"Changing your name won't change your situation," Dumbledore said tonelessly, examining the two objects he held in his hands. He clearly sensed traces of magic from the ravenclaw's diadem.
Although the diary also contained magical power, it didn't seem to be a Horcrux. There was no Lord Voldemort's soul inside, it was more like an ordinary Pensieve, no longer posing any danger.
"It seems you resurrected yourself by relying on this thing? The ravenclaw's diadem that has been missing for nearly a thousand years… I guess the relics of the other two founders were also made into Horcruxes by you, weren't they?"
He sighed, examining the ravenclaw's diadem, which already showed signs of age. It was almost impossible to repair this item, and he planned to destroy the ravenclaw's diadem later. As for the diary, he didn't intend to leave it to Elijah.
"Soon, the Aurors will arrive, and you will be escorted to Azkaban. But don't worry, none of us will kill you. I admit, merely taking your life wouldn't satisfy me. We have more ways to destroy a person."
With a sharp movement of his wand, Dumbledore bound Elijah in conjured cords and relieved him of his own wand. He picked up the Marauder's Map, checking it briefly before looking up at the sky.
The fire had scoured the Shrieking Shack, leaving the roof open to the night.
Elijah did not struggle. He leaned back, watching the moon alongside the man who had defeated him.
It was a clear night, but the moon was incomplete—a waning crescent.
Not a full moon, Elijah thought. Not yet. He settled into the silence, savoring the cool air. Even if this was his last hour of freedom, he would not spend it begging.
Dumbledore stood for a while and noticed that his own figure on the marauder's map had left the office and disappeared in a deserted place. He immediately knew that he had begun to act, and now he could return to normal time to fill the void of his momentary disappearance.
"It is time to go, Tom."
Elijah remained silent, letting the Headmaster's magic sweep him away into the dark.
...
In the Headmaster's office, the air was thick with the scent of old parchment and the sharp tang of fear.
Molly and Arthur Weasley paced the floor, their faces etched with the kind of agony only parents know.
When the news had reached them that Ginny had been taken, the world had simply stopped turning.
Only Dumbledore's parting words kept them from collapse: "If there are no mistakes, I believe Miss Weasley will be fine."
When the door finally swung open, the silence was absolute. Harry, Ron, and Ginny stood there, flanked by a vacant-looking Gilderoy Lockhart.
They were covered in the grime of the tunnels, but Ginny looked remarkably vibrant. Her color was high, her eyes bright, and though she had clearly been weeping, she looked healthier than she had all year.
"Ginny!"
Molly's scream broke the tension.
She launched herself across the room, Arthur close behind, and buried their daughter in a desperate embrace.
Then, Molly pulled Harry and Ron into the huddle, sobbing her thanks. "You saved her! You saved her! How did you do it?"
"Um.. To be honest, we didn't really save her," Harry admitted, looking confused. "Ginny was already fine when we found her."
He scanned the room for Dumbledore but saw only Professor McGonagall standing by the desk.
Harry began the story, recounting the long months with "Mr. Riddle" and the strange, helpful voice in the diary. As he spoke, it became clear that none of them could quite remember what the object looked like.
"Clearly, Riddle modified their memories," McGonagall said, her voice thin with exhaustion.
"Ginny!" Arthur said, his voice trembling with a mix of relief and anger. "What have I always told you? Never trust anything that can think for itself if you can't see where it keeps its brain! Why didn't you show this to us?"
"I—I don't know," Ginny sobbed. "I forgot... and I don't think he was truly bad. He didn't hurt me."
"You're still defending him?" Ron snapped.
"Where is this 'Mr. Riddle' now?" McGonagall asked.
"I don't know, Professor," Harry said. "Ginny said he threatened her, but then... he just let her go."
"Mr. Riddle has been apprehended."
The door opened again, and Dumbledore stepped into the room, his presence immediately stilling the chaos. "I tracked his escape, we dueled, and he has been subdued. I have delivered him to the Aurors at the school gates. He will spend a very long time in Azkaban."
Dumbledore's eyes moved to Ginny, lingering for a second. "Miss Weasley should go to the hospital wing for a check-up. And I believe I have some items to return."
He handed the twins the Marauder's Map and returned the Cloak to Harry. Finally, he held out the diary to Ginny.
"Sir?" Arthur asked, reaching for his daughter. "Is that safe?"
"It is a memory-vessel now, nothing more," Dumbledore said gently. "Riddle's soul is no longer within it. Think of it as compensation for the ordeal—it is harmless."
"Professor," Harry said hesitantly. "Is it possible he wasn't... all bad? The Basilisk didn't kill anyone. It's almost like he was avoiding it."
"A kind thought, Harry," Dumbledore said, a sad smile touching his lips. "It is your nature to see the best in others. But regarding Riddle, you are mistaken. He has always been a master of manipulation. I taught him myself, fifty years ago. He was the most brilliant student we ever had, but he sank into the mire of the Dark Arts until he was unrecognizable."
He paused, letting the weight of the moment settle.
"He changed his name to one we all know. Tom Riddle is ...Voldemort."
!!!
The room went cold. Harry felt a sudden, sickening jolt in his chest. He had been defending the man who murdered his parents.
...
The Ministry of Magic was a hive of activity, but for Cornelius Fudge, the catch of the century was the only thing that mattered.
The trial had lasted two weeks. The boy, who insisted his name was Elijah, had sat through the proceedings with a terrifyingly calm smile, never looking away from Dumbledore. He hadn't confessed, but he hadn't protested either.
To Fudge, it didn't matter. The public needed a villain, and Dumbledore had provided one who looked the part of a disgraced prodigy.
"Minister, you have an appointment," Umbridge said, her voice a sharp, sugary trill.
"Not now, Dolores," Fudge grumbled, counting the folders on his desk.
"It's Lucius Malfoy."
Fudge straightened his tie immediately. "Send him in."
Lucius Malfoy walked in with the practiced arrogance of old money, his silver-headed cane clicking on the floor. He looked a little pale, though.
"Mr. Malfoy. Here to discuss the... unfortunate business with the school governors?" Fudge asked.
"Perhaps," Lucius said, sliding a heavy bag of Galleons across the desk. It landed with a dull, rich thud. "But I am more interested in this 'Tom Riddle.' Is it true? Has he been sent to Azkaban?"
Fudge's hands found the bag. "Dumbledore caught him himself. He's on the transport as we speak."
"I see." Lucius's grip tightened on his cane. "I would like to visit him."
"In principle, no. Dumbledore suspects a connection between you," Fudge said, eyeing the gold.
Lucius didn't blink. He reached into his robes and produced a second, larger bag.
Fudge cleared his throat, his eyes darting around. "I believe Narcissa has relatives in the prison? Sirius Black, isn't it? If you were to apply for a family visit... well, I don't see how I could refuse a man of your standing."
...
The prisoner transport was a cold, iron-bound cage pulled by Thestrals.
Elijah lay face down on the floor, his hands magically shackled behind him. He watched a strand of his dark hair fall across his eyes, then shimmer and transform into a small, green leaf.
He caught the Mandrake leaf in his mouth, tucking it under his tongue.
He had planned this from the moment Dumbledore's hand had closed around his throat.
To escape Azkaban, he needed to become an Animagus. It was his last resort, a desperate gamble that required moonlight and a month of silence.
The carriage groaned to a halt. The temperature plummeted.
"Your journey ends here, Tom Riddle."
The door was ripped open.
John Dolores, a gray-haired Auror with a face like granite, hauled Elijah out. The wind hit him like a physical blow, a howling gale that tasted of salt and despair.
Elijah looked up.
Above him loomed the gray, square fortress of Azkaban, sitting amidst a churning black vortex of sea and cloud.
He looked for the moon, but there was only a ceiling of heavy, suffocating darkness.
Despair clawed at his throat. Dementors circled the tower like sharks, draining the very memory of warmth from the air.
Without moonlight, the Animagus transformation was impossible. His plan was dead before it had even begun.
"Move!"
The Auror's roar broke the spell. Elijah realized the Dementors were already feeding on him, amplifying his hopelessness.
He forced himself to breathe. Azkaban was a place of shadows, but shadows required light to exist.
They walked past the clusters of white graves—the only clean things on the island—and entered the tower. The stench was immediate: a mix of rot, unwashed bodies, and the stagnant smell of fear.
The first levels were filled with "short-term" prisoners—men and women who lay like corpses, their joy already sucked dry.
"Don't you think they're a bit cold?" Elijah asked, his voice raspy. "Hogwarts' fifth house, ain't it? I heard the company here was talented. Where's the welcome party??"
Dolores gave a cruel, thin smile. "Wait until you meet the lifers. You'll see how 'talented' they are."
As they descended deeper, the prison became a madhouse.
These were the high-security cells, the home of the Death Eaters.
Elijah passed Bellatrix Lestrange, the Dolohovs, the Lestranges. They were skeletons draped in skin, their eyes wide and staring into horrors only they could see.
None of them recognized him. To them, he was just another ghost in the hall.
Dolores shoved Elijah into a cell and slammed the iron bars shut.
"It won't be long until you're just like them," the Auror spat before turning to leave.
Elijah stood at the bars, watching the man's shadow retreat. He took a long, deep breath, tasting the salt and the cold, and let a small, sharp smile touch his lips.
"You're wrong," he whispered to the empty stone. "We are not the same."
In the pitch black of the cell, his eyes remained bright, flickering with a light that Azkaban could not touch.