Saturday, 24th June

"Ladies and gentlemen, the third and final task of the Triwizard Tournament is about to begin! Let me remind you how the points currently stand - In first place, with eighty-five points is Mr Cedric Diggory of Hogwarts School!"

The cheers and applause sent birds from the Forbidden Forest fluttering into the darkening sky. Cedric could see his parents waving at him wildly from the stands and he grinned In response.

"In second place, with eighty points - Mr Viktor Krum, of Durmstrang Institute! And in third place - Miss Fleur Delacour, of Beauxbatons Academy!"

More applause. Wand at the ready, he braced himself to run.

"So, on my whistle! Three, two, one!"

Bagman gave a short blast on his whistle, and Cedric took off into the maze.

The towering hedges cast black shadows across the path, and, whether because they were so tall and thick or because they had been enchanted, the sound of the surrounding crowd was silenced the moment he entered the maze. He felt almost as though he were underwater again.

Holding out his wand, he muttered, "Lumos".

After about fifty metres, he reached a fork. Left or right… Left or right… Left or-

In the distance, he heard Bagman's whistle for the second time. Krum had entered the maze. Cedric turned and dashed down the left path, which seemed completely deserted.

He took the next right and hurried on, holding his wand high over his head, trying to see as far ahead as possible. Still, there was nothing in sight. Bagman's whistle blew in the distance for the third time. All of the champions were now inside.

Cedric kept looking behind him. The old feeling that he was being watched was upon him. The maze was growing darker with every passing minute as the sky overhead deepened to navy. He reached a second fork.

"Point Me" he whispered to his wand, holding it flat in his palm. The wand spun around once and pointed toward his right, into a solid hedge. That way was north, and he knew that he needed to go northwest for the centre of the maze. The best he could do was to take the left fork and go right again as soon as possible.

That path ahead was empty too, and when Cedric reached a right turn and took it, he again found his way unblocked. He didn't know why, but the lack of obstacles was unnerving him. Surely he should have met something by now? It felt as though the maze was luring him into a false sense of security...

Left… right… left again… Twice he found himself facing dead ends. He did the Four-Point spell again and found that he was going too far east. He turned back, took a right turn, and-

A scream shattered the silence.

"Fleur?!"

Silence.

He stared all around him. What had happened to her? Her scream seemed to have come from somewhere ahead. He took a deep breath and ran on.

He paused at the next junction of two paths and looked around for some sign of Fleur. He was sure it had been her who had screamed. What had she met? Was she alright? There was no sign of red sparks - did that mean she had got herself out of trouble, or was she in so much trouble that she couldn't reach her wand?

Cedric took the right fork with a feeling of increasing unease… but at the same time, he couldn't help but think one champion down. The Cup was somewhere close by, and it sounded as though Fleur was no longer in the running. He'd gotten this far, hadn't he? There was only himself and Viktor left - he had a fifty-fifty chance of winning.

He met nothing for ten minutes but kept running into dead ends. Twice he took the same wrong turn. Finally, he found a new route and started to jog along it, his wand-light waving, making his shadow flicker and distort on the hedge walls… He had to be close now, he had to be… His wand was telling him he was bang on course; as long as he didn't meet anything too horrible, he might actually have a chance-

"Stupefy!"

Cedric hit the ground.

Except-

Except the spell hadn't been aimed at him.

Frowning, he stayed crouched down and shuffled forward to look around the corner of the next junction. The first thing he saw was the unconscious form of Viktor Krum sprawled out on his back on the cold, damp earth. The second thing he saw was a very familiar man standing over the prone boy, his wand drawn.

"What are you doing?" Cedric yelled, abruptly straightening up, "What the hell d'you think you're doing?"

Professor Moody turned a surprised eye on him and a split second later, his wand was pointing directly at Cedric's face.

"Woah, hey!" he protested, automatically raising both hands, "There's no need for that! I'm sorry, sir, I didn't mean to shout at you but- but why in Merlin's name did you stun Viktor?!"

Even as he lowered his wand, Moody's magical eye spun rapidly in its socket as if searching for any hidden dangers… or, perhaps, any hidden wizards…

"Don't you want to win, boy?"

He baulked. "Of course I want to win, sir, but not by cheating! I'd rather lose honourably than win like- like this!" A sudden thought struck him. "Wait- were you the one who attacked Fleur? I heard her scream; I thought she'd met some sort of creature or something but- but that was you, sir, wasn't it?"

"She was in the way. I couldn't allow her to win - oh, don't look at me like that boy! She's stunned; that's all, just like Krum here. Had to be done to let you succeed. This eye let me see through the outer hedges and curse many obstacles out of your way". His lopsided mouth leered more widely than ever. "It hasn't been easy, Diggory, guiding you through these tasks without arousing suspicion. I have had to use every ounce of cunning I possess so that my hand would not be detectable in your success… but alas, time is running out. As much as I'd love to tell you everything I did to get you here, the Dark Lord awaits".

Cedric felt his heart hammer loudly in his chest. "The- The D-Dark Lord? What?! How- Who- Why would you- What are you talking about?!"

"Never mind that now; he's waiting for you. You're a seeker, aren't you? Here, catch!"

Suddenly there were two objects flying through the air, and Cedric almost dropped his wand in lunging for them. Stumbling forward, his bewildered frown only deepened when he realised what he was holding - a water-stained diary and a- a- was that a tiara?!

"What the fu-"

"Alright, off you go. The Triwizard Cup is a hundred metres that way - take the first right and you'll be there".

Was he- Was he serious?! He couldn't possibly be serious, right? He'd just- His professor- A Hogwarts professor had just stunned two students and- and mentioned the Dark Lord? You-Know-Who?! And didn't he say something about him waiting for him? For who? For Cedric? What the bloody fucking hell did You-Know-Who want with him?! Wasn't he dead?

In front of him, Moody sighed and then raised his wand once more.

"The hard way it is then… Don't worry boy, you won't remember any of this soon enough, I promise. Imperio!"

"My lord, I truly do not wish to- to question your judgement but perhaps… perhaps Crouch wasn't the most, uh, the most ideal choice for this mission?"

Tom continued to pace, taking even measured steps - ten forward, turn, ten back, turn - as he counted down to the moment he would reap the rewards of an entire year's worth of planning.

"I- I only mean to say that perhaps- perhaps it would be wiser to have entrusted something so- so precious and vital to our cause to someone… someone a bit more, uh… well… that is, someone like-"

He couldn't help but flash a smirk at the stuttering man who hovered awkwardly next to a nearby headstone.

"Quirinus. Are you jealous?"

He immediately flushed a bright, damning red.

"No! Of course not! Or, well, no, I mean- I mean that there's nothing to- to be jealous of, my lord… Not that there isn't or- or couldn't or wouldn't or- or won't be, that is, I mean it's- I'm- and- and you, of course, are-"

"You are still one of my closest… advisors, Quirinus" he interrupted, growing tired of the man's rambling, "I have no doubt that you are just as loyal as Barty, but you know as well as I do why you could not return to Hogwarts".

"Not even as Alastor Moody?" he exclaimed, his envy and annoyance making him more brazen than nervous, "I trust your judgement on Crouch, my lord, of course I do but- but it cannot be denied that he's… well… unstable".

"We're all unstable, Quirinus" he replied blandly - ten steps forward, turn, ten steps back, turn - before casting a wandless Tempus, "We're still on schedule, and Barty has performed his role admirably so far".

"He killed his father!"

Tom frowned. Yes. The death of Crouch Senior had been… irritating, but the man had started to outlive his usefulness, and he had promised Barty that he could be the one to cast the Killing curse - maintaining his own murder-free streak notwithstanding, it was the least the boy deserved after suffering under Crouch's Imperius for ten years.

Barty had been understandably upset when Tom had stopped him from murdering his father the day they rescued him, but - like a good, loyal servant - he had deferred to his lord's judgement. Letting Crouch go free had been impossible. He would notice his son missing immediately and would then, best-case scenario, start tracking him down or, worst-case scenario, inform the Ministry and/or the general public about what had happened.

Admittedly, Tom initially had no use for the Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, but once he heard about the Triwizard Tournament… well. The opportunity was simply too good to pass up. And so, they gave him a taste of his own medicine, so to speak, and had kept Crouch Senior under the Imperius curse to ensure that the Tournament went the way that they wanted it to.

Theodore provided the necessary Polyjuice potion to turn Barty into Moody and Barty, of course, had been delighted to serve his master once more. The mission gave him a purpose, returning the sense of control that had been so cruelly stripped from him by his own flesh and blood all those years before.

After that, it had been appallingly simple to convince Weasley and the Ministry that Mad-Eye was just being his usual paranoid self the night they attacked him. One Imperio'ed and stunned Auror later, and Tom had finally found his way into Hogwarts.

"He's late!" Quirrell snapped, his arms folded petulantly across his chest, "My lord, this wouldn't be happening if you had chosen me instead of-"

In a howl of wind and swirling colour, a large golden trophy, one very confused boy, and two beloved Horcruxes landed six feet in front of them.

Tom smiled.

It was not a pleasant smile.

"Perfect".

Dumbledore was on his feet before he even realised what he was seeing.

Cedric Diggory had just appeared outside the hedge maze, the Cup in his hands, with wide, dazed, confused eyes.

Alive.

There was a beat of silence.

Something was wrong.

And then.

The stands erupted into cheering and whooping and applause and laughter and delight, and slowly, ever-so-slowly, Cedric looked around, seemed to realise where he was, and let a wide smile spread across his face.

As the crowd's ecstatic cheers rang out across the Quidditch pitch, Dumbledore forced his hands to clap along with the rest. His eyes, however, were focused solely on Cedric Diggory, who stood at the centre of the raucous celebration, hoisting the Triwizard Cup high with a huge grin.

But something was wrong!

The Cup had sent the signal when it had been grasped. A charm of his own invention had made sure he'd feel the exact moment it was touched. Yet there had been a strange, inexplicable delay. The portkey was set to activate the second it was grabbed and yet…

Cedric had taken an entire five minutes to appear in front of them.

Even more unsettling, Dumbledore had caught a fleeting glimpse of something far too terrible to even consider in the boy's expression the moment he arrived - just for a second, a split second, Cedric's wide, grey eyes had looked… blank.

For a split second… he'd looked like someone under the Imperius.

Dumbledore allowed none of this to show on his face. He smiled warmly at the triumphant young champion, his laughter blending in with that of the rest of the crowd. He clapped Cedric on the shoulder, congratulating him as the boy continued to beam. But Dumbledore's mind was elsewhere.

Out of the corner of his eye, he scanned the rest of the gathered staff. Pomona, standing tall and proud, was leading the Hogwarts students in wild applause. Minerva, Filius, Hagrid, and even Severus were clapping from their rightful places, all accounted for. And there - Alastor Moody, applauding along with the rest.

Everything looked… normal.

Dumbledore's stomach tightened with a quiet dread. He knew better than anyone how appearances could deceive, and after everything that had transpired in the last few years, he knew better than to dismiss his gut instinct.

"Headmaster! Headmaster, can we get a photograph of you with the Hogwarts Champion?"

But now was not the time.

Plastering a smile on his face, he wrapped a tense, protective arm around Cedric's shoulders and turned to face the cameras.

Many hours later, as the night drew on and the celebrations came to a close, Dumbledore expertly slipped away, his smile fading the moment he was out of sight.

This should have been a happy occasion. This was a happy occasion… So why did he feel like he was missing something?

Taking the stairs too quickly to look casual, he finally reached his office, throwing open the door, his wand at the ready, expecting-

Something.

But the room was empty.

Unease curled deep in his chest. Something was wrong - he knew something was wrong! Cedric had been dazed when he appeared in front of them. He'd been missing for five full minutes and yet claimed that only a second passed between grabbing the Cup and landing outside the maze. Some light Legilimency had revealed that he was telling the truth - but what the boy believed to be the truth and what the actual truth was could still be two very different things.

There was also the strange occurrence of red sparks from both Delacour and Krum. They had been rescued immediately, of course - and yet, there had been nothing to rescue them from. Both students were relatively uninjured and not in harm's way, so why had they pulled out? There had been something almost… bewildered in their gazes too, as if they didn't know why they'd sent for help themselves.

Slowly making his way over to his desk, he collapsed heavily on the old chair, wondering if, perhaps, in his rather advanced age he was…

No.

He wasn't losing it. He wasn't crazy. There was something wrong here!

Leaning back, his eyes suddenly latched onto the top drawer of his desk which was ever so slightly open.

Dumbledore frowned.

That was the most heavily warded and protected drawer in his office, and he most certainly had not left it open.

Carefully, cautiously, he reached out, pulling it back to see what was inside and yet, at the same time, somehow knowing exactly what he'd find - or, rather, what he wouldn't find.

Tom Riddle's diary was gone.

With a few flicks of his wand, he found that the drawer had been tampered with - discreetly, but expertly. Whoever had done this had avoided detection by his many wards and enchantments. Dumbledore stared at the empty space where the diary had once rested, his mind racing.

This was not an ordinary theft.

The implications were staggering. For anyone to even know about the existence of the diary, let alone the fact that it was being kept here at Hogwarts, would require inside knowledge of the most dangerous kind… It confirmed his worst fear.

Lord Voldemort had returned.

The missing diary was as good as proof in that regard, for who else would have any semblance of interest in the old notebook? But did that mean that he had been here, in his office? Had Tom returned home after all these years? Surely Dumbledore would have sensed something if he had!

Then again, with this being the final task of the Tournament, the stands filled with students and professors from his own school as well as two others, along with the press, family members, friends… it could have been anyone.

It wouldn't have been easy to slip into the Headmaster's office unnoticed but for a powerful enough witch or wizard…

Dumbledore briefly entertained the idea that it had been Karkaroff, but he rejected the idea just as quickly. The man would have to have known about the diary which he couldn't have unless Tom had told him - but Tom wouldn't hardly have reached out to a traitor before his most loyal and Severus had reported nothing out of the ordinary.

Had there been any other Death Eaters among the crowd tonight? Malfoy? Lestrange? Nott? None came to mind, but that didn't necessarily mean that they hadn't been there. The chaos of the Tournament and all of their international guests would have provided ample cover and opportunity for someone to walk around the castle without being questioned - especially if, like Malfoy and Nott, they currently had children attending Hogwarts. Could they have enlisted the help of those children?

Abruptly standing, Dumbledore began to pace the length of his office, his mind working faster than his feet. His first instinct had been correct. This wasn't Karkaroff because he wouldn't have been called, his protections had been far too advanced for two fourth-years to overcome, and nor was it a simple theft. This was Voldemort's doing - somehow. There could be no other explanation. And if Tom had returned…

If there was an imposter, or a mole, in their midst, Dumbledore would have to tread carefully. But for now, he had to confirm the truth. There would be no rash moves. No public alarm. The pieces had to be carefully aligned.

The name Thomas Slytherin flashed through his mind.

He had yet to see this new mysterious duke in person, but with a name like that, there was no doubt in his mind as to who the man truly was. It had been a long few years since he'd used Quirinus Quirrell to steal the Philosopher's Stone and he'd been worryingly quiet since…

Was this his first move?

Why in Merlin's name could he want his old diary back so much?

Based on young Ginerva Weasley's accounts, a ghost image of Tom Riddle had written back to her whenever she'd used it - but what did that actually signify? Had Voldemort left a part of himself in that notebook? But how? And why? He clearly wanted it back for a reason, and it was an important reason if he risked sending someone to Hogwarts to get it, but…

Why now?

Dumbledore's mind raced with possibilities as he paced his office, the star-speckled sky visible through the high, arched windows. He couldn't ignore the timing of it all. The diary had been stolen tonight, during the final task of the Triwizard Tournament - that had to be more than mere coincidence.

He paused in front of Fawkes, who let out a soft trill, his scarlet feathers glowing faintly in the dim light of the room.

"Hello, old friend" Dumbledore murmured, "I don't suppose that you can see what it is that I am missing?"

Fawkes tilted its head, but the phoenix gave no answer. He hadn't expected one, of course, yet the bird's presence had always been a source of comfort and clarity in his moments of deepest doubt. Intelligent black eyes stared back at him unblinkingly.

Dumbledore thought back to that fleeting look in Cedric's eyes. What had happened in those five minutes that the boy had been missing? Where had he gone? It hadn't been enough time to break into his office, undo the charms on his desk, and steal the diary, surely. Which meant that someone else had stolen it and… what? Given it to the boy? Five minutes was long enough to retrieve the diary from a hidden location and bring it elsewhere - to Voldemort himself, perhaps?

But if that were the case, then why had Tom let the boy live? Why risk Dumbledore becoming suspicious like this? If Cedric had gone missing, why, it would have been the greatest of tragedies of course - but it wouldn't have pointed the finger in a specific dead Dark Lord's direction.

Was Tom simply too arrogant to believe that he would become suspicious? Had he intended to kill the boy but hadn't had enough time to do so? It wouldn't have been easy, delaying the portkey like that - perhaps he had underestimated the Triwizard Cup's power.

And yet, he had let Neville Longbottom live too…

Shaking his head, Dumbledore collapsed back in his office chair.

Perhaps he truly was losing his mind…

Monday, 26th June

"Here". A folded-up newspaper landed on top of Harry's French homework but, toughened now after four years of learning to handle older bullies, he wasn't startled. "Hogwarts won".

"Really?"

Rowle kicked out the library chair next to him and collapsed into it with a sigh. The bastard had grown another half-foot these past few months and now towered over him even more. Harry dreaded what would happen come September after a few weeks of sun and relaxation - he knew that he was almost two years younger, but, really, it wasn't bloody fair how quickly the older boy grew.

"Yep. The other two champions pulled out early, apparently".

Unfolding the newspaper, Harry didn't bother reading the full article; simply scanned the headlines and then skipped down to the large photograph that took up half the front page.

An old man he knew to be Albus Dumbledore stood smiling next to the winner - Cedric Diggory, according to the caption. Dumbledore had his arm around the boy's shoulders but he looked… tense, somehow. There was a tightness in the corner of his eyes and the smile was small, forced. Harry wondered what was bothering him so much.

Diggory, on the other hand, had a grin so wide that his happiness was almost contagious. He was… attractive, admittedly, in that classical sort of way with chiselled features, dark hair, bright grey eyes, and that smile... Harry had come to realise over the past few months that tall, dark, and handsome did something to him in a way that pale and blond did not - with no offence to Rowle meant, of course.

The contraband magazine that the older boys secretly passed around and giggled over, pages filled with scantily-clad women did nothing for him either. But this Diggory boy was… pleasing to look at. He was obviously magically gifted, too, since he'd won the Tournament - and he'd won against a Durmstrang student who'd been taught the Dark Arts and a Beauxbatons who had a creature blood advantage.

Cute and powerful.

It was a dangerous combination.

"He was the favourite to win, of course" Rowle continued, kicking his shoes up on the desk and leaning back in his chair, "Skeeter fucking loved him - you've seen the articles. Came first in all three tasks, adored by everyone in Hogwarts, and he took that pretty pure-blood to the Yule Ball. Seriously, that photo made me sick! Talk about reinforcing traditional fucking beliefs!"

Harry had seen the articles. The Daily Prophet had given live-action reports of the Tournament every single week since it had first been announced. This wasn't the first article he'd read written by Rita Skeeter - it wasn't even the second, third, fourth, or fifth article either, but as much as he hated how she dug up dirt on everything and often resorted to sleazy means to get that information, he had to admit that her eye for detail was impressive.

He'd be a fool not to want her on his side, and given that his return to the wizarding world wasn't exactly going to go under the radar, he wondered if he'd be able to get her to write his story on his own terms… She wasn't foolish enough to print bad words about those with peerage titles, after all - as proven by her slander of Viktor Krum but her reverence of the Honourable Cedric Diggory.

"His father's a viscount, isn't he? Amos Diggory?"

"Yeah, of Shropshire or Shrewsbury or someplace like that". Rowle scowled and rolled his eyes. "Not that that means much. From what I've heard, he's a Progressive. And yet look at his son! The fucking epitome of old-age beliefs!"

Harry turned back to the photo, watching as, impossibly, Diggory's grin widened even further and he hoisted the Triwizard Cup over his head before the picture reset itself and started over again.

"I'm sure his girlfriend's blood didn't come into it. They both play Quidditch for their House teams, right? They've got a few things in common".

"Yeah. Whatever". Sighing, the legs of Rowle's chair hit the ground with a thud. "Either way, what makes him so special? I could've won that Tournament if I'd wanted to!"

"You're sixteen".

"So?!"

"So" he emphasised, "You couldn't have even entered! There was an age limit, remember?"

"I'd have found some way around it" he muttered, "Can't be that hard".

Harry had started to notice lately that the closer Rowle got to his seventeenth birthday, the more irritable he was becoming. He knew why, of course - seventeen was the age of majority in the wizarding world. Had he grown up there, then chances were, his uncle would've been handing over his barony to him right now. Instead, he was legally required by muggle law to stay at St Brutus until he turned eighteen - the age of majority in non-magical Britain.

"I'm sure you could've won if you'd somehow managed to bypass the age line" he replied diplomatically, "Has your mother…?"

"Said anything about my imminent adulthood?" He rolled his eyes once more, "Of course, she fucking hasn't. As far as she's concerned, it's life as normal til I turn eighteen. Another fucking year…"

Harry could relate to the sentiment.

"Well, hey!" he said, trying to cheer him up, "You've waited this long! What's another few months, right?"

Friday, 30th June

Everything had worked out exactly as he'd planned.

Finding Ravenclaw's diadem had been easy enough - finding his old diary had been the real struggle. Barty, posing as Moody, had to wait many weeks before finding an excuse to be in Albus Dumbledore's office, and it had taken many months before he could do so alone.

Tom hadn't known for certain where the old man was keeping his notebook, but he knew he'd want it close by if only to study it, so he'd hazard a guess and ordered Barty to check Dumbledore's office desk. Moody's magical eye had confirmed it, easily able to see past the protection charms on the top drawer.

And then, while the other professors were patrolling the outside of the maze, he had snuck back inside, stolen the diary, and returned to the hedges to ensure that Cedric Diggory won. That had been a… calculated risk, admittedly, but it had all worked out in the end. The Durmstrang boy had undoubtedly learned many Dark spells which may or may not have extended to learning how to resist the Imperius curse, and the Beauxbatons girl had creature blood which potentially made her naturally resistant to being controlled as well.

And besides - there was something sweet in knowing his victory had involved using one of Dumbledore's own students against him.

Barty, after passing the Horcruxes to Diggory and ordering him to grab the Cup, had returned to the outside of the maze - perfectly in view of the Headmaster and a dozen professors at the exact moment the boy had been whisked away to the graveyard, providing "Moody" with the perfect alibi. He would stay there until term ended to avoid suspicion before returning to his master's side once more.

A quick Obviate and Imperio later, and Diggory had been sent on his way, minus his precious cargo.

He was from a good bloodline, that boy, and was clearly a powerful and skilled wizard to be in first place in the Tournament. It would've been a waste of magic to kill him - plus, Tom wasn't going to break his streak for a seventeen-year-old and Quirrell simply wasn't capable of casting Avada Kedavra on an innocent child.

With his Horcruxes secured, he'd performed the ritual to reabsorb them both that very night and it was… painful. Painful in a way that he hadn't expected, in a way that he hadn't experienced before. He was glad he'd had the foresight to lock and silence the room beforehand.

A week later, he was still feeling the side effects. Tom didn't know if it was taking him so long to recover because his soul was almost complete again or because his diary contained the largest part to reabsorb or even because he was regaining two soul fragments at once - either way, he was beyond grateful that he'd never have to repeat the process again.

With the Gaunt ring, Hufflepuff's cup, his old diary, and Ravenclaw's diadem reabsorbed, he now had the vast majority of his soul - he estimated it was around the ninety-five per cent mark. All that was left was Slytherin's locket but… well… he didn't plan on derailing his plans of immortality entirely, so that could stay as it was - he just needed to retrieve it first to ensure its safety.

If his suspicions were true about Grimmauld Place, then he could simply ask Severus to return it to him, at which point he would be securely storing it in the Slytherin vault at Gringotts. Only he had access, the goblins' security was second to none, and it would blend right in with everything else.

With the additional soul parts came… stability.

Tom hadn't realised just how much sanity he had lost before he took the Elixir of Life, but the temporary relief that the potion provided was laughable compared to the clear-headed clarity he was now experiencing.

Everything was sharper, in focus. His goals were clearer, his motivations behind them stronger than ever. Even his magic had flourished; its power closer to the surface than ever, spells rolling off his tongue smoothly and effortlessly, his wandless casting surpassing even his previous self's abilities.

Perhaps the Elixir really had been right, returning him to this body instead of Voldemort's. This truly was him at his strongest, his most powerful, his best. His most undefeatable.

He'd been a fool not to realise it earlier.

The downside, of course, of being relatively sane was all of the bloody emotions. Had he ever truly felt this much before? Had he ever been this- this fucking human?! It was exhausting! He was so incredibly drained, both physically and emotionally, and Randolph and Theodore were no help - apparently, this was the least he deserved, his penance for how terrible he'd let things get.

For the first time in a long time, their criticisms didn't make him lurch for a Crucio.

He hadn't taken the Elixir in a week.

He was still… stable.

No cloudy-headedness, no losing his train of thought, no feelings of irrationality or baseless irritation, no- well, not no murderous tendencies but… fewer. Less. He could acknowledge that there were other stages in between arguing and death now - many stages, in fact, some of which he'd never considered before.

Randolph wanted to sign him up for a muggle anger management course.

Tom, to thoroughly demonstrate why that was not needed, pointedly did not curse the man for suggesting such a thing.

But now that he had returned the vast majority of his soul to a distinctly human body and he was no longer reliant on the Elixir of Life - although he held onto the Philosopher's Stone, just in case - it was time to start making changes around here.

The goblins had confirmed that his request for the Duke of Lincoln title had been successful only a few days before, and with Rnadolph and Theodore's help, he had contacted the few remaining witches and wizards from the old crowd, and those who were most loyal to him in the newer generation too. Which just left the rest of his trustworthy-ish Death Eaters - those at least too scared to betray him if not too loyal.

Tom debated calling them through the Dark Mark before eventually deciding against it, since it was a rather obvious tell of Lord Voldemort's return, and he wasn't Lord Voldemort, not anymore. Out of curiosity, he had asked to see Barty's left arm the night they had rescued him and he'd been genuinely surprised to see that the Mark was faint, faded instead of the rich inky black that it used to be. He was still alive after all, and he'd keyed the Mark into his very soul so-

Ah.

Perhaps therein lay the problem...

Tom Slytherin was not Lord Voldemort and he had already created four or five of his Horcruxes before he'd invented the Dark Mark, so it made sense, he realised, that it would no longer recognise him.

In a way, he mused, it was a blessing. The Mark was useful, that much was certain, but it was also a dead giveaway of his return. Dumbledore could preach all he liked about Voldemort being back, but all it would take would be one Death Eater revealing his arm to disprove it.

Yes, this would change things, of course, but ultimately it would work in his favour.

So instead of summoning his once-loyal followers, he sent them letters instead, scheduling meetings with those he'd yet to reach out to. Some of them initially refused to believe that it was him, given his youth and his new face, but Tom quickly made them see the error of their ways - and also ensured that they swore an Unbreakable Vow not to reveal his true identity to anyone on the way out.

Three days later, there were only two men left to call - his new war generals, the most cunning and resourceful of his Inner Circle, and the most vital wizards to ensure the success of their cause.

Lucius Malfoy.

And Severus Snape.