Chapter Text
Chapter One
Dust and Silence
The Ministry library smelled like dust, ink, and old secrets.
Percy loved it instantly.
Sunlight filtered dimly through tall enchanted windows as he crossed the enormous circular reading room clutching his temporary research pass tightly in one hand. Wizards in dark robes moved quietly between towering shelves while enchanted candles drifted overhead in slow golden patterns.
Silence settled differently here.
Not the comfortable silence of Hogwarts libraries filled with students pretending to study.
This silence felt guarded.
Careful.
As though the books themselves were listening.
Percy adjusted his glasses slightly and continued deeper into the stacks.
Officially, he was there researching advanced magical theory in preparation for his N.E.W.T.-level studies next year.
That part was even true.
Mostly.
The Ministry summer library program allowed academically advanced students limited access to restricted scholarly texts under supervision. Percy had earned approval almost immediately after submitting his application.
No one questioned Percy Weasley wanting extra studying.
That was the useful thing about reputations.
No one looked deeper.
Which meant no one noticed the real pattern beneath Percy’s research requests:
soul theory,
magical identity,
cursed artifacts,
binding enchantments.
Horcruxes.
Or rather—
the conspicuous absence of Horcruxes.
Percy had spent nearly six weeks searching now.
Nothing.
Every promising reference ended abruptly.
Every citation led nowhere.
Entire sections of magical history appeared deliberately incomplete.
Someone had removed the information.
That realization disturbed Percy more than the dark magic itself.
Because it meant powerful people knew Horcruxes existed.
And had decided no one else should.
Percy turned carefully down another narrow aisle lined with ancient black-bound texts.
His stomach twisted faintly.
The diary rested hidden inside the leather satchel hanging at his side.
Always close now.
Percy hated how natural that had become.
He had tried leaving it behind once.
Only once.
By midday he had returned home shaking hard enough to barely hold his wand properly.
Tom had noticed immediately.
That humiliation still burned beneath Percy’s skin.
“Still searching?”
Percy nearly jumped.
He turned sharply.
An elderly witch stood halfway down the aisle watching him over the top of silver spectacles balanced precariously upon her nose.
Ministry archivist.
Madam Selwyn, if Percy remembered correctly.
Her expression remained mildly amused.
“You’ve spent nearly every afternoon in the Restricted Historical stacks this summer.”
Percy forced himself to relax.
“I enjoy research.”
“So I gathered.”
Her gaze flicked briefly toward the stack of books in Percy’s arms.
Magical Soul Structures.
Identity and Spellcraft.
Essays on Possession and Consciousness.
One eyebrow lifted slightly.
“Cheerful reading.”
Percy managed a polite smile.
“I like theoretical magic.”
“Hm.”
The archivist continued studying him for one long uncomfortable moment.
Then finally:
“You’re looking in the wrong section.”
Percy’s pulse jumped violently.
“What?”
“Most dangerous magic isn’t stored publicly anymore.”
Careful now.
Very careful.
Percy adjusted his grip on the books.
“I’m not researching dangerous magic.”
“No,” Madam Selwyn said dryly. “You’re researching soul fragmentation. Entirely different.”
Cold crept slowly down Percy’s spine.
The witch sighed softly before continuing down the aisle.
“Whatever you’re looking for, Mr. Weasley, I strongly recommend not finding it.”
Then she disappeared around the corner, leaving Percy alone again among the dust and silence.
His heartbeat refused to slow.
Slowly Percy set the books down upon a nearby reading table and sat heavily in the chair beside them.
The satchel at his side felt suddenly much heavier.
After several moments, Percy pulled the diary carefully free.
The black leather cover looked painfully ordinary against the polished library table.
He opened it slowly.
Blank pages waited beneath flickering candlelight.
Percy picked up his quill.
Hesitated.
Then wrote:
𝘐 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘝𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘵.
The ink vanished instantly.
Silence followed.
Long enough for Percy to hear his own pulse pounding in his ears.
Then elegant handwriting spread slowly across the page.
𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒾𝓈 𝒶 𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓎 𝓈𝑒𝓇𝒾𝑜𝓊𝓈 𝒶𝒸𝒸𝓊𝓈𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃.
Percy stared down at the words.
Not denial.
His stomach twisted sharply.
𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘰 𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳.
No answer.
𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘬 𝘗𝘢𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘦.
Still silence.
𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘛𝘰𝘮 𝘙𝘪𝘥𝘥𝘭𝘦.
Very slowly, new words appeared.
𝒾 𝒶𝓂 𝒯𝑜𝓂 𝑅𝒾𝒹𝒹𝓁𝑒.
Percy’s throat tightened.
Because somehow—
infuriatingly—
that answer felt honest.
Not complete.
But honest.
𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘝𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘵?
The writing paused again.
Then:
…𝒾 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝓀 𝒽𝑒 𝒾𝓈 𝓌𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝐼 𝒷𝑒𝒸𝒶𝓂𝑒.
Something cold moved through Percy’s chest.
Not shock.
He had already known.
This only confirmed it.
The terrible brilliant boy trapped inside the diary—
the boy Percy had spoken with for months—
would become the darkest wizard in modern history.
And somehow Percy still could not make himself close the book.
Outside the enchanted windows, summer rain began falling softly across London.
Percy looked down at the elegant handwriting spread across the page.
Then slowly wrote:
𝘏𝘰𝘸 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘏𝘰𝘳𝘤𝘳𝘶𝘹𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦?
For the first time since opening the diary—
Tom did not answer at all.