Blaise Zabini would never forget that rainy afternoon.
The living room fireplace crackled with damp wood, its pops mingling with his mother's deliberately softened laughter and the low response of a stranger's voice.
The new man his mother brought home—someone she'd known for barely a day—was a wizard of unknown origins but immense wealth.
"Blaise, come here," his mother called, her tone laced with cautious charm.
It made Blaise uneasy. He'd rather endure her usual scolding about not acting like a proper pure-blood heir than see her fawn over some mysterious wizard with that look on her face.
The man turned, holding a crumpled parchment package.
Blaise couldn't recall the man's face anymore, only his forced smile. "I hear you're starting school soon. This is for you."
Blaise didn't take it. He just stared at the wrinkled paper.
His mother pinched him from behind, and only then did he reluctantly reach out.
The package was heavier than he expected. Unwrapping it revealed a worn black diary, its edges curled like it had been soaked, the faded gold snake pattern peeling to show the dull leather beneath.
"What's this…?" Blaise frowned. He'd have preferred a new brooch or a robe studded with diamonds.
But then it hit him—this man was filthy rich. Why would he give something so shabby?
Sure enough, the man spoke. "Don't underestimate this book. I paid a fortune for it in Knockturn Alley. It can make its owner's dreams come true."
Blaise almost laughed. If something like that existed, why would this guy give it away?
The next day, the man was gone, as if his only purpose was to deliver the diary.
Weirdly, Blaise forgot about the diary's existence.
---
The scene shifts to the start of term.
Mrs. Zabini, dressed in her usual black, saw Blaise onto the Hogwarts Express.
On the train, Blaise lazily greeted Draco and noticed a stunning witch boarding from the platform.
Leaning back in the cushy seat, Blaise tapped his knee absently, half-listening as Draco griped about this year's compartments being less fancy than last year's.
"…My father says it's all because of the Ministry's budget cuts. They don't even care about the Board of Governors," Draco said, his voice dripping with his usual arrogance.
Pansy leaned in, her voice syrupy sweet. "Draco, anywhere you are is the fanciest place in my book."
She reached for his sleeve, but Draco subtly dodged her.
Every time Draco gave a half-hearted "mm," Pansy's eyes lit up with that desperate, almost groveling look—like a house-elf begging for approval.
"I'm grabbing something from the trolley," Blaise said, standing abruptly, the chair legs scraping loudly against the floor. As their friend, he couldn't stomach another second of this awkward drama.
Draco didn't look up. "Get me a pumpkin juice, chilled."
"Yeah, sure," Blaise muttered, pushing open the compartment door.
The corridor was packed with students milling about. Blaise leaned against the wall, scanning the noisy compartments.
That girl's not right… too short… not a pure-blood…
Then he spotted a witch by the window, her light blonde hair loosely tied back, a few strands framing her face.
She was reading a heavy book, sunlight spilling through the window onto her slender fingers.
It was the same beautiful witch he'd glimpsed on the platform.
Blaise stopped in his tracks.
He hadn't gotten a good look before, but now he saw her clearly—high nose, lips with a natural upturn, even her slightly furrowed brow while reading looked soft and graceful.
She must've sensed his stare because she looked up, her light gray eyes flickering with curiosity before she gave a polite smile. "Need help?"
"N-no," Blaise stammered, suddenly flustered, hand brushing his pocket. "Just… passing by."
She closed her book, the gold title Studies in Ancient Runes glinting on the cover. "I'm Penelope Clearwater, Ravenclaw prefect."
Her voice was like honey-dipped lemonade. "Judging by your badge, you're Slytherin?"
"Blaise Zabini," he said, his eyes lingering on her prefect badge, its silver-blue design looking elegant against her robes.
"Zabini?" Penelope nodded thoughtfully. "If you're good, mind stepping aside? I've got to start my patrol."
Blaise blinked, then moved out of her way.
---
Over the next few days, Blaise felt like he'd fallen head over heels. Sure, he fell in love every time, but this was intense.
He carried a new quill in his pocket—made from thunderbird feathers. He wanted to give it to Penelope for her birthday.
His steps were light as he rounded a corridor, but he froze in a quiet corner behind the library.
Penelope stood with her back to him, her blonde braid resting on her shoulder, while Percy Weasley leaned in, kissing the side of her neck.
Sunlight streamed through the stained glass, casting red patches on their intertwined shadows, burning into Blaise's eyes like a brand.
"Damn it," he muttered, nails digging into his palms. The quill in his pocket felt like a mocking jab.
He turned and stormed off, rage boiling in his chest, his breaths tasting of rust.
Back in the dorm, Blaise kicked over a chair. As he bent to pick it up, he spotted the forgotten black diary at the corner of his bed.
It must've slipped out of his trunk, the snake pattern gleaming eerily in the shadows.
He nearly stomped on it but paused when he saw the open page—
"She should belong to someone more deserving."
"A hypocrite like Percy doesn't deserve her light."
"Want to know how to make her see your worth? I can help."
The words seemed alive, wriggling on the page, each one burrowing into Blaise's ears.
He meant to tear it apart, but his hand betrayed him, brushing the page. A cold sensation spread from his fingertips, and all his suppressed anger, resentment, and jealousy found an outlet.
From that day, Blaise became the diary's captive.
---
He followed its instructions. He "bumped into" Penelope and always had something to say about her interests. When she struggled with an essay, he "happened" to know the exact obscure reference book she needed. After a fight with Percy, he brought her favorite honey-lemon tea.
They became good friends. Penelope would smile and discuss ancient runes with him, greeting him warmly in the halls.
But whenever Blaise tried to get closer, an invisible wall stopped him. Her eyes held only friendly warmth, never the spark of something more.
The diary's words grew more urgent, coiling around his heart like vines.
Then, Blaise's luck with girls vanished.
---
One morning, Blaise woke with a start, finding himself in the Gryffindor tower.
The torches flickered on the stone walls, but he wasn't surprised, as if he belonged there. His mind felt foggy, like it was draped in gauze.
Turning a corner, he saw Penelope.
She stood by a window, shoulders trembling slightly. Percy was across from her, his face grim as he spoke. Soon, Penelope stormed off, leaving Percy alone.
Blaise's heart raced. The diary in his pocket burned, a voice in his head urging, "Now's your chance."
So, he "ran into" Penelope near the Ravenclaw tower.
"You okay?" he asked, keeping his tone gentle.
Penelope turned, her gray eyes tired and, for the first time, distant. "I'm fine, Zabini. Thanks."
"Did Percy upset you?" Blaise pressed, barely containing his excitement. "That kind of guy…"
"Please leave," Penelope cut him off, her voice icy. "I want to be alone."
Blaise froze. Her gaze treated him like a stranger, maybe even with disgust.
"Why?" he blurted, voice shaking. "What's he got that I don't?"
Penelope frowned and stepped back. "You've been acting strange, Blaise. I don't want to talk about this." She turned and left.
"Stop!" Blaise's restraint snapped.
Rage and humiliation erupted like lava.
His mind went blank, consumed by a single, furious thought—Why? Why would she cry over Percy but not even glance at me?
"Hiss—"
A raspy syllable slipped from his throat, like a snake's hiss. He froze, startled, but his body moved like a puppet, repeating the eerie sound, as if summoning something.
A rustling came from the corridor's depths, too fast to see.
Penelope was fixing her hair in a mirror, unaware of the danger.
"No—!"
Her eyes widened, her body locking in place, arm still raised, her gray eyes frozen in fear and confusion.
Blaise stood there, the diary scalding in his pocket.
He stared at her petrified form, his mind a haze. Did he do that? Why wasn't he scared? Why did he feel a twisted, vengeful thrill?
The diary trembled lightly, as if cheering him on.
Blaise looked at his hands, still tingling from summoning the Basilisk.
He stumbled away, leaving the cold "statue" behind, unaware that his shadow, under the torchlight, was slowly changing shape.
---
In the days that followed, Blaise's luck with girls returned.
He dated one after another, but none gave him the feeling of love.
---
The scene shifts.
Blaise petrified Colin Creevey with ease. The diary wanted him dead, but Blaise refused to kill. He only wanted the photo Colin had taken—Percy and Penelope kissing behind a suit of armor.
---
The scene shifts again.
Blaise found the girl who made him feel love: Angelina Johnson, a Gryffindor.
It hit him—he was into older girls.
But he couldn't get close to Angelina like he had with Penelope.
After the petrification incidents, Hogwarts banned students from moving alone, so Angelina was always with a group of girls.
At the Dueling Club, Blaise felt something was off. He just wanted to talk to Angelina, so why was the Basilisk nearby? And why did it petrify her?
Blaise finally started questioning how he got the diary, but he couldn't remember. He decided it was time to turn in this dark magic object.
---
The scene shifts back to the Headmaster's office. "Harry, let's pick up where we left off," Dumbledore said, quickly regaining his composure and speaking in a relaxed tone.
"Lily's love created a magical protection around you, which is why Tom couldn't harm you," Dumbledore explained, pulling out a tin of Cockroach Clusters. When Harry declined, Dumbledore gave a small shrug of disappointment and started munching on them himself.
"You probably remember your first year in the Forbidden Forest. Tom, possessing Quirrell, tried to use the Cruciatus Curse on you, but it backfired," Dumbledore said, his words muffled as a cockroach leg twitched in his mouth.
Harry frowned, recalling the moment but noticing something off. "But later, Voldemort's dark magic still knocked me out. If there's a rebound mechanism, how did he escape?"
Dumbledore swallowed a cockroach leg with some effort. "Because that spell targeted your magical energy. At the time, Tom and Quirrell were in a half-merged state, so even if the spell rebounded, it was Quirrell's magic that took the hit."
"And this scar on my forehead?" Harry asked, pointing to it.
"I don't know," Dumbledore admitted.
Harry's face clouded with confusion.
Noticing his puzzlement, Dumbledore set down the half-eaten tin of Cockroach Clusters and tossed it to Fawkes. The phoenix, though a bird, shot Harry a look that screamed exasperation, as if wondering why it had to deal with such an owner. "Harry, I must confess, Voldemort's knowledge of Horcruxes surpasses mine. I've only scratched the surface of that subject, and there's much I don't understand."
Dumbledore stood and pulled a book from the shelf behind him, placing it on the desk.
Harry glanced at the title and read it aloud. "Secrets of the Darkest Arts?"
"Professor Dumbledore, has anyone actually decoded all the advanced dark magic?" Harry asked.
"Of course not," Dumbledore replied, adjusting his glasses with a serious expression. "This book wasn't written by one person. Dark magic evolves, and each era has wizards who document the dark spells of their time."
He paused, then continued, "The title Secrets of the Darkest Arts was just the hope of the original author. He left it at Hogwarts, wishing for it to be passed down forever…"
"Including you?" Harry pressed.
Dumbledore smiled but didn't answer, instead opening a fresh tin of Cockroach Clusters.
"Professor, what dark magic did you record in it?" Harry persisted.
"Harry, that's not relevant to today's discussion…"
"But Professor, you said tonight was about honesty!" Harry protested.
Dumbledore glanced out the window with a sly grin. "But Harry, look outside—it's already morning."
Harry's fist clenched, itching to throw a punch at that cunning smile.
"Alright, alright, I'll tell you," Dumbledore said, swallowing another cockroach with a nostalgic tone. "It's a variation of Fiendfyre called 'Path of the Fire God.' Strictly speaking, I didn't invent it—I just recorded it."
"Was it Voldemort or Grindelwald? Surely not Snape," Harry guessed. After all, to be included in Secrets of the Darkest Arts, the creator had to be a dark magic master, and within the scope of "this century," "known to Dumbledore," and "willing to share magical knowledge," the answer seemed obvious.
"Snape?" Harry said confidently, smirking as if he'd cracked the case. "I didn't think that old bat, besides his potion skills, was also into dark magic—"
"Not Severus!" Dumbledore interrupted, swallowing his Cockroach Cluster quickly. In an odd tone, he said, "It was Gellert Grindelwald." His face softened with a hint of nostalgia as he spoke the name.
Harry wrinkled his nose in distaste at Dumbledore's expression. Sometimes, he swore there was a sentimental girl hidden inside the old wizard. But then, remembering Dumbledore was over a hundred years old, Harry dismissed it as his imagination.
Dumbledore coughed, as if realizing his demeanor was off, and straightened up, trying to reclaim his authoritative air.
"Back to business, Harry," he said, tossing the half-eaten Cockroach Cluster to Fawkes again. "I didn't plan to tell you about Horcruxes so soon, but you're right—there's still love in your heart—"
"Ow!" Dumbledore yelped mid-sentence.
Fawkes suddenly swooped down and pecked his shoulder hard, tearing a hole in his robe with a few drops of blood seeping out. This wasn't playful—it was serious.
"Fawkes, what's wrong? You used to love Cockroach Clusters—stop pecking!" Dumbledore flailed his arms to shoo the phoenix, but it was no use.
Finally, Fawkes flew off on its own.
Watching Dumbledore's plight, Harry's mind conjured words like "shameless old man," "serves you right," and "riddle-solver's fate." He figured Fawkes was fed up with the endless Cockroach Clusters.
If Harry had to eat those every day, he'd have rebelled ages ago. Fawkes enduring this long showed how much it cared for Dumbledore.
"Harry, please," Dumbledore said weakly, extending his uninjured hand. "There's some Dittany on the shelf over there. Could you grab it?"
Harry picked up the Philosopher's Stone from the desk instead. "Professor, wouldn't this be easier?"
"No," Dumbledore said, suddenly stern. "The Stone passively extends the user's life. I only need the Dittany." His voice weakened again.
Harry glanced at the Stone. When he'd pressed it to his scar earlier, he hadn't felt any life-extending effects. Maybe because I'm still young, he thought, handing Dumbledore the Dittany.
By now, the wound on Dumbledore's shoulder had stopped bleeding. Fawkes hadn't pecked too hard—just enough to break the skin.
Dumbledore dramatically applied the Dittany, then flicked his finger, and the torn robe mended itself, looking even newer than before.
"Ahem," Dumbledore said, shooting Fawkes a glare before continuing seriously. "We were talking about Horcruxes."
"The soul is the core of a wizard's life, indivisible when whole. To create a Horcrux, one must commit the supremely evil act of murder to tear the soul apart. Think of the guilt and violent impact of murder as the 'key' to splitting the soul."
Harry raised his hand like a schoolboy. "Professor, can't other emotions work?"
"No," Dumbledore shook his head. "Murder is the prerequisite for a Horcrux. Splitting the soul another way creates something else entirely…" Seeing Harry about to interrupt, he quickly added, "Don't cut in, Harry. Let me finish."
"After splitting the soul, a wizard uses an extremely dark, secret spell to force the soul fragment into an object," Dumbledore said, pausing to note he wouldn't share the spell's details.
"That object can be inanimate or a living person," he continued, pointing at Harry's forehead.
"Each split weakens the soul's integrity, so a wizard who makes multiple Horcruxes gradually loses their humanity, becoming cold and paranoid."
"How many do you think Voldemort made?" Harry asked, cutting in again.
Dumbledore paused, thoughtful. "Good question. I don't know how many times Tom split his soul, but it's certainly more than a few. He became unrecognizable from the person I once knew—almost like two different people."
He resolved to track down some old contacts who might know more about Tom's Horcruxes.
"Back to Horcruxes," Dumbledore said, opening another tin of Cockroach Clusters under Fawkes' murderous glare. "The soul fragment in a Horcrux emits negative energy, influencing the holder or those nearby. Take Mr. Zabini—he was drawn out by a Horcrux's influence and quietly controlled by it."
"Is it like the Horcrux casting Legilimency on its own?" Harry asked curiously.
"I don't know," Dumbledore said, chewing a cockroach leg and shaking his head. "I've only seen Tom's Horcruxes. It's hard to say if it's an inherent trait or Tom's own ability. Don't look at me like that—Tom was incredibly charming at school. He could befriend anyone."
Watching Dumbledore munch away, Harry felt a pang of hunger. He grabbed a cockroach leg and took a bite. Surprisingly, it wasn't bad.
"Professor, don't stare," Harry mumbled, swallowing. "Keep going."
Dumbledore eyed the now-empty tin and opened another. Madam Pomfrey can't blame me—I only meant to eat one more… He popped in a fresh Cluster, savoring it with a blissful expression.
"Right, where were we?" Dumbledore said, eating alongside Harry. "Normal magic or physical attacks can't destroy a Horcrux. You need something uniquely destructive, like Fiendfyre."
Suddenly, he coughed, choking on a large cockroach.
Harry, watching him struggle, handed over a cup of tea.
"Thanks, Harry," Dumbledore said, taking a sip. "Maybe the magic on these Clusters is too lively. Or perhaps I need a dental potion…"
"Or maybe it was a real cockroach?" Harry said bluntly.
"Absolutely not," Dumbledore replied instantly, then repeated, "Absolutely not."
"Alright, Harry," he said, turning serious. "Speaking of Fiendfyre, I'll add it to your training plan."
"And Path of the Fire God," Harry added, mouth full.
---
The next day, Harry told Hermione everything about Horcruxes. As soon as he finished, her brow furrowed, and a shadow of worry clouded her bright eyes.
"Horcruxes…" Hermione murmured, twisting her sleeve unconsciously. "So, Voldemort split his soul into pieces and hid them in different objects? As long as one Horcrux exists, he can't die?"
She took a deep breath, her words speeding up with barely concealed anxiety. "Merlin's beard, Harry! We don't even know how many Horcruxes he made, let alone how to find or destroy them. And you said they could be ordinary things, hidden anywhere…"
Hermione looked up, her gaze locking onto Harry's, filled with concern. "This means we're not just fighting Voldemort himself but all these scattered Horcruxes. Destroying each one could be incredibly dangerous. Are you sure… we can do this?"
"Trust me, Hermione. Besides, we've got Dumbledore," Harry said softly, calming her down.
Hermione silently vowed not to be a burden to Harry.
---
Valentine's Day arrived, and without the diary's influence, Hogwarts was swept up in a romantic atmosphere from dawn. The corridors were decked with pink ribbons designed by Lockhart, each printed with his smiling portrait.
The Defense Against the Dark Arts professor strutted through the Great Hall like an overexcited peacock, clad in a garish purple velvet robe. He handed out signed Valentine's cards to everyone, his voice booming through three layers of stone. "Dear children, love is as great as magic! Today, I've got a surprise—signed copies of my new book, Dancing with the Basilisk, for those who truly appreciate romance!"
Yes, Lockhart wasn't a total fraud. He'd struck a deal with Dumbledore to write Dancing with the Basilisk to clear Hagrid's name from years ago, in exchange for Dumbledore overlooking Lockhart's… romantic pursuits at school.
Still, Dumbledore banned Lockhart's afternoon tea party.
As Harry passed by with his bookbag, Lockhart grabbed him and shoved a bundle of red roses tied with gold thread into his hands. "Potter! A young heart should burn with love's fire! Go give these to a special girl!"
Harry started to refuse but spotted Hermione standing nearby, arms full of books. He kept the roses.
Hurrying over, he stuffed them into her arms and pulled a paper package from his pocket. "And this."
Inside was the revised edition of Magical Drafts and Potions she'd been raving about for weeks. On the title page, in quill ink, was written, "Stop reading old books and take a break sometimes," next to a small bag of Honeydukes' Acid Pops.
Hermione looked down at the gifts, her ears turning pink as her fingers brushed the book's spine. "Thanks," she said, pausing before pulling a small box from her bag and handing it to him. "For you. A complete broomstick servicing kit."
As Harry opened the box, Fred's voice echoed from the end of the corridor. "Look, mates! That's the thrill of youth!"
Harry and Hermione exchanged a glance, bursting into laughter, leaving the crowd's noise far behind.