The first classes after returning from the holidays were hectic, with professors rushing to revise everything from the previous term. It wasn't just a review—it was their way of checking how much had stuck. Most students did fine, slipping back into routine with only a few stumbles. A handful, though, clearly hadn't touched a textbook during break and it showed.
For Harry, though, the tests were mostly boring—he'd already covered the syllabus for all wanded subjects up to sixth year. Still, he went through the motions and gave it his best.
Most of his thoughts, though, were consumed by the memories he had received from Tom, especially the one where Tom placed the diadem in a room full of lost things. The way he handled it, the care in his movements, left little to no doubt in Harry's mind. It had to be a Horcrux. And the fact that he'd hidden it inside Hogwarts of all places—right under Dumbledore's nose—was both bold and brilliant. Dumbledore was the one person Tom feared, which was exactly why he would never expect something so audacious. That was what made it such a perfect hiding spot. But it was also arrogance. The belief that no one else would ever discover the Room of Requirement, that it would remain his secret alone, was pure ignorance.
The room in the memory hadn't been named, but Harry had a strong suspicion. There was only one place in Hogwarts that could hide so much without drawing attention. Room of Requirements. It made sense. A place that gave people what they needed… or let them hide what they didn't want found. He'd check it out as soon as he was free from classes.
Time moved at a snail's pace when he wanted it to be over quickly. He had to focus and use Occlumency to rein in his restlessness during the classes.
As soon as classes ended, Harry let out a quiet sigh of relief and made his way to the seventh floor without wasting a second. He was itching to get this over with. The memory of Tom placing the diadem still lingered in his thoughts, sharp and certain. He needed to find and destroy it.
He made a beeline for the painting of Barnabas the Barmy, then paced back and forth three times in front of it.
I need the room of Hidden Things. I need the room of Hidden Things. I need the room of Hidden Things.
A door melted into existence across from the painting. Without hesitation, Harry stepped through.
The sight that greeted him was a vast cavern of forgotten junk stretched out before him—towering piles of broken furniture, tarnished trophies, and discarded things, all stacked like miniature mountains. It was chaos preserved in silence—a place where lost things went to be forgotten.
Harry tried to recall the memory of Tom placing the diadem, but the Room of Requirement was a maze. Everything looked the same—towering heaps of forgotten junk, shifting paths, and endless clutter that changed every time someone added something new.
It took him a while, longer than he would have liked, but eventually, he found it. Tucked atop a dusty bust, half-buried in an old cabinet, the diadem gleamed faintly in the dim light. Just as it had in the memory.
The Horcrux didn't seem to be protected by any magic. It looked like Tom hadn't had the time to place any enchantments around it, which made Harry's job a whole lot easier. He carefully levitated the diadem, setting it down in a clearer patch of floor nearby. Reaching into his pouch, he pulled out an intricately carved wooden box. He opened it with care and took out the Basilisk fang resting inside.
Without hesitation, Harry plunged the Basilisk fang into the diadem. A piercing screech erupted the moment fang met metal, followed by a thick plume of black smoke that hissed and writhed as it rose.
Just like last time, the smoke engulfed him—but this time, he was ready.
And then he was somewhere else.
A grand room stretched out before him, filled with robed figures standing in rigid silence. At the center, Tom Riddle rose from his seat, composed and charismatic. He began to speak—calm, persuasive, chilling. A call to arms against Muggles and Muggle-borns. And what struck Harry most wasn't just the hatred in Tom's words, but how easily he swayed the room. How they listened. How they believed.
A shift.
Now he was in the Chamber of Secrets. A seventeen-year-old Tom sat alone, parchment and tomes spread around him. His eyes were sharp, devouring every word about ritualistic magic, his wand weaving silent patterns in the air as he tested theories and refined calculations.
Harry stood unseen, but he felt it—the pull of the magic, the knowledge flowed into him as if he were the one reading, learning. What Tom understood, he understood too.
Another shift.
The room changed again—an office now, warm with flickering candlelight and lined with shelves crammed under the weight of potion ingredients. Slughorn's voice filled the space, jovial and uncertain, caught somewhere between flattery and discomfort.
"Of course, purely theoretical, my boy. Just… academic curiosity, yes?" Slughorn chuckled, patting his belly nervously.
Tom nodded, all charm, and practiced grace. He leaned in slightly, listening with keen interest, asking questions that danced just short of dangerous.
Then came the question, soft and almost offhanded, but unmistakably deliberate.
"Sir, if one were to split their soul—not just once, but… say, seven times—would that be possible? Would the soul survive that?"
Slughorn went very still. His joviality faltered, eyes blinking rapidly. "Seven, Tom? Merlin's beard, that's... well, that's the stuff of nightmares. The soul, my boy, is meant to remain whole. To fracture it that many times…" He trailed off, visibly shaken.
Tom just smiled, polite and unreadable. As Slughorn floundered for words, Tom's hand drifted, far too casually, to the ring on his finger. A flick of his thumb over the black stone, almost as if checking it was still there.
Harry's eyes narrowed.
The conversation moved on, Slughorn rambling about ancient magic and soul theory, trying to retreat into comfortable vagueness. But Tom's fingers lingered on the ring just a moment too long.
The memory began to dissolve, fading like smoke on the wind.
Harry blinked and found himself back in the Room of Hidden Things, standing before the crumpled remains of the diadem. The silence around him felt almost reverent.
Then came the rush—that strange, surging clarity he'd felt before
--Magic raised by 1 level--
--Magic: 13->14--
--Mind raised by 1 level--
--Mind: 12->13--
Another notification appeared, but this one made him pause.
--A new branch of Magic is added - Ritual--
--Ritual(Apprentice): 0 -> 10--
Harry exhaled slowly.
He had felt it, even in the memory—Tom diving headfirst into books and scrolls, obsessing over old lore. Ritual magic. Structured, dangerous, deeply rooted in intent. Tom had only just begun scratching its surface in the memory, but somehow, Harry had still absorbed the foundational knowledge.
It wasn't mastery. Not yet. But it was a start.
He glanced at the fang in his hand, then down at the smoldering remains of the Horcrux. "Another one."
He thought back to the memories, trying to piece them together as he began to understand Tom a little more. The third memory in particular stood out—the ring. Tom had shown a certain attachment to it, a subtle but telling gesture. It wasn't proof, not yet, but it was enough for Harry to suspect it was another Horcrux. The problem was, that he had no idea where Tom might have hidden it. No clues, no hints. Just a memory.
It seemed some tedious months lay ahead.