The words were written down, yet the diary gave no immediate response.
It was as though the sentence that had appeared earlier had been nothing more than an illusion.
[So it is you. To encounter, fifty years later, a student who bears the same name as I do—what a curious twist of fate.]
Two whole minutes passed before the diary finally revealed this faint, slanted line of ink.
But of course, the fragment of Voldemort's soul hidden within the diary was not nearly as calm as it pretended to be.
Events had veered far off the expected course—somehow the diary had slipped out of Ginny Weasley's hands and ended up with this Tom Riddle. And judging by what it had already uncovered, this boy knew far too much.
Foolish little redhead. The Weasleys were always good for nothing but trouble.
Yet Voldemort knew panic would be his undoing. To survive, he had to mask everything, to deny everything. Ginny Weasley was a gullible simpleton—she remembered nothing substantial, only scraps of suspicion and incoherent fragments.
Tom tapped the page again, ink bleeding into words:
"Tom or Riddle—it's far too common a name in Britain. Shout 'Tom Riddle' in the streets and a dozen people will turn around."
[But we are not like them, are we? We walked into the magical world and became outstanding students.]
Tom smirked at the answer. "I like your honesty, Little Tom. Ginny told me everything—how you wormed your way into her trust, step by step, until she handed you her secrets, and you opened the Chamber… and attacked students."
[I don't know what you're talking about.]
"Feigning ignorance won't save you. Tell me—if I were to write with ink brewed from cow dung, how would you feel about our conversation then?"
The fragment's rage spiked. If he had a body, Tom Marvolo Riddle would already have raised his wand and blasted this insolent boy with a Killing Curse.
[You filthy—Tom Riddle, how dare you!]
"Spare me. You're Tom Riddle too. If you keep wasting my time, I'll find something even fouler to dip my quill in."
The diary fell silent for a long moment. Then finally—
[…You win, Tom.]
The words bled slowly across the parchment. Voldemort's memory could no longer deny it. This boy's confidence, his unflinching attitude, had cornered him completely. Pretending further would only make him look ridiculous.
[Yes. It was I who guided Ginny to open the Chamber. And yes, the monster within is the basilisk bred by Salazar Slytherin himself. As his heir, I merely honored the will of my noble ancestor.]
[Tom—since we share not only a name but so much else besides, I asked Ginny about you. She told me you are a Muggle-born, and yet you shattered the Sorting Hat's record. That alone proves noble blood runs through your veins somewhere.]
[The same name. A parallel childhood. Power and talent that rise far above your peers. You and I are… very much alike.]
[And to deduce the basilisk's presence merely from hints? Even I did not anticipate such sharp insight.]
[So let me guess—you realized I was behind this, but you did not hand the diary to Dumbledore. That means you want something from me. And what else could it be but Slytherin's legacy?]
[Yes. Every Slytherin carries ambition. And I can help you. My ancestor's greatest secrets—rituals, knowledge, enchantments—were nearly all burned, destroyed so no rival might steal them. But I preserved them here, in these pages.]
Tom chuckled softly and swapped his quill for a fresh one.
"Your observation is sharp as well, Old Tom. You guessed right—I do want Slytherin's legacy. He was a sorcerer whose name shook the world. Since fate delivered you into my hands, you'll serve me now. Bring forth the true legacy of Slytherin. And don't you dare try to fob me off with forgeries. I'm not Ginny—I'm no fool."
Far away, Ginny sneezed violently while gossiping with Luna.
[To seize what is mine by force is hardly the mark of a noble wizard.]
"Noble? You're a diary, mate. Don't preach to me about nobility. Obey, or I'll chuck you into a centaur's dung pit."
The diary pulsed with silent outrage.
How could such a crude, vulgar brat possibly have been Sorted into Slytherin? How could he have undone the grand design Voldemort had laid last year?! Was there no justice left in the world?
The memory tried probing again, reaching tendrils of influence outward as it had with Ginny. But against this boy? It was like waves crashing against a mountain. Nothing took root. He could not move him.
So Voldemort did the only thing a true Slytherin could.
He endured.
He bided his time.
[Tom, you must understand—I am only a memory, etched here when I was fifteen. The work was imperfect, unpolished. Fifty years have passed. Many of my recollections are hazy, some lost. The diary itself has suffered damage. If I had energy to restore myself, I could give you far more—true secrets, true power. Perhaps even the mantle of Heir of Slytherin itself.]
Tom narrowed his eyes, the smirk tugging again at his lips. "Energy, is it?"