CH92 - Catch-22

'I need a place to hide something where it won't be found.'

'I need a place to hide something where it won't be found.'

'I need a place to hide something where it won't be found.'

The shadows from the torches lining the corridor crept up the blank wall, materializing into a beautifully decorated set of double doors enclosed by an equally ornate stone archway. Not bothering to wait for the process to finish, Edmund pushed the barely corporeal entrance open, shutting it behind him just as hurriedly.

By this point, he knew the castle like the back of his hand, having memorized the times when certain sections would be the least busy. Being caught out in areas he was not supposed to be in was not something he had been anxious about for a long time. Not until recently, when Crouch had made his return to the school.

Now, however, he worried, especially since his actions would be considered nothing short of treasonous by the man he was so cautious of.

Despite that, his footsteps remained confident and measured. The Room of Hidden Things was one he was intimately familiar with. It was here that he had discovered the kneazle statue, which he had transfigured to sneak into the Gryffindor common. It was here that he had found the trusty magically expanded satchel he kept on his person at all times. The room was a hidden gem he had been sure to explore thoroughly during his first perusal.

...That is, except for one portion he had taken a wide berth around, the exact location he was heading to now.

He felt it well before he saw it.

A whisper. A call. A plea. A promise. A subconscious pull in the back of his mind to come closer, to investigate.

Gritting his teeth so hard that his jaw began to tremble, Edmund focused his entire attention on his occlumency, strengthening it as much as he could. The haziness around him suddenly dissipated as though it had never been there, revealing the truth for what it was. The siren's song trying to lure him into the rocky shoals was nothing but an illusion—an elegant machination to distract from the horrifying nature of the entity it was meant to protect.

The note of warning from his danger sense finally quieted, relegated to a low, vibrating hum near his temples. He found the sound reassuring, a constant reminder not to relax around the insidious object a mere few feet away from him.

Next to the chipped bust of an old warlock, it sat there innocuously enough. Layers of dust had piled on it over the years, allowing it to blend in with its surroundings. However, to his knowing eyes, the grime that had accumulated on it hardly detracted from its etherealness.

Its pointed top was shaped in the form of an eagle's head, composed of what could only be goblin silver. Its mighty wings spread far and wide, making up most of the tiara's body. An ovular blue sapphire sat in its center, placed where the heart of the noble bird would have lain.

Rowena Ravenclaw's diadem.

He resisted the urge to brush away the dirt caked onto its delicate edges, already knowing the inscription he would find beneath it.

"Wit beyond measure is man's greatest treasure," Edmund murmured.

Slowly, carefully, he retreated the same way he had come, not letting his guard down until he was sure he was outside the foul circlet's range of influence.

Only after he left the room did he sigh in relief, mentally thanking his past self for having enough patience to develop his occlumency before giving in to curiosity. If Elspeth had not tortured him as much as she had, he doubted he would have been able to resist the horcrux's draw.

Clearheaded at last, he paused to think of the implications of what he had learned. Although this was the first time he had approached the diadem so close, he had confirmed its continued presence constantly in the past week since Crouch's appointment as Professor of History of Magic.

Ever since he had seen the Gaunt family ring in Slytherin manor, the diadem horcrux was never far from his mind. If Voldemort had taken the initiative to retrieve one of his soul anchors, it was logical to assume that he might pursue the same thing with the others. Yet, despite his paranoid monitoring of the phylactery, nothing seemed to happen.

It was driving Edmund mad.

What was Marvolo's plan?

After the dark lord's resurrection, Edmund had assumed that his interest in his 'heir' would diminish substantially. Although Voldemort needed him to stay alive, he did not require him to be happy.

Edmund was under no false delusions.

Voldemort did not have the capacity to care for anyone other than himself. He valued Edmund, without a doubt, but only as far as one would care for their possessions. The dark lord was a jealous man, and his fury would be a true spectacle to see if someone dared to harm what was his.

'So why does he continue pushing me to become stronger?' Edmund mused for the hundredth time.

Objectively, Voldemort ought to have been afraid of Edmund's potential. To the best of the dark lord's knowledge, he had the talent and the will of one of the most accomplished wizards of all time. Furthermore, with the help of his 'older self,' his foundation was even more potent than Voldemort's had been, thanks to the rituals he had undergone.

'Why does he not suppress the rate of my growth?'

'Why does he not bind my soul to his?'

'Why does he not kill me?'

'Why? Why? Why?'

The obvious answer was that Edmund was no threat to him. Maybe Voldemort felt confident in his younger version's loyalties. Or perhaps, he felt self-assured that he could eliminate Edmund if it became a necessity.

But that was only a surety for now. What about a year or two years down the line? What then?

If there was one thing Edmund had learned about Marvolo Slytherin in the past three months, it was that the man was not prone to bouts of foolishness. Quite the opposite, in fact. The dark lord could be deviously cunning in his schemes when he wanted to be. Someone like him would never be satisfied with a plan he was only partially sure of.

'Unless....'

Edmund ran his right hand over the taut skin of his stomach, just a few inches away from where the cube that allowed him to mentally communicate with Marvolo was embedded within him.

'...he already has a surefire strategy to get rid of me if worst comes to worst,' he grimaced.

Digging through his satchel, he retrieved a series of pictures that he had taken of the cube after completing the world anchor ritual set back in December. At the time, he had hoped that he would be able to translate the runes on its surface to get a better understanding of how the mysterious artifact functioned. Unfortunately, it had only taken the speaker one glance at the moving photographs to discern that most of the runes on the exterior were bogus, meant to mislead those inexperienced enough to fall for the ploy—people like Edmund.

Too bad Voldemort had not anticipated the presence of the speaker.

Over the next several months, the wizened centaur had studied the cube whenever it was removed from his body for a ritual. And although she had not been able to crack its inner workings, she had determined its functions.

Its primary use, of course, was to create a mental link between him and Voldemort.

Its second, more hidden use that the speaker had only recently discovered was to magically power a leech that had latched on to Edmund's very soul.

It was a tiny little thing, according to the speaker's scans. She had sounded almost impressed by it, admitting that she would not have found it if she did not know what to look for.

The centaur had many theories about its purpose.

It may be something as simple as a tracker that he could not get rid of. It might be able to prevent him from accessing his magic when activated. It could even act as a kill switch, ending his existence with a simple command from the dark lord.

Thinking of such a thing growing on his soul disgusted and terrified him, but there was little he could do about it for the time being. Regardless, learning that information had filled in many of the gaps in Edmund's understanding.

In all his time under the tutelage of the dark lord, he had always been instructed to steer clear from soul magic, being repeatedly reminded of its perils and pitfalls.

But how could Edmund settle for that explanation?

He was one of the few who knew that Voldemort had started creating his horcruxes during his Hogwarts year—one of, if not the most dangerous forms of soul magic in existence. Clearly, delving into the subject was not as dangerous as it was being made to seem.

So why was Voldemort directing him away from it?

Part of it was unmistakably the dark lord being unwilling for Edmund to learn about horcruxes. But now, he also knew that there was another, even more, sinister reason...

Edmund sighed. 'The noose around my neck only gets tighter and tighter. At least I know part of what he's up to. Now all I have to do is find a way to circumvent all of the dark lord's plans while keeping myself and everyone I care about safe.'

He snorted. 'Simple, right?'