Friday, 6th November

The goblins, to be fair, were rather formidable opponents, and Voldemort was once again incredibly grateful that they were on his side.

It only took a matter of weeks before they had laid the first paving stones of his new identity - of his way back into the wizarding world - and although they had yet to submit the necessary documents to Wizengamot declaring his claim to the Duke of Lincoln title, his account manager at Gringotts was currently allowing him unhampered access to the dukedom's vaults.

After much consideration, and more than a little meditation late at night while Quirrell was soundly asleep, he had finally decided on their new dwelling, and it took less than a month for his plan to come to fruition.

Voldemort stood at the gates to the large manor house, once grand and refined, now after sinking into disrepair and disgrace. He remembered standing in this very same spot not fifty years previous, filled with rage and longing and disgust and loneliness - remembered running from this cursed place less than half an hour later, a stolen wand in his hands and tears on his face.

Riddle House.

He reached forward and slowly pushed open the large wrought iron gates.

It was shockingly simple for the goblins to create a new identity for him in the wizarding world - but it was laughable just how easy it was to become someone in the muggle world. A few days after informing Gringotts of his plans, they had successfully procured the deeds to the property under a fake name, claiming to be representatives for a very wealthy yet very private businessman who wanted to buy the house for tax reasons.

And now, here he was.

He made his way through the overgrown grounds, casting a disapproving eye over the missing roof tiles and boarded-up windows. He'd have to get some muggle contractors in to fix it - a sudden miraculous renovation overnight would result in questions from the locals that he wouldn't be able to answer. He needed the manor to be safe, normal, untraceable. A base of operations while he made more concrete plans and decided on what to do. A manor far away from the wizarding world, at least until his dukedom came through, where no one would find him.

After all, the last place that Albus bloody Dumbledore would ever think to search for him was at the home of his murdered muggle father.

Curiously, there were parts of the garden that appeared to be well-tended - a weeded patch of chrysanthemums growing on either side of the drive, bright orange bushes brushing up against the walls of the house, and expertly manicured lawns that were occasionally blemished by what appeared to be bicycle tracks. The gardens of the manor were in fine condition once you were actually in them; it was only the patches down the hill and along the road that seemed to be in ruin, which was… interesting.

The goblins had mentioned that the house came with some sort of groundskeeper…

Voldemort pulled the keys from his pocket once he reached the back door of the manor. He had sent Quirrell on yet another assignment earlier that day so he didn't have a wand, and although a wandless Alohomora was not above him, he didn't know just how many muggles were wandering about and he didn't want to risk being seen.

The room inside, the kitchen, was dark and covered in a thick layer of dust, but that didn't bother him too much. Inside the manor, he was much more free to use magic as he pleased as he most certainly did not intend to entertain any villagers who might otherwise get scared or confused. No, a few Scourgify's and Tergeo's would do this place the world of good - and then, perhaps, he would look into getting a house-elf or two as well…

He walked around the kitchen, throwing open each window that he passed, before heading to the next room to do the same.

The drawing room, he knew, would be the last room that he'd enter, and as irritated as he was at himself for being… well, not scared, because Lord Voldemort simply did not do scared, but he was still… cautious.

Yes.

That was right.

He was understandably cautious about entering that room, given what had transpired the last time he'd been in it, and so, he would be intelligent and cunning and purposefully leave that room until the end so as to conserve his energy and magic and-

Whatever!

He'd just order Quirrell to clean it.

Walking through the foyer, he bypassed the stone stairs and headed for the front door, knowing that one of the keys on the huge brass keyring the goblins had handed him would open that too.

"Hold it right there, laddie!"

Voldemort stilled.

"I don't know what you think you're doin' here, but I'm sick and tired of you hooligans destroyin' my life's work whenever you so please!"

Huh.

A muggle.

Slowly turning around, he was met with an oddly… familiar face. Wracking through his memories, he discounted them one by one, going all the way back to the start, back to the largest gaps in his mental fortress, back to the missing pieces of his soul, until-

Yes.

He did know this muggle, didn't he?

"Frank Bryce" he said, cursing himself for not putting it together sooner.

The goblins had told him, after all, that the manor's gardener had been kept on even after the Riddle's deaths - and not only that but the man had been a suspect himself in their murder before Morfin Gaunt had been arrested.

"Eh? Do I know you, laddie?" The old man was squinting at him now, leaning heavily on a cheap wooden walking stick. "Although… you almost look like… but no, it can't be! The Master is… and yet…"

The years had not been kind to Frank Bryce. Some quick mental arithmetic had Voldemort placing the gardener somewhere in his mid-seventies now, and it amused him to no end that in his current body, he looked rather similar to how he had when the man had last seen him fifty years ago - the poor muggle's mind couldn't possibly be able to understand it.

"You… You look just like…"

His face was doing funny things as he tried to process what he was seeing. Voldemort remembered what the man had told the police when they'd questioned him and taken his statement. There had been a "dark-haired and pale young man" he'd told them, "climbing the hill on the night of the murders".

No one else had seen him, of course, so Bryce had quickly been labelled a liar, shunned and outcast back to his little cottage at the edge of the grounds, condemned to a quiet, lonely life ever since.

"It is you! But you're too young, much too young to be… Unless… Maybe his son? Or grandson? Or…"

Voldemort decided to help the muggle along.

"I'm your Master's son" he said, lips automatically curling in disgust at the reminder, "Unacknowledged, of course".

"My Master's-? You're havin' me on, laddie!" he exclaimed, leaning even more heavily on his cane, "My Master was killed almost fifty years ago! You look mighty like him, I'll admit, but you can't be a day over twenty-five!"

"Technically, I'm not" he allowed, leaning back against the door behind him since it would seem that the muggle was adamant about sorting this out here and now, "You were arrested for it, were you not? Their murders?"

"... Aye. I was. Let go, of course - I didn't do it… but I saw who did. And you, laddie, you look an awful lot like that boy I saw all those years ago".

"I am" Voldemort replied brazenly, "I killed the Riddles. My so-called father for leaving my mother penniless and destitute along with my grandparents for what they said about her. I grew up an orphan, you know, during the war. I was in London during the Blitz, all because the Riddles didn't want to sully their good name by giving me a single penny… You can understand, surely, why I was so angry with them? Angry enough to kill?"

It was surprisingly pleasant, confusing the Merlin out of muggles, he decided, watching as Bryce heard what he said, computed that knowledge, and then took one look at him and refused to believe it, despite all evidence suggesting otherwise. Perhaps, if he couldn't Crucio anymore, then he could mystify those without magic instead.

"... It's not possible" he finally said, "You- You can't be- It's not… Laddie, I may be old but- but there is no way in hell that I'm just goin' to believe-"

"I killed them in the drawing room" he interrupted, growing tired of his rambling, "All three of them. Rather quickly, unfortunately. The police could never figure out how, though. A few days later, a man named Morfin Gaunt confessed to the crime".

"... You could've found out all that in the paper. A- A bloody archive or the like!"

Voldemort bit back his initial flash of irritation and desire to hex the man. It wasn't the muggle's fault, after all, that he had been born a member of an inferior species. It was simply up to those like himself to educate the fool.

"The men were wearing suits. Black. Well-tailored. With shiny oxford shoes and white cravats" he said instead, "Mrs Riddle was wearing a dark purple evening gown with a matching hat and a pair of diamond earrings… I believe they were oval in shape".

Now, the man was staring at him with something akin to horror.

"The maid found them, soon after. She ran through the streets, shouting that her Master and his parents were lying dead in the drawing room with expressions of pure unadulterated terror on their faces" he finished quietly, "... It was me, Mr Bryce".

The man's walking stick was no longer strong enough to support him, and he sank back against the wall next to the stairs, sliding down until he hit the stone steps below.

"Now, I'd really rather not have to kill you because… well, because I've sort of sworn off that kind of thing lately and you have kept the gardens in a rather good condition, admittedly, and the flower beds are quite nice and good help is always difficult to find, so… how about we make a deal?"

"... My mother always warned me not to make a deal with the devil".

"With all due respect, Mr Bryce, your mother is dead… but you are not!" he snapped, "So if you wish to continue living, then you will agree to my terms!"

"Oh, I will, will I? Then tell me somethin', laddie - what's stoppin' me from callin' the cops right now? Or are you just gonna off me the way you offed the Riddles if I even try?!"

And-

Voldemort sighed.

He really was trying his best not to murder anyone unnecessarily these days, but this old man was really starting to try his patience... Although, speaking of old…

"Nothing" he replied easily, "Nothing is stopping you from contacting the police, and if you wish to do so, then I promise you I will not stand in your way… Although how you'd explain that a twenty-something-year-old stranger is responsible for three murders committed fifty years ago… Well. Maybe they'll just send you to a nursing home instead of a psychiatric unit".

Bryce faltered, his expression falling as he realised that- no, actually, he could not explain how this young man was actually almost the same age as himself.

"So how about I give you something to sweeten the deal?" he finished, "If you agree to my terms, then not only will I tell you how I look this young… I'll also give you some of the potion that did it".

"There's no medicine in the world strong enough to turn back time, laddie". He scoffed. "And even if there were, it wouldn't exactly be kept a secret for very long, now would it?"

"It won't reverse your age" he corrected, "But it'll keep you at your current age for as long as you keep drinking it. It will also cure any and all ailments that you suffer from".

He gave the man's leg a rather pointed look, and Bryce's hesitation visibly wavered.

"... It'd stop me gettin' older?"

"Yes".

"And it'd fix my leg?"

"Yes".

"For good?"

"For as long as you keep taking the potion, which I shall continue to supply you with for as long as you desire - provided, of course, that we have a deal".

He slowly stood back up and Voldemort watched, curiously, as the old man appeared to go through every possible emotion that there was - from anger to denial to relief to guilt to, finally, acceptance.

"... Alright" he said at last, "Alright, laddie, you have a deal. But- But what should I call you?"

Voldemort paused.

The goblins already had a name in mind for him - one that he most certainly did not choose himself. And yet…

If he were to set up his permanent base of operations here, if he was planning to reenter the wizarding world sooner rather than later, and if he was going to do his best not to get caught out, not to get his true identity revealed, not to give Albus bloody Dumbledore the single inch of rope he'd need to hang him with…

Then perhaps it was time to let old grudges die and force himself to step above all of his previous weaknesses.

To step above what had caused his downfall.

He thought of the documents now held in the Slytherin vault at Gringotts, thought of the name signed in his own handwriting just above the owner's signature line. He used to hate that name - the name of a foul, common muggle who had abandoned him before he was even born just because he would be born a wizard.

He'd thought that he'd laid those ghosts to rest when he quite literally killed the man, but now, looking back over his previous actions with the clarity the Elixir of Life temporarily provided, he could see just how laughable that belief was.

But hadn't he sworn to himself that he'd be better than that? Better than his past self? He knew that it was little more than luck that had given him a second chance at life, at creating the life that he wanted - not just for himself, but for the wizarding world in general. So was he really going to let something so small, so stupid, so- so childish as a name prevent him from doing that?

No, he decided, he wasn't.

"... You can call me Tom" he finally answered, "Tom Slytherin. The Duke of Lincoln".

The muggle paled, briefly, before regaining his courage and straightening up, and the wizard found himself reluctantly impressed.

"Alright then, my Lord" he said, with only a hint of mockery in his voice, "What're these terms that you keep mentionin'?"

And Voldemort - Tom - smiled.

Monday, 9th November

It was the last day of midterm, and Harry had just finished studying the Portchester family tree and was now sitting there, in his usual library seat, staring down at Rowle's genealogy book, too scared to turn the page.

He knew which family came next, after all.

All along he'd managed to successfully put it off, telling himself that it was only logical to start at the beginning of the book and work his way through, that it was only common sense to look at the last names starting with "A", and then "B", and then "C", and so on - and these excuses had kept him sufficiently distracted since July.

Once school had started up again, he'd had even less time to study the book than before, and with each passing week, Rowle brought more and more books for him to borrow, make notes on, and then return. He'd already finished Nature's Nobility, The Rules of Civility, and The Complete Peerage, and he was halfway through two other etiquette books that were now his.

He wasn't reading them just for the distraction, of course - they were all equally interesting in their own right, and Harry had spent hours, days, weeks, even months poured over various noble inheritance clauses and the line of succession laws and he was still utterly fascinated by all of it.

A lot of families had straightforward lines leading from male descendant to male descendant; it was also why a lot of wizards only ever had one or two children - the heir and the spare, so to speak. Since only the eldest son could inherit his father's title, they didn't want other children to be left penniless, or, even worse, they didn't want siblings to quite literally murder each other for the money.

Some families, however, weren't as straightforward - most notably, the Blacks.

Their entire family line was almost captivating to follow, as it led all the way back to the Norman conquest of 1066, after which, the new king granted a select few of his loyal subjects fancy titles and a ton of land. The families continued to serve royalty for many years until King Edward III officially coined the term "duke" to give to his eldest son, who was more commonly known as the Black Prince.

Harry wondered if there was a connection.

Needless to say, the title began to spread, and by the turn of the next century, a total of thirty-one dukedoms had been created, with only three of those belonging to magical families that survived until today - the Blacks, Malfoys, and Peverells.

The muggles rose and fell, and with them, their titles, but the magical families persevered. During the witch trials of the 16th and 17th centuries, powerful wizards were forced to go into hiding, and although their lands and wealth were still passed on from eldest son to eldest son, the muggles began to forget, and to them, the titles became extinct. Today, only a very select few members of the royal family, along with the prime minister, were aware of the nobility in the wizarding world, but aside from making them exempt from attending parliamentary meetings, they mostly left them alone.

Within magical Britain, it was a different story.

The Witan king's council eventually became the Wizards' Council of the late Middle Ages which then gave way to Wizengamot, the high court of law for all of Great Britain, which was still in place today. It was essentially the magical House of Lords, from what Harry could tell, composed of multiple noble families ranging from dukes - which, for many years, has just been the Malfoys - all the way down to lesser-known barons such as Rowle's uncle, Thorfinn. Approximately fifty members served as the main legislative body of the Ministry of Magic in addition to the Chief Warlock and Interrogators - those selected to preside over each hearing or trial.

All in all, it was a load of rubbish in Harry's opinion.

Expecting the wealthiest members of society to have any idea what it was like for the poorest members was just ridiculous, and what was even more ridiculous was the fact that the magnates had the power to sentence "commoners" to prison, as well as make laws that affected the most vulnerable of witches and wizards, without any input from the witches and wizards themselves! Not to mind the stupid archaic rule of only the eldest son of each generation being allowed to inherit! That just caused more confusion than it was worth, really. In fact, it took Harry almost an entire month to figure out just what the hell had happened to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black - and he was still confused about it!

The Duke of London was easily the most powerful position in their society - the closest thing they had to wizarding royalty. The title, and all that came with it, had been passed down from eldest son to eldest son without trouble until it reached the most recent generation of Blacks.

There were very very very few things that could cause the heir apparent of a dukedom to be stricken from record, but being a convicted mass murderer was pretty high up that list. With the eldest son no longer a viable option, the title should have passed to the next in line - except Regulus Black II was missing and presumed dead. That was fine, Orion Black would simply have to hang onto it for a while until he either had another son or adopted a new heir - except Orion Black had passed away not long after his youngest had disappeared, and he had no brothers himself.

So instead of the dukedom being given to his sister and only other sibling, Lucretia, it reverted back up the line of succession until another male Black was found. Arcturus II was dead, according to Rowle, and Regulus Black I had died childless, so it went to his uncle Phineas, who also died childless, so it went to Cygnus I, and then his son Pollux, then Cygnus II, and then-

Cygnus II had no sons, only daughters, so the title was forced to revert back through three generations once more only for the exact same thing to happen over and over and over again.

Harry eventually gave up trying to find the current claimant to the most powerful position in wizarding Britain. As far as he could tell, the title was simply going to go extinct unless the Black ladies found a way around the male succession rule. But even if they did, that would just cause even more problems because, while all of the pure-blood families were inbred, none were as so intertwined as the Blacks.

According to Rowle, Narcissa Black and Lucius Malfoy had had a son since the book was last updated, so he, perhaps, had some shot at getting the title through his mother - but likewise, the Crouchs, Weasleys, and Longbottoms all had male heirs who were descendants of female lines too. So unless Regulus Black suddenly returned from the dead, or Sirius Black somehow sired a son in prison, then the title of Duke of London would simply become extinct.

The two other surviving dukedom titles - the Malfoys and the Peverells - were only marginally less complicated. Lucius Malfoy, the current Duke of Wiltshire, was an only son of an only son of an only son, and keeping with that tradition, he had an only son himself, who was set to inherit the title once he became of age.

Harry briefly squeezed his eyes shut, turned the page, and then took a deep, steadying breath.

As for the Peverells, Rowle had been correct; the Potters were descendants of the youngest brother, Ignotus, which explained how Voldemort had only been able to claim two of the three dukedoms, given that he was related to the middle brother, Cadmus.

Either way, Ignotus had a son, who had a daughter that married into the Potter family. Given that daughters couldn't inherit titles, Ignotus's dukedom went to their son and the next son and the son after that, and all the way down through the Potter family for just over five hundred years until it reached the son of Charlus Potter, who had died unmarried and childless. Because of that, the title had reverted to Charlus's brother, whose son Henry had a son called Fleamont and Fleamont Potter was-

Fleamont Potter was Harry's grandfather.

He stared at the page, unblinking, even as a trembling hand traced over the familiar names of complete strangers.

Fleamont Potter (b. 1905)

Euphemia Potter (b. 1906)

James Potter (b. 1960)

His parents had still been alive when this book was published, and his grandparents too. His mum and dad hadn't even been married yet, although from what he remembered, Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy had married in 1977 yet there had been no mention of their son. The book must have stopped updating itself somewhere around that time which - now that Harry thought about it - would have also been only a few months after Rowle's mother had been disinherited.

Rowle was only two years older than him, so if his birth wasn't listed in the book - 1978 - then whatever family magic that the Rowles' possessed must have stopped working when his mother was no longer, technically, a Rowle. Harry's birth wasn't listed, and neither was his parents' marriage - but likewise, neither were their deaths.

It may have been stupid of him to be grateful for that, but there was still a tiny little spark of sentimentality buried deep down inside of him, somewhere that neither the Dursleys nor St Brutus could beat out of him, that made him feel bittersweet at the thought of his parents still being alive amongst these pages.

But since they were dead, it meant that he was the only living descendent of Ignotus Peverell and as such, he could, technically, claim the dukedom.

He felt weird about being allowed to claim the same title as the Dark Lord, given that the man had killed his parents, but then again…

Harry had never quite felt like a child growing up, not with how much work and responsibility and abuse he was given at the Dursleys, but he felt like he'd grown up even quicker these past few months given everything that he'd learned. As a result, he knew that if he'd found out his parents had been murdered even a year ago, he would have been furious. Now, however, after all that he'd read about the war and the wizarding world and the Potters and the Dark Lord…

He wasn't quite sure what to feel.

He wasn't particularly upset with Lord Voldemort anymore because he knew, logically, that his parents had chosen to get involved in the war - had chosen to risk their lives instead of running away with their newborn child. Part of him was angry because of that, angry that James and Lily Potter had chosen to continue fighting instead of protecting themselves, angry that they had chosen Dumbledore over… well… over him.

But he was also angry at himself for thinking like that, because he knew that it couldn't have been that simple, knew it couldn't have been so straightforward, surely? If it had been, then they would have chosen him over the war, wouldn't they? His own parents, young and in love and only very recently married, finding out that they had a baby on the way… They would have left, had they been able to, right?

Except they hadn't.

Instead, they'd chosen to stay and by doing so, they had forfeited their lives, had forfeited his life too, if it weren't for whatever strange once-in-a-lifetime fluke that had sent that Killing curse rebounding back at Voldemort.

So, as far as he was concerned, his parents had taken a gamble and lost. Yes, the Dark Lord had killed them, but he hadn't forced them to fight, hadn't forced them to join the war or make themselves a target. And they weren't unique, Harry knew, because there had been dozens of families torn apart during those few years, many of whom hadn't been as lucky as he had - and many of whom whose lives had been destroyed by his parents and Dumbledore and those they'd fought with.

There were no winners or losers when it came to war; there was only destruction and devastation and death.

He didn't feel guilty not blaming Voldemort, but he did feel guilty for not feeling guilty which, really, was doing no good for anyone at all, least of all himself which was just-

Ugh!

Harry shook his head, let out a heavy sigh, and then very tightly bottled down all of those useless emotions before turning his attention back to the genealogy book in front of him.

He'd put this off for long enough - now it was time to examine the Potter family tree and figure out once and for all if he had any living relatives left, and if he didn't, then just where on earth he was going to go from here.

Wednesday, 18th November

Tom flipped through The Daily Prophet after surreptitiously casting a Muffliato under the table to block out the noise of construction work outside.

It had been two weeks since he'd first arrived at Riddle House, and only a few days since he and Quirrell had officially moved in. He had struck a deal with Frank Bryce to regularly supply him with the Elixir of Life in return for him taking an Unbreakable Vow not to disclose anything he may or may not learn, see, or overhear about his new Master - and hadn't that been a brilliant day? Tom honestly wasn't sure whether the look on the muggle's face when he'd seen magic for the first time, or the look on Quirrell's face when he realised just who, and what, was making the vow with him was more amusing.

Either way, the groundskeeper had been safely sworn to secrecy and was content to continue his work at the manor for as long as Tom deemed him necessary. And, to be fair to the old man, he had already proven his worth, having organised an entire construction crew to come in and make the building habitable again within mere days of making the Vow.

Now the muggle was outside in the courtyard, relaxing on a half-broken lawn chair that he'd managed to wrestle free from the tangle of bushes in what had once been a swimming pool, ordering the working men around with sharp words and waves of his walking stick. The cane was now redundant, of course; the Elixir had done its job beautifully, and now, despite his still advanced years, Bryce was as fit as a fiddle and loving every single second of it.

Tom had already caught him whacking the local village boys with the stick on more than one occasion, but given that it was those same boys who had left bike tracks in his lawn and a handful of broken windows in his house, he decided to let the muggle have his fun. In fact, he's even contributed to it himself, sending a few wandless stinging hexes here and there whenever he caught them - which had, surprisingly, rather endeared him to the old man.

Quirrell had merely looked on throughout all of this, seeming to be just as horrified as amused.

Taking another sip of tea, he turned to the next page of the Prophet, scanned the headlines, and then promptly froze.

'THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED' - SHOULD HOGWARTS BE CLOSED?

Hardly daring to breathe, he quickly skimmed through the article, dark eyes latching onto words such as "third-floor bathroom", "first-year petrified", and "mandrake restorative draught". Albus Dumbledore could not be reached for comment but the Board of Governors were debating whether or not to suspend him. The Ministry could not be reached for comment but there were talks of dispatching Aurors to Hogwarts should the attacks continue. Gilderoy Lockhart could be reached for comment and he swore to put an end to the monster lurking in the halls the same way he had in Oua-gadogou with various amulets and-

Tom stopped reading.

So the Chamber was open once more…

He was going to eviscerate Lucius Malfoy.

"... My Lord?"

In front of him, across the table, Quirrell was looking distinctly… nervous.

Glancing down, Tom realised-

Oh.

The newspaper was on fire.

Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to settle and then calmly stood up and carried the burning pages to the sink where he turned on the newly-working tap and watched as the flames got doused.

It was his diary. It had to be. There were no other Parselmouths in Britain, after all, if not in all of Europe - and even if there were, it wasn't as if the Chamber's location was known to anyone but him.

Anyone but his Horcruxes.

He didn't know what he'd been thinking of, giving Lucius the diary in the weeks before his downfall. Put simply, he hadn't been thinking - his past self had committed more than one mistake, lost in the depths of insanity. Abraxas Malfoy had been a loyal, intelligent man he knew he could trust, but his son was arrogant and fickle - and this was only further proof of that.

This was only further proof that his Horcruxes were no longer safe.

If Dumbledore managed to figure it out; if he realised just what that diary truly was… It didn't bear thinking about. As much as he hated to admit it, the Headmaster was a smart man and it wouldn't take him long to realise that he'd made more than one Horcrux - or figure out what and where they were.

Tom's mind drifted back to all those weeks before when he'd first considered reabsorbing them.

It wouldn't be easy, he knew that much, but perhaps it would be for the best. He still had to take the Elixir every few days to stay clear-headed, after all, and he detested relying on something that could so easily be stolen from him. It wasn't even as if he'd have to reabsorb all of his Horcruxes - just enough to regain his sanity and maintain his current form permanently.

Immortally.

The diary would have to be retrieved last. He had no way of getting into Hogwarts without being seen right now, and it was still term time so the school would be flooded with students who would be sure to report a stranger walking the halls. But as for his other Horcruxes…

They were scattered across the country, hidden in places of significance to him and his past. The ring was safely hidden away in the ruins of the Gaunt shack, a place he hadn't dared to visit since. The locket was hidden in a remote cave, protected by an army of Inferi. The cup he had given to one of his most loyal who was currently imprisoned in Azkaban - he'd have to find some way around that. And the diadem, like his diary, was in Hogwarts, although arguably in a far safer place.

Each one needed to be retrieved. Even if he didn't reabsorb all of his soul pieces, he couldn't allow Dumbledore to find them, so they would have to be rehidden. The locations were guarded by powerful enchantments too, but he was Lord Voldemort, the Dark Lord who had once brought the entire wizarding world to its knees, and he would not be thwarted by mere obstacles!

It was time to start planning, time to start gathering his resources and allies. He had Quirrell, fiercely loyal and eager to prove himself. He even had Frank Bryce, now sworn to secrecy and willing to do his bidding. And he had the goblins of Gringotts, who loved causing chaos for wizards almost as much as they loved money - both of which Tom could give them.

Setting aside the charred remains of the newspaper, Tom returned to his cup of tea and started to formulate his next move. The chess pieces were in place. The game was set to begin. And he, Tom Slytherin, the Duke of Lincoln, Lord Voldemort, would stop at nothing to achieve his goals.