A few days after Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy's departure, Charles received a letter and a parcel from Malfoy Manor.
The letter was filled with disgustingly sycophantic praise—clearly the kind of obsequious flattery Lucius had learned from years spent groveling at Voldemort's feet. Charles felt slightly nauseated just skimming it. He honestly had no idea how Voldemort ever tolerated that man.
"Then again," Charles muttered, shaking his head, "that guy did enjoy making people lick his boots."
He opened the parcel. Inside was a thin, black, worn-out notebook and a small key.
The key, according to the letter, belonged to a Gringotts vault containing a few thousand Galleons—Lucius's so-called compensation for having withheld information.
Based on J.K. Rowling's own conversion rate of one Galleon to five pounds, that amounted to just over ten thousand pounds. Not a small sum—but for the Malfoy family, it was practically pocket change. Still, since Lucius hadn't participated in the recent mess, it was a decent gesture.
More importantly, Lucius promised to take over several of the estates and properties once owned by the pure-blood families Charles had eliminated—and to forward a portion of the profits to him later.
Now that was the real prize.
In short, Lucius was broadening his horizons—and no wonder he managed to survive till the end of the story.
Setting the key aside, Charles picked up the black notebook. Outwardly, it looked ordinary enough.
But in truth, this notebook was a Horcrux—Voldemort's very first.
Among all of Voldemort's Horcruxes, this one was made from the most mundane material. Perhaps it represented his symbolic farewell to his Muggle origins.
Charles flipped it open and, feigning curiosity, uncapped his pen to write:
"Dumbledore must be senile. He actually hired that useless Quirrell to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts. Doesn't he realize we're taking the Trainer Examination next year?"
The black ink faded the moment it hit the parchment, as though absorbed by the page.
Then, a line of text slowly appeared.
"Are you a student at Hogwarts? My name is Tom Riddle. I was once a student there too."
A faint smile tugged at Charles's lips.
The fish had taken the bait.
Horcruxes were conscious—connected, in some way, to Voldemort himself. Harry and Voldemort had shared such a link, and even Nagini's death had resonated with him.
Voldemort had long known about this psychic connection. Yet after his death, that link had apparently been severed.
In the original timeline, he'd never checked on his Horcruxes precisely because he hadn't felt any being destroyed.
No doubt, Tom Riddle was now deeply confused—unable to sense his master's presence.
"Tom Riddle, you say? This diary's yours?"
Charles wrote, feigning ignorance.
Tom's reply came quickly, almost frantic.
"Yes, it's mine! Where did you get it?"
He knew full well he'd never have left such a precious Horcrux lying around—let alone let it fall into the hands of an unknown wizard.
"My name's Harry Potter. I found this diary not long ago."
Naturally, Charles had no intention of revealing his true identity, so he borrowed Harry's name instead.
Harry: ???
Tom, of course, had no idea what that name meant yet. Still, he felt a faint kinship—after all, both "Tom" and "Harry" were terribly common names.
So common that half of Britain's men were named Tom, and the other half, Harry.
Although curiosity burned within him, Tom didn't ask about the current world just yet. Instead, he planned to lure this "Harry" in—to drain his life force and seize control.
But first, he had to lower his guard.
"Hello, Harry. May I call you that? You can call me Tom. I think we could become good friends."
Young Voldemort had always been a master of deceit. In his youth, he'd fooled plenty of naive schoolgirls, widows, wealthy matrons… even the occasional gullible ghostly lady.
Now he aimed to deceive Charles—but unfortunately for him, Charles was an even better liar.
Armed with knowledge far beyond Tom's era, Charles was confident he could completely outfox the "future Dark Lord."
"Friends, huh? We'll see. So how come you're stuck in a book? Or are you some kind of dark magic text? If our Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher weren't such a total idiot, I'd have brought you to him for examination."
Tom: …
"I'm not a Dark artifact, nor am I trapped in this book. I'm merely a memory—a preserved fragment of Tom Riddle. Like you, I once studied at Hogwarts. If you don't believe me, check the trophy case in the Award Room. You'll still find my name engraved there."
Tom didn't dare provoke suspicion. The last thing he wanted was for this boy to hand the diary over to Dumbledore.
He kept writing, eager to convince.
"I was a prefect and Head Boy back then—top of my class in every subject! You said your Defense teacher isn't up to standard? I can teach you myself!"
Ah, the arrogance of youth. Tom was practically beaming with pride. This "Harry Potter" clearly adored learning—surely an ideal pupil! Once he dangled a bit of knowledge, he'd have him wrapped around his finger.
"You sure about that?" Charles wrote.
"Of course! Not just Defense—test me on any subject you like. If I can't answer, I'll admit defeat."
Tom practically radiated smugness; he thought the boy's skepticism would only make his brilliance shine brighter.
Charles grinned.
"All right then, let's start with a first-year question. Though honestly, I doubt you can answer it."
He wrote slowly.
"Question: You encounter a Nidoking in the wild. You have a Raichu, a Poliwrath, and a Charizard—each roughly the same level. Which Pokémon would be the easiest to defeat Nidoking with?"
Tom: ???What are you talking about?Nido… what?
(End of Chapter)