For Tom, life inside the diary had been going quite comfortably for Voldemort these past few weeks. Tom had fed it with a steady stream of vital blood, and the old shadow within the pages had grown visibly stronger.
But Voldemort had forgotten one truth: the higher the magic, the higher the counter.
And Tom was not just any student—he was a walking cheat code, an "evil cultivator" of sorts, playing with every stacked advantage. How could a trapped shard of Voldemort's soul hope to best him?
He had already made it clear: if he was willing to feed Voldemort crumbs of power, then he was absolutely confident in keeping him on a leash. Life force theft, soul corruption, mental ensnarements—all the tricks Voldemort tried—were useless against Tom's fortified soul and his constant vigilance.
Threats and bargains wrung some treasures from the diary already. Tom had pulled out plenty of useful lore, especially Slytherin's grisly experiments with magical creatures. To Tom himself, those meant little—he had the Twelve Trials and powers beyond. But for others? That knowledge could elevate ordinary wizards terrifyingly high.
He had thought this little arrangement could last longer. Unfortunately, Voldemort had reached his breaking point.
Tom dipped his quill into the ink and scribbled on the diary:
"Old Tom, don't give up on me now. I'm just an ordinary second-year boy. You've already regained so much strength—one more push, and maybe you'll take over my body and open the Chamber again, let the basilisk out for a stroll, eh?"
The ink bled back furiously:
"You lying brat! You're no second-year student. You're an ancient monster disguising yourself with youth magic—I see through you!"
"Yes, Slytherin's legacy goes deeper, into magics you can't even comprehend. But I won't give them to you. I 'forget.' Unless you restore me fully—give me power, give me blood, give me life—you'll get nothing."
"Either help me regain my prime, or destroy me. I don't care anymore. Do your worst! I refuse to keep dancing like your puppet. I don't believe you even can destroy me—you don't have that kind of power."
The words slashed across the page like a tantrum, raw and unpolished. The diary had dropped all pretense, all politeness. Voldemort was broken, cornered.
Once, he had tried to outplay Tom, to maneuver and deceive, keeping his secrets close while bleeding scraps of knowledge. Now he saw no way forward. The boy was too shrewd, too ruthless, too guarded. He saw through every blurred detail, every half-truth, punishing Voldemort with cruel precision.
The truth was simple: the diary didn't hold Slytherin's full legacy. A few scraps, a core or two perhaps, yes. But nothing like the complete trove Voldemort once hinted at. He was nearly wrung dry.
And if he gave Tom more… he would only be raising up his own executioner.
Selfishness was Voldemort's defining trait. Even as a scrap of soul, he couldn't stand the idea of empowering someone else. His deepest treasures—Horcruxes, Dark Arts perfected—were never meant to be shared. Not with allies, not with servants, not even with other fragments of himself.
Helping Tom grow stronger? That was tantamount to murdering his true self. Never.
The pages shook with angry script.
Tom's face remained blank as he calmly snapped the diary shut.
"Enough."
So, Voldemort wanted to play hardball? Threaten him with silence? Pretend he had leverage?
Tom's eyes narrowed. "Not worth humoring."
Did he really think Tom needed him? That he could be threatened with scraps of knowledge? If it came to it, Tom could spend his accumulated 1,200 achievement points at any time. One option was to summon another "King of the Century." Another was to save up for the ultimate—an immortal summoning.
Why beg a crippled diary fragment when he could drag the real Slytherin himself from history?
No—Voldemort was mistaken if he thought Tom could be held hostage.
Calmly, Tom layered a series of powerful seals across the diary, locking it tight. Not even a whisper of soul-leakage could seep out now. Then he rose from his dormitory without a flicker of agitation on his face.
He wasn't rattled. He wasn't desperate. If anything, he was mildly amused.
The day rolled by with its routine of classes.
By evening, Hogwarts distributed the annual Christmas holiday forms—applications for staying over winter or returning home.
This year, the mood was strangely festive. The Chamber of Secrets had only been opened once, and Penelope had survived unscathed. The tension that might have gripped the school was absent. Students bustled and laughed, eagerly planning their holidays.
At the Gryffindor table, Ginny's wide eyes followed Tom. When she saw him casually shove his holiday form aside, her face fell, her spirits sinking low.
The Weasley parents were off to Egypt this year. Most of the siblings were staying at Hogwarts. Ginny had been hoping—just maybe—that Tom would be among them. But no. He was leaving again.
"Tom," Daphne pouted at the Slytherin table, cheeks puffed, voice sweet but sulky. "Don't tell me you're off to France again… to meet that vixen?"
Ever since Tom had read her the tale of the Monkey King, Daphne had adopted the phrase "fox spirit" as her own personal weapon. And in her book, France was absolutely crawling with them.
Tom gave her a stern look. "Don't be ridiculous. It's academic work. You know perfectly well who invited me."
He didn't say Flamel's name aloud—not with other students nearby.
"But I'm not vanishing for the whole break," he added. "I'll be home for a few days first. If Lady Greengrass agrees, you and Astoria can come stay with me."
Daphne's sulk melted into a grin. "Fine. I'll ask Mum."
At the High Table, Professor Rouse peered at Tom again.
His double life as a spy was proving… disappointingly dull. No danger. No thrilling secrets. Just routine lectures, handing out basic spells, pretending to be stern. Dumbledore was satisfied, his "employers" were satisfied—but Rouse himself? Utterly bored.
Tom, meanwhile, was turning the entire wizarding world upside down with his articles. Pure-blood pedigrees stripped bare, reputations shattered. Rouse longed to leap in, to tear down sacred cows and raise hell.
With holidays approaching, he itched for something dangerous, something exciting.
That night, back in his quarters, he even pinged Tom through WhatsApp, begging for some clandestine job.
But Tom never replied.
Because by then, Tom was already standing in the Headmaster's office—diary in hand—ready to deliver it to Dumbledore himself.