The quiet streets of the area behind Little Hangleton bore the unmistakable signs of decay. Cracked pavements, abandoned cottages with sagging roofs, and overgrown gardens choked with weeds spoke of neglect and a slow, creeping death.
This was the part of the town that people had long left and abandoned. While there were indeed some people here, one wouldn't really know just by looking at it.
In the stillness of the early morning, a faint mist clinging to the ground, the figure of Albus Dumbledore walked purposefully, his long, midnight-blue robes brushing against the dewy grass, his expression unreadable, a mask of concentration.
He had come alone, as he always did for matters of such grave importance, trusting no one else with the secrets he carried, or the burdens he chose to shoulder. After all, no one but him could. He had long been the only one capable of this, he was the only one who could for the greater good.
Harry's words still echoed in his ears—the diary, the ring, the shack, Little Hangleton. The moment Harry had told him about his dream of the diary, Dumbledore had had an idea of what it might be, a Horcrux.
When he'd confirmed the diary was indeed a Horcrux, his greatest fear was that Tom Riddle was never the type to stop at one. So that confirmation that the diary was a Horcrux, he feared more would follow. And if there were more, how many would his former student make?
It didn't take all that long to get a few numbers out, 3, 7, or 21. Those were the most powerful magical numbers, magic favoured things in these numbers, so it was only a matter of an educated guess. 3 was too small for someone like Tom, and 21 was too much for the soul to bear, so the answer was simple. Seven.
Seven seemed inevitable. His old student was fond of the number seven, a number of immense magical power, and his pathological fear towards death would no doubt push him to make that many to feel utterly secure, to truly defy mortality.
"Oh, Tom…" he whispered into the cold wind, a sigh escaping his lips, laced with a complex mix of pity, regret, and a touch of lingering affection for the boy he had once tried to save. "Why could you never simply trust me? Why could you not believe in the future I offered, the guidance I extended? Why could you not accept my hand?"
He recalled the boy vividly, sharp, cold eyes that held a disturbing precocity, a voice that carried both insidious charm and a chilling warning, and the impossible pride that refused to bend, even as a child.
Dumbledore had seen the darkness within him from the very first moment he met young Tom Riddle, and knew that only he, Albus Dumbledore, could guide him towards the light, could reshape that nascent evil into something benevolent. But Tom had been... resistant. Obstinate. Unwise.
Dumbledore still told himself he had done what was necessary, keeping the boy at the orphanage during holidays, denying him any contact with the magical world, for his own good, surely, to sever him from the mundane world he had grown to despise, he would never learn to love them. He wanted the boy to learn to love and forgive before he could be trusted with the magical world and its knowledge, so that he could see that the muggles were not people to despise.
Yet deep down, a persistent, nagging doubt whispered that his efforts had only fanned the flames of Tom's resentment, pushing him further into the darkness he so desperately sought to prevent. He knew there was a great war brewing, but it wasn't anything Tom should have worried about.
He reached the Gaunt shack. It was a crumbling skeleton of what once may have been called a home, leaning precariously, its windows like empty, dark eyes. The wards surrounding it were impressive, or had once been. Now, faded and frayed by time and neglect, they bent like dried parchment against his probing magic, weak and easily bypassed.
They were child's play to him. He lifted his wand and whispered, "Aperio," a soft pulse radiating from the tip, revealing the vestigial defenses and letting him slip inside without triggering any lingering alerts or drawing unwanted attention.
Dust covered every surface, thick and undisturbed. Cobwebs, heavy with age, filled every corner, swaying faintly in the disturbed air. But Dumbledore didn't care for the filth, the decay, the squalor. He cared for one thing, the hidden echo of soul-bound magic, the dark, insidious signature of a Horcrux.
He cast a detection charm, his wand glowing faintly. Faint tendrils of dark essence, almost invisible to the naked eye, rippled from beneath the rotting floorboards, a vile, corrupted energy. His lips thinned, a grim line. "So it's true," he murmured, his voice laced with a profound weariness, a confirmation of his deepest fears.
A flick of his wand, and the rotting planks lifted with a groan, revealing a small, blackened wooden box. He reached down, levitating it gently to eye level. It opened at his silent command, revealing a ring with a black stone etched with the symbol he once pursued with Gellert, the Deathly Hallows.
Dumbledore's breath hitched, a sharp, involuntary gasp.
The Resurrection Stone.
He had chased it in his youth—chased the myth, chased the dream of reuniting with his family, of atoning for his past. He had chased many things back then, power, glory, the elusive affection of Gellert Grindelwald.
The Hallows had symbolized their shared dream of ruling the world, of saving it through absolute control, of conquering death itself. And here it is, he thought, his hand trembling, his heart pounding with a fevered, desperate hope. The ring. The final piece.
The proof of his destiny, of his chosen path. The final tool to achieve his vision.
"I was right," he whispered with a fevered hush, his voice barely audible, filled with a terrifying conviction. "It was always meant for me. The Wand. The Stone. And eventually… the Cloak."
He could see it now, a new golden age. A world without fear, without conflict. A world united by one benevolent master, guided by his wisdom. And if it came through conquering death, through wielding the Hallows, through absolute control—so be it.
And this world would truly be perfect, devoid of conflict, and his wisdom would be shared with all, there would be no need for violence, and even those abominations would surely be nothing with his power. The ends justified the means.
He thought bitterly of the Abominations, the so Called Godslayers, The Campiones. He hated those beings, those abominations of nature. It had nothing to do with the fact that both he and Grindelwald had tried to gain that power and failed.
They tried in their youth to kill a god and gain the power of a Campione, convinced it was the ultimate form of power. And it was then they learned of how much of an abomination those beings were, because if not abominations, what else could kill beings like Heretic Gods that even he and Grindelwald had failed to kill, beings that defied even their combined might? He despised them, their raw, untamed power, their very existence a mockery of his ordered vision. He shook his head, pushing the bitter thoughts away.
His fingers reached forward, trembling with anticipation, with a desperate longing that transcended all caution.
The moment his skin met the ring, agony erupted. His hand lit aflame with invisible fire, a searing, corrupted heat that burned him from the inside out.
Pain so blinding and absolute, he screamed, a raw, guttural sound that tore from his throat and echoed in the desolate shack. He stumbled back, his wand flying to his other hand, lashing out on instinct, a desperate, uncontrolled burst of magic. A spell of fire exploded from his lips, consuming the immediate surroundings.
The ring remained untouched, pulsating with dark energy, but the room went up in flames, the ancient wood catching instantly.
Gasping, clutching his chest, he doused the inferno with another sweep of his wand, the flames dying with a hiss, leaving behind charred timbers and smoking embers. He looked down at his hand—blackened, withered, decaying. Veins turned a sickly shade of grey, standing out starkly against his skin. Black spiderwebs of corrupted magic crawled rapidly up his arm, spreading like a vile disease.
It burned. Merlin, it burned. A cold, insidious fire that felt like it ate at his very soul.
He staggered, almost falling, his legs buckling under the sudden, overwhelming pain and the shock of the curse. But the whispers from the ring grew louder, sweet and seductive like the murmurs of long-lost loved ones, promising reunion, promising peace, tempting him to succumb.
"Stop," he muttered, reinforcing his Occlumency shields, slamming mental barriers against the insidious whispers. He had made a grave mistake. It wasn't just a Hallow—it was also a Horcrux. Infused with Tom's malice, twisted beyond recognition, a vessel of pure evil. He had been so consumed by the Hallow, by the promise of the Stone, that he had overlooked the obvious.
But he had come prepared, anticipating the Horcrux, even if he hadn't anticipated the curse.
From his mokeskin pouch, he retrieved Godric Gryffindor's sword—a gleaming, silver blade enchanted to absorb the properties of that which it destroys, a weapon imbued with pure, heroic magic. It had absorbed the poison from the basilisk and had gained its properties. It would work here.
With no further hesitation, he brought the blade down, a flash of silver light.
The ring hissed, a sound of pure agony.
A black mist exploded upward from the shattered ring, swirling violently, a noxious cloud of pure malice. A screech filled the air—high, sharp, like a soul being torn in half, a raw, unbearable sound of ultimate torment. A shadowy figure with serpentine eyes and a twisted, infantile smile took shape within the mist, a fleeting, spectral image of Tom Riddle's fragmented soul, before vanishing in a wail of agony, utterly destroyed.
Silence fell, heavy and profound, broken only by Dumbledore's ragged breathing.
Dumbledore stared at the ring, or what was left of it—the stone, the band warped and blackened, now inert. His hand throbbed, a relentless, burning ache. He looked down. The decay had spread beyond his wrist, creeping up his forearm, a visible testament to the curse's power. He was dying. Slowly, agonizingly.
He had to leave. He had to find Severus. With his mastery of Dark Arts and potions, and inside knowledge of Tom's inner circle, he could possibly stop the spread of such a potent curse.
He pocketed what remained of the resurrection stone, a grim trophy, he had finally gotten what he had always chased but if he didnt find help quick he would be one of those called upon by its power, he walked forward and gritted his teeth against the escalating pain before Disapparating with a loud crack, vanishing from the desolate shack, leaving only dust and charred wood behind.
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