Tom Riddle never imagined that even as a Horcrux, he could still be threatened .
What baffled him even more was what had happened in the fifty years since—how could a second-year student already wield a fully-formed Patronus Charm with such ease?
What Riddle didn't realize was that the glowing creature attacking him wasn't a Patronus at all, but—like him—a soul-based entity. When he saw the glowing, winged unicorn fly through the air, he simply assumed it was an unusually shaped Patronus.
But that only made him spiral further into madness.
He couldn't accept it. A spell he had failed to master even in his fifth year was now being casually used by a twelve-year-old. The humiliation was unbearable.
"You should've died to the basilisk!" he spat, eyes burning with hatred.
"So the basilisk was your doing, then?" Harold asked.
"Of course it was! I am the true heir of Slytherin!" Riddle's voice rose, his body flickering erratically. "You imposter! You'll never open the Chamber. Never command the basilisk. Only I can!"
Looks like he'd read the newspaper—or more likely, Malfoy had told him what was printed. Either way, Riddle was clearly incensed by Harold's claim to be the Heir of Slytherin. That identity was his prized title—no one else was allowed to have it.
Harold ignored the tantrum and narrowed his eyes. "But how did you know I'd be in that eighth-floor corridor at that time? The basilisk is huge. You couldn't have just let it wander around exposed."
"Oh, that's the interesting part," Riddle said, smiling with a touch of twisted pride. "The basilisk's original target wasn't you. It was another boy. A Weasley."
Harold's expression darkened. "Who?"
"A boy named Weasley," Riddle said, recalling what Malfoy had written in the diary. "'That damned Weasley! He made me vomit slugs in front of everyone! I was humiliated! He has to pay! Tom, do you know how I can kill him?!'"
Riddle sneered. "He was consumed by rage. That was the first time I tried to use Malfoy as a vessel to awaken the basilisk. I promised to let it petrify the boy—revenge, not murder. Killing students would get Hogwarts shut down, and I wasn't ready for that. Not yet."
"What did you want first?" Harold asked.
"To kill you," Riddle said venomously. "The moment I saw you leaving the dungeon corridor… oh, you can't imagine the joy I felt."
"And yet I'm still alive," Harold said evenly. "Must've been disappointing."
"Oh yes," Riddle hissed. "You're lucky. The basilisk can't track things cursed by it."
"Or maybe it wasn't just luck." Harold smiled faintly. "Tell me about the note. The one with the Chamber's location. Was that you too?"
"Indeed it was." Riddle's form dimmed, his voice growing fainter like a radio signal dropping.
"You figured it out, didn't you?" he continued. "You're a Seer—one of those rare prophets who see what others cannot."
"Not even close," Harold said. "That's as absurd as you thinking I'm Harry."
But Riddle looked smug.
"You can't fool me," he insisted, his form now the dusty gray-brown of ash. "From the first moment we met, I could feel it—you craved this diary, but you were also wary. Which is impossible. I had never been opened before. You had no reason to fear me."
"Then I thought of another—someone who saw the future and tried to unite the wizards to conquer the Muggles."
"Grindelwald," Harold murmured.
"Yes." Riddle's expression grew manic. "So I wondered—are you also one of them? Did you foresee my return? Did you see what I would become? Did you see your own defeat?"
Harold said nothing. But inwardly, he had to admit—Riddle wasn't wrong. He had been trying to end this before it began.
That flicker of emotion must have betrayed him, because Riddle's eyes glinted triumphantly.
"I knew it!" he barked a laugh. "You'll fail, just like the others. You think you can change fate, but you only help fulfill it. You're walking straight into the ending you tried to avoid."
"Grindelwald failed. His dream was crushed by so-called heroes, and now Hogwarts is crawling with Mudbloods."
"And you'll fail too. Everything I've set in motion will happen, one way or another!"
Riddle's body flickered like a broken TV screen, pulsing with unstable energy.
Harold frowned and reached for his wand—time to remind Riddle who was in charge.
But this time, the unicorn passed right through Riddle.
Then something strange happened.
The diary on the floor began to change.
Gray mist rose from its pages. The paper shriveled and wrinkled. As the mist poured out, Riddle began to scream—a bone-chilling sound of unbearable agony.
Harold hadn't known it was even possible for a Horcrux fragment to leave its container.
But Riddle was doing exactly that—ripping himself free.
The agony on his face said it all: this method had a cost. Probably the rest of his soul. Maybe more.
Harold instinctively moved to stop him—but the unicorn couldn't touch him now. Riddle was in a different state, one beyond its reach.
Harold knew no other magic for this.
In desperation, he did the only thing he could think of.
He reached down and grabbed the diary.
Immediately, the golden runes engraved on his wrist flared to life, glowing with power.
And Riddle screamed louder.
If the diary had been a saw carving away his soul, then Harold's touch was a furnace, setting it ablaze.
Harold's eyes lit up.
He couldn't turn this version of Riddle into a wand core—this was still the "real" soul, not the mutilated, black-magic-riddled wretch that Voldemort would one day become. His magic, even his instincts, resisted the idea.
But the fragment now separating?
That part was fair game.
He acted quickly. Gripping the diary like a wand shaft, Harold began infusing it—channeling the fragment into the object itself.
The diary wasn't a wand. It had no runes, no magical carvings. It couldn't truly bond with a core. But it could borrow its power. Temporarily.
If Riddle had needed to sacrifice half his soul before, now—thanks to Harold's intervention—he'd have to give up two-thirds just to escape.
Above, an ugly, wailing mass took form, while below, the diary exhaled thick gray fog, devouring everything like a hungry beast.
Somewhere nearby, Draco stirred from unconsciousness. One glimpse at the scene, and he fainted again.
The diary—no longer a true Horcrux—was cracking apart.
Its cover split. Get full chapters from 𝘯𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭·𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘦·𝘯𝘦𝘵
A gray, thread-like core slithered through the cracks, stitching them closed.
If Harry or Ron had been here, they'd recognize that look: a completed wand core. They'd seen something similar before—when Harold had used a Red Cap's nerve fibers, glowing red.
Cracks kept forming, and the gray core kept burrowing in, sealing every gap.
At last, Riddle's wretched form—now hideously misshapen, unrecognizable—tore itself free.
It resembled a melting snowman more than a man. Featureless. Grotesquely twisted.
And then—it fled. Howling with rage and humiliation, it vanished through the door.
Harold didn't chase it.
Instead, he focused entirely on the diary—controlling the flow of the core, guiding it into every inch of the paper's structure.
In his other hand, he traced runes with his wand, drawing glowing glyphs across the cover. Each symbol glimmered briefly in gold before vanishing, leaving the surface smoother, stronger, more refined.
The diary was no longer just a diary.
He couldn't explain it—but as a wandmaker, he knew.
He had accidentally crafted something incredible.
So incredible, he didn't even care that Riddle had escaped.
All his attention was now focused on the object before him.