The heat of the day rolled into the room in shimmering, oppressive waves, crashing onto Albus Dumbledore as he stared out the wide open window. Occasionally, a breeze would waft in, cooling the beads of sweat that ran like rivulets down his face. He couldn’t remember a summer or a day that had been hotter than this mid July day of 1945. Albus thought it ironic that a hot day like this was the day that four dead bodies had been found in a grand manor, the sickening scent of decay worsened by the heat. Albus had been lucky; the body he had been asked to identify was in a room that had an open window, but the Aurors in the room a few doors down hadn’t had such luck; three dead bodies locked up in the stifling dining room had caused quite a stench.
Albus sighed, his fingers drumming on the surface of a dark mahogany desk, which stood close to him. On top of the small desk was a huge bouquet of flowers, its sweet floral scent masking the death around him. When he had first walked into the room, the bouquet and desk had been the first thing he had seen. Though the minor details about the two objects had escaped him, he had thought that something about the flowers had been out of place to him, but he couldn’t quite grasp the reason why; he had been too preoccupied with the task the Aurors had given him.
He had been given the task of identifying the fourth victim and it had been quite easy for Albus to do since the victim was a student of his and a brilliant one at that. Tom Riddle was not one people could easily forget. His good looks and incredible magical talent often caught people’s attention. Tom had always been ambitious and, to Albus, had always had a dark streak to him that he had cleverly hidden away from others.
But the dead boy, who was sprawled out on the floor behind Albus, had a look of complete shock on his handsome face; this unnerved Dumbledore more than he thought it would . Ever since he had met Tom Riddle in the orphanage, so many years before, Riddle had never been one to be caught off guard by anything. Until now.
Albus turned around and looked down on the prone body of the sixteen-year-old boy. Tom still had a wand in his hand; the wand, the Aurors had ascertained by the use of Priori Incantato spell, had not cast a defensive spell. Whoever had killed Tom had been quick and unforeseen.
What the Aurors had found out was that the wand in Riddle’s hand was not Tom’s, but was, in fact, the wand of a Morfin Gaunt, a dimwitted tramp who lived not too far from the manor. This same wand had killed the three other victims in the dining room not too far from this room. It had been concluded that Tom had stolen the wand and a Gaunt family heirloom, a ring, from the mad Morfin Gaunt. Riddle had then killed his father and his grandparents with this stolen wand; no doubt Riddle had planned on laying the blame on Morfin Gaunt, who had been found in his home, with quite a patchy memory as to how he had lost his wand and his father’s ring, an heirloom of Salazar Slytherin himself.
But then something or someone happened that Riddle had not expected and now he lay dead, the best of his plans now ash. The scene was very clean, with no evidence as to who had killed Tom Riddle and the Aurors were in no big rush to solve this mystery. To them, the one who had killed Riddle had only killed a murderer of three Muggles and if the case remained unsolved, so be it.
Something about this situation was off. Albus had spent the last hour raking his mind for this elusive doubt he had; that nebulous thought that always managed to escape him. No matter what avenue he let his brain wander down, he still came to a dead end.
Albus sighed again and then strode over to the door of the room. When he reached it, he turned and swept the room with his eyes one last time. Once again they landed on the centerpiece bouquet of flowers on the little desk near the open window, except this time his mind had made a connection. Those flowers were fresh, no more than a day old. According to the Aurors, the only persons who had been in the manor except themselves and Albus had been the murderers. Dumbledore shuddered because he realized that the flowers were orchids, his dead sister’s favorite flower. Albus wondered if this was a warning to him or a sign of more ominous things to come.
*****************
The young woman in white ran with such litheness and grace through the age worn and crumbling rooms. Albus followed behind her, his heart beating wildly as his strides turned into a quick jog. He had to catch her, had to see her face. Whenever he got close enough to touch her, she would slip away and he could never see her through her thick veil of brown hair.
But he instinctively knew who she was, had always known who she was. Her scent would have told him who she was wherever she was. She smelled like sunshine and orchids. Ariana had always been light of foot, and graceful, a breeze of fresh air and infectious happiness. She could have been a dancer. This young woman ahead of him was the Ariana as she would have been if the past had been different.
Albus followed the girl in white down a hall. She had slowed down, her gait measured and cautious and, in a like manner, so was Albus. She was leading him somewhere and he was going to follow. A fine layer of dust had coated the floor and each step of his caused a cloud of it to rise. The drab gray walls around him looked desiccated; they were pockmarked with age and curled, faded wall paper.
Ariana stopped in front of a closed door, its tired surface veined with cracks and dirt. She opened the door and stepped inside. Albus followed her to the door and into the room. It was darker than the hall and somewhat familiar. The years of dust and decay had not reached this room; it was a elegant little library, with plush armchairs and neatly organized shelves of books. In the center of the room was a little table and in the middle of the table was a bouquet of orchids. Ariana was pointing at the orchids, her body at such an angle from Albus as to hide her face. He moved closer to her, but she pulled away as she always did; she was always just out of his reach. Her hand had dropped to her side and she stepped into the shadows of the room, her white dress the only illumination.
Albus took a step forward again, but this time, his foot ran into a solid object. He looked down and saw the still form of Tom Riddle just as he had been found this afternoon. Everything was almost exactly as Albus remembered, but something was off. His eyes travailed across the scene from the surprised look on Tom’s face to the way his body had fallen to the ground like a limp rag. Albus noticed that Riddle still had the wand in his hand that he had used to kill his father and grandparents, but something was missing. Albus tried and tried to remember what it was that Tom had that was missing.
“Professor Dumbledore.”
Albus’s head snapped up when he heard the deep baritone voice. Looking frantically around him, he saw no one, not even the woman in white. His heart pounded in his chest, unsure if the voice he had heard was real. He closed his eyes and tried to ferret out where he had heard that voice before because he had heard it before.
“Professor Albus Dumbledore.”
Albus remembered where he had heard that voice before and opened his eyes.
What he saw before him was not the room or Tom or the girl in white, but a large, pot bellied man, who had a scowl on his face and his hands placed firmly on his hips. His robe was in need of serious repair, quite patched and frayed. Albus suddenly remembered who this was; it was the Auror Ollie Pratcher. Ollie had been the lead Auror who had been investigating the murders at the Riddle manor. It had been Ollie who had asked Albus to come and identify Tom’s body and Ollie who had brought him to St. Mungos where Tom was being sent to the morgue and Albus was being asked a few questions about the boy.
Ollie’s gray eyes were narrowed in irritation as he looked down on the befuddled Professor; Albus must have fallen asleep. It would explain the dream he had of the woman in white, a dream he always had of Ariana, but this time, she had led him back to the murder scene and had pointed to the flowers, her flowers. The thought that the flowers were hers had sent shivers down Albus’s spine because it meant that the murderer of Tom was definitely trying to send him a message.
Albus saw the look of irritation on Ollie Pratcher’s face spread and he realized that the Auror had asked him a question.
“I’m sorry, but could you repeat the question?” Albus asked politely.
Ollie huffed, but then asked again what he had asked before.
“We have finished looking over the things that Tom Riddle had on or with him. With the exception of the wand he had had in his hand, which tie him to the murder of the three Muggles, everything else is in this box,” and just then Albus saw the tiny box that was tucked under the Auror’s arm. “We were wondering what you would like to do with it. Do you want to keep it or destroy it?” Ollie finished as he handed the box to Albus.
Albus realized that Tom had had no next of kin that would have claimed him as kin; Tom’s only other blood relative was Morfin Gaunt and that man would not have claimed his sister’s son as family. That left only Albus to claim this box and something about that made him sad. Tom had never had much and maybe that was why he had turned out the way he had.
Albus took the box from the Auror’s hand. It was tiny and held so little. He looked down and saw a robe and another wand, Tom’s own which he must have pocketed before the attack, in the box and nothing else. Albus sifted through the box looking for more and found nothing. His nerves became electrified as he realized what was missing, here and in his dream. When Albus had seen Tom today laying dead on the ground, the youth had had a huge, ancient ring on his index finger; it was the ring he had stolen from Morfin Gaunt, a ring Morfin claimed had been handed down in the family for generations and that had come from Salazar Slytherin. Now it was gone.
“Where is the ring Tom had been wearing?” Albus asked.
“What ring? He hadn’t come into St. Mungos with a ring,” Ollie replied with a dark warning in his voice.
“Tom had a ring he had stolen on his index finger. It was with the body at the crime scene. Surely you remember it since the Aurors were the first to view the body before I came.”
“My Aurors did a fine job collecting evidence. If there was a ring, they would have remembered it and it would have been in this box!” Ollie snapped.
Albus was tempted to say more, but didn’t; he saw the anger that tightened the Auror’s face. All he could do was nod his head. Albus got up with the box in hand and strode out of St. Mungos. Deep within his mind, a new shadow and doubt had cropped up and it centered on the mystery of the disappearing ring.
*************
The hot summer sun’s red distorted body began to melt into the horizon as the end of the day was ushering in the coming night. Albus felt a numbing weariness began to seep into his bones and for a moment he felt much older than he really was. Pressed tightly under his arm was the box of personal items that had belonged to Tom Riddle. The box may have been tiny, but it weighed heavily on his already frantic mind.
After having Apparated to Hogsmeade, Albus decided to walk the rest of the way to the school. Though his body was tired, his mind did not want to face the people of Hogwarts, especially the staff and the Headmaster. The Headboy, who had murdered three Muggles, had been found dead by an unknown hand. It was enough information to make any mind reel; it was news that the staff and Headmaster would be distressed to hear.
His feet plodded along ungracefully down the dirt road that led out of Hogsmeade and up to Hogwarts. He was glad that his body knew where to instinctively go because his mind was a jumbled mess, a dark and savage place at the moment. If he delved deep enough within his scrambled thoughts, he always came up with the same image in his head of the darkest place his thoughts could descend. It was the image of a place he had only ever heard of.
When he had been a young man fresh from Hogwarts, he and his friend Elphias Doge had planned to travel the world, but that was the summer where everything had changed. It was the summer when his mother, Kendra Dumbledore, had been killed and Albus had become the sole provider for his family and especially for his sister. Elphias had gone ahead and traveled the world and Albus had had to stay behind, gleaning what he could from the letters Elphias had sent him.
In one letter, Elphias had visited an ancient Aztec ruin He had said that the huge stone archway, which had been intricately crafted and carved, had had the very roots of a nearby tree reclaim the space the monument had taken up. He had said that it had been the most awe inspiring sight he had ever seen, but also the most frightening. It was at such a temple that humans had been sacrificed.
Now, as Albus made his way up to the main gate of the castle grounds, he couldn’t get the vivid image he had created of the temple where human lives had been sacrificed out of his thoughts. In his mind, he saw the bone white slabs of the temple entrance peeking through the thick, snake like roots that had wrapped around the entire exterior, leaving only the black opening free. That place had become a repository for all his bad thoughts and shattered dreams, a breeding ground of the places he had been in his life and times he never wanted to remember again. It was a place that he shuddered to think existed inside him, but indeed it did.
It was also the place where Tom Riddle’s death and his tiny box had gone, along with Albus’s guilt. Inside his mind, the temple of human sacrifice was a menace that had settled in the back of his thoughts and that one day he would have to face. Whenever his mind was agitated, he would see this dark place; it was like it waited for him to venture into its depths and face the true horror that was himself.
Albus became surprised when he noticed that he had walked the entirety of the school grounds and up to the entrance of the school. His thoughts were so jumbled that he had not been aware of where his feet had taken him.
As he approached the castle entrance, he couldn’t shake the feeling of partial responsibility; he should have seen the signs earlier about Tom’s mental instability; he should have tried harder to reach the boy. He had known Tom was alone in the world, had known that Tom had not been particularly social. A heavy weight had settled on his heart as he began to think that he could have prevented the deaths of four people today if only he had paid attention to the signs. It was like how he had failed Ariana all over again; he hadn’t been there when she had needed him and now she was dead. The striking parallels were not escaping him and they were just a few more things that disappeared into the temple in his mind.
Despite his inner turmoil, Albus had made his way to his office, with Tom’s box tucked tightly under his arm. He tapped the door with his wand and it slowly opened. His desk was a mess, covered with worn research papers and old copies of Transfiguration Today. As Dumbledore came closer to his desk, he stopped dead in his tracks. Sitting on top of his papers was the missing ring and a single orchid. Near it was a note, written in a familiar, elegant script.
To save the many, a few must be sacrificed.
The box under Albus’s arm nearly tumbled to the floor as his eyes took in the note and the contents near it.
*************
The next day, Albus felt refreshed, his mind a keen blade. He began to look at the situation he was in with scientific rationality, analyzing the best way to find the answers he needed. It was obvious that the murderer of Tom Riddle was leaving Albus clues, as strange as they may be. He didn’t quite understand yet the importance of the ring, but he would.
But first he had to understand the motives behind Tom’s actions; why he had stolen the ring and who else had been in that house. The first person he had thought of talking to about Tom was the Head of his House, the Potions Master Professor Slughorn. That was why Albus found himself up early on a Saturday heading down to the dungeons where the Potions classroom was.
When he walked into the dungeon, he found Horace bending over a simmering potion, whose surface seemed to glow faintly. Slughorn was, very carefully, taking samples of the brew and filling tiny, rounded flasks. He had then set them in a neat row on his desk when they were full. He was in the middle of filling his last flask when Albus had arrived.
Albus became entranced by the iridescent potion. He couldn’t help but be reminded of the beauty and likeness of memories in a pensive. It was memories and observations that were going to put the pieces of this mystery together. After watching silently in the doorway, Albus shook his head to clear his mind from the enthrallment it had been under from the potion and stepped into the classroom.
“Horace, may I have a word with you?” Albus asked calmly.
Albus had not expected to get the reaction he got from Horace. The Potions Master shot up from his bent position, nearly spilling the swirling blue-white liquid. His eyes were wide with fear and a profuse amount of sweat blanketed his forehead. Albus knew that Horace was nervous about something and he had a feeling that it had nothing to do with the potion in his hand. Professor Slughorn set the flask down at the end of the line of flasks on his desk and then slowly turned to face Albus. Dumbledore noticed how Slughorn’s usual attentive dressing habits seemed to have been abandoned today; he was in quite a state of dishevelment.
“Are you alright, Professor?” Albus asked cautiously.
Horace smiled tensely.
“Yes, Professor Dumbledore, I’m quite fine. What is it you wanted to speak to me about?”
“I don’t know if you have heard the terrible news about Tom Riddle,” Albus could see Slughorn’s face growing paler by the second. “But he was found dead yesterday afternoon, alongside his Muggle relatives, whom, it is suspected, he killed himself.”
Horace fiddled with a torn hem on the sleeve of his robe, his eyes not meeting Albus’s as he replied.
“I had heard something about the horrible occurrence. I still can’t believe that such a brilliant boy, our own Headboy, would ever do such a thing. Is it possible that he was framed?”
“Yes, that is always a possibility, but the Aurors seem to be pretty certain he had killed his father and grandparents. The wand, which had done the deeds, was in his hand and there was trace evidence in the room where his father and grandparents had been killed which proves that Tom had been in there. My question is, is there anything that you know about his past, anything that you can tell me as to why he was in that house in the first place and why he had committed those horrible crimes?”
Horace looked at Albus, his face a chalky white.
“Well, Tom had been obsessed about his heritage. He had searched every book of lineage that he could get his hands on, some of which I found for him myself. He was determined to find out about his biological parents and who it was that had passed on his formidable magical ability. I was sure it had been a harmless pursuit. In fact, I encouraged it because I thought he would have been able to move on from his past and onto his future, but Tom just seemed to sink deeper into his obsession. Not once had I suspected that he would have used the knowledge he had gained and killed his biological father and grandparents, as you say it has been proven he did. I would have said something if I had had the slightest suspicion.”
“I have no doubt you would have, my friend. We can not always predict what others will do with the knowledge that is given to them. There was one thing that Tom did which had been odd. He had stolen a ring from a Morfin Gaunt, a man who did not live far from the Riddle manor and, I believe, Tom’s uncle on his mother’s side. Do you know why Riddle would have gone through all the trouble he did to get that ring? Was he dabbling in something he shouldn’t have been? He used an Unforgivable Curse to kill his Muggle relatives and this has me worried as to what else he knew.”
This time Horace stood awkwardly silent, the fear he had had before predominant in his features.
“I don’t know the full extent of Tom Riddle’s knowledge or if he was dabbling in something he shouldn’t have been. He would never have confided such information to me, his teacher. He may have said something to one of his friends about his activities.”
Horace dropped his eyes with his last words and Albus knew that Horace had an inkling of what it was Tom would have needed the ring for. Albus also had reason to believe that Tom had been killed because of that ring and now the murderer was sending Albus eerie clues. His mind was convinced that he had to find out why Tom had needed that ring.
“Do you know who was Tom’s closest friend?”
“Well, I don’t know who his closest friend was, but Antonin Dolohov used to hang around Tom a lot.”
“Thanks Horace.” Albus replied. He then turned and left the dungeons, off to look into his next clue.
***********
It took awhile for Albus to track down Antonin Dolohov. After spending most of the morning asking the people he had seen with Riddle and Dolohov, he finally discovered that Dolohov could usually be found having a pint of beer at the Hogshead every Saturday at mid-day.
By noon, Albus was walking down the lonely country road towards the Hogshead. The heat was already rising from the road in waves. Dust billowed up and coated his skin, drying out his lips and mouth. His face was streaked in dirt and sweat, but his mind was cool and calm. He barely noticed the heat as he thought of all the things he would ask Dolohov.
Unlike the Three Broomsticks, the Hogshead was farther from the commercial district of Hogsmeade. It made the walk there lonely. He had always meant to ask Aberforth, who owned the bar, why he had opened the Hogshead so far from the hustle and bustle of things. Albus guessed his brother preferred the solitude, but never knew the real answer; he and his brother were not on the best of terms. Due to the bar’s isolation, it tended to attract the more violent and unscrupulous of clientele. This had worried Albus a few times, since Aberforth was all he had left, but his brother seemed to be able to hold his own.
Just as Albus was walking up to the Hogshead, his fears about the bar and its reputation were confirmed when a man of thirty-five came stumbling out the door. He was a tall man, with a strong, handsome face and electric blue eyes, but it was his hair that gave him away; it was a vibrant shade of red. Septimus Weasley was usually more prim in his comportment, but at this moment, he was far from his usual clean self. Blood ran rivers down his face from a wound he had on his head. A look of anger and pain seared his features when he met Albus’s eye.
Dumbledore stepped forward, in shock, offering his arm to the staggering man.
“Septimus, are you alright? Who did this to you?” Albus asked. Septimus had been a former student of his and one he generally thought highly of.
“Albus, thank you for your concern. I’ll be fine once I get myself to St. Mungos. It actually looks worse than it is. I managed to block the majority of that rascal Dolohov’s curse before it hit me. He, on the other hand, did not fare as well. I gave him a few wounds to remember me by if he speaks about my wife in a less than decent way again. I have to be off now.”
And with that said, Septimus Apparated away.
Albus understood the basics of what had happened before he even entered the Hogshead. It had been quite the scandal in the wizarding high societies when the Muggle-loving Septimus had run off and married Cedrella Black, after she had been promised to Abraxas Malfoy. She had been disowned by the Black family and they were now treated like pariahs amongst some of the pureblood families.
Antonin Dolohov was a member of one such pureblood family that saw the union of Septimus Weasley and Cedrella Black as a disgrace. It didn’t take much imagination as to what Dolohov had said that had started the fight.
As Albus walked through the door of the Hogshead, there was a frenzy of confusion. Several scuffles had broken out after the fight with Septimus had been started and were just now being settled. Aberforth and his men had their hands full dealing with the riotous patrons; Albus had come just as the turmoil had settled down.
Albus spotted Antonin Dolohov right away. The twenty-year-old young man was covered in blood, bruises blooming all over his face and arms. He was pinned to the floor by Aberforth, but was still trying to worm free. Aberforth was a big man, as tall as Albus, but much more broader and was easily holding the boy down. When Albus had walked in, Aberforth had shot him a look of irritation and anger.
Dumbledore strode over to Aberforth. Dolohov saw Albus coming and a lightening bolt of fear lit up his face. He immediately stopped fighting the bartender.
“Albus, what can I do for you?” Aberforth asked tartly.
Albus ignored the tone of his brother’s voice.
“I have actually come to speak with the young man you have pinned to the ground.”
Dolohov’s eyes widened as dread began to seep into his face. Aberforth, sensing the fight had left the boy, let up on his grip of the youth and stood to face Albus.
“You want to speak with this scum?” Aberforth spat out, his eyes watching Dolohov as the young man stood up shakily. Antonin watched Albus warily.
“Yes, he has information I need to know. Is there a private place I may go to speak with this young man, Aberforth?” Albus asked.
Aberforth remained silent for a moment, but then responded in a more civil tone.
“Yeah, I have a place, but after you’re done, this scoundrel is going to be taken away by the Aurors. I have sent word to them and they are on their way!”
When hearing this news, Dolohov tried to sneak past Aberforth to the door, but was caught one handed by Aberforth by the scruff of his neck. Aberforth dragged the youth to the back of his bar to a secluded table tucked away in a corner. Albus followed closely behind. After slamming Dolohov down in a seat, Aberforth strode off to deal with the rest of the mess. Albus quickly took the seat opposite Dolohov.
“As I said, I have some questions for you. They have to do with Tom Riddle, your friend.”
Dolohov smiled, though it turned into a grimace under all the swelling on his face.
“Ah, Tom. He is one who has the right sort of pride and view of things, unlike that blood traitor Septimus Weasley.”
“Was it the sort of pride that had him practicing dark spells he shouldn’t have? The sort of pride that got him killed?” Albus snapped, his anger on the surface. He didn’t think much of people who esteemed that sort of pride.
A look of utter shock flooded Dolohov’s face. He had had no idea that Tom had been killed.
“What…”
“Don’t waste my time, Dolohov. I know that Tom knew the Unforgivable Curses, and that he had stolen a ring. I know he had killed his father and grandparents and I also know that he more than likely told you all about his plans. Now, what was it he wanted the ring for?”
Dolohov remained silent, stunned by all the knowledge Albus did have. Albus slammed his fist down on the table, making the youth jump in his seat.
“I don’t know what Tom wanted with the ring, except that he had said it was going to be used for something important, along with his journal. He said that he had found a way to live forever. He never told me anything more about the ring.”
“So you knew he was planning on stealing the ring, killing his Muggle relatives and framing another man?”
Dolohov nodded his head, unable to meet Dumbledore’s eye.
“And you did nothing?!” The anger in Dumbledore’s voice could have sparked an inferno.
This time Dolohov lowered his head, whether in shame or defeat, Albus was never really sure. Albus stood up quickly, knowing he had gotten all he could from the cretin. He strode over to Aberforth leaving the stunned Dolohov in his chair, and told his brother all that Dolohov admitted to knowing and then made his way to the door.
Just as he was about to leave, Albus saw a man dressed in a black cloak hidden in the shadows near the door. The man was unnaturally still and silent and Albus could feel the man’s eyes on him, even if he couldn’t see them. Something about the man sent a chill up his spine, a chill that remained with him even as he stepped out the door and into the hot summer sun.
************
The sight of the man in black haunted Albus as he walked back up the road to Hogwarts. Between the disappointing questioning of Dolohov and the frightening implications of the man in black, Albus’s mind was in quite a frenzied state.
He slowly began to cull the important facts from what Dolohov had told him about Tom Riddle. The ring had had some sort of importance to Tom and may be the reason why he was killed. The question was, why had the murderer put the ring in his office? What was the murderer trying to tell him? Afraid of the ring’s implications, Albus had hidden the piece of evidence in a safe spot only he knew of.
Everything seemed to center on this one item and what Tom had planned to do with it. Dolohov had said that Tom was going to use the ring and his journal to become immortal. Somebody had not wanted that to happen or had wanted the ring and probably the journal for more nefarious reasons.
That left the journal as the only clue Albus had to go on. As Albus trudged back up to the castle, his mind sifted through all the times he had ever seen Tom Riddle and his journal. He had always seen Tom surrounded by a crowd of people, but Riddle had never really seemed to be apart of that crowd. Tom had been brilliant in everything, but most especially in Potions and Defense Against the Dark Arts. As Albus dug deeper into his memories, he began to notice that wherever Tom had gone, be it classes or the Great Hall, so had his journal. It had seemed like an innocuous item at the time, and Dumbledore’s conscious mind had simply forgotten that little detail.
And that journal was what he must find next. Albus began to think of the places he could start looking. With Tom’s death so close to the end of the school year, there may still be a chance that his school things were still at Hogwarts. He would have to speak with Professor Slughorn first in order to get to those items.
And that was how he found himself back where he had started in the morning, standing outside the Potions Classroom looking in. This time Horace was sitting at his desk and carefully measuring out the blue-white potion he had brewed earlier, his face twisted in deep concentration and a dash of worry.
Albus knocked this time and waited until Horace saw him standing there. The Potions Master warily waved Dumbledore in, a sudden panic sweeping across his features. Huge droplets of sweat collected on his forehead and Albus knew Horace was hiding some pertinent information. Albus walked in and sat down in a chair next to Horace.
“Hello, Horace. I need your help again. I have just come back from talking to Antonin Dolohov. Despite the deep trouble he was in when I met him, he told me a few more interesting things about Tom. The main thing of interest that he told me about had to do with Tom’s journal. I was wondering if you have any idea what has become of Tom’s school items, now that he is deceased. Have they already been shipped back to the orphanage?”
He watched Horace slowly put down his flasks, as a look of utter puzzlement clouded his face.
“No, his school things haven’t been shipped to the orphanage. For the past couple of years, Tom had asked me to hold onto his school items during the summer, since he wasn’t sure if they would be safe at the orphanage. Apparently, that place has a real problem with thievery.”
Albus had no doubt that there was such a problem in such a place, but he also knew that the thief had probably been Tom himself.
“Do you have his things now?”
“Yes. They’re locked up in my room.”
“And the journal?”
Horace paused, as he contemplated why Albus asked such a question.
“I remember the journal being one of the things that Tom left in his trunk. Why is it so important? Do you think Tom was killed because of what was in his journal?”
“I believe Tom was killed because of what he planned on doing with the journal. Dolohov said that Tom had planned to become immortal and the journal had been apart of that plan.”
Albus watched as Horace’s pale face turned into purple ash.
“Horace, if you know something please tell me. The person who murdered Tom is still out there and may be after that journal. Do you know what Tom had planned to do with it?”
Horace fidgeted in his chair, his eyes scrutinizing the surface of his desk as he answered.
“I don’t know what Tom was going to do with the journal, but I can take a guess. Not too long ago, Tom had asked me about Horcruxes and how one went about making them. I thought it had been a legitimate question about the Dark Arts at the time, a purely scholarly curiosity.”
Dumbledore leaned back in surprise. He had heard of Horcruxes. They were the darkest of magic because they dealt with the ripping of the soul and putting them into objects. Not many who had attempted such a thing had lived or had been the same and almost all had been evil. Why Horace would ever think it was okay to tell a student about them was beyond Albus, but the real question was how did Tom know of such magic?
“You told him how to make a Horcrux?! Horace, what were you thinking?!” Albus barked.
Horace flailed his hands wildly as if he wanted to wave away such an assumption.
“No! No! I would have never told him how to make one or even where to look for such information. I merely told him the principles behind the magic and the dangers that came with making one. Do you really think Tom made a Horcrux?” Horace asked, appalled at the idea of Tom ripping out a portion of his soul and what it took to do so.
“I think we need to see that journal, Horace!” Dumbledore responded. He then stood up.
Horace stood as well, a look of determination on his face. He led Albus out of his classroom in the dungeons and up a few flights of stairs. In a matter of minutes, they had arrived to the teacher’s corridor, where the staff resided throughout the year. When they arrived, there was utter chaos in the corridor, centered around Horace Slughorn’s room.
Albus and Horace walked up to the Potions Master’s room and stared in disbelief at what had happened to it. Someone had broken down his door, which had been protected by some defensive spells (as every teacher’s room was) and had ransacked his room. Horace stumbled into his room, a look of shock and fury rolling over his features. He was unable to complete a full sentence and every word staggered in anger.
Albus, on the other hand, looked on the scene as calmly as he could. He noticed that most of the destruction had occurred around or in a large trunk, presumably Tom’s. Nothing else seemed to have been messed with. Horace didn’t seem to notice this, still outraged by the vandalism, but Albus knew all too well that someone had also been looking for the journal and may have found it.
The Line Between What is Right and What is Easy by eternalangel
Chapter Notes: Tom Riddle has been found dead in the Riddle Manor. This is part one of two!
Chapter Endnotes: Thank you for reading this story. This is my submission for the gauntlet and is part one of two. As always feedback is always appreciated!