The months following Christmas unfolded with a peaceful, almost mundane rhythm that was a stark contrast to the terror of the first term. The Basilisk was gone, the castle secure, and the students settled into the familiar routine of classes, homework, and house rivalries. For Ariana, this period of calm was not boring; it was an opportunity. An opportunity to study, to consolidate her knowledge, and to observe the effects of the changes she had set in motion.
Hermione, armed with her new confidence and her unwavering alliance with Ariana, blossomed into a formidable academic force, her brilliance now matched by a calm, assertive presence. Harry and Ron, freed from the immediate threat of mortal peril, threw themselves into Quidditch with a single-minded passion, their aerial battles a welcome and straightforward challenge.
The most dramatic transformation, however, was in Neville Longbottom. After a tense but ultimately successful conversation with his grandmother over the holidays, he had returned to Hogwarts with a new wand. It was thirteen inches, made of cherry wood with a unicorn hair core, and it had chosen him. The change was immediate and profound. His spells, once weak and prone to backfiring, were now clean, precise, and surprisingly powerful. His confidence soared. In Herbology, he was a prodigy. In Charms, he was suddenly competent. Even in Potions, while Snape's sneers remained, the results in Neville's cauldron were no longer as disastrous, a conscious effect of his newfound confidence. He was, as Ariana had predicted, finally playing with an instrument that was in tune with his own magic.
Ariana watched all this with a quiet satisfaction. Her circle of friends was not just a social group; it was a team, and she had spent the year ensuring each member was properly equipped and empowered.
The black diary remained locked in her trunk, a cold, dormant piece of a dark lord's soul. She knew she had to deal with it, but the method and timing had to be perfect. To simply destroy it would be to discard a valuable source of information. To reveal it without a clear, present threat would lead to questions and investigations she preferred to avoid.
So she waited, studying the nature of Horcruxes from ancient texts borrowed from the Flamel's extensive library, formulating a plan. The catalyst came on a quiet Tuesday afternoon in late May. Ariana and Hermione were in the library, their heads bent over a particularly complex piece of runic translation, when a soft pop echoed in their secluded corner. Standing before them, wringing his long, bat-like ears in his hands, was a small creature dressed in a filthy, patched pillowcase. His tennis-ball eyes were wide with a mixture of terror and reverence. It was Dobby, the house-elf.
"Miss Ariana Dumbledore," he squeaked, his voice a high-pitched, trembling whisper. He executed a low, floor-sweeping bow.
Hermione gasped, but Ariana simply looked up from her book, her expression calm and neutral.
"You are Dobby," she stated, not as a question. "The Malfoy's house-elf."
Dobby's eyes widened further, and he began to tremble violently. "Dobby has heard of the great Miss Dumbledore," he whispered. "Dobby has come to thank you. You is protecting the great Harry Potter! You is making him safe!"
"Harry's safety is a matter of logical priority," Ariana replied coolly. "Why are you here, Dobby? It is dangerous for you to be seen."
"Dobby knows!" he squeaked, wringing his hands again. "But Dobby had to come! Dobby knows you stopped the Dark Lord's creature. But Dobby also knows… about the diary."
Hermione's eyes shot to Ariana, her expression alarmed, yet questioning about what diary.
"Dobby saw the evil book with the Miss Ariana," the elf continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial hiss. "Dobby knows what that book is. It is a memory. A bad memory. It is the Master's old master."
"I am aware of its nature," Ariana said, her gaze steady.
"But what is the great witch going to do with it?" Dobby pressed, his voice full of a desperate urgency. "Dobby is so worried! He knows you is powerful and wise, but the other one… the snake… she will come for it."
Ariana's focus sharpened. "The other one? You mean Nagini?"
Dobby flinched at the name. "Yes! The Master's Master's other pet! Dobby already knows that the dark one has promised her. He promised her the book! He promised that if she helped him, he would give her the memory of his youth to keep her company! She is old, and her curse makes her lonely. She will not forget the promise. She will find you. And she is very, very clever."
The final piece of the puzzle slotted into place. Nagini wasn't just a servant; she had a personal stake in the diary. That made her a persistent, intelligent, and motivated threat.
The diary was no longer a dormant artifact to be dealt with at leisure; it was a beacon, a target that would inevitably draw a dangerous creature to Ariana's doorstep. The time for waiting was over.
"Thank you, Dobby," Ariana said, her voice holding a genuine note of gratitude. "Your information has been invaluable. You have been very brave to come here. Now you must go, before you are missed."
With another fearful squeak and a final, reverent bow, Dobby vanished with a sharp pop.
Hermione turned to Ariana, her face pale. "Nagini is coming for the diary? Ariana, what are we going to do? And what diary is it?"
"We are going to execute the final phase of the plan," Ariana said, closing her book with a soft, definitive thud. "We are going to remove the piece from the board. Permanently."
She stood up. "Come on, Hermione. We're going to see the Headmaster."
For the second time that year, the two girls made the journey to Dumbledore's office. This time, there was no fear, no panic. There was only a cold, hard resolve.
They were admitted without question. Dumbledore was sitting at his desk, Fawkes preening on his perch beside him. He looked up, a gentle smile on his face. "Miss Dumbledore, Miss Granger. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
Ariana walked to his desk and, from a specially shielded pocket in her robes, she produced the small, black diary. She placed it on the polished wood between them.
The twinkle in Dumbledore's eyes vanished instantly. A look of profound shock, followed by a deep, chilling horror, crossed his face. He stared at the innocuous-looking book as if it were a live Basilisk.
"Where," he said, his voice a low, dangerous whisper, "did you get this?"
"It was a gift," Ariana replied calmly. "From Lucius Malfoy, in Flourish and Blotts, last summer. He intended to slip it into Ginny Weasley's cauldron, but he changed his mind. He saw me as a more… strategic target."
She then laid out the entire story. She told him of her immediate recognition of the book's dark nature, her decision to contain it, and the recent intelligence from Dobby regarding Nagini's personal interest in the object. She explained her reasoning for waiting—that revealing it too soon without a clear threat would have led to a Ministry investigation into the Malfoys that would have put her, a schoolgirl, at the center of a
political firestorm.
Dumbledore listened, his face growing paler and more grave with every word. He was not just hearing a story from a student; he was listening to a field report from a master strategist who had been quietly managing a threat that could have destroyed the school.
He had thought the danger had been the Basilisk. He had been wrong. The true danger had been lying dormant in a second year's trunk all along.
When she finished, he reached out a trembling hand and rested it on the diary, not quite touching it. He could feel the dark, cancerous magic radiating from it.
"A Horcrux," he breathed, the word a terrible secret shared between them. "I had suspected… but I never knew for certain he had made more than one." He looked at Ariana, his eyes filled with an emotion she couldn't quite decipher—awe, fear, and a profound, bone-deep respect. "You have been carrying this burden all year. You understood what it was, and you contained it. You saved not only Miss Weasley, but perhaps the entire school, from a fate too dreadful to imagine."
He fell silent, the weight of the revelation settling in the room. Fawkes let out a single, low, mournful note.
"The question now," Ariana said, bringing the conversation back to the present, "is what to do with it. It is a piece of Lord Voldemort's soul."
Dumbledore looked from the diary to the young, serene face of the girl before him.
"Yes," he said, his voice finding its strength again, now filled with a new, grim purpose. "Yes, It is a dangerous piece of magic. And this will require a very delicate method to destroy, I believe it is time to go to the Chamber once again."
He stood up, his gaze fixed on the small, black book that held so much evil. The quiet interlude was over. The game had been afoot all along, and Ariana had just moved the final piece into place. It was time to destroy a part of Lord Voldemort's soul.