The Chamber of Secrets

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry

Somewhere in the Scottish Highlands

June 15th, 1993

"...No" I declared with an adamant shake of my head "It doesn't add up"

"Then you'll just have to figure out what I know and you don't"

Riddle's laughter echoed in my ears as the remainder of his spectral form dissolved into nothingness. Even after his disappearance, the memory of his triumphant gaze lingered, and his hysterical laughter rung in my ears.

I collapsed to the ground with only one thought racing in my mind, my victory already long forgotten. Thought of a mystery I would not solve for a very long time.

What did Tom Riddle know that I didn't?

The Burrow

Ottery St. Catchpole

August 15th, 1992

11 Months Ago

An empty notebook.

What on earth was Lucius Malfoy trying to do with this?

His cousin Dudley's constant pestering had honed Harry's ability to spot even the most discreet movements. It was a skill that had served him well on the Quidditch pitch.

Harry had witnessed it with his own eyes—Lucius Malfoy, the formerly 'imperioused' Death Eater, had surreptitiously slipped something into Ginny's cauldron during their encounter at Flourish & Blotts.

That "something" now rested in Harry's hands, an empty, ragged journal.

A frown creased Harry's brow as he examined the timeworn notebook for the umpteenth time.

The Gryffindor had contemplated confiding in Arthur Weasley, the trusted patriarch of the Weasley family. He knew that Mr. Weasley was approachable but he also knew the moment he spoke to Mr. Weasley, he would never see the notebook again.

On one hand, he harbored a genuine curiosity about Lucius's intentions, something Arthur might dismiss and opt to dispose of the journal without a second thought. On the other, there was an unshakeable sense of foreboding, the feeblest of intuitions that there was an exceptionally malevolent force at work.

Therefore, he decided to carry out his own investigation before mentioning it to Arthur.

And this was definitely no ordinary notebook.

Even now, he could feel a faint, arcane charge in the air. The Boy-Who-Lived couldn't quite put his finger on it, but the journal seemed to pulse with an energy all its own. It was murky, mysterious, and almost...alive.

'Journals are usually to write in, you know.'

Harry's heart skipped a beat as the words suddenly appeared on the page in a delicate, flowing script. He gasped, his eyes widening in surprise. Someone or something was communicating with him through the journal.

Instinctively, he looked over to Ron.

Sleeping soundly.

With practiced stealth, he slipped out of his bed and tiptoed across the room, his feet barely making a sound on the clanky floorboards.

Reaching out to touch the doorknob, his fingers grazing it gently. With a cautious twist, the twelve-year old inched the door open just a crack, allowing a thin sliver of dim moonlight to spill into the hallway. Squinting through the narrow gap, the seeker surveyed the darkened corridor beyond, breath held in involuntarily as his keen ears strained for any signs of movement or whispering voices from the rooms nearby.

Satisfied that everyone was fast asleep, Harry sat down in Ron's study chair, placing the diary on the table. Contemplation weighed heavily on his mind, as he stared at the empty page, his hand hovering over a quill.

'Any "thing" that's thinking for itself - you best stay clear off,'Arthur's wise words, spoken only yesterday, resounded in his thoughts.

'Harry, I think you're being reckless, what if this is exactly what Malfoy's dad wants,' a voice that eerily resembled Hermione's offered a cautionary note.

The cacophony of warning bells intensified, each sounding the same message— steer clear. The diary could have compulsion hexes on it, perhaps it could be trying to possess him like Voldemort did Quirrell, maybe it was some other dark object planted to defame Mr. Weasley... or any of the countless other possibilities that painted his intended path as a hazardous road to go down.

The Gryffindor drew in a deep breath.

The weight of apprehension bore down on him, counter-balanced by the success of his last intuition with the Philosopher's Stone.

The moment seemed to stretch as he contemplated his next action, the room growing quieter, the atmosphere thick with anticipation.

Rationalizing that if the diary were cursed, he'd already touched it and remained unharmed...

'Who is this?'

His writing was swift and determined, a quick scribble across the notebook. Like committing to a dive for the golden snitch, he'd taken the metaphorical leap... no turning back now.

The journal, perched atop the dusty desk, responded with an uncanny swiftness, its delicate script materializing as if it had been eagerly awaiting his question. The ink flowed like a river, 'I am Tom Riddle'it declared.

'You're a diary,'

'The diary of Tom Riddle, containing records of his entire life up to the point he created me,'

Harry's doubts intensified. Riddle was not a magical surname.

Why would Lucius Malfoy have the diary of a muggleborn?

'I don't believe you'

The diary's response was swift, and it dripped with arrogance, as if it regarded Harry's doubts with disdain.

'Fine, don't.'

Unfazed, Harry didn't back down.

'I could turn this diary over to the DM-'

Before Harry could complete, something shifted in the diary's tone. It shed its earlier arrogance like a snake shedding its skin, and a new charm and almost reproachful quality emerged.

'I beg you not to do that,''Riddle' implored with newfound earnestness. 'Please, pardon my previous impudence.'

It was not lost on Harry that the diary had started replying before he'd even finished what he was going to write.

'You seem like a smart person,' it continued, drawing the Potter in.'So, I will be forthcoming. I do not want the DMLE finding this. Such documentation is looked upon unfavorably. They will see an object which they feel 'can think for itself' and destroy it without a second thought. But within these pages lies the life of Tom Riddle. Hanging on to me would offer you insights and knowledge no wise wizard wouldn't not want to learn from.'

'Tell me why I should believe Tom Riddle is real,'the second-year challenged in writing.

To his astonishment, the diary responded with an intriguing offer,

'Why tell you when I can show you?'

Suddenly, the pages of the diary began to writhe and twist and a strange sensation enveloped Harry, as if he were caught in a whirlwind. The world around him blurred, the dimly lit room of Ron's home dissolving into nothingness. His surroundings changed in the blink of an eye, and Harry found himself standing in a different place entirely.

The disorientation of magical transportation left him dazed for a moment, but as he blinked away the swirling sensation, he realized where he stood.

Hogwarts.

The ancient castle loomed above him, its towering spires and stone walls exuding an aura of grandeur. He was standing in a narrow corridor, dimly lit by the flickering light of torches mounted on the walls.

However, something was different this time. As he took a cautious step forward, he felt a strange sensation, as if he was insubstantial, ethereal. He tried to touch the stone wall, but his hand passed right through it.

"What is happening?" Harry mumbled to himself, his voice barely audible in the corridor. Panic surged through him, but he quickly realized that he could still see and feel himself. He wasn't a ghost, but something peculiar was happening. One moment he was in Ron's room, the next...

Just then, a figure approached, and Harry instinctively stepped aside to let them pass. To his astonishment, the student walked right through him, as if he wasn't even there.

The realization struck him like a bolt of lightning. He was witnessing a memory captured in the diary.

The corridor led him to the entrance of the Great Hall. The massive wooden doors creaked open, revealing the Great Hall of Hogwarts, as it had been whenever this memory was recorded. The enchanted ceiling mimicked a starry night sky, with constellations twinkling above. Long wooden tables were laden with scrumptious feasts, their golden platters filled with roast meats, vegetables, and all manners of delicacies.

Seated at the staff table were familiar faces.

Harry couldn't help but be struck by the sight of Albus Dumbledore, who sat next to the Head chair. The future headmaster of Hogwarts appeared considerably younger, streaks of auburn hair mixed with gray, his eyes sparkling with a twinkle that would become legendary.

The black-haired boy's astonishment at seeing the relatively youthful Dumbledore was profound. He had grown accustomed to the wise and aged version of the headmaster, but this glimpse into the past left him momentarily speechless. He also noticed a much younger-looking Minerva McGonagall sat beside him, her stern expression softened by her surroundings.

'How old is this diary?' the second-year mused to himself

Harry's eyes scanned the students at the long tables, recognizing none of them. They were dressed in Hogwarts robes of another era, and many sported short haircuts and school ties.

His attention was drawn to the center of the Great Hall, where stood Armando Dippet, the headmaster of Hogwarts before the ancient wizard whose portrait he remembered seeing in Dumbledore's office,

Beside him was another boy he didn't recognize.

But whoever he was, he cut a striking figure. The boy's dark hair was neatly combed, and his posture was impeccable. He exuded an air of charisma that was hard to ignore. his youthful confidence was on full display as he stood before the assembly.

The murmur of the crowd quieted as Dippet raised his hand for attention. His voice echoed through the Great Hall as he spoke with gravitas.

"Members of the staff, and my dear students, we gather here today to recognize a remarkable young man who has demonstrated unwavering dedication to our school and an extraordinary sense of responsibility."

The words washed over Harry as he listened. And then, Headmaster Dippet announced a name that would forever be etched into Harry's memory: "Tom Riddle."

The words echoed in his ears, though they seemed distant and dreamlike.

As the name was announced, a shiver ran down his spine.

He watched, transfixed, as the owner of the mysterious diary stepped forward to accept the award, the Great Hall erupting in applause, which the Slytherin, as he could tell from his robes, accepted with a humble smile and a curt bow.

Slowly, the memory began to fade, like a mist dissipating in the morning sun. Harry felt a peculiar sensation, like being pulled away from a captivating dream. The grandeur of the Great Hall dissolved...

He was once again in Ron's attic, the diary resting in front of him.

With a bewildered sense of wonder, Harry blinked and took a deep breath, his surroundings returning to the dimly lit room of the Burrow. He gazed at the closed diary, a myriad of questions swirled in his mind, his curiosity now piqued more than ever.

'Award for Special Services to the School in 1943, feel free to verify it in Hogwarts, A History.'

The memory of Tom Riddle's award ceremony still lingered in Harry's mind as he hesitated, his quill hovering above the aged parchment in the diary. There were still a LOT of questions, but his earlier doubts about the diary's authenticity seemed to dissipate in the wake of the vivid memory he had just witnessed.

'Sorry for doubting you earlier,'he wrote, his words on the yellowed pages disappearing soon after being etched.

The diary's response came quickly, as though eager to address Harry's concerns. 'No problem, I understand completely. In fact, it's a good sign you had doubts; it shows you're not an idiot.'

Harry couldn't help but let out a small, relieved chuckle at the diary's response.

'This is mental,' Harry mused silently as he wrote his next words,

'At least someone seems to understand my skepticism,'Harry wrote, his quill gliding across the yellowed pages with newfound ease.

'If it makes you feel any better,'the diary responded, preying on the hint of proneness,'I often find myself labeled as a paranoid skeptic, which is challenging enough in itself. What's even more disheartening is that when my concerns are ultimately validated, people seldom take the time to admit their errors or extend an apology'

Harry let out a sigh of exasperation. 'I know!'he replied, frustration evident in his words. Riddle made a good point - none of the adults, not one, ever bothered to acknowledge that he was right about the Sorcerer's Stone.

Now, as he engaged in this inexplicable conversation with the diary, he found a strange sense of relatability. It was as if the diary, or the memory within it, had experienced a similar sense of frustration or being ignored in the past. This shared feeling of being underestimated had, in a peculiar way, pushed Harry slightly toward trusting the entity within the diary, even if he couldn't fully understand why.

'But why would someone else have your diary?'

'I... don't know,'answered Tom, a hint of uncertainty in its words. 'All I know is that it's been a long time. What year is it?'

'1992,'the second-year scribbled back in response.

'Phew, that's almost 50 years since I was created. I really can't say what events have transpired,'

Harry couldn't help but wonder about the significance of the diary's age and its connection to the events unfolding in his own time.'This diary was with someone who planted it onto a friend of mine, most likely to harm them,'the raven-haired boy confided, hints of hesitation still evident in his words.

'...There's only so much I can do with the ambiguous information you're giving me.'rationalized Riddle

The Gryffindor couldn't shake off a nagging feeling that something wasn't quite right. Perhaps it was related to the general air of morosity being exuded by the object, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. The diary just seemed... tainted.

His instincts had rarely failed him, and this entire situation felt off-kilter, only encouraged by the fact that Riddle had been a Slytherin – something that tugged at the boy's unconscious bias against the House.

Against his better judgment, Harry decided to share a bit more information, taking a deep breath before he wrote, 'A man named Lucius Malfoy planted it onto my friend.'

There was a pregnant pause in the conversation, and Harry could almost sense the diary's thoughts racing as it processed the new information. After what felt like an eternity, it finally continued, 'I'm aware of an Abraxas Malfoy during my time at Hogwarts; perhaps they are related. Unfortunately that is all I can tell you, I've never known a 'Lucius Malfoy... One possibility is that he thought of me as some sort of 'dark object' & planned to have your friend incriminated'

'But enough about me. Tell me about yourself,'invited Tom

'I'm Harry Potter,' wrote the namesake, keeping it simple, 'a second-year Gryffindor.'

The diary's response was swift, 'Harry Potter, you say? Are you, by any chance, related to the famous Potter family of Britain?'

Harry's heart tightening in his chest. It was a question he had seldom pondered, one that tugged at the frayed edges of his emotions. After a moment's pause, he decided to be honest, the words flowing from his quill.'I am.'

The mere mention of the Potter family stirred a whirlwind of emotions within the green-eyed boy. He had grown up as an orphan, an existence shrouded in the mystery of his own heritage. The chance to discuss his lineage, even with a memory from the past, made him feel oddly vulnerable. It was as though he was reaching out to a piece of his own history that had long eluded him, grasping for a connection to a family he had never known.

'Did you know any Potters during your time at Hogwarts?'he inquired, his curiosity laced with a hint of longing, a desire to unearth the secrets of his own past.

His question lingered, as the diary appeared to be rifling through its own memories, searching for any relevant memories.

However, unbeknownst to him, the animus of Tom that lay hidden below the facade of being a mere diary was palpably surprised.

'Indeed, I knew Charlus Potter.'the diary replied, 'How are the two of you related?'

Harry felt a knot tighten in his stomach at the mention of his grandfather's name. 'He was my grandfather, but beyond that, I know nothing,'he confessed. 'I am an orphan who didn't even know he was a wizard until last year, and he was long dead by then.'

'I'm sorry,'consoled Tom. 'I can't do anything to bring them back, but I can offer you this.'

And just like that, as if summoned by Tom's words, Harry found himself once again transported into the vivid tapestry of the diary's memories.

The scene opened with a young prefect-badge-wearing Riddle walking out to a secluded terrace somewhere within the Hogwarts castle.

In the memory, Tom saw two boys sitting there, one in Gryffindor colours while the other donned a sweater with the crest of House Slytherin, drinking Firewhisky. They noticed him approaching, and one of them remarked, "So much for being role models for our juniors." Laughter filled the air, the two boys heartily, Tom joining in with a small, reserved chuckle.

Harry didn't require Riddle to spell it out for him; he had zoned out of their conversation the moment he laid eyes on the two boys. Charlus was unmistakable, a living reflection of his own features. The thick, messy black hair, the round spectacles perched on his nose, and that distinct red shirt all came together in a perfect symphony of recognition. If seen from afar, one could be forgiven for mistaking him for an older Harry.

It was a rare and intimate glimpse into a part of his family's history that he had never known. The sight was both comforting and mesmerizing.

"Interesting that you resemble the other guy more, huh?" a voice suddenly pierced through Harry's immersion in the memory. It took a moment for Harry to shake off his initial startlement before he turned to locate the source of the voice.

To his astonishment, it was none other than Tom Riddle himself, appearing to be "alive" within the memory. It was conclusive proof of the diary being holding at least a modicum of sentience.

"What are you talking about?"

Tom responded with a shrewd and observant tone, "While your hair resembles your grandfather's, and both of you wear glasses, you share a striking resemblance with the other boy too, Arcturus Black."

"You have a sharp eye," Harry admitted, offering a genuine compliment once he realized the Slytherin was right.

As Harry turned to face Tom, the latter's gaze fell upon Harry's forehead, lingering for the briefest of moments on the lightning-bolt scar etched into his skin. It was an imperceptible glance, quick and subtle, but Harry caught it nonetheless.

Perhaps it was his Gryffindor spirit, his tendency to see the best in people, that led him to assume that Riddle was merely trying to be polite. After all, his scar had been a source of curiosity and attention for as long as he could remember, and people often stole glances at it.

"The scar you were looking at," Harry began, deciding to address the unspoken weight that hung between them, "... it's from when a dark wizard named Voldemort tried to kill me as a baby. He murdered my parents, but the Killing Curse didn't work on me. It should have been fatal, but it left me with this." Harry gently traced the lightning bolt-shaped scar with his fingertips.

Throughout his confession, Harry hadn't dared to meet Tom Riddle's gaze directly. It wasn't just that it was difficult to talk about; he knew that the story was heavy, laden with loss and tragedy, and he didn't want to see any pity or sympathy in Riddle's eyes. He preferred to focus on the image of his grandfather within the memory, finding solace in the connection to his past.

As Harry continued to speak, his voice filled with a mixture of enthusiasm and sadness, he remained oblivious to the hidden truths beneath the surface. Tom Riddle's usually composed and enigmatic expression faltered for a fleeting moment when Harry mentioned the name 'Voldemort.' It was a fraction of a second, a barely discernible crack in the facade, but it was there—a moment of vulnerability, one which he had missed.

Riddle's eyes traveled back to the lightning bolt scar, and as recognition dawned, they widened in a sudden realization, as if a puzzle piece had snapped into place.

However, before Harry could even register the change in expression, the memory began to waver, and he was abruptly transported back to the real world, blissfully ignorant of what had just transpired.

That's all for now, see you all next time!