Or was he merely testing him?
Elijah's grip tightened slightly on his wand before he forced himself to relax. This was a hospital. Dumbledore would not duel him here.
"John Dolores?" Fudge frowned impatiently. "Why are you standing there? Everyone's waiting for you!"
Elijah snapped back to attention. Dumbledore's gaze hadn't exposed him—it was simply waiting for his account to continue.
He exhaled inwardly.
"Then the fighting began. The Goblins used a silver whistle to summon a Norwegian Ridgeback—they must have been raising it in secret."
"Lawless creatures," Moody growled.
"Tom Riddle fought the dragon. Both the Dark Wizards and the Goblins joined the battle. I took advantage of the chaos to rescue Tonks and withdrew immediately. When I returned, the fight was already over. Tom Riddle, the dragon, the Dark Wizards, the Goblins—they were all gone. Only the ruined coastline remained."
Moody nodded. "We did find traces of dragon blood in the sea."
"Do you think Tom Riddle was killed by the dragon?" Fudge asked, hopeful.
He clearly wished for the matter to end there—even if it meant Riddle's death rather than his continued escape.
But both Dumbledore and Elijah shook their heads.
"I'm afraid I must disappoint you, Cornelius," Dumbledore said as he rose, preparing to leave. After offering a few parting words to Tonks, he walked over to Elijah and stopped.
Turning slightly, his calm, penetrating gaze met Elijah's.
"Mr. Dolores," he said gently, "would you mind stepping aside with me? There are a few matters I would like to discuss in private."
...
Elijah followed Albus Dumbledore out of the ward and stopped in the hospital corridor.
People passed by constantly—Healers and nurses in white robes hurried along, while the groans of patients under various spells echoed through the hall. It was hardly a suitable place for conversation.
Yet Dumbledore simply gave a small wave of his wand, and all the noise vanished.
Elijah felt as though the two of them had been separated from the world, like incompatible souls drifting outside reality.
"Professor Dumbledore…"
"Mr. Dolores," Dumbledore began, "regarding Tom Riddle… or perhaps we should call him Elijah. During the trial, he seemed capable of saying only that one sentence. I think we ought to respect his wishes."
He gave Elijah a playful wink.
Elijah couldn't tell what the old man was planning, but unease crept into his chest.
"You said that you immediately followed Ms. Tonks when she tracked the goblin and the Dark Wizard. Is that correct?"
"Yes, sir."
Dumbledore nodded. "So for an entire afternoon, you were secretly observing their actions?"
"Yes, sir. Those Dark Wizards and the goblin captured Tonks, but they didn't act immediately. Instead, they waited until nightfall, as though the ritual required moonlight to be completed."
Dumbledore inclined his head slightly. "Traces of Ancient Magic are not easily perceived. It requires exceptional talent."
He did not linger on the point. Instead, his tone shifted, and his next question cut straight through.
"John Dolores, you witnessed Elijah's appearance and his battle. What kind of person do you think he is?"
"Me?"
Elijah's body tensed almost instantly.
"I… don't know, sir. I only saw him from a distance and witnessed his strength."
Dumbledore nodded again, then asked, almost casually, "And you, John? Are you unharmed?"
"No, sir.."
Dumbledore said nothing further.
The sounds of the hospital returned all at once—the groans, the footsteps, the murmurs. Reality snapped back into place, and the conversation ended as abruptly as it had begun.
Elijah watched until Dumbledore disappeared around the corner of the staircase. Even then, he could not tell what answer the old man had extracted from him.
He turned and walked back toward Tonks's ward.
Reason told him that his current identity was no longer entirely secure.
But then another thought surfaced—changing identities might not fool Dumbledore at all.
This had been a test.
And that final question… it hadn't been concern. It had been verification. A check on whether Elijah had endangered the real John Dolores.
He stopped for a moment.
He knows—but he didn't expose me.
The realization settled in, and with it came a strange sense of ease.
As long as Dumbledore did not personally move against him, everything was manageable.
Perhaps the old man had already recognized the difference between Elijah and Lord Voldemort. Or perhaps he simply intended to observe further, to see what this "resurrected" soul would become.
Either way, it made little difference.
Elijah had never intended to become some Dark Lord, to plunge the world into chaos.
As long as Dumbledore did not interfere, that was enough.
Of course, he had no doubt that Dumbledore would continue testing him in every possible way.
But as long as the old man stayed his hand, it was manageable.
...
Back in the ward, Cornelius Fudge and Rufus Scrimgeour were locked in a heated argument over the goblin issue.
Scrimgeour was furious. Dokuro's cooperation with Dark Wizards to obtain wands, combined with the bloody history of goblin rebellions, made him determined to suppress them.
Fudge, however, rejected the proposal outright, citing a lack of concrete evidence.
Though the goblins controlled vast wealth, he had no desire to provoke further trouble.
The relationship between goblins and wizards had always been tense. Push too hard, and it could spark another violent conflict—something the wizarding world, having only recently emerged from dark times, could not afford.
Fudge wanted stability.
Re-election.
A peaceful tenure, a respectable legacy, and a quiet retirement—not the reputation of a warmonger.
"Let's leave this matter for now," he said. "Tonks, John Dolores, the two of you should rest. No further assignments for the time being."
He adopted a sympathetic tone.
"John, you haven't been home in quite some time, have you? Your wife must miss you. And Tonks—we haven't informed your parents about your condition. It would be best if you went back and spent some time with them. Auror work is dangerous."
"Fudge! If we leave the goblins unchecked, they may rebel again!" Scrimgeour's hair practically bristled with anger.
"Ah, Scrimgeour, you're too radical," Fudge replied. "Everything can be resolved through negotiation, can't it? That's why we established the Goblin Liaison Office."
He draped an arm around Scrimgeour's shoulder and steered him toward the exit.
"We can discuss things with the head of the Goblin Brotherhood. But remember.. during negotiations, avoid anything that might disrupt unity."
The two left together, still arguing.
The ward fell quiet.
After a moment, Alastor Moody shook his head.
"And that man is the Minister," he muttered.
...
Elijah did not remain at the hospital long.
Moody could easily stay day and night to watch over Tonks, and in truth, she would be discharged by the next day anyway.
With no assignments for the moment, Elijah returned to John Dolores's home.
John Dolores's wife greeted him warmly, joy evident on her face.
Elijah had no choice but to quietly cast a Confundus Charm, leaving her dazed.
His thoughts were elsewhere.
On Lily Potter.
On Ancient Magic.
If Lily had truly conducted research in the Department of Mysteries, then perhaps—like Ragnok—she had left something behind.
"Perhaps… I should visit Godric's Hollow," Elijah thought.
There was no urgency. It was only a possibility.
Ragnok's memory was the closest lead he had for now.
This world was not entirely the same as the one described in Legacy. The absence of transfer students since the Triwizard Tournament was proof enough.
And yet, many figures from that history had truly existed.
Ragnok.
Professor Figg—who had died to a dragon attack before even reaching Hogwarts, becoming the first professor in history to die before taking office.
Elijah took out a clean glass vial and withdrew the silvery threads within.
Then he reached out and grasped the memory directly.
The strands rippled like feathers falling into still water, sinking slowly into his mind.
He had no need for a Pensieve.
Dokuro's memories themselves were unimportant.
What mattered… was Ragnok's manuscript.
In the silver-grey world that unfolded, an ancient scroll spread out before him like an ink painting.