrugged. "If he says don't wander, then don't. He probably knows something. Why worry about it?"
Harry thought for a moment. "Fair point. I figured maybe Lupin thinks I'm always getting into trouble or hurting myself. Madam Pomfrey and I are practically mates at this point."
Dylan smirked. "That's not exactly unlikely."
Harry glanced around. "Oh, and that sock I got wet during the last match—I took it off and stuffed it somewhere, but now I can't find it. I've been meaning to wash it, but it's gone. Weirdly, I haven't smelled it either. I remember it being a bit… whiffy when I chucked it aside to do homework."
Dylan blinked rapidly. "Oh, that? I think I saw an old sock in the dorm giving off a pong, so I tossed it out. Was that yours? Sorry, mate."
Harry's cheeks flushed. "No, I should be the one apologizing. I should've sorted it out sooner. Didn't mean to stink up the place."
Dylan waved it off calmly. "No big deal."
In truth, Dylan had needed something for a potion he was brewing for Lupin. Spotting Harry's rank sock, he'd extracted its stench and added it to the Wolfsbane Potion. Lupin, drinking it, would probably assume Snape was sabotaging him. He'd have no choice but to gulp it down, stench and all.
Dylan had even unlocked a new achievement for it:
Achievement: Stinky Sock Surprise
Description: Harry Potter's signature Stinky Sock Potion—brewed just for you!
Requirement: Get Lupin to drink a potion infused with stinky sock essence.
Reward: Max-level spell—Summon Stinky Sock!
Dylan hadn't found any use for the spell yet and hadn't bothered experimenting with it.
A few days later, after class, Dylan returned to the dorm and slipped into his enchanted suitcase. Ravenclaw's figure appeared beside him.
"Any movement from that guy?" Dylan asked.
Ravenclaw shook her head.
Dylan shrugged. "I'll check on him."
Ravenclaw nodded lightly. If Dylan didn't need her, she'd stay behind. She turned toward the Basilisk, planning to feed it a few slabs of meat. The creature had been looking a bit thin lately—not ideal for harvesting its blood or flesh. It needed fattening up.
Ravenclaw had settled into her role as Dylan's "housekeeper." Watering plants, tending herbs, feeding the Basilisk, cats, dragons, and the occasional human—it wasn't bad. She could bicker with the creatures, tinker with experimental materials, and use her old lab. She read when she wanted, relaxed when she felt like it, and didn't have to deal with the endless admin of running a school. It left her free to think, to explore.
She was starting to enjoy it.
Even better, Everett was here. They'd been chatting more often, rekindling a connection that felt both familiar and new. Trapped—one in a statue, the other in a portrait—they had plenty of time to reflect. Their conversations sparked ideas, like back in the old days, but the fiery passion was gone, replaced by a calm, slightly distant camaraderie.
Ravenclaw no longer felt romantic love for Everett. After centuries, even a human soul in a portrait struggled to feel that kind of attachment. They were more like old friends now. For Ravenclaw, chasing knowledge and unraveling mysteries was far more thrilling than romance. Her curiosity about Dylan, in fact, now surpassed any feelings she'd once had for Everett.
Meanwhile, Dylan approached the wooden cabin. As he neared, he heard Riddle's furious ranting.
"You idiot! You think hiding in there will save you? He's only sparing that diadem because he doesn't want to break it. If you don't come out soon, you'll push him too far, and we'll both suffer!"
"Damn it! Can you even understand me? Pretending to sleep won't help! I know you can hear me!"
"Say something! Are you coming out or not? It's been days! Didn't you see how he tortured me three days ago when he checked on my progress? You selfish, vile little worm!"
"Speak, you coward! Are you just going to watch me suffer? I'm you!"
Inside the cabin, Riddle's faint, ghostly form leaned over his diary, one hand propped on it, his face twisted with rage as he screamed at the diadem beside it. Clearly, even a soul couldn't empathize with its future self.
Riddle's tirade continued, but the diadem remained still, unresponsive. His frustration grew.
Then Dylan walked in.
Riddle froze, his hand slowly lifting from the diary as he straightened, tension radiating from him. He'd spent weeks scheming to escape this nightmare, but every plan fizzled out. The magic here felt alien, beyond his control. Dylan held all the power—feeding him life force when he chose, manipulating him like a pawn. Resistance was futile, and escape might only bring worse torment.
Dylan's dark magic was ruthless, even crueler than Riddle's own. So, he bided his time, waiting for a chance at revenge.
Now, Dylan had brought another Horcrux. Riddle could sense the familiar soul fragment within it. Alone, he'd kept his composure, enduring the occasional torture, confident the outside Voldemort would rise again. Their Horcruxes would be his strength—and theirs in return. Riddle had once framed Hagrid for Myrtle's death and walked away clean. He'd believed he could do it again.
But now, a second Horcrux was in Dylan's hands. Panic set in. Two Horcruxes trapped—what about a third? A fourth? If Dylan collected more, what would happen to him?
He'd endured so much already, clinging to hope. But with a new Horcrux, Dylan's focus might shift. A fresh soul fragment, untouched by experiments, would be more enticing than Riddle's worn-out one. Horcruxes themselves were worthless—any object could hold a soul. Dylan, a dark wizard, likely knew how to make them. The value lay in the soul itself, one that could withstand repeated spells without breaking.
A new Horcrux meant a new soul. If Dylan had another, what use was Riddle's? Would he be destroyed?
Riddle didn't want to die. He'd suffered too long to let it end like this. When Dylan ordered him to coax the diadem's soul out, he'd resisted at first. But after days of failure—and Dylan's brutal punishments—his resolve crumbled.
Imprisoned, experimented on, tortured without mercy, Riddle, once the master, was now the victim. The humiliation burned, but survival mattered more. He had to prove his worth to this dark wizard, show he was still useful as the once-mighty Dark Lord.
At least, he couldn't let another version of himself replace him.
Yet, his efforts were useless. He couldn't enter the diadem—it belonged to another Voldemort.
As Dylan approached, Riddle felt a chill, like the day he'd faced Dumbledore after killing Myrtle. The same scrutiny, the same suffocating dread.
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