(Tom Riddle)
The house was small, nondescript, and forgettable, which was precisely why I tolerated it.
Alecto and Amycus Carrow had acquired it through means so dull I hadn't bothered to ask. Somewhere on the edge of nowhere, warded just well enough to keep out the curious and the incompetent, it served its purpose. Temporary shelter. A staging ground. Nothing more.
The Carrows themselves were kneeling when I entered the sitting room.
They always were.
I found them shortly after leaving Malfoy Manor, lurking on the fringes of society like the carrion birds they were. Unlike Lucius, they did not lie prettily or hedge their loyalty behind politeness and excuses. They were brutal, honest, and utterly devoted.
Useful traits for servants.
"Leave," I said, not bothering to look at them.
They obeyed at once.
Silence settled, broken only by the crackle of the small fireplace and the far-off sound of wind pressing against the windows. I stood there for a moment, fingers curled at my sides, and let the familiar surge of fury rise again.
Empty.
The cave had been empty.
I had gone there just hours ago, the place I knew my future self would have chosen. Sentiment, symbolism, and arrogance had always been my weaknesses… and his, it seemed. The protections were elaborate, impressive enough to intimidate lesser minds.
But I had designed them.
So I was sure I had left myself a way through.
What I found was not what I expected, for whoever had been there, the Inferi had been little more than an inconvenience. Most lay destroyed, collapsed into useless piles of ash along the shore of the underground lake, their purpose spent.
And the Horcrux?
Gone.
The stone basin had been disturbed. The container removed. Only a mockery remained behind.
I had stood there, staring at the empty space, and laughed.
Not in amusement.
In disgust.
Horcruxes.
What a catastrophic miscalculation they had turned out to be.
Once, I had believed them to be the pinnacle of magical achievement, absolute security at the cost of something as trivial as morality. But as I pieced together the fragments of my future self's legacy, a different truth emerged.
They did not merely divide the soul.
They fractured the mind.
Paranoia. Obsession. A degeneration so complete that he had abandoned purpose entirely. Terror for terror's sake. Cruelty without direction.
And then, the final humiliation.
Defeated by an infant.
I sneered, the expression twisting my reflection in the darkened window.
How utterly pathetic.
No. Immortality was not meant to look like that.
The Horcruxes themselves were not the problem, the distribution was. Scattering one's essence across the world like crumbs for enemies to find, leaving oneself hollowed out, diluted.
No.
I would correct the error.
I would gather them.
Absorb every fragment I could recover and restore myself as the dominant soul; whole, unified, sane. And once I had reclaimed what was mine…
I would find him.
The other me.
And I would do to him what he should have done long ago.
There would be no madness. No instability. Only power, sharpened by clarity.
From the Carrows' minds, I had already extracted what little they knew. My future self had trusted only two followers with objects of true importance.
Lucius Malfoy.
And Bellatrix Lestrange.
The diary had been Lucius's charge, a crude experiment, frankly, and through it, I had been reborn. Bellatrix, however, was another matter. Whatever she had been given, she guarded it fanatically… and she had taken its location to Azkaban with her.
Azkaban.
I curled my fingers slowly.
Breaking into that fortress now would be reckless. Dumbledore would discover it immediately, if he wasn't already hunting me. The old man was perceptive in ways most never realised.
No. That path would have to wait.
For now, there were other places. Older places.
Places steeped in meaning.
I turned from the window and reached for my cloak.
Two locations stood foremost in my mind, obvious, in hindsight.
Riddle Manor.
And the Gaunt shack.
Blood. Heritage. Origin. If my future self had hidden Horcruxes anywhere beyond the obvious, it would be there. Where pride and nostalgia intertwined.
I intended to visit both.
And this time…
I just hoped I would not leave empty-handed.
…
Sunday, September 19, 1993
(Gilderoy Lockhart)
I was currently surrounded by the familiar rush of fire and feathers.
Fawkes deposited me gently onto cold stone before vanishing in a swirl of embers, leaving behind only the faint scent of smoke and magic. I straightened my robes and took in my surroundings.
An old manor.
Very old.
The sort of place that had been forgotten by maps, records, and most of Britain's collective memory. It stood alone in the middle of nowhere, its stone walls weathered by centuries of neglect rather than decay. The magic clinging to it was subtle, layered, and distinctly unBritish in temperament.
I didn't bother asking where we were.
If Fawkes had brought me here, then Albus approved, and if Albus approved, then questioning logistics would be a waste of breath.
I knew enough, anyway.
One of Grindelwald's old safehouses. One of many, I suspected.
The reason I was here became apparent the moment I stepped inside.
"Finally," came a sharp, impatient voice. "You took long enough."
Gellert Grindelwald stood in the centre of the entrance hall, hands clasped behind his back, silver hair pulled neatly away from his face (the vain old man had definitely used potions to regrow it, since the last time I saw him he had been completely bald). His eyes flicked over me with the critical scrutiny of a man assessing a tool rather than greeting an acquaintance.
"Good morning to you too, Gellert," I said politely. "It's lovely to see…"
"Spare me," he snapped. "Time wasted on pleasantries is time you could be using to improve yourself. Follow me."
And with that, he turned and strode away without waiting to see if I obeyed.
Naturally, I did.
He led me down a narrow staircase concealed behind a false wall, then through a series of reinforced doors layered with wards so old and complex they hummed faintly under my skin as I passed. The air grew cooler, heavier, saturated with power that had nothing to do with Hogwarts' polite enchantments.
The final chamber made me pause.
The underground room was enormous, easily the size of a Quidditch pitch, its stone walls etched with sigils and runes from half a dozen magical traditions. The floor was reinforced, scarred by old spell impacts, and the ceiling rose high enough to accommodate wide-area casting without restriction.
This was not a classroom.
This was a battlefield.
Grindelwald turned to face me at last.
"Tell me," he said, "how familiar are you with the Dark Arts?"
I considered the question carefully.
"I'm proficient with the Unforgivables," I replied honestly. "And my control over Fiendfyre has improved drastically since the last time you saw me attempt it."
He snorted.
"So, the basics," he said dismissively. "Any child from a halfway competent dark family can manage that."
I raised an eyebrow but held my tongue.
"It seems," he continued, pacing slowly, "that I'll have to teach you properly. From the beginning."
Before I could respond, he reached into his robes and tossed something at me.
I caught it reflexively.
A simple ritual robe. Unadorned. Old-fashioned.
I frowned. "What's this for? Are we performing a ritual?"
"A purification ritual," Grindelwald said flatly. "A minor one. You may not feel it, but both your mind and your magic are contaminated."
I stiffened slightly.
"Years of spellcasting," he went on, "leave residue. Even the simplest jinxes and hexes stain your magic if left unaddressed. Dark magic accelerates the process. Fiendfyre accelerates it dramatically."
I looked down at the robe.
"How often is this supposed to be done?" I asked.
"Once a year for ordinary magic," he replied. "Once a month if you regularly use higher-tier dark spells."
I stared at him.
"Then why," I asked slowly, "has no one ever mentioned this to me?"
Grindelwald's expression sharpened, irritation flashing in his eyes.
"Because the British Ministry is run by short-sighted, incompetent buffoons," he snapped. "They banned all ritual magic centuries ago out of fear and ignorance. No nuance. No distinction. As a result, they no longer teach the Dark Arts at Hogwarts, not properly, and generations of witches and wizards grow up half-blind to the damage they accumulate."
I rubbed my chin, considering.
"…That actually explains quite a lot," I said thoughtfully.
"Of course it does," Grindelwald replied dryly. "Now stop thinking and start undressing. We have work to do."
I sighed, already loosening my robes.
If this was what proper instruction looked like, then I suspected my Sundays were about to become considerably more painful.
And far more enlightening.
…