A tall figure began to emerge at the base of Salazar Slytherin's grotesque stone monument. Mist still clung to his form, softening his edges, making it hard to tell whether he was spirit or flesh.
Tom Riddle stood a few paces away, watching with a calm, unreadable face.
"Still not enough?" he murmured.
He reached into his bag again, this time producing another vial, heavy and glowing with crimson light.
"Five more pounds of dragon's blood should do it."
He poured.
The liquid hissed as it struck the diary, swallowed greedily by the parchment. The mist churned, thickened, then began to clear.
Slowly, the outline of a boy became solid.
The air shimmered once, and then there he stood, a tall, dark-haired youth with an elegance so sharp it bordered on unnatural. His skin was pale as moonlight, his eyes fathomless, like black lakes that saw too much.
Even Harry, who had faced death, monsters, and worse, was momentarily struck silent.
The boy's features were flawless. A straight nose, sculpted cheekbones, the calm poise of someone who knew he was destined for greatness.
It was unsettling.
Because apart from Tom himself, Harry had never seen anyone who looked more… perfect.
"Tom," Harry whispered uncertainly, "is that really Voldemort?"
He couldn't reconcile this, the dark-haired, breathtaking young man before him, with the snake-like creature he'd faced the year before, that noseless face twisted by evil.
The stranger gave a small, knowing smile.
"No need to doubt," he said softly. His voice was smooth, confident, dripping with quiet menace. "I am Lord Voldemort."
The name seemed to echo, bouncing off the serpent-carved walls.
Then, with almost imperceptible amusement, he inclined his head toward Tom. "And you, my other self… you've earned my respect."
He turned his attention to Harry, his tone shifting to something silkier, and infinitely colder.
"The Boy Who Lived," he said. "Harry Potter. I have waited a long time for this."
Harry's throat tightened.
Voldemort smiled thinly. "I paid a terrible price to stand before you, Harry. All I wish… is to talk."
"Talk," Tom interrupted flatly, stepping forward. "Fine. But first.." He tapped the diary with his wand. "you still owe me my payment. The inheritance, remember?"
For a moment, irritation flickered across Voldemort's perfect face. Then he smoothed it away, eyes glinting with mischief.
"Impatient as ever," he said softly. "Very well. The inheritance is here, in this Chamber. But to awaken it…"
His gaze slid toward the wand clutched tightly in Harry's hand. "I will need that."
He smiled faintly. "Care to gamble, Tom?"
Tom looked over his shoulder. "Harry."
Harry blinked. "What?"
"Give him the wand."
"Are you insane?!" Harry clutched his wand tighter, backing away. "He's Voldemort! You can't just"
"Oh, don't be dramatic," Tom said with an exasperated sigh. "We've fought him before, haven't we? What's one wand going to change? He can't exactly conjure an apocalypse from a school basement."
"Tom!"
But Tom was already raising his hand. A flick of invisible magic tore through the air, and Harry's wand was ripped from his grasp, flying neatly into Voldemort's waiting hand.
"Much better," Voldemort murmured, admiring it. He gave it a testing wave, and with a thunderous crack, one of the stone pillars exploded into dust.
He smiled, clearly pleased. "Phoenix feather… interesting. Fawkes's feather, if I'm not mistaken."
He glanced at Harry, his smirk widening. "Your wand and mine are siblings, then. Same core, different shells. How poetic."
He let out a soft chuckle. "To share that bond with you, Harry Potter, truly, it's an insult. I imagine Fawkes must feel the same."
Harry bristled, trying to find his courage, but the words stuck in his throat. He edged behind Tom almost instinctively.
Voldemort laughed quietly. "Brave words, but you hide behind him. Typical Gryffindor courage, all noise, no bite."
"Your mouth is annoying," he added, his eyes narrowing. "But compared to Tom's… you're harmless."
Harry blinked. "Tom's, what?"
He turned to look at Tom, confused. Tom's mouth? What's wrong with his mouth?
He'd always thought Tom just had a… temper. Sure, he'd seen professors and students alike get lashed by Tom's sharp tongue, but was it really that bad?
He didn't have long to dwell on it.
Voldemort stepped forward, raising the wand again. He pointed it toward the looming statue of Salazar Slytherin.
Ancient words rolled from his tongue, a chant heavy with power.
The massive stone hand of the statue trembled, groaned, then moved.
The chamber rumbled like an awakening beast. The statue's arm lifted, and behind it, a vast circular cavity began to open, darkness spilling forth like smoke.
"The core of the inheritance lies beyond," Voldemort said softly, his voice carrying a strange reverence. "Most of it, I've already passed on to you, Tom. What remains is yours for the taking."
He turned slightly, smiling, too calm, too certain. "But tell me… when my true self discovers what I've done, what do you think he'll feel? Anger? Fear? Or amusement that I've forged a rival strong enough to threaten him?"
There was something unholy in the way he said it, like he almost wanted that confrontation.
Harry, trembling but defiant, blurted, "The greatest wizard in the world isn't you. It's Dumbledore."
For the first time, Voldemort's handsome face twisted.
The air seemed to drop ten degrees in an instant.
His smile vanished, replaced by a sneer that made his flawless features almost monstrous.
"You dare," he hissed, "to compare me… to him?"
The echo of his rage rolled through the chamber like a storm.
And Harry realized, this wasn't just Voldemort speaking to him.
This was the hatred of a god who could not bear to be human.