The Black Bloodline of Hogwarts

"I didn't intend to lie to you."

"That's right, I opened the secret room. But you don't know why last time they only killed one Mudblood and then it was all over."

"It's obvious that Dumbledore has his eye on you. Also, I don't like seeing that word."

"Dumbledore? Don't think of Dumbledore as all-powerful. At that time, he was preoccupied with how to exonerate that big oaf Hagrid."

"Could there be someone else?"

"Haha, why should I tell you? You should know that information, like knowledge, has value. And isn't equivalent exchange the only unchanging law from ancient times to the present?"

Julien paused for a moment, but then wrote:

"Even if Dumbledore couldn't confirm it was you, he wouldn't let anything happen to the students at the school, even though he wasn't the headmaster at the time."

The handwriting in the notebook paused, then continued, with a sweet, alluring quality:

"Yes, he knows some things. But he will never tell you. Because he's afraid. Afraid that you'll choose to open instead of seal. Afraid that you'll become me, or... surpass me."

Julien's fingers tightened. His opponent not only knew something, but had also precisely struck the core.

"What do you want?" he finally wrote.

"No, no, I just want to cooperate."

The handwriting quickened, "I'm trapped here, just as you're trapped by 'fate.' Don't you want to know why Dumbledore treated Harry Potter as a pawn, yet ignored a genius like you? And why you're hiding in the shadows watching a baby become a 'savior'?"

Voldemort's words were a mix of truth and lies; perhaps he knew something, or perhaps he wanted to find out something from me.

"You want to be resurrected? I won't sacrifice myself to resurrect you." Julien thought of Ginny from the original story. But it almost happened...

"No, I don't need that. I have other options."

"Oh? What do you need me to do?"

"I just want to regain my memories." The handwriting became messy, as if the writer was struggling in pain.

"Someone has left a seal on my memory. Every time I try to recall that time, my mind feels like it's being torn apart. Help me find the truth, Blake. Help me understand why I failed 50 years ago."

"You see, I'm just a twelve-year-old wizard, I don't know much..."

"Haha, Blake, let's not deceive each other. You know about the secret room, and you want to get in. Maybe we have a common goal? Or at least a common path."

"As for me, although I don't know what my memory loss is related to, I know it must be related to 'Black'."

"In that case, to show my sincerity, I can teach you Parsley and tell you the location of the secret room."

"I know the location of the Chamber of Secrets, and I can ask Harry Potter about Parseltongue."

"See, you know quite a lot. As for Harry Potter, that little girl told me he defeated me in my later form. Yes, that's what I'm also wondering about. Could it be that he has some kind of curse-like magic that can reflect my attacks?"

Although the other party was only Voldemort's 16-year-old soul, his mind was still very sharp. It's just that, given his personality, he could only think of curses, and not the "sacrifice" or "love" that Dumbledore mentioned.

"Now let's talk about Parsleyan. You know, it's not just about imitating the voice. Let me teach you."

Over the next hour, complex phonetic symbols appeared on the pages—the pronunciation of snake language does not rely on vocal cord vibration, but on the friction between the root of the tongue and the palate, simulating the trembling of a snake's forked tongue.

Julien practiced along, his silver linden wand vibrating gently beside him, recording every wrong syllable.

"Your learning talent is astounding," Voldemort, or rather Tom Riddle, wrote, "but there's a problem—your pronunciation is too 'clean.' Parseltongue requires malice, a predatory hunger. What... are you suppressing?"

"I understand, I'll be careful then."

"In return, all I can tell you now is Harry Potter. He was able to repel you because he deflected your killing curse. It was because he had a protective spell given to him by his mother, a protective spell that sacrificed herself for her child, an ancient magic."

"That simple? I'll be defeated by such a foolish magician in the future?" The pages trembled violently, the ink twisting into jagged scratches.

"Ridiculous! Good riddance. I'll deal with Harry Potter myself someday, and show the world that this so-called 'savior' is nothing but a joke!"

Don't worry, I won't give you that chance. Julien thought to himself.

"So now, Blake, is there anything else you want to tell me?"

"I can't answer your question. Give me some time, maybe I can go and find out."

A long silence followed. Then, a line of almost invisible writing appeared:

"...Then, do you know the origin of your name? And why do you also want to go to the secret chamber? I don't think you want to release the basilisk."

"What do you want, Black?" Voldemort's handwriting regained its elegance, but carried a cold, scrutinizing quality.

"Immortality? That seems beyond the comprehension of a young person like you. Power? You don't seem like one of those fools like Malfoy. Knowledge... that's more likely."

The handwriting paused, then a word emerged:

"Or perhaps... a stargate?"

Julien's quill pierced the page. Then he snapped the notebook shut again.

He immediately regretted his actions; perhaps closing the laptop had given the other person a hint.

---

At the same time, in the principal's office.

The silver Chaos Ornament before Dumbledore stopped spinning. Fawkes the Phoenix perched on a golden branch, its head buried under its wings.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" a voice rang out from the shadows. The voice came from a portrait of the principal inside the principal's office.

"Phineas, he must choose for himself," Dumbledore said without looking up, "just like Pixis did back then."

“Pixis won’t agree,” Phineas’s voice carried an unusual weariness. “We’ve scattered, hidden, even exiled our bloodlines to prevent ‘it’ from finding the key. And now, you’re letting the last purebred Blake—”

"He's not pure-blooded," Dumbledore corrected softly. "His mother's surname is Evans. Lily's blood, plus Black's protection... that's the complete key."

"That's precisely why it's even more dangerous, isn't it? I don't believe you can't see it, Dumbledore, that notebook is a Horcrux."

Phineas Nigellus Black on the canvas—Sirius Black's great-great-grandfather and one of the most notorious former headmasters of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry—looks somewhat agitated.

"I can understand your desire to nurture Harry Potter, but there's no need to drag Shym into it."

Meanwhile, the other headmasters on the other canvases also quietly raised their heads and turned their gazes toward Dumbledore, instead of habitually refuting Phineas.

"This can be a test," Dumbledore continued, "to test whether Julien will be drawn to the darkness, or whether, like his ancestor Pixis, he will choose to seal rather than open it."

"Don't you understand that a test can also become a trap? What if he makes the wrong choice?"

Dumbledore did not answer. He looked out the window, towards the Ravenclaw Tower.

There, a young man with emerald green eyes was bargaining with the sixteen-year-old Dark Lord, both of them believing themselves to be hunters.

"Then perhaps," the old wizard finally said, "that we will face a third Dark Lord."

"And then you're going to kill him? I won't allow you to use Blake's descendants as your experimental subjects!"

"Don't get excited, Phineas," Dumbledore sighed. "It was Pixis's idea."

A silver raven "emerged" from the carved window frame, like a solidified moonlight.