Voldemort had made his decision.
The school would be closing for summer holidays in just a few days.
There was no reason for him to remain at Hogwarts any longer—it would only raise suspicion.
So, just before the break began would be the best time to act.
After the failed raid on Gringotts with the Death Eaters, Voldemort had learned that the Philosopher's Stone had been moved to Hogwarts. He hadn't gone after it right away, knowing that Dumbledore would be on full alert the moment the Stone arrived at the school.
If he failed on the first try, the alarm would be raised, and who knew where that wily old fox would hide the Stone next?
But now, after staying quiet for over half a year, Dumbledore was bound to have let his guard down at least a little. This was his best chance. The only thing Voldemort didn't know was what traps Dumbledore had laid in the final chamber.
Still, he had no time left to waste. His soul was growing weaker—he needed to resurrect himself, fast.
Besides, he had a nagging feeling that Dumbledore was starting to grow suspicious. He couldn't stay here much longer.
The more time passed, the greater the risk of being discovered.
…
The next day.
Headmaster's office.
Dumbledore was deep in thought—or perhaps simply spacing out.
On his desk lay Harry's exam results.
He had always known the boy was exceptional, but this was the first time he'd seen clear, undeniable proof of it. Every professor's report agreed on one thing:
"He's a genius."
Dumbledore had only ever seen two students this gifted before—Voldemort and Severus Snape.
Both had shown extraordinary magical aptitude.
He feared that Harry might one day walk the same path as Voldemort—driven by ambition and a thirst for power.
And yet… Harry felt completely different.
Dumbledore had been teaching at Hogwarts during Tom Riddle's school years, and he remembered the boy all too clearly.
Voldemort had always been dazzling, brilliant, and unfailingly polite. He wore a perfect smile, acted charming to everyone, and every teacher adored him.
But Dumbledore had seen through the mask. He had always wanted to expel the boy from Hogwarts—but never found a valid reason to do so.
Harry, on the other hand, was even more talented than Voldemort. But his attitude was far more... willful. Dumbledore had never seen him go out of his way to be friendly or curry favor. On the contrary, he was lazy, indifferent, and absolutely unwilling to waste time on anyone he didn't care about—though he was unusually fond of the library.
That, at least, offered some reassurance.
But it didn't erase the one fear buried deepest in Dumbledore's heart:
Harry was a Horcrux.
When he'd found the infant in the ruins of Godric's Hollow, and seen the lightning-bolt scar on his forehead, Dumbledore had known immediately—Harry had become an unintended Horcrux.
He knew all too well the depth of darkness involved in making one.
A Horcrux was a fragment of Voldemort's soul. As long as one existed, Voldemort could come back from the dead.
During the war, Dumbledore had spent years hunting and destroying these cursed objects. At that moment, he'd nearly killed Harry—but mercy had stayed his hand.
The child was just a baby—utterly innocent.
As he brooded over these thoughts, a small emerald-green bird fluttered up to the window and tapped the glass with its long beak.
Dumbledore opened the window and untied a letter from the bird's leg.
Oh. Another letter from Cornelius Fudge.
To be honest, Dumbledore was quite tired of the Minister of Magic relying on him for every little decision, rather than taking initiative himself.
But as he read through the letter, Dumbledore's expression turned solemn.
This was the message he had been waiting for.
Ever since the attempted theft of the Philosopher's Stone at Gringotts last year, Dumbledore's suspicions had only solidified.
Voldemort wasn't dead.
Though he had vanished for over a decade, Dumbledore was convinced he had merely been gravely wounded. Sooner or later, he would return.
Especially since he had created multiple Horcruxes—there was no way he would die that easily.
Unfortunately, most witches and wizards had been too euphoric after their victory eleven years ago to accept this. They had been living in fear for too long—and now they clung desperately to hope.
Some newspapers had even accused Dumbledore of fearmongering, suggesting he was just trying to maintain his influence or seize the Minister's job for himself.
The memory still made Dumbledore furious. A bunch of fools.
Still, a few at the Ministry had agreed with him—though over the years, even they had come to believe Voldemort was truly gone.
Only Dumbledore remained vigilant. No one knew Voldemort better than he did.
So he had tried to think from Voldemort's perspective. If he were wounded and hiding, what would he do next?
It might take years for Voldemort to recover. He would need immense power—and a long life.
That's when Dumbledore had thought of the Philosopher's Stone.
With it, Voldemort could regain his strength.
So he had borrowed it from an old friend and stored it at Gringotts.
After the attempted robbery, Dumbledore knew Voldemort had awakened—and was already plotting.
He needed to find him quickly, before he could fully recover.
And this letter—was about just that.
The Ministry had reported signs of the Death Eaters involved in the Gringotts incident six months ago.
Dumbledore was preparing to head out immediately.
He was honestly surprised the Ministry had been this efficient. He knew better than anyone how sluggish they usually were.
That's why he'd also instructed members of the Order of the Phoenix to keep watch—but they hadn't reported anything.
No time to think more about it now. He was already packed and ready.
So, at dawn, a tall figure in a purple cloak slipped quietly out of Hogwarts and disappeared into the grasslands—without waking a soul.
Well… except for three people.
One was Professor McGonagall, who had received a private message from Dumbledore.
The second was Voldemort—the mastermind behind the entire plot.
And the third… was the president of the Secret Surveillance Society.
Our protagonist—Harry Potter.
Ever since Harry had obtained the Marauder's Map, he had grown increasingly fond of this magical item.
He often opened it just to peek into places beyond his reach, watching little black dots shuffle around the parchment and guessing what each person was doing.
It really did feel like knowing everything without leaving his bed.
Maybe everyone has a hidden voyeuristic streak—but most people never awaken to it. Harry, on the other hand, was happily indulging his, thanks to the Marauder's Map.
"Aikins K. always camps out in the loo forever. It's either hemorrhoids or he's grinding some game on his wand."
"Lucy from fifth year and Joe from fourth moved their makeout spot again. Ugh, shameless."
"That sneaky bastard Quirrell is skulking around the fourth floor again. Heh—trying to steal the Philosopher's Stone? Yeah, good luck with that…"
"…"
Just another day in the life of Harry the Watcher.
…
Exams had ended yesterday morning, so even though Harry was awake now, he was enjoying the rare luxury of lounging in bed.
He pulled the Marauder's Map from under his pillow and checked to see who was up and about.
As expected, most students were still fast asleep. The usual swarm of black dots was eerily still—everyone snug in their dorms.
Hmm… Hermione was already on the stairs. Typical Hermione, Harry thought admiringly.
Then he saw Dumbledore's dot leaving the school, while Quirrell paced about nervously inside—and Harry instantly realized what this was.
This had to be the day Voldemort lured Dumbledore out so he could go after the Philosopher's Stone.
But Harry felt nothing.
Not even the tiniest flicker of concern.
In fact… he kind of wanted to laugh.
Not my problem, he thought lazily. Time for one more nap.
With a yawn, Harry closed his eyes again.
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