Chapter Nine: The Dark Lord's Request

The old man had sent an owl to say he would send a carriage to the Hogs Head at eight but, after reading the note, he had simply crushed the parchment into a ball and cast it on to the fire where it belonged. He knew what message the meddling, senile fool meant to convey. Dumbledore was saying - in his own, indirect way - that he would be the one to dictate the terms of the meeting. That it was he who would decide how and when a visitor would come to the castle, what they would discuss, and when they would leave.

Only that was not the way it was going to be at all. And Dumbledore, that muggle-loving imbecile, would discover this the hard way - if that's what it took.

He had left his stooges down in the taproom, nursing firewhiskies in that dank little room which stank of goats, and had locked himself alone in one of the small bedchambers. It was a dismal enough place, the fire was poor, the bed had fleas and there were the same dirty rushes on the floor as there were in the bar … Fortunately, he had no intention of paying for the place.

And he did not need it to be luxurious. He needed it to be private. And - with a locking charm on the door - it was at least that. With a wave of his wand, he extinguished the candles, snuffing the light out and leaving ghostly wisps of smoke trailing in the cold air. Now, the room was dark, save for the embers in the grate; the coals glowed a hellish red.

Satisfied he was unobserved, and totally alone in the gloom, he sat in the ratty armchair and raised a vial of potion to his lips - drinking down half of its contents. The liquid was bitter and chalky, it tasted of spite and greed, anger and envy, and all those emotions that lesser men might feel … but not him. And afterwards - there was just a tang of fear, left over as a residue on his tongue. It tasted of the darkness it was made from…there were terrible things in this potion, ingredients forged in misery, and he had done terrible things to get them and left terrible suffering in his wake.

As the potion hit his stomach, he doubled over in sudden pain, hunching and gripping tight to himself as he felt fire course through his veins and his heart begin to race. He felt as if his skin was bubbling and melting, as if his very flesh was reforming into something new. And then - deep inside - not his heart, not his mind - but somehow both at once, somewhere secret and hidden, an unknown interior that he never realised was there until he started down this path, he felt the now familiar ripping; an agonising tearing, as two parts of him were torn asunder in readiness.

He hissed with pain, and fought to control it, his hands tensed into claws and his nails dug into the arms of his chair and then - just before it was over, before the pain could subside, he forced the words from between his lips; a low, guttural chant that sealed the spell:

'Anima, Abrumpo, Ad Domum, Aeternum. ' He repeated it seven times. 'Anima, Abrumpo, Ad Domum, Aeternum. ' And then, as the words died on his lips, the last of the pain receded and he was left gasping and shaken… and broken. He could feel it inside of himself, the monstrous tear. And each time he made this tear, the pain got worse, and that hidden place was left less stable, more fragile - like a thread waiting to snap.

But it was no matter. He would overcome the pain, he would overcome the loss… He would, in time, overcome all things - even death. And what was a moment's agony, if the reward was eternity?

He got to his feet, and crossed to where he had hidden his treasure. His stooges knew nothing of what he carried with him, of what his real plans were. He pulled an ancient wooden box from under the bed; it was faded and weathered, splintering and only held together by a charm. There were deep knots and cracks in the surface, and the texture was rough beneath his fingers …but the lock stayed true. Until he tapped it with his wand, and lifted the lid.

It still caught his breath when he looked at it, the same as it had when he had found it buried in that quiet Albanian forest. The silver, the sapphires, the delicacy and the strength weaved into it by the cunning fingers of long dead goblins. For just a moment, the embers of the fire reflected in the metal - and Rowena Ravenclaw's diadem gleamed scarlet, as if stained with blood.

He picked up the vial, once more, and now emptied the last of the potion over the diadem - repeating once again the words that would bind the enchantment: 'Anima, Abrumpo, Ad Domum, Aeternum. ' This part was less painful for him - but the potion hitting the crown made a sound like pouring rain falling on a metal roof, it began to smoke and - once the billowing clouds had cleared - the silver was tarnished, and the sapphire turned dull.

But now they were inextricably linked, wed in darkness, himself and the Diadem - and it was just a matter of joining the pieces together. It was this final step which brought him all the way to Hogsmeade on such a cold, December night.

…

He placed the diadem in a soft, velvet bag and then hid it away in the folds of his cloak, and then he left the room.

They were right where he left them - the stooges - drinking themselves into a stupor. They sobered up quick enough when he walked past, however, and scrambled to their feet.

'My Lord -'

'It is time for me to leave,' he told them.

'We shall come with you.'

'That is neither necessary nor possible.' He was aware of the old landlord, standing behind the bar, slowly wiping a filthy rag on a dirty pint glass. He seemed totally absorbed and yet - and yet there was something in the quick, blue eyes that was familiar, and yet difficult to place. He sensed danger - but that was surely foolish; the man was a nobody. An elderly publican who stank of goats.

He turned his back on the landlord, dismissing him from his mind - and then waved an equally dismissive hand at the stooges. 'Stay. I shall return.'

He left the pub. The night was still and frozen. The air was crisp, the stars shone in the sky - distant pinpricks, as cold as the air. There was no sound save for the rustle of his cloak, as the hem dragged along the ice. The carriage would be here in an hour … and he would be long gone. And Dumbledore would understand then who exactly was in control of this meeting.

He walked up the path, his footsteps confident and true despite the perilous condition of the road. He felt his magic surge through him, burn through the soles of his feet and melt the snow beneath - forging safe passage as he returned to his kingdom.

He paused at the gates, flanked with their winged boars, and gathered his strength. Once he stepped through into the castle grounds, he would be bound by the rules of Hogwarts, the rules of Albus Dumbledore; his magic would be hostage to the protective measures of the school… No apparating, no sudden vanishing and no quick escape, and that would be the least of it. The old man would have eyes everywhere.

But he would wear his own, extraordinary magic as a shield, hide in plain sight - and prove once and for all where the true power in this world lay … and that it was not with the Headmaster.

…

He felt the protection charms tug at him, as he crossed the threshold - obvious and crude… but he also felt a sense of homecoming. The castle was merely a dark shadow, blacker than the blackness which surrounded it - and then the windows picked out in candlelight … giving form to the shade. He could make out the Great Hall, and the Astronomy Tower, and the Ravenclaw common room - precarious at the top of its spire. Little would its inhabitants know what was being returned to this school - a thousand years lost, and here he was bringing it home - changed and bound to him.

It bound him to the school as well. This little piece of Rowena Ravenclaw, changed so he could become a part of it, this was the foundational stone of all that stood here… a thousand years away, and now given back. And he came with it. He had been away too many years as well.

For even as he felt and rejected the protective charms, he also felt a surge of belonging overwhelm him. No man could ever begin to understand what this place meant to him, this seat of his destiny - the place where he had become himself. It was his first kingdom, it would be his last. It was - and forever would be - his home.

He reached the large, oak front doors and eased them open. The hallway was deserted - and that was how he needed it. He slipped inside, a shadow, a smudge of black in the darkness - unseen even by the prying eyes of the portraits. It would not do for the old man to know he was here too early.

There was much work he needed to do.

Firstly, he needed to find someone who was alone and unobserved, a solitary soul, and preferably one that would not be missed for many hours. Though in a school like Hogwarts, with the students living on top of each other and the teachers never more than a stone's throw away, he may be asking for more than was possible. Still - he was no stranger to asking for the impossible … and receiving it. 'Homenum Solitarius Revelio,' he whispered, a variation on the charm he had invented himself for moments exactly like this one, and felt the cold sensation burst out from the tip of his wand and settle on himself … and one other in the vicinity.

Only one other.

For all Hogwarts was his home, he never missed the clamour and the congestion and the lack of privacy. He never looked back on his days sharing living space with children, who were, even then, his inferiors, with anything other than irritation and contempt. It had reminded him too much of the orphanage. He had been an adult before he had known the luxury of his own space. A man needed isolation if he was to do truly great things.

And yet there was only one other person on this floor who was alone at this moment, he could just make them out in the wake of the spell - a shape, picked out in stars, slumped in a seat in the staffroom. He smiled grimly to himself - and made his way there, easing the door open so that it did not creak and betray his presence at the wrong moment.

The staffroom was a long, wood panelled room with a large wardrobe in the corner and then a dozen or so mismatched armchairs dotted around. It was empty, save for an old man sitting in the chair closest to the fire, sleeping - his chin resting on his chest and whistling snores erupting from his nose.

He pulled the door to, and stared down at the wizened old wizard - asleep and utterly unaware of the danger he was in. This was the trouble of this place - of Dumbledore and his acolytes - they put their trust in protections, in each other, in love - and so left themselves completely exposed to those powerful and daring enough to challenge them. To allow oneself to be so vulnerable, to fall asleep in a public place … the level of complacency one must have achieved to feel so safe while surrounded by others … Those who became so lazy, who let their guard down to such an extent, deserved everything that came for them - were practically begging to be taught a lesson … and he felt a surge of contempt for the sleeping wizard.

The wizard snuffled a little, his mouth fell open and a speck of drool began to pool in the corner, wetting his lips.

He wrinkled his nose in distaste. He recognised this man, he realised - though he had not seen him for a long time. This was …he searched the edges of his memory for a name … Professor Binns, the History of Magic teacher… He had trouble believing Binns was still here. The professor had been ancient thirty years ago, when he was a boy, now he was dessicated. His skin was paper thin and stretched across his bones, weathered like the cliffs in lines and wrinkles, and his hair was white and sparse - so the pink of his scalp shone through.

Binns had not been a good teacher. Oh, he knew his stuff - he had a fine mind and a wonderful memory for detail . But he lacked passion, had no flair for shaping young minds, he could not pass on his enthusiasm for his subject - instead choosing to lecture, an endless monotone reading directly from notes he had written decades before.

It had offended him - even as a boy - he remembered. That such an important subject was left in the hands of someone who was incapable of conveying that importance. Binns was responsible for imparting the knowledge of their heritage on the students - where they had come from, their glorious past, the narrative of magic through the ages and how it had been used and how it had proven time and again to be the mightiest force in the world. It was through this subject that young wizards should learn about who they were, and from that knowledge make their decisions about where they were going - use the past to help them forge the future … But instead the students had fallen into a stupor under the soporific effect of Binns' dusty voice, had napped through his lessons as he now napped by the fire … and their heritage, their generational power, went unlearned.

And yet … and yet, for all his shortcomings, Binns was the perfect sacrifice - and he could not have found someone better suited for his cause. Binns stood for history, both of this place and of their world - his life's work had been mapping the centuries and how wizardkind had impacted on them. He had taught countless generations of students, had been here for decades - perhaps longer than anyone currently alive. He was part of this place; as much a part of the fabric of the school as the stones, or the portraits or the suits of armour. Binns was history. And now he could help make it. There was no one more fitting to help complete the task at hand.

The old man continued to snore, oblivious to the role he was about to play. Oblivious to death standing over him.

He took out the diadem from its velvet bag and placed it on the table and then raised his wand - and pointed it directly at his old teacher. Binns still did not wake - failed to notice he was staring down the barrel of a wand, staring down into the face of death itself. He gripped his wand tighter - readied himself and then: 'Avada Kedavra!'

There was a flash of green light, it burst out of the tip of his wand and enveloped the sleeping wizard before fading to nothing. In the chair, Binns' chest ceased to rise and fall - the wheezing had fallen silent … but, to the unobservant eye, it was as if nothing had happened. He could still be sleeping.

But inside of himself - a war was now raging, his insides battling against themselves - causing him once more to hunch in pain. He fell to his knees, gripped at his midsection and gasped. For his soul, already made unstable and readied for this moment by the potion, had torn clean in two - like parchment. And now the piece that was cast asunder was trapped inside of him, ripped from its anchor and fighting to get out. He could feel it beating against his rib cage and frantically battering at the inside of his skull.

He hissed and took a deep breath - and then pointed his wand at himself. 'Anima extracto, ' he forced the spell out from between gritted teeth, his eyes screwed shut as the pain seared beyond agony inside of himself. And then a glistening bright, white substance began to pour from beneath his skin, his wand drew it away from himself and it trailed through the air like a cloud, turning grey and then black as it was pulled from where it belonged and exposed to the outside world.

Inside the room - the air turned static and began to crackle - and the light flashed blue and green, throwing strange and elongated shadows against the wall, the distended shapes cruel looking in their fire burned white, and spat hot sparks onto the hearth rug.

Once the last of his torn soul was pulled from him, and his wand now looked like it was trailing smoke and not clouds, he reached out and touched the tip of it to the sapphire in the middle of the diadem. The unbearable pain had changed, mutated and become an unbearable emptiness, cold and cloying inside of him and - for all that this moment was a sacred one - his movements were strained and clumsy, taking more effort than he felt truly able to give. He remained on his knees and fought to gain control of his own body, as the smoky substance channelled directly into the jewel.

For just a moment, the sapphire glowed the brightest blue, and even he had to shield his eyes from its glare. And then it died down again - returning to its dull state, and then tarnishing further until it was blackened; a gleaming onyx of darkness set in the silver crown… and it was time to take the final step and seal his soul inside forever.

…

Filch had been down in the dungeons, mopping up the mud that the Slytherin Quidditch team had tracked inside after their latest practice. He had followed the trail of it up the stairs and towards the front door, Mrs. Norris sticking close by his ankles (she was never far from him now, after her fright at Halloween), and that was when he had seen the strange lights coming from the staffroom.

It was unusual for the staffroom to be occupied at this hour, unless Professor Binns had fallen asleep in front of the fire again, and the vein popped on Filch's forehead as he jumped to the conclusion that this must be more of those foul little blighters, the students, going where they were not supposed to, using their magic to create more mess and bother and work just for him … and he had stamped flat footed over to the door, ready to throw it open and clap whoever was inside in irons.

But instead of finding students, he had caught sight of something through the crack in the door which made him come to a dead stop. He felt it before he saw it, the pressure was not right - it made his skin hum and tingle, there was a snap in the air which made his hair stand on end… And the lights which flashed and swirled, a cold blue and then a bright green, cast sharp shadows on the wall, throwing up monstrous shapes - so that even the most familiar and mundane of things - the chairs, the wardrobe, the clock on the wall, were changed - made dark and unsettling.

The flames of the fire had turned white - and they illuminated Professor Binns sitting before them, in their harsh light, throwing the lines on his face into sharp relief and making him look older and more pallid than ever. He was seemingly asleep and yet … and yet, with a creeping unease Filch noticed how still he was… how his chest did not rise and fall… and how his face - though haggard - was completely blank.

And then he saw the black shape down on the floor, deeper than the shadows and more unsettling - a cloaked man, kneeling, hunched over and hissing and groaning in pain. He was breathing rapidly and speaking an incantation which Filch did not understand (well, how could he?) and yet - for all his incomprehension, he gathered a sense of darkness from the man and his spell, a sense of danger - of total and unrepentant evil. It left him cold. It froze him in place. He was witnessing something - something that had no business taking place in this school , had no business taking place in this world and yet here it was - defiling the castle, and he should tell Dumbledore… only his feet seemed to have taken root, and he was unable to speak and unable to run.

So, instead of sounding the alarm, he stood and watched in breathless fear, as the lights died down, and the flames burned orange once more… and the dark figure of the man ceased his laboured breathing and got back to his feet … And then, from inside his cloak, drew a sharp dagger, whose blade glinted red in the firelight.

…

He held the point of his dagger to the skin of his forearm and steeled himself. One more moment of pain … and then his own offerings would be finished. He sliced his arm open, a trail of ruby red following the path of the dagger down, as the wound opened up and his blood gleamed against his pale skin. He smeared it onto the diadem, across the jewel - his heart's blood to seal in his soul. He needed just one more ingredient now and he was done - the blood of his sacrifice, one more step - and his immortality would be that much more secure.

He crossed to the dead body of Binns, pushed up the old wizard's sleeve and then sliced his arm open too. The blood oozed out, slowly - as Binns' heart was no longer beating, and he let it pool onto his blade - before smearing that across the diadem as well.

The diadem glowed white, the air crackled once more and then everything became still and settled, the dark magic dying back and leaving everything as they had been before. The shadows crept back to just shadows, the fire burned merrily on its logs, and an old man had died peacefully in his sleep before the flames. The diadem itself now looked decayed; an ancient crown - blackened with age. It's true lineage, and the importance of what it contained was hidden beneath the rust. It looked worthless now, despite having worth beyond measure. He placed it back in its bag and hid it once more beneath his cloak.

He used his wand to seal the wound on Binns' arm. It would not do for there to be any signs of harm or injury, nothing that would make Dumbledore suspicious. As he straightened up, he caught sight of his face in the mirror above the mantelpiece. It had changed again, as it always did after these rituals, become blurred and distorted - as if the loss of a fragment of his soul had marked his flesh, left him less human. But that was no matter: humans died. And he never would. He was beyond human now - it was no concern of his if that was apparent from his features.

He needed to leave, every second he lingered he risked capture - and the clock told him it was almost time for his meeting. Dumbledore had no doubt already heard he had not got into the carriage, and would be wondering where he was. Besides, he needed to leave before Binns returned to his body. They always returned - his sacrifices. It was as if, having used their death to tear his soul so completely, their own souls were no longer whole enough to pass over - to wherever it was those weak enough to die would go. Instead, the imprint of their mortal selves returned to earth - freed now from their vile bodies. And was it not a gift he gave them - this semblance of immortality?

The girl had not taken long to return, that awful moping one with the glasses, from thirty years ago. He had barely sealed the diary with her blood and removed the wound from her body, before her ghost was settling back down - moaning. It was fortunate that the journey to the beyond - and then back again - left them confused and disoriented. His sacrifices might remember how they died, but they never remembered why. They never gave up his secrets…. And Binns had been asleep, he would not even remember the "how".

As he turned to leave, he caught sight of something which made his heart race - and anger course through him, white hot and murderous so that - for just a moment - he lost all control to his rage. He was not - as he had believed - unobserved. A man was watching him, a filthy, little man - with a look of terror etched onto his purple, pouchy, worthless face.

The wand twitched in his hand. That this little man would seek to learn his secrets - that he was such a fool, as to not slip away unnoticed - that he was such a coward to stand there - rooted to the spot in terror. He would show this man the consequences of prying, make him pay the price … and make sure he never told a soul. He raised his wand…

And then stopped.

Binns' death was necessary - and easy to pass off as simple old age; the quiet, peaceful passing of a very elderly man in his sleep. But more bodies, more death at the heart of Dumbledore's realm - on the night he had come to visit - no, the old muggle lover would see through that in an instant. It would cause alarm bells to ring, draw attention where it was not wanted. This little man, peeping at the door, was middle aged - at most - his untimely death would not go unremarked, the way Binns' would.

He would have to be spared … though he little deserved it.

The wand was raised again - and pointed squarely into the terrified man's face.

'Obliviate!'

The man's face went blank and dreamy, the fear melted from it - and he stumbled away, muttering something about mud and quidditch players.

Down on the ground, a small cat stared up - with lamp like eyes - and mewled. He stashed his wand away, stared coldly down at the cat - and then kicked it.

It was time for his meeting with Dumbledore.

…

He knocked on the door, and heard the old man call, 'Enter'. He found Dumbledore seated at his desk, looking completely at ease with the world. There was a merry fire crackling in the grate, a scarlet phoenix snoozed on its perch and little silver instruments whirred and ticked and emitted puffs of smoke. It had begun to snow again, blueish flakes drifted past the window and settled on the ledge; promising cold without, in contrast to the cosiness within. This was a scene of peace.

And yet … and yet, he thought he could just detect something in Dumbledore's eyes - strain, perhaps, worry. He had aged in these past thirty years, become truly old. His auburn hair had faded to white and his face was lined, suggesting many cares as well as old age. The war - his war - not yet declared, was already wearing the old man down… and he felt a stab of satisfaction, a flush of victory. If Dumbledore was already this grave and careworn, he would never last once the wand sparks started to fly.

Nevertheless, the Headmaster tried to hide his concern, tried to maintain that he was the one in control. He smiled that foolish, benign smile that he remembered so well from school. 'Good evening, Tom, won't you sit down?' His voice was pleasant, determined not to give anything away.

'Thank you.' He took a seat. 'I heard you had become Headmaster - a worthy choice.'

Dumbledore inclined his head, 'I am glad you approve. May I offer you a drink?'

'That would be welcome, I have come a long way.'

Dumbledore swept over to his drinks cabinet and returned with a goblet of wine for the both of them, before taking a seat once more. 'So Tom, to what do I owe this pleasure?'

He sipped his wine for a moment. This was a game of chess … and he believed the old man was trying to rile him. That was twice now he had called him by his muggle name. But if he rose to the bait then that would be allowing an early victory to the old man… So he sipped his wine and held his patience. 'They do not call me "Tom" anymore,' he said, eventually. 'These days I am known as -'

'I know what you are known as-' Dumbledore interrupted, his voice still pleasant, and yet he felt the snub as it was intended; the put down. 'But to me, I'm afraid, you will always be Tom Riddle. It is one of the irritating things about old teachers, I am afraid, that they never quite forget their charges' youthful beginnings.'

The old man raised his glass, as if to toast him, and he fought to hide his stab of irritation, to keep his face impassive. He knew well enough what Dumbledore was trying to do. He was invoking the orphanage, trying to put him back in his place by reminding him of a motherless boy lost in a world in which he did not belong; by reminding him who it was who came to him - already full of the knowledge and wisdom of magic, already powerful - and shown him who he really was. I remember you before you were like me Dumbledore was saying, I remember when you were still one of them.

Perhaps there was a time when Dumbledore held the power, he was so much older after all - and a child, even an exceptional one, was still only a child. But he was a boy no longer, and the power had shifted. He had met Dumbledore in strength - become his equal and surpassed him … and it was time to assert that, to show him the balance was no longer in Dumbledore's favour. He took another sip of wine, biding his time and maintaining his composure. He could not let the old man see he was getting under his skin.

'I am surprised you remained here so long. I have always wondered why a wizard such as yourself never wished to leave school.'

Dumbledore kept on smiling; this attack on his ambition - the suggestion he was somehow lacking, forever a child himself in some ways, that he used the school's apron strings to hide from the real world - seemed not to have hit home. Or if it did, he was not going to show it. Dumbledore recognised they were playing chess as well.

'Well, to a wizard such as myself, there can be nothing more important than passing on ancient skills, helping hone young minds. If I remember correctly, you once saw the attraction of teaching too.'

Touché, old man .

'I see it still. I merely wondered why you - who is so often asked for advice by the Ministry, and who has twice, I think, been offered the post of Minister -'

'Three times at the last count,' Dumbledore interrupted him again. He bristled and fought to hide it. 'But the Ministry never attracted me as a career. Again, something we have in common, I think.'

He inclined his head, and took another sip of his wine - stifling his rage… he knew what Dumbledore was doing, that snide correction, that boasting: I have all the power, I simply choose not to use it. Well that made him a fool, then. Weak. Afraid of what he could be. And that appeal to their commonality… when they held nothing in common. He would never refuse power when it was offered, and would not hesitate to seize it for himself. That was true strength - and Dumbledore had none of it, no matter what he told himself, sitting here - hiding away - in his tower.

Dumbledore did not speak again. A silence settled on them, heavy and uncomfortable - and the old man merely smiled that foolish and benign smile - as if he had all the time in the world, as if he knew if he just waited quietly for long enough then …

'I have returned,' he said in the end, giving in to Dumbledore's silence. The man would not be moved, and if he wanted to gain what he had come for then he was going to have to ask for it… This was another power play of the headmaster's, to not make things easy for him. But if the old fool thought he would be too proud to ask … he should know by now that he never shrank back from taking what he wanted, by any means necessary. He would play the game - he would ask, if it made Dumbledore happy, made him think he had scored some kind of point. The path to victory was not always straight, and if there needed to be concessions along the way in order to get there, then so be it.

That was what Dumbledore would never understand. He thought he was winning, his sudden defeat would blindside him.

'Later, perhaps, than Professor Dippet expected… but I have returned, nevertheless, to request again what he once told me I was too young to have. I have come to ask that you permit me to return to this castle, to teach. I think you must know that I have seen and done much since I left this place. I could show and tell your students things they can gain from no other wizard.'

Silence reigned again - and this time it was the old man who used the cover of his wine to mask what he was feeling. He watched him, watching him - and wondered what he was thinking, the old fool…how to reject him - certainly… but for what purpose? Of what was the Headmaster so afraid?

When Dumbledore spoke at last, his voice was grave. 'Yes, I certainly do know that you have seen much since leaving us. Rumours of your doings have reached your old school, Tom, I would be sorry to believe half of them.'

'Greatness inspires envy, envy engenders spite, spite spawns lies. You must know this, Dumbledore.'

'You call it "greatness" what you have been doing, do you?' The old man's tone was delicate - but the disdain, the disapproval was plain to hear, and he sought to hide his irritation once again. Lesser minds would never understand, he knew that - he must allow for that. He should pity his inferiors, and their inability to see - to even imagine - the glory he sought.

'Certainly,' he replied, forcing himself to keep his own tone neutral, though the annoyance burned red within him. 'I have experimented. I have pushed the boundaries of magic further, perhaps, than they have ever been pushed -'

'Of some kinds of magic.' That interruption again - the audacity to correct him. 'Of some. Of others, you remain … forgive me… woefully ignorant.'

The old fool - as predictable, and as pathetic, as ever. 'The old argument. But nothing I have seen in the world has supported your famous pronouncements that love is more powerful than my kind of magic, Dumbledore.'

'Perhaps you have been looking in the wrong places.'

It was time to bend this back to his own will. 'Then where better to start my fresh researches than here, at Hogwarts? Will you let me return? Will you let me share my knowledge with your students? I place myself and my talents at your disposal. I am yours to command.'

The old man raised a sceptical eyebrow. 'And what will become of those whom you command? What will happen to those who call themselves - or so rumour has it - the Death Eaters?'

He inhaled sharply, and sought to hide it - but the anger, and the panic, had risen in him again. Dumbledore should not know that name. No one should know that name. Publicly the stooges were "The Knights of Walpurgis" - respectable, honourable, steeped in tradition, conservative to the core… it was their mask, and until now he had believed they had worn it well.

But Dumbledore knew… There must be a traitor somewhere in his midst, someone must have talked to the old man … and if he knew, then others would learn of it too - before he was ready to reveal his true self, his true aims, to the world …The Death Eaters were the name they would use when they were ready to strongarm the world into giving into their demands. It was the name to invoke fear, inspire terror and ensure absolute obedience… but he was not yet in a position to reveal it, not strong enough yet for people to see the truth. If Dumbledore knew, then he would have to step up his campaign, move all the faster … But for now he would prevaricate.

'My friends,' he said - as if this was the truth, as if he had "friends", 'will carry on without me, I am sure.'

'I am glad to hear that you consider them friends. I was under the impression that they were more in the order of servants.'

The old man always knew too much. Saw too much.

'You are mistaken.'

'So, if I were to go to the Hog's Head tonight, I would not find a group of them - Nott, Rosier, Mulciber, Dolohov - awaiting your return? Devoted friends, indeed, to travel this far with you on a snowy night, merely to wish you luck as you attempt to secure a teaching post.'

Yes, the old man saw too much by far … was, perhaps, even more dangerous than he had realised. But he could not let him see that. 'You are as omniscient as ever, Dumbledore,' he replied, cold and supercilious - it felt as though Dumbledore were gaining the upper hand - and that could not be.

'Oh, no, merely friendly with the local barmen…' Dumbledore put down his empty goblet and steepled his fingers, gazing keenly over their tips in a manner which had not changed in thirty years, which was all too familiar - and unwelcome. Those blue eyes seemed to see straight through a man, into his soul… and he had his own reasons to not wish for his soul to be scrutinised.

'Now, Tom. Let us speak openly. Why have you come here tonight, surrounded by henchmen, to request a job we both know you do not want?'

'A job I do not want? On the contrary, Dumbledore, I want it very much.'

'Oh, you want to come back to Hogwarts, but you do not wish to teach any more than you did when you were eighteen. What is it you are after, Tom? Why not try an open request for once?'

The impertinence of the old man. He thought he had won! 'If you do not want to give me a job -'

'Of course I don't. And I don't think for a moment that you expected me to. Nevertheless you came, you asked, you must have come here for a purpose…'

He got to his feet - the old man was dismissing him - him! Refusing him, and worse - prying. Dumbledore could not know the secret of what lay beneath his cloak, of the tarnished crown which now held a fragment of his soul… But he knew there was something to know, knew there was a piece of the puzzle missing… And that was terrifying and infuriating in equal measure.

'If that is your final word-'

'It is.' Dumbledore got to his feet as well.

'Then we have nothing more to say to each other.'

'No. Nothing.' And the old fool actually sounded saddened - disappointed. 'The time is long gone when I could frighten you with a burning wardrobe and force you to make repayments for your crimes. But I wish I could, Tom… I wish I could…'

He heard that implication in there once again: I remember you before you were like me. I remember you when you were still one of them … And the rage suffused him so deeply that he gripped his wand and - for a moment - thought he would lose control and curse the old fool right out the window.

But the moment passed. He regained his composure - and swept from the room. This interview had been …educational. Dumbledore had given away more than he meant to, the old man may think he had won this round, but he had not…

And now he had his real work to do. The real reason he had come here.

…

There were many secrets in Hogwarts, and few ever learned them… only those with the right abilities, an enquiring mind, a lust for knowledge - or power - and the skill to force ancient enchantments to unveil themselves at one's bidding. He doubted there were any who had learned the number of secrets he had, in his time here… Not since the founders had one wizard known so much of what the castle held. After all, the greatest wizards of every era had combed the halls and classrooms and corridors searching for Salazar Slytherin's Secret Chamber… and it was he, a mere boy, who had found it, opened it - unleashed the basilisk, and controlled it. But the Chamber of Secrets was not all he had discovered.

Keeping to the shadows, he made his way - on silent feet - to the seventh floor, to the quiet corridor, and the stretch of blank wall opposite the tapestry of Barnabus the Barmy. He paced up and down, I need the place of hidden things, he thought to himself I need the place of hidden things…

After he paced three times past the wall, the door materialised - as he had known it would - and he seized the handle and stepped inside. The Hidden Room was the size of a cathedral. It had high windows, the swirling snowflakes were visible beyond the panes, and a blueish light was cast onto the mounds of abandoned objects.

He had found this place after he had murdered the girl… when he had needed somewhere to hide the knife he had used to slice her arm open … before he went on to frame that buffoon Rubeus Hagrid. He had stashed the dagger in a moment of panic … but later, when calmer heads had prevailed, he had returned - and unlocked the room once more, realising he had stumbled onto another Hogwarts mystery… and seeking to understand it.

And understand it he did. The founders had built this room as a place to store treasure, made it unplottable, put on every protection of their own they could devise - and then made it knowable only to those of their own who were in dire need. And it was plain to see how it had been used over the centuries - generations of magical misdemeanours, the evidence of schoolboy crimes - and more serious ones, were all stashed away, forming towering walls - an entire city of lost things.

There was much in here - some as benign as an ever bashing boomerang, some as dangerous as a bloodied axe - and then there was dark artefacts in here … he could hear them whispering to him, corked bottles filled with congealed potions that would cause terrible effects, books with curses and knowledge that were beyond the imagination of most men, weapons and even - inexplicably - a stuffed troll, looming out from the stacks of broken furniture.

Untold numbers of students had cause to use this room over the decades … but he did not doubt he was the only one who had learned its true secret, learned to understand it. For them, the others, they would have simply happened across the door in a time of need, thrust their contraband inside and run away, perhaps hoping to return at a later date, a safer time. But the fact that so much of worth, of value and importance, lay abandoned was all the evidence he needed to know that, once hidden, the students had been unable to find this place again. They had used it once - and lost it, or forgotten about it … they had never truly known the magic of this room. They had never returned. Never found it twice.

But not him. He had not rested until he had discovered - once his need was less desperate - how to unlock that secret door, how to access this secret room whenever he wanted it. And now he knew there was a place in the very heart of the school where all the secrets of their world could be safely stashed for eternity - and no one but him knew how to recall them.

He walked quickly through the corridors created by the stacks of furniture, the roads through this city of the lost … until he felt he was in right in the depths, in the centre of the room. The whole time he could feel the dark objects whispering to him, and he carried with him the darkest object of all. He wondered if Hogwarts could feel what he was returning, if the school knew what he was giving back.

He took the diadem out of its bag - and placed it inside a cupboard. The cupboard looked as if it had acid thrown on it, its surfaces were blistered, its doors creaked - and inside there was a cage. Whatever had lived in the cage was long dead, but its skeleton had five legs … This room truly hid some marvels. But his treasure was the most marvellous of all. He placed it beside the cage.

No one would ever find it here. The lost Diadem of Rowena Ravenclaw, returned home only to be lost again, completely. There was just one last thing he needed to do. One final revenge. He pointed his wand at the diadem and fired off a single curse … it glowed darkly for just a moment and then dimmed as the curse and the crown were bound. He smiled to himself, grimly.

As long as this diadem remained hidden here, lost in the heart of the school, then no other witch or wizard would have what he had wanted, no other could find success in the role he had been denied. This curse would last as long as the crown did, as long as a fragment of his soul dwelt here at Hogwarts. And the old fool would find out the very next day exactly just what refusing him would mean.

…

It hurt to leave Hogwarts, not just because it was his home - but because he was leaving a part of his soul trapped here - and the further behind he left it, the more he felt its absence, the more the emptiness inside him yawned wide.

By the time he had descended the marble staircase and gained the ground floor, he was filled with cold and pain, and it made him … irritable. But this was the price of greatness, and he was not afraid to pay it, so - ignoring the aching chasm in the hidden interior of himself - he made for the oak doors, not knowing when next he would be here.

Just as he reached the doors, he heard a mutter and a scuffle - and the sound of muted shoving. He turned to look - and caught just a glimpse of some boys - four of them - peering around the suits of armour … as if hoping to spy on him.

Already irritated, he felt a surge of anger. He gripped his wand - and pointed it at the closest child… It was a boy of about fourteen, small for his age - with black hair which stuck up at the back, and glasses. The boy stared at him, with that same look of weakness masquerading as honour that Dumbledore clung to. The rage intensified…

But it was the same as with the little man whom he had caught spying earlier. He could not pass off a child's death as an accident, and Dumbledore would know where to lay the blame. He could not kill this boy no matter how much he wanted to … Besides, what possible harm could it ever do to him, Lord Voldemort, to let this one, insignificant boy live?

He curled his lip, lowered his wand, and swept from the castle.

…

The oak doors banged shut, once more blocking out the wind and the swirling snow… and after a moment, the four of them crept out from behind their suits of armour.

'Did you see the way he looked at me?' James whispered, his voice was shaking. 'I thought he was going to kill me - just for being there.'

'What was wrong with his face?' Sirius asked. 'It was like it had melted.'

'And his eyes… his eyes looked almost red in the torchlight,' Remus said.

'What was wrong with him?'

'Dark magic - that has to be the signs of dark magic.'

'On his face?'

'I suppose if you do enough of it - it starts to take its toll.'

Peter had been the last to creep out from his hiding place, and now he shuddered. 'I wish you hadn't made me come and look at him,' he told the others. 'I won't come if there is a next time. I don't ever want to see him again.'