"A wizard's magic is tied only to the soul, but this is Hogwarts—a castle hiding magical secrets for a millennium."
"Sounds like you know something?" Melvin probed.
The diary remained silent for a long time before ink surfaced: "Have you heard of the Chamber of Secrets?"
Melvin's eyes glinted, but his writing stayed steady: "That baseless legend?"
"My dear friend Melvin, no legend is entirely fabricated, especially one so detailed and enduring for a thousand years…" The yellowed pages swirled with ink as Senior Riddle recounted the Chamber's tale with ulterior motives.
Melvin, drawing on his own knowledge, filled in the parts the diary tried to conceal.
In Hogwarts' early days, the four Founders worked together to make the castle the world's finest magical school. Their slight differences in personality and philosophy led to the creation of four houses, each with its own common room and dormitories.
As more Muggle-born students enrolled, the radical Salazar Slytherin grew dissatisfied and raised objections, only to be overruled by the other three Founders. In secret, he built the Chamber of Secrets, a room so hidden it surpassed even the Room of Requirement, accessible only to him or those he permitted.
After a fierce falling-out with Gryffindor, Slytherin left in a huff, and the Chamber became a legend whispered through the school.
After the diary's account, Melvin feigned confusion: "Is this legend reliable? Why are you so certain? Have you ever opened the Chamber yourself?"
"No, I only uncovered some records.
"According to school history, in the 18th century, Hogwarts adopted Muggle plumbing, installing modern, complex piping and bathroom systems. The castle's structure changed, and the Chamber was briefly opened, spreading Slytherin's legend widely.
"But a student named Corvinus Gaunt intervened in the renovations, and the Chamber's secrets vanished again. If you know pure-blood genealogies, you'd recognize the Gaunts as Slytherin's direct descendants.
"We have ample reason to believe Corvinus knew how to open the Chamber and hid it again when it risked exposure."
Melvin stared at the tightly packed words, momentarily lost in thought, piecing together how a young Voldemort discovered the Chamber.
It began with tracing his origins, ruling out his Muggle father's influence, and finding the Gaunt family. Noticing Corvinus Gaunt in school records and archives, he meticulously followed faint clues, ultimately uncovering the millennium-old Chamber.
Back then, Tom Riddle was brilliant and meticulous, catching the smallest hints, but not yet mature. He hadn't anticipated the consequences of opening the Chamber: unleashing the Basilisk, causing Myrtle's death, splitting his soul to create the diary Horcrux, and framing Hagrid.
As for the summer he visited Little Hangleton to uncover the truth, slaughtering the Riddle family and framing Morfin Gaunt—that came later.
No wonder Voldemort spoke of the murders and the diary Horcrux without much pride.
Looking at his later Horcruxes, made from legendary wizards' relics, it's clear that if not for those early mishaps, his first Horcrux might have been something more significant than an ordinary diary.
Melvin reined in his thoughts, maintaining Occlumency, and wrote: "What does this have to do with increasing magical power?"
"The Chamber holds Slytherin's research, possibly including ways to boost magic. Even if not, there could be other treasures—like extinct magical creatures. Aren't you curious?
"Find the Chamber, claim Slytherin's legacy, and you'll become a new legendary wizard. Your name will be etched in school history, perhaps even magical history."
Riddle's words dripped with temptation. Throughout, Melvin sensed a subtle magical probe in his mind.
He smirked coldly.
If he weren't an adult wizard with a strong will and soul, staying alert and guarded during their exchanges, not fully opening himself or letting the diary siphon much magic, the Horcrux might have sealed his will and controlled his body by now.
"This… this is too sudden…" Melvin wrote, his acting a touch exaggerated, though it wasn't noticeable in text.
"I've heard Slytherin sealed the Chamber with a terrifying creature inside, only openable by his true heir, who could release the monster to purge the school of those unfit to learn magic."
"Those are baseless rumors spread by people who've never seen the Chamber. It might hold a legendary wizard's manuscripts to make you powerful, Slytherin's riches to make you wealthy, or everything you desire!" The diary's reply was swift.
Melvin pursed his lips, feigning hesitation: "But…"
The rapidly appearing text grew impatient: "What are you worried about? This is a Founder's legacy. Do you think Slytherin would harm Hogwarts?"
"I'm just an ordinary teaching assistant, a Hufflepuff graduate. My head's spinning, Tom. I can't decide now. I need time to research the Chamber."
Melvin planned to string Tom along. The more eager the diary, the more he'd delay, keeping the upper hand.
The ink faded, leaving the yellowed pages blank.
"Tom, my dear friend, you understand, right?"
After a dozen seconds, the diary replied: "Of course."
Melvin closed the diary, feeling pleased.
What good intentions could a diary have? It wanted him to open the Chamber, awaken the Basilisk, and disrupt the school—ideally killing a few Muggle-born or half-blood students.
The Chamber could be opened, but there was no way he'd let the diary near the Basilisk.
Parseltongue? He'd seen it before.
…
Eight o'clock, Great Hall
The house tables buzzed with activity.
Starting the second week, the four Quidditch teams began recruiting new players. Gryffindor and Slytherin's main rosters stayed mostly unchanged, seeking only reserves, while Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw had open starting spots.
Traditionally, tryouts were for third-years and above, but Harry's precedent led Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw to loosen restrictions, offering reserve spots to talented, skilled younger students.
Professors Flitwick and Sprout discussed recruitment plans, with students eagerly tossing out creative but mostly impractical ideas.
As last year's champions, Professor McGonagall remained reserved, barely engaging with Quidditch matters. As deputy headmistress, she focused on more troublesome student groups like the Toad Choir, Gobstones Club, and Wizard Chess Association.
Melvin ate breakfast at the staff table, listening and occasionally offering Muggle-inspired suggestions when asked.
"…If you can't find the right players for key roles, consider borrowing from Gryffindor or Slytherin."
The professors shot him collective eye-rolls.
McGonagall added an extra glare, still annoyed about him leaking the sixth-year Transfiguration exam.
Amid the friendly, collegial chaos, Snape ate quickly, expressionless, said a curt goodbye, and swept toward the dungeon classrooms.
Draco, waiting for his moment, hurried after him.
His short legs moved fast, catching up at a corridor corner. Breathless, Draco panted, "Professor Snape, I… I have something to…"
"Speak," Snape said coldly.
Draco couldn't meet his head of house's eyes. Taking a deep breath, he blurted, "I want to join the Quidditch team."
"You should talk to Captain Flint."
Snape's gaze narrowed. "Or do you think I'll vouch for you because of your name or your family's wealth?"
This wasn't how Draco expected it to go. Didn't Professor Lewent say he'd talk to Snape?
Under Snape's intimidating stare, Draco paled, his lips trembling, words stuck in his throat.
"The Malfoy fortune can't achieve everything, especially not here," Snape said evenly.
As he turned to leave, Draco, desperate, raised his voice. "It's not about wealth—it's skill! I'm better than Travers. Give me a chance, and I'll win the cup for Slytherin!"
Snape paused, glanced at him, and let out a faint hum.
As his figure disappeared, Draco couldn't tell if it was agreement or dismissal.
He did hum, right? That meant yes, didn't it?
Draco scratched his head, then stopped, realizing it was a habit he'd picked up from Potter.
…
Draco returned to the Great Hall in a daze. Crabbe and Goyle were still stuffing their faces with pies. Pansy, ever presumptuous, handed him apple juice laced with too much sugar, cloyingly sweet.
Nearby, Flint and the Quidditch team loomed—tall, burly players. Travers, the Seeker, was spreading jam on bread. His skills were average, his status in the team low, often stuck cleaning brooms. Losing to Harry last term had only worsened his standing.
Draco could do better.
Pushing the juice aside, he glanced at the staff table, where Professor Lewent was whispering mysteriously with Lockhart.
Draco's gaze turned resentful. Lewent was as deceptive as Lockhart, promising to speak to Snape but clearly never doing so.
He'd nearly embarrassed himself—no, he had embarrassed himself.
…
"Melvin, there's progress on that favor you asked for! The Nott family's hosting a gala at month's end. The Twenty-Eight Pure-Blood Families sent invitations, and many prominent wizards will attend, including Madam Edgecombe from the Department of Transportation…"
Lockhart said, squinting smugly.
"What do you mean?" Melvin asked, feigning confusion.
Lockhart's grin widened as he pulled an invitation from his pocket, flaunting his own status. "I can introduce you to Madam Edgecombe."
"Your connections are impressive, Professor Lockhart."
"Haha!" Lockhart beamed, soaking up the praise. "The Mirror Club's business is my business. I'll prepare a gift—this is in the bag!"
"…"
As the golden-haired professor hurried off, Melvin smiled, sipping his porridge.
Lockhart was just as "helpful" as Senior Riddle.
…
Another sunny weekend morning.
Dawn broke with a pink-and-gold sky veiled in light mist. Birdsong from the Forbidden Forest rang crisp and clear.
The Gryffindor Quidditch team trudged through the fog, yawning and shivering, heading to the pitch for weekend practice. Captain Wood's fervent voice drowned out the birds.
"Move it, lads! The other teams haven't started yet, so we're getting a head start. It's part of our new training plan.
"I thought it over during the summer. Last year's win was all Harry catching the Snitch. Our offense and defense need work—we trailed in goals. So, I've devised new tactics…"
The players yawned incessantly. Harry looked dazed, the Weasley twins trailed behind with puffy eyes and messy hair.
Click—
A camera shutter snapped. First-year Colin Creevey scampered after them, more excited than Wood, naming his photo "Half-Past Six on the Pitch."
After changing into robes and mounting brooms, they'd barely flown a few minutes when a team in green robes appeared—Slytherin.
"Flint! Get out!" Wood roared at the bucktoothed captain. "This is our time! I booked the pitch with Madam Hooch!"
"But I've got a special note from Professor Snape," Marcus Flint smirked, unfolding parchment and reading in a grating tone. "I, Severus Snape, permit the Slytherin team to use the Quidditch pitch today to select a new Seeker."
"Seeker?" Wood frowned. "Isn't your current Seeker still at school?"
"It's a tryout."
A smaller boy stepped forward, pale with a smug grin and light blonde hair—Draco Malfoy.
…
Half an hour later, the pitch was split in two. The red-robed Gryffindors ran drills, while Slytherin wrapped up their tryouts.
Draco hovered on his Nimbus 2000, clutching a golden hummingbird, his face eager.
Marcus Flint announced solemnly, "From now on, Draco Malfoy is Slytherin's starting Seeker. Travers is relegated to reserve!"
Before the words settled, Draco shot off, soaring freely through the dawn sky. His slight frame cut through the rosy clouds, his face alight with excitement and fulfillment.
This was a feeling he'd never known.
This Seeker position wasn't bought with Malfoy gold or family name.
He'd asked his head of house for a fair tryout and won it with his own skill, defeating Travers fair and square!
Draco zipped across the other half of the pitch, shouting, "Potter, get ready—Slytherin's taking the cup this year!"
"I'll be waiting!" Harry called back.
Draco felt amazing, too elated to muster his usual disdain. Even Potter's scar seemed less annoying.
The morning breeze made him shiver, but he flew several laps to burn off his excitement before landing on the stands, panting, gripping his warmed broom. His heart pounded, but his mind was clear.
It dawned on him: Professor Lewent hadn't tricked him. He'd pushed him to muster courage—the reckless kind the Malfoys never endorsed.
Or rather, the recklessness he'd once scorned.