Chess
Albus stared at the chessboard before him, fingers steepled as he contemplated his best move.
While he had uncovered a family secret of the Blacks, he was no closer to deciding who should replace the Potter boy. Or, which one of his students could be the next Dark Lord. He was certain both answers lay within the Black family.
There was always a Dark Lord, a simple fact. The dark and light sides of magic required a balance, and therefore, there was always a lord of each. However, there were rare occurrences of Grey Lords. A Grey Lord was both the Light and Dark Lords rolled into one. An individual who was in complete harmony with both the light and dark sides of magic; therefore, they held dominion over each.
Albus himself had claimed the title of the Lord of the Light for so long that most of the populace took it as fact. The truth of the matter was that Albus didn’t honestly know who the current Light Lord could be. Nicholas Flamel had held the title for centuries before it was lost to him, and Gellert and Tom had both held the Dark Lord roles for decades.
There was the slight possibility that the next Dark Lord would not abuse their gifts and help keep the balance. Especially if the Blacks were involved. But that was only a small possibility. Most Dark Lords leaped over the edge into the black, trying to take the world with them.
The transfigured chess pieces stared up at him, patiently waiting for his decision.
He had a plan this year. Or, at least, the outline of a plan.
He had spent the last ten years devising a way to reinstate the Triwizard tournament. While initially, it was to be used as a training tool for the Potter brat, he would instead use it to test his students. He knew how Tom worked and that Tom was just as interested in the Black family as he was. After all, the information he copied from the shrieking shack had been most informative.
Albus glanced at Molly Weasley's plump face. While she was loyal, there was no way to bring her into the school without the other parents speaking up, especially now that she and Arthur were having a bit of a disagreement over their children.
His eyes continued across the board. Elphias Doge was his glimpse into the everyday happenings of the Wizengamot and its members; he could not be withdrawn. Broderick Bode was needed in the Department of Mysteries; he was charged with watching over the shade of Tom.
Kingsley's kind face stared up at him, and Albus paused. Shacklebolt was a loyal informant and an auror. Undoubtedly, the parents would feel that with the addition of the tournament, auror protection would be provided.
He had almost made his decision before his gaze swept across the board one last time, the chess piece wearing Alastair Moody's grisly visage catching his eye.
Albus grinned slowly.
He knew that Moody had been spending far more time in the Department of Mysteries than necessary, pushing Bode out of the room so he could interrogate Tom. Inviting him to Hogwarts for the year would have Bode breathing easier and allow the old auror a taste of retirement from official auror work.
Albus vanished the other transfigured pawns as he picked up Moody's. He pondered what Moody did with his time locked away with Tom's shade. Did he question it? Did he demand to know the escaped Deatheater's names? Or was he trying to discern how Tom had acquired his new form?
Something Bode had told him a few weeks prior regarding the nature of Tom’s form had Albus in investigative mode. For the shade of Tom held only a portion of his soul; The rest was unaccounted for.
Albus knew from the moment Tom Riddle picked up that book in the restricted section that the boy was up to no good.
He had always hated that Hogwarts even had books so dark readily available to students. No, dark magic should never be learned before the core is fully developed, as it tends to imprint itself too deeply if practiced too young. Look at Gellert compared to himself.
Over the generations, Hogwarts had inherited many books from alumni, left in wills, or donated during spring cleanings, and Albus could only assume the book appeared in this manner. Unlike the olde magic books, the prior headmasters had not deemed it necessary to pull from the library, shoving it into the restricted section instead.
His fingers absentmindedly caressed the wand on his desk as he tried to remember rituals from the book. His wand would remember, after all, it had once been owned by the book's author. Magick Most Evile, indeed.
Albus’s Hogwarts library was far safer than any of his predecessors. There were no black magic books for children to stumble across, and the remaining dark magic books in the restricted section were only those Albus deemed necessary. They either had crucial information students would need for their NEWTS or were in languages no students could read, and therefore, Albus felt they could stay—anything to stop the librarian from hexing him.
He had placed each banned book into the library that had once resided in his office, just as the prior headmasters had placed the olde magic texts over the years. Albus glared at the sealed door for good measure. Now, no one could study the dark texts or the olde magic that had been whittled away from the library over the years.
At times, he found himself wishing he could reference those texts again. They had been beyond helpful with creating the potions needed to test his students or implementing undetectable charms, as one must use olde magic to reveal them.
Albus sighed in annoyance as his mind shifted to Tom yet again. He knew that Tom had read the book, and Albus now knew that the boy had gone to his favorite professor for assistance on the one ritual Godelot had considered out of bounds. It had taken Albus some time to track down his old colleague and even more time to convince him to offer up the memory.
While the thought was on his mind, he summoned his pensieve from its cabinet and pulled a shimmering vial from the hidden drawer in his desk. He stared at the swirling blue strands before pouring them into the basin and dipping his finger into the substance.
Albus stood in the opulent office of his prior coworker. He disregarded the conversation taking place as he examined the structure of the memory. The room was clouded, and time seemed to drag. Both evidence that the man had tampered with the memory. He shook his head, clearing his mind of the pensieve fog and the overbearing voice-over that rang with the falsity of the recollection. He observed the edges of the memory where it dulled and tried to peel away the tampered façade. He was unsuccessful. He withdrew from the memory and stared at the swirling bowl before him.
It had always bothered him that he could not repair altered memories, regardless of how often he tried with the elder wand. Whatever knowledge Tom gained was lost to Albus. Whether or not Slughorn had told the boy how to create a horcrux, it seemed the child had intended to create one. Possibly more, as he knew the boy could never settle for one. But the question was, how many?
He absentmindedly flicked his wand and sent the pensieve back to its closet.
Albus knew with absolute surety that at least one horcrux was gone. The corpse of the Potter child no longer bore the sliver of a soul it had once housed; therefore, he could only assume it expired at the same time as the child.
He couldn’t help but smile at that. It was rather insightful information, really. If someone wanted to live only as long as another, they must only turn that individual into their horcrux. The horcrux would then die away with the individual, leaving the original caster once again mortal.
Sitting back at his desk, Albus retrieved the pawn with Moody’s face and spoke aloud for the first time in hours, “Alastor, we have much work ahead of us this year. I only hope you are up to the task.”