The Room of Requirement folded around my intent like a hand closing on a gem. Tonight I didn't need training dummies or potion stations; I wanted a quiet table, my notes spread, and the kind of absolute privacy only that room could provide. I settled into the chair—calm, deliberate—and let the plan unspool in my head.
A single Horcrux. No more.
I had been thinking about immortality for as long as I could remember—first as a boy terrified of insignificance, then as a student who learned how fragile lives and legacies could be. The old Tom Riddle shattered himself by making a dozen anchors for his soul. He was clever; he became monstrous because he couldn't accept limits. I will not repeat that mistake. One anchor. One safeguard. One measured bite into eternity, and then prudence.
The Spiritual Potion is the key to restraint. I can repair a soul; I now have a method to mitigate the spiritual ravages that follow ripping part of your self away. It will not make Horcrux-making consequence-free — there will be cost, shock, pain — but it gives me control. A wound I can close and heal. A variable I can manage.
The target object was not random. I had considered trinkets, heirlooms, vaults, cursed reliquaries—an instrument must be worthy, durable, and symbolically correct. A Horcrux is not merely a cage for a sliver of soul; it is a statement. It should strengthen the thing it inhabits. It should be more than a receptacle; it should be an amplifier.
The Sword of Gryffindor is an amplifier. Goblin-forged, imbued to draw that which makes it stronger, an artifact that rejects the corruptible and rewards valor. If the sword could absorb basilisk venom, and if it could drink Fiendfyre's essence and temper it into its blade, then placing a Horcrux within it would be more than concealment—it would be a bargain of ascension. Nothing in the present field of knowledge looks like it could undo such a configuration without knowing precise, archaic remove-methods I would never allow.
There is one glaring, practical problem: the sword is not a thing to be taken. It appears to a worthy Gryffindor in a moment of true need. It will not respond to theft, to bargaining, or to force; it honors courage and purpose. If I am to use it, I must create the circumstance in which the sword will reveal itself — and do so in a way I control.
I outlined possibilities, dismissing many as sloppy or unpredictable. I discarded stealthy theft attempts; the sword's nature is antithetical to theft. I discarded brute-force plans; the sword's guardians are old magics, not trinkets to be blasted free. The only reliable method is to engineer worthiness.
Engineered worthiness is an art: provoke a situation, place a Gryffindor of true mettle in imminent peril, and ensure the Hat (or whatever force that binds the sword to bravery) has cause to act. That is the skeletal idea. The flesh would be delicately, ruthlessly applied.
I could choose from several vectors:
• A life-and-death rescue staged under conditions where the Hat's compass seeks out valor — a collapsing bridge, a magically endangered host, a direct threat to innocents. Brave deeds performed for others, particularly when the doer refuses to flee, are the truest summons.• A public duel or challenge where a Gryffindor is pushed beyond ordinary limits and must act to protect others; desperation often calls the sword.• A trial of conscience manufactured so that the candidate must choose duty over self-preservation; the sword answers moral courage as much as physical.
All of the above require precision. They require a candidate I can predict. They require secrecy and contingency. They require plausible deniability.
Who might be suitable? I could cultivate a worthy Gryffindor over time—shape their courage, test their temperament, expose them to situations that burrow seeds of selfless habit. That is slow, but clean. Alternatively, I could select an already brave soul and push them. Both paths had merit. Both required a performance I could direct without leaving threads back to me.
The secondary problem was the act itself: the Horcrux ritual. I know enough to see its mechanics in principle; the system has given me forbidden knowledge that reads like poetry and like instruction. I will not recount its steps here — this is not an instruction manual — but in essence, horcruxy is the transaction of soul and anchor. It requires a catalyst of corruption and an instrument that will accept the fragment. Basilisk venom and Fiendfyre are the classic catalysts; the sword's goblin-forging can absorb and temper them. The technique is hideous, yes, but careful ritual, properly prepared, is surgical. I will keep the language of horror at arm's length and focus on the variables I can control.
I considered failure modes. What if the sword rejects the soul-fragment? What if the Spiritual Potion fails to heal the structural damage? What if Dumbledore suspects and intervenes? Then contingency became a grid.
— Containment. The Room of Requirement is secure, but other layers of warding will be added. I can bind memory-wards around the ritual, stack Occlumency among witnesses, and design the Dark Mark network to serve as an emergency recall.— Redundancy. I will prepare an alternative anchor plan that is not a Horcrux but can act as a failsafe: enchanted reliquaries, votive wards, private spell-embeds. Only one Horcrux, but a network of protections.— Secrecy. Only my most loyal and fully bound lieutenants will be present. Those I taught personally under Wizard King will have accelerated learning and a higher loyalty quotient. They will be bound by mark and oath.— Sanity. I will test the Spiritual Potion on constructs, on low-stakes subjects, on deep simulations, refining it until the restoration window is reliable. Then, the procedure will take place with monitoring, enchantment-stabilization, and staggered healing. I refuse the path of the old Riddle who accepted degradation until he could no longer see himself.
I sat back and ran the numbers in my head. If I succeed, I am effectively immortal — not by hubris but by design. If I fail, I lose something of myself, perhaps irreparably. But I have calculated risk and limited exposure where possible. I am not gambling a soul for vanity. I am investing in preservation with care.
Next: the candidate.
A list formed quickly. There are several Gryffindors whose temperament and background make them likely to answer a call to protect; others would panic. I can seed scenarios that favor specific individuals. I can manipulate prefect schedules, engineer an excursion, or arrange a charitable project gone wrong. The Hat will notice acts of necessity where courage isn't performative but real. The sword will appear; I will be ready to seize the moment.
I also prepared the logistics. Basilisk venom is archaic and dangerous to handle — a material to be respected and rarely obtained. Fiendfyre is volatile and must be shaped by intent. The sword's absorption property means I do not need to destroy it to bind a Horcrux; rather, it must be offered a catalyst in such a manner the sword will integrate the essence, not simply be sullied. Goblin metallurgy knows how to host and contain power—this, more than anything, makes the sword the ideal vessel.
I catalogued the players who would help and those I must deceive. Dumbledore is the central danger. He is watchful, subtle, and frighteningly adept at reading intentions. I must be two steps ahead: persuasive in public, impenetrable in private. Memory Charms, Occlumency, and the Dark Mark's network provide cover. My Silver Tongue and public persona as Slughorn's favored student create misdirection. People will believe what they expect to believe.
Finally I closed the plan with the most important constraint: I will create only one Horcrux. That decision, deliberate and austere, is what separates me from collapse. One anchor buys me time and perspective. It does not give me license to become careless. It is a tool, not a god.
When I left the Room of Requirement the plan was not finished—it never is. Plans evolve. But I walked with the cold satisfaction of someone who has translated a terrifying possibility into a workable project. The next steps are surgical: identify the candidate, stage the need, ensure the Hat will answer, secure the sword, prepare the catalyst, perform the ritual in a sealed sanctuary, then administer the Spiritual Potion and monitor the restoration.
I did not thrill at the moral ugliness of it. I felt the clarity of purpose. In a world that grows more dangerous by the year, restraint paired with power is survival, refined into a doctrine. My conscience—if conscience is the right word—approved because the matrix of my thought always returns to one principle: preservation of the kind through disciplined sovereignty.
Dumbledore's name threaded through my mind as both threat and eventual rival. He must not see this coming. So I would let appearances continue: academic prodigy, Slughorn's favorite, a student who seeks to know. Behind that mask, I would make my one, careful anchor.
Tomorrow I begin the subtle work: planting seeds of worthiness, observing who answers them, and shaping a stage that will summon the sword willingly. The rest—materials, wards, and the sequence—will follow on my timetable. I do not rush. I calculate. I act.
One Horcrux. One measured bite. One cold, inevitable step toward immortality—taken with the care of a surgeon and the discretion of a shadow.