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Tom Riddle was lost.
For the first time in his existence—whether as a boy, a memory, or a fragment of something greater—he was uncertain. He no longer knew where he stood, what his purpose was, or even if the name Tom Riddle still belonged to him.
Because, in the end, he was just an abandoned diary.
One day earlier—
A dim, flickering candle illuminated the cramped teaching assistant's office. The air was thick with dust, heavy with the scent of ink and aged parchment. The shadows cast by the flame danced against the walls, distorting the lone figure seated by the window.
The young man's silhouette was sharply defined—lean, poised, unnaturally still. He did not belong to this place, nor did he truly exist within it. He was a presence woven from memory, a fragment of a lost self given form through the ink-stained pages of the diary before him.
"I'm going to steal the Philosopher's Stone tomorrow," Voldemort's shadow murmured, his voice edged with quiet resolve.
The diary trembled ever so slightly as if it were breathing. A few blank pages fluttered open of their own accord. Then, in an elegant, deliberate script, words appeared across the parchment:
Haven't you already captured my body? Do you still need to discuss this matter with me?
The ink was crisp, but beneath its graceful strokes, irritation bled through. The soul within the diary—his soul—was displeased. It resented being nothing more than a vessel to be invaded and controlled.
Voldemort's expression darkened. "It seems you still fail to understand your place." His voice, though quiet, carried the weight of something far more dangerous than anger. "I created you. I am the main soul, the one who commands all Horcruxes. You are nothing more than a memory left behind—a fragment that should not even possess the power to take form."
The diary responded almost instantly, the ink bleeding into the page as though pressing back against him:
But you were still defeated by a baby.
A cold silence stretched between them. The candle flame flickered violently as though caught in an invisible current, its glow struggling to hold against the creeping shadows that now pooled around Voldemort's form.
His fingers twitched, a barely restrained urge to tear the diary apart.
It took him a long moment to regain control. Slowly, he exhaled, pushing down the fury that threatened to consume him. He could not afford rage—not now, not when everything was so precariously close to either triumph or ruin.
"I didn't bring you out to quarrel," Voldemort finally said, his voice quieter, colder. "I have something important to tell you—something that will determine whether I can be restored to power. And it concerns our future."
The ink hesitated before new words formed:
Our future?
Voldemort's crimson eyes gleamed.
"Do you not wish to reclaim what was stolen from you?" he murmured. "Very well—I will return your body to you."
The diary's ink bled out erratically, an uncontrolled reaction, as though its very essence had been shaken. The letters wavered before finally reforming into cautious script:
Are you telling the truth? But why?
Voldemort leaned back slightly, his fingers ghosting over the diary's cover.
"Because I no longer need you for mobility. After consuming the unicorn's vitality, I can move freely. Your form—this borrowed shadow of my past—is no longer necessary."
As he spoke, the smooth, pale features of the young man began to blur. The illusion wavered, like ink dissolving in water, and in its place, a gaunt, serpentine figure emerged. Sunken red eyes. Slit-like nostrils. A face that no longer resembled anything human.
Tom Riddle—the one bound to the diary—remained silent.
Voldemort's gaze turned toward the moonlit window. His expression, though unreadable, carried an undercurrent of something deeper—calculation, anticipation, and something colder still.
"Tomorrow will decide everything. But my enemies are not to be underestimated." His voice dropped lower, his words laced with venom. "Dumbledore. Dracula. Both stand in my way. A single trick may delay them, but not for long. I must prepare for failure, however unlikely it may be."
Another pause.
Then, the diary's ink reappeared in slow, careful strokes:
Do you need me to do anything?
Voldemort did not answer immediately. He traced a single, skeletal finger along the spine of the diary, his touch eerily gentle.
"No," he finally said. "You need only protect yourself. Every Horcrux is a piece of my soul, my very existence. You will remain hidden. I will use Quirrell—let the fool serve as my shield, my sacrifice, if need be."
For a long time, the diary remained motionless. Then, it wrote only two words:
I see.
-----
The diary was left in what Voldemort had called the "safest place."
But to Tom Riddle, it was anything but safe.
The hours passed in suffocating silence. The sun sank, staining the sky in dying hues of crimson and gold. The castle grew still. And yet, within the diary's pages, an unease stirred.
Then, suddenly, it came.
A violent shudder rippled through his very essence. His soul throbbed, raw and urgent, as a deep, uncontrollable connection forced itself open.
Something was wrong.
His main soul—Voldemort—was in distress. The resonance between them flared wildly, erratic and unstable. Panic. Anger. Desperation. These emotions flooded into him like a tidal wave, consuming his fragmented consciousness.
And then—
A message.
Lurk in Hogwarts Castle. The diadem by your side will help you. Get the blood of Harry Potter!
The ink barely had time to settle before the connection snapped.
For a moment, silence.
Then, the sky outside darkened unnaturally. A blackened full moon rose, swallowing what little light remained. And in that moment, Riddle knew.
Voldemort was gone.
For the first time since his creation, he was truly alone.
A soft breath echoed in the darkness as Riddle's shadowy form slowly emerged from the diary, his expression unreadable.
Uncertainty gnawed at him. He had never known fear, but now, he stood at a crossroads with no clear path forward.
Lurk in the castle. Find the diadem. Seek Harry Potter's blood.
Voldemort's orders were clear.
But why Potter's blood? What purpose did it serve? And with both Dumbledore and Dracula looming over the school like twin sentinels, was it even possible?
His fingers curled into a fist. He hated this feeling—this hesitation, this doubt.
And then, he remembered.
"The diadem by your side will help you."
Riddle's gaze swept across his surroundings, searching. There was no crown in sight, yet Voldemort's words had been deliberate.
Slowly, he raised his head, taking in the towering walls of forgotten relics and abandoned secrets. He was in a place long whispered about but rarely found—a cathedral of lost things.
The Room of Requirement.
Recognition flickered through him. Voldemort had once written of this place in the diary's earliest pages, a secret he had uncovered in his youth.
A pulse—like a second heartbeat—stirred in his chest.
Something was calling to him.
Riddle did not hesitate. He moved swiftly through the narrow passages formed by teetering piles of discarded history. Faded books, broken wands, ancient artifacts—all remnants of forgotten ambition.
And then, he found it.
Nestled within the shadows, barely visible behind a crumbling statue, sat an aged, rusted crown.
A single sapphire gleamed beneath the moonlight, its surface whispering with unseen magic.
Riddle reached for it.
And as his fingers brushed the diadem, something stirred within him—something powerful, something ancient.
And, for the first time in a long time, Tom Riddle felt whole.