[Animal blood—preferably from magical beasts. Ginny managed to supply me with plenty of chicken blood. Without it, I would never have had the strength to speak with you at all. I'd have long since fallen back into slumber.]
"But what you really wanted," Tom wrote lazily, "was my life force, wasn't it?"
The diary hesitated. Silence.
Tom chuckled coldly. "Don't bother pretending, Old Tom. Your little tricks can't fool me. You may have Slytherin's legacy, but I have mentors far greater than you. Sit tight while I wring you dry—perhaps, if I'm in a good mood, I'll reward you with a drop of dragon's blood."
How very… Slytherin.
The memory within the diary seethed. Even without a body, he could almost feel his lungs burning. But he had no bargaining power left, no leverage—only the choice to endure, to gather strength quietly, like a viper coiled in the shadows waiting for its strike.
[I understand.]
The line faded into view, followed soon by an outpouring of magical knowledge.
Tom's lips curved into a faint, satisfied smile. Exactly as he expected.
No matter which stage of life—whether "Tom Riddle" or "Lord Voldemort"—one thing never changed: fear of death.
The diary never truly saw itself as a Horcrux, a tool. It clung to the illusion of being fifteen-year-old Tom Riddle. And when pressed, humiliated, insulted—still, it chose submission.
Tom flicked his wrist, and sheets of parchment, quills, and ink flew to his side. Each word that appeared on the diary's pages, he copied meticulously, filling ten whole sheets before the flow of text ebbed.
[Tom, this is all I can manage for now. I've reached my limit. After today, I will need to rest for a while—unless you accelerate my recovery.]
The ink grew faint, the last word almost invisible before it vanished.
Tom didn't bother to reply. He closed the diary, gathered his notes, and carried them into the study space, where parchment became tangible records.
Gellert Grindelwald was already waiting, pacing like a wolf in a cage. The moment Tom appeared, the old wizard's sharp eyes lit with hunger.
"You have it?"
When it came to the legacy of Salazar Slytherin, even Grindelwald could not disguise his anticipation.
Tom spread the parchments. "Just the basics. You'll check for errors—if he tried to slip in deliberate falsehoods, I'll make him regret it."
Grindelwald nodded, and Tom duplicated the records, passing a copy to Andros.
Salazar Slytherin had lived a millennium ago, at the twilight of the chaotic old magical order and the dawn of structured, modern sorcery. His lore straddled both worlds. Perfect for two veterans—Andros and Grindelwald—to dissect separately.
They poured over the pages, cross-examining every detail. At last, their gazes met, and both inclined their heads.
"No tampering," Grindelwald said quietly. "At least not this time."
Andros added with a grin, "He's only a fifth-year memory. Even if he wanted to forge advanced knowledge, he wouldn't have had the skill. Any nonsense, we'd have spotted instantly."
Tom smirked. "Looks like my predecessor knows when to bend. Dangle him a taste of reward, and he rolls over nicely."
Grindelwald arched an eyebrow. "He'll want stronger beast blood next. Shall I… enhance it a little? Slip in something subtle? A fifth-year whelp won't notice."
Tom tapped his chin. "And what about Dumbledore? Would he notice?"
That silenced Grindelwald. He grimaced, shoulders stiffening. Albus Dumbledore—greatest white wizard of the century. Which did not mean his mastery of the Dark Arts was any weaker. If he chose to look closely…
"…If it were me, I'd fool him. But you?" Grindelwald coughed delicately. "Better not to risk it."
Tom tilted his head. "Then you think I won't give the diary to Dumbledore?"
"You'd keep it?" Grindelwald's eyes narrowed.
"Of course not." Tom's look was almost incredulous. "What good is Voldemort to me once I've drained him dry? He'll be nothing but a nuisance. Handing the diary to the Headmaster makes far more sense. He'll see me as a boy who, even when offered temptation, chose trust and honesty. I look like the model student. And I drop the problem in his lap. Perfect, isn't it?"
Grindelwald stared at him, then let out a long breath. "…You're ruthless, boy. You've read Dumbledore like a book. Mischief he'll forgive. Even when you upended his plans with Lockhart, he let it pass. But in the big things… you show loyalty, wisdom, restraint. He'll see you as another Newt Scamander."
Beside him, Andros sighed heavily. Being the blunt one among two schemers was exhausting.
"Let the old man have his burdens," Grindelwald muttered at last. "Dumbledore could use the exercise."
Tom ignored him, turning to Andros. "Don't forget what I asked of you. I'm counting on results."
Andros nodded.
Grindelwald frowned. "What did he ask you to do?"
"Nothing much." Andros scratched his beard. "He wants a method to destroy the soul fragment without harming the diary itself."
Grindelwald blinked. "And why didn't he ask me?"
"Because," Andros said honestly, "he thinks you're a destructive lunatic. Precision work isn't your strength."
Grindelwald's face twitched violently. Destructive lunatic? He—a frail scholar—was being compared to this mountain of muscle? Outrageous.
The next morning, a new week began.
Tom rose early, dragging Astoria with him to guard the entrance of the Slytherin common room. Every first-year who emerged, he stopped and corralled.
Within minutes, the entire crop of trembling eleven-year-olds stood gathered before him, exchanging nervous glances, unsure why they'd been summoned.
Older students loitered too, curious to see what mischief Riddle was planning this time.
Tom let them sweat only briefly. Then he clasped his hands behind his back and said smoothly—
"There's something I need your help with."
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