"Right now," Grindelwald said, voice calm as old parchment, "Tom and Albus share a common enemy , Voldemort. And in Dumbledore's eyes, that is the greatest threat. Tom may be shaking the foundations of the magical world, but he hasn't yet crossed the Headmaster's true line. As long as he doesn't, Albus will always be… reasonable."
Ariana's golden hair shimmered as the tension melted from her shoulders. "Good," she said with relief, the worry in her blue eyes fading. "I knew my brother wouldn't be that dark."
She clenched her little fists, face bright with renewed determination. "Then whoever it really is, Tom, you must, !"
Her voice faltered halfway, and she blinked, searching for the word.
Tom smiled faintly. ", eradicate them. Entirely."
Her eyes lit up. "Yes! Eradicate them!"
Tom's expression softened, pride tugging at his lips. If Ariana were still alive, he thought, she'd have been a perfect Slytherin little witch by now.
Yes… he was teaching her well.
…
A new week dawned, and Tom set aside thoughts of assassination and betrayal for the moment. The guilty would surface eventually, and when they did, he'd handle it , personally.
For now, there were other priorities.
The Whomping Willows were thriving. Hogwarts' ambient magic and the forest's rich ecosystem provided ideal nourishment. Under Professor Sprout's careful tending, the young trees had already grown sturdier, their vines thicker and livelier by the day.
Meanwhile, Voldemort's diary had loosened its tongue.
Perhaps the Dark Lord was starting to warm up to their little "chats." Or maybe he was simply scheming , but he had begun revealing fragments of Salazar Slytherin's forbidden legacy.
The content was… horrifying.
It wasn't just dark magic , it was transformation. A complete reconfiguration of the body to align it with pure magical essence. Flesh twisted to serve magic, bones rewritten to conduct power.
Even Grindelwald and Andros were taken aback.
Voldemort's methods blurred the line between wizard and monster , a process of evolution through corruption.
For once, Grindelwald admitted quietly, "His black magic may truly surpass mine."
It was power beyond ambition , a madness forged in genius.
But Tom saw through it. Voldemort's generosity was bait.
He wanted Tom to attempt the transformation , to risk his body and soul fusing with magical bloodlines.
If Tom failed, he'd die, burned out by unstable power.
If he succeeded, Dumbledore would turn on him without hesitation.
Either way, Voldemort's threat would vanish , one way or another.
A brilliant trap. Open, obvious, impossible to dodge. A sunlit snare.
Tom almost admired him for it.
But Voldemort's refusal to reveal how to awaken the Basilisk was even more telling.
That secret , the creature's summoning , was sacred to him. It wasn't just about control of the beast, but about identity.
The Basilisk was the heart of the Slytherin Heir myth , Voldemort's last tether to his self-worth.
To surrender that knowledge would be to strip himself bare.
So the stalemate continued.
…
Saturday arrived with the roar of the crowd.
The Quidditch Cup had begun.
The air inside Hogwarts crackled with tension as banners of gold and red clashed against yellow and black.
Gryffindor vs. Hufflepuff.
Two houses with nothing in common but pride , and today, they'd turn that pride into war.
No one spoke at breakfast. No laughter, no banter , just the occasional clang of cutlery and the occasional glare across the Great Hall.
Whoever looked away first… lost.
"Support Slytherin all you like," muttered one Hufflepuff fifth-year, "but you're not trampling us to do it."
The atmosphere was pure electricity.
…
In the Gryffindor locker room, Oliver Wood stood in front of the blackboard, wand in hand, sketching furious lines of strategy.
"Today," he said, voice hoarse from adrenaline, "we're not just winning. We're dominating."
His wand snapped to the board, circling plays, arrows darting toward the goalposts. "Hufflepuff's teamwork is leagues ahead of Slytherin's brute force. They will counter our offense if we let them. So we don't. We break through, early and hard."
His eyes gleamed. "I believe in all of you , and I believe in me. Let's make this flawless."
Then his gaze landed on Harry Potter.
"Potter," he said solemnly, "remember , until we're fifty points ahead, don't go after the Snitch. Just shadow their Seeker. Understood?"
Harry nodded firmly. "Understood."
Outside, the crowd was already chanting, the roar of thousands echoing through the stone corridors.
Wood hefted his broom. The team lined up behind him, heartbeats quick and synchronized.
As they reached the gate, Fred leaned closer to Harry.
"You sure you're all right, mate?" he murmured.
Harry blinked, then understood. The headaches , the whispers in the dark , everyone had noticed.
He smiled, trying to sound confident. "It's been fine lately. Promise."
Fred frowned, unconvinced, but didn't press.
If anyone in the magical world had ever heard of Murphy's Law, they'd have known what was coming next.
…
The whistle blew.
Fifteen broomsticks shot into the sky like streaks of lightning.
Gryffindor surged forward immediately, the Quaffle passing between their Chasers in a seamless blur of red and gold. The crowd erupted as they scored , once, twice, thrice in rapid succession.
Momentum. Confidence. Fire.
But Hufflepuff wasn't Slytherin. They didn't rage , they adapted.
Their defense solidified like a shield wall, their passes sharp, calculated. They'd studied Gryffindor's previous matches , especially the weakness of their two newer Chasers.
A bit of pressure, a well-placed feint , and the Gryffindor line began to crack.
The score climbed, then evened. Wood fought to keep them in the game, deflecting shot after shot with desperate brilliance.
Every save drew thunderous applause.
Fifty points. The mark.
Wood's shout cut through the storm. "Potter! Go!"
Harry leaned low over his broom, eyes scanning , and there, in the sunlight, a glimmer of gold.
The Snitch.
Across the field, Cedric Diggory spotted it too, his expression hardening. Both Seekers dove.
Wind howled past Harry's ears. He flattened himself against the handle, his broom trembling with speed.
Faster, faster,
Then,
BOOM.
A pressure like thunder exploded in his skull.
White. Then black.
Pain tore through his mind like a ripping scream.
"Ah, ! Bloody hell, not again, !"
The last thing he remembered was shouting , a desperate, furious curse swallowed by the roar of the wind, and then darkness claimed him.