"With pleasure, my lady."
Moriarty took Mrs. Malfoy's hand and gently helped her off the sofa. They stood side by side in front of the diary now pulsing softly with magic.
They extended their free hands, right and left respectively, and pinched the edges of the diary, holding it up at eye level. As their gazes aligned with the swirling portal forming in its center, their foreheads nearly touched.
Startled by the closeness, Mrs. Malfoy instinctively tilted her head away, but as the swirling portal grew, she felt herself pulled forward—falling toward it.
"Ah—Moriarty!"
She gasped, her equilibrium breaking, surprised that his name was the first word on her lips. Yet a warmth spread through her hand.
Moriarty was smiling reassuringly as he clasped her fingers more firmly. "Let's go in together," he said gently.
That tone—so uncharacteristically warm—caught Mrs. Malfoy off guard. She barely had time to register it before a kaleidoscope of light and color enveloped them.
Then—solid ground. They landed softly.
Mrs. Malfoy staggered slightly, catching herself with her hands on Moriarty's chest. Her cheek brushed the fabric of his robes.
Too close!
Flushing, she stood upright in haste and withdrew her hand from his.
Moriarty allowed her the space, but his attention had already shifted.
They were now standing at the threshold of a dormitory—a wide, elegant space decorated with medieval tapestries and lush silver carpeting. Four-poster beds with green silk drapes occupied the room's center.
A tall boy sat at the farthest bed, his dark eyes fixed coldly on them.
Moriarty's gaze dropped to the brass plaque on the bedpost:
Tom Riddle.
He took in the aristocratic features—the obsidian hair, the pale complexion, the sharp-cut cheekbones.
Just as I expected.
> Ding Dong~ It was detected that the host has found Voldemort's Soul Fragment No. 1. Three exploration draws awarded.
Moriarty's eyes narrowed. "Soul Fragment No. 1?"
The system answered in a crisp voice:
"Yes. Voldemort split his soul seven times, resulting in eight fragments.
Six were sealed into Horcruxes. One resides in Harry Potter.
And the eighth remains in Voldemort himself, designated as the main soul.
The Horcruxes are ordered as follows:
1. Tom Riddle's Diary
2. Marvolo Gaunt's Ring
3. Slytherin's Locket
4. Hufflepuff's Cup
5. Ravenclaw's Diadem
6. Nagini
7. Harry Potter."
Moriarty nodded. So Harry really did carry a piece of Voldemort's soul—he would need to verify and deal with that.
But right now, Soul Fragment No. 1—this version of Tom Riddle—was far more interesting.
Young Voldemort was undeniably handsome. His aura echoed Slytherin's legacy. In Moriarty's opinion, letting him carry on the bloodline of Slytherin wouldn't have been disgraceful.
There was one detail Moriarty never voiced aloud—he was older than Tom.
Strictly speaking, if heritage were formalized, Tom would have to call him "Uncle."
Hence, Moriarty's fondness for referring to him mockingly as "Little Tom."
Of course, Tom had no idea who he was really facing. From where he sat, the gray-eyed young man before him seemed a strange hybrid of charisma and danger—and most certainly not Hagrid.
Tom stared. Rubeus Hagrid? This… refined-looking youth?
I'd believe in Merlin's resurrection before I'd believe that!
Realization dawned fast and brutal.
He'd been tricked.
The shame, the rage—unbearable.
A flicker of scarlet fury gleamed in his eyes. He nearly leapt to his feet, ready to cast without a wand or words and reduce the impostor to ash.
But then he paused.
Those grey eyes… something about them.
Tom's eyes flickered through recognition, curiosity, unease… and finally, fear.
This man—he looks like… Salazar.
Tom stayed seated, expression cool, and said nothing.
Thus began a silent duel of stares between Moriarty and Tom, neither breaking first.
Mrs. Malfoy, oblivious to the mounting tension, stepped confidently into the dormitory in her riding boots, head turning with curiosity.
"The Slytherin boys' dormitory," she said, spinning once. "I've never stepped inside before."
Moriarty's eyes remained on Tom, but he replied, "This layout is from fifty years ago. Back then, our beds were placed in the four corners."
Tom's gaze sharpened. Fifty years ago?
They're from the future?
He now looked at Mrs. Malfoy more carefully.
She was regal, poised—proud and elegant. Her energy reminded him of Mrs. Black, whom he had once seen from a distance while following his classmate Abraxas Malfoy.
A pure-blood woman for sure.
His suspicion of her lessened—but Moriarty was still a cipher.
Tom said nothing.
Mrs. Malfoy, meanwhile, turned her attention to Tom's face and then to Moriarty, her eyes squinting slightly in concentration.
Moriarty smirked. "What is it? Are you trying to read ancient runes off my face?"
She shook her head lightly. "No, not runes. Just… two words are written on your face."
"Oh?" Moriarty tilted his head. "Do tell."
"Not alike."
"Not alike?"
"Yes." Mrs. Malfoy nodded at both boys. "You're both descended from Salazar Slytherin, which makes you relatives—but you don't look alike at all."
Tom flinched. The words descended from Salazar Slytherin rang in his ears.
Descendants.
Slytherin's blood.
Descendants.
The word bounced in his mind like a curse.
He had just opened the Chamber of Secrets. He had been reveling in his status as Slytherin's heir—and now this woman was claiming this grey-eyed man shared that blood?
And worse… he might outrank him?
Moriarty spoke again. "If you truly knew Tom Riddle's background, you wouldn't say that, my lady."
The words hit Tom like a thunderclap.
His background.
Of course, he was from the Gaunt line—Salazar's last surviving descendants.
A glorious bloodline.
But… his father. A Muggle.
His greatest shame.
Tom's fists clenched at his sides as Moriarty continued, clearly for his benefit.
"Tom Riddle is a Gaunt by his mother's blood, but his father was a Muggle—Tom Riddle Sr.
That makes him only a half-blood heir of Slytherin."
Tom's eyes dropped. The humiliation burned through him.
Moriarty's voice was calm. "I, however, am a pureblood descendant of the Slytherin main line. My blood is older. Purer. My claim—senior."
"Seniority?" Mrs. Malfoy gasped, then laughed, covering her mouth. "You've never said that before. Then—between the two of you—who is older?"
Moriarty shot her a strange look. "Are you certain you want to phrase it like that? 'Who is bigger?'"
Mrs. Malfoy blushed fiercely as realization struck her. "You—don't twist my words! I meant age! Not that!"
Her crimson cheeks deepened, and Moriarty simply laughed.
Tom, meanwhile, stood rooted. His pride, his plans, and his sense of superiority had all been shaken.