Inside Tom's consciousness, twelve grand constellations glimmered like celestial palaces suspended above a vast, star-filled ocean.
The first four palaces shone brightly , radiant pillars of his past trials.
The fifth gave off a faint, wavering light, neither dormant nor alive.
And beyond it, the remaining constellations slept in silence , cold, dark, waiting.
The Sixth Trial had yet to awaken.
Tom frowned, watching the dim constellation pulse faintly, then shrugged. "Fine. Be dramatic, then."
Bored of staring into the void, he reached into his robes, pulled out the Diary, and tapped it twice with his wand.
"Hey, little Voldy. Let's chat."
[...]
No response.
Tom grinned. "Oh, come on, don't be such a grudge-holding diva. You act like we've got some ancient blood feud."
[How dare you say that?!] the ink flared to life, words searing onto the page in jagged handwriting.
[You tortured me yesterday , five times , with the Cruciatus Curse!]
[All because I refused to write 'Voldemort is an idiot' so you could immortalize my humiliation in your notes!]
Tom chuckled. "Ah, that's ancient history. You've got to learn to let go, little Voldy. Getting worked up over every little thing , where's your dark lord composure?"
[You… you, ]
"Oh, by the way," Tom interrupted, tone light, "do you know Grindelwald?"
There was a pause. Then slow, deliberate handwriting appeared:
[Of course. A relic of the past. A failure who was defeated by Dumbledore.]
Tom's grin widened. He could almost hear Voldemort's sneer through the ink.
"Interesting," Tom murmured. "Funny how you call him a failure , when you lost to a one-year-old."
[You insolent brat!]
The ink nearly tore through the page, the diary vibrating in fury.
[I was not defeated by that child! It was his mother's magic , something ancient and unknown , that ruined me! I was robbed!]
Tom tilted his head innocently. "So… what you're saying is that you lost because you didn't have a mum?"
[...]
If a disembodied soul could grind its teeth, Voldemort's would be dust by now.
But Tom wasn't done twisting the knife.
"You know, little Voldy, let's put your tragic mommy issues aside for a moment. Even by pure influence and scope, you're leagues beneath Grindelwald."
[Watch your tongue!]
"Why? Because it's true?" Tom leaned back, smirking. "He conquered half of Europe, had wizards trembling from Berlin to Buenos Aires. The man reshaped the world. You? You caused a bit of chaos in Britain. Maybe scared a few Englishmen into whispering your name. But outside the Isles? You're a nobody."
He paused, letting that sink in. "If anyone dares compare you to Grindelwald, the old guard would die laughing."
[You, you insolent, what are you trying to say?!]
"Oh, nothing much," Tom said pleasantly. "Just that vision matters. You wasted your potential squabbling over one country. And look where it got you , eating rats in an Albanian forest."
The Diary was silent.
Then: [...How do you know about that?]
Tom smirked. "You're not exactly discreet, little Voldy. Half the centaurs in Albania gossip about 'the bald ghost that screams at trees.'"
He snapped the book shut before Voldemort could retort further, sealing the enchantment with a flick of his wand.
"Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got better things to do than emotionally counsel a noseless ex–Dark Lord."
As the diary's faint vibration subsided, Tom turned back to his consciousness realm , and saw it.
The Sixth Palace had begun to tremble.
Its faint glow pulsed like a heartbeat, deepening into a greenish hue that spread across the starlit expanse.
A voice, ancient and resonant, echoed in his mind:
[Sixth Trial , The Serpent]
In days long past, Heracles drew forth the Hydra from its swamp and struck down the serpent whose heads defied death. He shattered the crab sent by Hera and burned the creature's wounds to ash.
To succeed, the host must slay both the Basilisk and the Eight-Eyed Spider King, outside their lairs. Complete the Trial of the Serpent.
Rewards: Eyes of Death Perception, Immunity to All Venoms, Mastery of Toxins, and the Body of Longevity.
Tom's eyes widened , then relaxed, a satisfied smile curving his lips.
"So I was right."
He had guessed from the start that the Basilisk would be part of the trial. The timing, the serpent motif, the layered symbolism , it all fit.
If he had killed it prematurely, the entire palace's evolution might have frozen, or the trial might have reset with even harsher terms.
Now, everything was aligning perfectly.
He stood in the quiet of his mind, the faint rumble of destiny thrumming in his veins.
Outside, winter winds howled around Hogwarts , but within Tom's soul, a different storm was rising.
A trial of venom, vision, and death itself.
And for Tom Riddle, that meant only one thing:
It was time to hunt.