Some might say, "But Filch's cat was petrified too! How could Filch be behind it?"
Harry had two theories.
The first: Filch did it on purpose—to divert suspicion from himself.
Otherwise, it didn't make sense that the Basilisk's first victim would be a cat.
And ever since then, Filch had been especially hostile toward Harry.
On the night Mrs. Norris was petrified, Dumbledore had clearly said that the mandrakes could be handed over to Snape to brew the antidote.
Yet Filch insisted on entrusting the task to the unreliable Lockhart.
That alone was suspicious—perhaps Filch didn't want the antidote to be made at all.
The second possibility: Filch had no idea what he'd done.
Voldemort could have possessed him, used him to release the Basilisk, and then wiped his memory afterward.
That way, no one would ever know the Dark Lord had returned.
After his defeat the previous year, Voldemort would certainly have become more cautious—so such a plan wasn't impossible.
If Arthur had heard Harry's reasoning, he would've stood up and applauded.
Well done, young detective Potter!
And in fact, he did hear about it the next day, when Harry eagerly shared his suspicions with him, Hermione, and the others.
Arthur had to admit—Harry was right about Voldemort being the Heir of Slytherin.
But his suspect list… was getting ridiculous.
Last year it was Snape.
This year it was Filch.
Who would he accuse next year?
Still, Harry decided to make Filch his prime suspect and planned to observe him in secret.
Unfortunately, before he could act, Snape caught up with him first.
"Potter. Weasley. I trust you haven't forgotten your detention tonight."
Harry groaned.
There went his surveillance plans.
…
That night, after sorting through several dozen pounds of slugs for Snape, the boys dragged themselves wearily down the corridor toward Gryffindor Tower.
As they passed a staircase, they noticed water flooding down the hall.
"Wait… this direction—Myrtle's bathroom?" Harry guessed.
He and Ron hurried over.
Inside, Moaning Myrtle was sobbing pitifully, water overflowing from the sinks.
When they asked what happened, she wailed,
"Someone threw a book at me!"
That puzzled them. Ghosts could usually pass through solid objects.
What kind of book could actually hit her?
Harry picked it up. It was soaking wet—but curiously waterproof.
On the cover was written:
Tom Marvolo Riddle.
"That name sounds familiar," Ron muttered. Then it clicked.
"I saw it in the trophy room once—he got some kind of Special Award for Services to the School, fifty years ago."
"Fifty years again?" Harry murmured. "So what really happened back when the Chamber was first opened?"
Ron shook his head helplessly. How would he know?
"Fifty years ago… I died here," Myrtle said softly.
Harry's head snapped up. "You did? How?"
"I don't know. I only remember seeing a pair of huge yellow eyes—and then… nothing."
That confirmed the Basilisk connection, though it didn't bring them closer to the culprit.
The next day, Harry presented the diary to the group.
Arthur: ???
You've got to be kidding me.
He and Dumbledore had been waiting for Voldemort to make a move—
and the Dark Lord just delivered himself to their doorstep?
"Where did you find this?" Arthur asked.
"In Myrtle's bathroom. Do you know who it belongs to?"
"Of course," Arthur said. "And so do you. But this isn't the time for stories. I'll explain later."
He pocketed the diary immediately and headed straight for Dumbledore's office.
If Voldemort had hidden traps in it, better to deal with it fast.
Just in case, Arthur tucked the diary safely into his system space.
The others stared after him, stunned. None of them had ever seen Arthur in such a hurry.
At the entrance to the headmaster's office, he realized—he didn't know the password.
But that was nothing a little guesswork couldn't solve.
"Chilled lemonade? Fizzing Whizzbees? Cockroach Cluster?"
At the last one, the stone staircase began to rise.
"Well then—'Cockroach Cluster' it is."
He shook his head. Who on earth thought animated chocolate cockroaches were a good idea?
Inside, Dumbledore was, as usual, "busy" stroking his phoenix.
"So this is your daily work routine?" Arthur teased.
"It's not office hours yet," Dumbledore replied mildly. "Though I am curious—how did you get in here?"
"Took the stairs," Arthur said with a straight face.
The joke went right over Dumbledore's head.
"Never mind. What brings you here? Don't tell me the 'rabbit' finally hit the tree?"
He was referring to the Chamber investigation.
"Not quite," Arthur said. "No rabbit this time—but Harry's found a wolf."
Dumbledore blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
Arthur didn't answer immediately. Instead, he looked around the room.
"Do you have any spells here to keep something from escaping? If not, cast one now."
Still puzzled, Dumbledore complied, activating the office's defensive wards.
Arthur added his own spatial barrier, just to be safe.
Then he pulled the diary out of his system space.
Dumbledore took one look at the cover—and froze.
"Tom…"
Recognition and a touch of melancholy flashed in his eyes.
"You haven't forgotten him, have you?" Arthur asked.
"Of course not," Dumbledore sighed. "I was the one who brought him to Hogwarts. I take it you know the name he goes by now?"
"Voldemort."
"Yes. So—what's wrong with his old diary?"
Though he could tell it was enchanted, Dumbledore hadn't yet guessed how.
"This isn't just a diary," Arthur explained. "It's a fragment of Tom's soul."
Dumbledore's eyes widened. "You mean—?"
"Exactly. A Horcrux."
In that instant, Dumbledore understood why Voldemort had survived the Killing Curse years ago.
Seeing the old wizard fall silent, Arthur added,
"If you don't believe me, you can talk to it yourself. Just write something on the page."
Dumbledore already believed him, but decided to test it anyway.
He wrote: Hello, Tom.
The ink sank into the page. A moment later, new words appeared:
Hello, to whoever found this diary.
Dumbledore wrote again: Tom, it's Dumbledore.
Inside the diary—
Voldemort:???
What the—how did this end up in Dumbledore's hands?!
As his first Horcrux, the diary's sensory connection to the outside world was crude.
He could only perceive things vaguely through emotional resonance.
He'd sensed being discarded, then picked up again—so he'd hoped to manipulate whoever found it.
Never in his darkest dreams did he expect Dumbledore to be the one writing to him!
Panic surged through the fragment of his soul.
A blinding white light burst from the diary.
Arthur calmly pulled out a pair of sunglasses and put them on.
The diary shot toward the office door—
only to slam headfirst into the barrier spell.
The light faded. The diary flopped to the floor.
Neither wizard moved to pick it up. Who knew what tricks it still held?
"So," Arthur said, "what now?"
"This diary must be destroyed," Dumbledore decided.
"Easy enough. Fiendfyre should do the trick."
He raised his wand—
"Wait!" Dumbledore said quickly. "That spell is dangerous. If it gets out of control, it will burn down the entire castle."
"Fine, fine," Arthur sighed. "Plan B, then."
He summoned the Sorting Hat, reached inside, and drew out the Sword of Gryffindor.
Ever since he'd bonded with Hogwarts itself, he could summon the sword at will.
He poured a vial of Basilisk venom over the blade.
The sword shimmered, absorbing the poison until it gleamed with a deadly sheen.
Then Arthur strode over to the diary—and plunged the sword straight through it.
A piercing scream filled the air as dark smoke poured out of the book.
Moments later, silence. The diary lay still.
"All done?" Dumbledore asked.
"Done," Arthur said, brushing his hands. "Looks like Voldemort tried to manipulate some poor student into releasing the Basilisk. Thankfully, everyone who saw it only saw reflections, so no one died."
Dumbledore nodded grimly. "Yes, we were lucky this time. But if he's made one Horcrux… there could be others."
"How many do you think he made?" the headmaster asked anxiously.
Arthur shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe you should've asked him before we stabbed it."
Of course, he did know the exact number and locations—but explaining how he knew would be troublesome.
He quickly changed the subject.
"Anyway, I'd worry more about the Board of Governors. The Daily Prophet's already run headlines about the 'Basilisk in Hogwarts,' and parents are furious.
"And have you noticed Draco didn't go home for Christmas? That probably means Lucius is busy—rallying the Board to suspend you.
If I had to guess, your dismissal notice will be here within days."
Dumbledore looked at him with amusement. "You've been thinking quite far ahead, I see."
"Comes with experience," Arthur said modestly.
Dumbledore smiled. "Earlier you mentioned wanting to preserve the Basilisk's skin as a specimen. May I borrow it for a while?"
"Huh? What for?"
"To display at Hogwarts," Dumbledore said. "It'll reassure the students that the threat is gone—and show the public we've already dealt with the danger."
"And what about the Heir of Slytherin?" Arthur asked.
"You've already taken care of that, haven't you?" Dumbledore replied.
Arthur realized the old man was trying to put him in the spotlight.
"Oh no," he said quickly. "You're not pinning that on me. I don't need that kind of attention."
Dumbledore chuckled but didn't press.
"Then what do you suggest?"
"Downplay it," Arthur said. "Tell everyone the Heir's been secretly executed."
"People won't believe that so easily."
"Then distract them—announce a 'Search for the Chamber' competition. Offer a nice reward for anyone who can find it.
You wanted Harry to grow into a detective type anyway, right? Perfect training.
"I still remember last year when he deduced Snape was trying to steal the Philosopher's Stone—
and now he's convinced Voldemort's possessing Filch."
Arthur shared Harry's latest theory, and Dumbledore burst out laughing.
When he finally calmed down, he nodded. "Very well. We'll do as you say."
"Good. Then I'll head back and explain the diary situation to Harry—without mentioning the Chamber."
"Please don't," Dumbledore said dryly. "We already have one Hagrid. We don't need another blabbermouth."
"Relax," Arthur said with a grin. "I'm not that talkative. Oh, and speaking of Hagrid—don't forget to clear his name."
He was, of course, referring to Hagrid being falsely accused of killing Myrtle fifty years ago.
Now that Hagrid was practically Radahn's right-hand man, Arthur wasn't about to let that injustice stand.
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