Ted paused, giving Lucius a moment to tremble, to breathe, to try and compose himself beneath the crushing weight of truth.
"Mr. Malfoy," Ted began evenly, his voice neither harsh nor gentle but steady as a wand's point, "I don't know of any magic that can fully restore a living soul, but I know one thing: whatever can comes at a terrible price. And this diary—it must have been important to him."
He lifted the charred remains of the book slightly, letting its darkened pages catch the glow of the torchlight. "I can't prove who carried it before, but one thing's certain. Voldemort knows."
At the sound of that name, Lucius flinched violently, the blood draining from his face. The possibilities stormed through his mind, each darker than the last.
"Voldemort isn't dead. Not completely." Ted's eyes glinted, steady and unyielding. "I saw him myself last year—what was left of him. Twisted, pale, barely human, with a face that no longer had a nose."
The words dragged shivers down Lucius's spine. Sweat gathered at his brow, gleaming in the flicker of the flames. He knew better than anyone how merciless the Dark Lord could be. Death, quick and clean, was often a blessing compared to the punishments he devised.
"And he nearly killed Draco," Ted added softly.
That cut deeper than any blade. Fear for one's own life could be endured, but fear for a child? That cracked even the coldest of hearts. Lucius clenched his fists, his breath uneven.
"No one wants him back, not truly," Ted pressed on, his voice calm but ironclad. "If he returns, we'll have to fight him, and end him, once and for all. You know it, even the proudest of Pureblood families know it. Think about the last war. Voldemort swore he would raise the Purebloods high—but what happened? Entire bloodlines snuffed out. Families ruined. Houses brought low. Pureblood supremacy was nothing but a lie to bind you to his cause."
Lucius swallowed hard, his eyes darting between the diary and Ted, as if searching for a way out of a trap that had no exit.
His voice rasped, hoarse with tension. "What do you want?"
Ted lifted his hand slightly, palm open. "Nothing from you, Mr. Malfoy. I'm not here to threaten or bargain. I'm telling you the truth. Voldemort uses, breaks, and discards his followers. Except for those diehards in Azkaban, no one wants him to return and wreak havoc on the wizarding world. Even if you don't stand on our side, we will still fight Voldemort. We won't force you to join us. But Voldemort? He certainly will. In his eyes, Death Eaters are nothing more than disposable tools. Even Draco cannot escape the fate of being a tool."
At his son's name, Lucius faltered again. The image of Draco shackled under Voldemort's cruelty gnawed at him.
He had seen too much—heard the screams of those punished for the smallest failures, watched allies tortured until they begged for death.
He had sworn never to let Draco inherit that horror.
Escaping the Ministry's judgment after the war had felt like salvation.
The Dark Lord was gone, and Lucius had lived to see his family intact.
But now—if Voldemort rose again, and learned that the diary—his supposed tool for rebirth—had been destroyed—what would become of them?
The thought was unbearable.
Ted's words pressed into the silence, each one striking like a hammer. Lucius could almost feel the Dark Lord's shadow stretching over him once again, cold and merciless.
His thoughts raced—punishments worse than death, cruel tasks designed to break a man piece by piece, the humiliation, the inevitable slaughter of his family.
It was exactly what Voldemort delighted in.
Something hardened inside him. His eyes, once darting and uncertain, narrowed with grim resolve.
The mask of polished aristocracy cracked, replaced by something rawer, fiercer.
He lowered his voice, as if confessing a crime. "Horcrux," he whispered bitterly. "That cursed diary—it's one of his Horcruxes."
Ted blinked, feigning ignorance, though his heart skipped at the revelation. "Horcrux?" he repeated, as though hearing the word for the first time.
Lucius surged forward, his fear overpowering caution. "Yes. His Horcrux. I should never have… Merlin help me. That book is a piece of his soul! I think—no, I know—he made more than one. He must have. With his obsession, his fear of death… it's certain."
The words poured out of him in a feverish rush. "Multiple Horcruxes—such blasphemy, such madness! I've never heard of such a thing, never, but if anyone would—he would. That monster, terrified of death beyond reason."
Lucius's voice broke into mutters, half to Ted, half to himself, as though the very admission tore open old nightmares. "A vile, wretched maniac… unhinged, unholy magic… Merlin forgive us, what have we served…"
All kinds of negative emotions had twisted Lucius into a bundle of nerves. Fear, paranoia, and shame gnawed at him until his behavior seemed almost unhinged. The shadow of Voldemort lingered in his heart like a poisoned brand. And now, forced to consider Voldemort as his enemy, Lucius shook at the very thought.
"Calm yourself, Mr. Malfoy," Ted said, his tone steady but not unkind. "I know what Voldemort represents. His terror hardly needs reminding. But fear won't solve anything. Cheer up."
Lucius raised his hollow eyes to Ted. "Then… what should I do?"
"Nothing," Ted answered plainly. "Do nothing and remain Lucius Malfoy. If Voldemort never returns, all the better. Pretend today never happened. But if he does rise again, you'll fall naturally back into the role of his trusted servant."
Lucius flinched, his voice cracking. "He trusts no one—not even me!"
"Of course," Ted agreed smoothly. "I don't want you playing spy, and I don't expect you to fight him directly. I only want you to understand this: Voldemort is already your enemy. You proved it the moment you discarded that diary."
Ted's voice softened, but the weight of it pressed firmly on Lucius. "When the time comes, when events force your hand, you'll choose your side. That's all today is about—clarity and understanding."
He waved dismissively then added, "Now, take Draco to the hospital wing. He needs rest. And one more favor, if you would. Transfer this house-elf to me."
Lucius's gaze flicked down at Dobby, who still lay stunned on the floor. His lips curled faintly. "He overheard too much."
Ted's expression warmed into a smile. "Don't worry. I'll handle him."
Safety above all else—that was Lucius's mantra. Yet Ted had no intention of silencing Dobby.
The house-elf had a destiny of his own.
In the hospital wing, Arthur and Molly Weasley were preparing to leave. "We'll be heading back now, Dumbledore," Arthur said, his voice gentle but firm.
Molly brushed a hand over Ron's hair. His color was better, though he was thinner and still weary.
At least the worst had passed. She looked to Dumbledore with lingering worry before following her husband.
Dumbledore nodded, his mind heavy. "Yes… Ron will be safe here at school." He repeated the words more for himself than for them.
In his heart, guilt weighed like lead. The boy had been injured under his watch, within these walls.
But the guilt spiraled further—his thoughts racing through the Chamber of Secrets, the cursed diary, the Horcruxes, Lucius Malfoy, Voldemort, Neville, and Ted.
Unbeknownst to the others, he had been using magic to listen and spy upon Ted's exchange with Lucius. What he heard unsettled him deeply. Tom Riddle had left behind contingencies—Horcruxes, more than one—and Ted had unearthed them.
And Ted himself… This young wizard whose brilliance could no longer be concealed, who rivaled even the prophesied Boy-Who-Lived. If Voldemort was meant for Neville, what role was Ted meant to play in the dark future looming ahead?
Ted had let him overhear, deliberately.
A challenge, perhaps. A sign that the boy wanted honesty rather than games. The centenarian headmaster could feel the unspoken demand—no more schemes, no more tests.
Directness.
Later, Ted finally returned to the hospital wing. The others had gone. He sank onto his bed, allowing himself a rare moment of relief.
From the next cot, a mop of red hair peeked over the blankets. "Ted?" Ron's voice was quiet, uncertain.
"Mm?" Ted hummed back.
"I—I'm sorry… for before." Ron's ears turned pink.
Ted turned his head, smiling faintly. "It's all right. Voldemort is cunning—it's no shame to have been tricked by him. Besides, you already paid for it with your own sacrifice."
Ron shifted uncomfortably, hand brushing over his backside. Thankfully, it had regrown—but the memory of Slytherin's serpent taking a bite out of him still burned. "Right… Slytherin ate my butt. I'll never forgive him for that."
Trying to lighten the mood, Ron added with a crooked grin, "No matter what mistakes I made, I've already paid for them—with my ass! That counts, doesn't it?"
Ted chuckled and nodded. "Yes. It's written off. Entirely. No one will ever mention again that Tom Riddle himself couldn't finish teaching you a lesson."
Ron groaned, burying his face in his pillow. "…Brilliant."
After a pause, Ted added, "By the way, Ron, your wand gave its life for the school. I'd strongly recommend applying to Dumbledore for a subsidy. It's only fair."
"Really?" Ron's head shot up, his eyes gleaming. Hope sparked on his freckled face.
"Of course," Ted replied with mock solemnity. "And I'll help you press the matter. The headmaster won't refuse."
'Right, Headmaster?' Ted thought with a chuckle.
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Word count: 1580
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