The first class after the holidays was in a second-floor classroom near the staircase, a Defense Against the Dark Arts session. The room spanned two floors, connected by a semi-hidden passage to Lockhart's classroom upstairs. Harry knew it well—Lockhart loved casting him as dark creatures for dramatic reenactments, making him rehearse to avoid mishaps like the Cornish Pixie incident and to ensure Lockhart's dazzling smile stole the show.
It had been two weeks since Harry last set foot in this classroom. Now, clutching his bookbag, he dashed in, barely on time.
"This is your fault!" Ron panted, trailing behind. "If you hadn't been gawking at that Ravenclaw Seeker, we wouldn't have missed the moving staircase and gotten stuck for fifteen minutes!"
They plopped down in the third row, just behind Hermione, who—being the early-rising know-it-all—never cut it close. She'd already saved them seats.
Truth be told, Harry and Ron preferred spots farther back by the windows, perfect for zoning out or whispering without drawing attention. But with Professor Lewitt subbing for Defense Against the Dark Arts, and knowing Hermione's admiration for him, sitting this close to the front was already a compromise.
After the two-week Easter break, the classroom buzzed with excitement. Ernie, Hannah, Justin, and Susan—Hufflepuff classmates they'd known for two years—chatted animatedly, too hyped to settle down before the bell.
"Harry, how's your course schedule looking?" Ernie asked.
Everyone seemed to be asking the same question, scoping out who was taking what electives to team up for assignments.
Harry grinned, sharing their strategy. "Care of Magical Creatures, Divination, and—you know—Professor Lewitt's Muggle Studies."
"Knew you'd pick those!" Seamus piped up, grinning as he shared gossip: Trelawney was a pushover, but Vector's Arithmancy drowned you in homework, practically two or three courses' worth. Harry laughed along, glancing at Hermione.
Something felt off. Everyone else was swapping schedules and tips, but Hermione stayed quiet, head buried in her notes, ignoring the chatter and jokes. Just yesterday, she'd been stressing about exams being less than ten weeks away.
What's she even talking about? Harry thought, sighing. He nudged her shoulder with his quill. "Hermione, Hermione, what'd you pick?"
"I told you, I'm interested in all the electives," she said, barely looking up.
"But—"
"I already turned in my schedule. Professor McGonagall said she'd figure something out."
"…" Harry scratched his head. What's that supposed to mean? Weekend tutoring sessions?
The bell rang, and Professor Lewitt strolled in right on time, as dashing as ever, carrying the badger-emblazoned Goblet. He summoned Professor Gaunt to teach, while he lounged at the front, practically slacking off.
"Long time no see, my dear students…" Gaunt's ghostly figure floated midair, diligently lecturing.
Harry felt a flicker of hope. Maybe Gaunt had a change of heart over the break—maybe he'd skip the post-class Q&A or stop hovering over Harry during it.
No such luck. The discussion session came as expected.
"Ugh…" Harry groaned.
"Stop sighing, Harry. The professor's coming—ask him these questions for me," Hermione whispered, pointing to a few lines in her notebook.
"Ugh…"
"Any questions about today's lesson?" Gaunt floated over, his warm smile feeling like a formality. Questions or not, he'd linger, finding any excuse to chat with Harry.
"Yeah, a few things," Harry said, glancing at Hermione. He picked up her notes and went through them. "Professor, you said the Pixie Charm isn't great for forests…"
"An excellent question. Your keen talent and insight must've caught that," Gaunt said with a smile. "The Pixie Charm isn't a quick takedown spell. It works well on small critters like Cornish Pixies, but it can rile up other fairy-like creatures. In a dense forest with limited visibility, it's not a smart move."
Hermione and the others stayed quiet—they were used to this. Gaunt was clearly Harry's biggest fan.
Harry, however, wasn't. The attention gave him goosebumps. "Professor, you really don't have to—"
"Oh, Harry, you don't understand," Gaunt said, his smile unwavering. "In those dark days, that man was a shadow over the wizarding world, crowned with Dark Magic. The most powerful dark wizard—and you escaped his wand twice and defeated him. You can't imagine what that means to someone who studies Defense Against the Dark Arts."
"Uh…" Harry's face flushed, dizzy from the rare, direct praise from an adult wizard.
"I have a request, Harry," Gaunt said, leaning closer. "Can you tell me how you did it?"
"It wasn't me—it was my mother," Harry said softly.
"What?"
"She died to save me, using some advanced magic. I don't know the details, but…" Harry's voice dipped, trailing off. "When Voldemort attacked me, her magic made him lose his power."
The classroom hummed with other students' chatter, but the desks around them fell silent. Hermione glanced up and noticed Professor Lewitt watching from the front, his eyes glinting with an odd mix of amusement and mockery, like a zoo visitor eyeing a curious monkey.
Gaunt's face twisted, struggling to mask his emotions. After a long pause, he forced a strained smile. "That's… truly touching."
…
"That's it! That's it!" Riddle's ghostly form paced midair, his twisted grin bordering on manic. "I get it now—I understand everything!"
Yulm, the snake, eyed him sideways, its forked tongue flicking.
Riddle had sacrificed a lot these past months. Once the leader of the Death Eaters, the greatest Dark Lord in history, he'd played the part of Harry's adoring fan, patiently answering questions and praising his "talent" to uncover the truth about that night in Godric's Hollow. With his vast magical knowledge, he'd pieced together the counter-curse Lily Potter used.
It came sooner than expected, but with April nearing May, only a few Defense classes remained.
"You really think so?" Melvin asked, not looking up from grading holiday assignments.
"I had the same doubts as you, Melvin," Riddle said. "Potter and I share uncanny similarities—both half-bloods, orphans raised by Muggles. You even told me he speaks Parseltongue, and our faces bear some resemblance. It's a strange connection."
His tone sharpened. "But in the end, he just got lucky escaping me. His past, my future… it was all an accident."
"And now what?" Melvin set aside a graded parchment and started on another. "You want to duel him to prove your strength? You're just a shadow without a wand. Planning to teach him a lesson? Unleash the Chamber's Basilisk? The diary tried that last year, and Dumbledore sniffed it out. Bad ending."
Riddle shot a dark, complex look at Melvin and Yulm.
"What're you looking at me for?" Melvin dipped his quill in ink, meeting Riddle's gaze with a theatrical sigh. "You still don't trust me? I told you, the diary and I were partners—friends. I did its bidding for knowledge and wealth. You think my Dark Magic skills are fake?"
His acting was Oscar-worthy, voice brimming with sincerity. "The diary rushed into revenge without the full truth, asking me to slip it to a student. It manipulated them to open the Chamber, caused a stir, but this is Hogwarts. It underestimated Dumbledore. The mess was cleaned up fast, and the diary was exposed—taken by Dumbledore for study."
"That's not what you said when we met," Riddle said coldly. "You claimed the diary was safe."
"Dumbledore's just studying it. As long as he doesn't figure out it's a Horcrux, it's fine."
"Why didn't you open the Chamber?" Riddle pressed.
"Because I can't blow my cover!" Melvin shot back, equally defiant. "I'm the only one out here willing to help you. Think about it—after all these years since Godric's Hollow, have your Death Eaters come looking? Are they still loyal?"
Riddle fell silent.
"I'm just a foreign professor, not a Death Eater, with a clean record that doesn't raise suspicion. Yet I still remember you, the Dark Lord," Melvin said righteously. "The diary trusted me, told me about you. And I've proven I'm trustworthy."
Riddle stared into Melvin's eyes, dark as the Black Lake's depths. He still didn't fully trust this professor—too many questions lingered. When first summoned, he'd sensed hostility and disdain. Sometimes, he suspected Melvin was Dumbledore's spy, but his mastery of Dark Magic was undeniable. Knowing Dumbledore, he'd never trust a wizard like that.
And Melvin had kept his promise, letting Riddle get close to Potter and uncover the truth.
"I think you should lay low for now," Melvin said earnestly. "Dumbledore runs Hogwarts, with eyes everywhere—even in the Ministry. We're no match for his influence or dueling prowess. The priority is finding your main soul and preparing for your return. Only the true Dark Lord can take him on."
Riddle's eyes glinted coldly. "With enough magic, I could return from the Goblet."
"Is the Goblet's you stronger than the future you?" Melvin asked, as if genuinely concerned. "Even if you regain a body, how long to catch up to Dumbledore? Ten years? Twenty? The fastest way is finding the real Dark Lord and bringing him back at full strength."
"What's your plan?"
Sensing Riddle's interest, Melvin pressed on. "The world's huge. Finding a soul fragment with just us is near impossible. We need help—your old Death Eaters."
"…"
"I know you don't want to show yourself to them, revealing the Horcrux secret. So I'll be the middleman. Tell me their secrets, their leverage, and I'll pass on your orders."
Melvin knew Voldemort needed his followers to fear him, not see him as a weakened soul.
Riddle's expression shifted, and he quickly decided. "I know the Malfoy family's smuggling channels."
"Draco's cunning but spineless—not the right fit."
"Goyle and Crabbe."
"Troll bodies, troll brains. Reckless and dumb—not suitable."
"Sounds like you already have someone in mind."
"What about Nott?"
"The Notts were involved in poaching Graphorns. They've got a secret farm in Scotland breeding Diricawls for Veritaserum…" Riddle began.
Melvin pulled out a blank parchment, jotting down the secrets.
The Notts ran a potions business—legit ingredients from the market, illicit ones through poaching and smuggling. Many involved protected creatures. Under Newt Scamander's laws, if enforced strictly, the fines from this list could bankrupt the family.
Riddle's ghostly form hovered, expressionless, watching Melvin write.
Even now, he didn't fully trust this young wizard. He doubted the story—at least parts of it.
During Melvin's potion-making with the Goblet, Riddle had tried absorbing its magic, but it was useless. The magic wasn't like a wizard's—it resembled a magical creature's, transformable by the Goblet but unusable to him.
"I've always had a question," Melvin said, sounding cheerful.
"Go on."
"If a soul fragment like you can return from a Horcrux, and the main soul can come back too, if you both revive… who's the real Voldemort?"
"…"
Riddle froze midair.