Chapter bonus!
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Chapter XIII. It festers. It grows. And then it devours
The study was suffocating tonight. Shadows stretched across the walls, thick and restless, as if aware of the weight pressing down on Harry's shoulders. The air smelled of old parchment and melted wax, the desk buried under ancient tomes—silent witnesses to the choices he could no longer avoid.
For weeks, he had immersed himself in codices, rituals, ancient magic seeking answers from old tomes and the whispers of those who had dared tread similar roads. His mind, once focused solely on survival and adventure, now grappled with a more pressing question: What was the cost of this newfound power?
Something in him had shifted. The magic from the ritual coiled beneath his skin, restless, unfamiliar. It whispered in his veins, reshaping him in ways he couldn't yet name. But there was no undoing it. No return. Only the path ahead.
His first task was set before him: to learn more about Voldemort's Horcrux, identified as the object located in the Lestrange vault days ago. Thanks to the information extracted from Peter, he could now confirm it was a cup.
Peter's eyes darted nervously before finally settling on Harry. "Once, while I was hiding in the shadows near Voldemort's chambers, I overheard him talking to Bellatrix. They mentioned a cup—a treasure hidden in her vault. I don't know exactly what it was, but the way they spoke about it... it wasn't just gold or jewels. It was something more. Something powerful." He paused, brow furrowing in thought. "I tried to piece it together, but they're careful. They don't trust anyone—not fully."
The other Horcrux, or at least a potential one, was undoubtedly Voldemort's snake, Nagini.
Peter slumped further against the wall, his voice hoarse but steady now, as if the act of confessing had drained the last remnants of strength he had left. "You're wasting your time, Potter. The door I was guarding... it's nothing special," he said with a faint, bitter laugh. "Just Voldemort's quarters. My orders were simple: keep watch, keep intruders out, and, above all, ensure nothing happens to his precious Nagini."
Harry's mind raced, but it wasn't just Peter's words that rattled him, it was the growing sense of unease that gnawed at him. He couldn't be sure, but something about this felt off, like the pieces were falling into place too easily. If Peter's confessions were true, the horror would become clearer with every answer.
Voldemort had not only defied the natural order of balance by splitting his soul, but now he had done so again. His soul wasn't just split into two parts, no—there were three. Three was a magic number, powerful but not as strong as perhaps seven. The implications were staggering.
The next move had to be precise. A misstep would cost him everything. Voldemort could never know how much Harry had uncovered, not until it was too late.
At that moment, an owl landed at the window, a letter tied to its leg.
Harry broke the seal and unfolded the parchment. His eyes scanned the lines, his grip tightening with every word.
Harry,
The Wizengamot will meet tomorrow at ten. They don't want you there. Officially, you weren't notified. Unofficially? They plan to pin the Diagon Alley disaster on you. I wouldn't be a good "ally" if I let that slip by, would I?
Shall we have breakfast tomorrow in the cafeteria as always?
Best regards,
Susan
The candle flickered, its flame shrinking momentarily before roaring back to life, casting long, shifting shadows. Harry clenched the letter tightly in his hand, the edges crumpling beneath his grip. The game was shifting again, the stakes higher than ever.
Among the many texts he had studied, one story stood out, a tale of an Egyptian dark wizard named Imhotep.
The parchment was old, brittle beneath Harry's fingertips. The ink had faded in places, but the weight of the words pressed into his mind as if they had been written yesterday.
"Imhotep, wizard and prophet, stood among the Pharaoh's most trusted advisors. His predictions came true with unsettling accuracy, but those who gaze too long into the future often lose themselves in it."
Harry ran a finger along the page's frayed edges. He had seen this before. Men obsessed with control, with power, only to become prisoners of their own fear.
Imhotep had foreseen his own death. Not a warrior's end, not a legacy carved in stone, but silence. Oblivion.
That fear had consumed him.
"One who wishes to defy death must first understand it."
And so, he had turned to the forbidden. Necromancy. Secrets even the priests of the underworld dared not speak.
Harry exhaled slowly. Voldemort had walked this path before.
The first attempt was a single jar.
"If the corruption of my soul is what will condemn me, then I shall separate it from myself."
The man had believed he could deceive the gods. That if he locked away the worst parts of himself, then when the time came, the scales would weigh in his favor.
A Horcrux.
Harry swallowed hard.
"But a single division leaves the soul fragile. If I seek stability, I must create three."
Three.
Harry leaned in closer. That had been his first theory about Voldemort. Three was powerful. Three was stable. But Voldemort hadn't stopped there.
The script shifted, more frantic.
"Three is enough. Three is safe. Three holds balance."
But further down, a different passage—one pressed so hard into the parchment that it had torn.
"But seven… seven is eternal."
A shiver ran down Harry's spine.
Imhotep had not gone that far. His paranoia consumed him, yes, but he had not fractured himself beyond three pieces.
Voldemort, though…
What if he had?
Harry closed his eyes for a moment, thoughts spinning. This wasn't confirmation. Not yet. He still had to use the spell. But the idea had latched onto his mind now, stronger than before.
What if Voldemort had gone further than anyone had ever imagined?
His eyes flicked back to the parchment. The end of the text was faded, damaged by time, but the meaning was clear.
"The gods saw. And Anubis does not forgive those who seek to escape judgment."
Harry inhaled sharply.
Imhotep had not been granted death. His punishment had been far worse. His soul was bound to the very vessels he had created.
"As long as a single fragment remains, he shall never find peace."
Harry's fingers curled tightly around the parchment.
That was the key.
Voldemort may have divided his soul once, three times, or seven. But the result would be the same.
When the last fragment was destroyed, his soul, whole and inescapable, would face judgment.
Harry let out a slow breath, letting the idea settle deep within him.
It didn't matter how many Horcruxes Voldemort had made.
What mattered… was destroying everyone.
The Wizengamot meeting or Susan letter was irrelevant for now. Let them plot, let them whisper, none of it mattered now. His focus was set, his path carved into stone. The only thing that remained was action.
Weeks of preparation had led to this moment. Harry exhaled slowly, his breath curling into the frigid air. Before him, Gringotts loomed, ancient, impenetrable. The gargoyles watched in silent vigilance with their stone eyes heavy with warning.
Clad in dark robes, his eyes scanning the surroundings, Harry slipped a small vial of invisibility potion into his pocket, knowing he'd need it at the right moment. He had studied Gringotts' layout meticulously. Hidden wards, ancient traps, and curses lay in wait, all connected to the vault he was about to breach—the vault of the Lestrange. But Harry had one advantage that few would suspect: an understanding of the deep, arcane magics that surrounded the Egyptian pyramids and their hidden treasures. The knowledge had come from ancient texts he had unearthed, spells long forgotten, ones that could bend the magic of the world itself. Magic that could veil him from detection.
Entering Gringotts, Harry's senses sharpened. The air inside was thick with magic, the ancient runes embedded in the walls flickering in blue-gold hues. Goblins hurried along, their eyes cold and calculating, unaware of the danger lurking in their midst. Harry pulled his cloak tighter around himself, blending into the shadows as he waited in line. His heart raced—not from fear, but from the excitement of what lay ahead. The vault was close.
When it was his turn, Harry stepped forward, his movements smooth and confident. The goblin behind the counter glanced at him with a raised brow but said nothing. Harry's heart pounded as he felt the weight of Gringotts' security pressing down on him, but he kept his calm. He cast a subtle charm, altering the goblin's perception, just enough to divert suspicion. The goblin nodded, mechanically, and pointed toward the vaults.
Inside, the tunnels grew darker and colder, and the faint sound of echoing carts reminded Harry of the peril that lay ahead. As he walked deeper into the labyrinth of vaults, he recalled his conversation with Ragnok about the bank's security system. "Gringotts vaults are more than just locked doors," the goblin had said. "Our wards are tied to the very essence of the vault's magic. Intruders face more than curses—they face destruction of their very souls."
Harry tightened his grip on his wand as he approached the Lestrange vault. He could feel the oppressive magic surrounding it—the vault was shielded by layers upon layers of enchanted protection. To a normal wizard, it would be impossible to breach. But Harry wasn't just a normal wizard.
He muttered the incantation under his breath— "Fiat Obscura." A faint wave of energy rippled through the air as shadows curled around him, merging with the darkness in the walls. It was the first layer of his Egyptian magic at work. The vault before him seemed to shimmer and then blur as if his very presence was hidden. He moved closer, tapping the ground with his wand to locate the runic key that controlled the vault's access.
His fingers brushed the cool stone of the wall, tracing the glyphs he had studied, before pressing them in a precise sequence. There was a low hum, and the vault door creaked open with an eerie groan.
Inside, the faint glow of cursed treasures filled the room—gold, jewels, and artifacts of unimaginable power, but Harry's eyes went straight to the gleaming cup at the center of the vault. It shone with a dark, almost sickly light, and Harry could feel the weight of the magic surrounding it. This was no ordinary relic; it was part of Voldemort's soul.
He stepped forward, heart pounding, and pulled a specially prepared box from his bag. It was awarded against magical detection, a gift from the goblins of Gringotts themselves, crafted with their finest charms many years ago. Before taking the Horcrux, Harry took a deep breath and began the incantation for another spell— "Gemino Maledicta."
A shimmering, identical replica of the cup materialized beside the original, its surface glowing faintly with the magic Harry had imbued into it. The replica was not just a copy; it was infused with dark magic designed to mimic the malevolent aura of the Horcrux. Even the most experienced goblin would have difficulty distinguishing it from the real thing without prolonged examination.
Harry carefully slid the original cup into the enchanted box. As he sealed it, the room trembled. A low growl filled the air, and Harry's eyes widened as the runes on the walls flared to life. The wards were reacting to the removal of the Horcrux. Despite the replica, the vault's enchantments had sensed a disturbance.
"No time," Harry whispered to himself, as the floor beneath him cracked open. Faint, dangerous sparks of wild magic crackled in the air. The walls themselves began to shift, and Harry knew immediately: Gringotts' final fail-safe had been activated.
The ground lurched beneath his feet, and Harry leaped backward, narrowly avoiding a shower of jagged stones. Suddenly, the vault's door slammed shut with terrifying speed, trapping him inside. The walls began to close in, as if the very bank were trying to swallow him whole. He cursed under his breath, realizing that his transposition spell to hide the cup had left the vault itself on high alert.
The vault roared in protest. Wards flared, spitting arcs of wild magic that seared the stone. Harry barely had time to react. "Protego Maxima!" His shield blazed into existence—golden, crackling, but the sheer force against it sent fissures splintering through the magic. Heated lashed at his skin. He gritted his teeth. He wouldn't hold for long.
He had to get out. Fast.
The vault howled in fury. Wards cracked, releasing bursts of wild magic that carved deep gashes into the walls. Harry sprinted, dodging a searing bolt that melted the stone inches from his head. The exit loomed ahead, too far, too close. His wand snapped up.
"Confringo!" The blast tore through the vault's defenses. The door buckled, then shattered, throwing shards of enchanted metal into the air. Harry tumbled forward, rolling onto the cold stone of the corridor. His lungs burned. His pulse hammered. But he was out.
He didn't stop to catch his breath. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, and the only thing on his mind was to escape. He ran through the hallways, the alarms blaring around him, his cloak billowing behind him like a shadow.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he reached the entrance. His heart thudded in his chest as he passed through the massive doors of Gringotts and into the night. The cool air bit his skin, but it was a relief. He was free.
His breath came in ragged gasps as he clutched the bag containing the original cup. The mission had been a success. The Horcrux was his, and the replica left behind would buy him precious time. But the cost was real. His side burned from the magical wounds, and his head felt dizzy from the exertion. He had done it, but the weight of the task was far from over.
As Harry disappeared into the shadows, one thing was certain: this was only the beginning.
In the study of the imposing Potter Manor, Harry sat surrounded by ancient books and dusty scrolls, the faint glow of candles flickering around him. The room was charged with the same unsettling energy he had first felt when confronting the cup a month ago. Before him, the artifact rested on an improvised altar, marked with protective runes and meticulously drawn magical circles.
The Imhotep Spell was no simple feat. It was ancient magic, perilous and damning if mishandled. But Harry had no choice; the mission that had led him to this moment demanded answers. Voldemort, the monster who had torn his soul apart to defy death, had to be stopped.
He raised his wand with steady hands, though his resolve wavered within. Weeks of deciphering texts had led him to Anima Vinctura, an incantation designed to reveal the secrets of divided souls. As he uttered the ancient words, magic filled the study with an almost unbearable aura.
A golden thread shot out of the cup, stretching like a living web that pulsed with dark energy. At first, Harry saw what he expected: one line branching in two directions, one of which clearly led to Nagini, confirming his suspicion that the serpent was a Horcrux. But then, other lines began to emerge from the void, intertwining in a pattern that seemed endless.
Harry's breath hitched. His pulse pounded in his ears. Three… no, five… seven.
The web of dark magic pulsed before him, revealing the horrific truth. This wasn't madness. It was desecration. Seven fragments, seven abominations woven into the fabric of existence itself. Each one wound carved into magic, into life.
His fingers tightened around his wand. He had expected three. Three was logical. Three was manageable. But seven? This wasn't just desperation. This was Voldemort rewriting the very laws of magic in his favor.
For the first time, Harry felt something deeper than rage—something colder, heavier. A horror beyond fear. A truth he hadn't wanted to see but now could never be unseen. He wasn't just hunting a murderer. He was hunting the architect of a perversion so completed that it defied comprehension.
The air grew dense, as if the walls of the study were closing in on him. The lines connecting the fragments vibrated intensely, almost mocking his disbelief. Harry tried to follow them with his eyes, but each seemed to vanish into realms beyond his comprehension. The only fragment he could clearly identify was the one before him, the cup, and the faint trace leading to Nagini.
"How is this possible?" he murmured, his voice trembling. He had always thought he understood the extent of Voldemort's madness, but this... This was beyond imagination.
The runes sustaining the spell began to dim, leaving Harry surrounded by an oppressive silence. The weight of his discovery rooted him in place, as if the magic itself had bound him there.
Seven fragments. Seven pieces of a corrupted soul.
This was not merely a confirmation; it was a condemnation. The mission that already seemed insurmountable had shifted, becoming something monumentally darker. Destroying the cup and Nagini would no longer suffice; he now faced a puzzle with pieces scattered across places he could not yet fathom.
"I can't do this." The thought struck like ice, sharp and unrelenting. A fleeting whisper of escape surfaced, leaving it all behind, vanished into the night. But the world had closed in around him, its hands clawing at his fate. Circumstances did not forgive. And neither would history.
The candlelight flickered, casting shadows that seemed to mockingly dance on the walls. Harry closed his eyes, trying to quiet the chaos in his mind. "One step at a time," he told himself, though the words felt hollow even to him.
The discovery of the fragments had not brought clarity but an overwhelming sense of insignificance. Yet, as his hands shook and his breath quickened, Harry knew he had no choice. Deep in his soul, he felt it: this was the fate imposed upon him, and though he did not understand it, he could not flee.
The spell had ended, but his mission had just begun.
"Do you see now, Potter?" Death's voice slithered through the air, low and inescapable. Shadows thickened around them as the figure materialized, its presence dragging Harry from the abyss of his thoughts. "Do you finally grasp the scale of this? This war is not just yours. It bleeds into the very fabric of existence."
Harry's gaze hardened, though the tremor in his voice betrayed his resolve. "Why me?" he asked again, the words carrying equal parts frustration and desperation.
Death's expression remained impassive, though their tone grew heavier, weighted by ancient truths. "I have told you already," they intoned, each syllable deliberates. "Among all mortals, it is you alone—carrying within your veins the echoes of an ancient lineage, bound to a purpose long obscured—who can shoulder this burden. Not by choice, but by design. You are the fulcrum upon which balance pivots. It was always meant to be you."
Harry's jaw tightened, anger flaring beneath the surface. "So, I'm just supposed to hunt them down? Destroy them? Is that it? That's been the plan all along, hasn't it?" His voice was steady now, edged with defiance. "All those trials. The codices, the papyri, the parchments, was it all just preparation for this?"
"You misunderstand the nature of your task," Death replied, their tone sharp as a blade. "You cannot hope to destroy what you do not comprehend at first. You cannot extinguish a flame without understanding its source. This has never been about brute force or simple destruction, Potter. Our purpose has always been clear, our boundaries immutable. We are forbidden to interfere with free will, even when some" Death's voice darkened momentarily, "—choose to manipulate it through cunning and deceit."
They paused, their gaze piercing. "When my sister defied the natural order three decades ago, she unraveled a delicate equilibrium. Her actions gave Voldemort the means to twist the fabric of reality itself, to let imbalance fester unchecked. And when imbalance festers too long…"
"Chaos becomes inevitable," Harry finished, his voice low. Death's eyes narrowed, and for a fleeting moment, Harry thought he detected the faintest flicker of offense.
"Chaos doesn't wait, Potter. It festers. It grows. And then it devours," Death's voice cut through the air, sharp as obsidian. "Darkness has always risen. It reigns for a time. Then, the light fights back. It's not prophecy. It's not fate. It's the balance. Life doesn't seek victory, it seeks equilibrium. And Voldemort has shattered that.
Harry's eyes darkened as he pieced them together. "But Voldemort didn't just disrupt the balance, did he? He desecrated it. By tearing apart his soul, he didn't merely taint himself, he corrupted magic itself. The very force that binds the extraordinary to the mundane."
"Exactly," Death said, their voice a whisper, yet laden with immense gravity. "Magic is not merely a tool or a gift, Potter. It is the connective tissue of existence, the essence that unites all things and maintains the harmony of the universe. Voldemort's desecration severed that harmony, his corruption infecting the very fabric of reality. This imbalance threatens to tip the scales irreversibly. If it is not corrected, chaos will not merely rise—it will consume. Mortals, immortals, the paths themselves, nothing will remain untouched."
"But..." Harry insisted, his voice laced with frustration, as though the words he sought could never fully capture the weight of his thoughts.
"It's that very force, Harry," she replied, her tone unwavering, almost unrelenting. "Not as a tyrant, but as an intricate, inexorable symbiosis between your choices and their purpose. Your mastery of dark magic, your extraordinary skills as a mercenary and assassin—your entire life has been a precarious balance. Don't you see? That's precisely what I'm saying. You are the fulcrum. That force which maintains the balance, which keeps it stable, has been shaped by your decisions, every single one of them. Because it knows, with absolute certainty, that your strength and your capacity are the only ones among mortals capable of restoring it to its original equilibrium."
"My decisions are mine, and no one has asked me..."
"You still don't understand, do you?" she interrupted, her tone now charged with a mix of exasperation and pity. "Your path has been yours, yes. Your decisions, undeniably your own. You've lived as you willed, but tell me, Harry—what purpose could Harry Potter have for knowing the security systems of dwarven schools in Norway? Why did you spend that week with the Russian mentors? Your travels, your studies, every experience, don't you see how everything has aligned too precisely? Yes, everything you've done has been a product of your will, but if you stop, if you take a moment to truly look at every step you've taken until this day, you'll see it wasn't a coincidence. The force I'm speaking of hasn't coerced you; it has crafted the conditions, a perfect framework to ensure you'd become the champion it needs."
Harry's laugh was sharp, humorless. "So that's it, then? I'm a puppet of the universe, a pawn shaped by forces I can't even, see? All my choices, my blood, my suffering, my sacrifices, they were never truly mine, were they? I was just… convenient."
The room seemed to grow colder as Death's form loomed closer, the faint outline of their presence pulsating with an otherworldly intensity.
"You mistake convenience for inevitability," Death replied, their voice low and measured, yet resonating with an authority that made the air itself tremble. "Do you think I would entrust the fate of existence to chance? You are not a puppet, Harry Potter. You are the axis upon which the scales turn. Your choices, your pain, your triumphs, they are yours. But their weight, their consequences, ripple far beyond what you can comprehend. To wield power without understanding its gravity is folly. To live without purpose is a waste."
Harry clenched his fists, his knuckles whitening. "And what about Voldemort?" he demanded, his voice sharp. "He made his choices. He broke the rules. Why wasn't he stopped before it came to this?"
"Because that is the curse of free will," Death answered, their tone darkening like a gathering storm. "The moment I or my kind intervene, the balance we strive to protect is shattered. Voldemort's crimes are not unique—they are simply louder, more violent echoes of countless others who sought to defy the natural order. But his desecration cuts deeper. He tore apart his soul not only to escape me but to corrupt the very essence of creation. His actions forced the balance into a slow, agonizing decay."
"Then why not stop him now?" Harry retorted, his frustration spilling over. "You speak of balance, of consequences, but you just stand there, reciting riddles. Why not end it? End him?"
Death's silence stretched, heavy and unyielding. When they spoke again, their voice was softer, yet more terrifying for it. "Because the solution lies not in endings, but in restoration. If I intervene, I unmake the choice itself. And without choice, there is no balance, only tyranny masquerading as order."
Harry stared at them, his mind racing, his anger tempered by a growing sense of dread. "So, what am I supposed to do? Restore the balance? Fix the unfixable? What does that even mean?"
Death gestured subtly, and the air between them shimmered, revealing images—scenes of Harry's life flashing by in quick succession. The shattered remnants of Voldemort's Horcruxes. Ancient tomes inked with forbidden knowledge. The faces of those who had fallen, and those who had survived.
"It means you must finish what has already begun," Death said, their voice almost tender. "Not as a destroyer, but as a restorer. You are not here to erase Voldemort's sins. You are here to heal the wounds he left behind. The balance does not demand annihilation, Harry. It demands equilibrium. And to achieve that, you must understand what was lost—and what must be found."
Harry's breath hitched, his thoughts colliding in chaos. "And what happens if I fail?"
Death did not move, but Harry felt the weight of their presence tighten around him, as if the very air recoiled. Then, a whisper—soft, absolute. "Then everything ends."
For a long moment, neither spoke. The weight of the universe hung between them, fragile and overwhelming. Finally, Harry exhaled, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Then tell me where to begin."
Death inclined their head, a glimmer of something akin to approval in their ageless eyes. "You already know, Harry. The first step is always the hardest. And it is always yours to take."
With that, their form began to dissipate, shadows unraveling into the dim light of the study. The oppressive energy that had filled the room ebbed away with their departure, leaving an eerie stillness in its wake. Harry stood rooted in place; the weight of their words settled heavily on his shoulders.
For a moment, he remained there, staring at the spot where Death had stood, as if hoping they might return with clearer instructions or absolution. But the room remained silent.
He exhaled sharply, his breath trembling as he turned his gaze toward the altar.
The study of Potter Manor was silent, save for the faint crackling of candles that cast flickering shadows on the walls. The cup still rested on the altar where Harry had performed the Imhotep Spell, its faint golden glow a haunting reminder of what he had uncovered.
Harry approached it slowly, his footsteps muffled by the thick rug beneath him. The weight of the silence pressed against him, amplifying the questions that swirled endlessly in his mind.
He stopped in front of the altar, his eyes fixed on the cup as though it might offer him answers if he stared long enough. But all it gave was the faint hum of magic, an unsettling vibration that seemed to reach deep into his bones.
"Destruction or purification?"
The question lingered, relentless and unanswered. Destroying the cup might sever the fragment of Voldemort's soul it contained, but what would that truly accomplish? Would the act of destruction restore the balance that had been shattered, or would it simply leave another scar on the fabric of magic itself?
He leaned forward, his fingers tracing the edges of the altar, his mind racing through the implications. "Balance," Death had said. Not destruction, not brute force. Balance.
But how was he supposed to achieve that when he barely understood the forces at play?
His frustration bubbled over, and he slammed his fist against the altar, the force rattling the protective runes etched into its surface. The candles flickered violently, shadows dancing erratically along the walls.
"You've trained for this," he muttered under his breath, his voice edged with anger. "Studied for years, prepared for the worst. And now you're standing here like a fool, afraid to make a choice."
He stepped back, running a hand through his hair, his breathing uneven. His gaze remained locked on the cup, its faint glow mocking him.
"Balance. Not destruction."
The words echoed in his mind, twisting his thoughts into tighter knots. He could feel the weight of the mission bearing down on him, the enormity of what was at stake. Every fiber of his being screamed for action, but doubt paralyzed him.
"What am I supposed to do?" he whispered, his voice barely audible.
The room offered no answers, only the flickering light and the quiet hum of magic. For a fleeting moment, Harry considered walking away leaving the cup, the mission, and the unbearable burden it carried. But the thought passed as quickly as it came, swallowed by the grim certainty that there was no escape.
Taking a deep breath, Harry straightened and forced himself to stand still, his hands clenched at his sides. He had no clear plan, no perfect solution. But he knew he had to move forward, no matter how uncertain the path ahead.
The cup remained on the altar, its presence an unspoken challenge. And Harry, despite his doubt, knew he could not turn away.
The silence in the study deepened, the flickering candlelight casting restless shadows across the room. Harry's gaze remained fixed on the cup, its faint golden glow pulsating with an eerie rhythm. As he reached out to touch it, his hand trembled, not with fear, but with the weight of the decision looming before him.
The moment his fingers brushed the cup's surface, an unexpected warmth coursed through his hand. It wasn't the cold malice he expected felt from Horcrux. This was different—beneath the corruptive magic, something purer stirred, as though calling out for release.
Closing his eyes, Harry reached deeper with his magic, feeling the essence buried within. It was faint but unmistakable: a presence imbued with virtues he could barely articulate—justice, loyalty, patience, and dedication.
He inhaled sharply. Whoever this magic belonged to had been the opposite of Voldemort, their essence radiating the qualities Voldemort had sought to destroy. Harry's eyes flicked to the badger etched into the cup, a symbol whose significance eluded him but felt undeniably tied to the warmth he had sensed.
"I don't know who you are," Harry murmured, his voice soft with reverence. "But I'll protect what's left of your legacy. I swear it."
The thought of destroying the cup crossed his mind again, but a memory stopped him cold. He recalled the punishment of Imhotep, whose soul fragments had been sealed within enchanted jars, tethering him to a cursed existence. If Harry destroyed the cup now, it would unleash its corruptive energy into the world—and worse, Voldemort might sense the destruction.
He couldn't allow that. Not yet.
Instead, his thoughts turned to the codices he had studied months before, the ancient writings of the Mexica and Maya. Those rituals had spoken of purifying objects tainted by dark magic or transferring trapped essences to safer vessels. He could attempt such a ritual, but it would require preparation and precision.
Until then, Harry needed to contain the dark fragments securely. The story of Imhotep returned to him: the jars the magician had crafted to house his corrupted soul, adorned with signs to prevent any escape. The idea was grimly ingenious and exactly what Harry needed.
Rising from his chair, he rummaged through his collection of magical artifacts and supplies. After a few moments, he pulled out a small obsidian jar, its surface smooth and black as night. The artifact was etched with faint protective symbols, perfect for containing volatile magical energy.
Grabbing a carving tool and his wand, Harry began to inscribe additional runes and glyphs into the jar. His hand moved with precision, blending European runes with ancient symbols from the codices. Each mark was imbued with magic to reinforce the container's strength.
When the jar was complete, Harry turned his attention back to the cup. The time had come to act.
Harry placed the jar at the altar's center. With a slow breath, he raised his wand. The air thickened. Shadows coiled at the edges of the room, drawn by the ritual's call. His voice, steady and low, wove through the silence, an incantation carved from forgotten tongues. The magic stirred. The cup trembled.
A stream of golden light erupted from the cup, entwined with writhing black tendrils of smoke. The dark energy fought him, lashing out violently, but Harry held firm, guiding it into the jar with practiced precision.
As the last of the essence entered the container, the jar sealed itself with a flash of white light. The oppressive energy in the room lifted, leaving Harry standing in the quiet aftermath. The cup, now devoid of its ominous glow, looked like an ordinary artifact.
Harry stared at the sealed jar, feeling the faint pulse of darkness within. "This isn't over," he said quietly, his voice steady but weary. "But it's a start."
His gaze returned to the cup, and a pang of respect stirred within him. Whoever had created it had imbued it with something extraordinary, something that Voldemort had twisted for his own purposes.
"I'll make it right," Harry promised softly. "I don't know your name, but your legacy deserves better."
Carefully, he placed the jar in a reinforced chest lined with protective wards and secured it with a locking charm. As the chest clicked shut, Harry felt a flicker of hope amid the daunting weight of his mission.
This was only the beginning, but for now, it was enough.
The atmosphere in the study grew dense as Harry raised his wand. The altar before him was surrounded by mystical symbols, protective runes, and sacred elements, vibrating lightly with energy. Time seemed to stand still, and everything that had been chaotic and urgent in his life now converged in this single point: the restoration of the soul bound to the cup.
Harry breathed deeply. The flames began to dance, the obsidian rose with a strange resonance, and the shadows twisted in rhythm with the power he was unleashing. He recited the words of the ritual with a firm voice, his will focused on the task at hand.
As he progressed, the air in the room charged with palpable energy, and an indescribable sense of the ancient, the deep, began to surround him. The elements, the spirits, everything seemed to align to fulfill the purpose he had set.
The cup glowed intensely as the magic began to surround it, and the fragments of its essence were drawn to it, as if the lost pieces of a puzzle were coming together. Helga Hufflepuff's soul, purified and restored to its original form, slowly began to emerge, like a warm and tranquil light rising from the cup.
Then, in the air, a voice was heard—a soft whisper, but clear, like a melody distant yet present.
"Thank you, young wizard."
Harry didn't blink, but the calm that overcame him was almost overwhelming. The air grew cooler, and a sense of peace filled the room, as if a weight that had been present for centuries was finally lifted.
"For so long, I have been incomplete," the voice continued, and Harry could feel the presence of the witch, gentle and powerful, like a benign shadow at the edge of his perception. "My essence, my very magic, was trapped in that cup. When Voldemort corrupted it, he left me incomplete. But you... you have done what no one else could.
Harry felt deeply moved. He knew he had done something monumental, but hearing Helga Hufflepuff's words, feeling gratitude for them, was beyond any reward. He had restored something that had been corrupted for generations.
"I knew I was not the best of witches, and I thank you for, unknowingly, helping my legacy. Through the cup, my magic lived, and although it was darkened, there was always something of my soul within it. The voice seemed to wrap around him, as if Helga Hufflepuff herself were embracing him. "The school I founded with my brothers, Hogwarts... though it no longer exists as you know it, it will always offer help to those who need it. There is something eternal in its foundation, an essence that persists beyond the walls and the years. There will always be those who follow what began there."
Harry thought for a moment, the weight of the words sinking deeply into his being. Hogwarts... it will always offer help. No matter how the world changes, the essence will endure. School wasn't just a physical place; it was an idea, a legacy.
Helga's voice returned softly. "Now I leave in peace, but remember, young wizard: your task is not finished. What you've done for me is only part of what is required. The corruption of magic, the one Voldemort has sown, must be eradicated. No matter what you face, no matter the war or the darkness itself... you are the guardian of balance. It is your fate."
The light surrounding the cup faded gradually, and with it, the presence of Helga left, leaving Harry in profound silence. His breathing was heavy, but his mind was clear.
"The balance," Harry whispered to himself. "That's what I must restore." His thoughts had completely cleared. It was no longer about the fight against Voldemort, no longer just the war. It was something larger. Something older and more primal. Voldemort had corrupted magic in his lust for power, but Harry now understood that his mission was much more than defeating him. He had to restore what had been broken, purify the magic, correct the mistakes of the past. Helga Hufflepuff had been an example of what needed to be done. She, though imperfect, had fought for what was just, for the greater good.
The magic that had been corrupted had to be healed, and Harry Potter, the last heir to a long tradition, would be the one to do it. No matter the cost. No matter the sacrifice. It was his fate, and he could not evade it.
With one last look at the now-restored cup and the silent altar, Harry stood. He was ready. He had understood his role, his mission. And now, more than ever, he knew what he had to do.
"Bravo."
Death's voice echoed through the room, cold yet oddly approving. Harry, already on the brink of exhaustion, felt the weight of the day pulling him deeper into fatigue. The long journey to Gringotts, the draining task of separating Voldemort's soul from the cup, and the purification ritual had taken their toll. Despite everything, he managed a weak, tired smile.
"It was harder than I expected," he muttered, his voice hoarse, "but in the end, I've done it. Everything I've done so far... it's led me here. Was this the lesson you were trying to teach me all along?"
"Yes," she replied, her tone unyielding, though there was a certain satisfaction in the air. "I see that you've finally grasped it. Your path wasn't as it was initially laid out for you. The chosen one, destined for greatness. But your choices, Harry, your decisions have shaped the very magic that surrounds you. You stood in front of that cup, and you choose wisely. It is not just magic that has shaped you, but your willingness to learn, to adapt. And now you understand your place."
"Ah, yes," Harry said, a smirk tugging at his lips despite his exhaustion. "Stop buttering me up. At this rate, when I die, the bees and bears will be fighting over my body before you can get your firsthand it."
Death didn't respond immediately, but Harry could feel her attention, unwavering and constant.
"What you have done today—what you chose—wasn't part of some grand design. It wasn't mine, nor anyone else's. It was your choice," Death said, her voice devoid of judgment, but with a hint of finality. "And as I told you after your purification, everything you do has consequences. Every decision creates ripples in this world, no matter how carefully it's thought out. It can tip the scales toward chaos, or it can restore balance."
Harry paused, letting her words settle in his mind, the full weight of his choices pressing against his chest. "I get it now," he said firmly, no longer unsure. "I understand what I have to do, and how. No more hesitation."
Death's gaze, cold yet knowing, never wavered. "Your role in this war, in this world you've been absent from for thirty years... it is not that of the scandalous Lord who makes political maneuvers in the halls of power, nor the one seen with Muggle women in luxurious restaurants, causing whispers and rumors in the papers. You are not the dark mage who uses necromancy and dark arts to instill fear or gain admiration."
Harry raised an eyebrow, already suspecting where this was headed. "So, what am I supposed to be then?"
"You are above the players in this game," she said calmly, the gravity of her words settling over him like a heavy cloak. "But you are not truly part of it. Yes, you were chosen, by me, and by magic itself, to be the one who repairs what was broken. To rebuild what was destroyed. To bring light to the darkness, and to shroud the brightness that threatens to blind. Your mission, Harry, is not to defeat Voldemort. It was never about him. Your mission is to save the world. It's that simple."
Harry exhaled slowly, the enormity of her words sinking in. "So that's it, then? Save the world, in all its complicated, corrupted glory."
"Indeed," she said, her voice almost wistful, "but remember, your journey will not be simple. It never was meant to be. There will be challenges, and many of them, but you will face them, as you always have—with your decisions, your power, and your understanding of what needs to be done."
"Right." Harry nodded, a quiet resolve forming within him. "Well, I suppose I better get to work then."
Death tilted her head slightly. "You've done well so far, Harry. I have no doubt that you will continue to choose wisely."
"Don't get too sentimental," he said with a chuckle, though fatigue was starting to settle heavily on his bones. "I'm still not entirely sure I understand half of what's going on, but I'll figure it out."
For a moment, there was silence, an understanding between them.
"Rest, Harry," Death finally said. "You've earned it."
And with that, her presence slowly faded, leaving Harry alone in the study. He let out a long breath and sank back into his chair, suddenly feeling the weight of exhaustion pulling him under. He decided it was time to rest, to finally let go of the constant tension.
Harry sighed, rubbing his eyes. Death's words still lingered, heavy in the silence. Balance. Restoration. Fate. He had spent so long chasing destruction, hunting down enemies, tearing apart what was broken. But was that enough? Would it ever be?
A sharp tap at the window interrupted his thoughts. An owl. Another burden, another warning, another war to prepare for.
But when he opened it, the parchment that fell into his hands wasn't a summons, a threat, or a demand.
It was Daphne.
His fingers traced the familiar handwriting, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. The weight in his chest didn't lift, but it eased, just a little. The darkness was still there, always there, but at this moment, he could forget it. Just for a while
Dear Harry,
I hope this letter finds you well. I miss you terribly. I miss our walks in the Muggle world, the quiet moments we shared, and the conversations that seemed to last forever. This distance has taught me a lot about myself, and it's become clear that there are things I should say now, instead of leaving them unsaid.
I just returned from Athens. It was... enlightening, and I think I've gained a better sense of direction. However, my father still has some business here that will keep us in Athens for a few more months. But I wanted to let you know how much I appreciate everything you did, whether you knew it or not. You've helped me define what I want for my life in ways I never imagined.
I will write to you whenever I can, but for now, just know that I am thinking of you often and wishing you peace in all that you're doing.
Yours,
Daphne
He folded the letter carefully, placing it on the nightstand before closing his eyes once more. For the first time in years, sleep found him without a fight. Daphne's words lingered, a quiet ember in the storm. He let the darkness take him, knowing the battle would wait for dawn.