Chapter 302 — Going in the Wrong Direction
After Dumbledore finished speaking, he sat down again and began quietly conversing with Professor McGonagall.
All around them, the Great Hall erupted into clattering and shuffling noises as students pushed back benches, stood up, and hurried toward the double doors leading into the entrance foyer.
Harry, Ron, and the others pushed against the flow of students, heading toward the staff table where Professor Lupin stood.
"Lupin, congratulations," Harry said brightly. His eyes flicked toward the person standing a short distance away—Tom Riddle.
He had come to confirm something.
And with Dumbledore sitting right there, Harry wasn't afraid. If Riddle tried anything, the Headmaster would intervene.
"Harry, I really don't think this is the right time," Lupin said quickly.
"It's disgusting that we're having the same thought," Snape snapped. His sallow face twisted with tension as he and Lupin stepped in front of Harry at the exact same moment—both reaching into their robes for their wands.
Their concern for Harry clearly overrode all reason.
"What? I'm also a Hogwarts professor, you know," Riddle said, sounding wounded—so convincingly fragile that anyone who didn't know better would think he was being unfairly excluded.
His eyes drifted back to Harry.
"Stay away from that child," Snape hissed. The color drained from his face, but he held his ground despite the fear in his voice.
"Severus, you really upset me," Riddle replied with a pleasant smile. "After all, I died because of you."
The lightly spoken words carried a weight only Snape could fully understand.
In truth, Riddle had been spending most of his time studying Muggle culture, toying with the Ministry, and quietly reconnecting with his old followers.
Voldemort had originally targeted the Potters because of the prophecy, though he had never understood its true meaning.
Now, aware that Harry was his Horcrux—and that Dumbledore protected him—Riddle felt no pressure at all.
He was, in simple terms, having fun.
His provocative comments were nothing more than curiosity and testing instincts.
Snape's bloodline resembled his own; his talents were exceptional. Perhaps those were the true reasons Voldemort had once pursued the Potters so relentlessly.
Snape's reaction only confirmed Riddle's suspicions.
Unfortunately, Riddle had no idea of the truth:
Snape had simply remembered the terrible mistake that cost Lily her life—the night he conveyed Trelawney's prophecy to Voldemort.
Snape's Occlumency skills and years of undercover work were so polished that even in crippling emotional turmoil, he betrayed no concrete tells.
Yet Riddle, ironically, sensed that very lack of expression and drew his own wrong conclusions.
"Severus, relax. This is Harry Potter—Dumbledore's favorite."
"I am, after all, a loyal Dumbledore now," Riddle said with another cheerful smile.
"Alright, I'll leave it at that. There's plenty of time later. More time than anyone realizes."
He narrowed his eyes, flashed a pleasant grin at Harry, and slipped into the dispersing crowd.
"…Harry, it's time for you to go," Lupin said stiffly. "I have no idea what you were thinking."
Snape said nothing. He stood frozen, pale and stiff, like a statue drained of life.
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On the way to Ravenclaw Tower
Ron finally burst.
"Harry—I don't know what has gotten into you—how could you just walk up to—"
"Why wouldn't I? I just needed to confirm something." Harry rubbed his forehead.
He wasn't stupid. After meeting Voldemort twice—once in person, once inside the locket—he had realized something unsettling.
There was a heart inside him.
A second Voldemort's heart.
It was as if his mother's spell had reshaped the magic and fused it with Harry's own body.
That was why, whenever he faced Voldemort or the locket, that "heart" on his forehead beat with sudden strength and saved his life.
Tonight he'd walked close to the young Voldemort—Tom Riddle—under the pretense of greeting Lupin.
And the feeling Riddle gave off was completely different.
Harry had doubted before, but now the truth was undeniable.
However… Riddle's words only raised more questions.
What connection did Snape have to Voldemort's death?
And what did he mean by "There's plenty of time later—more than anyone thinks"?
Harry was so lost in thought that he didn't respond when Ron tried to ask what he had been "confirming."
Students who saw Harry speaking to the charming new professor approached him excitedly, but Harry walked past them as if they were invisible—completely absorbed in his own thoughts.
He didn't snap out of it until he finally stepped into the Ravenclaw dormitory.
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Back in the Dormitory
"Harry, what exactly were you trying to confirm?" Ron asked again, sitting on his four-poster bed, genuinely worried.
Ron wasn't angry.
As Harry's friend—and self-proclaimed "brains of the Three Musketeers"—he remembered Harry's abilities clearly.
Whenever Harry faced Voldemort, he gained a terrifying strength capable of killing gods and ghosts alike.
That had been proven on the fourth floor last year, and again with the locket this summer.
Harry had seemed deeply disturbed earlier, meaning he must have discovered that this power did not respond at all to this version of Voldemort.
Against all odds, Ron had guessed correctly.
"Harry… the power didn't react, did it?" Ron whispered.
The dormitory was silent. Everyone was asleep—
Except Alexander Smith, who had mysteriously disappeared before bedtime as usual.
Harry stared at Ron, stunned.
"How did you know?"
For a second, Harry wondered if Ron had been pretending all along—or as Alexander once joked, "pretending to be a pig to eat a tiger."
Now Harry wondered if he was the tiger, and Ron the pig in disguise.
Maybe Draco's old suspicions weren't so far-fetched.
But Ron—curled up under his blankets with only his head poking out—looked blissfully unaware of the crisis of trust forming in Harry's mind.
If anything, he looked proud.
"Of course I know! I told you—I'm the brains! The strategist of the Three Musketeers!"
"I'm telling Draco tomorrow!" Ron wriggled on his bed like an overexcited caterpillar.
Harry sighed.
Maybe he was overthinking.
The idiot in front of him was just… lucky.
Idiots were always lucky—otherwise they wouldn't survive this long.
Harry muttered to himself, remembering the day Ron had drawn the rare golden card, Devil's Passport.
"Harry," Ron said suddenly, snapping out of his excitement, "so… how did that power react to Riddle?"
Harry frowned.
"It's strange. He feels like… a brother to me. A brother I've never met."
He was about to continue explaining—
—but the familiar sound of snoring filled the room.
Ron had fallen asleep instantly.
Harry sighed.
He'd heard that exact snoring many times—especially on nights when he, Ron, and Draco had crashed together in Draco's tent at Black Manor.
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(End of this chapter.
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