As a certain philosopher once said: When wandering the martial world, always use an alt account.
Wayne had simply borrowed Harry's illustrious name for a while.
Although the Potter Family wasn't listed among the Sacred Twenty-Eight, they were still a fundamentally pure-blood lineage.
Strictly speaking, all pure-blood families had Muggle ancestry somewhere - otherwise they'd have died out long ago. It's just that others hid it better, while the Potters didn't bother concealing theirs, which is why they were excluded.
Even if Tom didn't know Harry was his future nemesis, he'd at least recognise the Potter name.
Besides, this didn't violate Hufflepuff principles.
He wasn't lying to a person - just a notebook. What's the harm?
None whatsoever~
As for whether this might disadvantage Harry...
Even if Tom later held a grudge against Harry, it wouldn't matter.
They were destined to be mortal enemies, with only one of them surviving.
Dumbledore might even approve - this was helping advance his Chosen One project, after all.
'What a good person I am.'
Wayne couldn't help breaking into a guileless smile, while Tom in the diary needed several moments to process this. He needed to recalibrate.
Following normal progression, shouldn't Harry now be expressing delight, empathising, and eventually becoming inseparable friends under his careful guidance?
How had it suddenly escalated to addressing him as Young Master Potter, with friendship off the table?
[Harry... aren't we friends?]
Tom carefully chose his words.
[Between friends, should status and position really matter?]
[Back when I was still the head of the student council at school, a Slytherin alumnus with many pure-blood friends, none of them ever made me call them 'Young Master'.]
"Tom, times have changed."
Wayne got into the rhythm and began writing furiously: "These are all rules told to me by another pure-blood aristocrat, Malfoy. He has two lackeys, Crabbe and Goyle. In public, they pretend to be his friends, but privately they always call him 'Young Master Malfoy'."
"Since it's just the two of us here, we can skip the formalities. You call me 'Young Master Potter', and I'll call you Tom. No need to stand on ceremony."
Tom: "..."
'Is this really about the ceremony?'
'You're so impressive, inheritor of the 25 pure-blood families, so noble.'
'I, Tom Riddle, made a vow when I left Wool's Orphanage.'
'I'll climb step by step to the very top!'
'I'll become the king who rules the magical world!'
'And you want me to call you 'Young Master'?!'
Tom's hatred surged with negative emotions, yet he could do nothing about 'Harry'.
"Tom, why have you gone quiet?"
[No, Harry....]
"Call me Young Master Potter."
The notebook's yellowed pages showed faint creases.
[Young Master Potter, I'm just rather weak. This notebook's inherent magical power is too feeble to keep me constantly awake.]
"Then rest in peace. If you ever stop replying, I'll burn the notebook as your burial offering."
'That won't be necessary!'
Tom was nearly driven mad by 'Harry's' twisted logic.
'Shouldn't you be thinking of ways to help me? Why destroy the evidence instead?!'
[Use some animal blood or high-quality ink when you write.]
Tom hastily amended.
[Young Master Potter, as the heir of a noble pure-blood family, you surely wouldn't be poor enough to spare such expenses?]
"Of course not. I'll buy some tomorrow, don't worry."
Tom finally felt somewhat appeased.
[Young Master Potter... could you tell me about recent developments in the wizarding world? I'm quite curious.]
Wayne curled his lip. "Why does a notebook have so much curiosity?"
[Ha, I just want to know how much time has passed since my era, whether you still hear familiar names.]
In truth, Tom wanted to know whether his future self had become the world's most powerful Dark Wizard, ruling the entire magical world.
Time wasn't an issue - since this Horcrux still existed, his main body must still be alive.
The only thing unsettling him was that Gryffindor House still existed...
He'd once resolved that upon succeeding, he'd definitely reform Hogwarts.
Wasteful houses like Gryffindor and Hufflepuff had no reason to exist.
Ravenclaw might barely be useful, given that some of its members were reasonably intelligent.
"Really want to know?"
[Really.]
Tom's response was eager.
"Help me with something, and I'll tell you."
[Go ahead, ask me any course-related questions you don't understand.]
Tom was confident. What difficult questions could a second-year wizard possibly have? This was the perfect opportunity to demonstrate his value.
"Write this week's Defence Against the Dark Arts homework for me, and I'll tell you."
That's right. Even though Lockhart had been hospitalised, he'd still assigned homework.
The task was to write an essay analysing the 'glorious' deeds from any of his works. Wayne had no intention of composing a piece glorifying Lockhart. If Tom didn't help, he simply wouldn't do it.
Upon seeing the task, Tom was speechless yet again.
'What the hell is wrong with Hogwarts? How has Defence Against the Dark Arts homework become this absurd?'
'Is this even a magic school anymore?'
"Tom, are you helping or not?" Wayne pressed.
[I'll help, of course.]
Tom replied quickly.
Pleased, Wayne scribbled Lockhart's requirements onto parchment before ignoring the diary entirely.
In truth, Tom wasn't nearly as weak as he claimed. Whenever writing in the notebook, Wayne's magical power would subtly drain away. Had he not been perceptive and acutely aware of his own magical fluctuations, he might never have noticed Tom's little trick.
'Since you're being sneaky, you can obediently be my slave.'
Leaving Tom aside, Wayne began writing to Fleur in France.
The promised weekly letters to the half-Veela had proven impossible—mainly because there wasn't much to say.
Should he detail his daily... closeness with Hermione and Cho?
Wayne wasn't that stupid.
So he'd settled for two or three letters a month.
While checking his system points earlier, he noticed several were from Fleur's sales of magical items, reminding him he hadn't written to the beauty since the term started.
The system was generous—sales from Beauxbatons also counted towards his points at the same one-to-five ratio, with no deductions.
Fleur had been an enormous help this time. He'd have to thank her properly when they next met.
And Gabrielle, too. Fleur's last reply had included a scrawled note from the little girl, riddled with spelling mistakes.
She'd demanded letters from Wayne as well, complaining that once her sister returned to school, anything sent to Fleur would be beyond her reach.
To ensure the little one could understand, Wayne had even included simple doodles.
Exhausting work.
By the time Wayne finished, Tom was nearly done too.
The essay was full of praise yet devoid of sincerity—exactly as Wayne wanted. With a tap of his wand, the inked characters floated off like tadpoles and settled onto the prepared parchment.
"Thanks, Tom."
[No need. Aren't we friends?]
"Of course. But call me Young Master Potter."
[...Yes, Young Master Potter.]
Tom was thoroughly exasperated.
'Why is this brat so impossible to manipulate?'
[I've done your homework. Now, will you tell me about the current state of the magical world?]
"Too late now. Time for bed. I'll fill you in when I have time."
"Goodnight, Tom."
Snap!
Wayne shut the diary decisively and locked it away. Chatting with a man late at night was utterly dreadful.
After a quick wash, Wayne tossed Jerry—who had been fiddling with the brooch on his clothes—into the trunk and prepared to sleep.
Then he suddenly sneezed loudly.
"Achoo!"
'Who's cursing me?'
Wayne's mood instantly soured. As such a model Hufflepuff, which wicked Dark Wizard dared to curse him?
If he ever found out who it was, he'd make sure to reward them with a few lightning bolts.
...
Meanwhile.
In the wild forests of Albania.
A swirl of black mist erupted from a rat's body, enveloping a raccoon several times its size.
Minutes later, the mist dissipated, and the raccoon had vanished—only a few scattered bones remained on the ground.
Voldemort hadn't been having a good time lately.
He was downright miserable.
After his awkward escape from Hogwarts, he had returned to his old lair, where he'd hidden for ten years. He had assumed he'd have to lie low again, waiting for another Quirrell-like fool to stumble into his grasp.
But Voldemort never imagined things could get even worse.
His snake was gone!
Where was his enormous snake?!
Already weakened from the effort of fleeing, Voldemort had exhausted himself further searching for Nagini, scouring the entire area.
Yet he found nothing.
In the end, he was so feeble that he could only possess a rat.
A rat!
Prey for snakes!
The humiliation was unbearable. Voldemort was seething with rage, but no matter how hard he looked, she was nowhere to be found.
Forced to inhabit the body of a creature he once despised, he hunted weak prey while keeping an eye out for Nagini.
He had a sinking feeling—someone had taken his snake.
Voldemort's agonised howl echoed through the silent forest.
"Whoever you are, if I find you, I'll subject you to the Cruciatus Curse for three days and nights!"
"Without a single moment's respite!"
...
The next morning.
Wayne had completely forgotten the promise he'd made the night before. After waking up, he headed straight to the Great Hall for breakfast.
For a proper Hufflepuff, mealtime was the most sacred part of the day.
No hesitation. No delays.
"Lawrence!"
Before he could even step through the Great Hall's entrance, a voice called out from the side chamber.
Wayne turned to see Oliver Wood, the Gryffindor Quidditch Captain, peering around cautiously.
"Can you come here for a sec?"
Wood glanced around nervously, ensuring no Slytherins were nearby, then beckoned.
Baffled, Wayne walked over and was pulled into the side chamber.
Inside, it wasn't just Wood—the rest of the Gryffindor Quidditch team was there too. Including Harry and the twins, all of them were yawning, barely able to keep their eyes open.
"I heard from Granger yesterday—you said Slytherin has seven Nimbus 2001s?"
Oliver Wood's voice trembled.
"I thought Hermione said she wouldn't tell you?" Wayne stared at him in surprise.
Harry, stifling another yawn, raised his hand. "Wood overheard her when she was telling me. He's been obsessing over it all night and dragged us down here early to wait for you."
'What a madman...'
Wayne was impressed. Wood was genuinely obsessed with Quidditch—no wonder he'd never had a girlfriend by seventh year. The Bludger was probably his girlfriend.
Since he already knew, Wayne saw no point in hiding it. "Malfoy told me himself during Herbology class the other day. He even joined the team as Seeker."
That woke up the other Quidditch players.
"Blimey... bought his way in, didn't he?" George clicked his tongue in disapproval.
"That's common in some countries—you can't play unless you pay," Spinnet chimed in, suddenly remembering something.
"The Quidditch teams there are terrible. Never even qualified for the World Cup."
"I know, I know." Wayne nodded. "You mean India, right?"
"Exactly."
As they chatted, Wood looked utterly defeated.
First Hufflepuff, now Slytherin—each outdoing the other with their extravagance.
Since when did Quidditch matches become this brutally difficult?
This was supposed to be sports, not some pay-to-win game...
"Don't worry about it." Wayne patted his shoulder sympathetically. "You've still got Harry. As long as he catches the Golden Snitch before their brooms give them an advantage, you'll be fine."
Whoosh!
Wood immediately turned to Harry, bloodshot eyes gleaming with intensity, startling him.
"Harry, we start training at eight this Saturday!" Wood declared fervently.
Harry grimaced. "Isn't that a bit early?"
"Don't you want to win the cup?" Wood grabbed Harry's shoulders. "You're Gryffindor's last hope!"
"Alright, fine."
Under Wood's hopeful gaze, Harry shot Wayne a resentful glance.
Daytime training, evening tutoring—his weekend was ruined...
...
Wayne returned to the Great Hall.
Before long, Cho arrived with a group of girls. Spotting him, she excused herself from her friends and made her way to the Hufflepuff table.
Hannah and Toby instinctively scooted aside to make room for her.
They were long accustomed to this routine—if it wasn't Hermione, it was Cho.
Sometimes it would be Penelope, Ravenclaw's new Prefect this year.
Now the young wizards at school were all speculating that Wayne was targeting the prettiest girl from each year...
Hearing this rumour, the person in question was speechless.
Why limit it to just one?
"Cho, what's wrong?" Wayne mumbled through a mouthful of bread.
Cho first brought him a cup of warm milk. Only after Wayne drank it did she ask quietly: "Can you accompany me to Hogsmeade this weekend? Senior Penelope told me about a secret passage that leads directly to Hogsmeade. We could sneak there without anyone noticing."
Having said this, the girl gazed at Wayne with hopeful, liquid eyes.
Cho was now in her third year, and the first term this year included Hogsmeade weekends. She'd long heard that Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop was a famous dating spot. So the moment she could visit Hogsmeade, she'd come straight to find the boy.
"Er..."
Wayne set down his cup, took her hand as he observed her cautious expression.
"Of course. This weekend, you said?"
"Yes, this Saturday."
"Alright." Under Cho's delighted gaze, Wayne agreed decisively.
"But there's no need to sneak around. I'll talk to the Headmaster—maybe he'll grant me special permission to go directly."
"Really?" The girl brightened even more.
Cho considered this a proper date—if they could go openly, so much the better.
"Shouldn't be a problem." Wayne didn't promise absolutely, but given his relationship with Dumbledore, he reckoned the old man would help with such a small favour.
In the original timeline, Harry had been strictly monitored due to Sirius Black's threat—even with parental permission, the school probably wouldn't have let him go.
Wayne was different. If he really wanted to go, even old Dumbledore couldn't stop him. There's no point in creating obstacles over trivial matters.
After seeing off the beaming Cho, Wayne found Cedric.
"Got any Hogsmeade guides? Give me one."
Cedric looked at him in surprise: "What do you need that for? You can't go."
"Just in case. Hurry up."