Sunday, 10th January

Tom decided to reclaim his ring Horcrux first.

His diary was still at Hogwarts out of his reach, and the ring stored the next highest proportion of his soul. It was also, as much as it pained him to admit, the most obvious of his Horcruxes and therefore the first one that Dumbledore would look for if he figured it all out.

Fighting his way through the tangled thicket of trees, he felt his lips curl in distaste at the reminder of just how arrogant he'd been as a teenager. Family heirlooms would clearly be everyone's first choice for a Horcrux and he loathed having reduced himself to "everyone".

The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and rotting vegetation, and the dark, decrepit shack loomed before him like a monument to a forgotten past. He had left Quirrell behind at Riddle House, telling him that he was merely going out for a walk. It wasn't unusual for him to do so - relearning how to use his physical body had taken him longer than he cared to admit - so the man hadn't been suspicious in the slightest.

The dilapidated house was just as musty and filthy as he remembered it being, the old wooden door hanging off its hinges and the inside littered with rusty pots and broken glass. He didn't linger at the entrance to his once-proud ancestors' home, instead, he headed straight for the corner of the room and the worn floorboards which kept a part of his soul hidden.

Tom could feel the powerful enchantments he had placed around the Horcrux, protective wards that would have deterred any ordinary wizard. But he was no ordinary wizard. He was Lord Voldemort.

With a wave of his hand, he began to dismantle the wards one by one, muttering incantations under his breath. The air crackled with magic, and he could feel the resistance of the spells as they were undone. It took time and effort, but he was patient.

The reward would be worth it, after all.

Finally, the last ward fell, and he approached the hidden compartment beneath the floorboards. A wandless Confringo later, the golden box was in his hands. And there it was, the Gaunt ring, its large black stone glinting ominously in the dim light.

One entire quarter of his very soul…

Holding the ring in his hand, he closed his eyes and focused. He could feel the dark magic swirling around him, the connection between himself and the Horcrux growing stronger. The process of reabsorption was complex and dangerous, but he was ready for it. He would reclaim his fragmented soul, piece by piece, and restore himself to his former glory.

No.

Not to his former glory, but to a new, all-powerful height that would cast his previous self a mere shadow.

Tom began the incantation, his voice steady and firm. It had taken him a long time to find and then research the appropriate ritual - almost two months in fact, but he had studied every single letter of it, preparing meticulously for this exact moment. The air around him shimmered, and the ring grew warm in his hand. He could feel the tendrils of his soul reaching out, intertwining with his own essence.

Tom knew the risks; this was dangerous magic and any mistake could prove catastrophic, could splinter off what little he had left of his soul, could damage his very being so thoroughly and so completely that not even the Elixir of Life could restore his body… but he was confident in his abilities. He was the Dark Lord, after all.

The ring grew even warmer, the black stone seeming to shimmer as a thin dark mist began to emanate from it, swirling around his hand. He continued to chant, his voice growing stronger, more commanding, until-

Suddenly, the mist from the ring shot out, enveloping him in a cold, dark shroud. He could feel the presence of the Horcrux, the piece of his soul trapped within it, struggling to break free. Pain lanced through his body, sharp and searing, as the soul fragment resisted reabsorption, but he was prepared for this - he even welcomed it.

Pain was a small price to pay for the power that awaited him.

He tightened his grip on the ring, focusing all his willpower on the task at hand. The chanting intensified, his voice echoing off the walls of the shack. It was a violent process, the two parts of his soul clashing and merging, causing waves of agony to crash over him - but amidst the pain, there was also a sense of completeness, a feeling of becoming… well, not quite whole once more, but less empty than before. He could feel his power growing, his mind clearing.

Sweat poured down Tom's face, but he did not falter. He was in control, directing the magic, forcing the soul fragment to obey, and then finally, the ring jerked in his hands as the mist vanished completely, absorbed into his body. The pain subsided and he stumbled, breathing heavily, the aftershocks of the ritual still coursing through him.

He looked down at the ring, now just an ordinary piece of jewellery, its magic spent. The Horcrux was gone, reabsorbed into his being. He felt more secure, more in control, more sane than he had in years.

He silently slipped the ring onto his middle finger.

It was a rather gaudy thing, he had to admit, made somewhat clumsily out of gold, that strange stone far too large for its band. And- now that he was looking at it, taking the time to study it in a way that he never had before, there appeared to be… carvings on that glossy black surface.

But no. No, it wasn't a carving, it was a symbol actually etched into the very centre of the stone itself.

And it was a very familiar symbol indeed…

Saturday, 16th January

Over the next few days, Tom revelled in his clearer mind and brighter magic - for there really was no other way of putting it; his very core had become lighter, cleaner, better.

He had even managed to skip his scheduled dose of the Elixir, although he was starting to feel the early warning signs of needing it again. It would seem that regaining a quarter of his soul still wasn't enough to maintain his sanity entirely, and he started to plot his retrieval of the remaining Horcruxes.

He also started to consider his… future.

Violence clearly wasn't the best way forward, and he would be a fool to give up his new human visage now that he'd regained it, no matter how distasteful he'd initially found it. Quirrell responded well to his fake smiles and even Frank Bryce had relaxed around him the first time he'd laughed in the man's presence. Tom had once considered him above these petty humans, these mortals whose lives could be snuffed out with a flash of green light. He was better than them, superior in every way, super-human even.

And now, after everything that had happened over the past twenty years, he still believed it - despite his admittedly embarrassing demise, his former self had still achieved feats of magic that no other creature had ever achieved before. So yes, he was still far above these mere beings in every sense that mattered, but now, with the added benefit of hindsight, he could see how his less-than-human appearance hadn't quite been the way to go.

He had enjoyed watching his previous visage strike fear in the hearts of his followers and enemies alike, but, as he had learned the hard way, too much fear could actually be a bad thing. While his reputation had grown to unimaginable heights, it hadn't taken the wizarding world long to tip him over that line separating man from monster.

So perhaps he should take a more… approachable angle this time. Still powerful, still smarter, still superior, but… affable. Attainable - or so they would think. The ideal rags-to-riches fairytale that common people were so obsessed with. He could still carve himself into an icon, a figurehead, a god to be worshipped by the masses while remaining human.

The general public didn't need to know that it was a lie.

Yes, he could see it now. He could forge a new identity as the Duke of Lincoln, an agreeable half-blood, sympathetic to both sides' causes, as centrally placed as possible. It would be a true test of his cunning, of his Slytherin blood. He would be a wolf in sheep's clothing - or, perhaps, a snake.

The goblins had already created a fake backstory for him, after all. He'd visited Gringotts himself over Christmas to pin down the finer details - under a disguise, of course. His account manager had known who he was immediately, glamour or not, but neither he nor his colleagues gave a single damn about who he really was. In fact, if anything, they had looked almost pleased to see him, but whether that was because the war caused a lot of large accounts to go unclaimed, or because they remembered that his original goals were to give them greater rights, he wasn't sure.

Goblins had fantastic memories, after all, but if there was one thing they loved more than magic, it was money.

So now, he was officially Thomas Slytherin, the Duke of Lincoln, a young man who only recently found out about his inheritance, having been homeschooled by his recently deceased mother. Since she couldn't inherit the title, and his grandmother couldn't inherit it, he didn't know about the dukedom until he went to Gringotts - but he was still a direct descendant of Salazar Slytherin himself, from a female line that had branched off and moved to Albania three hundred years ago.

It would be next to impossible to disprove this claim, given how old the Slytherin line was and how poorly documented it had been before the mid-1700s. Being from Albania was quite possible too, given his pale skin and dark features, and since he'd spent so many years there as a wraith, he felt as if he knew the place anyway.

A long-lost duke returning to England an orphan after the tragic death of his mother… The Daily Prophet would just eat it up, casting him as the Byronic hero and facilitating his return to the wizarding world with ease. And once there…

Tom remembered his original goals before he'd lost his sanity along with pieces of his soul, before he'd lost the respect and awe of his followers, before he'd lost himself. So he knew what his endgame was, knew how and why he wanted to change the world, but what he didn't know was how he was going to go about doing that. His goals may have been the same as ever, after all, but he would have to be a complete idiot not to realise that his previous methods of achieving those goals had caused some less-than-desirable results.

Perhaps a new way forward was what he needed.

Violence hadn't worked, and the war had only spilt magical blood, but what other methods were there? There weren't many ways to implement a regime change, to shake up the entire government and improve the world they lived in, to kick complacent politicians into gear and force them to actually do their damn jobs.

Revolution hadn't worked, and nor had a civil war. But the only other way he could gain control of the government, gain control of the Ministry itself was to… was to quite literally gain control of the Ministry itself.

Murmuring a quick silencing charm to ward against listening ears, he turned to face his lunch companion while the construction men continued to work outside. Restoration of the house was coming along nicely, but it would be a few months yet before they finished completely.

"Quirinus".

The man choked on a mouthful of tea, coughed, spluttered, and then quickly lowered the cup.

"Uh, y-yes, my Lord?"

He barely refrained from rolling his eyes at the man.

"Tell me, who is the current Minister of Magic?"

"Cornelius Fudge, my Lord. This is his… second year in office, I believe".

Tom slowly nodded. Fudge. It wasn't a name that he was familiar with.

"Is he popular?"

Quirrell's brow furrowed. "Popular, my Lord?"

"Yes, Quirinus, popular. Is he well-liked? Does the general public support him or scorn him? Popular!"

"Oh! Uh, no, not- not really, not that- not that I'm aware of, my Lord" he quickly explained, "From what I remember, Albus Dumbledore was the most, uh, popular choice to replace the previous Minister, and it was only after he turned the position down that Fudge got the job. Of course, given the amount of letters that the man sends Dumbledore, asking for advice and whatnot, they might as well be sharing the position! He's well-meaning, to be sure, but… well, I'm afraid he's rather a fool, my Lord".

Perfect.

"He won't be running for a second term, then?"

"I… Well, I don't really know enough about him to say for definite but…"

Quirrell trailed off, but Tom held his tongue given that the man appeared to be genuinely considering his question rather than trying to find a way out of getting cursed.

"I believe that he will run for reelection" he finally said, "But I highly doubt that he'll get in. He blatantly favours pure-bloods, for starters, and shows little regard for those of… lower status, as such. He's good at keeping the peace, as long as it serves him as well, but… people want a change, I think, so it's unlikely that he'll be re-elected".

Then perhaps…

Tom knew that his old facade was out of the question. Returning to the wizarding world as Lord Voldemort would do nothing but strike fear in the heart of it once more, and he'd grown rather… weary of unnecessary bloodshed. The blood that had been spilt during the last war had benefited no one, least of all himself, and many powerful and talented witches and wizards had been struck down before their time.

But if war wasn't the way forward, then perhaps politics was.

"You have hidden depths, Quirinus" he reluctantly praised, "This is the Minister's second year, you said?"

"Yes, my Lord" Quirrell readily replied, smiling now with a faint blush on his cheeks, "He was elected in November of 1990, only barely surpassing Bartemius Crouch in the public polls. Barring any vote of no confidence or an extreme scandal, he should remain the Minister until the next general election in 1997".

Which gave him only five years to set everything in motion.

Five years to decide if this truly was the path he wanted to take.

Five years to come to terms with the fact that this was now the only path left for him to take.

Monday, 25th January

Ginny Weasley ran down the corridors of Hogwarts, her heart pounding in her chest. She clutched the diary tightly, her fingers digging into the worn leather cover. Fear and confusion clouded her thoughts, mingling with a growing sense of dread.

She had been so incredibly grateful the first time she'd written in it, so incredibly grateful to have someone who listened to her like- like a friend. Tom had been so patient, so sympathetic, so kind, and it had been so very easy to talk to him, to tell him all about how her brothers teased her, how some of the other girls in her year mocked her for having secondhand robes and books, how she'd started looking at this boy lately - and if that wasn't bad enough, it was a boy in Slytherin!

Ginny had loved the diary, in a way. No one had ever understood her like Tom, and she'd been so glad to confide in him every day… but then the blackouts had started.

At first, she thought she was losing her mind. She kept waking up in strange places with no memory of how she'd gotten there or what she'd been doing during those missing hours. She'd even woken up with rooster feathers all over her robes once, and another time, on the night of Halloween, she'd come back to her senses covered in red paint.

At least, she'd hoped it was paint…

The attacks were still happening. Mrs Norris, Colin Creevey, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Nearly-Headless Nick… who would be next? And what was worse - she couldn't even remember where she'd been for any of them! Percy kept telling her she was pale and not herself anymore, and part of her wondered if he thought she was the one behind the attacks. Part of her wondered if maybe he was right.

The whispers in her mind, the blackouts, the horrific scenes of petrified students - it all traced back to Tom Riddle's diary.

She burst into the second-floor girls' lavatory, the door slamming shut behind her. The room was dimly lit, its eerie silence broken only by the distant drip of a leaking tap. The cracked mirror reflected her pallid face and haunted eyes, a stark contrast to the vibrant young girl she had been just a few months ago.

Ginny looked down at the diary, her fingers trembling. It had seemed so benign at first, a confidant for her deepest fears and secrets. She had poured her heart out to Tom Riddle, finding solace in his understanding responses. But now, she realised the terrible cost of that trust. Whatever Tom Riddle was, whoever he was, he had managed to gain control over her - and she couldn't let it continue.

She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself, before she walked to one of the stalls, opened the door, and knelt by the toilet. The sight of the dark water sent a shiver down her spine, but she forced herself to focus. She had to get rid of the diary, no matter what.

"I can't let this happen again" she whispered, her voice barely audible, "I can't let you hurt anyone else".

With a surge of determination, she tried to shove the diary into the toilet. It was too large to fit, and frustration bubbled up inside her. Tears welled in her eyes as she pushed harder, willing it to disappear, to take all the pain and fear with it. But it wouldn't budge. The diary seemed to mock her efforts, its dark power resisting her attempts to banish it.

"Please, just go!" she cried, her voice echoing off the tiled walls. She gave one last desperate push, but the diary remained stuck. Her tears flowed freely now, mingling with the cold sweat on her brow.

Ginny collapsed back onto the floor, her strength drained. She felt defeated, overwhelmed by the dark magic that had ensnared her. But she couldn't give up. She had to find another way!

Gathering herself, she stood and looked around the bathroom. The dim candlelight cast sinister shadows, and the silence was almost oppressive. She glanced at the sinks, then back at the toilet. Taking a deep breath, Ginny reached into the toilet, her fingers brushing against the diary's cover. She pulled it out, the water dripping onto the floor. She stared at it for a moment, feeling a mixture of revulsion and fear. This small, innocuous-looking book had caused so much pain…

"I have to try something else" she muttered, her voice shaking.

She turned to the sinks and dropped the diary into one of them. Maybe if she filled the sink with water, the diary would be ruined. It was worth a try.

Ginny turned on the tap, watching as the water gushed out and filled the sink. The diary floated for a moment before sinking slowly to the bottom. She hoped that drowning it would somehow weaken its power, but deep down, she knew it wasn't enough.

As the water rose, it began to spill over the edge of the sink, cascading onto the floor and soaking her shoes. Ginny stepped back, her breathing jittery. The bathroom was quickly flooding, but the diary remained stubbornly intact. Frustration and despair welled up inside her, and she let out a strangled sob. She had tried so hard to get rid of it!

But underneath that frustration and underneath that despair was a raging anger. She was furious at Tom, of course, for taking advantage of her, but she was also furious at herself because, if she was being perfectly honest, then she had let herself be taken advantage of.

How many times had her dad warned her against things like this? How many stories had she heard about enchanted books that burned your eyes out or cursed you to only speak in limericks or never let you put it down once you picked it up? How many times had her parents instilled in her to never trust anything that could think for itself if you couldn't see where it kept its brain? But no. She hadn't listened to them, had she? Instead, she'd been lonely enough, desperate enough, stupid enough to write in a book that could talk back to her.

Letting her fury overtake her fear, she yanked the diary out of the sink and marched back to the bathroom stall. With a surge of anger, she flung it into the toilet, stamped it down with her foot as hard as she dared, and then pulled the flusher. The diary briefly rose as the water started swirling, but although it spun around and around and around, it was still too big to pass through the pipe, and a few seconds later, the water began to rise.

Ginny barely jumped back in time to avoid being splashed as the toilet overflowed. She belatedly realised that she'd left the sink running too and that the amount of water on the bathroom floor was starting to rise.

Whatever.

She'd needed to get rid of the diary and she had - even though it wasn't exactly gone for good. Quickly wading through the flooding tiles, she tried to convince herself that it didn't matter. This bathroom was out of order anyway, which was why she'd chosen it in the first place. No one was going to enter it, so no one was going to find the diary.

No one was going to find out what she'd done.

With her heart still racing, she wrenched open the bathroom door and ran.

Sunday, 31st January

Taking a sip of sugary tea, Dumbledore glanced around the warm room at his fellow professors.

It was their monthly staff meeting which usually meant a quick overview of their more troublesome students, quickly followed by an informal chat with biscuits and laughter, but lately, the atmosphere of their meetings had been rather sombre.

Understandably, of course, given recent events, and yet…

"Do you really believe that the perpetrator of these attacks simply had a change of heart during the school holidays?"

If Albus could bottle the amount of scorn currently dripping off of Severus's words, he was sure that he would make a fortune.

"Well, I don't see whyever not, my good fellow!" Lockhart replied cheerfully, "'Tis the season and all that rot! Maybe they got a bit of a Christmas spirit while they were at home and realised the error of their ways".

"Even if 'Christmas spirit' were an actual real-life phenomenon-"

Oh boy, Snape wasn't even trying to hide his disdain anymore.

"-then you do understand that you are accusing a student of successfully casting one of the most advanced Dark Arts spells imaginable not once, but four times without a single member of staff noticing either this or the fact that we apparently have a child prodigy more powerful than the Dark Lord himself?"

Lockhart's confident grin faded somewhat.

"Oh… I mean… When you put it like that… Perhaps someone in one of the older years-?"

"Well, you are the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, Gilderoy" Minerva said succinctly, "So you should know better than anyone what our current students are capable of".

Dumbledore was sure that only he knew her well enough to notice that smug twinkle in her eyes.

Well, him and Severus, perhaps.

As if sensing his thoughts, a minuscule yet horribly amused smirk twitched at the corner of Snape's mouth.

"Yes, Gilderoy, please do tell us just who, exactly, it is that you suspect. Perhaps it is Cedric Diggory in fourth year? The boy is a reasonably talented duelist, after all, and we all know just how dangerous Hufflepuffs can be".

"Severus!" Professor Sprout immediately snapped, "I beg your pardon! If any of my badgers is attacking their fellow students then it is undoubtedly Linderina Crane! I don't care how old she is, that girl has got a temper!"

"My apologies, Pomona". Snape inclined his head in her direction. "Of course, a fifteen-year-old girl is a far more likely suspect in this attempted multiple homicide case".

Lockhart still hadn't realised that he was being made fun of, and Dumbledore watched with only somewhat guilty amusement as the man looked between the pair with wide eyes.

"You- You don't really think that Ms Crane is behind all of this, do you?" he whispered, "A fifteen-year-old Hufflepuff, my word! But then again, now that I'm thinking of it, there was always something off about that girl. Reminds me of an old hag I met on my travels in Russia a few years ago. My, let me tell you-"

Dumbledore tuned him out.

In truth, he was concerned - more than, in fact. Two students, one ghost, and Mrs Norris had already been petrified and he had no idea who or what was behind it. And yet, in saying that… the attacks appeared to have stopped. There had been only a single week between the first two, a little bit longer between that and the third and fourth, but as of now, it had been over a month since the last petrification and he was cautiously optimistic - and hoping beyond hope - that it had stopped for good.

"-might even have been my own reputation that scared them off! Yes, that's it! When they heard that I, Gilderoy Lockhart, was teaching at Hogwarts, they got scared and ran off! They must have heard about my duelling club".

Somehow, against all odds, he was making this tragic series of events about himself.

Dumbledore wished that he could say he was surprised.

He'd heard about this ill-fated duelling club of course; he'd been the one to approve it. He knew that it was just another grandiose scheme of Lockhart's that likely wouldn't last a week but the idea had some merit - which was why he'd assigned Severus to be the other professor in charge. From what he'd gathered, Lockhart had put Draco Malfoy and Ron Weasley against each other and it had ended with a furious snake, a poor choice of spell from Lockhart, and a terrified first year in the infirmary being treated for a king cobra snake bite.

But Dumbledore had also heard that the evening had started with Lockhart and Severus "demonstrating" how to duel, with the latter promptly reminding the fool just why he'd been Voldemort's right-hand man - not that that was common knowledge of course.

Either way, Lockhart had firmly been put in his place but Severus, the absolute traitor, refused to give him or Minerva the memory of the event.

"That happened only a few days before Christmas break and that was also when the attacks stopped. That can't have been a coincidence!" He gave Severus a conspiratorial wink. "Word must have gotten around, eh, Sev?"

His left eye twitched.

"Of your incredible talent at letting your opponent disarm you in the first three seconds? Undoubtedly".

Lockhart's smile did a funny thing. It was almost as if he'd understood enough to realise he'd just been insulted but wasn't quite sure how. Nevertheless, he didn't let that deter him.

"In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if I got offered a place in a more prestigious establishment such as Ilvermorny next year".

"I would" Severus muttered, and Minerva snorted into her teacup. Merlin, did Dumbledore love those two.

"Of course, no offence meant, Headmaster. I have learned a great many things during my time here and I will forever see Hogwarts as a stepping stone to a better and greater future".

"I'm glad" he replied with a bland smile, "But now, onto more important things-"

Minerva didn't quite manage to muffle her laugh this time.

"-namely, the first years. How is everyone doing after the Christmas break?" he asked, "I understand that this is when many students get a fresh bout of homesickness".

"There are only one or two in Ravenclaw" Filius started, "But I've spoken to them about it and told my prefects to keep a closer eye on them and they seem to have settled down again. Miss Lovegood is still unfortunately the victim of relentless teasing for her, uh… unique mannerisms but we're working on it".

"There's a lot more than two in my House, I'm afraid" Pomona said, "But you know what my badgers are like; they'll stick together and help each other out, so I don't have any serious concerns at the moment".

"I have nothing to report for Slytherin" Severus said simply, and then promptly ignored the admonishing look Dumbledore sent his way.

Slytherin undoubtedly had at least one homesick child - that was simply a matter of statistics - but Severus was notoriously protective of his snakes and would flat-out refuse to name a single one who was showing any signs of "weakness" at the moment.

"I'll be honest, I was most concerned about Mr Creevy this year, but given his current state…"

Minerva trailed off and the atmosphere grew tense once more as they were all reminded of the cheerful eleven-year-old boy who was currently lying in the infirmary, petrified.

"But aside from him, I've been keeping a close eye on Ginevra Weasley" she continued after a moment, "As you know, she's a rather quiet girl who keeps to herself. She appears to do averagely well in class and above average in her flying lessons, but otherwise keeps her head down and stays out of trouble".

Severus sneered. "How most unlike a Weasley".

"My thoughts exactly" she replied wryly, "Which is why I spoke to her older brother Percy during the Christmas break - the Weasley children all stayed in the castle this year while their parents visited their eldest in Egypt. But according to Mr Weasley, Ginevra is usually far more chipper and seems to have withdrawn into herself completely since starting Hogwarts".

Dumbledore gave a troubled frown and leaned forward in his seat. "Bullying?"

"Not that I can see and not that I've heard".

"Should we get the girl's parents involved?" Pomona asked worriedly, "It must be hard for the poor child to not have gone home for Christmas".

"Given that she has four other siblings currently living in the same House as her, I highly doubt that homesickness is the cause" Severus drawled, "What does she do in her free time then if she doesn't socialise with others?"

"According to her brother, she's constantly scribbling away in some sort of diary" Minerva replied, "But the interesting thing is, I haven't seen her use it once this past week and she appears to be happier than ever".

"She has seemed to be more settled recently" Filius agreed, "In fact, I think that this week was the first time she answered a question out loud in my class".

"Well then, clearly you're doing something wrong, Flitwick my man" Lockhart loudly interrupted, "The students never stop talking in my class and this Jennifer Wazelbee is the loudest of them all! Just the other day I said-"

Once again Dumbledore tuned him out. As long as Miss Weasley was improving then the situation was out of his hands - and he had far more important things to consider than Gilderoy's latest rendition of 'anything you can do I can do better'.

Why had the attacks stopped?

He was incredibly grateful that they had, of course, but it still put him on edge. There simply had to be a reason for it and it most certainly was not this blond fool who had scared the perpetrator off.

But what had?

There was nothing even connecting the attacks as far as he could tell. A cat, a ghost, a first-year Gryffindor and a second-year Hufflepuff… both of whom were muggle-borns...

The Chamber of Secrets has been opened. Enemies of the heir, beware.

Could it be…? Was it possible that…? But no, surely not. It was simply preposterous! Lord Voldemort could not be behind these attacks, he just couldn't!

Although things had been suspiciously quiet since Quirrell had successfully stolen the Philosopher's Stone last year… Dumbledore had theorised that Quirinus had been working for Voldemort in some capacity or another, and this was the possibility that he kept at the forefront of his mind even as the rest of his entire being hoped that Quirrell had merely taken the Stone for his own usage.

But if it truly was Voldemort and he had successfully created the Elixir of Life with it and then regained his body… Why would he petrify a cat?!

It didn't make any sense.

Then again, if this 'Chamber of Secrets' really was Slytherin's long-lost domain, then every other theory didn't make sense either. Two muggle-born students had been attacked, which couldn't be a coincidence, except that a cat and a ghost had been attacked as well. Was there a reason for that? Or were Mrs Norris and Sir Nick simply in the wrong place at the wrong time? Were they collateral damage in the perpetrator's quest to kill all muggle-borns?

Dumbledore distinctly remembered the last time such attacks had occurred just over fifty years ago. Multiple students had been petrified at the time, far more than there were now, but those attacks had happened closer together and not everyone that got injured had been a muggle-born or even just a half-blood. There had been a pure-blood too, he was sure of it, a Slytherin boy… Crochet? Crowley? Crockett? Something like that.

So perhaps Mr Creevy and Mr Find-Fletchley hadn't been targeted for their blood status, and Slytherin's so-called monster didn't exist after all. Perhaps this was some sort of sick prank that someone was playing - using the legend of the Chamber to fuel their fear. But who would do such a thing?

Too many things were adding up for it not to be related to the Chamber of Secrets, but at the same time, there were no other parselmouths in Britain aside from Voldemort, and if he really had regained his corporal form then why in Merlin's name would he waste his time breaking into Hogwarts to petrify children and pets?

No. This wasn't big enough, dramatic enough, bloody enough for it to be Tom's doing, which meant it had to be someone else… but perhaps, maybe, just possibly, the attacks really were over. It would be another few weeks before Severus would be able to make the Mandrake Restorative Draught which would hopefully return the petrified back to their usual selves, but Pomona had assured him that the mandrakes were coming along nicely. By exam time, all of their worries should be over.

Draining the dregs of his tea, he prepared to end the meeting. Gilderoy was continuing to lecture Filius on how to teach, despite the older man having almost thirty years' worth of more experience than him. Minerva and Severus were muttering amongst themselves and it appeared that the rest of his staff too had diverged into multiple smaller conversations.

"Well then" he said, forcing a note of cheerfulness into his voice. "Thank you all for your updates. Let's continue to support each other and our students as best as we can. And, as usual, if any of you notice anything strange or if any of our students seem particularly distressed, please bring it to my attention immediately".

There was a general murmur of agreement as the professors stood up one by one to return to their respective duties. Dumbledore stayed behind, however, pouring himself another cup of tea, lost in thought.

The mystery of the attacks gnawed at him, the lack of answers a constant source of frustration. He had been through many trials in his long life, but this one felt... different. There was an undercurrent of something darker, something he couldn't quite put his finger on.

And he couldn't help but feel that this brief moment of respite wasn't going to last very long.