Elijah knew the book was dark the instant it touched his hands.
It wasn't paper or parchment. The surface was smooth and cold, as if pressed from some unfamiliar material, and the text and diagrams weren't ink at all but stamped into it, metallic and permanent.
[A/N: The book is made of human skin. P.S. It exists in reality.]
The volume itself was absurdly thin, barely twenty-one pages, yet the numbering in the corners didn't run in order. Every seventh page carried the same mark: Seven. Three times in total.
Seven was a number wizards respected on instinct. Hogwarts even taught it as more than superstition. Voldemort himself had a taste for it.
But in alchemy, three mattered too.
Elijah opened the book and found himself looking at meaning he couldn't reach. Riddle's fifth-year knowledge—brilliant by ordinary standards—was still shallow here. Even Nicolas Flamel, guided by dreams and genius, had spent decades wrestling with the book's secrets.
Elijah shut The Book of Abraham and scanned the shelf. A second volume sat nearby, far thicker, bound in a more conventional way.
Flamel's own manuscript.
The Book of Hieroglyphs.
He flipped through a few pages, and an already-opened letter slid free, its fold lines softened by handling.
He read.
~~
"To Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore,
"Dear Albus:
"After a considerably long time—more than six centuries—dragging our tattered bodies, facing death, neither Perenelle nor I felt any fear. We both believe that when the world learns of our deaths, they will inevitably lament the end of our lives and covet our immense wealth, except for you, Albus!
"We both believe that death is merely another adventure, and Perenelle and I have been too long in this adventure.
"Before departing, I give you the two most important books of my life, in memory of you, my friend, who is five hundred years my junior but whose wisdom is no less than mine—and by the way, I have left my other wealth to Beauxbatons, I hope you don't mind. Of course, I deeply know that Albus Dumbledore has always been completely uninterested in such things.
"I dare not say that I have fully comprehended the mysteries of 'The Book of Abraham.'. This book, foreseen in a dream, though only a few pages, contains true wisdom and truth. I hope you keep it safe, and it would be even better if you could decipher all its mysteries.
"However, we both know it's too difficult. When we first met, and then later collaborated closely, exploring the secrets of magic and Alchemy, you had already perused this book countless times without any progress. I am very willing to believe that since it found me through prophecy, perhaps fate can take it where it belongs.
"Now, because of Voldemort, I have decided to hand over the Philosopher's Stone to you, perhaps this is a revelation—
"That being said, Perenelle and I actually have quite a bit of elixir of life left, so please do not worry.
"P.S. I believe we will meet again very soon."
~~~
Elijah folded the letter back into itself and let it rest in his palm for a moment, as if its weight were more than paper.
So that was it.
Riddle's memories didn't include these books because they hadn't been here. Dumbledore must have placed them in the Restricted Section only last year, after reading this. The envelope had already been opened; Dumbledore had known exactly what they were—gifts from Flamel, given with intent.
And he had still shelved them here.
Not locked away in his office. Left in the Restricted Section like bait, waiting for "fate" to lead the right hands to them.
Elijah's mouth twitched.
Wouldn't it be absurd if that fate were me?
He didn't indulge the thought for long. Whatever the prophecy meant, the practical truth remained: these two books mattered, and he couldn't afford to let them go.
If he could refine the Philosopher's Stone—or even something flawed that could restore vitality—the strain on Ginny would lessen. His timetable would stretch. His options would widen.
He opened Flamel's manuscript again, then pulled other alchemical texts from nearby shelves for comparison.
Riddle's talent for alchemy had been real—good enough for top marks, good enough to earn his way into Borgin and Burkes after graduation. But that was a later Riddle. This version had never had time to deepen the craft.
Elijah skimmed, choosing ruthlessly. He wasn't searching for mastery tonight. He was building a map.
"Islamic Alchemy and the Kabbas Tree of Life," he read, eyes flicking over the passage. "A wizard named Hohenheim… rumoured to possess a Stone."
Rumours were cheap. He recorded it anyway.
Another text lay open nearby, an Egyptian tract: The Emerald Tablet. A line caught his eye and refused to let go.
To create the miracle of the One Thing, know that what is above is the same as what is below…
The One Thing.
Elijah turned to the next book on the shelf, The Book of Thoth, linked to the same tradition. He devoured pages in seconds, not understanding most of it, but storing the images with greedy precision.
That was the advantage of his state. The diary wasn't just a prison; it was also a perfect recorder. A Pensieve that never forgot. He could take everything now, then dissect it later in safety.
A rooster crowed outside the castle.
The sound sliced through his focus. Elijah's head lifted, and for the first time in hours he noticed the faint paling of the eastern sky.
Near dawn.
He shut the books, slid the letter back where it belonged, and left the Restricted Section with a quiet efficiency. There would be time later. There had to be.
As he moved through the corridors, the air carried the chill of early morning.
And the roosters.
He had already killed one and taken its vitality, carefully, spaced apart so it wouldn't look like an obvious pattern. Killing them all at once would invite questions he didn't want anyone asking.
—
In the days that followed, Elijah returned to the Restricted Section whenever he could.
Alchemy, yes. But not only that.
He read dangerous titles with the same detached hunger: Red Dragon Book, Book of Solomon, The Grimoire of Raziel, Compendium of Dark Spells. Some Riddle had already touched. Others he had never reached. Hogwarts held too much; even a prodigy had limits.
And not every deadly book called itself Dark Arts. Some were simply dangerous.
One volume in particular held his attention: The Theory and Experiment of Fantastical Magus Transformation: The Birth of the Quintaped.
He closed it slowly, mind turning.
Magical creatures were treated like resources, like tools. Yet the power in their blood was undeniable. If a wizard could take on that form—if the transformation could be made stable—then strength would follow.
Hmm...
Not immediately. Not easily. But it was a path.
He retreated into the diary's memory-space, letting the accumulated pages settle into order.
...
"Arg.."
Ginny yawned hard enough to sting her eyes. Her head felt heavy, as if someone had filled it with lead.
"Good morning, Ginny!" Colin hurried up with his camera, bright as ever. "Are you all right? You look awful. Like you haven't slept in days."
Before she could answer, he raised the camera.
Click.
The photograph developed instantly. Ginny saw herself—dark circles, pallor, the unmistakable look of someone being slowly drained.
Colin beamed. "I never thought witches could get sleep-deprived too. Your eye bags are incredible—"
"Shut up, Colin." Ginny snatched for the photo. "Give it here."
"No!" Colin pulled it back, scandalised. "I'm sending it home. My brother wants to see Hogwarts. And you really look like you might collapse. I'm worried you'll die right in front of my camera."
Ginny stared at him.
She was too tired to argue properly. "What class do we have today?"
"No class today," Colin said at once, then brightened again. "Because it's the match! Gryffindor versus Slytherin! I'm going to get pictures of Harry winning. By the way, you know him well, right? Ron's his friend, so—"
Ginny's mind caught on one phrase and ignored the rest.
No class.
She turned without another word. "I'm going back to rest."
"You're not watching the match?" Colin sounded genuinely offended.
Ginny slowed, considering. She did like Quidditch. She'd always watched her brothers at home, even when they rarely let her play. But right now, her limbs felt distant.
Then an idea surfaced, simple and immediate.
She could sleep—and still not miss it.
Ginny went straight to her dormitory, pulled out the diary, and opened it on her bed.
"Mr. Riddle, there's a Quidditch match today. I don't want to miss it, but I'm too tired. Can you record it in the diary? Like when we talk face to face?"
A match.
Elijah's attention sharpened instantly.
Colin Creevey's time was up..
He would need to act again.
"Of course," he wrote. "I'll give you an authentic Quidditch match."
"That's great… then I'll just sleep—"
Ginny didn't finish the sentence. Her head dropped onto the pillow.
Elijah woke within her body with the same dull fatigue she carried, but he had a solution for that. He drank one of the invigorating draughts Percy had been forcing on Ginny for weeks.
Steam rose from her hair by the time he reached the pitch.
...
"Ginny!" Hermione spotted her and hurried over. "Are you sick again?"
"Just didn't sleep well," Elijah said, keeping the answer light. "I stayed up reading."
Hermione frowned in immediate disapproval, then turned that frown on Ron. "You should learn from your sister. That's why she can cast spells properly instead of—"
"It's because my wand is broken!" Ron snapped.
Hermione didn't argue. Her gaze went back to the field, where the match was already turning ugly.
Gryffindor lagged from the start. Slytherin's Nimbus 2001s cut through the air with effortless speed. Rain began to fall, turning the sky a dirty grey.
The scoreboard climbed: 0–60.
Elijah understood the rules well enough to know that wasn't catastrophic yet.
Then he saw it.
A bludger that stopped behaving like a bludger.
It ignored other players and hunted Harry with obsessive intent, forcing the twins to stay close and bat it away again and again.
Ron's face went pale. "I swear… this happened last year."
"Someone's tampered with it," Hermione said, standing. Her eyes darted to the staff table—then away. Then to Lockhart, and back again, unsettled.
No one on the staff table moved.
Every professor could see what was happening. They watched as if waiting for the situation to justify intervention.
"Aren't they going to do anything?" Elijah asked.
"They can't, Ginny," Ron said, voice tight. "In official matches, strange things happen. If teachers stepped in every time, the match would never finish. Unless someone's about to die, they won't interfere."
Hermione searched for a caster and found nothing. Elijah didn't search at all.
He already knew who wanted Harry hurt.
More importantly, he watched the stands.
Lucius Malfoy was there, as expected—present as sponsor and parent, his attention fixed on Draco's performance. Dumbledore sat among the staff, calm and unreadable.
Elijah's mind moved quickly, assembling possibilities. If Lucius had been contacted—if the fear of putting the diary in Hogwarts had already begun shaping him—then plans might be in motion that Elijah hadn't anticipated.
Must be a Malfoy first, Elijah thought, the phrase forming with cold clarity.
He filed it away for later.
The match broke open in a sudden roar. Gryffindor surged onto the pitch as Harry won, collapsing the moment the Snitch was caught. His right arm hung at an angle that made Elijah's stomach twist even with borrowed nerves.
Lockhart's voice sailed over the crowd like a trumpet.
"Make way—let me see him!"
He pushed through, smiling brilliantly. "Broken arm? Leave it to me. I've dealt with this hundreds of times."
Harry's face tightened with immediate dread. "No," he said weakly. "Not you."
Lockhart ignored him. "He's confused from shock. Don't worry."
Colin arrived at once, camera flashing.
Harry gritted his teeth. "Why can't I just go to the hospital wing?"
He glanced toward Ginny—toward Elijah—desperate enough to trust a first-year over Lockhart.
Wood, soaked and triumphant, laughed breathlessly. "He should go. But that catch was incredible, Harry. Absolutely incredible."
Lockhart rolled up his sleeve. "Stand back."
"No—don't—" Harry tried again, but Lockhart had already raised his wand.
The spell hit.
Harry's expression changed. The pain vanished—and something worse replaced it.
The crowd gasped.
Harry looked down.
His sleeve sagged around something soft and boneless, like a thick rubber glove. He tried to move his fingers. Nothing answered.
Lockhart blinked, flustered, then recovered with brittle cheer. "No pain anymore, you see! That's what matters. Off to the hospital wing now. Madam Pomfrey can… tidy up the rest."
Harry stared at his arm, pale as paper.
Lockhart had not healed the bones.
He had removed the bones entirely.
____
Lockhart: You tell me, does it still hurt? No, right!?
Croud: He's out of line.. but he's right.
Me: Liked it? Add to Library!!!