"I'm not trying to trick you."
"Yes, I opened the Chamber. But you don't know why it ended after just one Mudblood died."
"Obviously Dumbledore was watching you. And I really hate that word."
"Dumbledore? Don't give him too much credit. Back then he was too busy trying to clear that oaf Hagrid's name."
"So someone else was involved?"
"Haha, why should I tell you? Information and knowledge both have a price. Fair exchange has always been the only constant rule, hasn't it?"
Julien paused, then wrote back:
"Even if Dumbledore couldn't prove it was you, he wouldn't let students die. He wasn't Headmaster yet, but still—"
The handwriting stopped for a moment, then continued with a sweet, tempting lilt:
"Yes, he knew some things. But he'll never tell you. Because he's afraid. Afraid you'll choose to open instead of seal. Afraid you'll become me… or surpass me."
Julien's fingers tightened. The diary wasn't just guessing—it was hitting the exact nerve.
"What do you want?" he finally wrote.
"No, no, I just want to cooperate."
The script sped up. "I'm trapped here, just like you're trapped by 'fate.' Don't you want to know why Dumbledore treats Harry Potter like a chess piece but pretends a genius like you doesn't exist? Why you have to hide in the shadows while a baby gets called the 'Savior'?"
Voldemort's words were half lies, half bait. He might know something… or he might be fishing.
"You want to come back to life? I won't sacrifice myself to help you." Julien thought of Ginny in the books—how close she'd come.
"No, I don't need that. I have other candidates."
"Oh? Then what do you need from me?"
"I just want my memories back." The handwriting turned jagged, like the writer was in pain. "Someone sealed part of my mind. Every time I try to remember that time, it feels like my thoughts are being ripped apart. Help me find the truth, Black. Help me understand why I failed fifty years ago."
"Look, I'm just a twelve-year-old wizard. I don't know that much—"
"Haha, Black, let's not lie to each other. You know about the Chamber, and you want to get inside it. Maybe we have the same goal? At least the same path."
"And even though I don't know what my missing memories are tied to, I do know one thing—it's connected to 'Black.'"
"So, as a show of good faith, I'll teach you Parseltongue and tell you where the Chamber is."
"I already know where the Chamber is. I can ask Harry Potter about Parseltongue."
"See? You know more than you let on. As for Harry Potter… the little girl told me he defeated the future me. Yes, that's another thing I want to know. Was there some curse on him that bounced my Killing Curse back?"
Even though this was only sixteen-year-old Voldemort's soul, the mind behind it was still razor-sharp. Of course he'd assume it was a curse—he could never imagine Dumbledore's "sacrifice" or "love."
"Now let's talk about Parseltongue. It's not just copying sounds. Come, I'll teach you."
For the next hour the pages filled with complex phonetic diagrams. Snake speech didn't use vocal cords—it came from the back of the tongue rubbing the roof of the mouth, mimicking the vibration of a serpent's tongue.
Julien practiced along. His silver lime wand hummed softly beside him, recording every wrong syllable.
"Your talent is remarkable," Tom Riddle (or Voldemort) wrote. "But there's one problem—your pronunciation is too clean. Parseltongue needs malice. It needs hunger, the urge to seize. You're… suppressing something?"
"I understand. I'll work on it."
"As repayment, here's what I can tell you right now: Harry Potter repelled me because of a protection his mother gave him. A sacrifice charm—an ancient magic that shields a child when the parent dies for them."
"That simple? The future me lost to something that stupid?" The pages shook violently, ink twisting into jagged scars:
"Ridiculous! Fine. Next time I'll deal with Harry Potter myself and show the world the so-called 'Savior' is nothing but a joke!"
Don't worry, Julien thought darkly. You won't get the chance.
"Now, Black, is there anything you want to tell me?"
"I can't answer that question yet. Give me time—I might be able to look into it."
A long silence. Then a line so faint it was almost invisible:
"…Then do you know the origin of your name? And why you want to enter the Chamber? I doubt it's to free the Basilisk."
"What do you want, Black?" The handwriting turned elegant again, but the tone was cold and probing.
"Immortality? You're too young to understand that yet. Power? You don't seem like the Malfoy idiots. Knowledge… that's possible."
The script paused, then a single word appeared:
"Or… the Stargate?"
Julien's quill punched straight through the page. He slammed the notebook shut.
He regretted it instantly—the abrupt close might have told the diary more than he wanted.
---
At the same moment, in the Headmaster's office.
The silver instruments on Dumbledore's desk had stopped spinning. Fawkes perched on his golden stand, head tucked under one wing.
"Are you certain about this?" a voice came from the shadows—one of the Headmaster portraits.
"Phineas, he must choose for himself," Dumbledore said without looking up. "Just like Pyxis did back then."
"Pyxis would never agree," Phineas Nigellus Black's voice carried rare exhaustion. "We scattered the bloodline, hid it, even exiled ourselves to keep 'it' from finding the key. And now you're letting the last pure Black—"
"He's not pure-blood," Dumbledore corrected softly. "His mother was an Evans. Lily's blood combined with the Black Guardian line… that's the complete key."
"Which makes it even more dangerous, doesn't it? You can't pretend you don't see it, Dumbledore. That book is a Horcrux."
The portrait of Phineas Nigellus Black—Sirius Black's great-great-grandfather and one of Hogwarts' most infamous former Headmasters—looked unusually agitated.
"I understand why you're grooming Harry Potter, but there's no need to drag Caelum Julien into your games."
At the same time, every other portrait in the office quietly lifted their heads, all eyes turning to Dumbledore instead of automatically arguing with Phineas.
"This is a test," Dumbledore replied. "To see whether Julien will be drawn to darkness… or whether, like his ancestor Pyxis, he'll choose to seal rather than open."
"And you realize this 'test' could become temptation? What if he chooses wrong?"
Dumbledore didn't answer. He simply gazed out the window toward the Ravenclaw Tower.
There, a green-eyed boy was bargaining with the sixteen-year-old Dark Lord, both convinced they were the hunter.
"Then perhaps," the old wizard said at last, "we will see a third Dark Lord."
"And then you'll destroy him too? I won't allow you to use a Black descendant as your lab rat!"
"Calm yourself, Phineas." Dumbledore sighed. "This was Pyxis's idea."
A silver raven condensed from the carved window lattice, solid as moonlight made flesh.