Chapter 21
Albus Dumbledore observed the memory Sirius had supplied him of the fight, looking at it multiple times and from different angles. He leaned over the Pensieve in his office, the swirling silver strands of the recollection drawing him in once more, the faint hum of ancient magic filling the quiet room as portraits of former headmasters murmured softly in their frames. The ambush of course had gone well, and Dumbledore would have thanked Harry for providing the information had he been present in his office, as well as young Draco for giving it to Harry; it would be a great pity though if such a talented young man were dragged down further by the acts of his father and his mother's family. The boy's potential shone through despite the shadows of his upbringing, a sharp mind and subtle cunning that could be turned toward better paths if guided properly, away from the poisonous influences that had ensnared so many before him.
But he digressed, and looked through the memory in slow motion, eyes narrowed behind his spectacles as he prioritized the more… interesting portion. The earlier stages of the battle played out with predictable efficiency, the Order's trap snapping shut, curses flashing like lightning in the night. But it was the unexpected intervention that held his focus now, a puzzle piece that didn't quite fit the expected narrative. A random good Samaritan, presumably, who had shattered the wards by the looks of things, but then had entered the fray to rescue Sirius from a near certain death at the hands of his cousin. The wards' collapse rippled through the memory like a sudden storm, invisible barriers fracturing with a silent, violent shudder that sent echoes through the ethereal reconstruction.
The man was nondescript for the most part, far shorter than Albus himself, but so were most, and his face completely obscured along with much of his body behind an Invisibility Cloak. The fabric shimmered faintly in the moonlight of the recalled scene, a high-quality weave that rendered him nearly undetectable even to Dumbledore's discerning gaze within the memory. The cloak was a rather good one at that, and broke up his outline excellently, blending seamlessly with the shifting shadows of the graveyard, suggesting either one of Auror make or access to premium black-market enchantments. His wand work was also respectable, but bore the marks of a young but talented youth, almost certainly with auror training; certain flourishes always acted as a tell for a man who had taught hundreds of students including many who had become aurors, the sharp, economical twists of the wrist, the predictive angling that anticipated counters before they formed. Those sort of things.
After a hundred years since his own stint as a student at Hogwarts, Dumbledore recognized the subtle variations, different generations of style and slight tics often absorbed by one's teacher, like the faint hesitation before a parry that echoed Moody's gruff drills or the fluid follow-through reminiscent of Shacklebolt's measured precision.
Whoever this wizard was, he had been trained by either Alastor or a student of his. The patterns were unmistakable, honed in the Ministry's rigorous programs, where survival depended on instinct as much as speed of incantation.
Alastor likely would conclude the same as he, and Albus would need to discuss whether his friend knew who it could perhaps be. The grizzled Auror's network ran deep, his paranoia ensuring he tracked proteges and rivals alike; the soon to occur meeting with the Order might yield a name or two. Use of a cloak or Disillusionment charm more often than not ruled out muggleborns that were self-taught, they generally lacked the ingenuity one obtains from being raised around magic, far too linear in thinking, their approaches often rooted in Muggle logic rather than the whimsical fluidity of wizarding tradition.
He then let the memory move forward once again, failing to identify the type of wand the unknown wizard had as Sirius himself did not get a close look. It was not a particularly light coloured wood and was not a short wand, the grain appearing a certain way in the brief glimpses, perhaps ebony or walnut, though the angle obscured definitive identification. Hmmm, perhaps around a foot in length judging from wrist to the glowing tip of the wand, and extrapolating the typical grip length and center of balance as the wand flourished, the movements suggesting a balanced core that favored dueling over delicate charms.
No less than nine and no more than thirteen inches. So an average. Dumbledore sighed, ruling out only a few, eliminating the extremes like Ollivander's shortest stubs or the elongated wands favored by some continental duelists. It narrowed the field marginally, but in a world of wizards, averages were frustratingly common.
The spell use was rather standard for a younger wizard, sticking to standard cutting curses, piercing hexes, and blasting curses, though with a few more borderline dark curses slipped in, not outright Unforgivables but skirting the edge with intent to maim. But it was the speed and power in them that drew the headmaster's attention most of all, the curses launching with a velocity that blurred the air, impacts cratering the ground and splintering wood as if fueled by raw, untempered fury.
It was comparable to how Sirius himself was before as an Auror and now, blistering speed and a withering assault with constant movement, a barrage that left no room for breath or retreat. If, just from this brief showing alone, if he were to hazard a wager, it would be to estimate this lad to be as skilled as a standard Auror, but with a raw power that pushed his threat assessment to that of… perhaps Kingsley or Scrimgeour, men whose magic carried the weight of authority and experience, amplified here by youthful vigor and perhaps a touch of desperation.
After several more minutes of continued observation of the memory, Dumbledore extracted himself from it, lifting his head up out from the pensieve. The cool air of his office rushed back, the familiar scents of lemon drops and aged parchment along with the subtle puffs and clicks of his many artifacts grounding him as the silvery mist dissipated. Fawkes trilled softly from his perch, a comforting melody that eased the faint ache behind his eyes from prolonged immersion.
With a casual flick of his hand and very minor flexing of his will, he cast a tempus charm and showed the time to be just a few minutes before he needed to leave for the meeting at Grimmauld Place. The glowing numerals hung in the air briefly before fading, a reminder of the ticking clock amid greater wars.
'Best to be there sooner.' He thought, whistling and signaling for Fawkes to take him outside of the castle's boundaries, to a particular location of his preference. The phoenix responded with a burst of song, wings unfurling in a cascade of fiery plumage.
In a flash of red and gold, his companion appeared above him with a gust of heat washing over him, before feeling a set of talons dig slightly into his shoulders and with heat wrapping around him fully, he disappeared in a flash. The sensation was always invigorating, a blend of warmth and weightlessness that transcended ordinary travel.
Fawkes, at his internal request and preferred location, flashed him up into the open air out in the North Sea. He then let himself free fall and the wind roared in his ears and all across him as he raced faster and faster to the shimmering black sea, reminded of the thrill of his youth, learning the beginnings of unaided flight with Gellert, the wild experiments in the Alps from illegal apparition, defying gravity with laughter and drive, and then he brandished his wand at the last moment, right before impact, and all inertia ceased to effect him with but a flick of the Elder Wand. He froze to a halt, and hovered inches above the roaring waves as they shifted and parted around him. The sea spray misted his robes, the salt tang sharp in his nostrils, a momentary escape from the burdens of leadership.
There are... privileges one has when they are Albus Dumbledore. Such indulgences kept the spark alive, a reminder that magic was not just duty, but a delight.
Then he apparated to the park across the street from Grimmauld Place, the crack echoing softly in the Muggle night.
Best to make himself known.
xRSxxRSxxRSx
Albus Dumbledore sat at the head of an Order meeting at Grimmauld Place, the long table stretching before him in the dimly lit kitchen, flickering candlelight casting elongated shadows across the walls like a set of inky tendrils wrapping around them. With him at the table were Sirius, Remus, Alastor, Nymphadora, Kingsley, and Severus, their faces a mix of grim determination and weary resolve, the air almost visibly thick with tension. It was a need to know meeting, most of the others being left out as it was a serious matter, the kind that demanded discretion to avoid leaks or unnecessary panic among the broader ranks of the Order.
"The Dark Lord is displeased with the turn of events," Snape said evenly, his tone almost bored as his eyes remained fixed on Dumbledore's for but a moment before flicking to the others, lingering briefly on Sirius with a flicker of disdain that went unnoticed by most. "He has informed his agents in the Ministry to search for the… assailant, that came to Black's aid."
"Broke the wards Remus and I set doesn't seem like help," Sirius muttered, his fingers drumming restlessly on the table, his grey eyes flashing likely with the memory of his near brush with death.
"That was Rookwood," Snape corrected him smoothly, his lips curling into the faintest sneer as he leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking under his slight shift. "He disabled the wards and narrowly avoided being killed by your rescuer."
The revelation hung in the air like a spell waiting to detonate, Snape's dark gaze sweeping the table to gauge reactions, his fingers steepled before him.
This was news to Dumbledore; he leaned forward slightly, his half-moon spectacles glinting as he adjusted his position. The implications swirled in his mind like the silvery strands in his Pensieve, reshaping the puzzle he had been piecing together since viewing Sirius's memory.
"Rookwood nearly killed?" Alastor barked out, his real eye narrowed in thought while his magical one whirred erratically, scanning the room as if expecting an ambush even here, in the Fidelius-protected sanctuary. "No easy thing to do that and fight Lestrange." His gnarled hand gripped the edge of the table, knuckles white, the scars from countless duels standing out starkly under the candlelight.
That… complicated matters further. Dumbledore would need to rethink his appraisal a bit with that additional information, his earlier assessment of the mysterious wizard's skills elevating from impressive to potentially elite, a force that could tip balances in unforeseen ways.
"And Voldemort is operating with as little information as us?" Dumbledore inquired, his voice calm and probing, blue eyes piercing as he met Snape's gaze, the room falling into silence.
"Indeed," Snape replied, his expression unchanging, though a subtle tension tightened around his eyes. "He does not know anything and believes this mysterious wizard to be a recent addition to the Order."
If only that were the case, Dumbledore thought to himself, his mind drifting briefly to the young wizard's fluid wandwork in the memory, a blend of raw talent and trained precision that spoke of untapped potential. The wizard was certainly gifted and seemed to have no love lost between himself and the forces of Voldemort, his curses aimed with lethal intent that suggested personal stakes rather than mere opportunism.
Not a local of Godric's Hollow most likely, he mused inwardly.
"Alastor, are there any that come to mind that were either trained by you or by one of your students?" Dumbledore asked, turning to Moody with a nod, his long fingers interlacing as he awaited the veteran's insight, the group's attention shifting.
Moody thought for a moment, a scarred hand going up to his chin, rubbing the rough stubble as his magical eye spun wildly, perhaps replaying old training sessions in his mind's eye. "Wilkins died 4 years back. MacTavish is a possibility, but I don't wager it's him. None in the current crop fit. I'll need more time to search deeper." His gravelly voice held a note of frustration, the admission rare for a man who prided himself on constant vigilance and exhaustive knowledge of threats.
Dumbledore nodded his understanding, the gesture conveying both patience and the subtle command to pursue the lead vigorously, something his friend of many years could tell. Time was fortunately something he had at the moment, at least for the current set of events, though the broader war's clock ticked relentlessly, urging caution amid the unknowns.
"Any other matters of note, Severus?" Dumbledore prompted, his tone inviting further disclosure.
Snape's face twitched in displeasure, a rare crack in his stoic facade. "An inexorbent amount of time was spent between the Dark Lord and Bellatrix after all treatments for one of her injuries failed. It was a burn across her shoulder, something that took the Dark Lord himself to heal. He expressed… surprise and did not entertain conversation afterwards." The details emerged reluctantly, Snape's voice dropping lower, as if the very recounting risked eavesdroppers beyond the wards.
Healing was not something Voldemort normally involved himself in, of that Dumbledore was more than certain, his knowledge of Tom's evolution from brilliant student to dark lord intimate and sorrowful. Oh Tom of course would have drilled into himself the lessons to stitch the body back together during and after combat, as any man of good sense would do, but the deft touch needed for healing magic was not something of great ability and attention the man would have, his pursuits leaning toward destruction and domination rather than restoration.
That it took his personal intervention was equal parts a concern but also confusing, hinting at a curse or wound of unusual potency, perhaps laced with rare magic that resisted standard remedies, raising questions about the mysterious assailant's arsenal.
Dumbledore stared at Severus, his piercing gaze holding for a long moment, then to the rest of the Order; Sirius's clenched jaw, Remus's thoughtful frown, Nymphadora's fidgeting with her hair that shifted colors subtly under stress, Kingsley's steady composure, Alastor's vigilant scan, then back to Severus, weighing the implications in silence.
"Let us speak more upon this matter later this evening. Other matters need be touched upon at this moment," Dumbledore said finally, steering the discussion with gentle authority.
And so the conversation continued into the night, shifting to reports on Ministry infiltrations, potential safe houses for muggle relatives of some of the Order members, and the ever-pressing need for vigilance.
xRSxxRSxxRSx
In the dimly lit chamber of Malfoy Manor, Voldemort dismissed his most devoted follower with a deceptive gentleness that masked the storm brewing within.
"You are dismissed, Bella. Do rest," Voldemort said gently, his tone silky smooth, red eyes gleaming with a calculated softness as he watched her sway slightly from exhaustion and pain. "We shall speak more tomorrow."
His lieutenant nodded tiredly, her wild black hair matted with sweat and dried blood, her once-fierce features now etched with the pallor of the most recent defeat of hers and the lingering agony from the wound that had resisted all but his own intervention. "Yes, master," she murmured, her voice a hoarse whisper of unwavering loyalty, before turning and shuffling toward the heavy oak door, her robes trailing like a shroud behind her.
As she left the room, the door clicking shut that echoed through the high-ceilinged space. The resident Dark Lord paced gently now that he was alone, his long, nearly skeletal fingers interlaced behind his back, finding it to be a good physical exercise to clear his thoughts. The polished marble floor gleamed under the flickering light of enchanted candles that floated lazily overhead, casting elongated shadows that danced with his every step. So many years, bereft of a body, unable to feel the wind on his skin, the warmth of the sun as the desire to lounge in it proved a very enjoyable one. Now though, in this reconstituted form, he savored these simple sensations, reminders of his triumph over mortality, even as they stirred memories of his spectral wanderings, a time when rage had been his only companion.
He lacked a pensieve, which was very unfortunate, the absence of such a tool gnawing at him, for it would have allowed him to extract and examine the threads of memory with pristine clarity, away from the clutter of emotion. Such an artifact was outside of his expertise to make, and even his most well-connected followers lacked access, their networks, vast as they were, falling short of the ancient craftsmanship required for such rarities. So, as any talented wizard would do, he employed the next most efficient means to acquire information, turning inward to the art he had mastered long ago in the shadowed corridors of his youth.
Legilimency.
With a subtle incline of his head, Voldemort thought once again of what he had seen when probing the recent echoes left by Bellatrix's presence. Bella had no instinctive mental resistance to him, so highly did she trust him and have faith in him, her mind an open book laid bare by years of indoctrination and fanaticism, a vulnerability he exploited without remorse. It was pathetically easy to sift through her mind for as much detail as necessary, to witness the battle that was a vexing setback for him, the images unfolding in vivid, chaotic bursts. There was the flash of curses in the moonlit graveyard, the thrill of combat, and the unexpected intrusion that had turned potential triumph into retreat.
The Malfoy boy had given the information he was supposed to, but yet it went so terribly wrong.
It was to be a warning to the Order, to target Black and Potter further, a calculated strike to erode their morale and expose their weaknesses, reminding them of his inescapable reach. The insult of needing to dispose of a servant, even one as pathetic as Pettigrew had been, still acted as an irritant, one that continued to grind at him like sand in a finely tuned mechanism. What he did with his tools was his own business, and to intrude upon it was an insult upon himself as much as it was his reach of orbit, a challenge to his sovereignty that demanded retribution.
And instead, it revealed something to him, as he saw what Bellatrix had seen through her fragmented recollections, the cloaked figure's relentless assault, the searing pain of the curse that had branded her shoulder, and a new object of interest and obsession, all because of the injury she had sustained that had required his intervention when the strongest tonics Severus was able to craft only gave modest results. It worked futilely against an enchantment that resisted conventional healing. It was not until Voldemort had cast his senses out, delving deeper into the wound's magical residue with a probe of his own dark arts, that he knew why such a burn wound was familiar, like an acquaintance not seen in many years, an echo from his early explorations into forbidden tomes and ancient rituals, ones he had claimed as his birthright.
The curse… was laced with parselmagic, the unmistakable hiss of serpentine incantation woven into its fabric, a signature as unique as a fingerprint in the wizarding world.
Perhaps it had been instinctive, otherwise a better spell or multiple would have been cast as such, suggesting a raw, unrefined talent that flared in moments of desperation rather than deliberate mastery. It pointed to youth, untrained, but parselmagic nonetheless, a gift so rare it elevated the wielder from mere threat to now, an enigma. He may not have even truly realized he did it, slipping out unconsciously, like a reflex more tied to blood and intent than one tied to a properly trained weapon in his arsenal.
Power recognized power when met, and this was not such.
And judging by the way the unknown wizard fought, he was young, fluid movements captured in Bellatrix's memory, unburdened by the stiffness of age, and strikes landing with the precision of a duelist. Early 20s at the oldest most likely, Voldemort estimated, piecing together the blur of motion and the unyielding ferocity that spoke of youth and brutal dedication. Swift, surgical, and according to Rookwood, extremely powerful in the potency of his spells, the Unspeakable's hurried report earlier that evening painting a picture of a dangerous fighter.
He would be impressed by such skill at such a likely age if not for the glaring fact that this upstart contributed to his followers failing, turning what should have been a decisive victory into a humiliating scramble, Bellatrix's howls of pain still ringing in his mental echo, a failure that demanded correction.
But, a parselmouth. The revelation stirred a rare flicker of intrigue amid his irritation, a potential ally now lost to circumstance. Had this been during his rise to power, when he had recruited some of the best and brightest from the shadows of society, drawing in minds hungry for forbidden knowledge and unbound ambition, it would have been a boon, a speaker of the serpent tongue to share in his visions of a reordered world. Ones with the Gift were exceedingly rare, especially so in Europe, where bloodlines had diluted over centuries of bad circumstance, and more often suppression. Many of the speakers of the noble tongue fared from India or the Near East, regions where the ancient magicks remained untamed, their traditions preserving what Europe had feared. He had in his travels only encountered 4 others, none from Europe or of European extract, and each meeting had ended in either a fleeting alliance or a swift elimination.
Rookwood was of less use in obtaining direct information compared to Bella, as unfortunately the man had both a strong but fragile mind now, his occlumency barriers intact but brittle, like a cracked pane of glass holding back a flood. He was a very capable Occlumens, honed in the Department of Mysteries' secretive halls, but Azkaban had done great damage to his mind in spite of it, the dementors' chill leaving fractures that made deep probing risky, potentially shattering a valuable asset. And he would rather not fragment the mind of a capable subordinate, not when Rookwood's expertise in arcane wards and how the Department of Mysteries operated still served his purposes.
This young parselmouth, Voldemort would need to find more about, his curiosity sharpening into a blade of intent, plans already forming to dispatch agents to scour archives and whisper inquiries in the underbelly of the wizarding world. Records of potential Gaunt bastards would be the likely place to look, as he had looked for the natural ones and found nothing for decades, his exhaustive searches during his orphanage days and beyond yielding only dead ends and dusty genealogies, and he was unlikely to have missed it, his thoroughness legendary even among his foes.
Glancing down at Nagini, fresh from outside hunting, her scales glistening with dew from the manor's manicured gardens, slithered up towards him and to his feet. Her eyes fixed on her master with unblinking devotion.
"Another ssspeaker," he hissed gently, the parseltongue rolling off his tongue like a caress, his familiar making her way to his shoulder, her weight a comforting pressure against his robes, her forked tongue flickering to taste the air laced with his lingering magic. "A pity that we ssshall need to kill him."
Such a pointless waste, but when one asked with their actions to be removed from the table, daring to interfere in his designs, to wound his elite and evade capture, he was more than willing to oblige, his mind already envisioning the confrontation.
Whoever this wizard was, as surely as he had conquered death, Lord Voldemort would see to his end.
Chapter 22
Daphne set down her copy of the Daily Prophet, trying to make sense of what was going on, the headlines blurring slightly under the Great Hall's enchanted ceiling. Glancing around at the Slytherin table as her housemates continued to eat, there was, to put it simply, a total state of unease among them, whispers passing like shadows between bites of toast and sips of pumpkin juice, eyes darting nervously to empty seats or the doors as if expecting intruders. It was there with other students at the other House tables, but stronger with them and especially the Fifth Years.
Everybody was now aware of the attack on Godric's Hollow, which the Ministry was scrambling to downplay as the work of the dangerous escapees from Azkaban and nothing particularly organized, their official statements splashed across the Prophet's front page in bold, reassuring fonts that fooled no one with a modicum of sense. That of course was ridiculous, and the fact that Umbridge was pushing things now with greater emphasis had made some people feel more suspicious about it, her saccharine decrees echoing through the corridors, fueling rumors that the toad-like professor was more involved in the cover-ups than education; which the latter was already dubious enough as is. Though Harry hadn't been particularly… Daphne honestly couldn't think of what to say about him, other than perhaps he was extremely cold the first couple of days after the attack, his usual spark dimmed to a glacial detachment that unnerved even her, Malfoy was a nervous mess to everyone that could recognize the underlying caginess of his posture, his silver-blond hair disheveled and his sneers lacking their usual bite, and made all the worse by what happened to Nott, the incident hanging over the Slytherin common room like an invisible storm waiting to be unleashed.
Daphne had no way of knowing for sure, and she was going to ask to confirm one way or the other, but she thought Harry had something to do with Nott being abducted from his bed, stripped naked, hair removed, and left stuck to a wall for the better part of an entire day, the humiliating discovery by a prefect sending ripples of paranoia through the dungeons, whispers of ghosts or rival houses plotting in the dead of night.
She looked across to the Gryffindor table and saw him, going through the motions of conversation with his friends, Granger and Weasley, his fork idly pushing eggs around his plate as Hermione gestured animatedly about some Arithmancy theory. He then stiffened for a moment and looked straight at her, his gaze boring into her with an intensity that sent a shiver down her spine, green eyes locking in. She maintained eye contact for a moment, then looked down and fidgeted with the galleon he had given her, adjusting the numbers to meet at the Room this evening at… 6:00, yes, that sounds perfect, the enchanted coin warming slightly under her touch as the message was sent.
With a subtle twist of her fingers, Daphne dispatched the signal through the galleon, watching as Harry subtly reached toward his pocket as if feeling a vibration, his expression unchanging but his eyes flicking downward briefly to confirm, before he averted his gaze and resumed his meal with mechanical bites.
Daphne went back to eating too, picking at her porridge with feigned interest, Tracey being silent as the grave as she was especially bothered by someone having gotten into the Slytherin beds, because it almost certainly wasn't a Slytherin. Her best friend's usual chatter was replaced by a tense quiet, fork scraping her plate absentmindedly, the breach feeling like a violation of their sanctuary. Nobody was that stupid in their House, Daphne mused, the idea of an internal betrayal seeming far-fetched amid the house's cutthroat but somewhat unified loyalty. Especially now with matters relating to the alleged return of the Dark Lord.
The day passed by quickly, the classes passing basically in a blur, and Daphne was under a Disillusionment charm that she was quite proud of learning with Harry's help, the spell rendering her a chameleon blend with the stone walls as she navigated the corridors undetected, her footsteps muffled by a silencing charm for good measure. She was beside the Room of Requirement, the blank stretch of wall almost humming faintly with latent magic, waiting in the dim torchlight of the seventh floor.
A brief flick of a spell washed over her, and she shivered as her charm washed off of her, the cool air brushing her skin as visibility returned. Harry pulled off his invisibility cloak from across and smiled, the fabric shimmering into nothingness as he folded it away, his tousled black hair catching the light. He then paced in front of the Room's door until it appeared, the ornate handle materializing with a soft click, then he entered with her right behind him, the door swinging shut to seal them in privacy.
They went in and Daphne had to fight the urge to throw herself at him and kiss him, having not interacted with him hardly at all today, the day's separation feeling like an eternity amid the swirling uncertainties. She still went up to him, barely restrained, and kissed him in a heated exchange, her hands finding his shoulders as their lips met with urgent passion, the world narrowing to the warmth of his embrace. After a minute, she pulled away, face burning and she saw how much Harry seemed to have enjoyed it from the slightly vacant expression on his face, his eyes half-lidded and lips parted in lingering surprise.
"Hey," she said shyly, her voice a soft murmur in the quiet room, furnished with plush armchairs and a crackling fireplace that cast golden flickers across the walls. "Missed you."
"Missed you too," Harry managed to say, his hand in her hair, causing her to lean into his touch, the gentle caress sending tingles through her scalp, grounding her in the moment. She was completely at peace, almost forgetting what she was going to ask him, the worries of the day dissolving like mist under the sun.
After a minute of basking in the feeling of contentness, she pulled away and tried to school her features, and failed terribly, her cheeks still flushed and lips tingling from the kiss.
"Um," she cursed herself internally for sounding so damned unsure, her usual poise cracking under the weight of the question, "Harry. I… have a question."
Harry seemed to clue in on something being wrong and he blinked, his eyes boring into hers with sudden sharpness, the shift from affection to alertness instantaneous. "What?" he asked seriously, his posture straightening as if bracing for impact.
"Did you have anything to do with what happened to Nott?"
Harry looked around, his gaze sweeping the room for any unseen ears, then flicked his wand to make sure a muffling charm was in place, the air shimmering faintly as the silencing bubble enveloped them. "Yes, I did."
Daphne groaned internally, wishing that had not been the case, but also relieved that it was Harry and not some random or Merlin forbid the Weasley twins, whose pranks could escalate into chaos without warning. But still, she was agitated by it from the stress of it, the house's paranoia now tied to her secret life.
"Well why the bloody hell did you?!" she asked angrily, throwing up her arms in exasperation, her voice rising despite the charm. "You had the entire House frightened out of their minds," the fear in the common room replayed in her mind.
Harry raised his hand slightly to shush her, and she fumed at the audacity, but managed to rein in her annoyance, crossing her arms as she waited. "Abridged or full details?"
"Abridged," she replied immediately, her tone clipped. "Then full when I'm dissatisfied with your initial explanation."
Harry's face flattened, his eyes cold, the warmth from moments ago replaced by a steely resolve that reminded her of the boy who had faced the dragon last year and the Dark Lord.
"Nott is working with Voldemort and the Death Eaters," he stated flatly, and Daphne hated that she still involuntarily twitched at the name, an ingrained flinch from years of taboo. "Full details, and you are not to share this at all, not even Sirius as he told me this and I'm not supposed to share, but Dumbledore's little military order is fairly certain that Nott is a designated choice to kill or capture either me or my friends in the event of necessity. I snuck in and stunned Nott, knowing that Godric's Hollow was going to be attacked. I wasn't certain if he was going to use it as a distraction or not."
The words tumbled out in a measured rush, each revelation landing like a stone in still water, rippling through her thoughts.
Daphne paled at that, a sudden reminder of Nott being especially quiet lately coming to mind—his averted eyes in the common room, his solitary walks—perhaps that was why, and that filled her with no small amount of trepidation, the possibility of betrayal from within her own house chilling her blood. Nott might target her if her relationship with Harry was made public, or worse yet he might target Astoria, her little sister's innocent face flashing in her mind, vulnerable in the lower years' dorms.
"Is… what can I do to…" Daphne paused and honestly had no idea what to say or think, her words trailing off as panic knotted in her chest, hands twisting in her robes.
"Nothing is known about us yet, so keep an eye on him and talk to me the moment something seems wrong," Harry said seriously, closing the very short distance between them. "Alright?"
Daphne nodded quietly, her head dipping in agreement as she absorbed his calm. "Alright. But, do you have any ideas for making sure he doesn't try anything if he is taking orders from the Dark Lord?"
Harry nodded, his expression thoughtful yet determined. "Dobby practically worships the ground I walk on, and is a friend. He can watch and trust me, that elf is a nightmare when he's trying to help, let alone when he wants to hurt someone. That and I can probably think of some wards over your bed and Astoria's," his voice remained steady as he outlined the protections, each idea a layer of security that eased the knot in her stomach.
Daphne just let him speak, finding that she quite enjoyed him explaining all the thoughts he had about protecting her, his concern wrapping around her like a shield charm, revealing the depth of his care in practical, strategic terms.
Harry then paused, and his eyes softened, the cold edge melting away as he studied her face.
"How long before anyone suspects you're gone?"
"Mmmm, maybe an hour?" she said coyly, knowing why he asked, a playful spark igniting in her eyes as the tension shifted.
"Perfect," he muttered, and pulled her in for another kiss, their lips meeting once more in a tangle of warmth and promise, the room's magic humming in harmony with their stolen moment.
xRSxxRSxxRSx
Harry watched as the last of the DA members cycled out after a productive meeting pertaining to the Impedimenta jinx, the Room of Requirement's door sealing shut behind them with a soft thud that echoed in the now-empty space, a faint hum in the air still from the rigorous practice session. He asked for Fred and George to stay back for a moment, his voice carrying a note of quiet authority amid the lingering hum of dispersed magic. They did, staying near the center of the room with their usual mischievous grins, and Harry spared a quick glance at Malfoy as he exited too, who attended his first session, the blond's posture stiff with uncharacteristic hesitation, as if testing unfamiliar waters.
Harry thought to himself very briefly that he honestly did hope Malfoy could pull his head out of his arse sooner than he did before, though he wasn't going to be surprised if he didn't, the Slytherin's ingrained prejudices running deep. It took the admittedly whirlwind romance he had with Astoria to help somewhat with it, a fleeting connection that had softened edges in another timeline, but Harry harbored no illusions about easy changes in this one.
"Yeah, Harry?" Fred asked casually, while George followed up with a "Fancy a toffee?" his hand already dipping into his pocket for one.
"I remember what your toffee did to Dudley last year," Harry replied dryly, the memory of his cousin's swollen tongue flashing through his minf, then peered over his glasses to add emphasis to his gaze, his green eyes sharpening with intent. "I need you fine gentlemen's… expertise for matters, business related to the Order," he added the last part, his tone dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that underscored the gravity beneath the lighthearted facade.
At that they straightened their posture and all the more laid-back mannerisms melted away, their shoulders squaring as if shedding an invisible cloak of frivolity, and Harry saw them in all their cunning focus that had them becoming successful businessmen and inventors in the years to come.
These were the Fred and George Weasley he needed in this matter, the duo whose inventions had turned the tide in battles past, their minds as sharp as any.
"I want this discreet," Harry said seriously "I need Theodore Nott monitored. I have a contact in Slytherin that knows of some of the talks the ones with Death Eater parents are having, and his name has come up several times," he explained, the words measured to reveal just enough without compromising sources.
Harry thought to himself that he was taking multiple risks with all this subterfuge, with misleading Daphne about it being certain that Nott was an agent of Voldemort, which he honestly didn't know if he was at the moment, the uncertainty gnawing at him like a persistent hex, as well as telling Fred and George that his 'contact' said Nott was one, but he frankly did not care anymore, the lines of morality blurring in the face of survival. The other option aside from having a steel trap around Nott waiting to be sprung was to simply kill him, which honestly would be quite easy, with but a silent curse in the shadows and a body vanishing without trace. But such a thing allowed the Ministry to tighten things down further, and that would limit him, and Umbridge's decrees, even with them in a less ideal position, were already choking the school's freedoms like a noose drawing taut.
But he couldn't get the memory of the future, of Daphne's sightless eyes staring up at nothing as he wailed while clutching her to him, out of his mind, the visceral image replaying in vivid detail; the coldness of her skin, the silence where her heartbeat should have been. It was a specter that fueled his every calculated move.
He clamped down on the thoughts with Occlumency, feeling the fractured edges of his emotions smooth out unnaturally and the fog of cold fury retreated back under his control.
The twins shared a look, their identical features mirroring a silent conversation, and Fred spoke first, his voice low and businesslike.
"You fancy him not knowing, Harry?" he inquired, already mentally cataloging gadgets that could blend into the Slytherin dungeons unnoticed.
"A proper James Pond spying?" George added with a quirk of his eyebrow.
Harry felt his face twitch at the botched reference, unless the prat did that on purpose, he'd probably never know. "I don't want him suspecting a thing," he affirmed, crossing his arms to emphasize the need for absolute stealth.
The two sported matching grins at that, their eyes gleaming with the thrill of a challenge that aligned with their talents.
"You can count on us, Harrykins," Fred said, giving his twin a glance that spoke volumes of shared schemes. "Is that all, mate?"
Harry nodded, stepping to the side and getting ready to leave, the Room's illusions beginning to fade as its purpose concluded. "That's all I needed," he replied, giving a subtle nod of thanks that conveyed more than words.
It always paid off to have intelligent friends that didn't care for rules.
He then walked towards the door, the two following him, their footsteps syncing in a rhythmic trio down the corridor. As they made their way back to the common room, Harry pondered his next order of serious business.
There had been enough changes now where he had no faith in Voldemort sticking to even a basic script of what would have been, the timeline fracturing like shattered glass under the pressure of his interventions and each alteration rippling outward in unpredictable waves. With him now, after months of effort, having gotten back into good fighting form and prepared, he was now planning and considering heading to the Gaunt House to destroy the ring and to perhaps convince Dumbledore to… could Dumbledore even get the cup out of the Lestrange vault? He could easily break into Gringotts no doubt, the old wizard's power a force that bent reality itself, but the trick was getting out and not clueing Voldemort in on what was the target.
Decisions decisions, he mused inwardly, weighing the risks against the benefits of the prospect.
If need be, he'd go for the ring himself, venturing into the decrepit shack alone, armed with knowledge from a forsaken future that no others at the moment were in possession of. Dumbledore was too valuable to let die, and Harry would sooner the man he had been rather fond of as a mentor, albeit flawed at times, with his secrets and manipulations that had once bred resentment but now were more understanding, live far longer into the future, guiding the fight from the light while Harry delved into shadows.
And Harry, unlike him, had nothing to tempt him to use the Stone, the Resurrection Stone's siren call silent against his resolved heart. That was the agreement with Death, that he would cast one of the Hallows back to him, and the Stone was the one he'd be inclined to give to fulfill that pact sealed in the mists of limbo. He would never part with his cloak, it was an heirloom and none shall have it but himself and his own blood, and the Elder Wand was too valuable a weapon against Voldemort to dispose of, at least for now, its unmatched power a necessary edge in the inevitable future confrontations.
No temptation from the Stone when all that he could have wanted was here now, the living bonds with friends and love anchoring him more firmly than any spectral reunion.
He made his way to the entrance to the Gryffindor common room, Fred and George right behind him, their banter resuming in hushed tones about prototype eavesdroppers, and he gave the password to the Fat Lady, her portrait yawning as it swung open. The Fat Lady's portrait swung open and he entered into the cozy warmth of his House's abode, the fire crackling merrily in the hearth, scarlet and gold everywhere, and Harry was content to finish the evening with the basic assignments and then would go about preparing to have a go at the Gaunt shack this weekend.
It would be just a quick couple hour jaunt at most, though he probably would need to be careful with the Trace, as he was unsure if any young wizard was in the area and the pinging of it might have a member of the Ministry arrive to check, their bureaucratic buggery an unwelcome complication. He covered his tracks at Godric's Hollow with all the business related to everyone else flinging magic and fighting, the chaos masking his presence like a smokescreen, but this would be different, a solitary strike that demanded precision and evasion.
He gave a brief hello to Ron and Hermione, who lounged on the armchairs with books scattered between them, while Neville was on one of the seats reading a Herbology book, his round face furrowed in concentration over diagrams of venomous tentacula, Ginny was to the right talking with Katie, their laughter a light counterpoint to the day's heaviness. He gave a brief nod before he then ascended up the steps to his dormitory, the spiral staircase creaking under his feet, went to his trunk at the foot of his four-poster bed, and began sifting through to find his good quill and complete one of his assignments for the week to free him up for what truly mattered at this moment, the parchment unfurling with mundane questions on Charms theory that paled against the real stakes.
Ripping every, single, anchor Voldemort had that tethered him to this world. With that resolute thought echoing in his mind, he got started, dipping his quill into ink and scratching away at the homework. Such a mundane task in comparison to preparing the death of the most dangerous Dark Lord in history.
Chapter 23
Dumbledore fiddled with the rings on his fingers, eyeing each of them individually in the soft, flickering light of his office, where the ancient instruments hummed faintly on his desk and portraits of former headmasters dozed in their frames. The one upon his index was an emergency portkey, able to break through most conventional wards with a whispered activation that could whisk him to safety in an instant, his ring finger had the shield ward, able to even withstand an impressive several attacks before fracturing under extreme duress. Another acted as, well, a less than legal rudimentary channel for magic in the event, if such a nightmare occurred, that he were disarmed and needed a more concentrated spell to be cast, its subtle enchantment drawing on ambient magic like a hidden conduit. The final was a ring in possession of his family for generations, nothing special other than as a memento, its worn gold band etched with faint runes.
He pondered and thought over his conversation many, many weeks prior with Harry during that whole mess with destroying 2 of Voldemort's Horcruxes down in the Chamber of Secrets, the damp echoes of the basilisk's lair still vivid in his memory. Harry had mentioned other locations, ones that because of the others being proven were likely locations of the others, a ruined hovel of a house being almost certainly the home of the Gaunts, its decrepit structure buried in forgotten countryside, overgrown with weeds and cursed secrets. The revelation had lingered like a shadow, prompting Dumbledore to revisit old records he had checked before, to see if anything were amiss.
It had been weeks more of combing through old records and double checking what he had uncovered 2 years prior and in the summer of last year, dusty tomes from the Ministry archives and clandestine owl correspondences yielding confirmations that aligned with Harry's insights, but he was now of the opinion after the attack on Godric's Hollow that action needed to be taken now, the recent skirmish's echoes serving as a stark reminder of escalating dangers. Seven as the limit was most likely the case for the Horcruxes, the magical number's potency in soul-splitting rituals aligning with Tom's arithmantic obsessions, and he knew of at least 3 being destroyed.
That left others, and the uncertainty of this war now demanded he be even more active, his role shifting from strategic overseer to frontline participant amid the gathering storm. And alas, it would be prudent to consult Harry some more, and perhaps take the young man along if for no other reason than he was the only one he could trust completely to be able to know and resist the influence of a Horcrux.
Fawkes trilled softly from his perch, the phoenix's golden feathers catching the candlelight in a warm glow that filled the room with a subtle melody of reassurance, and Dumbledore gave him a quiet smile, his blue eyes twinkling faintly behind half-moon spectacles.
"Yes, I do think it is risky to bring Harry. But…" He dared not give voice to his self awareness, for fear of his voice cracking, the words catching in his throat like unspoken regrets. It… hurt that he had been vulnerable, even for a few moments, to the mind games of the Horcrux, its insidious whispers probing weaknesses he had long believed fortified by wisdom and experience. That a boy a century his junior, who he remembered like it was yesterday as a young child, wide-eyed and scar-marked, stepping into the wizarding world with unyielding courage, was who perhaps saved his life, pulling him back from the brink with a clarity that shamed his own lapse. Was it a knock against his pride? Was it shame that governed his decision? He could not be certain, the emotions swirling in his mind, but he was certain that Harry would be going with him as backup, the boy's presence a safeguard against further temptations, and it was almost amusingly easy to snuff out such silly things as the Trace for a brief time when one was the greatest living wizard of their generation and wielding the Elder Wand, its unmatched power bending Ministry detections like fragile reeds in a gale.
With his mind made up, Albus Dumbledore went about preparing for a short weekend leave of absence, grabbing a small sheet of parchment and a quill to scribble a note to Minerva, and called for a House Elf to deliver the note to her that he wished to speak with her. Then, he wrote one for Harry.
xRSxxRSxxRSx
Harry made his way to Dumbledore's office, his shoes clacking softly down the hall as he pondered what Dumbledore wished to speak to him about that warranted a meeting on Friday evening, the castle's corridors dimly lit by flickering torches that cast elongated shadows on the ancient stone walls, the air carrying the more than faint chill of winter and the distant echoes of students settling in for the night. The summons had come via a discreet note during dinner, its elegant script hinting at urgency without elaboration, stirring a mix of curiosity and wariness in Harry's mind as he navigated the familiar paths of Hogwarts.
Unfortunately, he had a feeling that it would disrupt an initial plan with Daphne that he had, so he had discreetly informed her through his galleon that it was to be canceled. Anything else that he had to say about the matter in his own mind was that he sincerely hoped that this was something of great importance, otherwise he was going to be far from pleased.
He got to the gargoyle, gave the password that was implied in the note, a whimsical phrase like "Lemon Sherbet" that always seemed to amuse the headmaster, and the gargoyle moved aside with a low rumble, revealing the spiral staircase that wound upward like a coiled serpent. Harry ascended the steps, each softly clack under his feet amplifying the quiet anticipation building in his chest, got to the door, and knocked firmly, the sound echoing slightly in the enclosed space.
"Enter," Dumbledore's voice rang out from inside, the tone warm yet laced with an undercurrent of gravity that Harry had come to recognize over the years.
He entered and saw Dumbledore, who looked uncharacteristically tense despite concealing it well, seated behind his massive desk cluttered with silver instruments that whirred and puffed softly, Fawkes perched nearby on his stand with feathers glowing like embers in the firelight. Had Harry not seen it before in his old life, in his Sixth Year, he probably would not have noticed it, the subtle tightening around the eyes, the faint rigidity in the shoulders beneath the flowing robes, but experience had sharpened his perceptions to such nuances.
"Come in, Harry, and have a seat," Dumbledore said, gesturing to one of the chintz armchairs facing the desk, which Harry did, the fabric yielding comfortably under him as he settled.
Dumbledore at first seemed more casual in conversation. "How are your lessons going, my boy?" he inquired, his blue eyes twinkling behind half-moon spectacles as if to ease into the talk.
Harry shrugged and replied, "I'm doing fine." His voice was casual, but his mind already raced ahead to the real purpose of the meeting.
Dumbledore smiled faintly and shifted to the DA meetings. "And the Defense Association? I trust the sessions are progressing well?"
"They're good," Harry said with a nod.
Then, probably recalling recent developments, Dumbledore added, "Though Severus now unfortunately will most definitely not be the teacher overseeing it."
Harry thought to himself about that, leaning back slightly in the chair as he processed the implication. As much of a bastard and generally unpleasant man Snape was, it was hard not to feel some degree of sympathy given that it was Umbridge of all people who was going after him with the support of the Ministry. The bitch seemed fated to make herself a problem in just about any circumstance.
Dumbledore then shifted in his chair and steepled his fingers, the rings on them catching the light in subtle glints, his expression turning more solemn as the casual preamble gave way to what was likely the true reason Harry was summoned here.
"I wish to speak to you tonight of something of great importance, Harry," he said gravely, and Harry straightened in his seat, his posture mirroring the headmaster's shift in tone. "You recall the conversation we had of Voldemort's Horcruxes and glimpses of locations you had seen while touching the diadem?"
"Yes," Harry said, his tone slow and measured, then asked, "What does this have to do with me being summoned here?" His green eyes locked onto Dumbledore's with a mix of curiosity and guarded readiness, the scar on his forehead prickling faintly as if sensing the discussion's ties to his eternal foe.
Dumbledore replied, "It has everything to do with the conversation." He then flicked his fingers on his right hand, and the air rippled, a subtle wave of magic distorting the space as the Pensieve in one section of the office was revealed, emerging from the wall, its basin gleaming with an ethereal silver glow amid the shelves of ancient tomes and curios.
"I believe you are acquainted with my Pensieve from the previous school year, Harry?" Dumbledore inquired, a knowing arch to his eyebrow that recalled Harry's unauthorized dip into its depths during the Triwizard Tournament.
Harry felt his face heat up in embarrassment, the flush creeping up his neck as he recalled the awkward confrontation that had followed, and muttered, "Yes."
"I would like for you to view a memory with me, as it is a location of importance," Dumbledore said, rising from his chair with a fluid grace that belied his age. "I will not hold you in suspense, as I wish for this to be done as quickly as possible. You know that Voldemort's father was a Muggle, as for his mother's family, they were a family known as the Gaunts."
Dumbledore then proceeded to speak of what the memory was. "This is a memory from Bob Ogden, a Ministry official who visited the Gaunt household decades ago," he explained, detailing the ill-fated encounter in the squalid hovel, and Harry knew it was Ogden's memory that he had been shown years prior in the original timeline, the squalor and madness of the scene etched in his mind even to this very day.
"I need for you to determine if what you saw when you touched the diadem was the house the Gaunts lived in," Dumbledore said, his intent clear; to confirm the Horcrux's hiding place through Harry's unique visions.
Harry agreed. "All right," he said, getting to his feet and walking over to the Pensieve with purposeful strides, the stone basin's surface rippling like liquid silver under his gaze, and Dumbledore followed, his robes whispering against the floor. Glancing up at the much taller man for a moment, Harry looked back down and entered the Pensieve, plunging his face into the cool, misty depths as the world twisted around him. A swirling shift later, and he was in the memory, the rural lane materializing with vivid clarity. He glanced around for a moment and Dumbledore followed moments later, appearing beside him with a faint pop.
It went as he remembered, the two following Ogden, who wore his absolutely ridiculous outfit and Harry, upon seeing the Gaunt house emerge from the undergrowth, its dilapidated form sagging under years of neglect and dark magic, told Dumbledore, "This is the house."
Dumbledore's shoulders tensed, his eyes blazing with purpose behind his spectacles, the confirmation igniting a resolve that seemed to straighten his already imposing frame.
"We shall finish witnessing this memory, then we shall discuss the next matter," He stated, gesturing for them to continue as the scene unfolded.
And so they did, observing the mess of a disaster inside the hovel; the filth-strewn room, Marvolo's ranting arrogance, his near-strangling of his daughter Merope in a fit of rage over her infatuation with a Muggle, and Morfin's deranged actions where Ogden was attacked with a hex that sent him fleeing, and then the memory ended, fading into wisps as Harry and Dumbledore exited the Pensieve, resurfacing in the office with a disorienting pull back to reality.
"The house almost certainly contains a Horcrux," Dumbledore said, the words carrying the weight of confirmed dread. "I would like you to accompany me," he added, his gaze steady.
Harry froze for a moment, internally thinking of how much easier this would be if Dumbledore was helping, his vast knowledge and power a formidable ally against the curses likely guarding the artifact. But there was a genuine threat that the ring could still curse him… unless Harry was there to stop him if need be.
He did not wish for the old man that he viewed as a mentor to die, not for a long while, the bond forged through trials and revelations too precious to lose prematurely.
Harry agreed. "I'll go," he said, his nod resolute as Dumbledore began to speak with him about the plan, outlining the details with precise, measured words that set the stage for their impending venture into the heart of Voldemort's dark legacy.
xRSxxRSxxRSx
Harry shifted uncomfortably at the sensation of side-along apparition, the familiar twist in his gut pulling tighter than usual as the world compressed and reformed around them, and they arrived outside of Little Hangleton, the crisp night air biting at his skin under a sky dusted with stars, the village lights twinkling faintly in the distance like wary eyes. Dumbledore was wearing dark blue robes instead of his usually more colourful ones, the fabric flowing with a practical elegance that suggested they were far more maneuverable by the looks of it, designed for agility rather than the flamboyant flair the headmaster often favored in the safety of Hogwarts.
Harry was simply wearing his regular robes, plain and unassuming, and Dumbledore had cast a dampening spell over him that still had his skin itching slightly, a subtle prickle like invisible ants marching across his arms and neck, the magic weaving an intricate veil to obscure detection. It's a cover over the Trace, and Harry could surmise that it was extraordinarily difficult and illegal to do if he hadn't even heard of it before, because the DMLE probably would have informed their aurors of such a thing if it was somewhat common knowledge, the spell's complexity hinting at forbidden arcane arts drawn from Dumbledore's vast repertoire.
"Best to be as quick as possible," Dumbledore said, his voice low and resolute, and his boots crunched as he stepped through the snow a couple of inches deep along the pathway, each footfall leaving crisp imprints in the white blanket that muffled the night's silence. Harry followed, wand in hand as they, without saying a word, practically marched up the hill to their destination, the incline steep and slick underfoot, his breath fogging in the cold air as determination steeled his resolve.
Harry mentally prepared himself for potentially needing to stun Dumbledore, running through scenarios in his mind, as well as mentally fortifying his defenses with a constant reminder that it's cursed, that the stone will be tossed back to Death, and that Daphne is here, alive, his friends are alive, and he has made peace with the death of his parents, the litany like a shield against temptation, anchoring him to the present. There's nothing that he can be swayed to gain from the stone, he affirmed to himself inwardly, the whispers of what-ifs silenced by the reality he had fought to reshape.
They reached the shack finally, the place an absolute ruin and the roof partially caved in, sagging under decades of neglect with vines clawing at the crumbling walls like skeletal fingers, the air around it thick with an unnatural chill that seeped into his bones. Dumbledore turned to Harry, his silhouette stark against the decayed hovel.
"Be on your guard, Harry. But if I tell you to run, you run. If I tell you to leave me behind so that you may live, do so. Am I understood?" He asked this with a deceptive calm to his voice, the words measured like a professor's lecture, but the fire seemingly dancing behind his gaze said everything; fierce protectiveness mingled with the weight of command.
"Yes, sir," Harry replied firmly, meeting the intensity with his own unyielding stare, the agreement a pact sealed in the frosty night.
"You are far too valuable to die here," Dumbledore said, turning away and flicking his wand at the house, a wave of nearly imperceptible magic washing over it like a gentle tide, probing for traps hidden in the shadows. He cast a few more spells before he seemed satisfied, the air shimmering faintly, and walked forward slowly, with Harry right behind him.
They slowly entered the ruined house, the interior covered in a thick layer of dust that danced in the beams of their wand lights, coating every surface like a shroud of forgotten time, the floorboards groaning under their weight as if protesting the intrusion. Dumbledore cast another spell, the dust in the air and on the surfaces gathering up into a ball that he then vanished with a casual flick, making it easier to breathe, the air clearing to reveal the mess inside, broken furniture and faded remnants of a wretched life.
He then cast another spell with a flick of his wand, his off hand reaching out as he twitched his fingers as if he's feeling for something, and slowly shifted his wand around, the magic extending like invisible threads to map the unseen.
Harry tensed, recognizing the spell where it transferred tactile sensation to the hand as a means to detect physical objects.
Dumbledore then paused, his hand dropping and he looked down to the floor, his expression sharpening with discovery. He flicked his wand and the section of flooring in front of him was ripped up with a splintering crack, then he levitated what Harry saw was a gold-covered box with serpents carved into the outside, the intricate designs coiling like living guardians.
"Professor?" Harry said, his voice laced with caution, but Dumbledore seemed to ignore it or not hear as he took hold of the box, his fingers trembling ever so slightly as the lid was opened.
It was in that moment that Harry made a decision, one that Daphne, Hermione, and the more sensible friends of his would decry him for. It was a reckless override born of necessity.
As Dumbledore opened the box further, his breath catching as he likely saw the stone for what it was, Harry wordlessly flicked his wand, a concentrated bolt of red light arcing out and striking the Headmaster in the center of the back, the box and ring clattering to the ground as Albus Dumbledore fell to the floor with an audible crash, his body crumpling like a felled oak.
"Fuck. Me," Harry mumbled to himself, letting out a breath he didn't realize he was holding, his heart pounding in his ears. The good news was that Dumbledore didn't put the bloody ring on, but now he needed to get him out of here along with the ring, and probably destroy the stupid thing himself, the plan fracturing into improvisation.
He levitated Dumbledore out of the house with a steady wave of his wand, walking outside onto the front steps and setting the man upright against one of the trees, the bark rough and snow-dusted, providing a makeshift support as the headmaster's chest rose and fell in stunned slumber.
He then entered back into the house, summoned Dumbledore's wand to him with a quick Accio, and felt a chill and warmth coming from it in equal measure, as if conflicted; the Elder Wand's allegiance swirling uncertainly in his grip. It was technically his by right, when he had cast it aside after repairing his own wand in another life, but now though, it seemed to not register him stunning Dumbledore as defeating him, perhaps because it required more than simply putting him on the ground. He wasn't certain, but it just seemed to not respond to him as it did before at this moment, its power dormant under his touch.
Shrugging off the enigma, he pocketed it and levitated the ring, glancing at it and he felt the pull, the whispers to put it on slithering into his mind like serpents, and he thought of how happy his mother and father would be to hear that he had found love, that he's going to have a family of his own, the illusions tempting with visions of what he had been long denied.
He ignored the whispers and set the ring in the box, then walked out with it before setting it on the ground and casting a spell on the earth to wrap the box up in a reinforced cocoon so Dumbledore couldn't immediately get ahold of it when he woke him up, the soil hardening into a protective shell like natural armor.
He then woke up Dumbledore with a flick of his wand, putting on an extremely worried face, his features schooled into concern as the Ennervate took effect.
Dumbledore's eyes fluttered open, a fraction of a second passing where he seemed confused, before he was suddenly up on his feet, one of his rings glowing with azure light, a blue fire dancing between his fingers and his eyes nearly blazing as he adopted a fighting stance, the air crackling with unleashed power.
Harry didn't have to fake the surprise as he took a step back, barely seeing the man move, the blur of motion jarring.
"Professor," Harry said worriedly, his voice edged with genuine alarm, the man's eyes focusing on his with piercing clarity.
"Harry," Dumbledore said, blinking and realizing where he was at, the disorientation fading like mist. His posture loosened and he lowered his hand, the fire puttering out into wisps of smoke. His expression then shifted to alarm, lines deepening on his aged face. "What happened? Where is the ring?!"
"You tried to put it on, sir," Harry said, still trying to calm his racing heart at every single sense of his screaming 'Danger!' when Dumbledore awoke, the primal instinct lingering like an aftershock. "It looked like you were in a daze, you weren't listening to me, and… I… may have stunned you."
Dumbledore's face curled into the closest thing to a sneer that Harry ever saw on the old man's face, a fleeting shadow of frustration crossing his features, his eyes flicking towards the clump of earth housing the box and ring.
"It appears…" Dumbledore started to say before he paused, collecting himself with a deep breath. "Do you have my wand, Harry?"
Harry nodded his head. "You dropped it and it's in my pocket."
"May I have it back?" Dumbledore asked, extending his hand expectantly.
"Er, are you sure that's for the best? The ring was doing something to your head, Professor," Harry countered, his grip tightening on the wand in his pocket.
Harry was genuinely concerned that Dumbledore may still be vulnerable to whatever the ring did and was rather cagey about being the only thing standing between Dumbledore and the Resurrection Stone that Dumbledore wanted, the artifact's allure a siren call he knew too well.
"I can assure you that I have my wits about me once again," Dumbledore said gently, his tone reassuring like a grandfather's promise. "It was an unfortunate moment of weakness."
Harry gazed at him skeptically, genuinely weighing the risks in his mind, the balance between trust and caution teetering. After thinking it over, he gave Dumbledore his wand back, handing it over with a reluctant nod.
"Thank you," Dumbledore said, shaking his head and sighing as he felt the familiar wood in his grasp. "My apologies for putting you in such a situation, Harry. Let us leave this place and destroy the abomination."
Harry agreed, relief mingling with lingering tension, and with a grimace, grabbed ahold of the box, definitely not the bloody fucking ring inside, and grabbed ahold of Dumbledore's arm, the contact grounding as the two apparated back to the chosen point outside of the boundaries of Hogwarts, the twist pulling them through space to the familiar grounds.
They then trekked their way back to Hogwarts with Harry having thrown on his Invisibility Cloak, the fabric rendering him a ghost in the night, while Dumbledore walked briskly to the girl's loo where the entrance to the Chamber was, as they planned, his strides purposeful as they continued through the silent castle halls. Harry quickly opened it with a hissing command in Parseltongue, the sink grinding aside to reveal the dark chute, they slid down the tube with the cushioning charm Dumbledore placed there from last time still being present, softening their descent into the damp depths, and then they walked to the entrance of the Chamber itself that Harry opened with another serpentine whisper.
It was a silent walk.
They entered and Dumbledore walked straight to the discarded basilisk fang several meters from the skeletal remains, levitated it with a precise flick, and requested that Harry set down the box and to lift the lid, his voice steady but edged with resolve.
Harry did so, stepping back quickly as Dumbledore, a look of cold fury on his face that chilled the air, slammed the fang down onto the ring with unyielding force. There's a faint screech, a piercing wail of dark magic unraveling, and a shudder went up Harry's spine from it, the Horcrux's death throes vibrating through the chamber, but nothing else manifested—no explosive backlash, just silence reclaiming the space. He circled around the box and saw the ring down within, the gold completely blackened and in broken chunks while the stone itself was intact, gleaming mockingly amid the ruins.
Dumbledore let out an exhale, looking tired almost beyond measure, his shoulders slumping as the weight of years and regrets pressed down.
"I thank you for your assistance tonight, Harry. An old man's weakness nearly cost me my life," he said, his voice heavy with self-reproach.
"Sir, if you don't mind me asking, why did you try and touch the ring?" Harry asked tentatively, wondering if Dumbledore was willing to share now and he preferred if he would.
Dumbledore shook his head. "Not tonight, Harry. This has opened old wounds, ones I do not wish to dwell on you. I swear that I will tell you eventually, but not now. Please spare a broken man this," he replied, his tone laced with quiet plea, the vulnerability rare and raw.
Harry swallowed, not liking how familiar the tone sounded, and agreed, respecting the boundary as Dumbledore flicked his wand to close the box, and Harry thought for a fraction of a second about the stone, before deciding he didn't care if Dumbledore used it or not; Harry will toss it into the Veil either way eventually, the Hallow's fate sealed in his pact with Death.
Dumbledore looked to Harry, something passing across his features that the younger of the two couldn't decipher.
"If you would, could you accompany me to my office?"
The tone in his voice did not sit well with Harry, so the teen agreed with a quiet "Yes."
Dumbledore walked up to him and said his hand on his shoulder, then let out a shrill whistle. In a flash of light and heat, Fawkes appeared above them and Harry felt a talon clamp on the back of his robes, before his vision was drowned out in a blur of red, orange, and gold.
They then exited the Chamber via Fawkes flashing them back to Dumbledore's office in a burst of flame and song, the phoenix's warmth dispelling the chill, and Harry, following Dumbledore's example, sat down in one of the familiar armchairs, the room's instruments ticking softly like a heartbeat.
Dumbledore, being rather quiet, opened up a drawer in his desk, pulled out a bottle of Firewhiskey with aged label peeling slightly, uncorked it with a pop, and poured some into a glass, the amber liquid glinting under the candlelight, before taking a drink with a measured sip. He sank into his chair slightly, sighing before looking up at Harry who had been sitting patiently, the boy's posture attentive amid the weighty silence.
"Four destroyed," Dumbledore said quietly, nursing his drink as the fire crackled in the hearth. "Four destroyed through chance circumstances, Harry. Did…" He paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts. "Did you by chance observe something else, a cup was it?"
"A cup surrounded by galleons," Harry clarified, shifting in his seat as he thought of that rather hellish series of events. "I… think it may have been Gringotts. There was stone behind it that was rough and jagged."
Dumbledore absorbed his words, taking another sip, the whiskey's burn perhaps steadying his resolve amid the revelations.
"If I were to discover this likely Horcrux, would you wish to accompany me if possible?" he asked, his gaze probing.
Harry nodded firmly. "I will not sit by when I can help destroy Voldemort. I refuse to let others fight for me if I do not stand with them," he stated, his voice carrying the conviction forged in fire.
He was not intending to let the Merlin be damned thing stay there for long, and if he could destroy it himself all the better.
Dumbledore went silent once again and gulped down the last of the Firewhiskey, the glass clinking softly as he set it down.
"I am sorry that I put you in a position that you felt the need to stun me, Harry. Can you forgive an old man his foolishness?" he inquired, his tone laced with genuine remorse.
"You don't even need to ask for it, Professor," Harry replied, feeling that it would be far too hypocritical even if he did fault the man. Foolish? Yes, but Harry knew he had a similar weakness, different but no less similar in some ways. "What was that saying, that time makes fools of us all?"
That earned a slight smile from the man, a fleeting curve of lips amid the weariness, before it faded back to a worn neutrality, lines etching deeper in the firelight.
"Go get some sleep, Harry. You have earned it," Dumbledore said, dismissing him with a gentle wave.
Harry gave Dumbledore a look of sympathy, then got up from his seat. "Goodnight, Professor," he murmured, the words soft in the quiet room.
He then exited the office, descended down the steps with echoing footfalls, and made his way to Gryffindor Tower, the corridors empty and moonlit through the arched windows. This little expedition was unexpected, but welcome, a proactive strike that accelerated his own quite splendidly. He planned to do it himself soon, but Dumbledore being proactive about this always helps and Harry, despite knowing he's admittedly quite dangerous, knew he couldn't in single combat take the likes of Bellatrix without preparation, let alone Voldemort. And he will not subject Britain to occupation by Voldemort and his servants, the thought a vow etched in his soul.
Sighing to himself as he got to the Fat Lady and gave the password, the portrait swinging open with a yawn, he let himself smile at the thought that aside from Hufflepuff's cup, there was only Nagini left and Voldemort would be nothing but a man, a dangerous man, but a man nonetheless, mortal and open to death's embrace once his anchors were shattered.