Chapter 64: Albus Dumbledore vs the Gaunt Ring

Albus stood in the hut at the entrance, surveying the traps that sprawled for hundreds of meters around him. The first level resembled a "minefield," designed to eliminate weaker foes. Empowered by rituals and potions, he felt an overwhelming surge of energy coursing through him, an urgency to unleash it before it consumed him. However, he knew the importance of restraint—he was uncertain of the challenges that lay ahead and needed to avoid triggering the signal Charm; careful precision was essential.

Summoning humanoid golems to serve as targets, he proceeded cautiously, disarming traps with the meticulousness of a sapper. Occasionally, a new trap would materialize right beneath his feet, but his defenses absorbed the impact. He encountered various threats: aging curses, freezing spells, and explosive traps. Each time he replaced the golem, he pressed on with relentless determination. After an hour, he reached the edge of the first training ground, where he confronted a cunningly enchanted passage ahead. It was time for high-speed curse removal, but he needed to act faster than the curses could regenerate.

Before him lay a massive, tangled ball of wire—a formidable challenge for any curse breaker. An hour later, he managed to make his way inside, though it would have been easier with Fawkes by his side. The defense's attempt to crush him by collapsing the first room had failed; he had advanced just in time. Yet, what awaited him next was a familiar sight: the second level of protection he had seen countless times in the prediction sphere. A room within the Gaunt house had expanded to the size of a stadium, filled with a constantly shifting three-dimensional labyrinth, rife with curses, traps, and disorienting effects that rivaled the presence of a Dementor.

Albus pondered how Voldemort had achieved this; it was a testament to the brutal artistry of Dark Magic. He recognized that the complexities of this labyrinth might require unconventional methods to navigate, but he was determined to try. After overcoming electric shocks and maddening spells, he discovered the air had transformed into a caustic green acid, which he neutralized with a counter-spell. Next, he faced glowing projectiles akin to large green fireflies, followed by a fiery assault that encircled him with swaying walls of flame. He extinguished the fire and broke through one of the labyrinth's walls, only to be ensnared by snake-like cords that attempted to constrict him. With a flick of the Elder Wand, the cords crumbled into sand, which he transfigured into simple golems for reconnaissance. However, before the golems could even take a few steps, they were obliterated by a comet-like spell.

His attempts at diplomacy were met with silence. Albus continued onward, bolstering his defenses against Dark Magic. He felt as though he had entered a desolate, misty realm, filled with silence and dampness. The curses of the labyrinth sought to ensnare him, but they failed. The corridor became increasingly frigid, and once again, freezing curses flew his way. Within a minute, the maze transformed into a smoking pit reminiscent of a smelting furnace. Albus scrutinized the labyrinth's layout, striving to identify a path forward amid the Aging Mist that obscured his view and the orange flashes of deadly spells intermittently lighting the darkness.

After hours of navigation, Albus found himself battling a pool of liquid helium and hydrogen, but the challenge did not preoccupy his thoughts. He was perplexed by two questions: where was the path forward, and where was the energy source for the labyrinth? Initially, he had theorized that the energy was siphoned from those who entered, contemplating the idea of sending Muggles to exhaust the defenses. However, the energy he had expended on entry and the golems would have long since depleted. Perhaps at the end of the obstacle course, he would discover something significant, the heart of the labyrinth's defenses.

After wandering for four hours without progress, Albus broke curses and walls, convinced there must be a way through. He rifled through his memories for a hint that could guide him, but the labyrinth's ever-changing nature rendered his recollections futile. Employing a random algorithm, the maze eluded prediction or analysis, leaving even the most complex equations powerless against it. Yet, Albus remained undeterred. Even in the absence of discernible patterns, the labyrinth could not extend infinitely; its configurations were finite.

Gradually, a strategy began to crystalize in Albus's mind, leveraging the labyrinth's own power against it. As the maze unfolded before him, he recognized a vulnerability: he could trick it into believing it faced an impossible task, compelling it to react in contradictory ways that defied both physical and magical logic. The key was to outsmart the labyrinth, causing it to malfunction and cease its operations.

The only caveat was that this was not a task for one individual. He needed to exercise extreme caution with the Time-Turner, for the risk of becoming entangled in a time anomaly was high; it had previously taken all his persuasion to prevent Alastor from instigating a battle between twenty Moodys and Voldemort. When cause-and-effect relationships are disrupted, time tends to eliminate the violator, and a mere skirmish certainly could not relate to a bifurcation point. However, the configuration of the labyrinth now offered him a chance.

With a practiced motion, Albus grasped the chain of the Time-Turner and activated it. In another time and place, still within the labyrinth, alternate versions of himself appeared. Each Dumbledore, following a prearranged plan, created opaque barriers within which they began to unravel Voldemort's intricate design, independently working to dismantle the labyrinth.

The concept was simple: ten Dumbledores would dismantle the maze faster than it could regenerate. Given the labyrinth's random nature, their actions would not alter the fate of Albus the Base. Even if the Dumbledores managed to break the maze, Albus the Base would vanish into a time anomaly. However, he had faith in Voldemort's design; regardless of their efforts, they would not succeed in collapsing the labyrinth entirely.

Their objective was to create a clash among the invisible streams of magic that powered the labyrinth's traps, leading to its eventual disintegration. Albus-1 struggled against a collapsing ceiling. Everything seemed manageable until Dark Spears began raining down upon him, igniting the floor in flames. Albus-2 practiced mental magic, fending off attacks that threatened to instill nightmares into his waking hours. Albus-3 took charge of dismantling the maze within his designated area; Albus-4 focused on repairs while the labyrinth itself repelled foreign spells. Albus-5 conjured Muggle explosives and detonated them with precision, ensuring the blast waves remained contained. Albus-6 transfigured the walls of the labyrinth into acid, while under Albus-7's direction, numerous simple golems roamed his domain, changing every few minutes. Albus-8 remained stationary, deflecting the labyrinth's alternating attempts to incinerate and freeze him. Albus-9 meandered through the corridor, laying explosive or magic-draining runes in his wake. Albus-10 summoned fiery tentacles to navigate adjacent corridors.

Three hours later, the Dumbledores united once more, having traversed preplanned routes to reach Albus-the-Base. The labyrinth held strong, but it had become sluggish and disoriented, like a drunken house-elf. Albus advanced toward what he could now identify as the exit from the maze. Just then, a signal alerted him that Tlautlipuzli was attempting to escape from London. How inconvenient... Should he turn back? By the time he returned, either Tlautlipuzli would have vanished or been eliminated. Albus sent a message declaring his engagement and instructed Moody to assume command.

With the labyrinth now offering minimal resistance, he easily approached what appeared to be a passage forward. He began to carve a pathway for himself, but it proved ineffective, and the labyrinth started to gradually restore itself. It was time to realize a long-held ambition—one of his top five cherished desires. Luckily, he had brought along several Time-Turners.

He retrieved a Time-Turner from his pocket and, with a sense of exhilaration that surpassed even his graduation from Hogwarts, smashed it against the barrier. Aging Sand enveloped the obstruction, then he cast several spells, such as "Web of Time," upon the passage. He shattered another Time-Turner, and then another, and yet another. The labyrinth experienced severe disruption due to the sudden transition from maximum velocity to minimal speed. On the eighth cycle of actions—"broken Time-Turner, time magic"—the labyrinth's magical lock ceased functioning for a time. Albus was no longer merely opening the passage at maximum speed; he was breaking through further.

Exhausting a significant amount of magical energy, he felt himself advancing and eventually escaping the labyrinth. The next room lacked originality. Voldemort's concept was straightforward—one representative of each type of mindless undead. Yet there were other peculiarities; the atmosphere was devoid of warmth, creating an effect akin to being surrounded by Dementors, although no actual Dementors were present. The room's protective mechanisms diligently drained energy from area attacks, obstructing flight and transfiguration.

Determined to test the effectiveness of area attacks, Albus ignited an enchanted flame, which was extinguished almost instantly. The undead swarmed him, but their hands and spells met his defenses with futile force. However, he realized that the energy required to fend them off felt like being engulfed in flames from five dragons. Albus wielded his wand, eliminating opponents one by one while maneuvering to shield himself with transfigured barriers to conserve his magical energy. He directed his wand at the floor, causing it to shatter like meteorites, crushing the undead beneath them.

His adversaries hurled Avada Kedavra curses at him, but Albus was shielded by the newly formed "meteorite shower," which further decimated the undead along with crystal bindings meant to ensnare the seeker of the Horcrux. Few wizards could boast of slaying even a handful of these guardians, and considering the numerous defenders remaining after the labyrinth, this posed a formidable challenge.

With a flick of his wand, Albus caused one of the undead to explode from within. He cast anti-undead spells on the scattered remnants, launching new projectiles at the remaining foes. In the midst of battle, he received troubling news from McGonagall that Tlautlipuzli had breached into France, where Moody and Kingsley had slain it at the cost of their own lives. Regret washed over him; it was a tremendous loss.

A banishing spell struck one of the guardians, rendering it lifeless. Another clung stubbornly, but Albus transformed it into glass before shattering it. He transfigured another into gas, only to reverse the transfiguration moments later to witness the remnants scattered across the room. Parrying another round of Dark spells, Albus pressed on. This time, he weakened the guardian's defenses and cast two spells—one to accelerate and another to slow the target. The resulting explosion confirmed their incompatibility.

Though the golems he had summoned perished after a single hit, they distracted the adversaries. Each fighter crumbled, yet Albus had transfigured enough liquid to compress all the enemies into makeshift high-pressure vessels, which he then froze and shattered. Most of the defeated, even in fragmented form, continued to fight, but their capacity for combat was diminished, and it was merely a matter of time before they were incinerated.

Minutes later, the room bore no trace of the once formidable undead squad. Albus began to analyze the remnants, discovering fragments of liches, former Japanese curse breakers he had encountered long ago. Oddly enough, they were also mindless. Who, then, had restored the protective measures? No new undead appeared, which offered him a glimmer of hope. He was drawing nearer to his objective.

He began searching for the Horcrux but found nothing. Shifting his focus, he sought a passage further into the room and, this time, located it. Yet, some of the responses from his scanning spells filled him with unease. He had not encountered such magical feedback in a long while. "Reveal yourself; I know you're here," he commanded. Silence answered him. Unable to act, he felt compelled to confront any potential threat now rather than later.

Having shown this maneuver to Flamel previously, the latter had deemed him a pervert. But sometimes, necessity dictates actions. He waved his wand, crafting intricate figures, and conjured what resembled a massive gaseous Patronus that filled the room. "I command you to emerge into the light!" he declared. The moment felt akin to tossing a stone into light; the hazy figure began to get drawn into a gap. It dissipated, only to be replaced by a massive dog resembling Grim, albeit with two enormous red eyes.

"I've never encountered such a creature before," Albus mused aloud. "What do you want? And what are you?" Despite reading extensively about Grim and hearing many rumors, all that knowledge fell under the category of "folklore." Legends maintained that wizards only encountered this creature once in their lives—before their death—making documentation exceedingly rare. Logically, this must be another of Voldemort's guardians.

Albus felt a pang of confusion regarding the presence of a medium-high level demon here and why it had not attacked him. Perhaps Grim did not comprehend him? Gathering his thoughts, he attempted to establish contact, knowing it would be no simple task. Although Grim resembled a dog, that was merely its appearance; the true nature of the entity eluded him.

Albus created images, sounds, and smells, sending vibrations across the floor and attempting to influence the creature through conjured winds. His efforts met with failure, but he refused to be disheartened. The entity might lack sensory perception, making visual and auditory communication futile. It might even exist without a physical form, rendering tactile contact irrelevant. The only avenue left was to work with magic itself, hoping that Grim might possess some degree of intellect and could understand his intentions.

Bolstering his defenses, he prepared to release a surge of magic, recognizing the risk. With the Elder Wand aimed at Grim, he cast "Legilimens!" To his surprise, he found no defenses within Grim's mind. The creature's thought process operated on a different wavelength, but Albus, drawing on his experiences, managed to penetrate its consciousness—perhaps aided by the Elder Wand's power.

Time held no meaning for the creature—it existed solely in the present. The world, abstract and devoid of matter or light, consisted of endless space suffused with magic. For how long had this been its reality? Days? Years? An eternity? Suddenly, everything changed. An unknown force had yanked it from its home and imprisoned it. For the first time, it understood hunger. To this entity, the world was devoid of substance—magic represented its only reality.

It yearned to return home, yet the path was obstructed by the magical presence before it. Though it had considered attacking, the promise of untasty sustenance held it back, igniting its frustration. Albus became aware of Grim's thoughts, how the illusion of a dog had been merely a façade—a disguise created by an unknown ritual. A creature akin to Tlautlipuzli, albeit smaller and red, lay beneath the surface. What Albus had assumed were red eyes were, in fact, Grim's true essence.

This creature had been siphoning magic, a meager sustenance that only partially quelled its hunger. Ironically, while harmless to Muggles, if it drained a wizard dry, it would ultimately lead to death. Albus, utilizing immense concentration, returned to reality and instinctively cast a Patronus, summoning a phoenix to confront the creature.

While Patronuses were effective against Dementors and other non-physical entities, Grim appeared entirely unrelated to such beings. The Patronus began to dissipate, along with Albus's protective layers. In response, he transfigured a cocoon around Grim, but this did not hinder the creature's feeding. Material attacks proved ineffective; Grim absorbed magic effortlessly.

A plan began to form in Albus's mind. His first option was to flee until the creature succumbed to hunger, a strategy that would likely take a day. Unfortunately, his movement was restricted in this context. The second option involved powerful Dark Magic, ideally capable of damaging Grim before it could consume him. Albus concentrated on a third option: casting various forms of magic at Grim, hoping to discover a magical format it could not absorb. Thus far, his attempts had failed.

Albus pondered whether Voldemort had designed the labyrinth's defenses specifically to entice him into utilizing Dark Magic. If his adversary understood that Albus, imbued with such magic, would quickly overwhelm him, even a hundred Horcruxes would not suffice to save him. The implications for England loomed large, but that was a separate concern from the former Tom Riddle's discomfort.

This demon was not inherently his enemy; it was either a starving beast or a semi-intelligent phenomenon seeking escape. Therefore, sending it back could yield no adverse consequences. Albus felt that if he could see the scheme of the ritual, things would be simpler; however, without this insight, he was left to speculate. Likely, Grim had been summoned, tethered to Voldemort.

Grim could only pursue three objectives: seek food, approach it, and consume. The ritual could either result in Grim's destruction or his own demise. Albus focused on identifying a transport channel connected to himself. In approximately two minutes, Grim reached the perimeter of Albus's defenses, prompting Dumbledore to sense something through his astral vision and begin working with it.

After seven minutes, Grim breached Albus's inner protection. At that point, Albus discerned the transport channel and began channeling energy through it, severing its connection to himself. A grayish blot emerged beside him, and Grim swiftly redirected its attack, consuming the blot in an instant before spiraling inward and vanishing. It appeared as though it had consumed itself, but Albus felt no sign of Grim's demise; the creature had simply returned from whence it came.

Dumbledore sighed wearily. Despite his efforts, Grim had not even offered a token of gratitude. The only silver lining was that Voldemort must have cast a spell on some tangible object, which now disappeared along with Grim. Had this object been linked to him, or had someone placed it upon Albus in real-time? The question lingered—obviously, it had to be a Slytherin, and surely not David Hume.

A new signal broke through his thoughts, announcing the death of a Hogwarts student. Hume must have acted out of despair, killing someone in an act of desperation—yet it remained his fault. Strange, considering he had bolstered security measures! After an hour and a half spent casting protective spells over the passage, Albus discovered that his magical reserves were not as infinite as he had hoped and continued onward.

He anticipated witnessing numerous surprises, but it felt as if he had stepped into Bob Ogden's memories: the very same hut that had belonged to the Gaunts. What perplexed him were two distinct factors. First, the air was thick with unprecedented Dark curses, as if someone had devoted themselves tirelessly to casting every conceivable hex. Second, the atmosphere felt reminiscent of Azkaban, sucking away any positive emotions as though thousands of Dementors resided within.

His adversary had not expanded the space; instead, a compact area was saturated with an overwhelming density of curses. Rather than employing a spatial expansion charm, Voldemort had manipulated time, creating a minute within this room that equated to only a second outside. However, the effect gradually wore off, as time had once flowed more swiftly here.

As he lifted the first curse, a voice interrupted his efforts: "No one invited you here. Leave." Slightly taken aback, Albus recognized the speaker—Morfin Gaunt, standing before him. To his astonishment, Morfin lacked any protective measures. Albus Dumbledore had cloaked himself in Invisibility Charms, yet he felt confident that he could not be detected by standard means—unless the creature could sense more than just through sight, akin to a Dementor.

Checking himself for mental influence, he concluded that it was impossible; any living creature in this space would perish instantly without powerful magic. Yet, here was Morfin, appearing unkempt, deranged, and undeniably alive. "I'll help you escape," Albus offered.

No response came. Continuing to assess himself for external influences, Albus reiterated, "I'll get you out of here," speaking to Morfin in Parseltongue. The difficulty of learning that language had been immense, yet it was to no avail—snakes didn't heed him. Parseltongue was likely more than mere communication; it represented a deeper connection to the serpentine suborder.

Morfin, though appearing aged and deranged, was not in a sound state of mind. Albus felt a renewed signal—a second Hogwarts student had died. What was happening? What course of action should he pursue? While Albus contemplated his next move, Morfin pointed his wand at him, resembling one he had once possessed. Albus effortlessly shattered the wand with a wandless spell.

In an instant, Morfin howled, losing his human form and transforming into something akin to a Dementor. Albus struck with a spear of light, creating a fist-sized hole in Morfin's head. However, no blood emerged; Morfin's interior resembled that of a Dementor. Albus's phoenix Patronus made contact, causing Morfin to howl and retreat to the farthest corner of the hut.

It was strange—Patronuses didn't affect people. Albus attempted to delve into Morfin's memories, but all he found was emptiness, save for the torment of Azkaban and a fixation on Marvolo's ring. He created a large glowing sphere to contain Morfin while his Patronus maintained vigilance over him. Albus then focused on providing Morfin a means of escape.

Five hours later, fatigued from battling curses, he finally reached a chair emanating Dark Magic. After half an hour of scrutiny, Albus was certain—this unremarkable, rotting chair was a Horcrux. But it was inconceivable that Tom Riddle would have made this chair his vessel! He could not entrust his soul to Morfin's chair!

He conjured another luminous sphere to envelop the chair, contemplating the need to destroy it with the Sword of Gryffindor. However, he hesitated. How could he destroy the second Deathly Hallow? He would willingly trade his Elder Wand for the Resurrection Stone.

He sought to ascertain its authenticity, but the overwhelming signals from the Horcrux and the Dark Magic drowned out any magical detection. Even the Elder Wand proved ineffective. Should it be a fake, it was likely undetectable; otherwise, others would have retrieved it long ago. "Work without Dark Magic, and ensure the ring's protective enchantments are undone, or at least confirm the authenticity of the stone," he mentally commanded the wand.

The Elder Wand obediently set to work, casting spells autonomously and controlling Albus's hand. Two hours later, the box's wards yielded. However, what lay inside appeared to have absorbed all Dark Magic, as if Voldemort had spent months crafting its enchantments. Hundreds of curses swirled within, any one of which would suffice to kill a dragon.

The protection was formidable, a call to action, beckoning him to don the ring. Albus hesitated, blocking the temptation. He had always been adamant against Horcruxes and Dark Magic—the idea of killing to achieve immortality was abhorrent. Yet the Deathly Hallows were an entirely different matter. The price had already been paid; no one would suffer from their acquisition.

For decades, Albus had researched the Deathly Hallows. The three Peverell brothers had performed an extraordinary feat—creating artifacts from their own magical essence. He speculated how they had achieved it, whether through luck, celestial alignment, or a pact with an intelligent entity. They had sacrificed their afterlife to create these powerful objects, seeking to live eternally in this realm. Should a wizard successfully unite all three Hallows, they could theoretically become an embodiment of magic itself, transcending mortality.

Yet Albus faced a dilemma. After centuries, he understood that while the allure of power might be intoxicating, it could also lead to madness. What purpose would immortality serve if he could not wield it for the greater good?

As he reached once more for the ring, doubt crept in. Would he truly want to return? And what of those lost in the war—Aberforth, the Longbottoms, the Potters, Alastor? He longed to restore them but hesitated. Would they even wish to return?

The resurrection of the countless souls lost before his birth posed an ethical dilemma. If he resurrected one, it would be unjust to deny others their chance. Who was he to judge who deserved to return? Albus grappled with the weight of such responsibility, recognizing he could not shoulder it alone.

Killing Voldemort would undoubtedly prevent further deaths, but would he be able to resist the temptation to interfere? He was acutely aware of the corrupting nature of power, having witnessed its transformative effects on those around him.

As he reflected on his past experiences—his time as a family head, the Order of the Phoenix, his friendship with Grindelwald—he realized he was not the right person to wield absolute power.

The memories of his childhood resurfaced, particularly the tragic circumstances surrounding Ariana. Once, the Dumbledore family was a beacon of hope, but a series of unfortunate events had led to devastation. His father, Percival, had made a fateful choice to protect his family, resulting in a lifetime in Azkaban.

Albus had carried guilt for years, believing he could have saved Ariana had he acted differently. The memory of her death haunted him. The idea of using the Time Turner to alter the past lingered in his mind, yet fear held him back. What if he succeeded?

There were billions in the world today. If he altered time, everything would change. No one would die, but an entirely new reality would emerge, replacing the old one. Albus felt a sense of foreboding; if he sought to restore Ariana, could he justify the means?

Two hours spent casting protective spells fortified him. He protected his left hand, applying Dragon's Blood and Flamel's potion while donning a dragon-skin glove. He reinforced his defenses further, preparing for the cursed ring.

Once he placed it on his hand, he was transported to a different dimension, surrounded by radiant light. There stood Ariana, unchanged from his memories. "Hello, Ariana," he greeted her. "Forgive me; I never meant to cause you harm."

"Little brother!" she exclaimed, embracing him. "Despite your beard, you're still the same foolish child. I forgave you long ago," she replied, pulling him deeper into the light.

"Do you wish to return to the living world?" he inquired, his heart racing.

"Of course not," she said, emotion evident in her voice. "Stay and talk to me. I've waited for so long." Albus wanted nothing more than to remain with her, but he was acutely aware of the dangers lurking in the real world. The Elder Wand and Invisibility Cloak were still at stake.

What if Voldemort sensed his presence? Albus reluctantly broke free from her grasp. "I'm sorry, Ariana. I need to finish what I started. I'll return soon."

As he turned away, he heard her sob. "I'm not crying for you, Albus. I'm crying for your heart. You can't pretend to be unfeeling forever."

"Perhaps you're right," he conceded, forcing himself back into reality, where the curses and the Horcrux awaited him. The transition was painful, akin to a protracted labor, but he endured it.

According to his time-measuring charms, less than a second had passed, yet everything had altered. The deadly mixture of Voldemort's curses and the Horcrux's wrath proved stronger than Albus's defenses and potions. He felt the impact on his left finger—the energy already waning. Amputating the digit would be futile; the curse threatened to pull him down with it, leaving him to ponder how long he might last.

Despite his status as a great wizard, master of two of the three Deathly Hallows, and pupil of history's greatest alchemist, he felt the weight of impending doom. He had once believed that time enriched wisdom and maturity, but he remained a fool over three centuries later.

Voldemort's curses had done their job. Albus had escaped death by a hair's breadth; the wound was fatal. Only two options could save him—possessing all three Deathly Hallows and creating a Horcrux. Albus had no desire for Horcruxes and had already destroyed the Resurrection Stone.

He had done all he could, but such injuries could not heal themselves. Albus would need someone knowledgeable in potion-making—perhaps Severus? No, he deemed the boy too young and his skills insufficient.

Yet he knew whom to turn to. Though he preferred a different form of communication, it was beyond his control. He retrieved a nondescript mirror from his pocket. Imprinting his energy on the glass, he began to write a coded message known only to two: "Nicholas, I've caught a curse and am dying." He shattered the mirror.

Moments later, the fragments reassembled, revealing a response: "Come to the eighth polygon. I am already there. Flamel." Albus prepared to teleport to his residence, needing to convince Nicholas to act quickly. He could not afford to linger in bed for a month, as he had done in 1945.

How much longer did he have? He would grant himself three years at best, assuming the right treatment. A renowned wizard, master of two Deathly Hallows and apprentice to the greatest alchemist—yet he remained a fool after centuries of existence.

The narrative shifted to the preparations being finalized. In an analogous manner to the Vanishing Wardrobe, a figure entered Hogwarts. Hume had two pressing issues—no one would allow him entry, and You-Know-Who had commanded him to kill Dumbledore. Today, he hoped to resolve the latter. The headmaster was absent from Hogwarts, and following his father's guidance, he had lured two fifth-year Hufflepuffs to the Room of Requirement, promising assistance with their homework.

Stunning them proved a simple task. He lit candles around them, using a knife he found in the room to make the necessary sacrifice. As the flames extinguished, another presence materialized alongside the two corpses.

That familiar face, that indifferent expression—he recognized her from that fateful day. While other Death Eaters had laughed at his mission, she hadn't even bothered to wear a mask. Whether she was the Dark Lord's daughter or lover, he couldn't tell.

"I'm glad to see you, mistress," he said, kneeling. "Killing Albus is beyond my power, but in fulfilling the orders, I've opened the path here for you."

Her smile unnerved him more than the grin of a werewolf. "You are a good boy, David. Your loyalty to the Lord deserves a reward. We truly have a way into Hogwarts. I will quickly take you to your father, and you will not return to Hogwarts. The Dark Lord will be pleased with you. Naturally, there will be no further claims against your family. And you can consider how much money you want for the work."

"So I'll get paid too?" Hume asked, surprised.

"Of course," she replied, and together they vanished in a flash of flame. His initial problem seemed poised for resolution.

End of David Hume's POV