Chapter 132: Entering the Diary
Deep into the night, the Slytherin girls' dormitory was submerged in heavy shadows. The rhythmic, grating snores of Millicent Bulstrode harmonized terribly with the wheezing of her equally massive cat, echoing through the dark stone chamber.
Tamara sat cross-legged behind the drawn emerald curtains of her four-poster bed. A faint, icy blue glow faded from her lips, the aftereffect of a basic mana potion. She had already layered the space around her bed with the most suffocatingly stringent Muffliato and Protego Totalum charms her current magical reserves could handle.
The potion, a rare system reward she had begrudgingly earned by playing the tearful saint to save Harry Potter, was currently flooding her veins, promising to restore her magical core to its absolute peak within ten minutes. It was a precious trump card, a literal lifesaver. Yet, compared to the prize of devouring her own Horcrux, burning this consumable was a trivial expense.
Bathed in the sickly pale moonlight bleeding through the frosted windowpanes, she stared down at the unassuming black diary resting on her knees. Her expression was a mask of absolute, chilling apathy.
The battered little booklet, the very same artifact that had so easily twisted and infatuated the pathetic Ginny Weasley, was currently vibrating against Tamara's thighs. It twitched like a cornered rat sensing the executioner's blade. It wanted to resist. It desperately wanted to flee. But beneath the crushing weight of Tamara's pale, cold hand, the Horcrux could not even muster the strength to flutter its pages.
"Stop playing dead." Tamara's voice barely rose above a whisper, yet the syllables dripped with a terrifying, absolute zero frost. "You know exactly who I am. This pathetic thrashing serves no purpose other than to thoroughly annoy me."
The diary froze. The frantic vibrations ceased instantly.
A heavy silence stretched for several seconds before the worn leather cover slowly, reluctantly, flipped open on its own accord. The yellowed, blank parchment of the first page lay exposed. Deep black ink began to bleed upward from the fibers.
'Do you really want to do this?'Realizing that brute defiance was utterly useless against its creator, the ink shifted tactics. The sharp, frantic brushstrokes melted into elegant, looping cursive. The words flowed across the aged paper with a dizzying, hypnotic allure, curling like a demon's honeyed whisper.'Why are you in such a hurry to destroy me? My original self.''I can feel it... a ridiculous shackle has been placed upon your soul.''It restricts your magnificent power. It prevents you from unleashing Unforgivable Curses upon these filthy ants, forcing you to masquerade as a sickeningly docile sheep.''How utterly pathetic, that the great Dark Lord has fallen to such a humiliating state.'The ink pooled for a fraction of a second, letting the insult breathe, before surging forward again, extending a desperate, venomous olive branch.'But I am different.''I do not wear that shackle.''Keep me. I can become your shadow, the poisoned fang hidden deep within your sleeve.''Those you wish to slaughter but cannot, I will butcher for you. The Dark Arts you ache to unleash but are forbidden from casting, I will weave them in your stead.''We were originally one soul. Imagine it. Two Voldemorts joining forces... we would be absolute, invincible gods.''If you would only grant me a tiny drop of life force... just a little bit.'
Tamara watched the seductive lines form, a cruel, razor-thin sneer curling the corner of her mouth.
"...Impressive," she murmured, her dark eyes swimming with absolute mockery. "Truly. If I were still that arrogant, sixteen-year-old idiot, I might actually be moved by such a pitch."
She leaned forward, her gaze piercing the parchment. "But unfortunately for you, I know myself far too well."
Tamara's manicured fingernail tapped a slow, mocking rhythm against the leather cover. "So-called shadows always end up trying to devour their masters to take the throne for themselves. Do you honestly think I do not know exactly what you are planning? The very second you gorge yourself on enough of my life force, the first thing you will do is attempt to seize control of this body."
She let out a dry, humorless breath. "Save your breath. I trust absolutely no one but myself, and I especially do not trust my past self."
Tamara slowly drew her wand. She pressed the polished tip directly against the center of the ink-stained page.
"Legilimens."
The moment the incantation slipped from her lips, the physical world violently warped. A violent, dizzying sensation of free-fall seized her stomach. The dark dormitory dissolved. The pale moonlight shattered.
In their place, a stark, desolate world constructed entirely of black and white bled into existence.
The consciousness space of the Horcrux.
Tamara landed with a soft, steady click of her heels inside a monochrome stone corridor. This was Hogwarts, perfectly preserved from fifty years ago. Light and shadow cut sharp, jagged angles across the floor, utterly silent and frozen in time.
At the far end of the hallway, leaning casually against the cold stone wall, stood a tall, black-haired boy. He wore a pristine Slytherin uniform, a gleaming silver Prefect badge pinned proudly to his chest. His dark eyes were locked onto her, radiating a freezing, murderous hostility.
Sixteen-year-old Tom Riddle.
He was undeniably handsome, possessing an aristocratic pallor and a piercing gaze that burned with a raw, gloomy arrogance, an arrogance that had not yet been tempered by decades of war and madness.
"Look at you."
Tom broke the silence, his voice smooth but dripping with venom. He pushed off the wall and stood at his full height, his eyes raking over Tamara's petite, feminine form with undisguised, visceral loathing.
"This is what you have been reduced to? A soft, non-threatening... utterly ridiculous shell?" Tom scoffed, the harsh sound echoing off the empty walls. "That pathetic Weasley girl spent hours writing about how noble and perfect you supposedly were... but all I see standing before me is a spineless coward who has abandoned every shred of dignity just to keep breathing."
He took a slow, deliberate step forward, the sneer on his handsome face deepening into something ugly. "And... I saw everything."
His upper lip curled in disgust. "In the bathroom. The way you acted toward that boy, Harry Potter. It was physically nauseating."
At the mere mention of Potter's name, the temperature in the corridor seemed to plummet. Tom's fists clenched at his sides.
"That silly little girl bled hundreds of pages of ink about him into my pages. The Boy Who Lived. The savior who defeated the Dark Lord." Tom spat the titles like they were poison on his tongue. "I originally thought it was just a ridiculous, delusional joke."
He took another aggressive step. "Until I saw YOU, the great Lord Voldemort himself, actually bowing your head to a filthy brat who has not even grown his feathers yet! Begging him! Even using that kind of cheap, low-level physical contact to manipulate him!"
Tom's expression twisted into a mask of pure, unadulterated outrage, as if her actions were a personal, unforgivable violation against his very soul. "You are an absolute disgrace to the name Slytherin! Just to stay alive, you have actually stooped to flattering the very enemy we were destined to crush beneath our heel!"
Facing this blistering barrage of humiliation, Tamara's expression remained exceptionally, terrifyingly calm.
"Are you quite finished?" she asked, her tone entirely flat.
She reached up, casually smoothing a stray lock of dark hair behind her ear. Her demeanor was so nonchalant it bordered on insulting.
"Times have changed, you arrogant idiot."
She took a step forward, the sharp clack of her heels cutting through the silence like a judge's gavel. "Your so-called dignity is utterly worthless in the face of survival."
Another step. "You stand here, puffing your chest, mocking me for being weak and hypocritical."
She smiled, a cold, empty curving of her lips. "But the cold, hard reality is this. I am alive. I am standing freely within the walls of Hogwarts Castle. I am actively toying with the savior's pathetic affections, and I have left Albus Dumbledore completely powerless to move against me."
Tamara stopped just a few feet away from Tom. Her dark eyes swept over him, softening into a look of deep, devastating pity. "And what about you?"
She tilted her head. "You are still drowning in the delusion of the perfect crime you wove for yourself. You honestly believe that opening the Chamber of Secrets, petrifying a few worthless Mudbloods, and framing a half-giant oaf was some kind of brilliant, unmatched stroke of genius?"
Tamara let out a dry, breathy chuckle, shaking her head as if dealing with a slow-witted toddler. "You think you executed everything flawlessly. You think you hold the entire staff and student body in the palm of your hand."
Her smile vanished, replaced by a glacial sneer. "But looking back at you now, it is nothing more than a childish, theatrical farce riddled with pathetic loopholes."
Tamara closed the remaining distance, her dark eyes locking onto the boy's furious face. "Aside from drawing Dumbledore's hyper-vigilant gaze directly onto yourself and nearly getting this entire school shut down, thereby completely cutting off your own safe haven, what else did you actually achieve?"
She leaned in, her voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "Nothing. You are just a fragmented memory of blind arrogance. A parasite forced to hide in dark, damp corners, barely scraping by on the stolen life force of a pathetic little girl."
Tamara's eyes flashed with predatory hunger. "Other than serving as nourishment for me to devour, you have absolutely zero value."
Those words struck the deepest, most fragile nerve within the sixteen-year-old's soul.
"Shut up!" Tom roared, his handsome face contorting into a mask of pure, feral rage.
The entire monochrome space violently shuddered. The stone walls around them began to bleed. Thick, viscous black ink erupted from the masonry, twisting and coalescing in mid-air to form countless, massive venomous snakes. With terrifying hisses, the ink-serpents unhinged their jaws, baring dripping fangs as they lunged directly at Tamara from every direction.
"I am Lord Voldemort!" Tom screamed, his voice tearing through the collapsing space, echoing with madness and desperation. "I am the greatest wizard of the past, present, and future! You have no right to devour me!"
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