Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling save for any Original Characters and plot lines.
Author's Note: This story takes place from The Order of the Phoenix - Deathly Hallows. It is fully planned out so updates should be regular! Hope you enjoy!
Chapter I: An Unweeded Garden
Albus Dumbledore was getting old. This was not an assessment spoken readily by his supporters, nor was it one that even his enemies would dare to say. It did not come from the lips of a scorned student or even a pompous protege.
No, rather the statement Albus Dumbledore was getting old was a shrouded sentiment considered by the very mind of the accused; And at this moment, as he trudged through the dismal swamps on the outskirts of Little Hangleton, the mortal betrayal seemed to scream its way into every joint of his worn frame.
His boots sunk lower into the earth and although Albus was not a fearful man, his gaze innately avoided following their tread so as to ignore the sight of serpents stalking his path. They guarded the grounds like dutiful soldiers, prepared at any moment to advance on the old wizard and reclaim him for nature. All it would take is one slip of the foot.
It was difficult to believe any living creature could have a decent quality of life in this setting and just as Dumbledore was beginning to write off the whole trip, his eyes focused on the skeletal remains of the famed wizard's shack.
The Gaunt family's history of pureblood pretension was starkly juxtaposed by their humble inhabitance. It was well known within the magical world that greed and extravagance had driven the Gaunt family to great poverty, but even so, Dumbledore found himself struck in this moment by the irony of it all.
The walls that still stood were somehow proud, despite disintegrating at the top. Cracks in the foundation hinted at shoddy workmanship, and moisture seeped into every crevice of stone and wood compromising the very strength of its composure. If the lack of sustainability was any indication, It was clear the Gaunt's never meant to stay in their prison for long.
Ever a gentleman, Dumbledore ignored the massive gaps between the structure's walls and approached the front door of the abode, nearly chuckling at the urge to raise a hand and knock. Although there were no inhabitants to be found in the abandoned building, he was met with the strange obstacle of it being locked. Dumbledore tilted his greying head to the side and peeked into the cracked walls, giving a quick scan to confirm it was indeed vacant, before proceeding with alohomora and letting himself inside.
The interior of the Gaunt shack was found to be no less reclaimed by nature than the outside; In fact, the entirety of the roof had surrendered itself to the trees and vines which wore down its forces. Dumbledore thought, however, it added a bit of charm to the strict austerity of the building. The upturned furniture boasted an intricacy not native to the shabby home, its deep granule and elaborate etchings hinting at their being relics of another time, one the Gaunt's refused to fully abandon.
In the centre of the room lay a peculiar presence, the sure form of a sarcophagus, made of the finest onyx stone which sat elevated above the swampy grounds. A thick layer of grime on its top hinted at decades of neglect, though the sheer extravagance of the piece proved that whomever or whatever it encased was valued greatly.
The perfect place, Dumbledore thought, to hide a horcrux.
It was not with complete ease that the old wizard managed to subdue the wards which protected this particular tomb. And once he at last had, it took every ounce of resistance (and sheer unwillingness to sit on the serpent riddled ground) for him not to submit to exhaustion.
But he was soon rewarded for his efforts when setting eyes on the object of desire resting within its grand tomb, buzzing with excitement or perhaps fear at his discovery.
Though certainly more curious was its guardian.
The sarcophagus held a sole inhabitant, her long hair sprawled out like a crown, enchanted white flowers placed delicately and blooming with life between the tresses; Like the glisten of a fresh snow. Dumbledore recognized them to be the very same that grew sparingly throughout the swamp lands; a glimpse of purity in the midst of utter darkness. Her form neglected to hold itself with the effects of rigor mortis and rather elegantly rested on the emerald coloured silk laid out for the comfort of her slumber.
Her features were exactly as he had remembered, though the few years she had matured since attending Hogwarts replaced much of her delicacy with an aristocratic grace. He was glad to note the worry which once clouded her beauty had not followed her into death. She was peaceful to any odd traveller who may have come across her resting place, but Dumbledore had lived far too long to be deceived.
"Forgive an old fool." He whispered with a bow to his head as an immense shroud of guilt fell over him.
He determined long ago it did no good to dwell on the past; Her war had already been lost, and the greater picture was won. A worthy sacrifice. A martyr, he mentally corrected... albeit ,unwillingly.
Remembering himself, and more importantly his duty, Dumbledore tore his gaze from the girl's face and considered the Gaunt ring which rested proudly on her finger, its grandeur and pomp suffocating the delicate digit with a shrill warning cry that echoed throughout her tomb.
Feeling rather like a grave robber, he reached down and retrieved the ring. All the while its screeching becoming louder, almost unbearably so, at the disturbance. The unpleasantness of it all nearly forced his surrender, but once it had been firmly detached from her form, the screams were replaced with a sound far more harrowing to the old wizard.
Silence.
Dumbledore quickly turned with narrowed eyes and noted his surroundings, finding nothing different in the old Gaunt shack than what had been there moments before, perhaps even years. And so he wrote it off as superstition, or at least, a problem for another time. He looked back at the young woman's face before him, repressing age old sorrow before allowing her to peacefully rest.
The drafts of the swamps were an icy chill, and they were as common as dirt on the ground. But as Dumbledore moved to replace the stone the hairs on his cheek were disturbed by the whisperings of a breeze from below him. This particular draft was warm against his cheek and when he dared a glance at the suspect, her once closed lips were found propped slightly open in response, the slow rise and fall of her chest breaking free of its age-old prison.
Sparing not a moment longer to dwell on the impossibility, he leapt into action lifting the girl out of the grave with a flick of his wand and grasped her to him. She was warmer now, a shallow wheeze having replaced years of silence, a desperate fight for a second chance. A second chance he would see to it she had.
And as he disapparated from the Gaunt home to his destination, Dumbledore had one purveying thought echo throughout his mind: He was certainly too old for this.
Notes:
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