"It's been a month. According to our agreement, it's your turn to help me achieve my goal."
Sean stared at the diary lying open before him. Over the past month, it had become an invaluable source of knowledge. Thanks to it, his skills in Potions and Transfiguration had advanced significantly, and even his command over spells—especially the darker ones—had grown sharper.
Of course, draining the diary entirely in just one month was impossible. But Sean had exploited it to the fullest, extracting a wealth of information for free. He was more than satisfied with what he had gained. He knew that even if he followed its instructions to open the Chamber of Secrets, the diary wouldn't simply reveal everything it contained.
Besides, the soul fragment inside was only a shadow of Voldemort's former self—a teenage Tom Riddle, limited to the knowledge he had during his school years. The truly dangerous insights of the Dark Lord's later years were absent. Still, Sean was confident he would one day acquire the rest.
So when that sentence appeared in the diary, Sean didn't hesitate. It was time to squeeze the last bit of use out of it—and make sure it served him one final time.
"I understand. I'll act according to the agreement in the coming days."
As Sean's words vanished from the diary's page, the soul within was momentarily taken aback. It had expected resistance—a bargain, at the very least. It had even prepared to make concessions. But Sean's swift acceptance made it clear: such measures were unnecessary.
As always, Sean treated the diary like his personal tutor. He spent the evening in the Room of Requirement, poring over its knowledge until half an hour before curfew. Then, calmly, he tucked the diary away and exited the room.
On his way back to the Slytherin common room, Barrett had just reached the entrance when he noticed something strange—a figure emerging from the common room, shrouded in drifting black smoke. The figure moved soundlessly, gliding down the passageway deeper into the dungeon.
There was something oddly familiar about the silhouette. Intrigued and unsettled, Barrett hesitated, then quietly followed.
The trail led him to an empty room at the end of the corridor. The moment he stepped inside, a chill ran down his spine. Something was wrong. Instinctively, he turned to leave—
But he didn't make it far.
In an instant, the smoky figure reappeared before him, blocking the exit. Barrett reached for his wand, but before he could raise it, tendrils of black smoke lashed out from the shadows, twisting around his arm and weapon like living ropes.
The smoke around the figure surged and thickened, coalescing into the form of a tall, striking man draped in flowing black robes. His face was handsome—but cold. Unnatural.
Barrett froze, heart pounding.
The dungeon had never felt so far from safety.
Barrett had seen a photograph of Voldemort once—an old, grainy image hidden deep within a restricted section of the library. So the moment the figure emerged from the smoke, with that unmistakable angular face and piercing eyes, recognition struck him like a curse.
"D-Dark… Dark Lord!" he gasped.
Fear was his first instinct. Recognition came next, like remembering a nightmare too clearly.
Sean, cloaked in black smoke, felt a flicker of satisfaction. There was no need to speak. With practiced control, he manipulated the smoke-formed figure—his conjured echo of Voldemort—guiding it forward with slow, ominous steps.
The figure loomed in front of Barrett, then reached out with long, pale fingers to grasp his chin. Barrett flinched but couldn't move—the tendrils of smoke held him fast.
Hidden within the shadows behind the illusion, Sean pressed his wand to his throat and whispered a voice-altering spell. A cold, silken voice emerged from the dark figure's lips, deep and menacing:
"Ah… let me see…"
The figure tilted Barrett's face toward the light.
"A little Slytherin boy who can recognize me at a glance. Impressive."
There was a pause, drawn-out and suffocating.
"You should be thankful," the voice continued, quieter now, more dangerous. "That you're in Slytherin… and not something else."
Barrett's eyes widened, panic warring with awe. "You… you're really him? The Dark Lord… the great Dark Lord?"
The black smoke shifted and coiled as the image of Voldemort slowly circled Barrett, then stopped directly behind him. The voice that emerged from the swirling mist was cold, sharp—and laced with cruel amusement.
"You doubt me. But it doesn't matter," the figure said with a smirk in its tone. "It's true—I've been gone for quite some time. But even after I unleashed the basilisk from the Chamber to cleanse this school, you still question my return?"
The figure let out a soft, disdainful chuckle.
"That makes me wonder… are you really as clever as a Slytherin should be?
A foolish Slytherin… how disgraceful."
He leaned in closer. "Perhaps I should let the basilisk deal with you now—before you embarrass the name of Salazar Slytherin any further."
Barrett trembled, sweat beading at his brow as he looked up at the swirling form cloaked in darkness. "I-I'm not doubting you, my Lord! I swear! I just… I just…"
The voice interrupted, slick and knowing."You're just wondering how I could possibly walk these halls, beneath Dumbledore's nose… and still remain free."
Barrett swallowed hard. "N-no, of course not! The great Dark Lord would never fear that old lunatic Dumbledore!"
Sean, still hidden in the shadows, tightened his grip on the illusion. The black-smoke Voldemort let out a soft, cruel sneer as he stepped toward Barrett, his eyes glowing faintly within the swirling darkness.
"Barrett," the voice said, low and laced with menace. "I know you. I recognized you the moment I saw you. No thought escapes the eyes of Lord Voldemort."
He paused, letting the silence deepen the fear.
"You've been parading around under the banner of my return—gathering children who truly believe in me… only to twist their loyalty for your own petty ambitions."
The figure loomed closer, its smoky form almost whispering against Barrett's skin.
"Tell me, Barrett… how should I deal with someone like you?"
Barrett's legs gave out, and he nearly collapsed to the floor. Pale and trembling, he stared up at the looming form, words stumbling from his lips.
"I—I—it's all a misunderstanding! A misunderstanding, my Lord! I only wanted to… to help—yes! I wanted to welcome your return! That's all! I never—"
His voice faltered as the figure raised a hand—an outstretched, misty palm that reached slowly for his throat.
The illusion of Voldemort gripped his neck with ghostly fingers, cold and weightless, yet suffocating all the same. The expression on his face was one of amused disdain—like a child watching a bug squirm.
"Oh, really?"
The voice turned mocking.
"You and that little Slytherin, Dickey, didn't say that. I saw the memory in your mind. You asked whether anyone in the Bulstrode family would dare break a promise."
The figure's eyes narrowed, glowing brighter.
"Aren't those your thoughts? Or do you imagine that the greatest Legilimens alive… would fail to read the mind of a frightened little Slytherin?"
Barrett's mouth opened to protest—but no words came.
There was no more doubt.
This was him. The Dark Lord had returned.