HR Chapter 102 Letters! Halloween Invitation! Part 3

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Ian accepted the compliment with a polite nod.

"We must save Hufflepuff's treasure," he declared, attempting to imitate Lady Ravenclaw's air of purpose. But the attempt quickly turned awkward. As Ian reached toward the cup, his fingers failed to interact with the cursed fragment within.

He scowled. Drinking wine infused with a piece of Voldemort's soul was not on his list of ambitions. Still, he stubbornly tried several more times. Each attempt was met with the same empty sensation. Lady Ravenclaw's methods were evidently beyond his grasp.

"Perhaps I lack the necessary understanding of the soul," Ian muttered to himself, his frustration mounting. Unwilling to admit defeat, he seized the cup and began shaking it violently. His theory was simple: perhaps if the remnant soul were dizzy enough, it might fall out.

Fawkes, perched atop Ian's head, remained utterly unbothered. The phoenix's golden plumage shimmered in the candlelight as he continued warming the egg nestled beneath him.

Dumbledore watched this spectacle with poorly concealed amusement.

"You do realize," he said gently, "that all you're accomplishing is tormenting it. Dislodging a soul fragment isn't as simple as rattling it loose… But I must say, Ian, you are quite unlike the rest of us."

Ian, spurred on by the comment, shook the cup even harder. The phrase "torturing it" only emboldened him, though he wasn't entirely sure whether he was doing this out of curiosity or sheer stubbornness.

The headmaster's expression shifted to something caught between fascination and disbelief. It wasn't every day that someone managed to disturb a Horcrux to such a degree. Most wizards couldn't even sense the soul within, let alone provoke it.

"Whew, whew, whew!"

Ian, panting and exhausted, finally lowered the cup. He peered inside, half-expecting some sign of success. Instead, Voldemort's remnant soul appeared to be in a state of utter disarray — the spectral fragment practically foaming at the mouth in rage.

But as Dumbledore had predicted, no matter how violently Ian shook it, the soul fragment remained stubbornly fused to Hufflepuff's Golden Cup.

It was as though the Horcrux had become a parasitic entity, leeching its existence from the ancient treasure.

"I have a teacher who might be able to help," Ian said, though he barely managed to keep a straight face. "But I'll need to borrow the cup for a little while."

Merlin knew Ian had no interest in the cup for its historical significance. No, what truly intrigued him was the prospect of dragging Voldemort's soul along on another reckless adventure. Of course, that wasn't something he'd admit to Dumbledore. At least, not until the day he cheerfully returned the cup — ideally after being crowned Hogwarts' most unconventional president.

Dumbledore, however, wasn't so easily swayed.

"It is possible to destroy the remnant soul while preserving the cup," he said, his gaze unwavering. "I know friends with the necessary skills. There is no need to risk further damage to this treasure."

Ian's shoulders sagged slightly, though he plastered on an air of reluctant acceptance.

"Alright."

He gently set the cup back on the desk, though his fingers lingered for a moment longer than necessary. The temptation to snatch it up and bolt out of the office tugged at him, but he resisted. Barely.

If he ever gave in, he'd absolutely blame it on the lingering influence of Voldemort's soul.

"Please remember to return it to the house elves in the kitchens once the cursed soul within is destroyed. I seem to recall that this cup was once used to serve them."

Ian nodded thoughtfully, a plan already forming in his mind. If the golden cup ended up with the house elves, he could more or less guarantee easy access to it. After all, he had an excellent relationship with the elves.

"Dealing with what's inside won't be too difficult," Ian said. "The real trouble is that this isn't the only one. I'd rather not let him realize that his secrets have been uncovered." Dumbledore's expression grew grim, his voice carrying a calm, unsettling resolve.

"He would flee — but what I seek is nothing short of complete eradication."

It was rare to hear such ruthless intent from the Hogwarts headmaster. Ian involuntarily shivered.

"Indeed! That's a most reasonable plan!" Ian declared with an exaggerated thumbs-up, though Dumbledore's composed demeanor sent a chill down his spine.

This subtle, quiet menace was even more unsettling than the aura Grindelwald projected. Ian thought back to the memories Dumbledore had shown him. No wonder the old man and Grindelwald had once stood side by side.

"Riddle tore apart his soul — not once, but repeatedly. I can imagine the horror of it," Dumbledore murmured, idly rotating the golden cup in his hands. "In pursuit of immortality, to shield himself from destruction, he made countless preparations. Far more than we might expect."

A shadow of worry passed through the headmaster's blue eyes.

Ian, noticing Dumbledore's troubled expression, spoke up.

"Why not ask the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor? If I'm not mistaken, he might have some insight."

It was, by all accounts, a reasonable suggestion.

But Dumbledore only gave a weary smile.

"Do you recall what I told you, Ian? When it comes to credibility, the words of our Defense Against the Dark Arts professor are scarcely more reliable than Riddle's own."

The fatigue etched on Dumbledore's face stirred a pang of sympathy in Ian. The headmaster's frustration and helplessness were clear.

"Why not transform into your younger self and plead with him?" Ian suggested, half-jokingly, though the mischievous glint in his eyes betrayed his amusement.

"..."

Dumbledore rubbed his temples, visibly at a loss. For a fleeting moment, the weight of the years seemed to press down on him. His face was hollowed with exhaustion, shadows sinking beneath his eyes.

"Perhaps," Dumbledore said slowly, "listening to the perspectives of younger minds would serve me better. Ian, if you were to make an estimate — how many do you think there are?"

It was an uncharacteristically direct question.

"???"

Ian blinked, momentarily startled. He instinctively reached up to steady Fawkes, who had grown restless atop his head. The phoenix fluffed its feathers indignantly, clearly displeased at Ian's sudden movement.

"Seven," Ian answered at last, with a weary sigh. "It's a rather magical number, isn't it?"

Dumbledore's eyes gleamed. He closed them briefly, then nodded, his expression softening with an air of reluctant acceptance.

"Indeed."

His voice, though quiet, was filled with a certain sense of closure.

"Thank you."

For a moment, Ian didn't know how to respond. Fortunately, Dumbledore didn't dwell on his gratitude. When the headmaster opened his eyes once more, the fatigue had vanished. His gaze was sharp and resolute, as though he had resolved to face what lay ahead.

But before Ian could brace himself for another grim discussion of Horcruxes, Dumbledore abruptly changed the subject.

"Child, Fawkes is a male phoenix. He cannot assist you in hatching that particular egg."

Ian's eyes widened.

"Chirp, chirp~"

Fawkes trilled from his perch. This time, when he flapped his wings and took off, Ian didn't try to stop him. No wonder Fawkes had been so reluctant to nest on the egg.

"Why didn't you say so earlier?!" Ian demanded, thoroughly exasperated. "If I'd known that, none of this would've happened!"

With a resigned huff, he pulled the egg from his head, glaring at Fawkes, who crooned smugly in response.

"Chirp, chirp~ Chirp, chirp~ Chirp, chirp~"

The phoenix's cries were unmistakably indignant, as though giving Ian a proper scolding.

Only after Ian hastily offered some precious herbs as a peace offering did Fawkes finally cease his complaints. Ian could practically feel the promise of phoenix-shaped revenge hanging in the air — he half-expected Fawkes to spend the entire night outside his window, shrieking curses in birdsong.

"Professor," Ian began, turning back to Dumbledore, "do you happen to know how to hatch this egg?"

Dumbledore regarded the phoenix egg with mild curiosity. Its vibrant shell bore intricate, flame-like patterns that gleamed beneath the light.

"That is a question you must answer for yourself," he said, his voice filled with the kind of cryptic wisdom Ian had come to expect. "Each phoenix is unique. But rest assured, it will come to your aid when the time is right. Generations of the Dumbledore family have verified that truth."

As he spoke, the headmaster's fingers unconsciously brushed against his face, revealing faint scratch marks. Though they were barely visible, the fresh redness hinted at a recent encounter.

Ian's brows furrowed.

"I haven't even established a connection with the life inside. Will it truly help me?" Ian mused, frustration lacing his words. Despite numerous attempts, he had yet to sense anything from the egg. Given that it had come from the Twilight Zone, the unsettling thought occasionally crept in — what if the phoenix inside had perished?

"Many believe a phoenix's arrival is heralded by song and dazzling flames," Dumbledore replied, stepping toward Fawkes, who had now settled on his golden perch. He stroked the phoenix's brilliant plumage, his eyes distant with memory.

"But," Dumbledore continued, "the truth is far more complicated than that. There's something you might not have considered — why did this egg come into your hands?"

Ian opened his mouth, tempted to explain how he had traded a Bowtruckle egg for it with a friend. But before he could speak, Dumbledore's voice, low and contemplative, echoed through the headmaster's office.

"The reason Fawkes recoils from that egg is because the life within stirs a sense of unease in him. A phoenix's instincts are rarely mistaken… and this little one is exceptionally powerful."

Dumbledore's gaze softened, though a trace of awe remained.

(To Be Continued…)