What did he mean—hand me over to someone who could deal with me?
Would he really… give me away?
Inside the diary, the fragment of Voldemort's soul began to panic.
After all, this was a fifteen-year-old Voldemort—far less experienced, far less ruthless than he would one day become. When Tom's actions strayed outside his expectations, the boy's composure faltered.
Tom, we can still negotiate. I am sincere—truly sincere. You must believe me!
The words appeared across the page almost instantly, hurried and desperate.
But Tom didn't even glance at them. He simply pushed the notebook toward Dumbledore.
"Thank you, Mr. Riddle," the Headmaster said gravely. He lowered his gaze to the diary, then picked up a quill and wrote upon a blank section of the page:
Tom, I never thought we would meet again like this. As I write, I see before me the clever, handsome young Head Boy I once knew, fifty years ago.
The ink seeped into the page. The diary fragment absorbed the words—and at once, the familiar aura struck him. This was no echo of Tom's energy. This was someone else. Someone he knew far too well.
Dumbledore!
Yes. It is I.
Dumbledore confirmed it without hesitation, his quill scratching onward:
"Such an extraordinary achievement. I recall… you were only in your fifth year, weren't you? To create something so horrific at that age… Hogwarts has never seen another student like you."
He paused, then chuckled softly, glancing up. Across the room, Tom was locked in a silent staring contest with Fawkes the phoenix. Dumbledore gave him a faint smile before bending to write again.
"Forgive me—my phrasing was imprecise. I should say… the most gifted student before you."
This time, the diary fell silent. No words appeared in return.
Dumbledore waited patiently, but when nothing came, he finally closed the diary with a sigh of genuine regret. Like Tom before him, he sealed it once more with protective magic.
Tom, sensing the exchange had ended, quietly looked away.
Dumbledore stroked the black cover with a thoughtful hand.
"Fate is always filled with uncertainty. Yet every so often, it throws a surprise into our path, as though mocking us with its own twisted humor.
Tom Riddle… such a peculiar name."
His pale eyes rose to meet Tom's.
"When I first saw your name appear on the Hogwarts register, I felt a sudden impulse to see you for myself. For fifty years ago, another Tom Riddle also stood before me, a boy I welcomed into the wizarding world.
And that boy, in time, gained another name. A name far more infamous, though far less often spoken—Voldemort."
"What?!" Tom widened his eyes, his face the perfect picture of shock. Once, he had been too intimidated to act before Dumbledore, but now he wielded both mind and expression like weapons—seamless, flawless.
"Yes," Dumbledore murmured, his sigh heavy. "Such brilliance has rarely graced these halls. He was, before you, the most gifted student Hogwarts had ever known. Yet even his brilliance could not prevent him from straying into darkness.
At school, Tom Riddle was the model of excellence—handsome, intelligent, impeccably polite. Compared to you, he was… gentler. Before graduating, he asked Armando for the chance to remain as a professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts. But at my urging, Armando refused him."
"And so he vanished. He wandered the world, burying himself ever deeper in the mire of Dark magic. When at last he returned… he was no longer Tom Riddle, but Lord Voldemort.
No one, save those who knew the truth, would ever connect the two."
"I suddenly feel like changing my own name," Tom remarked dryly—then frowned, shaking his head. "No, why should I change my name? It should be him who does it!"
"That hardly matters," Dumbledore replied, half-laughing at Tom's reaction. "Perhaps only you—or I—would dare speak Voldemort's name so casually."
He glanced at the clock.
"It's late, Mr. Riddle. You may return to your dormitory. Leave the rest to me."
Tom nodded, pausing only to stroke Fawkes' head before striding toward the door.
In the original course of events, Dumbledore had received only a destroyed Horcrux. Now he held in his hands one that still thought, still whispered. What new consequences this would bring, no one could yet predict.
Still, Tom had made his calculations. He doubted Dumbledore would attempt to confront the basilisk during term. The Headmaster would surely wait for summer, when the castle was empty and no student safety was at risk.
That was one of the reasons Tom dared entrust the diary to him.
Deep down, Tom sensed that when his "Twelve Trials" renewed in half a year, they would either involve the basilisk… or the phoenix.
After Tom left, Dumbledore studied the diary intently. Raising the Elder Wand, he murmured a string of incantations, testing its nature.
At first, relief softened his features. Then his expression grew grave, shadowed by the weight of what he had found.
"What did you discover, Dumbledore?" asked Armando Dippet.
"Horcrux," Dumbledore whispered with a sigh. "By his fifth year, Voldemort had already forged one. Remarkable—and terrible."
The portraits stirred in confusion. Most looked blank, including Armando and Phineas. Only a few recognized the word—and among them, Dilys Derwent went pale with horror.
"A Horcrux?!" she shrieked. "How dare he create such a thing!"
Dilys Derwent—one of Hogwarts' rare female Headmistresses, and once the matron of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries—was more knowledgeable than most about forbidden arts.