There were, in fact, two Dumbledores in the world.
There was Albus, and there was his brother, Aberforth. But as Elijah stared at the white-bearded figure silhouetted against the moonlight, he knew the man in the Shrieking Shack was not the embittered barman of the Hog's Head.
The name on the Marauder's Map placed Albus Dumbledore in the Headmaster's office, yet the presence before him was unmistakably the same man.
Elijah froze. He was still draped in the Invisibility Cloak—the Hallow that was said to hide one even from the gaze of Death.
Has he seen me? Elijah wondered, a sliver of hope remaining. Or is he simply waiting?
The hope vanished as soon as the old man spoke.
"Good evening, Tom," Dumbledore said. His blue eyes, sharp behind half-moon spectacles, were fixed directly on the space where Elijah stood. "Or perhaps you find yourself unable to show your true face to me now? I have many things I wish to catch up on with you. And I must ask—do you have something in your possession that does not belong to you?"
The voice was calm, devoid of the heat of battle. It was the voice of a professor addressing a wayward student, not a wizard facing a Dark Lord.
"I promised two very energetic students I would help them retrieve a few items," Dumbledore continued. "And a cloak, of course. It belonged to Harry's father, and I believe it would be best to return it to him. Don't you agree?"
Elijah realized then that his cover was a lie. Dumbledore was not an omniscient god, but he was close enough. Panic flared, but Elijah suppressed it, forcing his breathing to slow.
He knew that the weaker he felt, the more he had to project strength. If he couldn't defeat the man, he had to intimidate him.
He reached up and pulled the cloak away.
Dumbledore's pupils constricted. For a fleeting second, the mask of the calm headmaster slipped, revealing the shock beneath.
"You seem surprised," Elijah said, his lips curling into a mocking smile. "Did you never imagine I would truly return? You thought you held the upper hand, but Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley have already died by my hand. You could have stopped it, Albus. But you didn't."
Dumbledore fell silent. Elijah watched for a crack—a surge of the self-reproach he knew the old man carried. Dumbledore had spent a year testing Harry, grooming him for a conflict he knew was coming. He had allowed the danger to simmer so the boy would grow.
But Dumbledore's silence was brief. He was a master of the mind, and he knew Tom Riddle's tactics well. He knew that Harry had only just entered the Chamber; the timeline didn't fit. This was a feint—an attack on his conscience to create an opening.
Dumbledore's response was not words, but action. His wrist flicked like a snapping whip. The air in the shack cracked with the sound of breaking wood as a bolt of golden light, more dazzling than the sun, tore through the room.
Elijah's instincts screamed. He threw up a silver shield, his magic pouring into the barrier. The spell struck with the force of a battering ram, the vibration humming through Elijah's bones until the shield shattered into a thousand shards of light.
He was terrified. The sheer weight of Dumbledore's magic was staggering. It wasn't just skill; it was the raw power of a man who possessed the Elder Wand, facing a boy who had only just regained a body.
"You don't want my life, do you, Dumbledore?" Elijah called out, shifting his stance. "You're too noble for such cruelty. Killing is beneath the Great Albus Dumbledore."
He cast a series of Killing Curses in rapid succession. The green light splashed against the walls, leaving charred, smoking craters, but Dumbledore moved with a fluidity that defied his age.
Dumbledore paused, glancing at the marks on the wall. He looked puzzled. The curses were fast, yes, but they lacked the devastating density of the Tom Riddle he remembered. There was no true murderous intent behind them. He forced the thought aside; he could not afford to wonder if Harry's nemesis had grown a soul.
Dumbledore lashed out again, his wand conjuring a long, lashing cord of fire. It whistled through the air like a cowboy's lasso, intended to bind.
Elijah, mastery of flames being one of Riddle's older talents, snatched control of the fire. The rope twisted in mid-air, swelling into a massive serpent of Fiendfyre that tore through the roof of the shack. The beast hissed, its heat blistering the wallpaper, and lunged at Dumbledore.
Simultaneously, Elijah fired a piercing hex through the wall of flame.
Dumbledore wrestled the fire-serpent down with a violent sweep of his wand, forcing the creature's head into the path of Elijah's incoming spell. The collision resulted in a deafening explosion, a bloom of orange and red that obscured the room.
Elijah didn't wait. He twisted on his heel, attempting to Apparate. The world began to spin—the familiar sensation of being squeezed through a narrow tube—only to snap back into place. He slammed back onto the dusty floorboards.
"Did you think I wouldn't have set an Anti-Apparition charm, Tom?" Dumbledore stepped through the dying flames, the fire parting for him as if in fear. "Surrender. Azkaban will be a mercy."
"I have no intention of seeing Azkaban, Dumbledore."
Elijah let his hands drop to his sides. He saw the way Dumbledore's eyebrows rose—the old man was confident now, his posture relaxed. He viewed Elijah as a talented but cornered student.
Elijah reached into his robes and pulled out the Marauder's Map. "This is a remarkable piece of work, isn't it?" He tapped the parchment. "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."
As the ink bloomed across the page, Dumbledore's gaze drifted to the map. He smiled, a genuine spark of academic interest in his eyes. "Sometimes we must admit that the young have ideas we simply cannot fathom."
"I have one question," Elijah said, meeting Dumbledore's blue eyes. "How are you in the Headmaster's office and standing before me at the same time?"
"It is quite simple, Tom. It just requires a little help." Dumbledore reached into his robes and pulled out a golden chain. At the end sat a small, glittering hourglass.
A Time-Turner.
Despair settled in Elijah's gut. The man held every card: the Elder Wand, the terrain, the informants, and now, time itself. There was no out-playing him.
Except for the one thing Dumbledore hadn't accounted for.
Elijah looked at the floor near Dumbledore's boots. A tiny green snake, no thicker than a finger, was slithering through the dust. He had released the Basilisk the moment he had distracted Dumbledore with the map.
"Now!" Elijah hissed in Parseltongue.
The tiny snake erupted. In a heartbeat, it regained its true form, filling the cramped room with its massive, scale-clad bulk. Its eyes, glowing like baleful moons, snapped open to meet Dumbledore's gaze.
The Basilisk's body became a wall between them. Elijah didn't stay to see the result; he cast a flight spell, his body dissolving into a plume of black smoke that shot through the ruined roof toward the night sky. He was sacrificing the King of Serpents for a few seconds of lead.
He was a hundred feet up when he felt it—an invisible tether.
Dumbledore had closed his eyes the moment the air shifted, summoning Fawkes through their bond. In a flash of fire, the phoenix appeared, its talons tearing into the Basilisk's eyes.
Dumbledore didn't even look up.
He extended his hand, his magic acting like a kite string. A simple Charm, backed by the power of the Elder Wand, caught Elijah in mid-air and yanked him back to earth.
Elijah hit the ground hard. Before he could scramble up, an Imprisonment Charm bound his limbs in invisible iron.
Dumbledore conjured a rooster from the dirt. Its frightened crow echoed through the shack, and the blinded Basilisk let out a final, shuddering heap.
The creature's flesh began to melt away, a side effect of the magical forced-growth and the rooster's cry, leaving only a skeleton draped in iridescent green hide.
Dumbledore walked slowly toward Elijah. He reached down and gathered the diary and Ravenclaw's Diadem from the boy's robes.
"To be honest, Tom, you exceeded my expectations tonight. Though it seems your power is only that of your school days." Dumbledore's tone was almost disappointed. By his reckoning, this "Tom" was no stronger than a high-level professor—perhaps a match for Snape, but miles below the Dark Lord who had terrorized Britain.
Elijah lay on the floor, unable to move, but he didn't look defeated. He looked at the man who had outmatched him in every conceivable way and smiled.
"If it's all the same to you, I'd prefer you didn't call me Tom. I am not Tom Riddle."
"What?" Dumbledore paused, the diary in his hand.
"You can call me Elijah," he said, the moonlight catching the defiant spark in his eyes. He didn't expect the old man to believe him, but he had fought too hard for this life.