The banquet had ended.
Melvin climbed the marble staircase, a polite but perfunctory smile on his face. Beside him was the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.
Gilderoy Lockhart strutted confidently, his wavy golden hair gleaming. Taking advantage of their walk, he eagerly recounted his supposed adventures, subtly hinting at a mutually beneficial partnership. Turning his stories into films, he suggested, would boost both the enchanted mirrors' popularity and his own fame.
"It's such a shame Harry couldn't attend the banquet. I was hoping we could take a photo together.
"So many of my adventures lack pictures—what a pity…
"For photos that only move for a few seconds, creatures like yetis, werewolves, and vampires don't show up well. But I think your mirrors could fix that."
Sir Cadogan, stationed in a landscape painting, listened blankly, while his pony nibbled faded grass nearby, its gaze vacant.
Melvin's smile carried a hint of exasperation. He bid farewell to Sir Cadogan, exchanged pleasantries with a nun in a nearby cathedral painting, then turned to Lockhart. "Professor Lockhart, I think there's a misunderstanding. The mirrors replay memories. To create a film, you'd need to provide all the memories from your adventures."
"Real memories?" Lockhart's smile faltered.
"Preferably real ones," Melvin said, glancing at him impassively. "The process reveals a lot—secret spells, family potion recipes. For an adventurer like you, those secrets are your wealth, aren't they?"
"Yes, yes," Lockhart replied, sweat beading on his forehead, though he didn't give up. "But the first-year film didn't seem like real memories either. It had background music, narration…"
"That's post-production—editing, splicing, adding music," Melvin explained, pausing at the staircase landing. "The Defense Against the Dark Arts office is on the third floor. This is where we part. Goodnight, Professor Lockhart."
"Goodnight…"
Lockhart watched the young professor's retreating figure, his dazzling smile fading. His mind raced, sorting through memories.
He'd tracked down heroes in remote regions, extracted their adventure details, then erased their memories with Obliviate, claiming their deeds as his own.
He knew the stories inside out but hadn't lived them. Crafting vivid, authentic memories from scratch was impossible.
"Impossible or not, I'll do it!" Lockhart muttered, his smile returning, now tinged with ruthlessness.
His memoir Magical Me sold far less than his earlier adventure books, even lagging behind practical guides like Break with a Banshee. Despite his publisher pushing him for another Most Charming Smile award, sales remained dismal.
Polls showed his popularity waning.
Lockhart knew milking his fame for sales wasn't sustainable. Where could he find new stories? To dodge his publisher's pressure, he'd taken the Hogwarts job, hoping to adapt his old books into films and reclaim his spotlight.
He'd need to track down those old wizards and steal their memories completely.
…
September 1, 1992, Sunny
First day of the Hogwarts term.
Sitting at the staff table, watching the Sorting Ceremony as a professor feels surreal.
The Scamander child joined Hufflepuff, like his grandfather. The Weasley girl went to Gryffindor, like her brothers. The Shacklebolt boy was Sorted into Slytherin, like his parents. Several children from Death Eater families also joined Slytherin, as expected by my colleagues.
It makes me wonder: does wizarding blood carry some mysterious influence, or is it all due to family upbringing?
You-Know-Who and the Death Eaters, once champions of pure-blood ideology, were defeated and purged. Yet their children still cling to those beliefs. Will they form a new group, rally behind a new Dark Lord, and revive the Death Eaters?
I don't know.
Melvin dipped his quill back into the ink bottle, waiting for it to soak up ink. He watched the fresh writing dry rapidly, the glistening ink fading as if left in a desert for weeks, becoming slightly blurred.
No more hiding.
Melvin wasn't sure if Riddle was deliberately leaving traces to pique his curiosity or if the diary's contents had distracted him, causing a slip in control.
With the quill refilled, he pretended not to notice and wrote:
Harry Potter didn't attend the banquet; I didn't see him at the Gryffindor table.
Colleagues say he missed the Hogwarts Express due to some mishap and arrived with the Weasley boy in a modified flying car, causing a minor magical exposure incident, crashing into the Whomping Willow's side branch, and earning a detention from Professor Snape.
What an absurd, comical accident.
I can't fathom how such a foolish, inept student defeated the most powerful dark wizard in history as a baby.
Was You-Know-Who just an empty name? Was Voldemort merely a figurehead propped up by the Death Eaters?
A manipulated puppet?
As the final question mark landed, the diary trembled twice. The dried ink scattered across the yellowed pages quivered, drawn into the spine by an invisible force.
Senior Riddle couldn't hold back any longer.
A flicker of amusement passed through Melvin's eyes, quickly replaced by a feigned look of shock. He recoiled, stumbling back two steps, and pointed his wand at the diary.
"Aparecium!"
"Specialis Revelio!"
"Signum Manifesta!"
A flurry of detection spells poured out, mimicking a panicked wizard confronting a dark artifact. But the diary showed no response.
The spell beams dissolved into scattered motes of light.
Facing Melvin's wary scrutiny, the yellowed pages trembled again. Ink welled from the spine, forming neat, elegant handwriting.
"Tom Riddle, former Hogwarts student, extends sincere greetings to you."
Melvin maintained his cautious stance, using his wand to control the quill from a distance, writing:
"Tom Riddle? Who are you—no, what are you?"
"Please, don't worry. I'm not a dark magical object, just a diary of an ordinary student who wanted to leave a mark at Hogwarts and happened to have some talent in alchemy."
"Oh…" Melvin wrote, feigning realization. "Like a magical portrait? I get it. You wanted to create a portrait and frame to stay at the school but lacked the skill, so you made a special diary instead."
The sixteen-year-old Riddle in the diary paused for two seconds before accepting the premise. "Yes."
"Should I return you to your original place?"
"If you could, I'd be grateful for your help."
Now Melvin was the one caught off guard. Sealed for over a decade, aware of explosive secrets, and it still wanted to fulfill its Horcrux duties by being hidden?
Was sixteen-year-old Tom Riddle this rational?
Melvin even wondered if his own Occlumency or Memory Charms had faltered.
But the next line of text dispelled his doubts:
"Or perhaps we could be friends, offering some modest help for your teaching assistant life."
A trace of amusement flickered in Melvin's eyes. So that was it—a classic ploy to reel him in. Almost fooled him, though it was a tad impatient.
He approached the desk again, writing:
"What kind of help can you offer?"
The signs suggested to Riddle that he'd gained the young professor's trust, as the responses came faster:
"The layout of Hogwarts Castle, hidden secrets, advanced magical techniques… I can offer advice and solutions when you face challenges. But first, may I have your name?"
The diary was now actively engaging, dropping its guard—or rather, seeing Melvin as prey caught in its web.
"You know names can carry curses. For a mysterious diary like you…" Melvin paused deliberately, feigning hesitation. "What's your goal in helping me?"
"I'm just a diary. What bad intentions could I have? I only want to help. Visit the Trophy Room, see my awards, my achievements at school. Then you'll know I'm a helpful, friendly wizard."
Melvin nearly laughed aloud. He sat back, writing:
"Sorry, I misunderstood you. In the name of Melvin Lewent, I apologize."
"Clearing misunderstandings builds deeper trust. Let's stop here for now, Mr. Lewent. We'll talk after you verify my claims."
"I apologize again. I want to trust you, but it's late, and I have classes tomorrow. Let's continue then."
"We're friends now, right?"
"Yes, Tom."
"…"
Melvin closed the diary, exhaling deeply. Riddle was as cunning as expected—probing, retreating, and dispelling doubts with a few sentences. An unsuspecting wizard might genuinely befriend it.
But Melvin had played his part well. Reflecting on the past few days' entries and their exchange, he'd crafted the image of a young Hufflepuff wizard, fresh from graduation, cautious yet naively trusting, as Hufflepuffs often were.
As he prepared for bed, Melvin mused: how long before Riddle dropped the "helpful senior" act and started probing about Harry?
He couldn't wait to find out.
No wonder Dumbledore hadn't destroyed the diadem yet—this game of deception was fun.
…
The next morning, as Melvin stepped out of his office, he paused, turned back, and scribbled in the diary:
"Good morning, Tom. I'll bring you colored ink later."
Without waiting for a reply, he snapped the diary shut and tucked it into an inconspicuous bottom drawer.
About half an hour later, in the Great Hall, the enchanted ceiling mirrored the dull, gray sky outside.
Melvin sat at the staff table, eating breakfast as conversations from colleagues and students drifted over.
The first day of term saw the entire school gathered. Elective professors sat nearby, the four Heads of House moved among the tables distributing schedules, and even Dumbledore, usually holed up in his office, made an appearance.
Dumbledore savored his pumpkin porridge, patiently indulging Lockhart's self-aggrandizing tales.
"The situation was dire, Headmaster!"
"Mm…"
"The yeti's claws were practically on my face!"
"Oh?"
"Guess how I escaped? Bacon! I stuffed it up its nose!"
"Really!"
Dumbledore's simple affirmations carried such warmth that Lockhart beamed, practically floating with pride.
Catching Melvin's glance, Dumbledore turned to Lockhart. "Professor, could you demonstrate that spell you used to turn a werewolf human?"
"Uh…"
Lockhart froze, pretending to choke on a fried egg. After a few coughs, he waved a hand. "Sorry, Headmaster, I need to handle something."
Dumbledore nodded, smiling, as Lockhart hurried off.
Melvin slid over, glancing at Dumbledore's unblemished fingers before diving in. "Headmaster, about that diadem from last year—have you dealt with it?"
Dumbledore sipped his porridge, mulling for half a minute before vaguely addressing the Horcrux. He mentioned needing to investigate dark magical artifacts further but admitted he'd hit a dead end.
Melvin offered his analysis.
The diadem's Voldemort was cannier, familiar with Dumbledore's face. The headmaster had tried role-playing to extract information, but the diadem caught on, unsure if Dumbledore was baiting or genuinely influenced, and clammed up about core Horcrux details.
They were at a stalemate.
"I'll talk to the Grey Lady again," Dumbledore said coolly. "If there's no progress, I'll destroy it on a nice day."
…
"Porridge, let's have some! Pickled herring, give it a try!"
At the Gryffindor table, Harry was in high spirits, his appetite hearty. No points lost, no detention—the previous day's fiasco was behind him. Aside from the Whomping Willow, no one was hurt.
Last night, his classmates had even praised him, making him feel a bit cool.
Ron was equally cheerful, piling food onto his plate. "Cream buns, one for me!"
"Mushroom soup, I'll take some!"
"Chicken and ham sandwich…"
Harry and Ron froze, exchanged a glance, and paled. "Ugh…"
Their housemates burst into laughter, aware of their blunder. According to Seamus, the two had tossed and turned in bed last night, nearly sleepless.
Amid the teasing, owl post swooped through the skylights, delivering letters and packages from beyond the school.
Including a Howler, brimming with motherly love.