Sebastian sat in his high-backed leather chair, the dim light of a single enchanted candle casting long, dancing shadows across the oak surface of his desk. In front of him lay the black notebook, looking utterly pathetic in its silence. He flipped through the pages with a lazy flick of his finger—blank, every single one of them.
He couldn't help but admire the sheer psychological warfare built into this thing. As Voldemort's first Horcrux, it was arguably the most "human" of the set. Unlike the Slytherin Locket he had dealt with alongside Regulus Black—which was a crude, blunt instrument of madness that simply screamed at the holder's insecurities—this diary was a predator of a different breed. It didn't just haunt; it seduced. It waited. It listened until it found the precise cracks in a person's soul and then filled them with ink and lies.
He thought of the young Tom Riddle trapped inside. Right now, that fragment of soul must be pacing its paper cage in a state of absolute, frantic confusion. One moment, he had a perfect puppet in Ginny Weasley, a lonely girl who had bared her heart to him. The next, she had been knocked unconscious, and the diary had been seized by a wizard whose magical signature was nothing like a vulnerable eleven-year-old girl.
Sebastian had handled Ginny with clinical efficiency. He had checked her vital signs; she was physically fine, though her magical core was slightly dimmed—the telltale sign of a Horcrux beginning its parasitism. He had used a precision-grade Obliviate, surgically removing every trace of the diary from her mind. To Ginny, the last few months of "friendship" with Tom were now just a hazy blur of normal school days.
"Sleepwalking," he had told her after waking her up in the corridor. It was a convenient lie, and with the help of a small vial of life-restoring water infused with the essence of the Philosopher's Stone, her pale cheeks had regained their color. He had escorted her back to the Gryffindor common room, watched her climb through the portrait hole, and then returned to his office to begin the real entertainment.
He leaned forward, a predatory smile touching his lips. He wasn't ready to destroy the thing yet—there was still too much information to extract, and quite frankly, he wanted to see how the "Great Lord Voldemort" handled a conversation where he wasn't the one in control.
He took out a Quick-Quotes Quill, the long green feather twitching in anticipation. He didn't want to touch the paper himself; he knew the risks of skin-to-paper contact with a Horcrux.
The quill began to scratch against the first page, the sound loud in the quiet room.
"Tom. Ginny told me everything. She was quite chatty before she went back to bed."
Sebastian watched as the ink was sucked into the fibers of the paper. For a long ten seconds, nothing happened. He could almost feel the diary 'thinking,' calculating its next move. Then, the ink began to seep back up, forming words in that beautiful, copperplate script.
"I don't know what you're talking about. My name is Tom Riddle. I am a memory, preserved in this diary to help students who might find themselves lost in the history of Hogwarts. Who are you? Where is Ginny? She is my dearest friend, and I am worried about her safety."
"Oh, bravo," Sebastian whispered, his eyes gleaming. "The worried friend routine. Classic."
He let the quill write again: "Cut the act, Tom. I'm a Professor here. I found a first-year girl wandering the halls at midnight, trying to hiss at a bathroom sink. She said you were the one who told her to do it. She said you were 'special.'"
The handwriting in the diary shifted. It was still neat, but the loops were tighter now.
"I see. You are a Professor. Then you must understand that I am a harmless echo of a boy who lived fifty years ago. I only wanted to help Ginny feel less alone. She felt so ignored by her brothers, so overshadowed. I was her confidant. If she was at the sink, perhaps she was looking for the same answers I was when I was a student."
Sebastian chuckled. He allowed the quill to continue: "Answers? Like the ones about the Chamber of Secrets? Because she mentioned you knew a lot about that. You see, I'm the one currently investigating the 'incidents' at this school. If you're just a memory, you're a very well-informed one."
"I know more than most," Tom replied, the ink appearing faster now. "I was there when the Chamber was opened last time. I saw the horror first-hand. I even caught the person responsible—a clumsy, dangerous oaf who kept monsters in the school. He was expelled, but Professor Dumbledore, in his infinite mercy, allowed him to stay on as a groundskeeper. If you want proof, I can show you. I can take you into my memories and show you exactly what happened."
Sebastian leaned back, twirling his wand between his fingers. It was the same bait he had used on Harry in the original timeline—framing Hagrid to protect himself.
"I'm not interested in your 'home movies', Tom," the quill wrote, directed by Sebastian's sneer. "And frankly, I find your accusations against Dumbledore to be in very poor taste. The Headmaster is a man of great wisdom. If he kept a man here, it's because that man was innocent."
He felt the diary's temper flare through the ink. The next words were nearly sloppy.
"Wisdom? Dumbledore is a man who hides the truth to maintain his own image! I am the only witness to the truth! If you want to find the Heir, you are looking in the wrong places. I can lead you to the entrance. I can give you the power to end this threat once and for all. All you have to do is trust me."
"Trust a notebook? I'm a Professor of Muggle Studies, Tom. I've seen more reliable technology in a toaster," Sebastian's quill scribbled. "I graduated from Slytherin myself. We were taught never to trust anything that can think for itself if we can't see where it keeps its brain. You're just a collection of ink and ego."
The mention of 'Muggle Studies' and 'Slytherin' seemed to cause the diary to short-circuit. To the young Tom Riddle, a Slytherin teaching Muggle Studies was the ultimate heresy—a betrayal of blood and status that he couldn't even begin to fathom.
"A Slytherin... teaching Muggles?" The ink was thick and angry now. "You have fallen far, Professor Swan. You occupy the halls of the greatest school in the world, and you spend your time teaching children about the habits of filth? No wonder the school is in such a state. You are a disgrace to the house of the serpent."
"Careful, Tom. Your 'lordship' is showing," Sebastian countered. "I think I've heard enough. You're clearly a disturbed magical artifact. I think the best thing to do would be to hand you over to Dumbledore tomorrow morning. He's much better at handling 'troubled' souls than I am. I'll go to his office first thing, tell him what Ginny said, and let him decide whether to burn you or lock you in a lead box."
This was the killing blow. The young Voldemort knew that if he fell into Dumbledore's hands, his game was over. Dumbledore would recognize the signature of his magic in an instant. The diary began to plead, the words appearing in a frantic, scrolling mess.
"Wait! You don't understand! Dumbledore will destroy me because I know his secrets! I can give you anything! Knowledge, power, the location of hidden treasures within the castle! Just don't give me to him! Please, Professor Swan, let us talk! We are both Slytherins, we can find a way to—"
Sebastian didn't let him finish. He reached out and snapped the notebook shut with a satisfying thump.
He could feel the book vibrating under his palm, a desperate, silent scream for attention. He let out a long, satisfied breath and leaned back in his chair.
"Let him stew," Sebastian murmured to the empty office. "Nothing breaks a narcissist faster than being ignored."
He knew Tom wouldn't be able to sleep—not that a Horcrux could. The fragment of soul would spend the next few hours in a state of absolute terror, imagining the fireplace in Dumbledore's office. It was a delicious reversal of roles. The predator was now the prey, and the one holding the quill was the one who knew every move in the game.
Sebastian stood up, stretched his arms, and walked over to the window. The moon was high over the Black Lake, casting a silver sheen on the water. He had the diary. He had cleared Harry's name. And soon, he would have the Basilisk.
But for tonight, he was content. He had just spent an hour flirting with the greatest Dark Wizard of the age, and he had come out on top. He tucked the diary into a lead-lined box he had prepared earlier, clicked the lock, and headed for his bedroom.
"Sleep tight, Tom," he whispered. "We have a big day tomorrow."