The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across the sitting room at Blackmoor, where the air was thick with anticipation. The group had gathered, their faces etched with fatigue from the ritual they'd just completed, but their resolve remained unshaken. Ammon stood at the center, his voice steady as it broke the silence.
"With the destruction of the Cup and the Diary," Ammon began, his gaze intense, "only one more Horcrux remains—the final piece of Voldemort's soul."
Sirius, ever the pragmatist, quirked a brow, his voice laced with a touch of humor. "Well, that's a relief. I was starting to wonder if we were going to need a bloody lifetime to finish this." He stretched, his movements effortlessly smooth, all that was missing was the casual flair of a man used to walking away from explosions.
Charlus shot Sirius a look, his tone cutting as he folded his arms with a faint smirk. "Yes, Sirius, because we all know how well you handle 'lifetime' commitments." The underlying sarcasm was palpable, a reminder of the countless occasions when Sirius' sense of responsibility had been... shall we say, elastic at best.
Sirius chuckled, not missing a beat. "Touché, old man. But don't act like you weren't thinking it, too. We've got one left, we're still alive, and I'm bloody sure no one in this room is particularly keen on being stuck playing Voldemort's personal puzzle box any longer."
Arcturus, standing with an aura of quiet dignity, raised a brow, the gleam in his eyes reflecting the weight of untold centuries of wisdom. "It's not about what we're keen on, Sirius. It's about being right." His voice, rich and resonant, carried a sense of finality. "And we are right to focus on the last piece. A fragment of his soul remains, tethered to a thing of deep significance, steeped in his darkest whims."
Benjy, his brow furrowed in thought, leaned forward, his voice gravelly. "It's got to be something personal to him. Something not easily overlooked." He paused, eyes narrowing. "What about his obsession with Hogwarts? We all know how much he's tied to the place, to the Founders."
Sirius' lips twitched, an unmistakable grin forming. "Oh, you mean the Hogwarts theme park that Tom Riddle's been collecting artifacts from like some twisted collector? Yeah, I'd say it's a good bet."
Charlus raised an eyebrow, his presence commanding attention despite the casual nature of the conversation. "You're quite right, Sirius. The man's obsession with the Founders has been his greatest folly. If it's anything, it's bound to be linked to those relics." His voice turned even more pointed, a gleam of icy authority in his eyes. "The real question is, which Founder does he fancy himself most like?"
"Salazar Slytherin, of course," Melania chimed in, her voice smooth and calculating, yet laced with a subtle edge. "Voldemort's lust for power and his delusion of superiority—it's not just Slytherin qualities, it's his Slytherin legacy." Her eyes swept over the group, no longer the seductress of the room, but a force in her own right. "If he's been playing at being a 'descendant' of Slytherin for this long, it would make sense to seek out an object of Slytherin's own—perhaps something even more symbolic than the Locket."
Benjy nodded. "So we're looking at either the sword of Gryffindor or the diadem of Ravenclaw. Either could be the final piece."
Moody, ever the skeptic, grunted from his chair, his steely eyes burning through the room. "I wouldn't put it past him to have gone after both—though, for a moment, let's just focus on one." He tapped his wand against the table, his voice low but lethal. "Gryffindor's sword is too well-known, too well-protected. There's no way he'd have gotten his grubby little hands on it. But Ravenclaw's diadem—that's a different story."
Charlus leaned back, his fingers steepled in a gesture of quiet contemplation. "You're right, Moody. The sword's a problem—it reveals itself only to those who possess the bravery Gryffindor valued. Voldemort... well, I don't think 'bravery' is his strong suit, don't you?" His dry wit made the air seem even heavier, as if mocking the very idea of Voldemort ever embodying the courage of a lion.
Sirius snorted, unable to resist. "Oh, I'm sure Tom just adores a bit of courage. Maybe in his dreams." He slouched in his chair, eyes twinkling mischievously.
"And as for Ravenclaw's diadem," Arcturus intoned, his voice like the slow roll of thunder before a storm, "it would have to be hidden in a place of deep significance to him. A place where his ambitions were born." His eyes narrowed slightly. "Hogwarts itself. Where it all began."
Charlus turned to face Arcturus, his voice cold but with a certain level of admiration. "Well played. If he truly seeks power, there's no better place for it than Hogwarts, where he felt most in control of his destiny." A slight pause before he added, "That place must still reek of the darkness he so foolishly thought he could master."
Benjy furrowed his brow. "The problem with that theory is that the diadem's been lost for centuries. It's hardly a convenient place to stash a Horcrux, is it?"
Sirius leaned forward with a grin that would make a wolf proud. "Oh, Benjy, you underestimate Voldemort. If he's good at one thing, it's digging up lost treasures. And if there's anyone who would find the diadem, it's him."
Melania's voice cut in like a whip, sharp and decisive. "And we need to find it first." Her eyes sparkled with intensity, a reminder that she wasn't here to waste time with theories.
Arcturus' voice resonated, rich with a sense of finality. "Indeed. And if Voldemort has already hidden it in Hogwarts, we have no choice but to act. We cannot allow him to keep any of these fragments of his soul in the world."
Sirius cracked his knuckles, his usual grin replaced by a more focused intensity. "So Hogwarts it is, then. Guess we'll just have to show old Tom that the Founders' toys are for us, not him."
Charlus gave a small, satisfied smile. "And this time, let's make sure we really finish the job, shall we?"
—
As Dumbledore descended the grand staircase of Hogwarts, his steps measured and deliberate, his mind swirled with a mixture of urgency and grim purpose. He had spent countless hours reflecting on the steps ahead, but even now, as he made his way toward the Room of Requirement, the weight of the decision he had made still hung heavily on his conscience. The final Horcrux was a burden, not only for the wizarding world but for himself. And though the end was in sight, the cost was far greater than anyone could imagine.
His thoughts, as ever, flickered toward Harry Potter. The boy—no, the final Horcrux—was the lynchpin of the dark wizard's downfall. But as Dumbledore's heart tightened in his chest, the deeper truth buried within his soul clawed at him. Harry must die. The boy was the key, and only through his sacrifice would Voldemort finally be destroyed. And yet... Dumbledore hated himself for it. He had never wanted to be the orchestrator of such a fate.
But the Greater Good—it was the only path to ensure victory, wasn't it?
His robes whispered against the stone floors of the castle as he approached the door to the Room of Requirement. He paused for a moment, steadying himself. The thought of holding the last Horcrux, the Diadem of Rowena Ravenclaw, gave him no pleasure. It wasn't just the weight of the object itself—it was what it represented. A dark shard of Voldemort's soul, locked away in the most intimate of places, symbolizing the monstrous obsession with immortality.
The Room of Requirement appeared before him, its door materializing with a faint shimmer, as if acknowledging the gravity of his presence. Dumbledore did not hesitate; he strode toward it with unflinching resolve, though his thoughts felt like a tangle of smoke in his mind. Once inside, the room settled into a sense of quiet, the air thick with latent magic and the promise of something hidden. Shadows danced along the walls, and in the dim glow, the alcove where the Horcrux lay stood before him.
He felt a pulse of energy ripple through the air, and though he had been expecting it, the eerie presence of the diadem was unsettling. He allowed his gaze to linger on the ancient artifact for a moment, taking in the intricate designs and the once-proud crest of Ravenclaw etched into the metal.
It had been placed here, in this forgotten corner of Hogwarts, for a reason. For Voldemort's reasons.
His long fingers trembled slightly as they reached for the diadem, a subtle reminder of the grave responsibility he carried. With deliberate care, Dumbledore lifted the cursed artifact from its resting place, his magic reaching out to wrap around it, even as his heart twisted with sorrow. The diadem, though physically light, seemed to carry the weight of centuries of pain and dark magic.
In his mind, the ghosts of the past whispered. The prophecy was coming to fruition, and Harry—Harry Potter, the son of James and Lily, was at the heart of it.
He had watched the boy grow, watched as a flicker of hope was kindled in him. Harry had no idea the burden that awaited him. The boy had no idea that he was already marked for death by the very nature of his existence. And yet, Dumbledore could see no other way. Voldemort had to be stopped, and only Harry's sacrifice would suffice.
The room seemed to press in on him as he stepped back, cradling the diadem in his hands, feeling its unnatural warmth against his skin. He would hide it—safeguard it—until the time was right. No one else must know of its existence. Not even Charlus or Arcturus. They had found the others, but this one was for him alone. He had the knowledge, the plan, and the foresight. He knew Harry would have to die to end it all.
No one must stand in the way of the Greater Good, not even the boy himself.
Turning away from the alcove, Dumbledore walked toward the door of the Room of Requirement. His steps echoed softly in the silence, a man walking not just through the halls of Hogwarts, but down a path from which there would be no return. His heart weighed heavily, but the resolution in his eyes was absolute. The world must be saved, even if it cost him the last vestiges of his own soul.
And with that, Dumbledore vanished into the shadows, the diadem securely hidden, as his mind began to unravel the next steps in his twisted scheme. The final phase of his plan was now in motion. The wizarding world would be saved, even if Harry Potter had to die for it.
For the Greater Good.
—
As Dumbledore moved through the dimly lit corridors of Hogwarts, his steps were deliberate but heavy, weighed down by the secret burden in his grasp. The last Horcrux—Rowena Ravenclaw's diadem—was safely hidden, but the knowledge of what needed to happen next gnawed at him like a relentless phantom. He couldn't bear the thought of what must come: Harry's death for the Greater Good. But there was no turning back now.
The silence was broken by the sharp sound of footsteps behind him. Dumbledore stopped, his senses heightened by years of experience. He knew this castle better than anyone—yet something in the air shifted, a quiet presence approaching him.
Without turning around, Dumbledore spoke, his voice carrying the weariness of too many nights spent in thought. "I do hope you're not here to stop me, Minerva."
A sleek tabby cat materialized from the shadows, its green eyes narrowing with intention. Minerva McGonagall, ever the watchful guardian, had transformed into her Animagus form—a silent observer, blending effortlessly with the shadows, yet always present when she was needed. The cat padded toward him with a purposeful gait, her movements graceful and calculated. The corners of Dumbledore's lips twitched upwards in recognition, his affection for Minerva showing in the softness of his gaze.
"Minerva," he said, his voice warmer now, though a faint flicker of unease clouded his eyes. "Your vigilance is both comforting and commendable."
The tabby halted before him, its fur bristling slightly with an underlying tension, but the cat's gaze never left his face. Dumbledore understood immediately. This wasn't a friendly visit; Minerva was here on business.
Before he could respond further, the feline form transformed in a burst of magic, and within moments, Minerva McGonagall stood before him, her posture straight and composed, though there was an undeniable edge to her presence. She raised her wand, its tip aimed directly at Dumbledore.
"Headmaster, I've been following your movements," Minerva said, her voice grave yet steady. "And I am deeply concerned."
Dumbledore took a step back, regarding her with a mixture of understanding and regret. "I see," he murmured, his eyes softening with the recognition of a friend who cared far too much. "And why, may I ask, have you been following me, Minerva?"
Minerva's sharp gaze met his without hesitation. "The days of me remaining silent about your decisions ended the day I found out about young Harry's abuse at the hands of the Dursleys." She took a step closer, the unspoken worry in her tone clear. "The boy has been through enough, and you've been playing a dangerous game with his life, Albus. I cannot let this continue."
Dumbledore's expression shifted, the faintest shadow of guilt passing over his features. He had expected this. Minerva had always been fierce in her protectiveness of her students, especially Harry. But the path he had chosen was the only one, wasn't it? The Greater Good demanded it.
"I understand your concern, Minerva," he replied softly, his voice tinged with regret, "but this... This is a burden I must carry alone." He held up the diadem, its presence heavy in the air between them. "The boy's fate is sealed, and only through his death can we end Voldemort's reign. I cannot undo what has already been set in motion."
Minerva's eyes flashed with defiance, her hands tightening around her wand. "No, Headmaster," she said firmly, her voice rising with authority. "I cannot, and will not, stand by while you make this choice for him. You have manipulated him for too long, and now... Now you've taken it too far."
Dumbledore's heart sank, but he stood tall, the weight of the diadem pressing on his mind and heart. "Minerva, please, you do not understand. It is the only way—"
But Minerva wasn't listening. With a flick of her wand, she cast a powerful charm that sent the floor beneath them quaking. Dumbledore staggered, his footing momentarily lost as the force of the spell rippled through him. His eyes widened, realizing she had no intention of backing down.
"Do not speak to me of what I understand, Headmaster," Minerva snapped, her voice like steel. "You've had your plans, your secrets, but now you've crossed a line."
Without warning, she launched into action, her wand weaving through the air as she unleashed a flurry of spells. Dumbledore barely had time to react as a stunning hex whizzed past him. He raised his own wand to block it, but Minerva was relentless. The spells came fast—stunning, disarming, and binding—each one more forceful than the last.
Dumbledore was caught off guard. He had always known Minerva to be formidable, but this intensity... This was not the same loyal colleague he'd known for years. This was a woman who had reached the breaking point.
He raised his wand in defense, his movements fluid but growing more strained as Minerva's attacks pushed him further and further back. "Minerva, please—" he began, but she cut him off.
"No more, Albus! I've let you go too long with this nonsense. This isn't the way!"
The clash of their spells created a cacophony that reverberated off the walls, rattling the windows and sending books tumbling from their shelves. The air smelled of ozone and burning wood. It was clear now: Minerva would not be swayed.
Dumbledore's heart ached as he defended himself, knowing that this was a battle he should never have allowed to reach this point. He could feel the weight of his decisions in every parried spell, each strike a reminder of the consequences that awaited. Without the Elder Wand, he was losing ground, unable to match Minerva's sheer ferocity. And yet, he knew he couldn't hurt her, not in this way.
"Minerva, please!" he pleaded, his voice urgent now, desperation creeping in. "This isn't the answer. We can find another way."
Minerva's eyes were wild with frustration and righteousness as she pressed on, her wand movements precise and unforgiving. "No more words, Albus. I won't let you sacrifice him."
And then, in a flash, she struck—faster than Dumbledore could react. The disarming spell hit its mark, and his wand flew from his grasp. Before he could recover, Minerva stunned him with another spell, her eyes hard with determination.
Dumbledore collapsed to the ground, his consciousness fading. Minerva, breathless but resolute, stood over him for a moment. Her expression was a mixture of triumph and sorrow. She had done what was necessary, but the guilt of it weighed on her soul. Still, she didn't falter.
With a flick of her wrist, she summoned the diadem from where Dumbledore had dropped it. The object flew into her hand, and with one final, lingering glance at the Headmaster, Minerva turned on her heel and made her way quickly out of the room.
In her office, she wasted no time. With a whispered incantation, the Floo Network flared to life, green flames dancing in the hearth. "Blackmoor!" she cried, the urgency of the moment driving her voice to a near-shout.
And with that, Minerva McGonagall vanished into the flames, leaving behind a Hogwarts shaken to its core, and the weight of a decision that would change the course of everything.
—
Minerva stepped out of the Floo with a soft, controlled grace, her robes fluttering slightly as she straightened up and surveyed the room before her. The faces of the men and women in the room were both shocked and curious, though they made no attempt to hide the relief that passed through their expressions upon seeing her.
Charlus Potter, his commanding presence as usual impossible to ignore, was the first to speak. He raised a brow, his tone a mixture of genuine curiosity and dry humor. "Minerva," he said, his voice carrying a trace of disbelief. "Did Dumbledore send you? Or have you decided to become a thief for the evening?"
Minerva's sharp gaze met his with no trace of hesitation. "I'm not in the mood for your antics, Charlus," she replied crisply, though there was a flicker of amusement in her eyes. "But I came to deliver this." With a swift motion, she presented the object in her hand, holding it out for them to see.
Sirius Black, lounging on the couch with a predatory grin, raised an eyebrow as he examined her. "Ah, our favorite transfigurations professor... gone rogue. I'm impressed. Did you wrestle it from Albus' hands or perform a bit of transfiguration yourself?" He leaned back, clearly enjoying the scene. "Or was it a little bit of both?"
Arcturus Black, the elder patriarch of the family, observed the exchange from his chair, his eyes narrowing with intrigue but his expression otherwise unreadable. He was a man who measured his words carefully, but when he spoke, it was with the weight of experience. "You should have let him keep it, Minerva," Arcturus added with a wry smile. "Nothing like watching Dumbledore squirm. But then again, you've always had a soft spot for Harry. Can't say I blame you." His voice was deep, carrying the authority of a man who had witnessed countless struggles, and yet his words held an edge of sharp humor.
Minerva gave a single, pointed nod. "I had my reasons, Arcturus. Dumbledore may be a brilliant strategist, but when it comes to matters of Harry, I'm afraid he's been a little... misguided."
Charlus, looking down at the object with a calculating gaze, nodded gravely. "This is it, then." He looked up at Minerva with an expression of appreciation, but it was tempered with the weight of their shared understanding. "I knew he wouldn't give it to us willingly. Thank you, Minerva."
Sirius clapped his hands together, his voice dripping with playful mockery. "Well, look at that! Minerva, the hero of the hour. We might have to start a fan club for you. Or should we just ask for your autograph?" His grin was wide and mischievous, though there was no mistaking the respect he held for her—underneath the humor, of course.
Minerva, never one to shy away from a verbal sparring match, didn't flinch. "Sirius, I'll take your admiration in the form of a more proper thank-you—perhaps a bottle of your finest whiskey." She gave him a pointed glance, folding her arms. "Now, if you're quite done, I'll take my leave."
Sirius chuckled and spread his hands in mock surrender. "Fine, fine. You can keep your high-and-mighty professor persona for now. But don't think you're off the hook for a drink when this is all over."
Melania, who had been standing in the corner with an air of quiet elegance, spoke up as she stepped forward with a serene yet confident presence. Her voice was low and soothing, yet carried a sharpness that commanded respect. "Charlus, if you don't mind, I'll take Minerva to the Potter Estate. Dorea will be relieved to have her company. And, I suspect, you could use a moment to think through your next move."
Charlus glanced at Melania with a subtle but appreciative nod. "Of course, Melania. Take Minerva to Harry. Dorea will certainly welcome the company, and I'm certain Minerva will be a good influence."
Minerva glanced between them with a faint smile, one that was filled with both gratitude and resignation. "I can take care of myself, you know," she said, her voice tinged with a subtle edge of humor. "But I'm sure Dorea will be glad to see me."
Melania smiled back at her, her gaze warm yet calculating. "I've no doubt, Minerva. And I'm sure Harry will enjoy hearing your opinion on the matter."
With that, the two women made their way out of Blackmoor, Minerva following Melania's elegant steps through the door and into the crisp night air.
As they walked, Minerva couldn't help but feel a flicker of admiration for the woman beside her. Melania was a force in her own right—strong, calm, and ruthless when the situation demanded it.
Melania, glancing at Minerva, broke the silence. "I know you're not fond of working against Dumbledore, but I also know that Harry's safety is your highest priority." Her voice was soft, but the words were pointed.
Minerva nodded, her expression serious. "Yes. I may not always agree with Dumbledore's methods, but when it comes to Harry, I won't stand by and watch him suffer."
Melania gave a small, knowing smile as they approached the Apparition point. "Then let's make sure he doesn't."
As they disappeared with a soft crack, the echoes of the conversation at Blackmoor lingered behind them—each word, each look, a reminder of the stakes they were all willing to play for. And for Minerva, it wasn't just about defeating Voldemort. It was about protecting Harry—and making sure the mistakes of the past never repeated themselves.
—
The study at Blackmoor was filled with the weight of impending decisions. The flickering light of the fire cast long shadows on the walls, and the air felt thick with the tension of what had just been revealed. Charlus stood at the head of the table, his eyes dark with contemplation, his demeanor every bit the commanding figure his family had come to expect. Arcturus, seated at the far end of the room, leaned back in his chair with a look of quiet satisfaction, but his sharp eyes betrayed a flicker of concern.
Charlus exhaled slowly, breaking the silence. "This is a crucial turning point in our quest," he remarked, his voice as cool and measured as ever, but with a bite that carried the gravity of the moment. "We've got the last one, then. The endgame is near."
Arcturus nodded, his movements slow and deliberate, much like his speech. His gaze flicked to the object before them, the one that Minerva had delivered. "Indeed. I've lived long enough to know that you never quite know when you've reached the final piece of the puzzle. But this... this is the last Horcrux." His voice had a quiet rumble to it, like the deep echo of thunder before a storm. "Once it's destroyed, Voldemort will no longer have his immortality."
Ammon, who had been muttering incantations and inspecting the object with the precision of a seasoned expert, grunted in approval. His voice, gravelly and commanding, carried an authority that demanded respect. "Yes. This is it," he said, his face grim. "The final Horcrux. Once we deal with it, Voldemort's soul will be vulnerable. He'll be mortal again, and we can finish him."
The words hung in the air like a heavy weight, but Sirius was the first to break the fragile peace that had settled over the group. His broad frame, perched casually against the fireplace, exhaled in mock amusement as he arched an eyebrow. "Hold on a minute," he said, his voice dripping with skepticism, his smirk widening. "McGonagall said Dumbledore was hiding this from us, right? That's a bit... odd, don't you think?"
Benjy, always more cautious than his companions, leaned forward with a frown, rubbing his chin as he considered Sirius' words. "Why the secrecy? Dumbledore knew what we were after. And he knew this object was key. Why keep it from us?"
Moody, ever the paranoid strategist, didn't waste any time adding his two Knuts. His rough voice cut through the air like a blade. "I've been telling you lot for years," he grumbled, his eye twitching beneath its magical cover, "Dumbledore's got more schemes than a Slytherin at a blood feud. He's always got a plan—and sometimes it's not one we'll like." His voice dropped to a growl. "We can't trust him. Not entirely. Not with this."
Sirius gave a sharp, barking laugh, leaning back in his chair as he crossed his arms over his chest. "Always the cynic, Moody. But I'm starting to think you're right. It's starting to smell a little fishy, this whole situation." His eyes flicked to Charlus. "You know, old man, I think you're the one with the knack for finding the right words. Care to elaborate on what we're going to do about it?"
Charlus turned slowly toward Sirius, his face the picture of icy composure, but with a glint of something sharper underneath. "I think it's time we have a little chat with Dumbledore, don't you?" His voice was low, cutting, like the final stroke of a blade. "And trust me, Sirius, I'll be the one doing the talking. You're too busy making your charming little remarks to be of any use."
Sirius flashed an exaggerated, mocking bow. "Oh, don't mind me, I'm just here for the fun. But I'll make sure to keep quiet—wouldn't want to outshine you, old man."
Benjy, ever the pragmatist, added with a serious tone, "But we need answers. There's too much at stake now. Dumbledore's been playing a dangerous game. And we need to know why."
Arcturus's deep voice rumbled in agreement. "A game indeed. But what is his endgame? We all know that when Dumbledore has a plan, it's not always one we're privy to." His expression darkened, his eyes cold. "We've trusted him, but his actions raise too many questions. If he's kept something this crucial from us, there's no telling what else he's hiding."
Moody grunted, reaching for his hip where his wand was always at the ready. "I say we don't give him any more chances to play games. We take the answers we need, by force if necessary."
Sirius rolled his eyes. "Always the hammer, aren't you, Moody? Let's not resort to violence just yet. Not until I get a chance to... 'charm' the truth out of him first." He gave an exaggerated wink at Charlus. "I've always been a bit more persuasive than the rest of you."
"Fine," Charlus snapped, his gaze hardening as he stood. His voice cut through the room with authority, like the crisp snap of a whip. "But we go as a group. I don't care if you think you can charm him, Sirius. We're going in together. Dumbledore's had too many chances to explain himself. This time, we make him do it."
As Charlus turned towards the door, Arcturus was already rising from his seat, his towering figure exuding a quiet menace. "You'll need someone with experience to back you up, Charlus. I'll accompany you. I've had dealings with Dumbledore before—his mind works in mysterious ways, and I intend to see how deep his rabbit hole goes."
Sirius shot a grin at Arcturus, all charm and no subtlety. "Not sure if we need the two of you playing good cop, bad cop. But fine, let's see what we get. Just make sure you don't frighten the old man too much, Arcturus. We need answers, not a funeral."
Benjy, always the realist, shook his head. "Whatever we do, we can't risk splitting up. We need all the answers Dumbledore's hiding. And we need them now."
Moody's voice was as sharp as ever as he turned towards the door, his eye scanning the room one last time. "I'll be right behind you, just in case things get... sticky."
Charlus cast one last glance around the room before nodding curtly. "Alright, let's go. But remember, I'll do the talking." With that, he strode out of the room, his presence commanding the others to follow.
As the group gathered to leave, Sirius couldn't help but mutter under his breath. "And here I thought a nice chat with Albus would be pleasant." His eyes sparkled with mischief, but the tension in the room was far from over. They were heading into unknown territory, and this time, there would be no more playing games.
---
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