Inside the Room of Requirement, the air hung heavy , dark, restless, alive.
Tom Riddle sat before the diary. He hadn't gone to watch the Quidditch match; he couldn't care less about it. Today was about something far more important , and infinitely more dangerous.
His patience had finally run out.
Voldemort , or rather, the echo of him in this diary , had been playing games for too long.
Tom had indulged him, tolerated his arrogance, allowed him to dangle secrets like bait before a shark.
But enough was enough.
If the Dark Lord thought sharing a name would spare him… he was about to learn otherwise.
Tom's eyes gleamed with cold fury as he drew his wand. "Soulbane Plague."
The words left his lips like venom.
A thin ribbon of violet mist began to spiral from the tip of his wand , faint at first, then pulsing with a sickly, rhythmic glow.
The smoke twisted, coalescing midair into a spectral arrow, sharp and trembling with restrained malice.
When he flicked his wrist, the arrow shot forward , straight into the diary.
The moment it struck, the air itself seemed to shudder.
This was no ordinary curse. It was a disease of the soul.
A forbidden spell Grindelwald had once shown him, dark enough to rival the Unforgivable Curses.
It didn't wound flesh or shatter bones , it infected.
It spread like an epidemic, consuming thought, corrupting identity, until its victim disintegrated into madness and oblivion.
Even Andros , who had seen entire civilizations burn , had gone pale when he'd first heard of it.
Grindelwald had made sure to clarify one thing: "Don't blame me for that one. It came from Durmstrang's Restricted Section."
Tom smirked at the memory. When a spell was too dark even for Durmstrang, that said something.
The diary shivered violently on the table. A faint green mist rose from its pages , Voldemort's essence , but the purple infection devoured it instantly.
And then the panicked scrawl appeared.
[What is this curse?! Stop! Tom, stop! We can talk about this!]
For the first time, Voldemort's words were not cold or commanding , they were afraid.
Because this was no mere threat. His very soul , the soul that had once split itself across seven vessels , was being eaten alive.
The diary was supposed to be immortal, a fragment of eternity… but unlike the others, it had been made differently.
It wasn't a proper Horcrux, not truly.
It was more of a marker , a testament to his rebirth, to the moment when Tom Marvolo Riddle shed his name and became Lord Voldemort.
And that was the flaw.
He had poured too much of himself into it , too many memories, too much emotion. Enough to create awareness.
The diary wasn't just a Horcrux. It was alive.
And living things can die.
[Tom! Stop! Destroy me and you gain nothing!]
The room vibrated with a low hum as the purple mist thickened, eating away at the magic in the air. Even Tom could feel its backlash , this curse spared no one. He raised his wand, tracing glowing letters in midair.
"Voldemort, I've given you more chances than you deserve." His writing shimmered like molten silver. "But you mistook mercy for weakness. I may not always get what I want , but no one," he paused, "no one threatens me."
The violet smoke flared brighter.
"I crafted this spell just for you. When it finishes, your soul will dissolve into a plague , no mind, no thought, no control. Just pain. Endless pain. Enjoy it while you can."
[Wait! I yield! I yield!]
The diary pulsed violently. More frantic words bled through the page.
[Tom! I'll tell you everything! The true inheritance of Salazar Slytherin , it's in the Chamber of Secrets! I never destroyed it , I couldn't! It's still there! Just stop this curse!]
Tom's wand froze midair.
[But I want something in return!]
Tom's brow arched. "Still bargaining?"
But curiosity kept his hand still. The plague had already sunk too deep , the corruption couldn't be undone , but the echo could still speak.
[I want to see him.]
The words came slowly now, jagged and fading.
[Harry Potter. If you defeated the future me, I can accept that. But him? Why does he win? I want to see the boy who lived. Once.]
A cold laugh slipped past Tom's lips.
"You want to meet your killer? How poetic. All right , I can give you that. Every condemned man deserves one last look at the noose."
The next line appeared, weak but triumphant.
[Good. Then here , the entrance to the Chamber, and the key to awaken the legacy. But remember… I said see him, Tom. I'll need more than parchment to do that.]
…
By the time Tom left the Room of Requirement, the sky had gone dark.
The Quidditch match was over.
Gryffindor had lost.
The students shuffled through the corridors in silence , red and gold cloaks trailing like defeated banners.
Even Hufflepuff, who had technically won, didn't look pleased.
Harry Potter's sudden collapse midair had soured the entire victory.
Cedric had caught the Snitch easily, but no one cheered , not when the Boy Who Lived had been carried unconscious to the infirmary.
Tom sighed.
So it was connected.
He'd felt the disturbance earlier, like a violent shiver in the magical field , now it all made sense.
Harry's pain wasn't random. The Cruciatus resonance between Voldemort's fractured soul and the fragment inside him… had flared.
Which meant every time the diary's emotions spiked , rage, fear, agony , Harry felt it too.
Tom pinched the bridge of his nose. "Perfect," he muttered. "I accidentally tortured the poor kid again."
Still, there was no time for guilt.
Because tonight, he'd need to do it again.
Only this time, deliberately.
It wasn't cruelty , it was necessity.
And compared to what Voldemort had planned for him, a few hours of discomfort was merciful.
…
At eight o'clock sharp, the castle fell quiet.
Students drifted back to their common rooms; laughter and footsteps faded into distant echoes.
In the Hospital Wing, Harry lay propped up in bed, flipping idly through a folded copy of the Daily Prophet.
When he looked up and saw Tom entering, his face lit with surprise.
"Tom? What are you doing here?"
"I heard you fainted," Tom said smoothly, pulling up a chair beside the bed. "I thought I'd come check on you."
Harry smiled, visibly touched. "That's… really kind of you. I'm fine now, just tired. Honestly, I'm sort of used to it by this point."
He gave a half-laugh, half-sigh. "The headaches come and go. They're awful, but once I wake up, it's like nothing ever happened. Just, bad timing, you know? I ruined the match."
Tom smiled faintly, resting his chin on his hand.
"Oh, Harry," he murmured under his breath, his voice soft, almost sympathetic.
If only you knew what kind of match you're really playing in.