Chapter 53
When it came to making bold moves, Albert was suddenly reminded of a harrowing truth: he still held one of the seven fragments of Voldemort's soul in his possession.
And this particular fragment—let's not forget—was born of Voldemort's teenage years. Albert still harbored the disturbing belief that the Horcrux might be capable of releasing the Basilisk hidden within the Chamber of Secrets, cleansing the school in the process. This wasn't about salvation—it was power. And this Horcrux, he suspected, wasn't as strong as the others.
Not to mention, Voldemort at that time—brilliant as he was—had been limited by age and, more crucially, by poverty. His genius had outpaced his means. Despite his extraordinary talents, he lacked the resources to realize his darker inventions to their full potential. That's why this Horcrux, forged during his youth, was constructed from something as mundane as an ordinary diary—it simply couldn't compare to the more potent Horcruxes created later in life.
Still, Albert was determined to find a way to deal with this diary. After all, he had already extracted Parseltongue from it—an ability he considered more valuable than access to the Black family library. But even so, he couldn't afford to underestimate what else might be locked within its cursed pages.
In addition to the fragment of Voldemort's twisted soul, the diary surely contained dark knowledge—insights into forbidden magic, perhaps even the secrets of Horcrux creation itself.
But here lay the dilemma: to access this knowledge, Albert would need to engage deeply with the Horcrux. If he wasn't careful, it could overwhelm him. It was a dangerous balance. Still, for someone like Albert—a boy with gifts far beyond his peers—the opportunity was too great to ignore.
The knowledge stored within that diary was formidable.
Particularly the lore surrounding immortality through Horcruxes. In his previous life, Albert had come to understand that the original text emphasized the importance of preserving the soul's integrity. In some rare cases, it was even suggested that a sliver of soul could be sacrificed without harming the whole—so long as a method was found to restore it later. Voldemort, of course, had ignored all caution. His soul had been sliced like bread.
This Horcrux was ultimately useless to Albert in its current state. Simply tossing it aside, however, would be reckless. The original book had chalked it up to good luck that no one died from the diary—but Albert wasn't willing to gamble on fate.
He believed he could manipulate the diary, just as Ginny had been manipulated in the original timeline. But instead of being a victim, Albert intended to deceive the fragment of Tom Riddle. He would pretend to be under its influence, allowing Riddle to believe he had found a new puppet. All the while, Albert would siphon information—particularly about the Chamber of Secrets, which he was now absolutely certain hid something of immense value.
To begin, though, Albert needed to find the Chamber itself. The rest would follow.
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The next day was Sunday. At the crack of dawn, Albert sat quietly in the corridor on the eighth floor, his school bag by his side. He watched with mild amusement as Dumbledore exited the Headmaster's office in a flurry, dashing off to the bathroom.
Honestly, Albert couldn't fathom why the Headmaster's office didn't have its own lavatory. For a man over a hundred years old, being forced to make bathroom trips across the castle seemed... unfortunate. Even Gryffindor Tower had private facilities for each dormitory.
Eventually, Dumbledore returned, still in his pajamas. Albert stood quickly to intercept him.
The old wizard blinked in surprise. It was barely six in the morning—far too early for students to be wandering about, let alone seeking an audience.
"Well now," Dumbledore said with a gentle smile, "it's the weekend. I imagine most students are still fast asleep. But you, my dear boy, seem rather troubled. Come along. Let's talk in my office."
He led Albert to the stone gargoyle that guarded the entrance. With a whispered password, they ascended the moving spiral staircase and entered the Headmaster's study.
The office was far more elegant than the one portrayed in the films. Albert's eyes were immediately drawn to the large, cluttered desk and the gleaming silver instruments that ticked and whirred upon it. On a nearby perch, Dumbledore's phoenix, Fawkes, lifted a lazy eyelid to regard the visitors before settling back into slumber.
"Ah, Fawkes," Dumbledore said with a trace of fondness. "He hasn't been himself lately. I suspect he's due for a bit of Nirvana soon." The professor settled into his chair behind the grand desk and gave a casual wave. A comfortable armchair floated smoothly across the room and landed opposite him.
Once Albert had taken his seat, Dumbledore said, "It may only be the first week of term, but Hogwarts has a habit of throwing surprises our way. I've learned to expect the unexpected. Whatever brought you here so early, I'm certain we can work through it—so don't worry. Take your time."
There was power in Dumbledore's voice—not boastfulness, like Gilderoy Lockhart's empty bragging, but calm certainty. Had Dumbledore been the same age as Voldemort, Albert was convinced the dark wizard wouldn't have stood a chance.
"Now," said Dumbledore, lifting his wand, "Tea? Pumpkin juice? Lemonade?"
Each drink appeared on the table in turn as it was named. Albert chose with polite formality. "Tea will be fine, thank you."
Every time Albert met those piercing blue eyes behind Dumbledore's spectacles, he had the eerie sense of being truly seen.
Of course, this wasn't just sentiment. It was the wisdom of a man who had lived for more than a century.
Dumbledore smiled warmly. "It's been many years since I've met a student like you. And yet... you've only been here a year, haven't you? I must say, it's impressive you've already learned Occlumency."
He had tried, subtly, to peer into Albert's mind—but found himself blocked.
Albert had devoted himself to mastering Occlumency precisely for this moment. He guarded a secret unlike any other—he was a reincarnated soul, reborn into this life after death. If someone like Dumbledore were to discover this now, the consequences could be disastrous.
"So," Dumbledore asked, "what problem have you encountered that calls for the Headmaster's help?"
Albert took a slow sip of tea, then set his cup down and reached into his bag. He withdrew a small iron box, pulled on a pair of leather gloves, and carefully opened the container. From inside, he removed a single object: the diary.
Dumbledore's expression hardened. His years of experience told him this was no ordinary artifact.
The fact that it was here at all—at Hogwarts—meant something dangerous had already slipped past the school's defenses.
For the first time since entering the room, Dumbledore reached into his robes and drew the Elder Wand.
He was no longer merely a kind old wizard.
He was ready for war.
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