"What's wrong? What happened?"
Harry's voice rang out behind Ron just then.
Without even turning around, Ron replied,
"It's nothing. Ginny left something in the library. I'm going to help her fetch it back—I just don't feel comfortable letting her go alone. You lot go ahead without me, I'll catch up soon!"
Harry didn't think much of it, merely reminding,
"Just be quick about it, yeah? Curfew's almost here, and Hogwarts at night… it's not exactly safe these days."
Ron gave a nod and headed briskly out of the Gryffindor common room.
No sooner had he stepped out the portrait hole than he spotted Ginny's silhouette disappearing swiftly around the far corridor. Fixing his gaze in her direction, Ron muttered under his breath:
"Ginny?! You never call me 'brother'…"
His brow furrowed in suspicion, and he hurried after her with quiet, cautious steps.
Meanwhile, Cassandra clutched Ginny's notebook and swiftly found Wentworth, who had been waiting outside. As she handed the book over, she emphasized:
"Wentworth, this notebook—something's off. The moment I picked it up, I felt like there was a voice inside me… whispering that if I just opened it, I could have everything I ever wanted."
At her words, Wentworth's brows knit together.
"It's a good thing you didn't," he said grimly. "That notebook… is one of Voldemort's Horcruxes."
"Horcrux?" Cassandra echoed, puzzled. "I feel like I've heard that term somewhere…"
Wentworth proceeded to explain the concept of Horcruxes. When he'd finished, he offered a final warning:
"Whatever you do, don't even think about tampering with such dark magic. Even if it works, the price is always catastrophic."
Cassandra scoffed.
"Wentworth, I thought you'd grown past all that talk of good and evil. Only children think in absolutes. We—we weigh gain and loss."
She looked down at the diary in her hands, eyes bright with ambition, almost reverent. Wentworth's heart sank. He had a bad feeling.
He spoke up quickly.
"Cassandra, I'm telling you—let it go. Making a Horcrux means tearing away a piece of your own soul. It's agonizing—beyond anything you can imagine."
Cassandra shook her head.
"You underestimate me, Wentworth. I've never feared pain. If I want to fulfill my ambitions… then of course, there's a price to pay."
Wentworth stared at her—really looked. Then glanced at the diary. And in that moment, he understood.
The diary was already influencing her.
He knew Cassandra well—ambitious, yes. But never one to flaunt it so openly. Never this brazen.
After a long silence, Wentworth finally said, quietly:
"It'll disfigure you."
The excitement on Cassandra's face froze. She blinked, stunned.
"Dis… disfigure me?"
Wentworth nodded.
"That's right. You won't just lose your face—you might even lose your nose. You'd become someone… unrecognizable."
Cassandra sucked in a breath, horrified. She stared at the diary as if it had turned to poison in her hands.
"That's… a steep price."
Wentworth didn't know if it was his warning that snapped her out of it, or simply the fact that he'd taken the diary out of her hands—cutting off its influence.
Either way, he watched as the gleam in Cassandra's eyes faded. He finally relaxed and gently ushered her away.
Then, with the diary in hand, Wentworth made his way toward the Room of Requirement.
But neither he nor Cassandra noticed the shadow trailing behind them.
Ron.
Ron had seen "Ginny" hand off a thick notebook to Wentworth. He didn't know what they talked about, but they'd spoken for quite some time before "Ginny" finally walked away.
But Ron didn't follow her.
He followed Wentworth.
Because as a brother, seeing your little sister pass off a notebook to a boy in the dead of night—well, it stirred up more than a few conflicted feelings.
Especially when Ron knew perfectly well that Ginny had always liked Harry. So what had changed? What had pulled her away from that so suddenly?
Wentworth hurried toward the Room of Requirement, opened the door, and stepped inside.
Once in the room, he casually tossed the diary onto a table. Then he stood there, eyes fixed on it, the silence in the room thick and heavy.
Time passed. Then, without warning, Wentworth let out a short, cold laugh.
"Well," he said aloud, almost playfully, "why didn't you try to influence me? I held you in my hands. I'm standing right here. And yet—you did nothing."
Had anyone been in the room, they might've found the sight bone-chilling.
Alone, in a quiet room, in the middle of the night, Wentworth was talking… to a notebook.
When no reply came, Wentworth spoke again—this time, naming the presence he knew was inside.
"Tom Riddle. Answer me."
"Or should I call you by your future name… Voldemort?"
A moment later, a shadow stepped out from the darkness. The figure was youthful, handsome in a sharp, cold way, clad in dark green Slytherin robes.
He walked forward slowly, then said in a low voice:
"Call me Voldemort. I've long abandoned that filthy, Mudblood-tainted name."
Wentworth shrugged, unimpressed.
"Fine, Tom. So tell me—why didn't you try to control me?"
The young Tom Riddle sighed. He didn't bother arguing about the name.
"It's simple," he said. "Because I can't see what it is you want. Every soul has a desire, a hunger. The girl who gave you this—her ambition burns like a beacon in the dark. But you? You're a void. I see… nothing."
Wentworth nodded thoughtfully, then offered a small, wry smile.
"That's all right. Nothing to be ashamed of. Before I ever set foot in Hogwarts, I trained in Occlumency. The kind even Dumbledore couldn't pierce."
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