As words appeared on the diary's pages, Melvin could almost picture a young Tom Riddle, his casual questions masking a burning curiosity. After all, he was only sixteen—a future Dark Lord whose cunning and patience hadn't fully matured.
Melvin's lips curved into a slight smile as he wrote casually:
"He seems like an ordinary student. Above-average grades, a bit more skilled in magic than his peers. I can't wrap my head around how someone like Potter defeated You-Know-Who back then."
The diary went silent for a moment before the text shifted: "Who are this Voldemort and his Death Eaters you mentioned? A gang of dark wizards?"
As the first Horcrux, the diary held a fragment of Tom Riddle's soul from his sixth year, its memories frozen around that time. The history Melvin alluded to—Voldemort's rise and fall—was the soul fragment's future.
Melvin's cryptic words painted a glimpse of that future, hinting at the chaos Voldemort and his Death Eaters would unleash, followed by Harry Potter's crushing blow. The tidbits were tantalizing, stirring Riddle's insatiable curiosity.
Melvin was patient with his "friend":
"You were created so long ago, you might not know. In the '70s—about twenty years ago—a powerful dark wizard named Voldemort rose to power. His followers, the Death Eaters, grew into a formidable force, dragging wizarding Britain into a reign of terror. They were extremists obsessed with pure-blood supremacy, killing or silencing anyone who opposed them, sparking outrage across the wizarding world."
Ink spread across the page, quickly absorbed, but the words lingered, as if Riddle was savoring them.
Powerful dark wizard Voldemort.
Death Eaters growing strong.
Reign of terror, crushing dissent.
Such delicious phrases…
A faint inky scent wafted from the diary, like Riddle's excited laughter spilling out.
The ink wavered before settling: "What about the Ministry? Didn't they stop the Death Eaters and this Dark Lord?"
Melvin sighed: "Voldemort was a master of dark magic—possibly the most powerful dark wizard ever. The Ministry's Aurors and Hit Wizards couldn't stand against him. Even Dumbledore could only shield Hogwarts."
Not giving Riddle time to linger, Melvin paused briefly and continued:
"The turning point came twelve years ago, one night when Voldemort hunted down the Potter family. They were special—three times they escaped him and his Death Eaters. In their final battle, James and Lily Potter died, but their infant son, Harry, survived. Voldemort vanished that night and hasn't been seen since."
The diary's response was almost frantic: "What happened that night?"
"No one knows. Everyone who was there died, except for a baby less than a year old."
"Find out!"
The words flared with emotion, then vanished quickly as the diary backpedaled: "I mean, I'm incredibly curious about what happened. If you uncover the truth, you might discover powerful magic to defeat a Dark Lord. What do you think?"
"Maybe…"
Melvin feigned hesitation. He was just an assistant, a Hufflepuff with an interest in wealth, not power: "I don't think it's a good idea, Tom. It could bring trouble, and even if it's powerful magic, I probably couldn't learn it."
The ink was absorbed quickly, but no reply came. Riddle was likely frustrated, as if cursing Melvin's lack of ambition.
After a pause, the diary coaxed gently: "Melvin, you're wrong. Seeking power is a wizard's duty. Only with greater power—stronger magic—can you achieve your goals, like protecting more magical creatures."
"But… I don't have much talent for it. My practical exams at school were barely Exceeds Expectations." Melvin felt like he deserved an award for acting.
Sensing a flicker of interest, the diary pressed: "That's true for ordinary magic—slow progress, weak results. But why not try dark magic?"
"But…" Melvin played along, hesitating.
"I know your concerns. I started studying dark magic at school and aced Defense Against the Dark Arts. Ever heard of Durmstrang? They're more open about dark magic there. Trust me—I'll teach you safe dark spells. No harm done."
"Alright, but if I feel uneasy, I'm stopping."
Melvin grinned, in high spirits.
Since receiving the unicorn's gift, he'd dabbled in dark magic, making small progress with Fiendfyre but struggling elsewhere. Asking other professors or Dumbledore wasn't an option.
Now, he had a master teacher. Self-study couldn't compare to expert guidance.
"Let's start with the classifications of dark magic: hexes, jinxes, curses…"
At sixteen, Tom Riddle was already a dark magic prodigy, well-versed in cutting-edge spells, mastering the Unforgivable Curses, crafting a Horcrux, and surpassing even Herpo the Foul. He'd pieced together clues to the Chamber of Secrets and found Slytherin's relics.
His explanations of magical theory were clear and accessible, with practical tips flowing endlessly.
No wonder he'd wanted to return as a professor—he had the makings of a great teacher.
Though, compared to Defense Against the Dark Arts, he'd shine teaching pure dark magic.
"Wouldn't a Cutting Curse be easier than a Finger-Removing Jinx?"
"The Cutting Curse is just a charm. Pain and torment are the heart of dark magic."
Melvin's questions were answered instantly, his practice hiccups resolved on the spot. It felt like being a student again, swimming in a sea of knowledge.
"Would focusing on the thumb make it more effective?"
"Melvin, I must say, you've got talent."
A master of dark magic was eagerly learning.
---
Defense Against the Dark Arts Classroom
Harry and his friends sat in a corner, their desks cluttered with Lockhart's adventure books. Neville, broad and chubby, sat in front, while Harry tried to shrink into invisibility, praying Lockhart wouldn't notice him.
A week into term, they'd had two Defense classes. The first was half a fan questionnaire, half a Cornish Pixie disaster. The second was a theatrical role-play.
Four hours of their lives wasted, learning nothing but Lockhart's favorite color. They were starting to see through his façade.
"Merlin help me, I hope Lockhart doesn't make me play a yeti again," Harry muttered.
Hermione opened her mouth but had no words.
Even she now saw Defense was a waste of time. The swashbuckling hero from Lockhart's books didn't match the bumbling professor who couldn't handle pixies, let alone werewolves or vampires. Last year's Quirrell had real knowledge; Lockhart's head was empty except for his ego. Flipping through his pricey books, Hermione made a decision.
The bell rang, and Lockhart swept in, beaming. "Children, today we're studying vampires—yes, from Voyage with the Vampire! To make it real, I need someone to play the vampire."
"…" Harry tried to sink into his desk.
"Harry! Harry!"
His face fell into despair.
After two grueling hours, class ended. Harry returned to his seat, pale and dazed, looking like a vampire staked through the heart.
Ron clapped his shoulder, whispering, "Let's get to the Great Hall. Colin's waiting."
Harry swayed, his expression crumbling further.
Colin Creevey, a Gryffindor first-year and Harry's fanboy, camped out in the Great Hall and common room, begging for autographed photos and causing endless amusement.
"Don't tease him," Hermione said, rolling her eyes at Ron. "On a serious note, Defense is pointless. We're not learning anything useful. Let's ask Professor Levent for extra lessons."
"Extra lessons?" Harry and Ron blinked.
Hermione nodded. "I got Percy's second-year notes with the spells we need to learn. We can ask Professor Levent to guide us!"
---
September 4, Friday
The last class of the afternoon was fourth-year Muggle Studies, covering the shift from the coal era to the oil era, future trends, and a brief intro to petroleum products to prep for fifth-year lessons.
The bell rang, signaling the first weekend of the term.
Melvin waited for the students to clear out before gathering his materials and leaving the classroom. The post-class rush had died down, leaving the corridors clear—no need to jostle with the kids.
With the diary in his possession and no dark wizards infiltrating the school, the first week had been calm. No chaos, no trouble. Melvin taught by day and studied dark magic by night, feeling fulfilled.
It was like being a student again.
As he turned onto a staircase, his mind lingered on dark magic. Professor Riddle's lessons had reached the stage of curses.
Footsteps clattered behind him. Professor Sprout descended, her gray hair flowing, a warm smile on her face. "Melvin, just finished class?"
"Good afternoon, Professor Sprout. Why're you coming from upstairs?"
The short Herbology professor beamed. "I consulted Sybill about the weather and lunar phases. Next Friday's the fullest moon of the year—perfect for some herbs that need moonlight. But the clouds have been thick lately, and I'm worried about rain."
"How's it looking?"
"Great—clear skies for the next two weeks."
"…"
They walked to the Great Hall, chatting about snakewood cuttings. Sprout had mentioned they needed special magic to cultivate, but she hadn't given up, setting up a small greenhouse to experiment.
As they reached the third floor, a piercing wail echoed from the bathroom.
"You're mocking me!"
"You followed me to the bathroom to mock me!"
The shrill, anguished voice stung their ears.
Amid the sound of flushing toilets and splashing water, Cho Chang and Marietta Edgecombe bolted out, looking regretful, their robes damp and disheveled.
Spotting the professors, they stopped and nodded. "Professor Levent, Professor Sprout."
Sprout waved her wand, drying their robes and smoothing their hair. "What were you thinking, going to Moaning Myrtle's bathroom?"
"Cho came back from the pitch and wanted to wash her face with cold water, but the first- and second-floor bathrooms were full," Marietta said, patting her chest. "We won't do it again. I'd rather climb to the fourth floor."
"…"
Cho nodded quietly, embarrassed.
"Be careful next time," Sprout said.
"Yes, Professor. Goodbye, Professor."
Sprout watched the girls leave, then glanced at the bathroom, explaining to Melvin, "You've only been here two years, so you might not know. Moaning Myrtle's a ghost here—different from the others. She was a student who died at Hogwarts…"
---
"…According to her, that day, classmates mocked her appearance. She hid in a bathroom stall, crying, and heard a boy's low voice. When she opened the door, she saw two yellow flashes and died on the spot."
"Tom, my friend, what kind of dark magic do you think that was?"
After dinner, in his office, Melvin scribbled in the diary, sharing the day's news with his "friend," a meaningful smile on his face.
"That incident caused quite a stir. I think I recall it."
The ink moved quickly, whether from pride or concealment: "Myrtle stayed after death, haunting Hogwarts, tormenting those who mocked her. It drew an Auror investigation. The case concluded she was killed by an Acromantula, a 5X dangerous creature kept by a student named Rubeus Hagrid."
"Rubeus Hagrid? The Hogwarts gamekeeper?"
"Dumbledore hired that murderer against regulations."
The words lingered briefly before fading. The diary didn't dwell: "Digging into a decades-old case is pointless, Melvin. Let's practice dark magic."
Melvin was surprised.
As Riddle's first murder, used to create the diary Horcrux, he'd expected pride. But Riddle seemed oddly detached.
Melvin dipped his quill, pondering how to probe further.
Knock, knock, knock…
A knock interrupted him.
"Who's there?"
"It's me, Professor," came a young voice.
Draco?
Melvin slipped the diary into a drawer, waved his wand to unlock the door, and said, "Come in."