"Another failure."
Elijah watched the potion in the cauldron decay from a vibrant, arterial red into a sludge-like black.
He felt a rare surge of irritation. He had lost count of the failed attempts to refine the Philosopher's Stone, both in reality and within the recursive loops of his own memory.
He had followed Nicolas Flamel's notes to the letter, cross-referencing twenty-two historical processes, yet the "essence" remained elusive.
What variable had Flamel possessed that Elijah lacked?
Was it a matter of material, or a fundamental misunderstanding of the "Book of Abraham"?
He waved a hand, and the Room of Requirement swept the failure into non-existence. If alchemy was a wall, he would pivot to a more familiar path: the dark arts.
Elijah spread his collection of forbidden texts—the Red Dragon, the Book of Solomon, the Grimoire of Raziel. These books were forbidden not only for their lethality but for their complexity. Fortunately, where Elijah struggled with the patience of alchemy, his talent for spellcraft was peerless.
The Red Dragon offered methods for "reviving" the dead, though Elijah saw through the nomenclature immediately. It was merely a blueprint for Inferi—mindless, waterlogged cannon fodder. He found the necromantic process distasteful and strategically limited; Inferi were easily dispatched by a competent wizard with a flare for fire magic.
And every great wizard had a signature fire. Dumbledore had his ancient Gryffindor flames; Grindelwald had his blue Protego Diabolica. Even Voldemort was a master of the chaotic Fiendfyre.
I want more than destruction, Elijah mused. I want precision.
He began to iterate, blending the demonic dragon flames from the Red Dragon with the hellfire described by Solomon. He sought a magic that functioned like a logic gate: if loyal, then protect; if enemy, then incinerate.
Grindelwald's Fireshield Charm was the benchmark. It was less about heat and more about a wizard's will—a spell that could distinguish between a true follower and a traitor. But where Grindelwald sought a filter, Elijah sought a weapon that evolved.
Holding Flint's blackthorn wand, Elijah began to move through the Room of Requirement like a conductor. A ring of ghostly, pale-blue fire ignited around him, swaying like a field of spectral bluebells. It was beautiful, but it lacked the bite he craved.
He injected the dragon fire and the Infernal Fire from Solomon's scrolls. The blue deepened, then bled into a violent, bruised crimson. The bluebells withered into mandalas of blood-colored flame.
Finally, he added the crowning horror: the necromantic tether. If an enemy fell within these flames, the fire would not merely consume them—it would animate their remains, forcing the charred husks to rise and strike at their former allies.
"Infernal Flames," Elijah whispered, the name a nod to an old world memory.
The sheer malice of the magic startled even him. It was a curse so cruel that even Satan might have offered a respectful nod.
Elijah felt a flicker of resistance to the darkness he had just birthed, but he pushed it aside. A tool was only as evil as its wielder.
...
Dumbledore reached the Hospital Wing with his robes still slightly disheveled. He had been summoned by Professor McGonagall's silver tabby Patronus.
"Minerva, Filius. What happened?"
McGonagall looked as though she had aged ten years in an hour. Beside her, Professor Flitwick stood with his hands clenched, while Gilderoy Lockhart loomed in the background, looking far too groomed for a crisis.
"Another petrification," McGonagall said, her voice strained. "Penelope Clearwater. Percy Weasley found her in a 3rd-floor classroom this morning."
Dumbledore moved to the girl's bedside. Madam Pomfrey was gently removing an object from Penelope's stiff fingers: a small hand mirror.
Dumbledore understood instantly. She had used it to look around corners, seeing only the reflection of the Basilisk. But as he looked at the girl, he felt a nagging sense of unease. He had eyes all over the castle—portraits that reported every movement in the corridors. Yet the monster had moved unseen.
"This is the fourth attack, Albus," McGonagall whispered. "The Board of Governors will not stay silent much longer."
"I am aware," Dumbledore said softly.
"Exactly!" Lockhart chimed in, flashing a bright, toothy smile. "And that is why I am here. I've already driven the Heir into hiding once; I shall finish the job today!"
Snape appeared in the doorway, a sneer curling his lip. "If I recall, Gilderoy, you announced the Heir was gone two weeks ago. Your 'success' seems remarkably short-lived."
Ignoring Lockhart's stammered reply, Snape moved to Dumbledore's side. "A word, Headmaster," he murmured, his voice dropping below the threshold of the others. "Ginny Weasley has lost something. She doesn't remember what, and her mind... it has been polished clean of the details."
Dumbledore's eyes sharpened. So, you've moved on, Tom.
He understood the game now. The Horcrux had realized Dumbledore was watching Ginny, so it had jumped ship, modifying the memories of its previous host to leave no trail. But why weren't there any fatalities?
Mrs. Norris, Colin, Justin, and now Penelope. Mirror, camera, ghost, water—all "coincidences" that prevented death. It wasn't mercy; it was strategy. Tom didn't want the school closed. He wanted someone specific.
Harry Potter.
The Horcrux must have learned of the boy who lived.
It was trying to frame Harry, to isolate him, to lure him into the Chamber for a private audience. Dumbledore felt the weight of the chess pieces moving. Tom was threatening the students to get to the King.
He thinks I will leave the board, Dumbledore thought. And he is right. I must.
The following morning, the atmosphere in the Great Hall was toxic. Ernie Macmillan was holding court, loudly proclaiming Harry's guilt to anyone within earshot.
"He's targeting everyone from the Muggle world now!" Ernie shouted. "First the cat, then the photographer, and now a Prefect!"
Elijah arrived late for Charms, slipping into a seat behind Harry and Ron, right next to Hermione. He wore a mask of Slytherin disdain, but as soon as Flitwick began his lecture, he leaned toward Hermione.
She turned pink, her mind clearly stuck on the memories of "Tom Riddle" she had seen in the Pensieve. "When did you... when did you start with Ginny?" she whispered.
"Early last term," Elijah replied. "I was in control for the first attack, and through Christmas. Why?"
T-That bath....
Hermione's blush deepened, and she quickly turned back to her parchment, scribbling a note and sliding it to Harry. We have to find Hagrid. He's the only one who knows what's in the Chamber.
Harry looked pained. "I can't just interrogate him," he wrote back. "He trusts me."
Elijah leaned forward, intercepting the parchment before Harry could respond. "Let's wait," he murmured. "The Professors are already on edge. Hagrid didn't mean for it to happen fifty years ago—reopening that wound now won't help us find the Heir."
Harry looked at Elijah—at Malfoy's face—with genuine gratitude. "I didn't expect you to be so kind, Mr. Riddle."
"I'm not being kind," Elijah said, his voice cold. "I'm being practical."
While Harry and his friends hesitated, Fred and George Weasley were having a very different conversation.
"Another victim, George. And a Prefect," Fred said, his usual humor replaced by a grim set to his jaw.
"The Heir has our map," George replied. "If he's using it to hunt students, we're essentially helping him."
"We have to go to Dumbledore."
They didn't look like pranksters as they marched toward the gargoyle guarding the Headmaster's office. They spoke the password—"Jelly Slugs"—and ascended the spiral staircase.
Dumbledore was leaning over a table covered in whirring silver instruments when they entered. He looked up, peering over his half-moon spectacles.
"Fred. George. What can I do for you?"
"We have something to report, sir," Fred said, standing straight.