Two days ago, in the Slytherin common room.
"Tell me about the Magic World," the handwriting in the notebook appeared a bit lazy, "I've already told you the secret of the Slytherin Secret Chamber, so you should also tell me how the Magic World has changed—You know, I've been away for many years."
"Besides, knowing what happened afterwards, I can guide you better."
"Where should I begin?" Draco reached out and rubbed his slightly sore hand, waited for it to feel better, then wrote in the notebook, "Sorry, Ancestor, if I start from when you left the Magic World, I'm afraid I wouldn't finish even if I wrote for three days and nights."
"Just tell me about your headmaster, is it still Phineas Black?" the handwriting asked.
"Oh, not anymore. The current headmaster is Dumbledore." Draco's script showed clear impatience when he wrote "Dumbledore," "That sanctimonious man actually allows Mudbloods to study at the school. My father says, with someone like that as headmaster, there's no way Hogwarts will ever be any better."
"I trust your father's judgment." The notebook's handwriting grew cheerful, "So, does Dumbledore have any stories?"
"He defeated a Dark Wizard named Grindelwald," Draco wrote in the notebook, "Everyone calls him the most powerful White Wizard."
"The most powerful White Wizard?" The handwriting turned a little urgent, "So, my descendant, besides Grindelwald, does this great White Wizard have any other enemies?"
Draco thought for a moment, then wrote truthfully in the notebook: "Yes, You-Know-Who—"
"I know who? (direct translation of You-Know-Who)" The handwriting became elegant again: "Don't joke, Draco. How would I know who this person is?"
"Voldemort." Draco shivered even as he wrote the name, "We don't usually say his name directly."
"Why?" asked the notebook.
"Fear." Draco wrote, hesitated, then added: "And respect, because he promises us pure-bloods the status we deserve."
The notebook's handwriting looked quite pleased: "Exactly, that's right. Pure-blood Wizards like us are born to stand above others—this Voldemort fellow has the right idea… So, where is he now?"
Draco hesitated for a long while, then wrote: "Harry Potter! They say he's the Chosen One, destined to defeat Voldemort… When Harry Potter was one year old, You-Know-Who tried to kill him, but somehow after that he vanished. Everyone says Harry Potter killed You-Know-Who—actually, he hasn't appeared in ten years."
The notebook went silent.
Draco waited for a long time, but got no reply.
"Ancestor? Ancestor?" he wrote on it.
Unexpectedly, the handwriting in the notebook suddenly turned chaotic.
"Impossible! Absolutely impossible! A one-year-old child, how could he be defeated by a one-year-old child!"
"Ancestor? Why are you so angry?" Draco was puzzled why the ancestor was so furious about Voldemort's defeat.
The notebook went silent.
After a long time, it finally wrote, slowly: "Just think this You-Know-Who… is no big deal, couldn't even kill a one-year-old child."
Draco hesitated for a long while; in the end, reason beat emotion and he didn't chime in with the old ancestor by saying "Exactly."
"Don't say that, Ancestor. Maybe he was ambushed by Dumbledore."
"Enough, Draco." The handwriting became neat again: "I recall you said your Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher is useless? Bring me to his class tomorrow, so I can observe and then train you accordingly, address your weaknesses—and help you learn Magic Spells and dueling skills faster, so you can defeat that damn Potter."
"Yes, Ancestor." Draco said excitedly, a gleam of anticipation in his eyes.
The next day, Tuesday, sure enough, he brought the notebook to Defense Against the Dark Arts class.
Just when he couldn't wait to open the notebook and write something, the notebook had already given its opinion.
"Put me away."
Draco obediently shut the notebook and tucked it into his pocket.
At the podium, Professor Quirrell, holding a lizard as he lectured, was momentarily distracted, paused briefly, then continued explaining the uses of lizard blood to the class.
What Draco didn't know was that, inside the notebook's consciousness, a storm had already been raging.
Depraved! Useless!
Hiding out glued to someone else's head!
Living so pathetically in the world, you call yourself the main soul?
After class, Draco grabbed a quick bite, then returned to the Slytherin common room.
"Ancestor, why did you ask me to put you away?" he asked.
"I can hear what he's saying even in your pocket." the notebook wrote, "Stammering, trembling—how could someone like that be a Defense Against the Dark Arts professor?"
The handwriting lingered for a long time, and Draco knew the ancestor wasn't done talking yet.
Sure enough, another line floated beneath the previous text.
"So, my descendant, I need a bit of strength."
"What sort of strength?" Draco asked eagerly.
"Just power. With a little borrowed strength, I can manifest in front of you and teach you even better…" answered the notebook.
"Really?" Draco was delighted—after all this time chatting, could the ancestor finally appear in front of him?
He quickly wrote on the notebook: "So, how can I give you power? Can I do it?"
"No, my child." The handwriting was very gentle, "You're my most beloved descendant, how could I bear to take power from you?"
Ancestor…
Draco's eyes grew moist.
He was truly moved.
"Listen," the notebook wrote again, "I recall you have two little stooges, Crabbe and Gall, right? I see the two of them are pretty sturdy—just ask them to hold my notebook, and I'll borrow a bit of their power."
Crabbe and Gall?
Draco felt a tiny pang of jealousy, but since the ancestor had spoken, he'd do as told.
So, he turned and called out, "Crabbe, Gall, come over here."
In a moment, the tall and short duo walked in; together they looked just like a beer bottle and a tin of corned beef.
"You two, hold this notebook." Draco handed it to them.
Crabbe and Gall didn't suspect a thing, grabbing each side of the notebook.
At the same time, faint gold letters appeared on the notebook's cover, spelling "T.M.Riddle," which quickly faded and were replaced by "C.C. Malfoy."