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“Bollocks.” Ron spat, “We’ve encountered plenty of cursed objects. At least we’ll have an edge on everyone else; maybe Flitwick will curve our O.W.L.S. if everyone does terribly.”
If the spell in the wand has a casting time of greater than a standard action, do you automatically attempt to blindly activate for that period of time. Finals week, when everyone crams as much information as they can down their throats and sleep-deprived students can be found fighting over books in the library,.
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One summer day, he sees Voldemort on his neighbor's roof. And it all came crashing down.
Armed with a stabbed diary that oddly brings him comfort and a ring that feels important, Harry is ill-equipped for the summer ahead.
On his neighbour’s roof, staring directly at him, was Voldemort.
It would be comical if it wasn’t for the struggling muggle teen in his grasp.
Mockingly, Voldemort held up a scrap of parchment. ‘Surrender yourself, or the muggle perishes.’
Harry ducked away from the glass and got his writing supplies out. He held the parchment to the wall as he wrote, with a quill this time.
‘I don’t negotiate with terrorists. I’m going back to bed.’
He wiggled it into the corner and left the sight of the window. There was a strangled scream he tried to block out. In bed, he piled his blanket over his ears. Bottom of the line, he needed sleep.
And who was he to intervene? Every damned time he did, the person ended up dead or injured. Cedric, Sirius, and countless other friends had suffered under his supervision.
Harry was done playing saviour.
Chapter 1: Writings of a (Not-So) Madman
Chapter Text
The year was drawing to a close. Finals week, when everyone crams as much information as they can down their throats and sleep-deprived students can be found fighting over books in the library,
Dolores Umbridge may have. resigned as headmistress a week ago, but the long-term consequences and ministry rules remained. Exams would be a great deal harder due to her no-magic rule. It hadn’t entirely gone away, and magic in the classroom was highly regulated. Charms would be one of the worst classes under this rule.
“How are we supposed to identify high-level cursed objects if they’re banned in Hogwarts!” Hermione exclaimed in frustration.
“A magical user is able to ‘feel’ the darkness,” Harry quoted from the article, “but having a bad feeling doesn’t tell you which spells are used, or how dangerous it is.”
“Bollocks.” Ron spat, “We’ve encountered plenty of cursed objects. At least we’ll have an edge on everyone else; maybe Flitwick will curve our O.W.L.S. if everyone does terribly.”
“The ministry is grading them, not him.” She sighed.
Ron was right. How many cursed, dangerous items had they just stumbled upon? They all should at least be able to pick out the cursed items—the most important task in the exam—and might be able to tell the level of danger. Although most had been deadly, as opposed to minor maiming. He had almost died because of the cursed diary in their second year.
“Guys!” Harry yelled, receiving glares from the other students in the common room, “I think I know how we can get our hands on something cursed."
“What?” They lowered their heads as Harry beckoned them.
“What dangerous, cursed object did we find in our second year?” He said it teasingly.
“The diary!” Ron answered immediately.
“Dumbledore should still have it.”
“What are we waiting for?” Hermione threw her notes and books in her bag and said, “Let’s go!”
The trio trekked to Dumbledore’s office. Even with the delayed curfews, they needed to be back in the common room in an hour. The familiar eagle statue opened as soon as they turned the corner. Odd.
Up the set of stairs, the wooden door was already ajar. Inside, Dumbledore was scribbling on parchment with Fawks perched at his side. He looked up through half-moon glasses at them and summoned three chairs in front of his desk.
“Hello, what do you need at this time of night?” His voice was tired but still held an optimistic tone.
“Professor Dumbledore, you know the diary Harry murdered in our second year?” They filed in, lounging on the chairs.
“Ah, yes. The memory of Tom Riddle. Why do you ask?” He sat down his quill and folded his hands.
"Well, Professor," Ron stood up straight, "our Charms exam has a unit on cursed objects, and we can't find any to research." We were asking if we could borrow it to know how these objects ‘feel’.”
Dumbledore smiled, “But of course. I may say, I thought cursed objects were under your Defence Against the Dark Arts exam.” He rummaged through a desk drawer.
“The ministry decided that since it wasn’t over neutralising nor destroying cursed objects, only detection and identification, that it would fit better.” Hermione rolled her eyes.
“My apologies, the content of your ministry-approved exams has passed me by.”
He took out the diary, the hole in the middle as mangled as the day he sank the fang into it, and the pages warped from water damage. Just sitting on the desk, they could feel the wave of dark, sickly magic over them.
“The diary is a soul-leech. Although neutralised, it still has residual magic on it. Investigate this thoroughly, and if you need any lesser cursed objects, do not be afraid to ask. Try to keep these under close guard and do not let anyone see them.” The headmaster seemed to be looking straight at Harry as he spoke.
“We’ll keep it a secret,” Harry reassured. “Say, would it be that bad to use the Chamber of Secrets?”
Hermione shot him a look and elbowed him hard in the ribs.
“Harry! You want to go back to the place you both nearly died at?” She stared at him as if he were insane.
“Er, no. But it is a secret place. There may be more cursed objects there, and we’d be alone. Plus, the dark magic residue might still be down there.” He double-backed. On second thought, it wasn’t the brightest idea to voice.
“It may prove useful to investigate the Chamber. But try to avoid anything deadly, and tell me if you find anything. Voldemort, “ Ron shivered at Dumbledore’s words, “may have hidden something down there.”
Harry was the one tasked with keeping the item until tomorrow. The girl had hounded them, saying that their brains needed sleep to function, and it was already past the time she normally slept.
Once in their respective dorms, Ron collapsed into his bed and instantly passed out. Everyone else was already asleep in the dorm, or it was Neville, who had probably fallen asleep in the herbology greenhouses again.
The curtains over his bed were drawn shut. Without his friends to distract him, his mind wandered.
He laid down, tossing and turning. But every time he shut his eyes, he saw Sirius. With the red bolt hitting him in the chest, sending him tumbling into the veil… Rumours say that the ministry was doing a post-mortem pardon for him.
Like that will do any good.
They were just covering their asses. Having Voldemort show up in person at the Department of Mysteries, one of the most guarded sections of the ministry, Azkaban escapees, and many nobles proven to be Death Eaters, on top of imprisoning a man for 12 years, was more than their share of controversy to cover. Yet they choose to proclaim a man innocent after he died.
Sirius never got the chance to live. He went from the dictatorship of his parents, to Hogwarts over the school year, straight into Auror training during a war, wrongfully imprisoned, and then a fugitive on the run. His life began at the end.
A flame burned within him. Turning all his sadness, sorrow, and anger, into apathetic ashes. Tired, but sleepless. He sniffed, wiping away the tears and snot he didn’t know he was leaking. His head peeked out of the curtains. Everyone was asleep. He needed something, anything, to get his mind off of this.
Harry unravelled the book from his invisibility cloak and placed it on his bed. It looked innocuous, but something drew him to it. The diary, although from 50 years ago, had very few blemishes on its black cover and gold-plated edges. Besides the giant hole in the middle. Even the gilded name, ‘Tom Marvolo Riddle’, was still in place.
Had the diary been purposely bought, just to be made into a memory? It seemed like a waste, Dumbledore had said that the Slytherin line was destitute and Tom Riddle was an orphan. It didn’t seem like a resourceful move to just waste it.
He flicked open the front cover. Before, it was a completely blank page. Now, there were words, blurred and faint, but in that same swirling, perfect handwriting.
S pteme 1 t, 194
September, 1st, 1942? He squinted at the text; the top and bottom of the page were more damaged than the middle. The boy dug in his bag for parchment, waterproof ink, and a quill. He’d pieced together this diary entry to get his mind off of things. He might even gain knowledge about his enemy.
September 1st, 1942
The start of term was as insufferable as always.
At least they related.
Abraxas has shown himself to be useful again. He was right. Heir Slytherin, I was the heir to the Most Ancient and Noble House of Slytherin. I should have known; Marvolo sounded like a magical name, and magical children’s middle names are normally from their ancestry. Marvolo Gaunt was my connection. My mother's name was Merope.
I tracked down the last property of the Slytherin line, in Little Hangleton. I planned to visit the last member of my line, Morfin Gaunt, my uncle. But the air raid sirens were going off every other day, too dangerous. If my digging proves right, my biological father should be in town too.
The Gringotts' records are dreadful. How can an ancient line of powerful wixen make such poor financial decisions? Absolutely nothing lies within the vaults, and the few deposits are spent within days.
Nonetheless, I pervade. I plan to visit over the summer and get to know them. I’ve never had a family before I will have answers about my heritage.
I cannot wait to prove I am Heir Slytherin.
They will regret their actions.
The entry was followed by doodles on the rest of the page. Snakes, mostly, with the Slytherin crests drawn with practised accuracy. At the corner of the page, protected with some type of clear varnish, was a small drawing of a light-haired boy that looked eerily similar to Draco. Abraxas was the name, with an arrow pointing to it.
The juxtaposition of the serious writing and the doodles jarred him. His finger lightly traced the ink marks. He hummed to himself and turned the page.
They know. The horror on their faces—regret, terror—were all satisfying. It soothed my inner rage. Tonight, I made it through unpacking, showering, and just existing in the dorms without a single insult or glare being sent my way. It was refreshing, to say the least.
They want to talk to Abraxas to try to get close to me. Assholes, all of them. As if I could stand in the presence of people who had called me a Mudblood and demeaned me for the previous five years.
Orion and Thaddeus have recognised my greatness before; their respect was shown in private, but now they are open about their admiration. Especially Orion.
Doodles of the Orion constellation followed.
September 18th, 1942
Time has passed. My finances are stable for now. Those who have shunned me have sought to buy my favour. It will not work. However, exploiting the filthy rich is satisfying. Food for the soul. They’re practically throwing galleons at me. Parents, too.
For now, I have told them that my mother, Merope, fell pregnant after marrying my foreign father, Thomas. After the news of my conception, he died of dragon pox. My mother died giving birth to me in the muggle world, and that is how I ended up being muggle-raised.
That way, I can appear as a pure-blood. I can’t handle knowing I can pretend my father is dead. They do not question the strictness of my pure-blood; the knowledge that both my parents are magical has been enough.
I can start working on my main project, searching the Chamber of Secrets. I tried last year, and the year before, but I plan on finally finding it. I hope I find I will obtain more knowledge of my parseltongue. Specifically, parselmagic.
There was a schematic of the second floor, with x’s all over the place.
November 12th, 1942
November 14th, 1942
There is a hidden chamber. On the right side of the central statue, a bearded man with his mouth agape, a “handle” is on the underside of one of the bricks. I pulled it and, Merlin, it’s everything I’ve ever needed. Library, private quarters, duelling rooms, potions lab, a greenhouse, and the basilisk, who calls herself Amaranth, has a nest.
She has one egg, which will hatch only when the right person touches it. Half-dragon, Hungarian Horntail, and I'm not sure how they got a dragon in to copulate.
It needs more discovery. There should be something in here that’s useful that I can use publicly. There is an undying yearning within me I want to share some of this with my closest friends followers. But not all, just enough for them to get ahead of the others. I worry they will grow stronger than I.
There was a realistic rendition of the statue, covered by the same varnish.
January 21st, 1943
My power grows each day. The library has been a wonderful resource. I stayed for the holidays so I could learn about the Chamber’s knowledge.
However, Amaranth has been wanting to explore the halls more. I wanted to test her petrifying ability. We stumbled across a Muggleborn second-year, and through the reflection on the window, he was petrified in an instant.
A basilisk was circling the entire page, ending at a nest with a large egg.
February 10th, 1943
Amaranth petrified another person today. She didn’t mean to. We were just walking around, and a girl with glasses was struck. I fear she is becoming a safety risk. The prophet will be in an uproar, and I am sure something will be done about this. They can’t find the Chamber. It’s all I have.
February 18th, 1943
I asked Professor Slughorn about a Horcrux. I saw it in one of the books in the Chamber, but it was in the wrong section, and I did not know where to look for more. Horcrux: a vessel for a piece of a person’s soul, made by killing someone. I believe it splits the soul in half each time, but I will have to research more. Soul magic—that’s where I needed to look. It said it was the key to immortality.
The object needs to have some importance to the user, a sentimental object or an heirloom. I have neither. Perhaps that isn’t as solid as it seems. An item that holds a piece of soul will gain importance once it’s made, I will then solidify the bond.
March 31st, 1943
Two more petrifyings happened. Aurors are swarming the castle daily. I can no longer walk Amaranth, much to her dismay. I need to play this carefully.
I also need to keep this thing in mind more often.
More Aurors. They came close to discovering the Chamber. I can’t have them do this. They need to go away.
Aurors. Everywhere. One more petrifying incident happened. I thought that outside was the better option, and I was trying to release her into the Forbidden Forest. But some idiotic Gryffindor was out there. He tried to kill her with a bombarda.
The water that was flown up in the blast was just enough to petrify him, not kill him. I left him there and returned her to her nest. I don’t know what to do.
I have made a fatal error
Myrtle Warren is dead.
They’re shutting down Hogwarts for good.
I just made a horcrux.
The half-giant, Rubeus Hagrid, has taken the fall for it. He held an Acromatula in his trunk, I said he did it. I’m Head Boy, and they believed me. He got his wand snapped, and expelled. I feel so dirty.
I needed to do this.
Harry frowned at the words on the next page. They were even worse than the others, but some of the water stains that scattered the page were different. They pooled with the ink, mixing with it when it was still wet. It took him longer to make it out. There was no date listed.
I met my uncle. He lived in squalor. He couldn’t understand me when I spoke. When he processed I was there, he started throwing junk around the room. His magic was weak, little more than a squib. He was yelling about not wanting a muggle in his house.
I told him I was Merope’s son. This made him angrier. I left after he mentioned the muggle on the hill that looked like me. There was an incredibly large, white-brick mansion. A baron’s mansion.
The man who answered the door looked exactly like me. I wanted answers. He tried to slam the door on me and yelled, but I am stronger than him. He tried to hit me when I got in.
Compulsion charms got him to spit out my answers. He told me he knew my mother was a witch who had used her powers on him. She stopped charming him once she was pregnant, and then he ran off.
He wanted me to leave. To never contact him again. Two older people, my grandparents, were there too. They were more reactive and screamed at me to go away. To leave their family alone, that I had already caused enough damage. My grandfather had a shotgun.
I adjusted Morfin’s memory and his wand. He thinks he killed them and proudly proclaimed himself to have done so when the Aurors arrived. He fought with them, and they murdered him.
I killed my family.
I made another Horcrux.
The next page was blank.
Harry stared down at the pages. The diary was an accident? Then how was he writing in it? Unless, of course, the diary was later charmed. He wouldn’t want to just hand over the diary to Lucius, or leave it anywhere, for anyone to stumble across it. After destroying it, the charms must have disappeared.
He traced over the words, pangs of sympathy bleeding in. It was surprisingly human. So different from the cruelty he'd encountered in the chambers, but also a far cry from the charismatic boy he remembered. Had both masks been fake? Or was he looking at another false personality?
Who was the real Tom Riddle?
And were there other Horcruxes? The diary must have been one, and he mentioned another one. He must have more. But how much of his soul could he split? Surely it wasn’t much, not like the thing that crawled out of the cauldron looked like it had much of a soul.
The boy aggressively flipped through the other pages. There must be something, anything else, to explain all of this. But the rest were blank. He hissed and felt a burn on his fingers. Blood trickled down his hand.
A thin but deep paper cut ran from the tip of his pinky to the middle of his index. He shook off the excess blood, using his wand to cast a healing charm on them. Perhaps this was a sign that he should rest for the night.
The diary and translated parchment were wrapped into his invisibility cloak and placed under his pillow. He could investigate more tomorrow. Deep sleep followed him into the night.
A splash of icy water awoke him. Harry gasped, squirming off the bed as his muscles contracted violently. Above him, an annoyed Ron stood.
“Finally!” He loudly huffed.
“What?” Harry groaned.
His legs felt like jelly. All the blood left his head as he stood. A faintness almost overtook him, but he managed to stay upright. He fumbled as he put on his glasses, wiping away the water on them.
“I’ve been trying to wake you up for the past five minutes!”
“Sorry, I went to bed late.” He yawned, “What time is it?”
“Seven-thirty. We only have half an hour to get dressed and eat breakfast!” Ron tugged on his sleeve.
“Go without me, I’ll be down eventually.” He needed to shower.
Ron left the room. Harry sighed, knowing that Ron would be agitated today. He had at least woken him up for breakfast, but he was still half asleep as he rummaged through his sidedresser for his clothes.
The boiling shower woke him up enough, but the grogginess lingered in his mind. He moved his bed around, sorting the damp patches from the dry ones. As he lifted his pillow, panic ran through him.
After a momentary check behind him, he tore his invisibility cloak open. The diary was soaking wet. His parchment wasn’t spared, but the ink was waterproof enough to still be legible.
Each page was unreadable. Little more than light smears across the page. At least he had transcribed the entries. It had even washed away the little drops of blood; nothing was left of it. It was just a more damaged version of the trapped diary.
A drying spell evaporated the water around him. His notes were still warped but were overall unharmed. He stuffed them into his trunk, balled up the diary in his cloak, shoved it into his bag, and took off for the Great Hall.
Hermione and Ron were at the end of the table, eating. Well, Ron was eating. The girl seemed to have only eaten half a bowl of oatmeal before plunging back into her books. He plopped down next to Ron, his legs falling out from under him before he could adjust himself.
“Oi, mate,” Ron said when Harry came crashing into his side.
"Sorry, tired," Harry said weakly.
“I told you to go to bed earlier!”
“I know, I know.” Harry sighed, “Couldn’t sleep.”
“Well, hurry up, both of you. "I've planned our day out," Ron groaned, "Transfiguration, she said she'd give us another study guide and we'll study that; lunch, Herbology is cancelled, but we still need to go to the greenhouse to identify plants; we'll take a break to study charms; then dinner; we'll touch up on Potions; then we'll do the cursed objects -- Harry, do you have our book?"
Harry blinked, having zoned out her entire speech: “Er, yeah, I have our book.”
Hermione didn't seem to notice him zone out again and started talking about studying. His head travelled to other places. Mainly, to the diary.
How would Tom Riddle act while he was alone? Would the persona stay on, or would it fall away the moment everyone left the room? Was he truly presenting a facade every waking second of every day for decades? He shuddered at the thought. Sure, he acted differently in public, but not that differently!
He wondered if Voldemort remembered what his past self thought. How he felt. But he pushed the thought away; Voldemort was filled with malice and rage, as evidenced by the pain in his scar. But it doesn’t always burn. What did he feel between the bouts of fury?
“Harry?” Hermione snapped her fingers in front of his face.
“Sorry, I spaced.” He scarfed down a croissant, even though he didn’t feel hungry.
The day stretched on. His tiredness only progressed; he fell asleep twice during Transfiguration (minus 10 points for each) and completely slept through one of their study sessions. By that time, his friends had grown more concerned.
He was flowing in and out of dreams. They felt more real than normal, the colours were more intense, and the smells were accurate to a T.
Standing in a room, he scribbled on parchment. But his hands were different, pale and thin with perfectly filed nails. Swirling writing covered the page. A transfiguration essay, and a damn brilliant one at that. He could hear a humming and a deep rumbling in his chest that soothed him on an instinctual level.
It changed into another dream.
The Slytherin Common Room was empty. A dim fire burned, barely lighting it enough to see. He lounged on a chair with gilded accents on the arms, plush by the way he sank into the fabric. Footsteps approached, and a person entered the room.
Platinum blond with long hair spilling over his shoulders, he looked almost exactly like Draco, but his features were softer, despite looking at least a year or two older, with deep blue eyes. He held a book in his hands, old and worn with red leather.
The blond kneeled, “My lord,”
“Rise, Abraxas,” That voice, so familiar but he couldn’t remember, “Do you have what I require?”
“Yes, but, my lord - “ His eyes were pleading
“I know your concerns. This is merely for knowledge.” He held out his hand expectantly.
Soul Magic was scrawled across the front cover with no author listed. He thumbed through the pages, and he felt a faint smile light on his face. In front of him, Abraxas leaned in, less to see the book and more to see his reaction.
“This will prove useful for my studies. I will have it returned to you in two weeks, and it will not leave the dorm.” He reassured Abraxas. The blond nodded. “Now,”
He stood, practically looming over the other boy. They were close, their chests almost touching, and the heat between them felt intoxicating. Abraxas raised his head to meet his eyes; a new fire burned within them.
“I have a request,” He gently brushed a lock of blond hair away from his face.
“Yes,” His hand cupped a red cheek, “You need not follow if you wish not to.”
“Who am I to deny a request?” By his tone, he knew exactly what it was. Almost teasing. Full of wanting.
“Is that a yes?” His arm snaked around his waist, pulling him closer.
“Of course it is,” A smirk lit his lips.
The world fluttered out. Each second he stirred, the dream was growing more distant. But the feeling of it stayed. A warm, almost drunken stupor that made his thoughts wander to obscene places.
Light flooded over him, burning his half-lidded eyes. He yelped at the sensation, and his arm flew to his face. There was a huff from next to him, along with the clanging of metal. His eye protection was taken from him, and he was met with Madam Pomphrey staring down at him in disappointment.
“Mr Potter, you gave your friends a scare back there. Are you feeling well?” She removed a damp towel from his head.
“Better.” The headache and most of the tiredness were gone, though he still felt sluggish.
“You need to get more sleep. I know it’s exam time, but do not forsake your health! Your magical reserves were drained just by keeping you up!” She chided him with a waggle of her finger.
“Sorry,” He yawned, “What time is it?”
“Dinner just ended, but I’ll get you a plate. After you’re done eating, you can go find your friends.” She snapped her fingers, and a house elf popped up with a tray of food.
“Thank you,” Harry said to the elf as Madam Pomphrey held out seven vials to him.
“Three Dreamless Sleep and four Pepper-ups. This should get you through your last two days of exams and the day before you leave. Remember, pepper-ups need to be at least four hours apart.” She placed them on the side table.
Harry ate his dinner of mashed potatoes, green beans, and a chicken breast. The house elf popped back in to give him a treacle tart and pumpkin juice on his request. He was surprised at himself when he finished everything.
He was marching to the library within the hour.
Light flooded over him, burning his half-lidded eyes. He yelped at the sensation, and his arm flew to his face. There was a huff from next to him, along with the clanging of metal. His eye protection was taken from him, and he was met with Madam Pomphrey staring down at him in disappointment.
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