Draco Malfoy was a pure-blood wizard.
And he was immensely proud of that fact.
The reason he thought this way was simple: it was what his great father had taught him.
Even when he grew old enough to think for himself, his views didn't change much.
Was it not perfectly natural for those with power to be superior to those without it?
In other words, those without power were inferior. And in Malfoy's eyes, those who were not befitting of their pure blood were, for the most part, inferior.
This perception was only reinforced by the wizards he had met so far.
Muggles were inferior beings, ignorant of magic. They knew nothing of the world's true nature.
The mutants occasionally born to Muggles, the Muggle-borns, were no different. Compared to pure-bloods, their magical skills were an utter mess.
Half-bloods. In their case, some could at least be considered borderline human. Those who had inherited at least half of a magical bloodline sometimes showed exceptional ability. Of course, most were still trash not worth associating with.
But even being a pure-blood didn't automatically make one great. Only by fulfilling their duties could a pure-blood truly become respectable.
The Weasleys, who despite their pure blood sided with inferior Muggles, were a family of pathetic fools who couldn't even afford to buy proper textbooks.
Similarly, there was Neville of the Longbottom family, who was also unbecoming of a pure-blood. Malfoy honestly had a hard time telling him apart from a Squib.
Ah, and of course, Squibs were beneath mention.
In any case, to the young Malfoy, the world operated on a very simple principle.
A person's worth was determined by the power they possessed, and that power was determined by the superiority of their bloodline.
And he had inherited the blood of the Malfoys, one of the pinnacles of such bloodlines. Therefore, those born of inferior blood should not dare to defy him.
What a simple and clear principle it was.
Under that great principle, Malfoy had no need for worries, no cause for concern.
It was only after he enrolled at Hogwarts that Malfoy began to realize that this simple principle, for some reason, didn't quite align with the world.
Why was it? The very people Malfoy despised most had begun to step out of their designated places.
Harry Potter. "The Boy Who Lived," who had defeated the Dark Lord as a baby. He was certainly… extraordinary. His flawless magical skill was enough to make even Malfoy feel a small spark of admiration in his heart. Yes… Potter was a half-blood, but there were extremely rare exceptions among them. He could understand it, somehow.
Aisen Potter. A nobody with an obscure family tree. That one… he didn't know. Honestly, besides his outstanding grades, he knew nothing about him. But since he was a Potter, he had to be at least a half-blood, no matter how mixed his lineage was. He could barely rationalize it as another case of a half-blood with exceptional aptitude.
But the others were different.
The most inferior bloodline, the Mudbloods. The Muggle-born Hermione Granger. As expected of her Muggle blood, she was utterly despicable. Perhaps having shrewdly realized the inherent limitations of her bloodline, she resorted to a method that would only work in the Muggle world: currying favor with the professors and buying her grades with the vulgar and undignified method of memorizing textbooks. (Of course, Malfoy ignored the fact that even her practical skills, which he deemed inferior, were better than his own.)
And then there was the most infuriating traitor to his own kind, Ron Weasley. The mere thought of that family made Malfoy's blood boil and his teeth grind in fury. That clan of Muggle-lovers who dared to betray the authority of their own kind and harbor an unnatural affection for Muggles.
They, who should by all rights be living in the poverty and squalor befitting their lowly station, had somehow risen to a position where they could laugh at the Malfoy family.
How could this have happened? Why must the great Malfoys fall?
In truth, the answer was simple. He just had to admit that the great principle he had believed in for so long was wrong.
But while the answer was simple, writing it down was an incredibly difficult task. People are often unable to accept that they are wrong, that the knowledge they have held onto must be completely overturned.
And this tendency was sometimes even stronger in children.
A question one cannot answer is a question one skips.
Instead of trying to find the answer, one stubbornly insists that the question itself is flawed. One tries to avoid the situation of having to answer it at all.
And the mysterious diary he had received from his father provided Malfoy with a perfect escape route.
The diary offered him an answer. An answer that was very much to Malfoy's liking.
"Follow me, child of Malfoy. Then I shall bestow glory upon your family once more. I will help you reclaim the status you rightfully deserve."
"My middle name, you see, is Lord Voldemort."
Whether that was the right answer or the wrong one no longer mattered to Malfoy.
***
Late at night.
Malfoy, who had slipped out of the Slytherin dungeons alone, quietly returned to his dormitory in the dead of night.
It was a silent, midnight stroll, one he hadn't told even the other Slytherin students about.
To be precise, it wasn't a simple stroll. Malfoy could smell the faint scent of blood on his hands.
Returning to his bed, Malfoy quietly, yet anxiously, tapped his mattress with his wand.
From within the mattress, a black, leather-bound notebook floated up. On its cover were the initials of the name Tom Riddle.
Taking out a quill and ink at his desk, Malfoy opened the notebook—the diary—and began to write.
"The mission is complete."
"Are you certain?"
"I killed every last chicken in the gamekeeper's yard and checked."
"I see. Tsk, that half-giant has been a nuisance then and now."
Malfoy wondered why the great Dark Lord knew the wretched Hagrid, but he didn't dare to write such a trivial question in the diary.
As Malfoy remained silent, black ink spread across the page once more, forming letters.
"With the obstacle removed, the time has come. It is time to open the Chamber of Secrets."
"The Chamber of Secrets?"
"Yes, Malfoy. The legendary Chamber of Secrets. And you, Malfoy, will be the one to open it."
The Chamber of Secrets, said to be accessible only to the Heir of Slytherin. Did this mean he was being granted the right to open that chamber?
Malfoy's heart pounded with excitement. He felt as if he were standing in the middle of an ancient heroic tale. Like a hero defending a corrupted order!
With a racing heart, Malfoy wrote in the diary.
"Am I worthy of such a thing?"
*"Of course. Are you not a pure-blood, to whom I have delegated my authority?"*
"Then everyone will realize the greatness of the Malfoys."
*"Yes. When the Chamber is opened, all will be afraid. The proper order will be restored. But for that to happen, first…"*
"First, what must I do?"
*"Naturally, you must kill all those of filthy blood. With your own hands, Malfoy. Until I rise again, you are worthy of claiming all the glory."*
Kill?
For a moment, Malfoy's eagerly writing quill froze.
Kill? A person?
His head, which had been hot with excitement, cooled in an instant. The heroic scene that had enveloped him vanished, and the cold air of reality wrapped around him.
Of course, he was a pure-blood, Draco Malfoy. If someone of vulgar blood were to die, he was confident he could applaud the sight and declare that justice had finally been served.
But to kill them himself?
No, this was only natural. As one who dreams of the Malfoy family's revival, how could he not be prepared to get a little blood on his hands?
…Was that really true?
Malfoy found he couldn't easily move his quill. Because Malfoy, before being a pure-blood, was a child who had just turned twelve.
This was different from watching a fire from across the river. It was different from watching people burn in the flames, clapping and laughing at their misfortune.
He had to be the one to light the fire. Not just watch, but listen to the death rattle of the person burning in the flames and be the one to cut their life short.
Feeling a sliver of the weight of that truth, the weight of the responsibility he would have to bear, Malfoy's face turned pale.
As if it had seen right through him, letters appeared in the diary once more.
*"What, you can't do it?"*
*No. Of course I can.*
Malfoy wanted to write that down immediately, but for some reason, his trembling hand couldn't bring itself to dip the quill in the ink.
——
In the end, all he could manage to draw was a single line, one that didn't even have the form of a letter.
A moment later, even that line melted into the diary, and the black ink gathered to form new words.
For some reason, Malfoy felt as if he could hear a mocking voice from between the ink-written letters.
*"Very well, Malfoy. Then I shall give you one last choice."*
*"Will you do it yourself, or shall I do it for you?"*
Malfoy couldn't choose between the two options.
To entrust the task to Lord Voldemort would be to reveal his own weakness.
But the thought of committing murder himself made his body freeze. Only then did Malfoy realize. He wasn't ready.
As if it understood Malfoy's indecision, letters appeared in the diary once again.
*"I'll take that as your answer, shall I?"*
With a trembling body, Malfoy could do nothing but nod.
Through his blurring vision, Malfoy thought he saw a pair of thinly opened eyes in the diary curve into a smile. But there was nothing he could do.
*"When you wake up, everything will be taken care of, Malfoy."*
All Malfoy could do was listen to that voice, which now felt like a dream, and sink into the darkness.
...
And when Malfoy regained consciousness and awoke,
the caretaker, Argus Filch, was petrified along with his pet cat.
And with the reappearance of the Heir of Slytherin, Hogwarts was thrown into chaos.
***
Harry asked Hermione and Ron with a serious expression, "Ron, Hermione. Are you sure you didn't hear anything?"
Hermione looked around nervously. "Yes, Harry. I've told you several times, I didn't hear anything."
"Me neither, Harry."
Harry quietly closed his eyes and thought.
*[The Chamber of Secrets has been opened. Enemies of the heir, beware.]*
On the day Mrs. Norris and Filch were attacked, Harry had heard it clearly on his way back to the common room.
*Come to me. Let me rip you. Let me tear you. Let me kill you.*
Words that were chilling to the bone.
But Harry was the only one who had heard them. What was the condition? Was it a sound that could only be heard by those with a certain level of magical ability?
If Aisen were here, he would have confided in him and asked immediately, but his dependable master was not at Hogwarts right now.
As Harry agonized, Hermione spoke. "Harry. Did you… hear something that day?"
"I don't know. I'm not sure."
"…Even if you did, it's probably best to keep it to yourself, Harry. As you know, hearing voices that no one else can hear is usually not a good sign."
*Flash.* Harry's eyes shot open.
An ominous sign, a voice only he could hear.
Only then did Harry remember.
It was the language of snakes.
Which meant that somewhere in Hogwarts, there was a monster in the form of a snake.
A monster with the power to petrify a person in an instant. And right now, his master was not at Hogwarts.
Harry, the Parselmouth, gritted his teeth and thought.
Somehow, before his master returned, before another attack occurred, he had to tame that monster.
Otherwise, when his master returned, he might just kill the one useful application for Parseltongue he had finally found.
***