The words formed on the page, elegant cursive bleeding into the parchment like a phantom wound. 'Tom Riddle... How strange. That is my name, too.'
I felt a faint, spectral tendril of magic extend from the diary, probing at my mind, trying to read my intentions. It was a crude, juvenile attempt at Legilimency. I allowed my Occlumency shields—basic defenses Andros had insisted I learn—to flare, easily repelling the intrusion.
The ink on the page seemed to swirl with surprise. 'You know the mind arts?'
I smiled. The sixteen-year-old Tom Riddle was powerful, yes, but he was still arrogant, still inexperienced. He was a predator, but I was a player who knew the entire game from start to finish.
'I know many things,' I wrote back. 'I know of your ambitions. I know of your failures. I know of the pathetic, ignominious end that awaits you at the hands of a boy who is, at this very moment, probably struggling with his Potions homework.'
The diary fell silent for a long moment. The spectral probe vanished, replaced by a palpable aura of shock and fury that emanated from the book.
'Who are you?' the words finally blazed across the page, no longer elegant, but sharp and angry.
'I am the one who has inherited your name, but not your fate,' I wrote. 'I am the glitch in your timeline. I am the one who will achieve true immortality, not the fractured, cursed existence you have settled for.'
It was a declaration of war. A challenge thrown down to the ghost in the machine. I was not a victim to be possessed or a follower to be recruited. I was a rival. A successor who intended to surpass the original.
The diary's response was not what I expected. The fury subsided, replaced by a cold, calculating curiosity. 'Prove it. Tell me something only I would know.'
'The Gaunt ring. The locket of Slytherin. The cup of Hufflepuff. The diadem of Ravenclaw. Nagini. And the boy, Harry Potter. Six soul-fragments, scattered and hidden. A brilliant, but ultimately flawed, path to conquering death.'
The diary was utterly still. I had laid all his secrets bare. I had taken his life's work, his greatest and most terrible magic, and presented it to him like a solved puzzle. In that moment, I had seized complete and absolute dominance in our exchange.
'How?' the single word finally appeared. It was no longer a demand, but a whisper of pure, unadulterated disbelief.
'I have my own methods,' I wrote, closing the loop. 'Now, you will answer my questions. You will teach me what you know. You will give me the secrets of the Basilisk, the location of Slytherin's hidden library, your research into experimental Dark Arts. In return, I will offer you something you crave more than anything: a chance to see your work completed, to see your legacy perfected by a successor worthy of the name.'
It was a dangerous bargain. I was inviting a fox into the henhouse. But I had one, crucial advantage: the System. It had warned me of the danger, and I knew it would provide a defense.
//WARNING: Continuous interaction with the Horcrux [Tom Riddle's Diary] is actively attempting to corrupt your soul. Passive System defenses are engaged. [Mind Fortress (Tier 1)] is active. All invasive mental and magical attacks from the artifact will be filtered and analyzed.//
The diary, the ghost of Tom Riddle, had no choice. I was his only link to the living world, the only one who knew his secrets, and the only one who could offer him a semblance of a future.
'Ask,' he wrote, the single word a quiet, grudging surrender.
For the rest of the Christmas holidays, the Chamber of Secrets became my private classroom. By day, I would train with Andros and Cadmus in the Room of Requirement. By night, I would descend into the Chamber and converse with the brilliant, twisted memory of the boy who would be Voldemort.
He was a font of knowledge. He taught me the Parseltongue commands to awaken and control the Basilisk, which still slumbered deep within the statue of Salazar Slytherin, awaiting the call of a true master. He revealed the location of Slytherin's personal study, a hidden chamber behind the main statue, filled with books on blood magic, soul theory, and other dark arts so forbidden they had been erased from Hogwarts' official history.
I devoured the knowledge, my System panel lighting up with a constant stream of notifications.
[You have studied [Forbidden Arts: A Treatise on Soul-Magic]. Your [Dark Arts Affinity] has increased.] [You have learned the Parseltongue command to awaken the Basilisk.] [New Skill Unlocked: [Soul Sight (Passive, Tier 1)] - Allows you to perceive the lingering emotional and magical residue on objects and locations.]
But it was a perilous dance. The diary was constantly testing my defenses, trying to charm me, to manipulate me, to find a crack in my mental armor. It would show me visions of power, of a world kneeling at my feet. It whispered of my "true potential," of the glory we could achieve together.
'We are the same, you and I,' it wrote one night. 'Both orphans. Both misunderstood. Both destined for greatness.'
'We are not the same,' I wrote back, my quill scratching firmly on the page. 'You were driven by a fear of death. I am driven by a desire to truly live. There is a difference.'
The end of the holidays came too soon. The students returned, and the castle was once again filled with life. I sealed the Chamber, leaving the diary hidden in Slytherin's study, promising to return.
I emerged back into the bustling school, a changed wizard. I now possessed the combat prowess of Andros, the ancient wisdom of Cadmus, and the dark, forbidden knowledge of Voldemort himself. I had three legendary teachers, a loyal following in my own House, and the begrudging respect of the Headmaster.
My power was growing exponentially. But so were the dangers. The diary was a ticking time bomb. The mystery of who had truly opened the Chamber this year remained unsolved. And Dumbledore... Dumbledore was still watching. The game was far from over.