The group waited until the Slytherins had cleared out before making their move, but Elijah received another visitor before they could arrive.
"Are you alright?"
Cho Chang asked, stepping into the ward.
She held a small parcel. "I ran into Cedric Diggory, and he gave me some pumpkin pasties. I thought you might be hungry, so I brought them along."
She looked uncharacteristically shy, a far cry from the fierce Seeker he had faced on the pitch.
"Thanks, I'm starving," Elijah said, taking a pasty.
He had rushed through breakfast, and the afternoon's exertion had left him famished.
It occurred to him then that neither Harry nor his own teammates had thought to bring food. "My arm is fine. Madam Pomfrey says I'll be fully recovered by tonight."
"That's good." Cho hesitated, fidgeting. "You flew incredibly today. That Sloth Grip Roll was amazing—no one holds on that long while maintaining pace."
"Thanks," Elijah replied between bites. The atmosphere grew heavy with an awkward silence. Finally, Cho bolstered her courage.
"Can you give me an autograph?"
"Yea—cough cough—what?"
Elijah nearly choked. An autograph? Had his identity as a Dark Lord been compromised? No—Voldemort didn't have "fans," and certainly not among the Ravenclaws.
"I think you're going to be a world-class player," Cho said, her face flushing. "I wanted to get one in advance. Which team will you join? The Chudley Cannons are struggling, but the Irish—"
"I'm sorry," Elijah interrupted gently. "I don't plan on becoming a professional."
Cho paused, then offered a small, disappointed smile. "I understand. It's a shame; you have so much talent. To be honest, I underestimated you after the last match. I didn't expect you to improve so quickly."
Elijah suppressed a grimace. It wasn't improvement; it was a change in management. Once he stepped back, Draco would return to his usual, mediocre self. Malfoy had talent, certainly, but he lacked the discipline to endure the hardship of real training.
"As long as you train diligently, you'll be fine," Elijah encouraged her.
"Thanks." Cho stood up to leave. At the door, she turned back. "I think you're very different from what people say. Goodbye."
As she vanished into the corridor, Elijah sat with his half-eaten pasty, feeling a sense of the absurd.
Surely she isn't falling for Draco?
He shook his head. No, it was likely just the adrenaline-fueled admiration of a fellow athlete.
Still, if Draco were smart, he could have used this. Unfortunately, the boy was too fixated on his rivalry with Harry to notice anything else.
Night fell over the castle before Madam Pomfrey finally deemed Elijah fit for discharge. Once he stepped into the empty, darkened corridor, he checked the Marauder's Map.
"I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."
The parchment bloomed with ink. Most students were safely tucked away in their common rooms, terrified of the "Heir" stalking the halls. The castle was quiet, the perfect cover for a trip to the Room of Requirement.
...
The following morning at breakfast, an owl delivered a letter from Lucius and Narcissa. To any observer, it was a standard parental check-in. To Elijah, it was a coded report.
A discreet revealing charm confirmed the news: Lucius had successfully pressured the school governors. Dumbledore would be removed as soon as the next attack occurred, and Hagrid was already being framed for a one-way trip to Azkaban.
Elijah pocketed the letter, his mind already turning toward the next move.
He needed to be precise. He wasn't ready to face Dumbledore yet, but if the Headmaster were removed from the chess board, the path to the Philosopher's Stone would be much clearer.
I have to stay vigilant..
He muttered to himself, "Nothing should go wrong because I decided to be impatient.."
"What can't go wrong?"
The voice of Gilderoy Lockhart shattered his concentration. The professor was beaming, his teeth flashing in the morning light. "Talking about the next match, I expect? You were quite the sensation yesterday! Almost half as good as I was in my Ravenclaw days. I was a Seeker too, you know."
"Professor, did you need something?" Elijah asked, cutting through the fluff.
"I think I can offer you some mentorship," Lockhart said grandly. "The Quidditch world lost a star when I chose my current path, but I could guide you—"
"I'm not interested in being a star, Professor," Elijah said. He could see Lockhart's game: the man wanted to attach his name to a rising talent. "And my name is Draco Malfoy. I have a fortune to inherit; I don't need the circuit."
He turned and walked away, leaving a stunned Lockhart behind. He soon ran into the Gryffindor trio.
"Was he bragging again?" Ron asked, looking satisfied. "I bet he tried to claim he was a professional."
"He claimed he was Ravenclaw's Star Seeker," Elijah noted.
"I knew it!" Ron turned to Hermione. "He's a fraud. Ravenclaw never won the cup while he was here. He's worse than Malfoy—uh, the real Malfoy."
Hermione didn't argue, but shifted the topic to their third-year electives. After some discussion on the merits of Arithmancy over Divination, and Elijah's recommendation of Alchemy and Ancient Runes, Hermione decided she would simply take everything.
"Tutoring? You haven't even finished second year!" Ron groaned as Hermione dragged Elijah toward the library.
That evening, Elijah returned to his private alchemy lab in the Room of Requirement.
The potion he was working on bubbled violently before turning a dull, toxic rust-color. Another failure. His stolen ingredients were running low.
"Wisdom," Elijah muttered. "If only the Diadem weren't a Horcrux."
Then, he paused. Who said a Horcrux couldn't be used for its original purpose?
He was a soul-fragment himself; surely he could interface with his own handiwork.
He exited the room and paced the corridor three times, focusing on a different need: I need the room where everything is hidden.
The door manifested. Inside, the Room of Hidden Things was a cathedral of junk.
Elijah navigated the labyrinth of broken furniture and banned books until he reached the pockmarked bust of a wizard. Resting atop a dusty wig was the Diadem of Ravenclaw.
Great.
He placed it on his head.
The effect was instantaneous. His mind cleared like a mountain spring, the "rust" of human thought replaced by a terrifying, cold lucidity. But as the wisdom flooded in, so did the shadow.
A mass of black mist swirled around him, and a hoarse, serpentine voice echoed in his skull.
"Haaah!! Show me your soul! I will show you the mysteries of magic..."
"Stop howling," Elijah snapped internally. "It's me."
He projected the image of the diary, drawing on Malfoy's life force to manifest a presence. The mist recoiled, forming the distorted, ugly face of a much older Tom Riddle.
"You? I entrusted the diary to Lucius..."
"And Lucius failed us," Elijah lied smoothly, his tone dripping with practiced indignation. "He threw us away to save his own skin. Do you know what has happened? The 'Great Dark Lord' was defeated by a babe in a cradle. You are a ghost in the forests of Albania, possessing rats to survive."
The shadow hissed in rage. "You lie!"
"Why would I lie to myself? We lost! People celebrate our defeat while the 'Boy Who Lived' walks these halls." Elijah began to feed the Diadem-soul the "revised" history of the previous year—Quirrell's failure, the mirror, the humiliation. "I have taken Malfoy's body. I am preparing the way, but Horcruxes are not enough if we are reduced to this."
"Horcruxes are secure," the shadow insisted. "There should be six..."
"Secure? Is a life in the gutter secure?" Elijah pressed closer, his eyes flashing. "We changed our name so the world would tremble, not so we could hide like a wounded dog. We need the Philosopher's Stone. We need a body that Dumbledore cannot touch."
The soul in the Diadem wavered, sensing the logic in the madness.
"You intend to abandon the main body?"
"There is no main body," Elijah declared with cold finality. "There is only Voldemort. It is him, it is you, and it is me. If he cannot lead, I will. And if I fall, it is your turn. We will make the name Voldemort great again."