Dumbledore and Lord Voldemort walked side by side.

This was, in truth, the last time in that century they would walk together in any semblance of calm, and the last time neither would point a wand at the other.

In that moment, neither wizard recognized what significance this occasion held.

Lord Voldemort's long robes dragged across the rough stone tiles. The black fabric stretched the shadow behind long and distorted, like a twisted creature, or perhaps... a snake.

As they rounded the corner, a burst of student noise drifted up from the open grounds below the castle.

Both wizards moved to the window and looked down.

A crowd of students was preparing to leave for Hogsmeade Village, queued below while a professor checked their permission slips.

This was a scene that played out every year. Students who were close walked together in twos and threes.

Lord Voldemort looked down at them from above as though appraising an inventory of moving merchandise.

Dumbledore's gaze settled on those children as well. "How wonderful it is to be young," the Headmaster remarked cheerfully.

"How wonderful it is to be ignorant," Lord Voldemort corrected. Neither could persuade the other.

"Hurry up! It's all your fault we're so slow! We're going to be late!" Running footsteps echoed from the corridor behind them.

Two students with crooked ties came charging around the corner and skidded to an abrupt halt the moment they spotted Headmaster Dumbledore.

"Good day, Headmaster."

"Good day, Headmaster."

They looked with curiosity at the unfamiliar adult who had appeared in the castle, but catching up to the Hogsmeade queue was, at that moment, considerably more pressing. After greeting the Headmaster, the two young wizards gave Lord Voldemort a polite nod as well, then pressed on without breaking stride, moving through the corridor at the fastest pace that could still be called walking.

Lord Voldemort let out a cold snort.

A gust swept through the corridor and collided with another coming from the opposite direction.

All it accomplished was sending a sheet of parchment homework, dropped by one of the students, spinning across the floor.

The queue below assembled quickly and moved off, laughter and noise fading into the distance.

The Dark Lord withdrew his gaze and turned to Dumbledore. "Do you believe handing this position to someone else will stop me?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "It can only slow your steps. Every inch of this school is unwelcoming to the Dark Arts. I intend to ensure that whoever ultimately holds the post can teach students how to defend themselves against the darkness."

The Dark Lord spun abruptly and continued toward the castle's exit.

Dumbledore followed all the same.

"You are even afraid I might turn on the students in the corridor?" Lord Voldemort's tone was mocking. "Afraid I would randomly murder one of your precious Gryffindors?"

"I am simply walking with you for a stretch and seeing you to the door. It is a Headmaster's duty."

Dumbledore did not let the accusation change his course. He escorted the Dark Lord all the way through the Great Hall.

The bleak wind outside the castle met them head-on. The Dark Lord cast one last look back at the empty Great Hall, it was not mealtime, and none of the candles that burned at the start of term were lit.

For a moment, that gaze was hungry and lingering.

Then the Dark Lord stepped past the castle's outer wards and vanished.

The story was finished.

Lucas gave a soft "Mm."

Fingers running idly over the split feathers of a quill, Lucas waited a moment before asking: "So you had already hidden the Diadem before entering the Headmaster's office?"

The nonchalant manner, even in the full light of the room, still carried a faint chill beneath the surface.

The question cut directly to the problem the soul shard could have avoided.

"I think if we're calling this an interview, it ought to start from how you got into the school in the first place."

The soul shard's expression soured. After a moment, unable to bear the searing pain of burning, pain that came paired with the slow, creeping panic of dissolving away piece by piece, it had no choice but to start from the beginning.

The fireplace in Horace Slughorn's office flared with green flame. A dark-haired young wizard, impeccably dressed, stepped out with unhurried ease.

"My dear Professor, it has been far too long!" The wizard extended a hand to Horace Slughorn.

Students who came to visit Horace Slughorn usually offered an exaggerated embrace. But this was the Dark Lord, a handshake from him alone was worth its weight in gold.

Horace Slughorn's face was wreathed in smiles considerably cheaper than the occasion deserved, red-cheeked and beaming.

"A small token of my esteem — I do hope you enjoy it." The Dark Lord presented the then-Head of Slytherin with a gift in the shape of a wine bottle.

Horace Slughorn unwrapped it on the spot and held the bottle up to the firelight to examine the label, breaking into a smile of genuine delight.

A vintage like that had a price beyond what any market could name.

"Allow me to put this away in the cabinet first. The cellar temperature is not suitable for preserving the wine."

Lord Voldemort smiled with gracious understanding and watched the Head of House step briefly out of the office.

As the portly figure reached the doorway, it bumped into a cauldron sitting on a shelf, the painstaking result of some student's labor very nearly came clanging to the floor.

The office was left with the Dark Lord alone.

A faint coldness crept into the lines of that face.

It seemed Horace Slughorn had still not fully corrected the thinking there. Although considerably more deferential, the shift from treating this as Tom Riddle to treating this as the Dark Lord remained incomplete.

The Dark Lord was about to sit when a head poked through the half-open door.

"Professor, I've come to deliver—" The student's movement and voice both stopped dead the instant those eyes landed on Lord Voldemort.

Wearing Slytherin robes, the student stood there blankly, staring. But the vacant look quickly gave way to excitement and frenzied admiration, Lord Voldemort had been recognized.

"You are..." The boy's voice trembled. A swallow. "You are the great Dark Lord?"

Lord Voldemort was moderately pleased. That look in the student's eyes was one to be savored, a gaze full of ambitious worship. This was the only fitting attitude anyone should have when facing him.

"Come in, Slytherin." He beckoned.

"Thank you, sir! Yes — I mean, my name is Avery, my entire family supports you! My father says you are engaged in a great..." The final word didn't make it out.

Lord Voldemort completed the unfinished sentence: "A great cause. Do you know, boy, what manner of cause that is?"

Avery faltered, then trembled and stepped a little closer. "The cause of pure blood."

"Very good." The Dark Lord placed a hand on the student's shoulder.

They were close now. A certain intimacy had settled between them, the kind that made it feel like secrets could be shared. "Do you know of the Room of Requirement?"

"No, sir, but I learn quickly!" Avery's face flushed red, almost ashamed at having failed to answer the Dark Lord's question.

"That is all right. I know you will learn." The Dark Lord's wand had found its way to Avery's chest without the student noticing, and barely audible, distant and unreal, a command: "Go — on the eighth floor, below the tapestry of the troll... walk back and forth... put it inside... tell no one..."

The Dark Lord pressed into Avery's hands a jeweled diadem, its luster extinguished.

Avery's eyes went blank. A slow, dazed nod.

The Imperius Curse was masterfully cast, even a trained Auror could not have resisted it. The young wizard had fallen under it almost instantaneously.

Avery opened the door, movements somewhat more natural now, with only the Dark Lord's command growing clearer and clearer in the student's mind. Then the Dark Lord's voice added: "You did not see me today. You were not given this task."

Avery's steps paused. A nod. Then the student left.

The Dark Lord made a circuit of the office, studying the new photographs Horace Slughorn had collected.

That smooth-tongued man must have hurriedly pulled the Dark Lord's photograph from younger years out of an album and placed it at the very center of the shelf above the fireplace, as though all the other photographs around it existed only to pay homage to that handsome young man.

"You were looking at the photographs!" Horace Slughorn came bustling back in, red-faced and glowing. It seemed the realization had struck, mid-errand, that one did not keep today's distinguished guest waiting, the return had been too hasty, and there was quite a bit of breathless panting to show for it.

The Dark Lord turned. The framed photograph of the young Riddle slipped from the shelf and fell into the flames.

In Horace Slughorn's expression as it shrank back, the story ended once more.

"I see," Lucas said, voice soft. "Was that a murder story I just heard?"

"Who's to say?" the soul shard replied, indifferent.

But they both knew it was inevitable.

Whether or not Avery had ever possessed the ability to break free of the Imperius Curse, from the moment the student encountered the Dark Lord that day, both Avery and the entire Avery family had only one road left: death.

"I have one more question." Lucas raised a hand. "Since you are Lord Voldemort's soul shard, once Avery carried the Horcrux away, shouldn't your memories have ended there?"

This was a question asked already knowing the answer.

➤ Next: Don't Grin Like That

Chapter 247 - Don't Grin Like That

Lord Voldemort was certain Lucas understood the principles behind Horcrux creation. Asking anyway felt pointed.

"Because there is a connection between a Horcrux and the master soul. That connection only weakens — and temporarily severs — once the master soul leaves the school."

Lucas was unsurprised, as expected. A perfunctory nod, another page turned. Nearly at the end now.

Even if he reads it carefully, he'll still hit every wall when he's actually brewing. The Dark Lord let the thought sit, quiet and malicious.

Nothing showed on the surface. As usual, now that the story was done, Lord Voldemort took the opportunity to ask after the little wizard's situation.

"You're a Slytherin too. Hasn't Dumbledore been watching you?" A note of genuine grievance bled through.

Lucas smiled, or almost smiled.

A unified front. Deliberate shows of weakness. These were techniques Lucas used all the time. Watching someone deploy them against him wasn't unwelcome. Call it an exchange of notes, a chance to find room for improvement.

"There's one more thing I need your help with..."

Lucas set the paper aside. Ever since beginning to brew Felix Felicis, he had been correcting the angle at which he tilted the stirring rod.

His habit was to wait until the liquid in the cauldron reached its transformation threshold before adding new ingredients.

Snape had told him the brewing process lacked coordination.

Lucas had asked whether lacking coordination was like playing music too mechanically, technically correct, but without soul.

So Lucas got a rolled-up recipe booklet smacked onto his head.

Snape's warning was unambiguous: "Brewing potions is not playing music, and it requires no soul." He had no patience for Lucas's analogies. Flashy and hollow, all of them.

But to make Lucas understand the actual problem, Snape joined the analogy anyway. "Normal potion brewing is like a person breathing evenly. It is a very natural thing. Watching you work is like watching a—" The Potions Master assumed an air of distaste and looked down from his considerable height advantage. "Like watching an asthma patient."

"..." If Lucas hadn't just cleared a difficult stage of the brew, there really would have been anger.

But Lucas bounced back fast. Following Snape's analogy, the question pushed further: "So what do the ones who blow up their cauldrons look like?"

Tidying the workbench while answering: "Are they kind of like dropping dead on the spot?"

The little wizard looked over at Snape with an earnest, curious expression, thoroughly pleased with this brilliant analogy.

Snape's face briefly contorted. For a moment he looked almost ready to laugh. A beat later, with considerable professional dignity, he steadied his expression and returned to his desk.

"Ahem." The soul shard interrupted the strange smile spreading across the little wizard's face. "Is there something happy you'd like to share?"

Lucas came back to the present. The alcohol lamp was turned down, the flame settling back to a calm blue.

When this flame burned a soul, it acted as Veritaserum.

In certain ancient magics, enduring the trial of fire and speaking the truth had always been linked.

So all of Lucas's conversations with Lord Voldemort took place beneath open flame.

A precaution against the soul shard building resistance.

Beneath the table where Lucas sat reading, a set of runes had been carved into the wood to monitor the soul shard's state.

The bottom line was simple: the soul shard survived inside the ruby, and nothing more.

If the soul shard tried to escape, total death waited for it.

"Nothing much. It's just that whenever I think about how I've actually captured a piece of the Dark Lord — the great Lord Voldemort, right here in my hands — I feel genuinely happy." The words were extravagant. The tone was utterly indifferent.

That dismissiveness sent a surge of fury through Lord Voldemort.

Lord Voldemort had already imagined countless cruel ways to kill this little wizard once free. But every time, the little wizard managed to goad him into inventing new ones.

"And also, " The little wizard began gathering things up. "You know Lucius Malfoy, don't you. One of your loyal servants..."

Lord Voldemort settled into the subject. "You need me to summon him for you?"

Lucas produced a smile that belonged on a much younger child. "Yes. I want you to summon him."

--------

Lucius Malfoy held many titles.

Master of the Malfoy family. A wealthy man of the wizarding world. A generous donor to the Ministry of Magic.

There was also a widely known position: governor of Hogwarts.

This was not a seat Lucius Malfoy had competed to obtain.

With a school like Hogwarts, if you weren't born into a board seat, you had little chance of acquiring one in your lifetime.

But what set Malfoy apart from the other governors was years of dedication to making that position count.

Even before Lucius Malfoy graduated, he had been recruiting wizards from within his own house for the Dark Lord, those with strong academic results or a particular skill.

By introducing these wizards, Malfoy elevated his standing within the Dark Lord's ranks.

After graduation, the Dark Lord fell.

Lucius Malfoy continued to watch the developments within Slytherin house regardless.

The relationship with Severus Snape was maintained and deepened.

Neither man remained under the Dark Lord any longer, and the layer of collegial ties was gone, yet the two were drawn closer than ever by their shared stake in the students of Slytherin house.

The Malfoy family routinely recommended and employed promising students.

Snape would refer certain students to Malfoy's family business. Some positions in wizarding society required an inside recommendation to obtain.

Put simply, the game Horace Slughorn played was a game everyone played.

Malfoy exchanged letters with quite a few upper-year students.

Seventh-years in particular were eager to get close to Lucius Malfoy. Any stirring within the school and they practically fell over themselves to write and tell him.

After Christmas, Lucius Malfoy and Lucas began a correspondence of their own.

Malfoy used a silver letter knife to slit open the envelope. Inside was a letter written in neat, orderly script.

From the stationery to the ink, everything was off-the-shelf goods found at any wizarding shop.

Based on what Malfoy had gathered from upper-year Slytherins, this half-blood little wizard had only recently managed to pull out of poverty.

The letter explained that Lucas had written to the successful wizarding figure Lucius Malfoy purely on impulse, was thrilled to receive a reply, and expressed gratitude for the guidance regarding questions about Gringotts.

After that, Lucas wrote a few details about the anti-peeping sculptures in the Slytherin common room, noting that the three-hundred-Galleon donation was being put to good use.

Malfoy skimmed through the first page in seconds. Nothing of consequence, only flattery and ingratiating pleasantries.

Mildly disappointed, he moved on to the second.

Lucas Graham raised several questions about the authentication rules for Gringotts vaults.

Lucas had perhaps heard from the portraits at the manor that devillote had a vault, and wanting to find an inheritance shortcut that bypassed the Ministry of Magic, had set about researching the matter.

Thinking yourself clever was just another form of foolishness.

Malfoy curled his lip. This second-year had done homework, knew that Malfoy and the headmaster did not get along.

In the letter, Lucas wrote that Albus Dumbledore had offered to help with inheriting the estate, but had done nothing but make Lucas wait ever since. The letter therefore asked for Lucius Malfoy's advice.

Did this child actually believe a few veiled hints were enough to goad Malfoy into fighting over a piece of property on someone else's behalf?

Lucas "wanted to inspect the Gringotts vault" and also "handle in advance certain items the headmaster might not wish to see."

Malfoy found the naivety of a child this age rather amusing.

The pages fell to the final sheet, warm wishes, loyal regards, and a hand-drawn magical diagram without any magical potency slipped out from between the pages.

Malfoy studied it for a moment before it came to him. Those people with nothing to their names, when trying to read the great families, sometimes invented stories like this, that a hand-drawn symbol was a secret code used by old-bloodline families.

Trying to pass as an insider. Signaling a willingness to follow the rules. It all looked like playing house.

Even if Lucas had consulted Snape beforehand, the mentor would have stopped this foolish move before the night was out.

Malfoy slapped the letter down onto the desk. The ink in the bottle on the surface rippled.

The slip of paper with the magical diagram slid off the edge and drifted to the floor, its lazy descent catching Malfoy's gaze.

Malfoy began to think. The mind turned to the wealth devillote had sealed away. The gaze gradually grew distant and intent.

"What are you thinking about?" Narcissa Malfoy's voice came from the study doorway. Dressed in a silk gown, Narcissa had brought some pastries into the study.

"Laughing at a student who doesn't know his limits." Malfoy set the pastry dish down on top of the letter. "And at Severus's hopeless taste in people."

Narcissa walked to Malfoy's side and placed a hand on his shoulder. Malfoy covered it with his own and picked up a pastry.

"I don't think that child is as simple as he seems." Narcissa's first impression of Lucas had been a good one. Those calm, steady eyes, the feeling was peculiar, as though many things were things Lucas merely pretended to care about.

Narcissa didn't look at the letter. Only suggested: "Perhaps investigate the child a little further. If Lucas wrote directly without going through Severus, it might also be worth asking Severus's opinion."

Malfoy took a sip of red tea. No decision had been made yet, but perhaps this matter had another dimension to it. "No rush," Malfoy said, deliberately vague. "Let's wait and see what the next letter says."

A few days later, Lucas received a reply from Lucius Malfoy. The Gringotts questions were answered. Every other veiled hint in the letter was ignored entirely.

So Lucas doubled down, poring through stacks of old records in the library, searching passages of ambiguous meaning for any trace of a lead, then writing to Lucius Malfoy for help again.

Obliging as ever, Lucius Malfoy patiently answered each question, but also informed Lucas each time that this particular path had been sealed off long ago by those who had come before, fighting over their inheritances.

Lucas was in no hurry.

The searing pain struck without warning.

Reviewing ledgers in his study, Lucius Malfoy felt as though a red-hot brand had been pressed against his wrist.

Malfoy gripped the edge of the desk on reflex. With a trembling hand, the other undid the cufflink.

On the pale wrist, a dark blot churned beneath the skin. The patch bore no distinct pattern, it looked like something tattooed in youth that had gone wrong, then clumsily covered over with an ugly square to hide the damage.

Malfoy knocked the porcelain cup off the edge of the desk.

Fought to keep composure. Endured a long three minutes in shock and fury.

The mark on Malfoy's wrist gradually cooled. The temperature of that patch of skin slowly came down.

Limbs weak, gaze fixed blankly on the mark.

After a moment, Malfoy rose from the leather chair, opened the entrance to the study's hidden room with a spell, walked in alone, and closed the door behind.

About thirty minutes later, Lucius Malfoy emerged.

Completely changed into a different set of clothes. A black hood concealed most of the distinguishing features, and the platinum-blond hair worn with such pride had been disguised.

Finally, Malfoy applied a Confundus Charm to blur the facial features.

One step into a fireplace, a scatter of Floo Powder, and the address of an anonymous public hearth spoken aloud.

Knockturn Alley. Deep in the night.

A dark wizard moved through the streets and lanes.

Nearly a month had passed since the Walter incident. The mysterious shop in Knockturn Alley seemed to have sensed that its moment had come. A thin coil of black mist curled at the entrance to a dead-end alley.

Lucius Malfoy drew the hood tighter, glanced around nervously, and finally stepped into the black mist.

The familiar fog shifted, and Malfoy entered the shop.

This was not the first visit.

Malfoy knew the shop had some connection to the former Eddie Cartwright, and that the Eddie who had once cut such a visible, storm-raising figure in public might already have been replaced by an impostor.

But the shop owner's power was absolutely real.

In this shop, Malfoy held two identities. Openly, as Lucius Malfoy, shopping without concern for being recognized. Under a separate anonymous identity, a "mysterious wizard", purchasing certain dark magical items.

The shop owner stood serenely behind the counter. Whatever magic had been used was unclear, but where a head should have been, a goat skull sat in its place. Nothing above the neck but bone, with a flicker of greenish ghost-fire dancing in the empty eye sockets.

Malfoy filed the shop owner under poor taste and moved on.

When entering the shop anonymously, Malfoy always hid anything that might reveal an identity in advance, and avoided the usual habitual gestures and turns of phrase.

"Good evening, esteemed guest." The shop owner spoke, still the familiar Borgin and Burkes patter for drawing in customers.

"I've come to have something appraised." Lucius pulled the robes tighter, affecting the manner of an anxious and uneasy wizard, and set a tightly dragon-hide-wrapped object on the counter.

Dragon-hide gloves covered both hands as well, as though terrified of the thing.

Argos stood behind the counter and, thoroughly puzzled, reached through the link to ask Lucas: "Does he think he's putting on a convincing act?"

➤ Next: Capital Maneuver