Late Night – Room 13, Leaky Cauldron
The brass plaque on the door read "13"—not exactly a lucky number.
Down the hall you had a country witch in town for supplies, a hot-tempered transfiguration scholar, a rowdy bunch of goblins, and the young professor who'd checked in today.
Brick walls, floral wallpaper, killer soundproofing. The hallway was dead quiet except for the occasional car horn drifting up from the street. No footsteps, no splashing from the neighbor's sink—nothing.
Standard room: comfy bed, polished oak furniture, plain wardrobe and desk. Fire crackling in the grate—not winter yet, just enough to chase off the night fog.
In the dim glow, a baby snake slithered across the cherry-wood table. Its tail tap-tapped the lamp switch, and the green-shaded light flicked on, bathing half the room in soft gold.
The light spilled over the chair, gilding the young professor's sharp features—handsome, with deep black eyes that swallowed secrets. Long fingers tipped a porcelain vial, letting one or two drops fall into a fancy golden goblet.
Pale mist curled up. A wizard's silhouette shimmered into view—translucent, flickering, expressionless.
"Tom, my friend," Melvin said softly, smiling like they were old pals catching up. "We're back in London."
Riddle stared him down, voice cold. "Legilimency doesn't work on Horcruxes. This is just a memory echo. Save your energy."
"I'm not digging for your secrets," Melvin said patiently. "That night was a fluke—Horcrux magic clashed with the cup. We talked about this." He met those dark, snake-slitted eyes—still black, not red yet.
Riddle's projection locked eyes, trying to read him. Most Horcruxes could pry desires loose—the diary could coax confessions—but nothing beat straight-up mind invasion. Too bad his body was dust; he couldn't use the cup to peek.
Melvin stroked Yurm's scales, shooing the snake to go play. "Grown-up talk."
"When we met, I knew you were dangerous," Riddle said, watching the snake coil toward the wardrobe. "Ambition leaks out of your eyes—just like mine at your age."
That night he'd Apparated in and tried Parseltongue on the snake—first time it ever failed. From then on, he knew this wizard was slippery. Like the snake.
"Voldemort's great at using greed," Melvin said, unruffled. "Our last deal worked out. Professor Gaunt, I can guarantee you'll be Hogwarts' favorite teaching assistant. New prof this term, sure—but you'll still get classroom time. Dig into Harry Potter's origins."
Riddle was quiet a beat. "I don't trust things I can't control. I'm done with the lie game."
"I swear I won't magically pry your secrets."
"Promises are made to be broken. Unbreakable Vows, blood oaths—there's always a loophole. I don't trust anyone. Because I'm that kind of wizard."
"Fair. How about a trade? Business."
Riddle's eyes flickered—interested. "What kind of trade?"
"Questions. I want to capture a few Dementors for study. Nothing in the archives on breeding, communicating, commanding…"
Melvin found it fascinating. The Ministry controlled Dementors with Patronuses—beat them into submission back in the day. Voldemort-types couldn't cast a Patronus. Regular spells bounced off.
"They followed the Dark Lord once," Melvin said. "How?"
Riddle's smile was ice. "Easy. You could do it too."
He caught the jab—Melvin hinting he couldn't cast a Patronus—but shrugged it off. "Pain and fear. Best chains there are."
"Pain and fear for Dementors?"
"Normal spells don't touch them. But the Killing Curse does."
"Aren't they immortal?"
"Young Melvin," Riddle said, swelling with pride, "you've got power, but your knowledge is thin. Conquering death? Only I have done that."
He inhaled like he was tasting victory. "Dementors are just despair twisted into shape. They have bodies. They fear Patronuses. They feel pain. Special, yes—but breakable."
"The Killing Curse can kill them?" Melvin frowned—contradicted everything he'd read.
"No body to destroy. No soul to take." Riddle opened his hand; green light danced. "That's why they feel pain and fear so clearly."
Dementors weren't "alive" like ghosts—immune to most magic. But a soul as cold and cruel as Voldemort's, unleashing an Avada Kedavra with zero remorse? Might actually hurt them.
Melvin's mind raced. His own dark magic ran on unicorn-blessed power—never needed malice. Could his Killing Curse even scratch a Dementor?
Silence stretched. The wall clock ticked.
Minutes later: "How do you talk to them? Give orders?"
"Business is two-way, Melvin. I've delivered. Pay the deposit."
"What do you want?" Melvin shrugged, all honest merchant. "Spy on Dumbledore? Round up acquitted Death Eaters? Kill Harry Potter over the summer?" He jerked a thumb at the wall. "He's next door, by the way."
Riddle's head snapped toward the wall, then shook. "No. The prophecy's chosen enemy dies by my hand. I want out of this cup. A new body."
"What about the main soul wandering around? You ditch him, go solo—then he resurrects too?"
"Don't try to confuse me. We're both Voldemort. There'll only be one in the end."
"Fine, partner. How?"
"Pick a young, strong wizard. Soak him in the tainted cup potion—Inferius-style. Clamp the cup over his face. I'll drain his soul, rebuild the flesh."
Riddle stared at his ghostly hands. "Six full-moon baths in starlight, and I walk again."
Melvin paused. A Voldemort showdown sounded epic, but murdering a random fit guy? Hard pass.
He sighed. "Should've mentioned this in Paris—that Purger guy was perfect. Missed opportunity."
Riddle frowned. This "partner" wasn't jumping to help.
"I can give you everything," Riddle urged, earnest. "Power, wealth, the truth of magic—even immortality. If regular wizards are too innocent, take Knockturn Alley scum, pure-blood heirs, Ministry bureaucrats. They deserve it."
Melvin's brain ticked. A criminal to fake it? Wormtail, old Goyle…
But Wormtail was booked for the big show. Pure-bloods were useful for Shadow Mirrors. Fudge wasn't death-penalty bad. Umbridge? No guilt there—but Voldemort wouldn't want her.
Another sigh. "Tom, looks like I'm the shady businessman now."
Riddle opened his mouth—then locked eyes with Melvin. Gray mist flooded the pupils, swallowing the whites into dead ash.
Riddle froze. Eyes glazed.
The clock ticked.
Corrupted magic slithered along memory, diving deep. Riddle drifted—back to childhood. The weak, lonely boy. Ants ganging up on a snake. Whispers behind his back. He'd stare out the orphanage window, dreaming of bricking them into walls, stealing their joy, leaving them hollow—like Dementors.
Melvin's mind pushed further along the Dementor thread—
But Riddle was the greatest Dark wizard ever. The childhood flood triggered alarm. The remnant soul shuddered. The projection vanished.
The goblet rattled, tipped, spilled onto the parchment.
"Woof?"
Yurm peeked from the wardrobe top, tiny voice curious.
Melvin righted the cup, wiped the leftover potion. "Eh, just torched my credibility. Deal's off."
"Woof~"
"Can't be helped. He can't exactly leave a bad review."
His hand paused on the goblet. The snake chatter sparked something. Eyes lit up.
"Can't do business with the cup? There are other Horcruxes."
Diary—done.
Diadem—with Dumbledore.
Cup—trust bankrupt.
Left: locket and Gaunt ring.
Locket in Grimmauld Place—tricky.
Ring in the Gaunt shack—unguarded.
Melvin beckoned Yurm down, scratched its head. "Early night. Tomorrow—Little Hangleton."
"Woof?"
Yurm tilted its head, black eyes gleaming.
---
Meanwhile – Room 11
Harry hunched under the lamp, scratching out a letter to Privet Drive. He'd been at it forever—still no clue what to say. Slower than a History of Magic essay.
Hedwig usually hunted at night, but this letter wasn't done. She perched on the sill, preening at first, then pacing, flapping, hooting impatiently.
Night deepened. Harry still didn't know how to write home. He'd never done it at Hogwarts. He tried Ron's style—daily updates, gripes, feelings—but every two lines he crumpled the parchment.
Apologize for Aunt Marge? Explain he snapped because she trashed his parents?
In the end, he skipped the blow-up. Kept it newsy.
> …Staying in Diagon Alley. All good. Heading straight to Hogwarts at term start.
> Weekend permission slip enclosed—sign the guardian line and give it back to Hedwig.
> No need to feed her—I packed dried mice.
Would the Dursleys sign? Still mad about Marge? They probably wished he'd never come back…
Why'd he even trust Professor Levent? Black was the real problem.
His head was a mess. He cared about Black—rage mixed with fear. A fugitive Dark wizard hunting him—could he even board the Express safely?
Diagon Alley was right next to Knockturn. Den of dark wizards.
Back on Privet Drive, the streetlights were probably still on. Was fat Dudley sneaking midnight snacks—donuts, cake?
He remembered storming out that night. Nowhere to go. Like a stray cat chased from the park, hiding behind bins.
Harry sealed the envelope, added extra dried mice to Hedwig's pack, leaned in to smell her feathers. "Good thing I've got you."
The snowy owl flapped once and vanished into the Diagon Alley night.