Invisible String | TVD x WIZARDING WORLD

MY NAME IS TOM AND I'M REALLY GLAD TO MEET YOU

He paused, fingers tightening around the cover. "It asked if I wanted to see the last time the Chamber of Secrets was opened."

I blinked. "It's been opened before?"

"Mmhm. Ron woke up in the middle of the night—couldn't sleep. I didn't tell him. I'm gonna see it now."

"You're not going alone," I said instantly. My voice was firmer than I expected. "I'm coming along."

He looked at me like he'd expected nothing less. "I knew."

Of course he did. We didn't really do the whole leaving each other behind thing.

~~~~

The words on the page disappeared, ink seeping into parchment like it was being swallowed.

Then, everything else followed.

It felt like falling into water—but backwards. Sound dulled, colours warped. I tried to reach out for Harry, but my fingers slipped through the air like it wasn't real. We weren't in the Forbidden Forest anymore.

We were in grayscale.

Everything was faded and slow and oddly quiet, like the world had forgotten how to breathe. I blinked twice. We were standing in a long stone corridor with tall windows that didn't show anything outside. Shadows passed by us—students, teachers—none of them saw us.

"We're in a memory," Harry whispered. "This is... weird."

"Understatement of the century," I muttered. "Ten points to Tom Riddle for dramatic flair."

We walked down the corridor, following the only movement that felt anchored—a boy. Clean-cut, slick black hair, pressed robes, walking with that slightly superior air that said I know things you don't. He paused in front of an open door.

"Is that him?" I asked, peering closer.

Harry nodded. "Tom Riddle."

I squinted. "Okay but like... he's kinda—wait, no—he's definitely handsome. Like, troublesome handsome. Rebekah would absolutely say he had 'good breeding.'"

Harry blinked at me. "Are you seriously crushing on a guy that's probably dead right now?"

"I'm just observing history," I said, hands raised innocently. "You think I like morally compromised dark-haired boys with tragic backstories and emotional trauma? Wait—don't answer that."

He stepped into a large room—a professor's office, I guessed—and started speaking.

"I'm sorry to bother you, Professor Dubledore," young Tom was saying, all smooth charm. "But I thought perhaps I could help. With the... creature attacking the students. I'm very concerned. I just want to do what's right for Hogwarts."

"Wow," I muttered. "He sounds like he rehearses in front of the mirror. Bet he's got a script titled 'How To Manipulate Adults 101.'"

But the look in his eyes? That was real. Cold. Focused. Curious—not in a sweet, Hermione-ish way, but in a dissect-your-soul-for-science way.

The memory shifted.

We were in a different hallway. Torches flickered. A girl was being carried away on a stretcher. The students around her were murmuring. A young Dumbledore watched from the corner, already suspecting more than he was letting on.

Then we saw it.

Tom. In the corridor. Holding something close to his chest.

"Wait, that's the diary," Harry whispered.