Disclaimer: Everything in this story belongs to J.K Rowling and any company that has a claim to the Harry Potter trademark. I make no money out of this. Please don't sue me!
Consequences
Harry stepped into the headmaster's office to find Dumbledore hunched over a cascade of paperwork, his silver beard nearly brushing the ink-stained desk. The room was filled with the gentle scratching of quill on parchment, punctuated by the occasional sigh from Dumbledore.
"Ah, Harry," Dumbledore said, looking up and peering at him over half-moon spectacles. "Please forgive me, I just need to finish up some last-minute paperwork. Have a seat."
"Of course, Albus," Harry said, taking a seat next to the desk, his eyes wandering across the myriad of magical instruments that adorned the room.
As Dumbledore continued to scribble away, he cast a sidelong glance at Harry. "I heard an interesting rumour today, Harry," he began, his voice tinged with amusement. "Apparently, you've invited the Beauxbatons' champion to the Yule Ball?"
"Ah," Harry chuckled, scratching the back of his neck, "It seems the Hogwarts Rumour Meel is still working perfectly then."
Dumbledore smiled warmly, his eyes twinkling like stars. "Indeed, it does have a remarkable knack for spreading news, whether true or false."
"True this time I guess," Harry admitted sheepishly.
"Ah, but I must say, Harry," Dumbledore said, chuckling softly, "I'm rather surprised you asked young Fleur to the Ball. I had thought you might ask Miss Granger."
"Hermione?" Harry raised his eyebrows in surprise. "She's more like a sister to me, professor. And Fleur and I are going as friends anyway."
"Of course, of course," Dumbledore replied, still smiling, though the look in his eyes seemed to suggest he believed there might be more than mere friendship involved.
Before Harry could protest, Dumbledore stood up, the last piece of paperwork completed. "Well, my boy, the time has come for us to depart on our mission. Are you ready?"
"Absolutely," Harry agreed, quickly standing up as well.
"Very well," said Dumbledore, extending his arm for Harry to take hold of. "We'll apparate about a mile from our destination, so as not to alert Voldemort of our presence."
"Sounds like a good plan," Harry nodded, taking Dumbledore's offered arm. With one last glance around the familiar office, he steeled himself for the sensation of apparition. In an instant, both wizards disappeared, pulled by an invisible force into the unknown.
The sensation of being squeezed through a tight tube was, as always, thoroughly unpleasant. Harry felt relief wash over him as he and Dumbledore landed with a jolt on a narrow rural road, surrounded by tall trees and dense undergrowth. The forest seemed to breathe around them, its canopy of leaves filtering the sunlight and casting dappled shadows on the ground.
"Ugh," Harry said, trying to shake off the lingering discomfort from the apparition. "I'll never get used to that."
"Nor will I, my dear boy," Dumbledore agreed, adjusting his half-moon spectacles. "But it is an efficient means of travel, nonetheless."
With a nod, Harry followed Dumbledore down the road, which wound its way deeper into the forest. His anticipation grew with each step, a prickling sensation crawling along his spine. Even if he didn't remember that this was the way to the Gaunt Shack, the buzzing of unnatural magic would have been a dead giveaway.
As they ventured further into the woods, their footsteps muffled by the thick layer of leaves and moss that carpeted the earth, Harry's nerves began to fray. He felt the magic of the wards humming in the air around them, like the faint buzz of an electric current.
"We're getting close," Dumbledore murmured, pausing for a moment to scan their surroundings. "Can you feel it, Harry?"
"Definitely," Harry replied, his fingers tightening around his wand. "The wards are strong here. Voldemort must have gone to great lengths to protect this place."
The dense canopy overhead began to break apart as they delved deeper into the forest, allowing slivers of late afternoon sunlight to filter through and cast the woodland in a dappled, golden glow. Harry's heart raced with anticipation, his eyes darting around as he searched for any sign of their destination.
"Here we are," Dumbledore whispered, pointing towards a clearing up ahead. Harry squinted, and there it was – the Gaunt Shack.
The shack stood like an apparition of despair in the midst of the clearing, its small, dilapidated frame a testament to years of neglect. The walls were streaked with grime and mould, while the windows – or what was left of them – stared out vacantly, broken and lifeless. Poverty and ruin clung to the shack like a shroud, and a sense of foreboding seemed to emanate from within its very walls. Most chillingly of all, nailed to the front door, was the carcass of a dead snake, a grim sentinel guarding the entrance.
"Charming place," Harry muttered.
As they approached the edge of the clearing, Dumbledore raised a hand, bringing them to a halt. "The wards are keeping the forest at bay," he explained, nodding towards the distinct lack of encroaching foliage around the shack. "They prevent the trees and undergrowth from swallowing this place whole."
"Let me see if I can get a better look at them," Harry said, casting a spell on his glasses. As the enchantment took effect, a dazzling network of magic threads became visible, weaving together to form a dome of protective wards that shimmered with an array of brilliant colours.
"Amazing," Harry breathed, momentarily awestruck by the sight before him. "I've never seen wards this intricate before."
"Voldemort was nothing if not thorough in his efforts to protect that which he valued most," Dumbledore replied, his eyes tracing the magical lattice through a similar enchantment on his glasses.
"Okay," Harry said, squinting at the magical tapestry before him. "I think I see the main thread."
"Ah, yes," Dumbledore murmured, peering over Harry's shoulder with a furrowed brow. "The green one, correct?"
"Yes, an ancient Parseltongue ward," Harry replied, pointing to the iridescent strand that weaved its way through the elaborate web of wards. "This is what connects the whole thing together. If I can re-work it, we should be able to bypass these wards without having to dismantle them completely."
"An elegant solution," Dumbledore agreed, his eyes twinkling with something akin to pride. "But are you certain you can manage it? Parseltongue magic can be notoriously tricky, even for someone that has control over the skill."
"Leave it to me," Harry assured him, his voice laced with wry humour as he absently twirled his wand between his fingers. "I found my way past a ward once or twice before."
"Harry, are you absolutely certain?" Dumbledore asked, a note of concern in his voice. "Perhaps we should examine these wards a bit longer to ensure there are no hidden alarms."
"Albus, any alarm would need to be connected to the main thread," Harry said with a reassuring smile. "Trust me, we're safe."
"Very well," Dumbledore conceded, though his eyes still held a hint of worry. "But do proceed with caution, my boy."
"Of course." With a determined nod, Harry raised his wand and began moving it in intricate patterns. The air around them seemed to hum with the power of the spells he wove.
As Harry completed the last motion, he placed his wand against his palm, drawing a shallow cut. Crimson blood welled up, and he allowed a few drops to fall onto the grass below. For a moment, the entire ward shimmered brightly before returning to its previous state.
"Done," Harry announced, healing his hand with a flick of his wand. He deactivated the spell on his glasses and looked at Dumbledore. "The wards are ours now."
"Harry," Dumbledore sighed, his brow creased with concern. "You must be more careful. We don't know what defences Voldemort may have placed here."
"Albus, I promise, I'm being careful," Harry reiterated as they approached the door of the shack. "There's no point in delaying if we know what needs to be done."
Dumbledore didn't seem entirely convinced but dropped the subject nonetheless. They both stood inside the wards, wands at the ready. Harry stopped midway and began casting spells to probe for any traps that might have been set. Next to him, Dumbledore did the same.
"Nothing on my end," Harry reported after a moment, looking over at Dumbledore.
"Nor mine," the headmaster confirmed, though his voice still carried a note of unease.
Harry took a deep breath and cast one final spell in search of traps. Finding none, he reached for the door handle and pulled it open. The door emitted a rusty squeal, like the anguished cry of a long-forgotten ghost.
Inside, the Gaunt Shack was a testament to decay. A thick layer of dust lay undisturbed upon every surface, as if time had frozen within these walls. Broken furniture lay strewn about, their remnants resembling the twisted skeletons of some ancient creatures. Cobwebs adorned the corners, woven by spiders who had long since abandoned their handiwork.
"Tom sure has an eye for decor," Harry remarked dryly, casting a wary eye around the room.
Dumbledore didn't answer, his eyes focused on their surroundings, searching for anything out of place or potentially dangerous.
Harry hesitated on the threshold, his foot poised to take the first step inside, when Dumbledore's hand shot out, halting him.
"Wait, Harry," Albus said, his eyes narrowing as he began casting more spells, searching for any lingering traps. "We cannot be too careful."
"Albus, I've checked twice already," Harry replied, a touch of annoyance creeping into his voice. "And with my control over the wards, I should be able to feel any traps inside."
"Nevertheless, it won't hurt to be thorough," Dumbledore insisted, his tone firm yet gentle. "We must not underestimate our enemy." He continued casting spells, his wand moving in methodical, precise patterns.
"Fine," Harry muttered, crossing his arms and shifting his weight onto his back foot. He watched Dumbledore work, the man's silver beard glinting like moonlight against the dim interior of the shack. After several tense moments, Dumbledore finally nodded, apparently satisfied that no traps remained hidden.
"Alright, Harry," he said, stepping carefully into the shack. "You may proceed."
"About time," Harry grumbled, following Dumbledore's lead and cautiously stepping inside. As soon as his foot made contact with the dusty floor, an icy sensation crawled up his spine, setting his nerves on edge. The Horcrux was close – he could feel its dark magic pulsating through the room, like a venomous heartbeat.
"Albus," Harry whispered, his voice barely audible above the creaking of the shack. "The Horcrux is here. Somewhere."
"Let us find it, then," Dumbledore murmured and started casting silent spells around the room.
Harry took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and focused his senses on the room. He attuned himself to the dark energy emanating from the Horcrux, letting it guide him through the decrepit space. The stale air prickled his skin like a thousand invisible needles, and he could taste the metallic tang of dark magic on his tongue.
"Here," said Harry, his eyes still closed as he pointed to a specific spot on the dusty floor. "I'm sure it's under this plank."
"Very well," Dumbledore replied, his voice steady but laced with the tension that seemed to have seeped into the air of the shack. He moved towards the spot and waved his wand over the area, casting several spells in quick succession. "Yes, without a doubt, it is beneath this floorboard."
Harry opened his eyes and started forward, determined to help Dumbledore get the Horcrux. However, the headmaster raised a hand to stop him in his tracks.
"Stay back, Harry," Dumbledore warned. "It would be best if you remain at a distance, just in case I activate any traps we couldn't detect."
"Really, Albus?" Harry complained, rolling his eyes. "I thought my control over the wards should have been enough to—"
"Please, Harry," Dumbledore interrupted, his gentle tone brooking no argument. "Indulge an old man's cautiousness."
"Fine," Harry grumbled, reluctantly agreeing to keep his distance. As he watched Dumbledore work, he couldn't shake the nagging feeling that something was amiss, like a snake coiled beneath a pile of leaves, just waiting to strike. He tried to push the sensation aside, focusing instead on the task at hand – they had to get the Horcrux, whatever the cost.
"Be ready, Harry," Albus whispered, his voice laced with a sense of urgency that sent shivers down Harry's spine. The old wizard's wand deftly flicked upwards, levitating the plank of the floor with a gentle hum, revealing a small ring box hidden beneath the dusty wood.
As Dumbledore lowered the plank back into place, the ring box floated towards them, coming to rest on the decrepit table at the centre of the room. With the precision of a surgeon, Dumbledore carefully opened the intricately designed box using his wand. His eyes widened in shock upon seeing its contents.
The young wizard strained to hear Dumbledore's mumbling, catching only one name among the hushed murmurs: "Ariana."
Time seemed to slow as Dumbledore reached out placing the ring inside the box around his ring finger, his fingers trembling ever so slightly. As the cold metal met flesh, a gut-wrenching scream tore through the silence, causing Harry to flinch. Dumbledore's hand convulsed violently, the pain etched on his face nearly unbearable to witness.
The scream still ringing in his ears, Harry's instincts took over. Without a moment's hesitation, he flicked his wand, casting a cutting curse that sliced through the room like an invisible blade. Dumbledore's hand fell to the floor with a sickening thud, severed cleanly at the wrist.
"Albus!" Harry cried, rushing to Dumbledore's side. Ignoring the gruesome sight of the amputated hand, he focused on casting healing spells on the remaining stump, trying to staunch the flow of blood. He could feel the sweat beading on his forehead as he worked, his heart hammering in his chest.
"Meanthre," Harry muttered under his breath, successfully stopping the bleeding. He then helped Dumbledore into a sitting position against the grimy wall of the shack, keeping a watchful eye on the headmaster's pale face.
"Can you hear me, Albus?" Harry asked urgently, gripping Dumbledore's shoulder. The older wizard looked dazed but managed a weak nod, his gaze drawn to the mangled end of his arm. The amputated hand continued to convulse grotesquely on the floor, the black and skeletal fingers grasping at the air as if the ring were draining the very life from it.
"Stay with me, Albus," Harry said, shaking Dumbledore gently.
Dumbledore blinked, his eyes refocusing on Harry. With pain etched across his face, he struggled to rise. "Yes... yes," he agreed hoarsely.
Grimacing as he concentrated, Harry cast a series of diagnostic spells on Dumbledore's injured arm. The incantations glowed faintly around the stump, revealing that the curse seemed to have ceased its spread.
"I've managed to stop the bleeding, but my healing skills are nowhere near Madam Pomfrey's level," Harry admitted, concern etched on his face. "We need to get you to Hogwarts right away."
Dumbledore, still in shock, glanced at the convulsing hand, the ring shining with an eerie malevolence. "The ring," he said quietly.
Nodding, Harry conjured a red velvet pouch, levitating the severed hand and ring into it. With a quick flick of his wand, he replaced the box beneath the floorboards and erased the headmaster's blood from the floor, making sure that everything was as they had found it.
"Alright, let's get you out of here," Harry said, extending a hand to help Dumbledore to his feet. As they walked towards the door, Harry's head was reeling. If only he'd been more thorough, if only he'd listened to Dumbledore – perhaps Albus' hand would still be attached to his body.
"Harry," Dumbledore interjected, sensing Harry's inner turmoil. "I can practically hear the gears turning in your head. Remember, even the best-laid plans can go awry. What happened was unfortunate, but we must focus."
As they stepped out of the shack and into the musty forest air, Harry took a deep breath, allowing Dumbledore's words to settle within him. He knew the headmaster was right; there was no use dwelling on this now.
But the truth was impossible to ignore. Albus had continuously stressed the importance of caution at every step of their mission, yet Harry had stubbornly disregarded his warnings. The gravity of the situation settled heavily on Harry's shoulders as he realized the consequences of his recklessness.
Harry supported Albus' weight as they trudged back towards their apparition point. The headmaster seemed to be in a state of shock, his eyes glazed over and unresponsive. Harry's mind raced in time with his heartbeat, a flurry of thoughts and emotions swirling within him.
"Damn it all," he muttered under his breath, frustration bubbling up inside him. Why hadn't he been more vigilant? Dumbledore had warned him about being careful, yet the aged wizard himself had succumbed to a clearly dangerous curse. It seemed so unlike the man who had taught him so much over the years – that same man now limping beside him, relying on Harry for support.
As they reached the apparition point, Harry hesitated for a moment before firmly grasping Dumbledore's uninjured arm. "Albus, I can't apparate us through Hogwarts' wards, you need to do it."
Dumbledore nodded and, with a sharp crack, they were gone, leaving behind only the echo of their departure.
The pair reappeared in the headmaster's office, the air around them heavy with the scent of parchment and ink. Harry guided Dumbledore into his chair, concern etched across his face.
Harry watched as Dumbledore's face contorted in pain, his eyes flicking from the mangled stump where his hand once was to the pouch in Harry's hand. The atmosphere in the headmaster's office seemed to thicken with each passing second, the silence hanging heavy between them.
"Albus, you really need to go to the infirmary," Harry insisted, trying to hide the anger that was bubbling up inside him. "Madam Pomfrey would be able to—"
"Harry," Dumbledore interrupted gently, his voice strained. "I understand your concern, but visiting the infirmary would arouse suspicion. I must handle this myself."
"Are you mad?" Harry snapped before he could stop himself. "You just lost a hand! You can't possibly think that's the best course of action."
Dumbledore sighed heavily. "I appreciate your perspective, Harry, but I am an adult capable of making my own decisions. In this case, secrecy is paramount."
Harry clenched his fists, attempting to smother his growing frustration. He knew arguing with Dumbledore would only waste precious time. Instead, he took a deep breath and nodded reluctantly. "Alright,"
"I promise I will be fine, my boy," Dumbledore replied, managing a weak smile which did little to alleviate Harry's concerns.
Harry wanted to protest, but he knew it would be futile. "I am so sorry Albus," He said instead "This is my fault."
"Nonsense," Dumbledore retorted, "If anything I should be thanking you Harry, you most likely saved my life."
"I should have been more careful," Harry said, his voice heavy with regret "I should have been casting diagnostic spells while you retrieved the ring."
"That would have done nothing," Albus said, the weakness in his voice fueling Harry's regret, "I should have anticipated that Voldemort would place extra protections on his soul jar."
Harry hesitated, his curiosity winning out over his anger. "Why did you put on the ring?"
Dumbledore's eyes flickered to the pouch once more. "I'm not entirely certain, Harry, but I suspect there was a powerful compulsion charm on the ring that took hold of me the moment I laid eyes on it."
"Damn it," Harry dropped the velvet pouch containing Dumbledore's severed hand and the cursed ring onto the desk. The metallic clang of the ring echoed through the tense silence that filled the headmaster's office.
"Can we identify the curse?" Harry asked, his voice taut with barely contained anger. "To make sure you'll be okay?"
Dumbledore met Harry's gaze. "Now that I know what to expect, I shouldn't run into any issues while examining the ring," he replied, his tone reassuring.
The room fell silent once more, both wizards unsure how to continue. It was Albus who eventually broke the silence, his voice low and heavy with regret. "I must apologise to you, Harry."
Harry's anger seemed to dissipate slightly at Dumbledore's words, replaced by a weary resignation. "That makes no sense, Albus," he said, running a hand through his unruly black hair. "I should've been more careful." He sighed, a pensive expression painting his face as he considered their perilous situation.
The wizards kept quiet, each wallowing in their own guilt.
"Harry, I think it's best if you go now," Albus said, as he gazed at the mangled stump where his hand had been moments before. "I need to begin examining this injury and see what can be done."
"I should stay and assist you." Harry insisted.
"I believe it best if I do this alone," Albus said, "What follows, as you would put it, will not be pretty."
"Right," Harry agreed, forcing a tight-lipped smile that betrayed little of the turmoil churning within him.
"I don't mean anything by it, Harry," Albus reassured him.
"Don't worry about it," Harry cut Dumbledore from adding anything else "Really, I'll follow up with you tomorrow." Harry attempted a last weak smile and left the office, the door clicking shut behind him as soon as he crossed the threshold, sounding like the distant toll of a funeral bell.
As he walked towards Gryffindor Tower, Harry's mind raced with thoughts of the ordeal they had just faced and the heavy price it had exacted.
True, they had retrieved a Horcrux – one more piece in the intricate puzzle that held the key to Voldemort's destruction. But at what cost? Albus Dumbledore, the greatest wizard of his age, had been grievously wounded in the process, and the responsibility weighed heavily upon Harry's shoulders.
As he traversed the familiar passageways, his eyes glazed over with memories of war. He realised that he kept acting like The Grim, the careless Death Eater hunter. During those dark times, caution wasn't needed, The Grim wasn't only a mask that Harry used to protect his identity, but a character he embodied to hopefully bring upon his own end.
"Enough," he muttered under his breath, his anger at himself igniting like a phoenix from the ashes of his guilt. "You are not alone anymore."
Harry quickened his pace, his heart pounding in time with his footsteps as they echoed through the empty halls. The portrait of the Fat Lady swung open with a creak, granting him passage into the sanctuary of Gryffindor Tower.
With a heavy heart, Harry climbed into his bed and pulled the curtains closed, shutting out the outside world. The warmth of his blankets enveloped him like a comforting embrace as he lay there in the darkness. For so long, Harry had relied on this persona to survive, but now he no longer needed it.
A new weight enveloped Harry. The responsibility of consequences, the duty of protecting others, the fantastic charge of not being alone.