The dark mist dissolved, and the visage of the young Voldemort receded into the gold-and-sapphire depths of the diadem.
Elijah stood alone in the Room of Requirement, the silence of the chamber a stark contrast to the hollow, echoing voice that had just filled his head. He had done it; he had successfully deceived the most paranoid wizard in history by playing on the one thing Voldemort could never truly comprehend—himself.
To the fragment in the diadem, Elijah was merely an extension of the same soul, a younger, perhaps more impulsive version of the man he would become. Voldemort would never suspect that his own Horcrux had been hijacked by a transmigrator.
As long as the diadem rested on his head, Elijah remained "Riddle." He drew upon the Occlumency he had inherited from the diary, weaving a mental shroud that even Dumbledore would have struggled to penetrate.
Under the diadem's influence, his mind felt like a finely tuned instrument, every thought sharp and cold.
He turned his attention back to the Book of Abraham.
The copper pages glimmered under the wandlight. There were only twenty-one pages, divided into sets of seven—a number of immense arithmetical weight in alchemy. He studied the cryptic illustrations: two serpents devouring one another; a snake nailed to a cross; a desert spring teeming with vipers.
"The snake," Elijah whispered. "Is it just a symbol for Slytherin, or something more fundamental?"
He thought of the Basilisk beneath the school—a creature that had defied time for a millennium. Shedding skin was the ultimate metaphor for new life. If he could incorporate the Basilisk's shed skin into his potion, perhaps he could achieve the sublimation required for the Philosopher's Stone.
"Shed skin?"
The voice in the diadem scoffed, cold and mocking. "I wonder when you became so naive. If I hadn't seen you emerge from that diary myself, I would doubt you were me at all."
Elijah's heart skipped a beat, but he kept his face a mask of cold curiosity. "Explain."
"To interpret those images as mere snakeskin is an insult," Voldemort hissed. "The devouring serpents, the slaughtered infants, the king with the great sword... Have you forgotten the fundamental principle of Alchemy? Tell me, what is the price of eternal life?"
The voice became a terrifying rasp, driving a spike of cold reality through Elijah's mind.
"Only life," Elijah answered quietly.
"Life is an exchange," Voldemort continued, sounding almost bored by the simplicity of the truth. "The eagle kills the rabbit; the snake hunts the mouse. One thrives only when another falls."
Elijah felt a weight settle in his chest. He had spent months trying to find a bloodless path to resurrection, a way to circumvent the inherent darkness of the ritual. But magic was a reflection of the soul's desire, and alchemy was a scale that demanded balance. To create life, one had to spend it.
If Flamel had succeeded, had he truly been the saint history claimed? Or had he simply been a man of a more brutal era, one where the lives of 'Dark Wizards' or 'lower' beings were spent like coin?
"Our current state forbids being ostentatious," Voldemort's voice drifted back to a whisper. "But the castle is not the only place teeming with life. There is the Forest."
The Forbidden Forest.
The image of the Acromantula colony flashed through Elijah's mind. Thousands of man-eating spiders, descendants of Aragog, loyal to nothing but their hunger. If a price had to be paid in blood, he would feel no guilt in spending theirs.
"The Forest," Elijah echoed. "I see."
He reached up and removed the diadem. The sudden silence was a relief. He tucked the relic into his robes and left the Room of Requirement. Lucius was ready, the Governors were poised, and the final piece of the alchemical puzzle had been found.
It was time to bring this act to a close.
...
The empty classroom was quiet, save for the scratching of a quill. Hermione sat at a cluttered desk, waving Elijah over as he entered.
"You're finally here!" she said, her bushy hair bouncing.
"Where are the others?" Elijah asked, taking the seat opposite her.
"Ginny has class," Hermione explained, looking quite pleased to have him all to herself. "And Harry is being worked to the bone by Wood. Hehe~ I think your performance on the pitch scared him. He's training for the Hufflepuff match tomorrow as if his life depends on it."
"The Hufflepuff Seeker is talented," Elijah noted, adopting a casual tone. "Cedric Diggory. He flies with more stability than Cho. I think he has a thing for Cho.. but she seems rather interested in—"
"Huh? Cho?" Hermione's brow furrowed slightly. "When did you two get so close?"
What's going on with Hermione? What's with that look?
"Ehm.. She had questions about Quidditch." It's a convenient cover, Elijah lied smoothly. He felt an odd, fleeting pang, which he quickly suppressed. He opened a heavy tome on Ancient Runes to change the subject.
"Let's focus. Runes are not just characters; they are vessels for power. Unlike a spoken spell, a Rune's power is constant, carved into the very fabric of the object."
He leaned over the table, pointing to a series of angular marks. "Take the letter 'ᚠ'—Fehu. It symbolizes wealth and prosperity, but in combination with others, its meaning shifts. On the Vanishing Cabinet, it is part of a sequence for safe transfer."
Hermione hung on his every word, her quill flying across the parchment. Elijah watched her, a predator observing a bird that had no idea it was being tracked. He needed her out of the way, and he needed her to find the truth—at exactly the right moment.
...
Saturday morning arrived with a clear sky and a crisp breeze. In the Great Hall, the Gryffindor team was being fueled with scrambled eggs and Wood's frantic tactical advice.
Elijah entered late, catching Harry's eye. He offered a slight, Malfoy-esque tilt of the head—a secret greeting that made Harry's nervous expression brighten.
"I'm going to the pitch," Elijah told the group as they finished.
He didn't go to the pitch.
Instead, he slipped into a shadow behind a stone pillar and cast a Disillusionment Charm. He felt the cold sensation of a raw egg breaking over his head as he became a blur against the stone.
Then, he focused his mind on the pipes, sending a silent command in Parseltongue to the beast waiting below.
As Harry, Ron, and Hermione walked toward the marble staircase, a low, rasping hiss echoed through the stone walls.
"Let me tear... let me rip... so hungry..."
Harry froze, his face turning pale. "That voice! I heard it again!"
Ron and Ginny looked around in confusion, seeing nothing. But Hermione's eyes went wide. She looked at the walls, then at the ceiling, her mind working with frantic speed.
"A path we can't see..." she whispered. "Harry—I understand! I have to go to the library!"
She bolted, her robes billowing behind her. Elijah followed, his silent footsteps trailing her.
The library was a tomb. Every student and teacher was at the match. Hermione didn't hesitate; she used a quick Alohomora on the chains and vanished into the stacks.
Elijah followed, his charm still active. He watched as she pulled books on magical creatures and Hogwarts' history. She was brilliant, he had to give her that. She was piecing together the petrifications, the pipes, and Harry's Parseltongue with terrifying efficiency.
"A Basilisk," she whispered, her voice trembling with excitement. "It's a Basilisk. They didn't die because they saw the reflection... the camera... the water..."
She tore a page from a book, scribbling a single word.
Behind her, Elijah allowed the Disillusionment Charm to fade.
He didn't make a sound, but the Basilisk did.
A heavy, rhythmic rustle of scales on stone echoed through the library.
Hermione froze. A chair was knocked over as she spun around, her wand raised, her breath coming in shallow, terrified gasps.
"Who's there?"
She was trembling, but she didn't run. Even in her fear, she clutched the scrap of paper, her knuckles white. She looked toward the flickering light at the end of the aisle.
The footsteps drew closer.
In the shadows, she saw Draco Malfoy's face, his expression cold and unreadable.