Chapter Text
The weeks after Ginny had slipped the diary into her bag blurred into a strange, secret rhythm. Aurelia had never meant to depend on it — but Tom was always there, waiting. Every night when the tower fell quiet, she would pull the diary onto her lap, dip her quill, and spill everything onto its waiting pages.
He was steady in a way her friends no longer were. Where Ron had gone sharp, Harry distant, Hermione cautious, Tom never flinched. He never winced when she admitted feeling jealous, or bitter, or so lonely it hurt. He never reminded her that she was a Black. Instead, he seemed fascinated, coaxing her to write more, to tell him things no one else wanted to hear. And with her father’s own letters becoming fewer and shorter — his time consumed by the Wizengamot and politics — Aurelia found herself even less willing to trouble him with what felt like childish problems, like being left out at school.
In the pages of the diary, Aurelia wasn’t “Regulus Black’s daughter” or “The Black Heiress” or “The Child of a Death Eater”. She was simply Aurelia. Tom’s Aurelia.
The bond deepened with every secret she entrusted to the page. He asked questions no one else did: What do you dream of? Who do you want to become? Do you believe the others will ever accept you? His voice, dark ink curling across parchment, was sharp but soothing, cutting but kind. He made her feel seen.
And so days slipped into weeks, her ties to the diary tightening like threads she didn’t notice until she was tangled in them. She carried it everywhere — in the library, down to meals, tucked under her arm in lessons. When Madam Pince scolded her for “scribbling idly” instead of reading, Aurelia bit back a laugh. If only the librarian knew she was reading more than anyone else could imagine.
It was on one such morning, diary heavy in her satchel, that Hogwarts itself seemed to change.
The air at breakfast felt oddly still, as though the castle was holding its breath. Students whispered over their porridge, casting glances at one another. Aurelia stirred her tea absently, trying to ignore the prickling sense of unease. She hadn’t written to Tom yet that day, but the weight of the diary pressed against her hip like a reminder, a comfort.
Neville’s nervous chatter about Herbology barely broke through her thoughts. She was just about to excuse herself when a piercing scream echoed down the corridor.
The hall erupted into chaos. Students rushed toward the sound, and Aurelia was swept along by the current of bodies. Heart pounding, she craned her neck until the crowd parted enough for her to see.
The stone wall ahead gleamed with wetness. Dark, glistening letters stretched across the stone, jagged and terrible.
THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.
And beneath the words, Mrs. Norris hung stiff, her body frozen mid-arch, eyes glassy and unblinking.
Gasps, shrieks, whispers.
“Salazar Slytherin’s chamber…”
“The Heir has returned—”
“Bloody hell—”
And then…“Of course it’s her. Look. A Black—”
The words hit like stones. Aurelia stiffened, shoulders hunching, though she could feel the eyes, the pointing fingers. Death Eater’s child. Regulus Black’s daughter. Of course.
Hermione’s hand caught her arm, her whisper sharp and shaky: “It isn’t you.”
But Aurelia couldn’t stay. She pushed through the crowd, fleeing up the staircase until the noise blurred into a dull roar. By the time she slipped into an empty classroom, her hands were already fumbling in her satchel.
The diary fell open on the desk. Ink blotted the page as her quill pressed down, words tumbling out.
They think it’s me. They always think it’s me.
The letters faded, replaced by Tom’s calm, curling script.
Because they are blind, Aurelia. They need someone to blame, and you are convenient. But I see you. I know the truth. You are not their villain. You are their answer.
Her throat tightened. Then who did this? Who opened the Chamber?
That is the right question, Tom replied. And together, we will find it. Write to me. Tell me everything. Hogwarts has secrets even your professors have forgotten. But I remember. And I will teach you to see.
Aurelia’s hand shook, but the quill did not lift. Slowly, almost desperately, she began to write.