The Marauders Map had spoiled him. Fred realised that sourly as he wandered the lower floor of Hogwarts bitterly. Next time the two brothers had to split up, the older twin was most certainly calling dibs on the map. Because while all the secret passageways were ingrained into his memory, the actual layout still eluded him. What fourteen year old still hadn’t memorised his own home for a majority of the year?
Fred listened intently to the sounds of emptiness, hunting for something. Footsteps. Ones that belonged to a very angry Professor Snape, the reason for the twins sudden departure from one another. Apparently he disliked having explosions set off within empty cauldrons. Five seconds apart. Going on for five minutes.
Fred snickered. Afterall, who didn’t like a sudden string of explosions every now and then. He paused in his advancements as he heard faint voices. It was only then the ginger realised where he had relocated himself. The second floor. More specifically the second floor girls bathroom.
Moaning Myrtle's bathroom.
A big enough red flag on its own was the voice. For one thing they were male. Another was just the fact no one ever wanted to use the restroom for fear of having to speak to Myrtle.
So why on earth would anyone in their right bloody mind go in there? Fred’s face flushed ever so slightly as he mentally chided himself for what he was about to do. Slowly Fred pushed the door of the normally abandoned toilets open. Inside he found himself face to face with his little brother, and Harry. Both sharing the same wide eyed stares of terror.
Probably thought he was filch or something. Fred leaned against the door after shutting it, acting as if this was the most casual of things to be doing, ignoring the way his face slightly burned.
“Do you often hang out in the girls' toilet Ronniekins? Or is this a new thing you’re trying out.”
Ron’s face grew red until the shade matched his flaming hair.
“Sod off..Git..” Ron grumbled, crossing his arms and looking away.
“Soooo- Anyways. Harry didn’t think you’d be the bloke to do this sorta thing, but hey anything’s possible!”
“Wait wait wait-” Ron interrupted, face turning a shade of red previously unknown to Weasley kind. “You think i’m the type to sneak into a girls bathroom for-”
Harry shoved his hand over his friend's mouth immediately. Clearly he wanted to hear no more of it.
“We actually came in here because of the-...because of the flooding. Saw it leaking under the door. Heard Filch.”
“Uh-huh.” Fred nodded, raising an eyebrow. He frowned a bit when he noticed something in Harry’s hand. “Soo anyways- Whats that?”
Harry shook his head lightly, opening out of his thoughts, and turned the thing over. A book. Duh. T. M. Riddle was printed neatly on the front of the book in gold lettering, and the pages were slightly yellow with age.
“A diary. I think.”
“It got anything in it?”
Harry opened it up, flipping through the first few pages excitedly yet slowly, causing Ron to politely steal it from his grasp, flipping through the pages quickly with his thumb. He frowned, his brow furrowed.
“Nope. It's..It's completely empty.” He paused in his actions for a moment, ignoring Harry glaring at him for the thievery of the book. “I wonder why someone wanted to flush it away,” Ron said curiously, eyeing it up and down as he handed it back to Harry.
“Think its flammable?” Fred asked, grinning mischievously. The two twelve year olds looked at each other, then back at him. Clearly, despite Ron quite literally being his brother, neither boy expected him to ask such a thing.
“It was bought a diary from Vauxhall Road…” Harry said at last, looking it over again, a strange look in his eyes. He shook his head again. “It's a mugglebook then, so probably?”
“Neat. Can I have it?” Fred said, pulling his wand out.
Harry looked to Ron again, who simply shrugged, and nodded, handing the book over without a second thought.
“So uh- about the hanging around a girls toilet-”
“That's enough of that!” Ron hissed, face turning red once more. He gripped Harry by the sleeve and dragged him out of the restroom, his scar headed friend trying to hold back a laugh at his embarrassment. The door shut with a soft creak and Fred was alone. He looked down at the book curiously.
“Wonder why someone would just throw out an empty diary.” He murmured aloud. With a shrug he too exited the lavatory, and headed back to the common room, excited to burn the piece of bound paper into ash.
He wasn’t stupid by any means. Granted he was no Ravenclaw, nor a Hermione Granger, But Fred did believe he had a decent head on his shoulders. So why he was writing in a book that was definitely supposed to be ruined by water was beyond him. Let alone without the shared companionship of his twin.
Fred stared down at the withered parchment, running a finger down the side of it with one hand, clutching his wand in the other, and sighed. Of all the things to be spending his precious time with. He sat alone in the Gryffindor common room, the sun shining through the glass panes. The fireplace empty. Fred frowned. So many attempts on the book. And for what?
A result of a whole lot of nothing. All he could tell was that no matter what he did, the book refused to receive any sort of damage! With nothing left for him to test he laid the book on the table he had been hunched over, his wand resting atop it.
Fred racked his brains for a moment, using the marauders map for comparison. It was clearly enchanted. So maybe it needed some kind of trigger? The weasley boy looked around before slithering up to his dormitory, coming back down with a quill and an ink well. Back to the book he opened the first page and wrote.
Magic.
It wasn’t neat by any means, his handwriting always turning out nearly eligible, but it was something. After a second he let out a breath he hadn’t even realised he was holding. When nothing happened he mentally chided himself for being that desperate and stupid, he got ready to close the book up. But he paused in his actions, and his face lost colour as the messy scrawl disappeared, replaced by neat lettering.
What of it?
Fred hastily wrote something more. A sentence this time.
What are you?
The reply came a moment later.
A guide. A helper. A companion. A planner. Whatever is needed. What about you?
Fred sucked in a breath, broke into a bit of an unsteady grin and wrote back a final sentence, promising himself to both ignore the book from then there on and to tell George.
A troublemaker.
He didn’t tell George. The urge to died away the moment his brother returned to the dormitory, face covered in smoke. A quick excuse of feeling under the weather, lecture on how ‘you gotta tell me this stuff Freddie. If you get plague I’d never even know till your funeral!’ and a smirk and agreement George had dropped the subject of Fred's disappearance after the split up.
Instead the twins discussed new ideas, the thought of giving lockhart a mirror that always showed him as rapidly ageing as a possibility, shoulder to shoulder. They rushed through the common room, played Exploding Snapp with Lee, and even snuck to the kitchens for a slice of apple pie each.
And then that night Fred pulled the diary from under his bed, grabbed an experimental self-inking quill the twins had made during a history of magic class, and limped off to the common room, leaving the sleeping form of his twin undisturbed and unmoved. The fire still roaring greeted him, as did the sleeping figures of his little brother, and his two best friends.
He didn’t wanna get caught writing in a diary, especially not by Ron, so he snuck back upstairs and snatched up the Marauders map. When he returned he stuffed his supplies into his robe pockets and all but ran out the portrait hole.
He ended up on the seventh floor, walking amongst the sleeping portraits. He’d of gone lower but Filch was lurking on his rounds. He’d of gone higher but Mrs.Norris would be prowling about, and he didn’t find himself to have the energy to sneak around her. So there he walked. Finally he picked a door and slipped through.
What he found was exactly like the common room, apart from the colouring differences and the lack of three twelve year olds dosing by the flames. A large table had been placed right next to the chairs in front of the fire. On it was a butterbeer, a small plate of cauldron cakes, and a small notepad. Fred frowned at the room in thought. It seemed someone was here. Yet other then the sweets and fire, there wasn’t a speck of life.
Cautiously the red head pulled the marauders map out of his pocket, carefully opening it up, and paused.
His name wasn’t on the map. Quickly scanning it again his eyes went wide. But of course, that wasn’t possible. Every room was detailed on the map. Unless. Fred looked up again. His brain screamed at him to flee and tell George. Tell him of this room invisible to the map. Maybe even Filch if the food was anything to go by.
After a few moments, and seeing an owner of the meal and table never appeared, Fred took it upon himself to consume it for them. Afterall, it would just go to waste if left out by the fire. Carefully he stalked over to the seat and plopped down, grinning at the familiarity of the cushion.
Exactly like the common room.
With a few more minutes passing, Fred watching the map as Filch and Mrs.Norris regroup on his level, and nothing coming of it, he finally relaxed. Taking a bite out of the smallest cauldron cake, he had standards afterall, he pulled out the worn out diary. Pulling his quill out he turned to a random page and began to write.
Hello again diary.
Like before his words disappeared and were replaced with a new sentence.
Hello again troublemaker. Call me Tom.
Ok Tom. What are you exactly?
Like before I am many things.
No, like what are you? Why are you a random talking Sentient book?
I put a part of me in my book, during my hogwarts years. To guide future generations.
Fred paused, frowning a bit. Something in the back of his mind told him, spoke to him and demanded he close the book and be rid of it. The majority of his brain however, pointed at the parallels of the book and map. He allowed the majority to win.
Help how exactly?
The two didn’t stop conversing until the light began to peak through.
“Fred! Fred!”
So loud. So noisy. Fred yawned as he sat up, his naming attempt not working as well as he had assumed. George stood, mere inches away from his face. That sure woke him up.
“Yea…what is it mate..?”
George furrowed his brow. Nonetheless he backed up a pac until he was standing before his brother, hands on the bed.
“I was trying to wake you up for practically half an hour. Was about to just drag you to Madam Pomfrey.”
Fred yawned again, rubbing one of his eyes. Sleep had not come easy, and despite knowing he had rested for at least four hours, he felt as if he had just tried to go to bed. Unrested and exhausted.
“Sorry?” He said uncertainly to his furrow eyed twin. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say in such a situation. George exhaled and sat down beside him, gripping the bridge of his nose.
“Don’t apologise.”
“Sorry?”
“What did I just say?”
“Sorry.”
“Ok now you’re doing that on purpose.”
“...Sorry..”
George rolled his eyes as his twin innocently blinked at him, evil smile curling up. Getting up George beckoned his brother forward. Fred recognized his sibling was already fully dressed, preferring sweater over robe this particular day. Fred did the same, and if due to his tired state if he forgot to put on his tie, that wasn’t anyone's business and George didn’t comment.
Fred woke up in the wee hours of the morning to find himself dizzy and disoriented. George laid sound asleep curled up in a ball in the bed next door. Two weeks of using the diary. Confiding in it and seeking advice. And for some reason the book had begun to take a toll. That morning Fred slipped down to the common room and questioned the book on this very fact.
My book is designed to be as helpful as it can. Nothing comes for free i’m afraid.
What's the cost?
Just a bit of energy here and there.
Fred nodded to himself and closed the book. That was an answer he could get behind. And if the voice in the back of his head that sounded just as his father told him to not trust it, well, he wouldn’t pay it a lick of mind now would he?
He was horrified. Ron and Harry had returned from the hospital wing, fists clenched and eyes downcast. Everyone had known what happened the moment they appeared.
Hermione was paralysed.
None of the Gryffindors reacted kindly to this, why would they?, but some reacted much more…distraught than others. Ron and Harry had sat by the fire still as stones, and others had taken to muttering quietly amongst themselves. George Weasley however, had taken to walking up to his dormitory. There he stood just above his twin's sleeping form. The first time he had begun sleeping soundly since possibly weeks. Months even.
“Freddie..”
“Mmm..?” Fred awoke with a glazed look in his eyes. His movement was stiff, and it seemed a struggle to even sit up.
“What's-” he paused to yawn. “What's up?”
“Hermione’s been paralysed.”
Fred stiffened.
“You're sure?”
“If Ron and Harry’s reactions are anything to go by, then yeah.”
Fred felt cold. His veins had frozen it seemed, as he stared at that book, hidden just beneath his sleep. He had done it. He knew it. He USED him. Hermione was paralysed and it was his fault. He knew that now. The strange sensations. The fact he felt so much more…wasted then previous days. That damn book…George sent his brother a concerned look before he headed back downstairs.
He absolutely had to tell someone. But who?
His first thought was George, but that would be admitting he’d been keeping the book secret all this time.
Ron and Harry were out, the two would probably blame him, like they should, for Hermione's situation.
He supposed he could go to a teacher, maybe Mcgonagall or Dumbledore. He shook his head to himself. Same problem as George really. Revealing he had kept such a thing would no doubt lead to problems. Maybe even expulsion. Percy?
He wrinkled his nose. Definitely not.
He would just have to take care of it himself.
Pulling the diary into his robe pocket he carefully crept downstairs into the common room, where tense silence filled the room. Laughter had died out the moment it was revealed Dumbledore was not longer headmaster. Suspended. Even he and George couldn’t bring up the Gryffindor moods. Not that they tried much at this point.
According to George he’d become paler. His eyes had dark circles beneath them and he’d stopped eating. When asked he denied such claims or, if George wouldn’t let the issue rest that particular minute, he’d say himself ill. Fred could tell George was slowly leaning away from such a possibility.. He began hovering and, to his great dismay at this point in time, prevented him from any and all opportunities to write within the book.
Knowing the book's true nature now would have made him grateful for his siblings' stance, only for it to become a hindrance once he had formulated his plan. So now Fred Weasley slunk in the shadows, hood up to prevent recognition, he slithered through the room, ignoring the small first years huddling in terror. The seventh years sat atop the couches watching the scenes uneasily. George sat amongst them, talking quietly to Lee at one of the few study tables.
Quietly he crept through, careful not to make eye contact with anyone, then slipped out as soon as the painting slammed open. If he was lucky the dairy would be long destroyed by the time George found him missing.
Along the corridors he crept, careful to avoid any usually crowded halls. Finally he found a suitable place. Pulling out his wand he gripped the cursed object so tightly his knuckles turned white. His frowns furrowed it thought. How would he go about destroying such a charmed item? His eyes shined with malicious intent.
A regular spell wouldn’t do it. But maybe one of a…darker nature would. Now don't get him wrong, he wasn’t some evil villain or into killing babies and all that. But he did happen to know a spell or two. For entertainment only of course. He raised his hand, opening his mouth-
The diary rapidly grew hot in his grip, and he dropped it in order to clutch his singed hand. Swiftly a hand reached out of the open book. Then another, From there they pushed upwards, and soon a boy with dark eyes, dark hair, and a dark smile emerged. He was older than Fred, but not by too much. Maybe a year or two. Fred backed away. The boy's smile grew, and his face darkened.
“Wh-” Fred choked, his eyes growing unfocused and glossy. He fell to the floor, his wand clattering on the floor beside him. Dazed, he looked up. The boy stood directly in front of him, holding the diary and soon enough leaning down to pick up his wand as well. Fred felt his head drop, the effort of looking up soon seemed to be straining. Using the stolen weapon he lifted the weasleys face, making eye contact with him proper.
The world went dark.
“All students return to their House dormitories at once. All teachers return to the staff room. Immediately, please.”
Harry wheeled around to stare at Ron. “Not another attack? Not now?”
“What’ll we do?” said Ron, aghast. “Go back to the dormitory?”
“No,” said Harry, glancing around. There was an ugly sort of wardrobe to his left, full of the teachers’ cloaks.
“In here. Let’s hear what it’s all about. Then we can tell them what we’ve found out.”
They hid themselves inside it, listening to the rumbling of hundreds of people moving overhead, and the staff room door banging open. From between the musty folds of the cloaks, they watched the teachers filtering into the room. Some of them were looking puzzled, others downright scared. Then Professor McGonagall arrived.
“It has happened,” she told the silent staff room. “A student has been taken by the monster. Right into the Chamber itself.”
Professor Flitwick let out a squeal. Professor Sprout clapped her hands over her mouth. Snape gripped the back of a chair very hard and said, “How can you be sure?”
“The Heir of Slytherin,” said Professor McGonagall, who was very white, “left another message. Right underneath the first one. ‘His skeleton will lie in the Chamber forever.’ ”
Professor Flitwick burst into tears.
“Who is it?” said Madam Hooch, who had sunk, weak-kneed, into a chair. “Which student?”
“Fred Weasley,” said Professor McGonagall, her lips forming a line so small that it was nearly impossible to tell the woman had a mouth.
Darkness. Everywhere. No sounds. At least none that sounded anything like words. Just cold, soul leeching garble. No movement seemed possible, and if it was then he couldn’t tell. His back was cold, pressed against something. Or maybe laid against something. Freds’ mind was hazy and stiff, and his tongue felt like a weight in his mouth.
But then the darkness subsided. The noises died into calm. Then the world began to take him back. His eyes snapped open in a wide panic. Matching eyes stared back at him, lightning green eyes watching just a bit aways. Fred stared at him, but to his dismay, his eyes twitched around, filled with a morbid curiosity at where he ended up. A sewer? No. Chamber. He was in the-. That meant. The redhead shivered. That had been evil. Not some mean-spirited book ghost, but honest to god evil. Fred leaned up and shook, his twin wrapping an arm around him immediately.
On the ground of the green lit place was the damn diary that had done this. Only now though, it sported a large gaping hole in the middle of it, covered in black quill ink. Fred frowned a bit and glanced at Harry, who was watching with a keen eye, and noted the same ink staining his hands.
It wasn’t a mystery what had happened.
“You alright Freddie?” George asked softly. Fred turned to him slowly, as if just realising his brother was there.
He didn’t say a word. And maybe it was for the best. Afterall, talking only got people hurt. Got them susceptible and vulnerable.
Just an item of the list of Things not to Mess with.