The storm that rolled over Hogwarts that night was unlike the usual autumn drizzle. Thunder cracked across the sky like splitting bone, and rain lashed the castle in sheets. Yet inside, the silence had only grown thicker.
Snape stood alone in the dungeons.
A map of the school was stretched out across his desk—an old, charmed piece of parchment once used by previous Heads of House. Its magic pulsed faintly with the footprints of those walking the castle.
He didn't need to check it to know who had been wandering the third-floor corridor.
Potter.
And Malfoy.
Snape pinched the bridge of his nose. He'd watched them carefully. Quietly. And he saw what they likely did not see in each other.
A dangerous dependency.
Something unsaid was blooming in those silences.
And in a school where fear festered like rot… even tenderness could be used as a weapon.
He lit another candle and returned to his notes. Pipes. Voices. Magic that slithered along the oldest stones.
He had taught at Hogwarts nearly all his adult life.
And he still didn't understand its depths.
But tonight—he would try.
---
In the Library
Hermione scribbled furiously on a sheet of parchment, scrolls piled around her. She'd found a record—an old interview from a student expelled fifty years ago.
"Tom Riddle," she whispered, scanning the fine print again.
Ron looked up from where he was slumped across the table. "You've been muttering that name for an hour."
"Because it matters," she said, wide-eyed. "He was the one who blamed Hagrid for opening the Chamber."
"So… Hagrid's involved?" Ron asked, horrified.
Hermione shook her head. "No. Riddle was lying. But he was there. And he knew something."
Harry, sitting across from them, leaned forward. "Wait—Tom Riddle. That's the name from the diary, right?"
Hermione nodded. "Exactly."
"So the diary and the attacks are connected."
"And maybe the heir, too."
Ron frowned. "Then shouldn't we give the diary to a teacher?"
Harry hesitated.
He didn't know why, but something about the diary felt wrong in adult hands. Like it didn't want to be found.
"I think we need to learn more first," Harry said.
Hermione looked unconvinced.
But she said nothing.
---
Slytherin Corridor
Draco paced the corridor near the Potions classroom long after curfew, unsure whether he was looking for answers—or for Snape.
He found both.
"You've been watching me again," Draco said without turning when Snape emerged from the shadows.
Snape didn't deny it.
"I notice the shift in your priorities," Snape said evenly. "And your late-night walks. Your hesitations."
Draco turned. "Do you think I'm the Heir?"
"No."
"…Then why are you always watching me?"
Snape folded his arms. "Because you are hovering on the edge of something, Draco. And I'm trying to determine whether you'll fall or jump."
Draco met his gaze. "What if I'm trying to climb?"
Snape's expression flickered. "Then pick your footholds wisely."
There was a pause.
Then Draco asked, more quietly, "Do you think Potter's in danger?"
Snape didn't answer right away.
"Yes," he said finally. "But not from what you think."
And he walked away.
---
Later That Night – Harry's Dormitory
Harry couldn't sleep.
The storm rattled the windowpanes, and the diary sat on his desk like a wound waiting to be reopened.
He stood and lit his wand. The dormitory was quiet. Even Ron's snores had faded into the thunder.
He opened the diary again.
Tom Riddle.
The name glowed faintly on the page. Waiting.
He tapped it once with his wand.
Ink bled upward into words.
> Hello, Harry Potter.
Harry's breath caught.
The page shimmered.
And then, suddenly, he wasn't in the dormitory anymore.
---
The Memory
Stone walls. Dim torches. A younger Dumbledore walking briskly down a hallway.
And at the center of it—Tom.
Tom Riddle. Sixteen. Polite. Charming. Dangerous.
Harry followed the scene in stunned silence.
He watched Tom accuse Hagrid. Saw the monstrous spider slinking into the forest. Saw the expulsion. The fear.
But the truth flickered behind Tom's words.
A lie so smooth it became legend.
And at the end, Tom turned toward Harry.
His eyes glowed unnaturally.
> We're more alike than you know, Harry.
Then everything snapped back.
---
Back in the Present
Harry gasped, hand yanking away from the diary as if burned.
His heart pounded.
Someone—something—was using the diary to show him the past.
And worse?
It could see him.
He clutched the book tightly, unsure if he wanted to destroy it or dive deeper.
But there was no denying it anymore.
This diary belonged to Tom Riddle.
And Tom Riddle wasn't gone.