Chapter 2
The final match of the school year had been an eagerly awaited event. The stands were packed, the students erupted in cheers, and the sky above the Quidditch pitch was a clear, pristine blue—interrupted only by the swift flight of the players. Harry Potter, "a mere first-year," sat on his broom with an unsettling naturalness, as if he had been born to soar through the air. His movements were precise, fluid, almost hypnotic.
His reputation as the youngest Seeker of the century was well deserved. He moved like a silent shadow among the players—every action measured, every dash perfectly synchronized with the rhythm of the game. His opponents tried to counter him, but none could predict his sudden, lethal maneuvers. His vision was sharp, his reflexes lightning-fast, and his mind always one step ahead.
When he finally spotted the Golden Snitch, it was only a matter of seconds. A sudden dive, a lightning twist, and the little golden sphere was clutched tightly in his fist. The roar of the crowd filled the air, yet he remained impassive as he landed gracefully. He had won the match, had brought his House to victory, yet inside he felt nothing—just another mask to wear, another step in the performance he had long since perfected.
After the triumph on the field, the return to Privet Drive was a jarring awakening. But this time, it was different. He discovered that he could see people's auras—to perceive their deepest emotions. And with a single look laden with his newfound awareness, he bent Vernon, Petunia, and Dudley to his will. A sudden burst, an explosion of his aura, and the fear in his relatives' eyes were enough to grant him peace. Finally, he was given his own room, and no one dared torment him any longer.
A gentle breeze glided through the crowded streets of Diagon Alley as the throng of people moved animatedly between the shops. It was the height of summer—a moment's respite from school obligations—and Harry was enjoying the freedom far from the Dursleys. He had accepted Ron and Hermione's invitation for ice cream at Florian Fortebraccio's, an opportunity to relax without having to think about lessons, homework, or any other stressful matters.
He walked unhurriedly, his step elegant, his face impassive, even as curious glances were cast in his direction. He was used to it—his presence always attracted attention, whether he liked it or not.
As he made his way through the crowd, a sudden shiver ran down his spine. A different, denser energy seemed to be calling him. He turned his gaze toward an arch of dark stone, almost hidden between two buildings: the entrance to Nocturne Alley. Despite the bright sun, the narrow alley was draped in unreal shadows, as if silently whispering his name.
It didn't take him long to decide what to do. Ron and Hermione would wait—after all, what harm could a few minutes of exploration do? No one would have known.
He slipped into the passage, leaving behind the light and the clamor. The air here was heavier, the pavement damp and uneven. Stealthy eyes watched him from behind dusty shop windows, but he pressed on unfazed, guided by an impulse he couldn't explain.
It was then that he saw it.
In a shop with an almost illegible sign, tucked between two decrepit buildings, an old book displayed in a case caught his eye. It looked like a diary, its cover worn and plain, yet what set it apart was the aura that enveloped it—dark, sinuous, like a veil of living smoke twisting around its pages.
Harry entered the shop without a second thought. The scent of ancient parchment and incense filled the air, mingling with something more acrid, something deeper. His eyes settled on the bookseller—a stooped man with bony fingers and eyes as narrow as slits.
«Interested in something, boy?» the man asked in a raspy voice.
Harry did not reply immediately. The diary seemed to pulse within its case, as if it recognized him, as if it had been waiting for him.
«That diary.» he finally said, indicating the object.
The bookseller followed his gaze, and a subtle smile curved his lips.
«Ah... that one. It has a particular charm, doesn't it?»
Harry merely nodded. It wasn't just charm—it was an attraction. Something inside him knew that this diary contained more than mere words.
«I'll take it.»
But he didn't stop there. His eyes wandered over the shelves laden with books—worn covers and forbidden titles alike. Some spoke of dark magic, others of forgotten spells, and yet others of secrets buried deep in history. He carefully selected a few, guided by an instinct that was growing ever keener.
Shortly thereafter, with the diary and the new volumes bundled together, he left the shop and made his way back into the light of Diagon Alley. Ron and Hermione were waiting for him outside the ice cream parlor, oblivious to what had transpired in the preceding minutes.
As he approached, he cast one last glance at the bundle in his hands and felt a thrill of satisfaction run down his spine.
That evening, secluded in his room at Privet Drive, he placed the package on the bed and opened it with calm deliberation. The books he had bought were neatly stacked, but it was the diary that truly captured his attention.
He took it in his hands, studying it under the dim light of his lamp. It was old—the matte black cover showed signs of wear—and yet it seemed almost... alive. He opened it slowly, running his eyes over the yellowed pages. They were blank.
A trap?
Grabbing a pen from his desk, a slight smile playing on his lips, he wrote on the first page:
"Who are you?"
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, before his eyes, the ink vanished as if absorbed by the paper. His heart beat a little faster as new characters emerged, scribed by an invisible hand.
"My name is Tom Riddle."
He held his breath. This was no ordinary diary—not merely a muggle journal, nor one of those enchanted books from Hogwarts.
"And who are you?" appeared shortly afterward.
He hesitated only for a moment. Then, with the tip of his pen, he touched the paper once more.
"Harry Potter."
The diary remained silent for a few seconds before the writing faded and new words slowly emerged—as if whispered from the darkness.
"Harry Potter... an interesting name. You're a wizard, aren't you?"
He licked his lips, intrigued.
"I am. But who are you? And why does this diary respond?"
This time the diary seemed to take its time, savoring the conversation.
"I was a student at Hogwarts, a long time ago. Perhaps I could show you my memories... if you wish."
He narrowed his eyes. To show him the memories? What kind of magic could such an object contain? Yet rather than be frightened, he felt excited. This diary had a voice—and that voice was offering him knowledge.
Without hesitation, he wrote one final word.
"Show them to me."
The ink vanished once again, and an instant later, the room around him began to dissolve.
Returning to Hogwarts for his second year brought with it a sense of familiarity that did not surprise him. He had spent the summer exploring the potential of his aura and deciphering the secrets of Tom Riddle's diary.
On the train, while Ron and Hermione bickered about something, he took a moment to observe them. Now that he had honed his ability to perceive auras, he could clearly distinguish the colors that enveloped them.
Ron shone with a bright, warm orange—a reflection of his loyal and genuine nature—with hints of pale yellow dancing about. Hermione, on the other hand, had an aura of delicate blue that swirled around her like a gentle breeze, rendering her presence reassuring.
It was during the start-of-term feast that he noticed something that caught his attention. The auras in the Great Hall swirled together in a whirlwind of colors, and yet one in particular struck him. He followed that light with his gaze, and his interest turned to surprise when he realized to whom it belonged: Draco Malfoy.
The blonde was laughing at something Goyle had said, his expression as haughty as ever, yet his aura told a different story—pure, untainted, though perhaps a little dimmed.
The sky was clear, and the crisp autumn air carried the scent of damp grass along with the excited murmur of spectators. It was Gryffindor versus Slytherin.
Harry was seated on his Nimbus 2000, his posture relaxed yet his gaze alert. In front of him, Draco—the new Seeker for Slytherin—held his broom with ostentatious confidence.
At Madam Hooch's whistle, the sky transformed into a battlefield. The dark-haired one soared into the air with innate grace, his hair tousled by the wind as his eyes roamed the pitch. He flew with a disarming naturalness, his lithe, agile body bending the broom as if it were an extension of himself, gliding between opponents with a fluidity that bordered on the supernatural.
He knew that the blonde was chasing him, and he took delight in toying with him—luring him into risky maneuvers, provoking him with feints calibrated to the millimeter. Then he saw it: the Golden Snitch glittered under the sun, just a few meters below.
He dove headlong.
The wind whipped across his face, his heartbeat marking the passage of time. The ground rushed up rapidly, and Draco was at his heels—too close to let him pass. Then, at the very last moment, he executed an impossible maneuver: he rotated his broom, grazed the grass with the tips of his fingers, and lifted back up with the Snitch clutched firmly between them.
The roar of the stands was deafening.
He landed with a barely perceptible smile on his lips, his hair disheveled, his breath only slightly ragged from the adrenaline. Seductive, lethal in his confidence, he had clearly won. The Slytherin soon caught up, his face flushed more from frustration than from the chase.
«You're fast, Malfoy, but you should have been faster.» Harry remarked with an oblique smile, still buzzing from his victory.
The blonde glared at him—his chest rising and falling, his jaw clenched—before turning away, muttering an insult through gritted teeth as he slipped away among his companions. Harry watched him go, the smile still lingering on his lips.
Draco walked briskly, his face still flushed with frustration, yet he couldn't shake the image of Harry from his mind. That face—with its unusually tousled hair, ragged breath, and those green eyes shining like emeralds sparked by adrenaline—haunted him. He couldn't stop replaying the memory of those eyes fixed on him, the intensity of that moment seeming to burn in the air. Despite the anger swelling in his chest, he couldn't help but admit just how damnably attractive Harry was.