Dumbledore furrowed his brow. He felt he had grasped the faintest thread of a clue: the Basilisk he had seen in the Chamber of Secrets last year, Herpo's inventions, the story he had once heard about Tom borrowing books on Herpo.
Immortality.
Eternal life.
A fragment of a soul.
Harry Potter's lightning-bolt scar.
Lily Potter's magic of love.
Dumbledore began pacing alone in the Headmaster's Office. He walked faster and faster, until at last he was like a gust of wind, sending the quill on his desk whirling with a soft "whoosh." The other headmasters in the portraits watched him, unsure what was happening.
But none of them disturbed him.
Dumbledore had a conjecture, an utterly unthinkable theory. It was so absurd that he had never considered it possible.
"Horcruxes."
There were only a few ways to achieve immortality. Alchemy and Dark Magic—by any ordinary measure, these were the only two paths that could grant someone eternal life.
Other methods could only prolong a person's life, like that of a former Hogwarts headmaster, who had lived for several centuries.
Dumbledore remembered that his friend Nicolas Flamel and his wife had achieved immortality through the Philosopher's Stone, the greatest creation of alchemy. But the Stone had severe side effects. His friend had long since become a desiccated living mummy. His organs were worn out, his bones fragile, and only his soul remained firmly attached to his body, unable to leave.
It was a form of immortality, but also a kind of torment.
It was not what Dumbledore wanted.
Dumbledore was young. Given his magical ability, he was only in the prime of his life as a wizard. He still had many, many years ahead of him and had no need to worry about his lifespan.
His ambitions were greater than Voldemort's, too.
He did not seek immortality. He wanted something else: to snatch back from the hands of Death a soul that did not belong here.
What he wanted was even more wicked than what Voldemort wanted.
Voldemort wanted to escape death. Dumbledore wanted to reverse it.
Besides the Philosopher's Stone, Dumbledore knew of another way to live longer and evade Death's grasp.
A Dark Magic creation: a Horcrux.
By splitting off a part of one's soul and placing it inside an object, the creator of a Horcrux could not die as long as that object remained intact. This method was extremely mysterious. It had been passed down through the ages, but was not widely known.
Not everyone could make a Horcrux. Even Dumbledore only knew of their existence; he had never studied them in depth.
He had studied an entirely different path.
The two fields were completely unlike each other.
Not many Dark Wizards knew about Horcruxes, but certainly not just a handful. Ever since Herpo the Foul invented them, countless Dark Wizards over thousands of years must have tried to use them to gain everlasting life. Yet they had all failed.
Could Tom have succeeded?
Could it be that Tom had started preparing to make a Horcrux in his third or fourth year?
How was that possible?
Tom had been only thirteen or fourteen then, fifteen at most. He had received no magical education at the orphanage. After only two or three years at school, he could not even have built up a complete foundation of knowledge. Had he really learned to make a Horcrux?
If so, Tom could not be described merely as a genius.
Dumbledore knew that Voldemort was a genius, one who was every bit his equal. But had he truly been that extraordinary?
Even Dumbledore found it hard to believe.
He picked up the book again and carefully read the section on Horcruxes.
He was now more certain than ever that Voldemort's return was inevitable. If someone was not truly alive, then he could not truly die.
That was what Dumbledore believed.
Besides, there was something else that worried him.
He had told Professor McGonagall that he did not consider Sirius and Dewey escaping from Azkaban to be a major concern.
That was true.
He had not lied about that. He really did think so. They were only two Death Eaters. What worried Dumbledore was something else.
From Professor Quirrell in Harry's first year to the Basilisk he had encountered in his second, everything pointed to the same thing: Voldemort had not died. He was waiting to rise again.
Could it really be that Voldemort had played no part in the escape of the two Azkaban prisoners?
Had they really escaped on their own?
If Voldemort had helped them, what task had he given them?
There was no need to worry about Sirius. He had been exonerated.
Dumbledore knew that much.
Sirius was an Animagus. Yes, Dumbledore had known that for a long time. He had known before Snape came to complain to him all those years ago. Sirius was an Animagus and could transform into an animal to escape. But what about Dewey?
How had Dewey escaped?
Was he an Animagus, too?
No, he wasn't.
Dumbledore paced back and forth, pondering the matter. If Dewey had not received help from Voldemort, how had he escaped?
If Voldemort really had the power to get people out of Azkaban, why hadn't he freed Bellatrix and her family?
Even Dumbledore could not help favoring some people over others. Clearly, no matter what great things Dewey had done, he could not compare with Bellatrix and her family.
Dewey was of little use to Voldemort.
What exactly was Voldemort trying to do?
Everything was shrouded in mystery.
Dumbledore temporarily put all this information away in his mind, to investigate further later. For now, he would follow the path Tom had taken and find out what Dark Magic gift he had received.
As for teaching, Dumbledore was not worried. He had even appointed Hagrid as the Care of Magical Creatures professor. What was there to worry about with Lupin?
Dewey went to his bedroom, closed the door, and stared blankly at the fireplace.
He took a sip of Potions and left the fireplace.
He had Floo Powder with him, but he did not dare use the fireplace here. According to Hogwarts tradition, the Floo Network was not monitored, but Dewey still did not want to test that tradition.
Because the Floo Network offered only two possibilities.
Monitored or unmonitored.
If he tried to use the Floo Network here, there would also be only two possibilities.
He would definitely be discovered or he would not be discovered.
If he contacted Sirius through the Floo Network, either everything would go smoothly, or Snape would come charging in first, with Dumbledore behind him, kicking down the door and blasting him to the ground with a spell.
Dewey sat quietly beside the table. Dumbledore treated Hogwarts professors very well. The pay was high, and the accommodations were comfortable. His quarters had two floors: a sitting room downstairs and a bedroom upstairs. He could also apply for additional teaching aids or rooms for experiments and storage.
Of course, being a professor was no easy task. Teaching seven years across four houses was no small amount of work.
He still had no clear idea how to teach.
Dewey shook the Marauder's Map out of his clothes.
"I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."
He pointed his wand at the Marauder's Map and spoke. Words and drawings began to appear on the map in winding lines. Dewey studied them closely as names appeared, one by one. Some were familiar to him, others not. What puzzled him was that he could not find the Peter Sirius Black wanted.
"Where's Peter?"
He carefully checked the Gryffindor boys' dormitory, but Peter's name was nowhere to be seen. He looked around elsewhere, too, but still could not find Peter.
"Did he run away? No, he wouldn't. Voldemort hasn't fully returned yet. He's still drifting around Britain. Someone like Peter Pettigrew wouldn't leave his safe haven.
"Where are you, my sweet little darling? Come on, sweetheart, tell me where you are."
Dewey tapped the table, carefully considering what might have happened. After staring at the map for a long while, he put it away and began preparing his lessons for the next day.
That was right. He really did intend to teach Hogwarts students.
Even though he knew almost nothing about magic.
Dementors could destroy a person, body and soul, from the inside out.
Back in Ravenclaw, Dewey had been happy, so almost all those happy memories had been sucked away.
As for Dark Magic, Dewey had tried casting spells without using Cards, too.
Dewey calmly opened his book and crammed for the lesson at the last minute.
A little while later, someone began dancing in the room.
"Ah-ha!" In the bedroom, where he was all alone, Dewey let out a delighted yelp as he read. He seemed to be in an excellent mood.
He hummed Hedwig's Theme, stood up with his wand in hand, and danced before reading a couple more pages of the Hogwarts textbook.
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