Tom Riddle was about to respond in fury to Wentworth's words, but Wentworth gave him no such opportunity.
Without hesitation, Wentworth picked up the diary before him and tucked it away into a pile of miscellaneous items within the Room of Requirement. He planned to take it back to the Alliance once the term ended. After all, many of the older members had long harbored discontent over someone daring to place themselves on equal footing with Gellert Grindelwald.
With that, Wentworth could no longer be bothered to deal with the seething Tom Riddle and walked straight out of the Room of Requirement.
What Wentworth didn't notice, however, was that shortly after he left, a figure emerged from the shadows just around the corner in the corridor—it was Ron.
Ron watched with a puzzled expression as Wentworth left empty-handed. Glancing back at the still-manifested Room of Requirement, Ron bit his lip, then strode in.
The moment he stepped inside, he blurted out, "Blimey! What did Wentworth ask the Room for this time? A rubbish tip?"
He frowned at the sight of the room crammed full of discarded odds and ends.
Just as he was about to give up and turn back, a faint, almost imperceptible whisper stirred in the depths of his mind.
"Who's there?! Who's messing about?!"
Ron instantly stiffened, drawing his wand as he warily scanned his surroundings.
But for reasons he couldn't explain, that voice within him urged him onward—step by step, deeper into the cluttered room.
And eventually, he saw it.
The diary.
With just a glance, Ron knew—this was the very same aged, worn diary his sister had entrusted to Wentworth.
At that moment, realization struck Ron like a thunderclap. His body trembled.
"Merlin's beard… What am I doing? Something's wrong—something's very wrong! Just now... Was I being controlled?!"
As he backed away slowly, wand in hand and terror on his face, the voice whispered again:
"Are you content?"
With that simple question, memories flooded Ron's mind—visions of the Burrow.
He saw himself, from childhood to now, playing with hand-me-down toys from his older brothers, wearing their worn clothes, and even at Hogwarts, using secondhand textbooks. His wand, too, had once belonged to someone else.
He had always been the overlooked one. Even Ginny, his younger sister, garnered more attention and affection—being the only girl in the Weasley family.
And then, just as quickly, something snapped inside him. Ron's eyes filled with rage, and he shouted:
"Enough! I don't care who you are! Mum and Dad have given me the very best they could! You—You have no right to speak about them like that!"
With his roar, the memories shattered like glass.
Ron barely had a moment to breathe before the voice returned once more:
"Are you content?"
Before Ron could react, he was dragged back into another memory.
A boy, his own age, unsure how to find Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. Ron had felt drawn to him instantly, a kindred spirit. He remembered the boy's threadbare clothes and shy smile. At the time, Ron had thought himself slightly better off—at least his family was there to see him off.
That's why he'd made the effort to befriend him on the train, hoping for warmth in a new, uncertain world. It was only later that Ron learned that boy's name:
Harry Potter.
On the train, Harry had pulled out handfuls of Galleons to buy snacks, without a second thought, while Ron had sat quietly with only a few squashed sandwiches in his pocket. It was then that Ron realized—they weren't the same.
And once they arrived at Hogwarts, Harry was admired everywhere he went. Professors, even the Headmaster himself, gave Harry special attention. Even Ron, oblivious as he sometimes was, could feel it.
And what about him?
He'd somehow become that—Harry Potter's sidekick. Like he'd deliberately latched onto him for fame or comfort.
"No! That's not true! Harry's never treated me like that—we're friends, best friends! Whatever he has, he shares it with me! We're equals—we're mates!"
Ron clutched his head, shaking it violently, as if trying to cast the thoughts out by sheer force. Pain twisted his features.
And then—again, the voice came.
"Are you content?"
This time, what appeared in Ron's mind wasn't a memory—it was something worse.
A vision of the future.
He saw himself and Harry, both grown up. Ron was dressed in an ill-fitting suit, standing awkwardly at the entrance of a grand hall.
The bells chimed.
Music swelled.
Cheers erupted.
Before Ron could make sense of it, Harry nudged him with an elbow. Following his gaze, Ron saw Hermione, radiant in a flowing white wedding gown, gliding down the aisle like a goddess.
Ron felt breathless—Hermione looked stunning.
But then, another figure appeared beside her.
A man, elegantly dressed in a tailored suit—far more flattering than Ron's.
It was Draco Malfoy.
Though his features had changed with age, Ron recognized him in an instant.
Draco, proud and dashing, stood beside Hermione, hand in hand, as they exchanged vows in front of a cheering crowd.
Ron stood there in a daze, watching it all unfold, unable to look away.
Hermione and Draco walked over—Draco boasting about the Galleons spent on the wedding, Hermione warmly thanking Harry for making time to attend.
And Ron?
He stood there, a faceless nobody among a sea of polished guests. Not even a glance spared his way.
As if he didn't exist.
"Are you content?"
The voice echoed once more.
But this time, Ron didn't flinch. Tears rimmed his eyes, but he faced the voice head-on.
"No. I'm not."
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