Housten, We got a problem

"It didn't scream," I said softly, pulling open a side drawer and sliding out a stack of parchment. The pages were written with ink, their lines wobbling from frantic writing.

I handed them over.

Hermione scanned the top sheet. The first lines were scrawled as if under duress:

first came the denial—lines and lines of frantic protest that this wasn't fair, that it had done nothing wrong. Then anger followed, profane curses and furious threats that stained the pages black with hatred. Bargaining came next, almost pitiful in its desperation, offering us power, ancient secrets, anything to stop the torment. After that, depression sank in—apologies filled the parchment, pleas to be spared, confessions of misdeeds wrapped in sorrowful undertones.

And finally, the most disturbing segment, where the words warped mid-sentence:

"I can be her. I can be him. I can be—Eggshell? Why won't it stop? Why—STOP—PLEASE—

And finally, acceptance: a slow, solemn goodbye scrawled across the last page like a surrendering breath."

She looked at me then. Really looked.

"You pitied it."

"I hated it," I said.

She tilted her head slightly, eyes scanning mine for something deeper. Not suspicion. Not judgment. Just… curiosity. Like she wanted to understand why.

"It wasn't just a cursed object," I continued. "It was alive, in a way. A sliver of something vile that thought, reasoned, begged. I hated how human it acted while being anything but."

Hermione didn't speak. She didn't have to.

"For two days after we destroyed it," I said, motioning to the jar, "Flamel and I studied the residue. Magical analysis. Rune patterns. What kind of spells still clung to the ash. We broke it down to see how it had been built—how it had lived."

I pulled another sheet of parchment from the drawer. Symbols. Notations. A sketch of a circular rune wrapped in thorns.

"It was a Horcrux."

She blinked. "What's that?"

"A kind of forbidden magic," I said, voice low. "It lets someone anchor a piece of their soul into an object, making them effectively immortal. As long as that object survives, so does a piece of them."

Her breath caught.

"Tom Marvolo Riddle," I said. "That's the name the Diary claimed. I rearranged the letters." I moved to the desk and scribbled the name quickly, then shifted the letters around until it spelled:

I am Lord Voldemort.

Her hand flew to her mouth.

"He's still alive, Hermione. Not in the usual sense. But this? The Diary? It was a foothold. A parasitic backdoor into whoever found it."

She stared at the ashes again, more wary now.

"If someone else had used it—if it had fallen into the wrong hands—he would have possessed them. Slowly. Stolen their thoughts. Their voice. Their body. Until they weren't themselves anymore. Just a host. And then he would've returned. Whole."

A long, brittle silence.

"I didn't destroy it because I hate dark magic," I said. "I destroyed it because I hate what it does to people. What it could have done to me and by extension, you."

And finally, she understood. Then she picked up the jar with both hands. Steady.

"You did this alone?"

"No," I admitted. "Flamel helped."

"That's why you disappeared."

"Yeah."

She set the jar down gently. "Thank you for showing me."

I pulled out my wand. Held it up.

"I've been practicing something," I said.

She stepped back instinctively. I didn't blame her.

I focused. Let the warmth pool in my fingers. The memory of confrontation. Of standing alone with a cursed object and refusing to blink first.

Red sparks burst from the tip of my wand—but not randomly this time. They formed a spiral. A ward. A glyph in the air that shimmered before fading.

Hermione's eyes widened.

"That wasn't in any first-year book," she whispered.

"It's not in any book," I said. "I made it."

She stepped forward. Reached toward the place the glyph had hovered.

"Sky… you're not just reacting. You're preparing."

"Because something's coming," I said. "And when it does, I can't afford to react."

She studied me. Not just my face—my posture. My silence.

"You're scared."

I didn't respond.

"That's why I want to be here," she said. "Not because I need to fight for you. But because I know you. And that should count for something."

I smiled, but it felt hollow.

"It counts for everything."

We stood at the exit of the trunk. Neither of us moved.

"Thank you for telling me," she said. "Even if it was just a part."

I nodded.

"But next time—whatever happens—I want the choice."

"Okay."

She raised an eyebrow. "Promise?"

"Cross my heart and hope not to die," I said lightly.

She didn't laugh. Just pulled me into a sudden, tight hug. Then released me before I could overthink it.

"Come on," she said. "We're overdue for pretending everything's normal."

As we climbed out, I looked back one last time at the jar of ashes.

The space between us was smaller now. Not gone. But smaller.

And that, somehow, felt like hope.

The main cause for Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets had been dealt with due to the fragments of memory I retained when I came too.

The issue is that I can't seem to recall every single little detail from all seven books and worse, a lot of the cannon that I used to remember has started growing hazy by the day. 

Hermione said to me that I am scared.

Damn right I am. 

I'm terrified that those small details that are missing from my memory will eventually bite me in the ass.

Houston, we may have a problem.