Dear Albus,
Yes, I quite agree with you. Given the tragedy of two years ago it is inconceivable that the tournament will be held again for centuries, if ever, and now that we've seen that this object can be hoodwinked it would be unwise to reuse it. And, certainly, given the history it is only your right as Hogwarts headmaster to take custody. Best wishes in the battles ahead.
Fondly,
Olympe
Albus Dumbledore reread the letter, nodding to himself, and then reached for a battered hat. Hello there, he said mildly, placing it on his head.
You're still a Gryffindor, said the irritated hat. What do you want?
To talk about Gryffindor. Godric Gryffindor. You were his hat, once, were you not?
No.
No? You've bragged about it at Sortings.
Careful who you're talking to. Gryffindor owned this hat. But it was all the founders who put their brains in me. I am really all of theirs, equally.
So you are more than the fabric itself! Curious.
So are you.
Be that as it may. When they..."put their brains in you?" How did they do that?
How should I know? I wasn't really me yet.
Understandable. Thank you for your time.
Dumbledore took the hat off, narrowing his eyebrows. Certainly, objects like Marvolo Gaunt's ring were simple to understand, as far as Horcruxes went. The ring was an inanimate object, given life by the fragment of Voldemort's soul that had resided in it.
If he was right about Nagini—and Harry Potter himself—fractions of Voldemort's soul inhabited them, but the beings themselves were still alive and—most of the time—in control. But could more than one person use the same object as a Horcrux? Without them jockeying for power?
No, for over a thousand years if his records were right, the hat had been stable. Understanding the Founders, but not truly representing them. Whatever magic they had done, it was not the magic of a Horcrux, and besides, he could not imagine Helga Hufflepuff murdering anyone. Somehow, the hat was right—it, the magical object, was the property of Hogwarts and the legacy of all its founders. But it was not, per se, Gryffindor's.
That's one accounted for...
Slowly, with his good hand, Albus unwrapped the package Olympe had sent.
It was almost too easy. Tom Riddle would certainly have been well-versed in the elemental traditions. Hogwarts was composed of the watery serpent of Slytherin, the earthen badger of Hufflepuff, the aery eagle of Ravenclaw—and, of course, Gryffindor's fiery lion. Albus himself did not quite remember where he had found the object now lying before him—"Going senile in my old age," he sighed—but it had been left in Hogwarts by the mage who had crafted it centuries before. And there was no being sure Riddle had not run across it.
Though Albus cast every revealing spell he knew at it, to no effect other than periodic bursts of flame, one couldn't be too careful. The headmaster reached for the sword of Gryffindor, but was interrupted by a quiet hoot, and not from the exhausted owl that had arrived from France.
"All right," he smiled, "I know you do like a good show."
A tiny jet of Fiendfyre shot forth from Albus' wand. When it reached the Goblet of Fire, blue flames spurted out. After a blindingly bright flash, Albus ended his incantation, and the flames died out. The goblet lay still, drained of all magic, while Fawkes gave an exultant whoop.
"I am confident, however, that the only known relic of Gryffindor remains safe."