The memory fractured.
Elijah slowly opened his eyes.
Reality differed greatly from the game.
In the game, Vault 12 had been little more than a beginner's dungeon. But in reality, a vault guarded so carefully could not possibly contain something so trivial.
Would the guardians really go to such lengths just to preserve a single memory?
Impossible.
"Now that I know where the key is, the real problem is retrieving it under Aberforth's nose," Elijah thought.
Aberforth Dumbledore was no ordinary wizard.
Though he was not as renowned as Albus Dumbledore, he had once stood alongside him in battle against Gellert Grindelwald.
His strength was undeniable.
Elijah estimated that Aberforth's power likely rivaled his own.
"None of the Dumbledores are easy to deal with," Elijah mused, recalling Credence Barebone.
The Obscurus he controlled was proof enough of that bloodline's terrifying potential.
Having obtained what he needed, Elijah wasted no time.
He Apparated directly to Hogsmeade.
—
The Hog's Head Inn looked as it always did.
Business, however, had grown even worse.
The Three Broomsticks still saw decent traffic, but the Hog's Head was another matter. Out of ten customers, eleven might be unsavory—the extra one hidden in someone's mind, or perhaps in pieces inside a box.
With Aurors and Dementors patrolling constantly, few were willing to take the risk.
Aberforth, however, didn't care.
Business or no business, it made no difference to him.
As long as a wizard still held a wand, survival was never a concern.
He stood behind the bar, silently pouring a drink for an old, toothless wizard. The man read The Quibbler leisurely, occasionally letting out a chuckle.
For the past few days, he had been the only customer.
Aberforth couldn't even remember when the man had started coming regularly. Even Dementor patrols failed to drive him away.
Still, Aberforth paid it little mind.
At that moment, the tavern door creaked open again.
He frowned irritably.
"It's not your patrol time yet."
"Sorry," came a calm voice from outside, "but I'm not a Dementor."
A wizard stood at the doorway.
Aberforth lifted his gaze from beneath his tangled grey hair and saw a stranger.
"How about a brandy?" the man said lightly. "And if possible… add a little fresh dragon blood."
...
The newcomer was a young man, his face pale and sickly.
The old wizard reading the newspaper looked up, narrowed his eyes, and muttered, "An old friend has returned."
Aberforth, however, had no recollection of ever seeing such a person in the Hog's Head Inn.
In truth, most witches and wizards who came here never showed their real faces.
"You can call me Walls," the pale young wizard said, nodding to both Aberforth and the old man before casually taking a seat.
"A brandy, preferably with some dragon blood."
"None," Aberforth replied flatly.
"No dragon blood?"
"No dragon blood, and no brandy. Only Butterbeer and Firewhisky." He spoke as though it made no difference whether Walls stayed or left.
"Then Firewhisky. It's raining outside, I need to warm up."
Walls leaned back in his chair, pulling out copies of The Daily Prophet from the past two days. Though he appeared to be reading, his gaze kept drifting between Aberforth and the old wizard.
It was clear he wanted to start a conversation.
But the old wizard merely glanced at him once before returning to his newspaper.
Finding no opening, Walls waited until Aberforth returned with his drink. He set the paper down and spoke again.
"Any leads? On Sirius Black or Tom Riddle?"
"No," Aberforth answered curtly, clearly uninterested in talking.
Walls tapped the newspaper, the sharp sound cutting through the quiet bar.
"I heard he showed up here. Tom Riddle."
"Perhaps. The Ministry says he may have stayed in Hogsmeade, but I haven't seen him."
"The Ministry of Magic is useless," the old wizard suddenly cut in. "Goblins and Dark Wizards conspiring together, clearly preparing for another rebellion, and they still talk about negotiations. As if those greedy creatures would ever admit the dead goblins are their own."
He snorted.
"Hundreds of years ago, we crushed their rebellion, and what did we get? Gringotts in their hands. At this rate, they might as well hand over the Ministry too."
Walls did not continue that line of discussion.
In the end, power belonged to whoever held the stronger hand.
He only cared about two things—Tom Riddle's whereabouts, and Ancient Magic.
His eyes returned to the newspaper.
The report detailed recent events thoroughly. Compared to Sirius Black, Tom Riddle's actions after escaping Azkaban had been far more conspicuous.
But no one acted without purpose.
Attacking the Ministry could not have been meaningless.
Combined with the events in the Scottish Highlands, the answer was obvious.
Ancient Magic.
Walls was not surprised.
After all…
That was the power that nearly killed me.
His expression twisted for a brief moment, and another face flickered beneath his own—eyes with vertical, jaundiced pupils, cold and reptilian.
He was none other than Lord Voldemort.
After leaving Albania once again, he had returned to Britain to find… himself.
He needed to know how the fragment of soul within the Horcrux had been resurrected.
That was never part of the design.
A Horcrux was meant to anchor immortality—not create another self.
Something beyond his control had appeared.
And Voldemort could not tolerate that.
If that resurrected self truly was him—and willing to submit—then together they could overthrow Albus Dumbledore, conquer Britain, Europe, even the world.
The world was vast.
He would not mind sharing a portion of it… with himself.
But if that other self refused to submit—
Then it could not be allowed to exist.
In truth, Voldemort already had his suspicions.
If that resurrected fragment intended to serve him, it would have already come to Albania to retrieve him.
A flicker of killing intent flashed in his eyes.
He did not linger long.
Disguised as a wizard seeking knowledge of Ancient Magic, he left some money with Aberforth, asking him to keep an ear out for any news regarding Tom Riddle or Ancient Magic.
Then he departed.
The body he possessed was weak, constantly requiring replenishment. That was why he had asked for dragon blood upon entering.
Unlike with Quirrell, where he had remained dormant, this time Voldemort intended to act personally.
He needed something to restore his vitality.
Unicorn blood would be ideal—but far too rare.
Dragon blood would suffice.
He pushed open the door.
Rain poured outside, the sky dark and heavy.
With a soft crack, he vanished.
...
Moments later, a golden-winged eagle cut through the storm.
Elijah flew through the rain, unaware that he had just missed Voldemort.
A simple charm kept water and fire from touching him. Using the dim light and the cover of rain, he folded his wings and landed beneath the eaves of the Hog's Head Inn.
His golden pupils glimmered in the night.
His gaze fixed on the Hog's head hanging above the entrance.
Bloody. Grotesque.
Yet despite years of exposure to the elements, it showed no sign of decay.
It had clearly been enchanted—or perhaps it had once belonged to a magical creature.
The Hog's Head Inn had stood for centuries.
Yet that head looked almost new.
Suppressing his disgust, Elijah examined it carefully.
At last, he noticed something unusual inside its mouth.
With a claw, he hooked it out.
A golden key fell into his grasp.
Its tip spiraled faintly, like smoke and flame intertwined.
The unmistakable mark of Ancient Magic.
Elijah paused for a moment, faintly incredulous.
All this time, he had been living here, passing this grotesque ornament every day—never realizing that the key he had been searching for was right in front of him.
Now..
It was time to go to Gringotts!