A/N:

written for the prompt karameiwaku in the The_RoR_Birthday_Bash collection fest on AO3!

original prompt:

Harry overhears Quirrell interrogating Binns about an artifact from a thousand years ago.

i have always wanted to write a story that included ravenclaw's diadem, or at the very least, the history of the bloody baron and the grey lady (still might do that at some point). diadem!tom is a fun way of fulfilling that dream.

nearly half the story has already been written out. this is the prologue and the first chapter will follow shortly!

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Dance Me to the End of Love

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Prologue

History of Magic was boring. This unfortunate fact had been proven repeatedly over the course of the school year. Ron had taken to napping during lessons while Hermione took enthusiastic, detailed notes, but Harry, who spent his days worrying about the Philosopher's Stone, rather thought that the entire class was a waste of time. He had taken to bringing other homework with him in an attempt to make use of the hour, but there were downsides to this plan.

First of all, there was no Hermione willing to help him. Second of all, this plan relied heavily on the hope that anything, up to and including homework, was preferable to listening to the awful droning of Professor Binns' lecture.

Harry's current problem was keeping his eyes open. Binns' voice was lulling him to sleep as effectively as a quiet, rainy afternoon would have.

Still, Harry pushed himself to at least try, and to his chagrin, he managed two half-coherent sentences for his Charms essay before there was a faint knock at the door.

At first, Binns failed to notice. Even after everyone turned around to see Quirrell standing in the doorway, Binns was going strong, reciting facts about wizardry in medieval times.

Quirrell stammered out a greeting that did little to ease the awkward tension in the air—everyone remembered the troll incident from Halloween.

"What do you think Quirrell wants?" Hermione hissed, nudging Harry in the ribs to get his attention.

Harry shuffled out of range of her elbow and said, "I don't know."

As it turned out, Quirrell wanted to speak to Binns.

"Y-you could end the class a f-few minutes early," Quirrell suggested nervously. He smiled at the students in the room, most of whom were asleep or staring blankly at the walls. "I'm s-sure your students w-wouldn't mind!"

Of course no one minded. The classroom cleared out with alarming speed. Ron, once awoken, was only too eager to flee the dusty classroom. Hermione lingered, slowly packing her bag, perhaps hopeful that the conversation between the two professors would wrap up and permit the last five minutes of the lesson to finish. Harry stayed with her, feeling sleepy as he stuffed his textbook into his bag. His lack of attention came around to bite him in the arse, however, when he accidentally knocked his inkwell off the desk.

"Oh no, let me help!" Hermione exclaimed, tugging his robes out of the way so they wouldn't get dirty. Her grip was so forceful that Harry nearly dropped his inkwell all over again. It was awkward to be jerked around while he was trying to fix his mistake.

"Sorry! Sorry," Hermione repeated. "Here, we need to hurry—"

Harry knew that Hermione didn't like to be late. If he kept her after class to help him mop this up, she would only get more anxious. "It's okay. I can do it. You can tell Professor Flitwick I got held up."

Hermione paused, wild-eyed, to look at him. "I can do that!" Hermione said eagerly, bobbing her head so quickly that her hair began to frizz. "I will tell him what happened, don't worry!" Without further hesitation, she fled the classroom.

Harry sighed and ducked under the bench to examine the damage. The problem was that he had nothing to mop up the ink with. It was all over the desk, the bench, and the stone floor. How on earth was he going to clean this?

At the front of the room, Quirrell and Binns were engrossed in discussion. Harry wanted to ask if Professor Quirrell could help him vanish the mess, but for that to happen, their conversation needed to end.

"I was w-wondering," Quirrell was saying, "what you knew of Ravenclaw's diadem?"

Harry didn't know what a diadem was. He could only assume it was an obscure, ancient magical item—why else would anyone come to Binns asking for information?

"The lost diadem?" Binns repeated slowly.

"Yes," Quirrell continued, "I would like to know more about its p-properties."

"The diadem has not been seen for centuries. It has been lost to time… What little we know of it does not help us, but I believe it is inscribed with Rowena's own motto, 'Wit beyond measure is man's greatest treasure'."

"Yes," Quirrell said, sounding impatient, "increasing the intelligence of the wearer. However, I am curious as to what other properties it may possess. Rowena was well-known for her creativity as well as her wisdom before she passed due to illness. Perhaps she turned her talents to healing…?"

It was at this point that Harry tried to straighten up and accidentally knocked his head against the bottom of the desk. The noise was frighteningly loud in the empty classroom; Harry's stomach did a funny swoop as he tentatively looked over at where his professors were standing. Quirrell was now staring at him, much to his dismay.

"Sorry," Harry said hurriedly. "I spilled my ink. Could you—would you mind please—"

"Evanesco," Quirrell said calmly. "Scourgify."

All the ink vanished, leaving Harry, the desk, and the floor spotless.

"Thanks," Harry said, scrambling to his feet. "Thanks, professor."

"D-don't you have class to get to, Mr. P-Potter?"

"Yes, I do. Thanks again," Harry said, nearly tripping over his own bag strap in his haste to escape.

FIVE YEARS LATER.

Harry had his copy of 'Advanced-Potion Making' clutched in hand as he spun wildly in place, heart pounding violently in his chest. He had to hide the book, hide it somewhere he would be able to retrieve it from later on—

The Room of Requirement was full of junk, the entire place a maze of impossible messes. Harry couldn't risk this book being found, for if it was, surely Snape would try to have him expelled. Or worse yet, Harry would experience a repeat of second year all over again, accusations and anger thrown his way in the halls.

This time, however, Harry was quite guilty of wrongdoing. But his intention hadn't been—he had thought—

Well, nevermind what he had thought. He should not have impulsively cast Sectumsempra on Malfoy.

Harry stumbled further into the Room, knocking over a stack of old books as he went. Dust flew into his face, prompting him to double over and sneeze several times. To brace himself, Harry flailed a hand out and caught the edge of a large cupboard.

With a huff, he stood up. This cupboard would do. He wrenched it open, stuffed the book behind a suspicious-looking cage that housed the horrifying skeleton of some creature, and slammed the door. There, no one would go looking for the Prince's book with that creepy thing putting them off.

Only, how to find this cupboard again? Amongst the enormous piles of junk, it would be impossible to locate this exact spot without wasting hours and hours.

After pausing to examine the area for landmarks, Harry grabbed a stone bust of an ugly warlock and set it on top of the cupboard. Good, but not good enough.

Casting his gaze further, Harry spotted a silver tiara. He snatched it up and was about to dump it onto the ugly warlock when he caught sight of the words etched into the metal.

Wit beyond measure is man's greatest treasure.

The words were familiar. It took Harry a moment to place them. By the time he was able to recall their source—a conversation from years ago, long forgotten in the wake of the multiple horrors he had experienced since his first year at Hogwarts—his hands had moved of their own volition, placing Ravenclaw's diadem upon his head.

As the cold metal nestled amongst his unruly locks of dark hair, Harry felt a peculiar tug in his navel that he associated with Apparition. However, this sensation was so sudden, so violent that he let out a sharp cry of surprise, reeling back and knocking his head into the cupboard behind.

The blow to the head did not hurt—Harry had gotten worse hits from Dudley—but for unfathomable reasons, his vision swam wildly in shades of blue and purple before he sank into the complete and utter darkness of unconsciousness.