The days after the New Year's term started were relatively peaceful.
Madam Pomfrey had finally cured Hermione's unfortunate cat ears, much to her embarrassment and everyone else's disappointment—they had gotten used to how cute she looked.
At first, everyone was still actively investigating the Chamber of Secrets.
But kids being kids, their curiosity faded after a couple of uneventful weeks. The excitement just wore off.
Only Hermione remained persistent, visiting her roommate Clara in the hospital wing from time to time.
Neville, on the other hand, would occasionally bring up the progress of the Mandrakes growing in the greenhouse.
This term alone, Ted and his friends had repotted the Mandrakes three times.
Each time, the plants thrashed around like wild beasts. Neville, however, was beaming with pride.
With help from Gov, the horned forest boy, he had managed to cultivate his first batch of enchanted seeds.
Still, since they had just been planted, it was too early to tell whether they would bloom into anything extraordinary.
Cultivating magical plants took patience. Unlike magical creatures, plants didn't change overnight.
Mutations were subtle, taking several generations to become meaningful.
That's why Ted never really dove into magical botany—he simply didn't have the time.
Strengthening magical creatures? Now that brought faster, flashier results.
Anzu's recent evolution was proof of that.
Then came January 22nd.
Students were just heading back to their dorms after dinner when the news broke: another attack had occurred.
Worse, there were two victims this time.
Hufflepuff's resident ghost, the Fat Friar, and second-year student Justin Finch-Fletchley had been found petrified in the lower corridors near the kitchens.
Though not particularly gifted, he had a good heart.
Ted remembered their duel at the Dueling Club vividly.
Justin had lost within seconds but had laughed it off and told Ted how much he admired his skill.
Now he lay frozen, a lifeless statue in the dim corridor.
And beside him floated the Fat Friar.
Everyone thought ghosts couldn't be petrified, couldn't be harmed again.
But there he was, unmoving and stiff, shadows swirling faintly around his translucent body. He looked... wrong. Very wrong.
Clara's petrification had caused worry, but this? This sent a wave of fear through the whole castle.
Because now, it was obvious: Clara hadn't been a fluke.
The Chamber of Secrets was real, and someone—presumably the Heir of Slytherin—was on the attack.
And Justin? He was Muggle-born.
Then came the terrifying question: what kind of magic could petrify a ghost?
That night, the whispers about Neville and his Parseltongue returned with full force.
In the Great Hall, a three-meter radius had cleared around Neville during dinner.
No one sat near him except for Ted and their usual circle: Harley, Hermione, Jerry, Ron, the Weasley twins, Ginny, and Luna.
They didn't care what anyone else said.
Still, Neville felt the weight of those whispers.
He tried to ignore them, but he wasn't made of stone. The stares, the murmurs, they added up.
One day, while washing his hands in the boys' bathroom, Neville heard a soft whisper.
"Come here... come to me..."
Startled, he turned toward the back of the bathroom, where something caught his eye on the windowsill.
A diary.
Its leather cover was worn, clearly old.
Neville didn't know why, but the diary felt... inviting.
Familiar, even.
Curious, he picked it up.
"Tom Riddle," he read off the name inscribed inside.
He flipped through the pages but found nothing written.
Just an address at the back—a Muggle bookstore.
"Was he Muggle-born too?"
Neville frowned. "No, that can't be right. This book looks ancient. If he is still alive, he'd be really old. So how did this end up here? Who left it?"
Still holding the diary, Neville made his way back to the dormitory.
It was empty.
Ron and Jerry had gone to the kitchens to beg food off the house-elves.
Dean and Seamus avoided Neville like he carried the plague, only coming back after lights-out.
He wouldn't be surprised if they asked to switch dorms next term.
Neville sighed and plopped down on his bed.
Bored and still thinking about the strange diary, he grabbed a quill and started scribbling some notes and homework into it.
To his shock, the ink disappeared into the paper as if sucked away by magic.
Neville's eyes widened. "My homework!"
Just when Neville was still staring at the diary in disbelief, new handwriting began to appear, written as though by an invisible hand: "This thesis barely scratches the surface and it's already riddled with flaws..."
Then, line by line, the mysterious writer pointed out all the problems with Neville's Potions essay. From missed steps in ingredient handling to incorrect wand gestures, every error was revealed with brutal precision.
Neville blinked, stunned. "Who are you?" he muttered.
Nothing happened.
He quickly picked up his quill and scribbled into the diary: [Who are you?]
After a few seconds, words appeared slowly: [I am a memory... of Tom Riddle.]
Neville frowned.
'Tom Riddle? The name was vaguely familiar. Wait...'
[Yes, if I'm not mistaken, it's been nearly fifty years since I attended Hogwarts.]
"Fifty years?" Neville whispered, shocked.
He had assumed the diary was old, but not that old.
Still, curiosity outweighed caution. He began writing again.
From then on, the two struck up a strange correspondence.
Tom was polite, clever, and surprisingly supportive.
He encouraged Neville not to let the fame of being the Boy Who Lived weigh him down.
He spoke about how people often misunderstood others and told him not to worry so much about what everyone thought.
He even helped Neville with his Potions homework.
When it came time to review his Defense Against the Dark Arts assignment, Tom paused for a long while before replying: [Your current Defense Against the Dark Arts professor... what on earth is that man even teaching?]
Neville laughed for the first time in a while.
Without realizing it, he began opening up to Tom.
They talked about school, classes, his struggles with magic, and how he always felt like he was just one step behind everyone else.
Tom listened—or, at least, the diary responded in a way that made Neville feel listened to.
It reminded him of chatting with Ted.
But lately, Ted had been swamped with magical creature studies and investigating the latest attack, and Neville hadn't had a chance to talk to him properly.
The loneliness had been building for weeks.
Then, one evening, as he sat at his desk, quill in hand, a thought struck him.
'The Chamber of Secrets...'
Draco Malfoy had mentioned that it was opened fifty years ago and that someone had died. Could Tom have known about it?
Neville quickly scrawled in the diary: [Tom, do you know anything about Slytherin's Chamber of Secrets?]
The response came after a long pause: [The Chamber of Secrets? Why do you ask all of a sudden?]
Nevile: [You know about it?]
Tom: [Yes... though it brings back terrible memories. A student died, and the whole school was turned upside down. Why are you asking? Don't tell me—is it happening again?]
Neville's pulse quickened. 'He really knows...'
Nevile: [Tom, do you know who the Heir of Slytherin is?]
Tom: [Yes... I do.]
Nevile: [Please tell me! We have to stop him!]
Tom: [Very well, if you insist. Don't resist. I will show you my memory...]
Suddenly, Neville's vision blurred, and the world around him began to spin. It was as if he were falling into the diary itself.
His body slumped forward slightly, but his mind was no longer in the dormitory.
He floated, invisible, like a ghost. No one could see or hear him. Ahead, he saw a handsome young boy in Slytherin robes. Tom Riddle...
He followed as Tom investigated a case of illegal magical beast breeding on campus. Neville recognized the massive creature—a young Acromantula! And then he saw something even more shocking.
He watched as Tom confronted a student. The girl looked terrified. A scream echoed through the corridor. The next moment, her lifeless body was found near the girls' bathroom.
The ghost who later haunted that bathroom? The one everyone called Moaning Myrtle.
When Neville snapped out of it, he was back at his desk, gasping for breath.
His heart pounded in his chest. He couldn't think straight.
'Hagrid? It couldn't be...'
But that was what he saw with his own eyes.
Hagrid had been expelled for keeping monsters. And the creature he raised had killed a student. Hagrid was the Heir of Slytherin?
No, Neville thought desperately. It doesn't make sense. Hagrid's kind. He loves magical creatures. He would never hurt anyone.
But the memory... the memory was so vivid.
Trembling, Neville reached for a parchment to write to Ted. He quickly scribbled down a note, ready to send it with a paper crane charm. But his hand stopped mid-spell.
What if Hagrid really is the Heir? What if Ted tells someone? What if Hagrid gets sent to Azkaban?
He couldn't breathe. Sweat dripped down his face as he stared at the half-written message.
Outside the dormitory, he heard familiar voices—Jerry and Ron, laughing as they returned.
Panic surged through him.
Neville shoved the diary under his mattress and forced himself to act normal.
But his hands were still shaking.
_______________________________
Word count: 1546
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