After Professor Snape's birthday passed, Dylan couldn't help but notice a change in the classroom. Snape's attitude toward the Gryffindor students seemed to soften quite a bit. Normally, when Snape chewed out Ron, he'd call him dumber than a troll. Lately, though, even when Ron messed up, Snape only scolded him for being as reckless as a headless ghost. That was practically gentle for him—unbelievably so! Even Ron himself found it hard to wrap his head around.
One day after class, Dylan went to Professor Flitwick's office for his usual tutoring session. When he got back to the dorm that night, Harry and the others weren't there. It wasn't until just before curfew that Harry and Ron returned, their faces grim.
Seeing their sour expressions, Dylan raised an eyebrow. "What's going on?"
The two exchanged a glance, then snuck a peek at Seamus and Neville, who were already in bed. They shuffled over to Dylan's side, looking all secretive, and went to plop down on his bed.
"Hold up!" Dylan's eyes widened. "You're just gonna sit on my blankets in those dirty robes? Can't you see the mud all over them?"
"Oh, uh, sorry," Harry mumbled, freezing mid-squat with his butt awkwardly hovering in the air before standing back up.
"Scourgify!" Harry waved his wand, cleaning the mud off himself and Ron. After that, he stood by Dylan's bed, not daring to sit again.
Dylan rolled his eyes. "What are you standing there for? Sit here." He patted the spot next to him, scooting over to make room.
"Mow?" A little head popped out from under Dylan's covers—Coalball, his pet. Dylan scratched under its chin, pulling it closer while Harry and Ron awkwardly settled in beside him.
"So, what happened?" Dylan asked.
Harry frowned and sighed. "It's Hermione. She got attacked by that monster tonight!"
Dylan raised an eyebrow. "Oh, that's rough."
Hearing Dylan's oddly calm tone, Ron and Harry blinked in surprise.
"Yeah, it's… pretty bad," Harry said, fumbling for words. "If we hadn't found her in time, that monster might've eaten her!"
Ron couldn't hold back. "Dylan, do you still have any Mandrake Restorative Draught? Hermione's in the hospital wing right now!"
Dylan pressed his lips together and shrugged. "Sorry, guys. I've already used up all the Mandrake potion I had. One bottle brought Mrs. Norris back, and the other revived Harry's little fanboy. I'm all out."
Ron's face fell, and Harry didn't look much better.
"But honestly, I don't think you need to worry too much," Dylan added, tilting his head. "Before Christmas, Neville and I checked on the Mandrakes in the greenhouse. They're growing great. It won't be long before they're ready. Once they're mature, Snape'll brew the potion himself—and he's way faster at it than I am."
Harry nodded reluctantly. "Guess that's all we can do."
Ron's brows stayed knitted, but he didn't say anything.
Harry glanced over at Seamus and Neville, making sure they weren't listening, then lowered his voice even more. He pulled a notebook out of his bag. "Since everyone who's been attacked lately seems tied to one place, Ron and I decided to check it out. We found this in the second-floor girls' bathroom—you know, the one Malfoy made famous last time."
Dylan's eyes flicked to the notebook in Harry's hand, narrowing slightly.
"The weird thing is, aside from a name scribbled on the first page in blurry ink, the rest of it's blank," Harry explained, passing it to Dylan.
Dylan took it casually. "Hermione went to the library to look up the owner of this notebook. She must've found something and gone to investigate—then she got attacked!"
Ron nodded beside him. "When we found her, she was holding a mirror and a piece of paper. The paper had some info on it—the monster in the Chamber? It's a Basilisk!"
Harry chimed in. "And the owner of this notebook—Tom Riddle—got a Special Award for Services to the School fifty years ago. When Hermione got attacked, a bunch of professors showed up. I asked Professor Binns about it, and he said the Chamber was opened fifty years ago too—and someone died back then!"
Ron nodded eagerly. "We think this is a diary, maybe with clues about what happened fifty years ago." He groaned. "But aside from that stupid name, there's nothing! We've tried revealing spells, even an eraser for invisible ink—nothing works!"
Harry added, "Dylan, you're good at divination, right? Can you figure anything out about this notebook?"
Dylan rubbed the diary in his hands, blinking thoughtfully. "You know divination's not exactly a quick trick. It might take me some time to try. But if you want a fast answer, I could predict whether this monster—or Slytherin's Heir—will do any real damage to Hogwarts."
"You can do that? That'd be awesome!" Ron's eyes widened. "Do you need to prep anything?"
Dylan rummaged through his bedside cabinet and pulled out a crystal ball, setting it on the bed. Coalball curiously poked its head toward it, but Dylan pushed it back. "Nope, I'm good."
He hovered a hand over the crystal ball, his slender fingers curling slightly as he began to rotate his palm. A misty haze swirled inside the orb.
Harry and Ron sat on the edge of the bed, staring intently, trying to spot something in the fog. But all they saw was more fog—nothing clear.
They glanced up at Dylan, who looked dead serious, his eyes locked on the ball like he was seeing something. They didn't dare interrupt, just sat there quietly.
After a moment, Dylan's hand stilled, and he closed his eyes briefly.
"So?" Harry asked, leaning forward.
Dylan's voice came soft and airy. "I saw some shadows."
"Shadows?" Harry and Ron blinked again.
"Like the monster's shadow?" Harry pressed.
"No, just shadows—fighting each other. In the end, Hogwarts was still fine." Dylan shook his head, opened his eyes, and tossed the crystal ball back onto the cabinet.
Truth was, he hadn't divined a thing. He just wanted to throw out a vague, grand-sounding prophecy to see if it'd stick—and maybe earn him some bragging rights later.
"Anyway, it's late. You guys should hit the sack. So should I." Dylan gripped the diary and looked at them.
Relieved to hear Hogwarts would be okay, Harry and Ron stood up, though still a bit on edge. With something this big, they couldn't be sure Dylan's prediction was spot-on. But for now, sleep was all they could manage.
After they left, Dylan tried stashing the diary in his inventory. No dice. He raised an eyebrow. "Fine then. You can enjoy Coalball's big butt instead."
He set the diary aside and scooped up Coalball. "Sleep on this." Coalball gave him a sidelong glance, then eyed the diary. Dylan grinned. "Don't worry, it won't poke your butt."
Coalball: *…?*
Still confused but obedient, it shifted its rear, plopping down with a little *squelch* onto the diary. Then it adjusted itself, resting its head on Dylan's pillow, squinting comfortably.
Dylan lay down too, drifting off.
Late that night, after resting a bit, Dylan's eyes fluttered open. He had a trip to the Forbidden Forest planned—time to spit out the Mandrake leaf he'd been holding in his mouth for a whole month. The damn thing felt like it was melting into mush.
Leaving Coalball to sit on the diary, he glanced at the sleeping Harry and crew, then vanished with a flicker—thanks to his Shadow Realm magic and Coalball's abilities. He could turn into an unseen ghost, slipping right through Hogwarts' walls and doors.
Out near the Forbidden Forest, with the diary as an extra variable, Dylan had originally planned to hunt some Acromantulas and maybe snag some unicorn hair. But now, he decided to focus on finishing his Animagus prep and heading back—didn't want that diary stirring up trouble under his nose.
"Didn't expect Little Tom to show up on his own when I was planning to let Karthas deal with him later. Guess I'll study this diary first."
Dylan knew Tom couldn't emerge from the diary yet. In the original story, he'd only influenced Ginny because she kept writing to him, letting him grow stronger. Same with Harry—constant interaction triggered the dark magic, letting Tom fully appear in the Chamber.
Right now, though? Just a soul fragment stuck in a book. It could sense the outside world but only manipulate people through mental exchanges if they used it. Dylan wasn't worried. He held the diary now and could mess with it without Tom realizing he was dealing with a dark magic pro. Plus, Dylan's arsenal of max-level soul-related spells was nothing to scoff at. Even a revived Voldemort wouldn't faze him in a dark magic duel—let alone this tiny soul splinter. What could it do besides control a Basilisk?
Stepping into the forest, Dylan didn't go too deep. The night sky was crystal clear, not a cloud in sight, moonlight pouring down and bathing the trees in silver. Farther in, the branches swayed gently in the breeze.
He took a deep breath, savoring the damp, earthy scent of the woods. Then, from his inventory, he pulled out a small crystal vial—filled with his saliva. Holding it at arm's length (who'd want to smell that?), he plucked the soggy Mandrake leaf from under his tongue, rolled it up, and stuffed it into the vial.
The saliva stretched a bit as he blinked at it. *Good thing it's mine,* he thought, unbothered. The vial glinted under the moonlight, reflecting the shadowy trees.
Standing in a spot perfectly aligned with the moon's glow, Dylan ran his fingers through his hair, yanked out a strand, and added it to the vial. Next, he pulled out a silver spoon with a teaspoon of dew—collected from a place untouched by sun or people for seven days. He poured that in too, then grabbed a Death's-Head Hawk Moth chrysalis. Its greenish glow shimmered in the light as he popped it into the vial.
With all the ingredients mixed, Dylan smirked. "Now we just wait for a thunderstorm."
The vial held a concoction, not a proper potion yet—just a blend of weird stuff. He twirled it under the moonlight, then headed deeper into the forest. Finding an old tree, he buried the vial beneath it.
He'd met Hagrid enough times to know his patrol routes and had warned him to steer clear of this spot lately. So, until a storm hit, this place would stay dark and undisturbed—no sunlight, no visitors.
From books and Professor McGonagall, Dylan knew the Animagus process wasn't too tricky. Four steps:
1. Hold a Mandrake leaf in your mouth from one full moon to the next—don't swallow or remove it, or you start over. (He'd already messed that up once.)
2. At the next full moon, put the saliva-soaked leaf in a crystal vial under pure moonlight. Add a hair, the dew, and the chrysalis, then stash it somewhere quiet and dark until a thunderstorm.
3. Wait and chant the incantation.
4. Transform.
Thunderstorms weren't common, so luck played a role. Britain's weather was decent, though—plenty of storms each year. Dylan wasn't worried about waiting forever.
Back in the dorm, Coalball cracked an eye open, saw it was Dylan, and flopped back onto the diary, snoring away.
"Little traitor," Dylan muttered, lips twitching. Coalball used to follow him everywhere, but now, after hanging out with Norbert, it barely clung to him anymore. Didn't it care if he ran into trouble at night?
Huffing, he climbed into bed and slept.
Before sunrise, he woke again, pointing his wand at his heart and reciting, "Amato Animo Animato Animagus!"
He glanced out at the sunrise—golden light flooding Hogwarts, gilding the towers and spilling over the misty Forbidden Forest. The sky softened with orange and pink, chasing away the dark. Watching the dawn was one of his favorite breaks from studying.
At sunset, he repeated the chant. After dinner, instead of the library, he slipped into his suitcase space, eyeing Tom's diary in a literal pile of roaches.
Thinking it over all day, Dylan figured since the diary was in his hands, he didn't need to claim it fully yet. He'd let Harry have it back to tangle with Voldemort, then swoop in as Karthas to snag the Horcrux and Basilisk later. But for now? A little experimenting wouldn't hurt.
Staying invisible with his Shadow Ring, he hit the diary with an Imperius Curse, taking full control. Then, wand raised, he pointed at it. "Avada Kedavra!"
*Biubiubiubiu—* Fifty green flashes erupted from his wand like a storm, slamming into the diary. It charred instantly, edges curling as if burned, and though it made no sound, Dylan swore he heard a shriek.
"Pretty tough Horcrux," he mused. Fifty Killing Curses only weakened it—no total destruction. Horcruxes weren't alive, so they couldn't die—just containers for soul bits, immune to normal death spells. Still, this was perfect for grinding dark magic practice.
"This thing's a goldmine for refining curses!" Dylan grinned, stroking his chin. Spells like Avada Kedavra or Cruciatus could chip away at it, but not kill it. Horcruxes were anchors—unbreakable by most means, self-repairing unless hit with something extreme like Gryffindor's sword or Fiendfyre.
"Voldemort's such a weakling when I've faced him, but he made six Horcruxes thinking they'd make him immortal. He didn't realize they could still be destroyed," Dylan mused. Once the first fell, Voldemort would guard the rest better. Dylan didn't want to hunt them down himself—better to let them come to him. That's why he left Harry to grow up and fight his own battles. He'd just pick up the pieces later. Why not?
In theory, a soul could split into seven parts—six Horcruxes plus the body. But in a world of magic, could Voldemort go nuts and rip his soul into hundreds? Sure, he'd lose control, maybe his mind, but for a guy like him, with no limits, who's to say? Dylan hadn't split his own soul and couldn't find clear answers in the restricted books—just vague guesses.
Voldemort had no qualms about the cost—killing for a Horcrux was nothing to him. He could turn a dung beetle's ball into one if he wanted. As long as one survived, more could be out there.
Dylan just wanted to read, attend class, and test curses on lab rats—not chase Voldemort around. No way he'd play hide-and-seek with that loser instead of Harry.
Back in first year, he'd barely joined Harry's adventures—only swooping in at the end for a reward, but Dumbledore ruined that. No point in risky thrills with no payoff. Let Harry handle Voldemort's ego trip—proving he's the big bad after a fluke loss. Voldemort wouldn't even prep extra for the "Chosen One" showdown; it'd bruise his pride.
Dylan blasted the diary with more dark spells—it took them all like a champ. After testing, he killed most of the roaches, funneling their life force into the diary to restore it to how Harry had handed it over. Gloves on, he picked it up, then paused. One last question for Tom.
Wand glowing with a Cutting Curse, he scratched, "Would you spare women and kids?"
A burnt smell wafted up. After a pause, shaky words appeared: "I wouldn't."
Dylan smirked, writing, "Really?"
Another pause. "But your wife isn't a kid, and your son's not a woman."
Controlled by Dylan's Imperius, the diary spat out his dark humor. He sighed—lame to joke with himself. He'd ask the real Voldemort later.
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Killing more spiders to juice up the diary, he left the suitcase. Overnight, clouds gathered.
Waking up, chanting the Animagus spell, Dylan peeked outside and grinned. "Buried that mix yesterday, and a storm's already coming? Lucky me."
No mistakes in the prep—missing this storm would've sucked. By evening, thunder rumbled, and rain poured. Dylan dug up the vial—the mix now a blood-red potion. Beaming, he rushed back to the empty dorm and into his suitcase.
Wand to his heart, he chanted again. Heart pounding, he popped the vial open and chugged it. A second heartbeat thrummed in his ears, faint but distinct—another life inside him. The beats clashed, growing louder, deafening, until—*BOOM*—a jolt rocked his body.
Scales sprouted on his skin, glinting green. "Scales?" he gasped.
Then, in his mind, an image formed. He stared, stunned. "I'm a—?"
(End of Chapter)