Within the diary, the sixteen-year-old Tom Riddle—Voldemort himself—was seized by a wave of terror and confusion.
How could a mere fourteen-year-old have uncovered his most closely guarded secret?
His mind raced, frantically calculating his options. For now, he decided to probe for the source of this boy's knowledge—then he'd decide whether to cut and run.
Tom Cruise waited nervously for the diary's reply.
A single sentence appeared on the page:
"Why would you say that?"
Tom's heart leapt. The diary's hesitation and evasive question all but confirmed his suspicions. He was both elated and deeply unsettled.
On the one hand, if the diary's owner was really like the story, he'd have a professor-level advisor at his side—maybe even someone who could teach him how to charm girls. On the other hand, he was dealing with a master of the Dark Arts, someone who could seize control of him without warning.
After a moment's thought, Tom decided to try reasoning with the person sealed inside the diary. Maybe the control was just the means to fulfill some lingering wish—and if he helped, perhaps he could earn even greater rewards.
He wrote:
"You're not really Tom Riddle, are you? Your real name is John Prince, right?
Also called the Half-Blood Prince...
Tom Riddle is your mistress's name, isn't it...?"
Inside the diary, Voldemort was thrown into utter chaos.
I'm… my own mistress?
Who on earth is John Prince?
Half-Blood Prince? Don't be absurd—I am the Dark Lord, not some prince.
What kind of nonsense is this?
Voldemort quickly wrote back:
"Dearest Cruise, I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about.
Could you tell me where you heard I'm a fragment of someone's body, sealed in a diary?
And who is John Prince?
In return, I'll teach you a very powerful spell—one even the Hogwarts professors don't know!"
Tom Cruise frowned at the diary's reply. He'd all but spelled it out, and still the other refused to admit it. Maybe the story used aliases? But the diary's anxiety was proof enough—there really was a piece of someone inside.
After some deliberation, he summarized the story he'd read and wrote it out for the diary.
Voldemort was silent for a long time.
For a brief moment, he almost saw himself in this "John Prince"—half-blood, brilliant, devastatingly handsome. But there were differences too; he certainly didn't recall ever failing to win over a Muggle-born girl. That was an insult. Still, he'd always had his ways with admirers.
As for the seven objects mentioned in the story, even he wasn't entirely sure. He was, after all, the first soul fragment—created with only the memories up to his sixteenth year. His original purpose had been to guide another along his path, to fulfill Salazar Slytherin's noble ambition.
He didn't know how many more Horcruxes had been made after him, or what they were hidden in.
Muttering to himself in the diary, Voldemort pondered:
"Xenophilius Lovegood?
Was he a classmate?
No, no, if he was, he couldn't possibly know so much.
Or… has the final Horcrux been revived?"
He'd already learned from Tom Cruise that, years ago, another version of himself had been destroyed by a baby, in the most humiliating way imaginable.
In the end, he decided he needed to see the full story for himself—maybe there were clues hidden within.
—
Still waiting for a reply, Tom Cruise suddenly blacked out again.
When he came to, he was still seated at his desk—only now, his body felt utterly drained. And there, atop his desk, was an open copy of The Quibbler.
Furious, Tom snatched up his quill and scrawled furiously:
"What did you do to me?
Why can you control me at will?
Imperius Curse!
Don't think I don't know!!!"
Inside the diary, Voldemort was exasperated.
Why couldn't the diary have fallen into the hands of a first-year? Or at least a Hufflepuff or Gryffindor?
A fourth-year Ravenclaw—even a timid, self-doubting one—wasn't so easy to manipulate. Clearly, the boy had been wary all along. Otherwise, he wouldn't have suspected something after reading just one story.
Maybe he'd been too hasty, let his guard down too soon. With a few more months, the boy might have trusted him completely.
It was all that new professor's fault—if not for his meddling, things wouldn't have gotten so out of hand.
But right now, he had to placate this kid. And then, he'd have to find out just who this "Xenophilius Lovegood" really was.
He wrote:
"Oh, dearest Tom, forgive my rashness.
Pardon a poor soul sealed away for fifty years—my curiosity about the outside world got the better of me…
And no, it wasn't the Imperius Curse, nor was it any sort of dark magic…
Surely you've noticed, Tom Riddle is indeed my name…
And no, I wasn't dismembered and sealed away by some mistress…
No, you must believe me!
I was created by a great wizard, meant to guide young witches and wizards through their confusion…
Being able to 'control' someone is simply an advanced learning aid…
For example, you might wake up and find you're suddenly much better at a particular spell…
Yes, yes, I'm just an enchanted tool for magical study…
Dear Tom—oh, how could I forget, my name is Tom as well.
Fate has brought us together in such a mysterious way…
Trust me, I'm here to help you…"
—
Meanwhile, far away near the village of Ottery St. Catchpole,
Xenophilius Lovegood, editor of The Quibbler, his wild white hair like spun sugar, was humming a tune as he watched the latest batch of magazines tumble out of the printing press.
He was deeply grateful to the anonymous fan who'd sent in the story. True, it hadn't made him rich (yet), but those fifty Galleons and today's new subscribers had made him positively giddy.
Just then, an owl swooped in.
"Oh, another Hogwarts owl! My little fans are multiplying," he said, delighted.
He opened the letter—no Knuts inside, just a single line:
"Do you remember Tom Marvolo Riddle?"
He scrutinized the note, even tried a revealing charm, but found nothing more.
He muttered, puzzled,
"Tom Marvolo Riddle… Who's that?"
He racked his brains, but nothing came. With a shrug, he tossed the note aside, then waved his hands in the air as if shooing away invisible pests.
"Must be Wrackspurts. Yes, Wrackspurts—they mess with my head and steal my memories.
I can't remember who Tom Marvolo Riddle is at all."
—
Time flew by.
Friday arrived before anyone knew it.
Rumors about Douglas grew wilder, while the Half-Blood Prince story faded into the background.
Neither Douglas nor the other professors made any move to quell the gossip. Perhaps they thought a little awe for Hogwarts after dark was a good thing.
Even Mr. Filch, who'd been terrified at first, relaxed after a private chat with Douglas—after all, he was the main man on night patrol, and if he ever did run into that creature, there wasn't much he could do anyway.
To Douglas's regret, Snape seemed to have locked himself away all week, brewing some new potion. Apart from classes, he was nowhere to be seen. Douglas had wandered near the dungeons several times, but Snape never showed any sign of knowing about the Half-Blood Prince story.
If it wouldn't have been so obvious, Douglas would've loved to toss a copy of The Quibbler right in Snape's face.
But this morning, Douglas noticed on the Marauder's Map that Snape had finally left his office and was heading for the Great Hall.
He quickly left a note for the house-elf, asking them to bring his breakfast to the hall, and hurried off.
As he reached the stairs, he spotted Snape just stepping into the hall.
After several days away, the Great Hall struck Snape as unusually noisy. He frowned.
Then, he caught a familiar phrase—"…Half-Blood Prince…"
He froze, then stopped, straining to hear more. Had he misheard?
But the students who'd been chatting—backs to Snape—caught sight of him thanks to a friend's warning. Their faces stiffened; they clammed up at once, and one of them snatched the magazine off the table, hurriedly trying to hide it under the desk.
~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~
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