Reviews brought me back to life. Please enjoy, and please drop a note if you liked the from, LadyFlorentine. . .References:"Don't Stop Me Now" by Queen...

The air between the two Dark Lords was taut, imminent violence practically shrieking in the space between them, a string pulled so tight it was bound to snap.

The chains around Grindelwald's wrists pulsed softly, their glow an ever-present reminder that he was bound, silenced, powerless. And yet, his icy eyes gleamed with a sharp, secret amusement. His once-silvery blond hair had dulled, matted with dust and streaked with grime.

"So hostile," Grindelwald murmured, tilting his head just enough for his gaunt cheekbone to catch the dim torchlight. His voice was a rasping purr, soft but cutting. "I am merely a helpless prisoner, and yet you speak as though…I were a threat."

Voldemort sneered, disgust curdling his already serpentine features. "You are not a threat, Grindelwald. That much is evident."

"Then why do you seek my wisdom?"

He spoke as though he were still a hunter, laying a trap woven from the silky threads of arrogance and mockery. But Grindelwald had not been a hunter for decades. He would die as prey. And Voldemort would not allow him the dignity of believing otherwise.

"I seek no knowledge from you. No one has travelled and tested the boundaries of magic more than I. Lord Voldemort requires only answers."

Grindelwald's smile was full of derision. "Ah! The great and terrible Lord Voldemort, requiring something of me. This is an honor, truly."

Voldemort's fingers twitched on his wand, knuckles paler than the yew wood. His voice dropped to a hiss. "Dumbledore. And Potter. What did they speak of with you?"

Grindelwald exhaled a long, thoughtful breath. His wrists shifted in their bonds, the movement slow, deliberate. A smile ghosted across his cracked lips, fragile but defiant. He was drawing it out, deliberately annoying Voldemort.

"I could tell you," he murmured, each word a delicate taunt.

Voldemort waited, still as death itself.

Grindelwald sighed theatrically. "But where would be the fun in that?"

The explosion of rage was instantaneous.

"Crucio."

Voldemort watched carefully as pain lanced through Gellert's frail body, twisting through his nerves, setting his bones alight like dry kindling kissed by flame. The old wizard's eyes blurred with tears, his spine arched, a grotesque bow pulled taut. For a fleeting moment, Voldemort thought his bones might snap like brittle twigs.

But Grindelwald had not survived Nurmengard for decades by being weak. When the curse stopped, he laughed. It was strangled, hoarse, scraping from deep within his chest like rusted metal against stone, but unmistakably laughter.

Voldemort had been prepared for resistance. He had expected bravado, arrogance, even desperation. He had not expected laughter. It was that of a man who knew something his torturer did not.

That alone gave Voldemort pause.

"I must say," Grindelwald rasped, shaking the blood from his lips, crimson droplets spattering like dark rubies on the stone floor, "this has been a rather intriguing evening. It is not often I am tortured for mere amusement these days. Very nostalgic. I myself used to pass the time similarly."

Voldemort's fingers curled tighter around his wand. He did not like feeling led. "I have only just begun to remind you what true suffering is," he murmured.

Grindelwald grinned, a feral flash of defiance. "Oh, you may try again."

A flick of Voldemort's wrist—

"Crucio."

Agony seared through Grindelwald's frail body, twisting his spine, burning through muscle and bone. His scream echoed off the stone walls, raw and ragged, yet underneath it—still, unbelievably—was laughter, like a thread of stubborn defiance woven into the very fabric of his being.

When Voldemort finally lifted the curse, Grindelwald sagged against the chains but did not collapse. He did not plead. His chest heaved, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, and yet… he kept laughing. Not even Bellatrix Lestrange had ever managed such a thing.

"You think pain will loosen my tongue?" Grindelwald rasped, grinning through the aftershocks. "How predictable."

Voldemort felt the flickers of rage begin to taint his vision, creeping tendrils of crimson at the edges of his sight. He crushed them with sheer force of will.

"Pain is not what makes men talk, Voldemort," Gellert continued, his voice hoarse but steady. "It is fear. It is despair. It is the illusion of choice." His blue eyes gleamed, bright and knowing. "Dumbledore knew this well. That is why he was always three moves ahead of you."

Grindelwald's voice dropped to a whisper, soft but sharp enough to cut. "Tell me, Lord Voldemort… when did you last play chess?"

Voldemort forbade his expression from changing, but he felt a twinge of unease. Had he not been thinking along this vein as he travelled to Nurmengard?

Grindelwald smiled wider, lips stretching into something both ghastly and triumphant. "Dumbledore has been moving pieces across the board for decades," he continued, voice light despite the pain crackling through his body. "He has been playing the long game. A game you walked into blindly."

Voldemort sneered, his voice a venomous hiss. "You think I am unprepared?"

"I think you do not yet understand what you are fighting."

Voldemort took a slow, deliberate step forward, his shadow stretching across the stone like a living thing. "Then educate me, old man."

Grindelwald hummed, letting the silence stretch between them like a noose tightening. Voldemort's impatience coiled, taut and fraying.

And then, finally:

"Bah. Why not? It's not as if I get much entertainment here. And Albus did condemn me to rot. Truly, he has this coming."

Grindelwald's grin turned sly, and he tilted his head. "Tell me, Lord Voldemort," he murmured, "What do you know of Salazar Slytherin?"

The Dark Lord's eyes narrowed. "A foolish question," he said. "I know all there is to know."

Grindelwald made a thoughtful noise. "Do you?"

Something inside Voldemort sharpened.

"The boy," Grindelwald continued, as if idly musing to himself. "Harry Potter. Strange, is he not? Unremarkable at first glance." Grindelwald continued, watching Voldemort closely. "But drawn—inevitably, inexplicably—toward power. Toward your magic. Toward you. As you are to him."

Voldemort's silence was heavy.

Grindelwald let his eyes drift half-closed, as if recalling something long forgotten. "There are stories of bloodlines," he murmured. "Old blood. Ancient magic. Some… do not truly die."

Voldemort did not react.

"It is interesting, is it not?" Grindelwald continued, voice soft, contemplative. "A boy with no right to your magic, no claim to your gift, speaking Parseltongue. Feeling your presence. Seeing things he should not see."

Voldemort's fingers curled.

Grindelwald smiled. "Yes," he murmured. "Very interesting indeed."

Voldemort's mind was a storm. He had always suspected there was something unnatural about the boy's connection to him. The visions. The pain. The way Potter knew things. He had assumed it was a side effect of his failed attempt to kill him. A mere accident.

But what if it was not? What if it had never been about the scar? What if Potter's connection to him was not Voldemort's doing—but something older?

Something stronger?

Grindelwald watched him with predatory awareness in his blue eyes.

"Dumbledore came to you," Voldemort said slowly, red gaze piercing. "To speak of this."

Grindelwald's filthy, yellow smile was answer in itself.

"Potter," Voldemort breathed. "He is—"

Grindelwald coughed but chuckled. And then—delicately, precisely—he pushed the final piece forward. "Dumbledore believes," he murmured, "that the boy is… remembering."

Voldemort stilled. He let the words settle over him. Let them take root.

And then—

"What?" Voldemort hissed.

Grindelwald's lips curled. "There are…stories," he mused. "Ancient ones. That when great men die, they do not leave. They wait. They find their way back. This may strike you as…familiar."

Voldemort could feel it. The edge of something vast and terrible.

"You are saying Potter—"

"I am saying nothing," Grindelwald murmured. "Only that Albus Dumbledore—your greatest enemy—believes the boy is dreaming of things he could not possibly know." His voice dropped to a whisper. "That he is speaking of magics long forgotten."

A pause.

Then—softly, delicately—

"That he is remembering a time before his birth."

And there it was. The moment the truth was discarded, and belief took its place.

Voldemort's mind was already filling in the blanks. Already drawing the inevitable, obvious conclusion.

(Voldemort remembered:

The blindsiding news that Harry Potter had absolutely obliterated the records for N.E.W.T. examinations in 12 subjects this past summer. Harry Potter had even surpassed Dumbledore's scores, and now held the record for best performance in European history. The rage that had filled him upon learning that Harry Potter had become both Albus Dumbledore's apprentice and the Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor.

Voldemort remembered:

The Malfoy boy, sobbing under torture, as he gave his update over the Yule break. The disgusting lack of progress on his primary mission, but the mildly interesting report of a rumour that Harry Potter took control of a basilisk.

Voldemort remembered:

Severus, reporting with disdain another rumour scorching and spreading through the school like Fiendfyre, into the Slytherin Common Room, along the walls of Hogwarts, and the flames of it leaping out the castle and taking flight in the form of owl-carried letters.

Voldemort remembered:

Severus' scathing voice: "The fools leave the Defense classroom chattering that Potter is Salazar Slytherin reborn.")

Salazar Slytherin reborn…

Fury. Shock. The words echoed and repeated throughout Voldemort's head. The idea wormed its way into his mind, unbidden, and took root. Potter was not merely a boy. Not merely a nuisance.

He was a threat. A rival claim to the very legacy Voldemort had spent a lifetime restoring.

And now, Dumbledore's own enemy had confirmed it.

Checkmate.

Grindelwald, still shackled, still bleeding, let his head fall back against the stone. And he smiled.

The silence in Nurmengard was absolute. For a moment, even the air seemed to hold its breath, waiting.

And then, Lord Voldemort laughed. A cold, mirthless sound, the kind that seeped into the walls and made them shiver. He had been played for years, with the Prophecy hidden from him. He knew it. He was right to come here.

"Ah," Voldemort exhaled, tilting his head, his red eyes gleaming with something far too sharp to be amusement. "So that is what Albus Dumbledore has been hiding. A secret so dangerous, he was willing to crawl back to you, his greatest failure, in the hope of understanding it."

Grindelwald's amusement was richer now, knowing he had set a fire in Voldemort's mind that would burn and burn. "You always did fancy yourself Slytherin's heir," he mused. "How does it feel, I wonder, to be outdone by a boy?"

Voldemort's fingers twitched around his wand.

"Harry Potter," Grindelwald continued smoothly, though the chains at his wrists cut deep into his flesh, "is an enigma, is he not? He speaks to serpents, has survived your touch, and now... he sees through time, through memory—visions of the past that do not belong to him. Have you not wondered, Tom?"

Voldemort's jaw clenched at the use of his despised name.

"A child of prophecy," Grindelwald mused, "a mind unshackled from the limits of self. A vessel of knowledge, perhaps... or of something older. Something ancient. Something reborn."

Grindelwald leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping into something conspiratorial, his blue eyes gleaming. "Did you know, there were theories about Salazar Slytherin's return? That he left behind more than just a basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets? That he intended to walk among us again? That, perhaps, the boy you have so desperately tried to kill... was never meant to die?"

Voldemort seethed audibly, as though sucking in the possibility itself. A whisper. A question. A terrible, nagging doubt.

What if Potter was never meant to die at all? What if Harry Potter could not die?

Then, too quick to anticipate, too final to be undone, he lifted his wand and whispered, "Avada Kedavra."

The sickly green light filled the cell, illuminating the cruel curve of Grindelwald's mouth in the last instant before his body crumpled. The chains clanked softly as he fell limp against them. The great Gellert Grindelwald, whose name once shook the wizarding world, was no more.

Yet, as Voldemort stood over the body, his breath steady, his expression unreadable—there was no triumph. No satisfaction.

Only an unease he could not quite place. Because that smile—

That damned, infuriating smile—

—had not been a lie.

The worst day of Ron Weasley's life started with a seizure.

Not the dramatic, flailing-around kind, but the more severe kind—the sudden, silent freeze, like someone had hit pause on Ron's entire body. One moment he was mid-complaint about Albus' latest incomprehensible lesson plan, and the next he was stiff as a board, his eyes glazed over like windows in winter.

They weren't at breakfast then. No, it had happened the day before, during a perfectly normal walk back from the library

When Ron had his seizure, Hermione had dropped her books, Harry had caught Ron before he could faceplant, and Albus had observed the whole thing like he was waiting for Ron to spontaneously combust.

And then Ron spoke in liquid syllables, sending a chill down his own spine as he heard the foreign words coming from his own mouth.

"In a prison carved deep upon the mountain

the serpent strikes—the green flame consumes

Grindelwald falls, having the last laugh

While the Dark Lord's shadow stretches—endless, devouring."

His voice was flat, monotone, like someone else was using his vocal cords as a megaphone. When it ended, Ron blinked back into consciousness, disoriented and annoyed, immediately dismissing the whole thing.

"Mate, don't you think that sounded a little like—"

"No."

He refused to contemplate that, that—

No. Just no.

"Probably, definitely just stress," Ron groaned, brushing off Harry's panicked questions and Hermione's frantic attempts to diagnose him with every magical malady known to wizardkind. "You lot are driving me mental. This is what happens when you surround yourself with cursed objects, existential crises, and Albus's tea kettle."

Every true Gryffindor knew that the better part of valour was discretion. Being a true Gryffindor, Ron fled the scene with admirable skill and evasion tactics.

Which led to today. Breakfast. Twenty-four hours later.

Breakfast had been going so well, too. Ron had managed to snag the crispiest bacon, the fluffiest scrambled eggs, and—miraculously—a mug of hot cocoa with the perfect marshmallow-to-liquid ratio. Better than Mum made, even. Not that he would say so. Life was good, or as good as it could be when your best friend was technically also your headmaster, and your other best friend kept a clipboard like it was her child. But he was determined to focus on the positives. Like breakfast. And not the ever-present, looming shadow of magical chaos that seemed to follow them like a particularly aggressive stray Kneazle.

Ron had just managed to shovel some toast into his mouth when the owls arrived, sweeping into the Great Hall like feathery harbingers of doom. Letters and newspapers rained down on the students, but the stack that landed in front of them might as well have come with ominous string background music.

The headlines were impossible to miss:

THE DAILY PROPHET:Special Edition

MASSACRE AT NURMENGARD—GRINDELWALD DEAD, ASSAILANT UNKNOWN

MACUSA TODAY

World News

Madame Meyer Confirmed Deceased: U.S. Aurors Condemn Attack on Magical Law Enforcement

CHICAGO CAULDRON GAZETTE

Opinion

Blood Stains the Mountain: Is the Dark Lord Cleaning House?

THE QUIBBLER:

Theories and Extrapolations

Grindelwald Silenced Before Revealing the Truth? What Did He Know About Potter?!

MUMBAI MAGES POST

International Reporting

Minister Kothari:"Global Security Threat Intensifies After Nurmengard Breach."

SYDNEY AUGUR WEEKLY

The Best of Beasts

What Really Killed Gellert Grindelwald? Destruction of Nurmengard begs the question

INTERNATIONAL POTIONS GUILD

Secrets Die With the Mad: Grindelwald's Experimental Alchemy Lost Forever

THE NIKKEI HERALD

The World Watches: What Will Dumbledore and Potter Do Now?

They all stared at the papers.

Ron's toast fell out of his mouth.

He saw Harry stand up from his place behind the high table, and glide quickly over to the Gryffindor table.

From somewhere behind him, he could hear Dean Thomas complain: "How many 'Special Editions' can the Daily Prophet issue before they all just become 'editions?'"

Vaguely, a few of Ron's recent, dead-on guesses crossed his mind.

("Maybe it's not the raven, mate. Maybe you ought to be telling the wand that you're its master. If it's anything like you, it's moody as a nundu without breakfast.")

"Well," Ron said after a long pause, "this is fine. Everything's fine. Definitely just stress. And if it's not, maybe this is a dream."

Harry, having reached them, smirked, his blue eyes glinting behind half-moon glasses. "It does not do to dwell on dreams, Mister Weasley. Come along now."

Hermione, not one for dramatic pauses when there was logic to be applied, grabbed Ron by the arm. She whispered harshly, "We're going to Albus' room."

"But my breakfast—"

"Now!"

Harry had, at one point, cursed the tea kettle to be silent because if he had to hear "Bohemian Rhapsody" one more time, he was going to set the world on fire, and then himself. In revenge, Albus' cuckoo clock—an obnoxiously large, enchanted monstrosity shaped like a kelpie—started playing Queen's "Don't Stop Me Now" on an endless loop instead. Harry suspected it was personal.

He reclined on a massive squashy armchair that smelled like chamomile and victory, and watched as Ron—distraught, beleaguered, recently-and-involuntarily-ordained Seer Ron—scowled at the orb in his hands. It was distinctly more flamboyant than the ones they'd used in Trelawney's classroom—its base bedazzled with many colorful jewels, deep red and shimmering gold fireworks occasionally bursting within and leaving behind smoke in a way that was, frankly, too much. It resembled a snow globe more than a divination tool, complete with gilded lions carved at its base that roared dramatically whenever Ron shook it out of frustration.

Harry was overjoyed to not be the one on the receiving end of life's what-the-fuckery. For once, it was not him. No one could blame him for basking in that.

Except for maybe Ron. The poor bastard.

"I'm not a Seer," Ron said bitterly, glaring at the orb as if doing so could somehow change the cruel hand of fate that he'd been dealt. "I'm just cursed with terrible friends and worse luck. This is what torture must feel like."

Harry arched an eyebrow. "Yes, Ron, you're absolutely right. Crucio is exactly like this. Bellatrix Lestrange was actually just mildly inconvenienced by a vision of the future when she tortured Neville's parents."

Ron threw a half-hearted kick in Harry's direction. His red-orange hair was fluffier than usual, defying gravity like it had ambitions beyond his head, and a stark contrast to his paler-than-usual face. "Sod off," he grumbled.

Albus, settled into his rocking chair, was now knitting what appeared to be trousers so fluffy they had their own gravitational field. The yarn was an alarming shade of fuchsia, and every so often, the trousers would twitch as if trying to escape their fate. Hermione, sitting cross-legged on the rug, had her ever-present clipboard in one hand and a quill at the ready. Every time the orb glowed ominously, she made furious notes, her brow furrowed with intense concentration, which only seemed to make Ron more miserable.

"This thing is a joke," Ron said loudly, holding up the orb. He peered into it so closely his nose pressed against the glass, causing it to fog up comically. "What kind of pretentious nutcase makes their own custom divination orb?"

"Albus," said Harry and Hermione in unison, without a moment of hesitation.

"I hate to disappoint, but alas, this was merely a gift from the Queen," Albus said pleasantly, not looking up from his knitting.

Ron paused, then looked at Albus. He narrowed his blue eyes, suspicion written all over his face. "…which Queen?"

Harry sighed and rubbed at his temples. It was so strange to feel the wrinkles there, and he could swear their number was growing by the day. "For fuck's sake, mate, just get on with it."

"Ah, Ron," Albus said gently, leaning forward with a glint of mischief in his bright green eyes, "might I trouble you to indulge the orb with a simple inquiry? I find myself rather curious about what dear Grindelwald and Voldemort might have discussed."

Ron sighed, running a hand through his hair, which did nothing to tame it whatsoever—it sprang back like an indignant hedgehog. "Fine. Fine!" He huffed, but began to speak to it with dramatic flair. "O, great, useless fucking orb…reveal to us the dark whispers between dear Grindelwald and the snake-faced nightmare."

The orb flickered, then flared brightly, projecting a hazy, swirling image into the air above it. Voices crackled to life, distorted at first, but gradually sharpening.

Hermione gasped at the sight.

"Tell me, Lord Voldemort," Grindelwald murmured, tilting his head. "What do you know of Salazar Slytherin?"

The projection went on for several minutes, showing Grindelwald as he weaved a story—a masterpiece of misdirection. A tale spun from half-truths and inference, each thread pulling Voldemort toward an inevitable, false conclusion. Grindelwald fed him the exact narrative he was primed to believe—one that would stroke his ego, reinforce his existing assumptions, and plant a single, perfect seed of deception. Because of course, Harry Potter as himself could not be a threat. His prophesied enemy had to be something more.

When the projection faded, leaving a tense silence in its wake, Ron spoke first, sounding impressed. "Grindelwald. You beautiful, glorious, evil man. May you rest in peace."

Hermione snorted unexpectedly, quickly covering it with a cough, and Ron shot her a triumphant glance that he quickly disguised as nonchalance.

Harry blinked. "Hang on," he said slowly. "What about that Sumerian Curse of Silence?"

Albus merely shrugged regally. "It not only stops one from revealing bound secrets, but provides prompting for misdirection in answers to fit the caster's desired narrative."

With dread, Harry vaguely recalled instances throughout the year of portraits giggling as they walked past, and the Bloody Baron ominously floating in Albus' peripheral vision. "Is that why you've been taking your students down into the Chamber of Secrets and showing them the memory of me killing the basilisk?"

Albus's eyes twinkled, the corners crinkling with amusement, but he offered no answer.

Harry groaned. "Unbelievable."

Albus gestured gracefully toward the orb, his eyes twinkling with their usual enigmatic charm. "Ron, my dear boy, if it's not too much trouble, would you kindly request the orb's guidance in our little quest for the remaining horcruxes?"

"Fine." Ron dramatically held the orb aloft like he was about to bequeath wisdom to the masses. "O, great, useless orb, it is I, Ronald Weasley, who beseeches you to tell us where the fuck the next horcrux is."

The orb, instead of responding like a rational object, trembled violently and then projected a glowing image into the air.

At first, it showed the familiar, comforting sight of the Room of Requirement as it had been during their Dumbledore's Army meetings—warm lighting, cushions piled high, shelves of well-used books, and charmed practice dummies still bearing scorch marks from enthusiastic spellwork.

But then, the image began to shift.

The cozy room melted away, transforming into towering piles of broken furniture, cracked cauldrons, and discarded magical detritus. A marble bust appeared, and upon its head… lay a sparkling, silver tiara.

There was a long silence.

In it, Harry remembered being at Grimmauld, Ron teasing him after Slytherin's locket tried to murder him.

("Oh, so you're accusing me of… you know what, Harry? You want to bring up screaming like a banshee? That sounds like a good description for the noise you were making over a piece of You-Know-Who's jewelry. Didn't know you wanted a necklace so badly. What's next, a crown?")

"Ravenclaw's Diadem," whispered Albus in both faint awe and overwhelming sadness. "A fantastic feat to locate it at all… Oh, if only Tom had a care for the legacy he tarnished. Turning it into a vessel for his soul has surely tarnished its powers. Truly, an unfathomable loss to our world."

Harry turned, incredulous, to stare at Ron.

Ron's own expression went from triumphant, to confused, to deeply, deeply concerned. "Oh, bollocks. Oh hell no."

"You—" Hermione pointed an accusatory finger at him, voice shrill. She looked equal parts impressed and dumbstruck. "You just—"

Ron's face turned a shade of red that rivaled the Gryffindor common room decor. "I didn't actually mean for it to work!" he defended himself, shrinking into his chair. "That was sarcasm!"

Hermione's eyes narrowed slightly, her quill forgotten in her lap. "But… it did work." She leaned forward, studying him like he was some particularly interesting potion she hadn't quite figured out yet. "You really might be—"

"Don't say it," Ron groaned, burying his face in his hands.

Harry grinned, enjoying every second of Ron's suffering. "Congratulations, Ron. You're officially the worst kind of Seer—the accidental kind. Trelawney's going to take this personally."

Hermione, surprisingly, didn't add a cutting remark. Instead, she tilted her head slightly, a small, almost fond smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "Well… for what it's worth, it's kind of impressive."

Ron peeked through his fingers, clearly both horrified and pleased. "You think so?"

She shrugged, trying, and failing, to look nonchalant. "I mean, it's not every day someone accidentally divines the location of a horcrux."

Ron groaned louder, flopping dramatically onto the rug. "This is the worst thing that's ever happened to me."

Harry—who had to disassociate every time he used the bathroom while stuck in Albus' body, who had lost the only father figure he'd ever had to a curtain of death, who had spent years living in a cupboard under a staircase with nothing but spiders and existential dread for company, and who was returning souls of the dead to the living inexplicably—merely patted his best friend again. "Yeah. Definitely. This sucks, mate."

Before the conversation could continue, Albus—who had been mostly quiet throughout—set down his needles with a thoughtful hum. The ruffled monstrosity gave a dramatic sigh as if it, too, was relieved to be momentarily ignored.

"Well," Albus said, his voice as light as the enchanted daffodils swaying around his ankles. "That certainly settles our next steps. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have an important matter to attend to."

"Which is?" Hermione asked sharply, snapping to attention, her quill poised above fresh parchment. She angled her clipboard with military precision, wrist poised and ready to absorb whatever earth-shattering wisdom Albus was about to dispense.

Albus beamed at them, reached to his side with the dramatic flair of someone unveiling a lost artifact, and held up—

A stack of essays. Thick, menacing, the corners slightly curled as if they, too, resented their existence.

"Grading," Albus announced solemnly.

There was a beat of silence, a long, profound pause where the trio exchanged looks of silent camaraderie, each face a masterclass in expressive suffering.

Harry's smug face said,Do you see what I have to deal with?

Ron's irritated face said,I don't have time for this bollocks.

Hermione's exasperated face said,I can't believe I'm the adult here.

Albus, blissfully—or perhaps willfully—oblivious to their synchronized despair, continued with a casual wave at the offending stack of parchment, nearly toppling it in the process. "Ah, you do indeed see the problem," he mused. "Essays. Endless, ceaseless essays. This, unfortunately, requires the most drastic measures. I'm afraid I shall need to assign more homework."

Harry, Ron, and Hermione just stared at him.

"So, your solution to ungodly amounts of homework to be graded is… more homework?" Hermione asked slowly, her voice filled with the kind of disbelief one reserves for particularly illogical riddles. She tilted her head slightly, as though trying to see Albus from another angle might make him make more sense.

Albus nodded serenely, the picture of calm absurdity. "Undoubtedly. The students will be so overwhelmed by the new assignments, they'll forget entirely that I owe them graded marks for previous work. A delightful cycle of academic distraction."

"That's evil," Hermione whispered, scandalized, clutching her clipboard in horror.

Albus smiled, the kind of smile that could only be described ascherubic with a hint of chaos. "I see you're finally starting to understand the Hogwarts education system."

Ron turned to Harry, gesturing vaguely at Albus. "You still think I'm the worst thing happening in this room?"

Harry exhaled through his crooked nose, pinching the bridge. "No, you're fine. Albus is a menace."

Albus, unbothered, set the stack of essays aside—despite having just declared them an urgent academic crisis—and resumed knitting with the serene focus of someone completely at peace with their own nonsense. The fluffy trousers twitched indignantly.

The kelpie-shaped cuckoo clock blared, "I'm having such a good time, I'm having a ball!" in perfect, mocking harmony with Albus's cheerful humming.

The tea kettle, still silenced by Harry's earlier curse, sat smugly in the background like an inanimate 'I told you so.'

Harry closed his eyes and tried to pretend, just for a second, that his life was normal.

It didn't work.

Later that afternoon, after surviving Albus' existential musings on the inefficiency of the Hogwarts grading system, Harry found himself trudging toward the Room of Requirement with Ron, Hermione, Albus, and… Fawkes. Because apparently, nothing said "subtle, stealth mission" like a blindingly radiant, immortal firebird who shed feathers like confetti at a parade.

Ron was reluctantly carrying the orb, cradled awkwardly in his arms like it was both highly dangerous and mildly contagious. The orb glowed faintly, pulsing with an irritating self-importance, as if it knew it was the star of the show.

"I still don't understand why Fawkes is coming," Ron muttered, glancing at the phoenix perched with regal indifference on Albus' shoulder. Fawkes preened with the smug grace of someone who knew they were the only member of the party capable of performing spontaneous miracles and fully intended to lord it over everyone.

"Moral support," Albus replied cheerfully, giving Fawkes an affectionate pat. "And he enjoys the ambiance."

Ron gave Harry a look that clearly said,Your mentor is insufferable.

Harry nodded back in solemn agreement.

They arrived at the seventh floor, the corridor stretched before them. Albus paced three times, concentrating hard, until an unremarkable door appeared.

The door creaked open, revealing the Room of Requirement in its current form: an endless expanse of towering junk piles, like a wizarding version of a garage sale hosted by a hoarder. Broken furniture leaned precariously, ancient cauldrons teetered on unstable stacks, and somewhere in the distance, a lone pair of bagpipes wheezed mournfully of their own accord.

"Ah," Albus sighed, stepping inside with the grace of someone entering a sacred temple. "Truly a fitting place for a soul fragment."

Harry followed, squinting at the chaos. "It looks like Filch's storage closet exploded."

Ron poked at an object that looked suspiciously like a cursed rubber duck. "What even is this? Who hides a single left shoe and a… is that a taxidermied kneazle wearing a monocle?"

"Focus," Hermione snapped, though she paused to inspect the monocle with academic curiosity. "We're here for the diadem."

They navigated the labyrinth of clutter, Hermione clutching her wand and clipboard with equal determination, Ron periodically jumping at random enchanted objects that seemed offended by his presence. The orb in his arms vibrated periodically, glowing brighter whenever they turned the right direction.

"Great," Ron muttered. "A magical compass that pouts when you ignore it."

After several minutes of clambering over dubious heaps (one of which tried to bite Ron), the orb pulsed furiously, its glow intensifying like it was personally offended they hadn't arrived sooner. They followed its lead until they finally spotted it—the diadem perched atop a dusty bust, sparkling with an innocence it absolutely did not possess.

"There it is," Hermione whispered, as if the horcrux might disappear if she spoke too loudly.

As they approached, the diadem pulsed faintly, a dark shimmer crawling through its metal like veins of shadow. The air grew colder, heavy with something malevolent.

Then it spoke.

Not with words exactly, but with whispers, oily and invasive, seeping directly into their minds.

You are nothing without me,it hissed, each word a slithering echo.Think of what you could be. Power. Knowledge. Glory beyond comprehension. Just put me on…

Harry gritted his teeth. "Great, bodiless voices. That worked out so well the first time."

Ron shuddered, gripping the orb tighter like it might offer protection. "It sounds like my Aunt Muriel when she's had too much sherry."

Hermione's eyes narrowed. "Ignore it. It's trying to manipulate us."

The diadem didn't let up.

You're afraid,it whispered, voice dripping with mock sympathy.Afraid of being ordinary. Forgotten. You, the spare. The sidekick. You could be more, Ronald Weasley.…

Ron flinched slightly but recovered with a scowl. "Yeah, well, joke's on you. I've been ordinary my whole life. I'm practically immune to it."

And you,it turned to Hermione,always the brightest, but never enough. Always second to Harry. Always overlooked. You could be the greatest witch of your age if you just…

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Please. I've written essays scarier than you."

It targeted Harry.

And you. The Boy Who Lived. The orphan. Pretending to be strong when all you really want is to belong. To feel loved. Just put me on, and I can make that pain disappear.…

Harry sighed, utterly unimpressed. "Wow. Original. Never heard that before."

And then, the diadem shifted its attention to Albus.

Ah, the great Dumbledore,it hissed silkily.The man who manipulates children like chess pieces. The puppet master afraid of his own heart. How lonely it must be, Albus, to be so brilliant and yet so profoundly alone.

Albus tilted his head, unperturbed, though a flicker of something unreadable passed through his eyes.

You never truly let go, did you?the horcrux purred.You still carry the weight of your failures—your sister, your friend. Gellert's blood stains your soul more than any spell could. If only you had been braver. If only you had loved less selfishly.

For a fleeting moment, Albus' hands stilled on the folds of his robes. But then he smiled, soft and unfazed.

"How quaint," he murmured. "I suppose everyone has their own opinions."

Harry drew Gryffindor's sword with a dramatic flourish. "Right. Let's see how chatty it is after this."

He swung. The sword connected with the diadem with a resoundingCLANG, followed by an unholy shriek as dark magic erupted in a plume of smoke.

Ron yelped and ducked, Hermione shielded her clipboard like it was her firstborn, and Fawkes let out an indignant squawk, clearly offended by the lack of phoenix-specific consideration.

When the smoke cleared, the diadem was in pieces, dark magic sizzling out like a deflating balloon.

Albus clapped his hands together. "Well done, my friends. No spontaneous miracles required."

Ron glared at the broken diadem, still clutching the now dim orb. "I still think we could've just stepped on it."

Harry wiped ash from his hair. "Yeah, but this way, we got to hear its tragic villain speech. Worth it."

With that, they left the Room of Requirement, Fawkes trailing behind with an air of dignified disapproval, feathers slightly singed but morale perfectly intact.

Later that evening, the garden-room was quiet. The magical plants dimmed their glow as the sunset faded beyond the enchanted windows, casting long shadows over the soft greenery. Harry found Albus sitting alone, the half-knitted trousers abandoned in his lap. His posture, usually so composed, was slumped, his hands clenched tightly around the wool as if it tethered him to the present.

Harry hesitated at the doorway, then quietly approached, the soft crunch of leaves underfoot the only sound.

"Gellert's really gone, isn't he?" Albus whispered without looking up, his voice thin and frayed. "I thought I had long since tucked away the ache of that loss, folded it neatly like an old letter, forgotten in the depths of some drawer. But our visit—seeing him again, and the unexpected flicker of who he was, helping us despite everything—has made the old wound new. Grief has a penchant for reopening doors we thought were closed."

Harry sat beside him, the familiarity of the motion grounding them both. "Yeah," Harry replied softly. "I'm sorry Albus…"

Albus's eyes, so often sharp with wit or clouded with secrets, were raw now—bare, vulnerable. "I thought there'd be more time. More… chances to fix things."

Harry didn't have words for that kind of grief. Instead, he reached out and rested a hand on Albus's shoulder. "You did what you had to," he said quietly. "And… he knew that it was the right thing. Even if he never said it. He would never have stopped on his own."

Albus let out a shaky breath, his hand covering Harry's. They sat in silence, the space between them filled with unspoken memories and the comfort of simply being there.

After a while, Albus's grip loosened. "You know," he murmured, his voice lighter, "he always said I was far too fond of metaphor. That I treated guilt like an overgrown houseplant—watering it diligently, even when it threatened to overtake the room."

Harry snorted softly. "Well, you do have a flair for the dramatic."

Albus chuckled, the sound fragile but genuine. "It's part of my charm, I'd like to think."

"You'd be insufferable without it."

Albus smiled, the warmth of it faint but sincere. "Ah, but then who would keep you entertained?"

They stayed like that a little longer, letting the grief settle into something quieter, something bearable. And for once, that was enough.