November 17th, 1981
On the night of the seventeenth of November 1981, one man was sat before a roaring brazier in the heights of Hogwarts Castle. Albus Dumbledore sat half-relaxed in a large maroon stuffed armchair, one hand absently stroking an impressive golden and red bird while he pondered the object placed carefully on the table before him.
A small black diary.
It had been several days since Lily Potter had passed it to him, yet he still had yet to discern the nature of the artifact. For a wizard of his ability to be so stumped was concerning, for while he had been otherwise occupied at certain points over the last week – dealing with contacts overseas and the fallout of the attack on the Longbottom House – he had identified the enchantments of many other similar objects at first glance. While the idea of 'seeing' magic was a fable for children and the odd mystic, he had been long able to do the next best thing. It should not be any where near this much of a challenge.
So why was this diary eluding him?
If this book did hold the secrets to Tom Riddle's attempt at immortality – something Albus was not yet convinced of – then he would be able to dismiss several possibilities for the method, even without delving further into the mysteries of the diary. Any non-physical methods could be rejected, along with those that did not lend themselves to the use of everyday objects – alchemy for instance, though Albus doubted that Tom's abilities in that area matched up to his own, let alone Nicolas's. But that still left several hundred that needed to be worked through. It wasn't even as if he could restrict the search to one continent's worth of magic, since Albus was well aware the future Lord Voldemort had travelled for quite a while after his final year at Hogwarts – how far had he gone, and what might he have learned there?
Staring at the diary, he considered leaving it for another night. Tom was unlikely to rear his head for a few years, so there was time for a rest…and Albus was just over a hundred at this point. He was still feeling the after-effects of the sherry from seventeen days ago. Minerva would recommend that, though Albus was content to leave her out of the quest for answers as she had quite enough to contend with.
But there was one thing that he could try before turning in. Something that he'd waited on doing, since it was doubtless what Tom would have wanted if this book was found. While Albus was not remotely worried for his own safety, alerting any security measure left on the diary might make finding further answers more difficult. Still…perhaps it was worth a shot. Albus didn't like leaving things unfinished when he could continue, lest he sleep poorly.
Taking a quill and ink from his desk, he planted the book in his lap and began to write. Fawkes peered over a shoulder.
November 17th, 1981
His writing vanished, absorbed by the page.
But another set of writing formed in its place.
Hello.
On to 1982!