Half an hour later, Tom closed his WhatsApp notebook, his expression unreadable.
The conversation with Professor Rouse had ended , and it had left him with a tangle of mixed feelings.
He'd only suggested that Rouse "stir the cauldron a bit," shake things up slightly for research purposes. He hadn't expected that small suggestion to snowball into… this.
Whatever "this" was, it was now big.
Sighing, Tom stepped into his Memory Space, the shimmering realm where time didn't flow and distance meant nothing. Both old men , Gellert Grindelwald and Andros the Invincible , were already waiting for him.
As Tom explained how Dumbledore had handed him the diary, Grindelwald's expression darkened like a thundercloud.
Tom stopped mid-sentence, raising an eyebrow. "What's with that face, old Gellert? Don't tell me Ariana yelled at you again?"
Because lately, Ariana had changed , a lot.
Think about her current "faculty lineup":
One Dark Lord.
One Dark Lord-in-training (Tom himself, who even Grindelwald admitted was a rotten influence).
And Andros, the legendary wizard whose life philosophy was simply "a punch solves everything."
That trio teaching the same girl? The outcome was inevitable.
The shy, sweet Ariana , the one who used to shrink behind chairs whenever Grindelwald entered the room , was long gone.
Now there was a new version: the sharp-tongued, fiery mini-delinquent who could point at the Dark Lord himself and call him an idiot to his face.
Of course, she still acted like a perfect angel around Tom. But she didn't know that Tom sometimes opened the study space to consult Grindelwald or Andros in private.
He'd seen her other face. The one that had learned to curse fluently from Andros and roll her eyes like a champion.
But Tom didn't mind.
A woman having two faces? That was perfectly normal.
Daphne was the same way , soft and kitten-like with him, a storm outside.
Still, seeing Grindelwald sulking like a scolded schoolboy was too good an opportunity to pass up.
Tom couldn't resist grinning.
Apparently, only Ariana could push Gellert Grindelwald to his limits. Tom himself would never dare point at the Dark Lord and insult him , he had boundaries. Respect, even.
But this time, he'd guessed wrong.
Grindelwald's glare sharpened. "Tom," he said in a voice like cracking ice, "don't you think you've forgotten something?"
Tom blinked. Forgotten… something?
His young mind raced. Then realization hit, and he winced, offering a sheepish smile.
"Right. I might have… forgotten that I promised to visit you during Christmas."
"Hmph." Grindelwald crossed his arms, coldly triumphant. "How gracious of you to remember now, Mister Busy Man."
Andros laughed so hard the walls shook. "Honestly, Gellert, don't be so dramatic. I talk to Tom every day. Sometimes I forget he's alive too."
That earned Andros a glare so sharp it could cut through steel.
Every word that came out of the old wizard's mouth was an accidental critical hit.
Tom quickly raised his hands in surrender. "Alright, alright! I'll make it up to you. This weekend, I'll come by, I swear. I'll even bring food and drinks!"
"Good," Grindelwald grunted. Then his eyes gleamed faintly. "Bring a few bottles of Riesling and Jägermeister."
Tom chuckled. "Consider it done."
Once the tension broke, the trio's conversation turned darkly practical , how to deal with the diary fragment.
Or, more precisely, how to make Voldemort talk.
And in this particular art, Grindelwald was a master.
Even against something as strange as a Horcrux, the man had ideas , twisted, brilliant ideas.
His best suggestion? Defile the soul.
Not destroy it , that would ruin the artifact , but taint it, corrode it from within. The physical body could withstand pain, but a corrupted soul… that was torment beyond description.
Even a fragment would lose coherence, spiraling into madness.
Tom listened in rapt attention.
"Oh, that's evil, old man," he said with deep admiration. "Genius. Teach me that spell. Immediately."
Grindelwald's smirk was almost proud.
,
The next morning, the Great Hall was alive with yawns and groans.
Most students had been up all night , cramming, scribbling homework, or pretending to study until the last possible moment.
But one person looked suspiciously bright and cheerful.
Draco Malfoy.
The Slytherin prince had clearly gotten wind of the previous night's incident , Harry's mysterious collapse in the common room.
And like any predator sensing weakness, Draco pounced.
Spotting Harry at the Gryffindor table , very much alive, though pale , he swaggered over with Crabbe and Goyle in tow.
"Potter!"
Harry's fork froze mid-air. The instant he heard that voice, his mood soured visibly.
Draco, of course, ignored that. He leaned in with the kind of grin only a boy born rich and smug could perfect.
"I heard you fainted last night," he said gleefully. "Was it the scar, again?"
His eyes flicked to Harry's forehead, mock sympathy dripping from his voice. "You know, maybe we should stop calling you Potter. Maybe Scarhead suits you better."
Harry's jaw tightened. "Malfoy, if you keep talking, I swear , I'll punch you before breakfast."
Draco flinched slightly at Harry's sudden fury , he hadn't expected the boy to snap like that. Luckily, Crabbe's quick hands steadied him before he fell over backward.
Still, with so many professors sitting just a few feet away at the High Table, Malfoy's confidence returned.
He smirked. Potter wouldn't dare throw a punch here. And if he did, well… I'd just take a dive. One black eye and I'd own him for the rest of the year.
"What's wrong, Scarhead?" Draco drawled. "Did I hit a nerve? You can't stand that your 'Chosen One' glory's fading, can you? Trying to milk your little scar for sympathy again?"
Harry shot back instantly. "And you, Mal-filth? You reek of jealousy. You're jealous of me, jealous of Tom , because he stole your thunder in Slytherin. So you come picking fights just to feel relevant."
Draco blinked , then laughed, incredulous.
"Jealous? Of Tom Riddle?"
His tone dripped with disbelief, as though Harry had just told him the moon was made of cheese. He turned to his cronies, shaking his head with mock pity.
"Potter, you really don't know what you're talking about."
But even as he said it, a flicker of something unreadable , irritation, maybe even insecurity , flashed behind his grey eyes.
And for the briefest moment, Harry noticed it.
Before Draco's smirk returned, brighter than ever.
The breakfast hall buzzed louder.
Two heirs of ancient houses , two boys destined for the same storm , facing each other again.
And in the shadows of the Slytherin table, Tom Riddle watched, half-amused, half-thoughtful, the faintest glimmer of strategy already forming behind his calm smile.