As Dumbledore sat in the medical wing, he stared at the cause of all the year's turmoil: a small black diary, its ink and bloodstains marring the parchment. After Snape had informed him of Pansy Parkinson hysterically running through the empty school, he and Fawkes had rushed to the location she claimed was the Chamber that had eluded headmasters for hundreds of years.
Bringing both the unconscious Lucas and Hermione out from the massive, secret chamber hidden right beneath his feet since his youth, Pansy had admitted to being responsible for everything that had happened this year—at the behest of a boy named Tom Riddle. The name rang in Dumbledore's mind like an old wound reopening, yet he had calmly questioned her, hiding his shock behind practiced serenity. During her tearful confession, Lucas' pet snake spoke up as well, unknowingly filling in more of the picture.
"He was the same teacher that gave Lucas private lessons last year! He changed a lot! But also not…"
Hearing how Lucas had immediately recognized Tom as Voldemort, and how the Dark Lord had called the boy his protégé, sent a chill through Dumbledore's chest. The darkness had beckoned Lucas with sweet, persuasive words, and Pansy had no memory of anything until their confrontation.
Lowering the diary of his greatest failure, Dumbledore glanced at Pansy, her head resting on the bed where Lucas lay sleeping. She had returned after placing Lucas' snake in his room, anxiously staying by his side until drowsiness overtook her. With a gentle wave of his hand, he helped her drift into a deeper sleep.
He had to know the truth. To look for signs he might have missed—warnings that could not be ignored. Even at the cost of invading privacy. With great reluctance, Dumbledore placed a hand on Lucas' forehead, closing his eyes to witness the boy's recent memories.
He watched, felt Lucas' horror at what Voldemort had done. He sensed the wavering of the boy's heart, nearly swayed by Tom's silver tongue—the same one that had ensnared so many others. It was only the presence of the small child Lucas kept by his side, like a living piece of his innocence, that brought clarity. But that innocence soon gave way to anger—a vengeful hate toward Voldemort for both past and present sins. In his fury, Dumbledore saw Lucas' first year again: being secretly taught by Voldemort, the intelligent professor he admired and trusted—until he stumbled upon the unicorn Tom was murdering. Without that one night, Lucas might have taken the outstretched hand. A chilling possibility.
Opening his eyes, Dumbledore took a moment to ensure his mind hadn't become muddled with Lucas'. Once grounded, he tapped his fingers on the cursed diary. Lucas had resisted temptation—for now. But what of the next time?
His gaze shifted to the sleeping girl a few beds away—Hermione Granger. Harry had visited her often, when not with Ron or Chiara Lobosca. She had drawn Gryffindor's sword, and Dumbledore had seen something awaken in Lucas when she nearly died—something primal. Something Lucas himself didn't fully understand. But Dumbledore could see she meant more to Lucas than he admitted. He had observed enough to know Hermione's feelings were complicated too, especially after seeing her through Lucas' memories.
'This, perhaps… may be good,' he thought, contemplating how to keep Lucas tethered to the right path. The boy was at war with himself, and without someone to anchor him, he could fall. Pansy was changing because of Lucas. His pet snake was once the only steady presence. If Dumbledore could surround Lucas with more positive influences, then even if one faltered, others would remain.
He looked back at the diary in his hands, seeing too much of Tom in Lucas. And Tom, he knew, saw something in Lucas too—hoping to conscript him as early as his first year.
'Ranks of what…?' Dumbledore pondered grimly, his thoughts spiraling into darker speculation—until the stirring of a body beside him snapped him back. Lucas awoke with immediate concern for Pansy, bringing a small smile to Dumbledore's face.
In the days that followed, Lucas asked to use the sword to shear the Basilisk's scales and make use of the creature, along with housing his Acromantula—unknowingly walking in Hagrid's footsteps. Dumbledore had visited the Chamber himself, ensuring no other dark remnants remained, and ultimately trusted Lucas' strange affinity for magical beasts.
Then came a surprise: a knock at his office door. Upon beckoning them in, he looked up to see Hermione.
"What can I do for you, Ms. Granger?" he asked, already noticing the small vial of orange liquid she fidgeted with.
She frowned, holding the vial tighter. "Lucas tried to give me this. It's a forgetfulness potion."
Dumbledore nodded slowly and gestured toward the chair across from him. Much had happened recently. Harry had admitted to hearing the Basilisk's whispers, helping Dumbledore unravel more of Tom's manipulations. Harry had also mentioned Hermione faked memory loss, forcing Dumbledore to lie to others in turn.
"I see…" he muttered softly as Hermione sat, looking uncomfortable.
"I'm so sorry I could only think of your name—" she began, but he raised a hand to stop her.
"Please, Ms. Granger. I believe I understand the situation well enough. Lucas tried to remove your memories of him, and you pretended to let him."
She nodded meekly, guilt plain on her face.
"In the bed, he was watching me, and I thought it best to fake taking it… but then I had to lie to everyone else. It doesn't feel right," she said, her frown deepening.
Dumbledore nodded again, not particularly pleased with Lucas' actions, but feeling the need to draw Hermione closer—both for her sake and Lucas'.
He stood slowly, turning to the window, watching the castle grounds below. "You must understand, Hermione… not all lies are told with ill intent. You must place yourself in young Peterson's shoes. Raised in a pure-blood home. Taught from a young age to never show weakness. It is in his nature to keep his mask intact—never allowing it to crack."
He studied her reflection in the glass—her eyes fixed on the small bottle clutched tightly in her hand.
"However…" he said, turning back around and opening a desk drawer, "what lies beneath… no matter how hidden… still remains."
He removed a delicate, gold-plated necklace. At its end was a small holder for a glass vial. He took the empty vial from it and offered the necklace to Hermione.
"He may not know it yet, but he will need friends. Even if he isn't ready for them."
Hermione licked her lips and accepted the necklace, placing the vial inside the holder. She wrapped it around her neck, flinching slightly as the cold glass touched her skin—but it warmed quickly, resting securely against her chest.
"There is a class next year…" Dumbledore said, drawing her eyes back to him. His smile widened gently. "One I think you will be very interested in…"