Harry Potter: The Wandmaker

Harold pulled out the quill he had prepared in advance and wrote on a blank page in the second half of the diary:

"Hello, Tom Riddle."

The ink disappeared almost instantly. This thing was clearly the real deal.

Draco, still suspended, gave up struggling entirely after seeing this—Harold hadn't been bluffing. He knew how the diary worked.

Damn it. Hadn't Riddle said he was the first real friend he'd ever had?

Draco's eyes stung as he tried not to cry. Liar. Just like Potter—a liar!

…

Five minutes later.

Harold considered himself polite. He had started with "Hello" instead of hurling insults. But even after all this time, there was still no reply.

"You sure this thing is real?" Harold turned to Draco, who refused to look at him, blinking rapidly.

"Diff—"

"Yes, it's real!" Draco shouted in frustration. "You stole it from me—of course it's real!"

"Huh. Strange," Harold muttered. "Was it always this slow to respond for you?"

"What do you mean 'slow'?"

"I mean, how long did it take to write back?"

"Immediately," Draco said. "Like chatting face to face."

At the mention of "friend," his eyes turned red again.

"Fair enough." Harold nodded. So Riddle was refusing to talk to him.

That made things easier.

He dragged Draco back into the corridor, swapped wands for Silvermane, and before Draco could say a word—

"Stupefy!"

It wasn't Harold's cleanest Stunning Spell, freshly learned at the Dueling Club, but it didn't matter. Draco was already woozy from being dangled like a piñata and dropped instantly into unconsciousness.

With Myrtle's bathroom sealed off, Harold dragged him into another empty classroom nearby, then followed him in.

He tossed the diary into the air, raised his wand—

A shimmering blue unicorn leapt from the tip, and before Harold even gave a command, it lowered its head and thrust its horn toward the floating diary.

The translucent horn should've passed through like a ghost through a wall—but it hit with a dull thud.

Followed by a screeching wail—

"Ahhh!"

The diary began to tremble. Thick black ink oozed from within like bleeding wounds, turning into dark smoke that swirled and took the vague form of a human.

"Hello, Tom Riddle," Harold said again, mimicking the first words he'd written. Riddle didn't look so great.

A strange, misty light clung to him, but only the left half of his form was human. The other side was a chaotic swirl of dark vapor—like something had ripped him in half.

Harold was confident this wasn't the unicorn's doing. A little headbutt might leave a hole—but tearing someone in half?

"We meet again… Ollivander. Or should I say—Harry Potter," Riddle sneered, his voice bitter enough to frost the air.

"…Hold on," Harold paused, blinking. "What did you just call me?"

"Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived. The one who killed the Dark Lord," Riddle growled. "You must be proud."

"No. Not at all." Harold shook his head. "You've got the wrong guy. I'm Harold Ollivander. Harry Potter's someone else entirely. I could introduce you, if you'd like."

"Impossible! I can't be wrong!"

Riddle suddenly became hysterical. "It was you who destroyed my future self! I can feel it—the hatred, the soul-rending fury! You can't fool me—I felt it the moment we first met!"

He trembled with rage, and the half-form of his body flickered before reconstituting.

Harold noticed Draco twitching on the floor, paler than before.

"I've been meaning to ask," Harold said calmly. "Are you sure you haven't mistaken me for someone else? This is literally the first time we've met. And my first time seeing the diary."

"Still pretending?" Riddle let out a sharp laugh. "At the bookshop, you were searching for me, weren't you?"

The bookshop…

Flourish and Blotts?

"Wait. That's not possible," Harold said sharply. "There's no way you could've known about that."

"Want to know how?" Riddle smirked. "I'll tell you. But first—you answer my questions."

Harold's response was a twist of his wand—and a blue unicorn horn skewering Riddle's shoulder.

"Aaaahhh—damn it—!"

The scream echoed through the empty classroom.

The unicorn jabbed again—this time nearly tearing his arm off.

"You don't have a choice," Harold said coldly. Each flick of his wand sent the unicorn surging again, leaving holes in Riddle's flickering form.

"Try to kill me, and that other boy dies too—!"

"Not my problem." Harold kept twisting.

Soon, Riddle looked like a haunted colander. He finally broke.

"It's the hate!" he yelled. "I felt it—lingering from a shattered soul—just like mine!"

Harold paused. But Riddle was fading fast—his form grew fuzzier.

"It stabbed through me like a knife—made me feel your presence—made me know you were hunting me!"

Lingering soul-hate… That had to be the wand.

The only connection Harold had to Voldemort's soul was that two-inch wand he used a while back—to kill six Death Eaters. Its enchantments had destroyed the soul fragment within.

So technically, he had killed a piece of Voldemort's soul. He even remembered hearing Voldemort's voice at the time.

But could something like that really leave behind emotional residue?

Another twist—another unicorn headbutt.

"Aaaagh—I already told you—!" Riddle screamed.

"Sorry. Reflex." Harold waved it off. "So how do I fix it?"

Having Voldemort's hate stuck to his soul didn't sound like a great long-term condition.

"You don't." Riddle spat. "The magic of this castle already scattered it."

"You're not lying?"

"I'm not you. I don't fabricate identities." Riddle sneered.

"I'm seriously not Harry Potter," Harold sighed. "Forget it. Let's talk about something else. Where'd you go after that?"

"I was picked up by a wizard," Riddle growled. "When I sensed you searching for me, I had to act. So I possessed the nearest wizard to escape your sight."

"Cost me half my soul," he added bitterly. "But I made it out. That filthy, half-goblin wretch carried me from the shop."

Half-goblin…?

"So that's why I didn't find you in Flourish and Blotts," Harold muttered. "Makes sense."

"And how did you end up with Malfoy?"

"That wizard brought me here," Riddle said, glancing warily at the unicorn. "He came to photograph Lockhart and forgot me in his office."

"The photographer…" Harold remembered. There had been a Daily Prophet photographer snapping shots of Lockhart at the Welcome Feast.

"So Lockhart was the first to find you?"

"Yes. He signed the diary with ink laced with dragon's blood. That gave me just enough magic to stabilize."

"Then I realized this was a real wizard—not a filthy half-breed. I could use his life to grow stronger."

"So you tried to possess him?" Harold remembered Lockhart's bizarre first class.

"I didn't get the chance." Riddle shook his head. "A bunch of students interrupted before he could see my reply."

"But someone else did."

"Draco Malfoy," Harold said flatly.

"Exactly. He thought I was some powerful magical artifact and stole me." Riddle sounded amused.

"Perfect. A pure-blood supremacist—eager for connection. He spilled his secrets, treated me like a confidant."

He glanced down at the unconscious Malfoy with contempt.

"But he was boring. I expected questions about power, ambition. Instead, all he did was whine about how stupid Harry Potter and his friends were…"

"And that's how you first heard my name." Harold guessed.

"The famous Boy Who Lived."

"I told you I'm not—ugh, never mind."

Harold waved his wand.

The unicorn bounded forward and cheerfully headbutted Riddle in the mouth.

While Riddle re-formed, Harold mentally sorted the information.

Riddle likely wasn't lying—unicorns could actually kill a soul fragment. Most methods only destroyed the object, like basilisk venom through a diary. But unicorns? They pierced the soul directly.

Not much damage—but agonizing. Far worse than venom.

So, yeah—Riddle probably wouldn't risk lying. But he definitely wasn't telling the whole truth either. Harold would have to sort fact from fiction himself.

At least now he knew why he hadn't found the diary at the bookstore.

But if soul fragments could sense him, like an early-warning system…

Would he never be able to get close to another Horcrux again?

Just his presence was enough to make them run.

Riddle had claimed the castle's magic had dispersed the lingering hatred—but was that true? Could there still be a trace?

He'd have to find out.

…

(End of Chapter)