CHAPTER 59: THE PURSUIT OF THE ULTIMATE TREASURE

The sun began its slow descent beyond the lush, green fields, casting a mesmerizing palette of colors across the sky. The willow tree's swaying fronds whispered secrets to the world, and beneath it, Harry stood on a bed of white pebbles. His eyes were fixed on the horizon, and a small, knowing smile played on his lips.

But as the minutes passed, the ground seemed to transform beneath him. The once smooth, white pebbles shifted and transformed into an unsettling sight—staring skulls, cold and lifeless, where once there were stones. Harry found himself struggling as he attempted to walk forward, each step causing him to sink further into the frigid embrace of this eerie, bone-strewn landscape.

Fleur, radiant in her azure silk dress, crouched on the gnarled roots of the ancient tree. Her sapphire-studded tiara gleamed as silver hair framed her enigmatic blue eyes. She looked at Harry with an expression that was difficult to decipher. "You won't make it," she said, her voice soft and melodic. "You don't just get to waltz off after your wishes, mon Cœur. There's a price to be paid—a pound of flesh."

Desperation clawed at Harry's chest as he struggled to free himself from the suffocating weight of the skulls. "I'm too heavy," he admitted, his voice strained.

Fleur continued to watch him, her gaze unwavering. "A pound of flesh," she repeated, her words hanging in the air like an ominous warning.

Desperation turned into determination as Harry withdrew his wand from his sleeve. The slender, ebony wand felt both familiar and foreign in his hand as he stared at it. The dread in his stomach intensified. "A pound of flesh," he whispered. "Can't you pull me out?"

Fleur shook her head, and the red light danced upon her silver tiara and its sparkling gemstones. "I can't reach you," she explained. Her eyes flicked back to the mesmerizing sunset. "We're missing it, mon Cœur."

"I can't lose it," Harry thought as a wave of panic washed over him. With a deep breath, he steeled himself and brought his wand down as if it were a blade. A bright, searing green light exploded before his eyes, and he felt excruciating pain as his hand hung from his arm, half-severed. "Sacrifices have to be made," he muttered through clenched teeth and cut again, letting the severed hand drop into the sea of skulls. Slowly but surely, he began to rise above the macabre landscape.

"It's not enough," Fleur murmured, her voice filled with urgency. "Hurry, mon Cœur."

With grim determination, Harry swallowed hard and raised his wand to his shoulder. The rest of his arm tumbled away, leaving a gruesome, bloody trail. He clawed his way upward until the skulls were only waist-high.

"More," she whispered, her voice almost desperate. "More. We're losing the light."

Harry's stomach churned and twisted like a storm brewing within. A thick, hot, sick knot formed as he contemplated the extent of his sacrifice. "Whatever it takes, mon Rêve," he replied, his voice resolute. With a mixture of resolve and horror, he cast his wand aside and began to tear the flesh from his ribs, ripping bones free and tossing hot, red organs aside.

"Just a little more, mon Cœur," Fleur urged. "We're almost there."

Harry's trembling hands finally found his heart, which pulsed erratically in his grasp. The fear and uncertainty in his eyes were palpable. "Even this?" he questioned, his voice shaking with unease. "I think I might need this."

Fleur extended her hand, her urgency echoing through the darkening scene. "Hurry, Harry. The sunset's disappearing."

With his heart pounding, Harry knew he had no choice but to continue. He closed his eyes, a deep breath trembling in his chest. Gathering his resolve, he tore out his own heart and cast it away into the sea of skulls, the pain beyond description. With a final burst of strength, he hauled himself out of the nightmarish pit and stumbled up onto the riverbank. A sliver of red lingered over the curve of the horizon, but he had made it. He turned to Fleur, relief washing over him.

"I made it," Harry breathed, his voice a mix of triumph and exhaustion.

Fleur, now sitting on a branch in her stunning midnight blue silk dress, swung her legs as the last remnants of light faded. But her gaze held an eerie coldness, her pitch-black eyes devoid of warmth. Her fingers curled around the silver and sapphire circlet that adorned her brow. "Made it?" she hissed, her tone cutting. "You didn't make it. There's nothing of you left."

Harry's heart raced as he jolted awake, gasping for breath. He found himself lying in the familiar chamber, the golden hourglass swinging back and forth above his sternum. It had been a dream—or perhaps a nightmare. He couldn't be sure. "I don't think using the time-turner a lot is a good idea from now on," he thought, his voice barely a whisper. "These dreams seem to come when I use it."

Grimacing, he reached for the slim gold chain and pulled it over his head. "Awful things happen to wizards who mess with time," he reminded himself as he set the time-turner aside. The dreams had been haunting, too vivid, and too close to reality.

Harry ran a finger along the thread-thin pink scar on his forearm, a lingering reminder of another encounter with danger. With a sigh, he rolled out of bed and transfigured it back into a stone serpent. "It'll be gone by tomorrow at this rate," he mused, the tiniest hint of a smile playing on his lips.

While rummaging through his pockets for a scrap of parchment, his fingers brushed against something warm and smooth. He pulled it out—a small, ornate circlet. "The circlet," Harry whispered as he balanced it on his palm.

The silver gleamed as bright as moonlight, and the sapphires shone like sunlight reflecting off the soft waves of a summer sea. Harry ran a fingertip along its gentle curve, the metal growing warmer beneath his touch. A soft chittering sound emanated from the circlet, surprising him. It was unlike any magical artifact he had ever encountered.

Such a strange thing, he thought, entranced by its beauty and its inexplicable allure. It drew his touch like a sore tooth drew the tip of his tongue. He noticed a small smudge of sticky pine sap on one of the sapphires and wrinkled his nose. "I should clean it up," he decided.

Harry weighed the circlet in his hand, admiring its craftsmanship and the memories it held. "A shame it's too girly to wear," he mused, thinking about its suitability for him. But then, another idea crossed his mind. "Maybe I should give it to Fleur once it's clean. She doesn't wear much jewelry, though."

As he tucked the circlet safely back into his pocket, he contemplated the gift and the mysterious dreams he had experienced. The circlet seemed to carry a weight of its own, a secret yet to be uncovered.

The circlet continued to twitter and warm under Harry's touch, as if it was responding to his words and actions. He smiled down at it, murmuring softly, "You like that, huh? Of course, she might take you apart to see how you work, which would be a shame."

Harry stepped into the girl's bathroom, his wand at the ready. With a swift wave, he cleaned the water-covered floor, and then, using a few damp paper towels, he set about scrubbing the sticky pine sap off the beautiful sapphires that adorned the circlet. As he meticulously cleaned the delicate piece, he couldn't help but feel a growing fondness for it.

The entrance to the hidden chamber slid shut behind him as he stuffed the now-used paper towels in the bin and polished the circlet to a brilliant shine with the hem of his robes. Leaning in close, he whispered, "Open."

The diadem chittered and grew hot in his pocket, its strange response piquing Harry's curiosity. He chuckled softly. "Yeah, I can make odd noises too. Only people would think that you're cute and that I'm some kind of budding mass-murderer, which isn't exactly fair."

Harry paused as he considered the weight of his own actions. "Although," he admitted to himself, "I have killed a few people now… But they were pretty awful people, and it wasn't like I had much choice."

Carrying the now-clean circlet in his palms, Harry made his way to the study, where Salazar Slytherin's presence loomed in a painting on the wall. The diadem's presence had not gone unnoticed, and Salazar hissed with a mixture of surprise and anger. "Where did you find that!?" Salazar demanded. "It was lost!"

"Lost?" Harry's fingers caressed the shining, silver curve of the circlet. "Well, it's found now. I think I quite like it."

Salazar's tone shifted, his voice laced with sadness as he explained, "It's Rowena's diadem! Her foolish daughter stole it and fled. A young man went out to rescue her, but neither returned."

"I found it in the Room of Requirement," Harry explained. "Not sure how it ended up there. Umbridge pinched it, and I nearly left it in the Forbidden Forest, but it's kind of beautiful."

Salazar's gaze remained fixed on the diadem as he shared a piece of the past. "Rowena and Godric made that. Rowena loved it. She used to put it on little Helena when she was just a child and watch her totter around with it on her head. Helena always loved that diadem, but Rowena was better with magic than motherhood."

Harry felt a pang of understanding as he remembered his own childhood and the longing for a loving family. "And so she took it and ran away," he mused, thinking of Privet Drive and his Aunt Petunia's cold indifference. "And I bet she never came back."

Curiosity got the better of him, and he couldn't help but ask, "How does it work?"

Salazar's reply was casual, "You wear it. It's a tiara, what were you expecting?"

Harry scratched his head in thought. "I thought it might have a phrase to activate it."

With a fondness for the piece growing by the second, Salazar encouraged him, "Keep it. Like all the best pieces of Godric and Rowena's work, it's art. They based it on the sorting hat Godric made, only Rowena made sure it's less... eccentric."

Harry's eyes lit up with excitement. "I'm going to use it," he declared, the prospect of discovering the diadem's secrets filling him with anticipation. "I want to use it."

With a sense of anticipation and a touch of wonder, he carefully placed the circlet on his head. Warmth seeped into his scalp, and a soft chitter drifted to his ear, sparking a feeling of connection with the ancient artifact.

"Wit beyond measure is man's greatest treasure," echoed the soft, smooth, high male voice within Harry's mind. The saying was familiar, comforting even, but there was an underlying darkness to the words. "Such a neat little saying, but we know it isn't true, don't we, Harry?" the voice continued, and Harry felt a shiver crawl down his spine. "We know there's only power," Voldemort hissed, his red eyes gleaming menacingly in the back of Harry's mind.

In an instant, Harry tore the tiara from his head and kicked it away. The circlet skittered across the floor, emitting a shrill, agonizing scream that sent shivers through his being, much like metal nails on glass.

Salazar's voice snapped, filled with alarm, "What are you doing?! That's Rowena's diadem!"

"It has Voldemort's voice," Harry explained urgently. "It whispers back, just like the diary wrote back."

Salazar's anger flared as he realized the truth. "A horcrux. Tom made a horcrux of Rowena's Diadem… I told him how precious it was to her, and he defiled it."

Harry's expression was grim as he shook his head. "I can't rip the soul fragment out. It can't be done."

"Destroy it," Salazar ordered, his voice sharp and unforgiving.

Harry conjured a long, thin piece of metal and flicked the tiara out onto the bridge. He was resolute in his decision. "I'm not here to be used. Not by Dumbledore. Not by Voldemort. Not by anyone." With a determined wave of his wand, he unleashed a stream of red fiendfyre as thick as his arm, forcing the heat higher until the circlet screamed.

"Is it destroyed?" Salazar inquired, his voice calmer now.

Harry dispelled the flames and cautiously nudged the blackened, cracked circlet with his toe. A thick, ink-black wisp of smoke belched forth from the cracks and dissipated with a faint whisper. "It's destroyed."

"Good," Salazar snapped. "That diadem was as precious to Rowena as my locket was to me. It would've torn her heart to see it used so. Few things we deem precious survive," he murmured, a touch of melancholy in his voice. "That's why blood is important—little else of you lasts long after your death but your bloodline."

Harry considered Salazar's words, realizing the significance of preserving the legacy of their ancestors. "I don't know of any others who claim to be descended from your friends," he admitted.

"I feared it would be so even before we died," Salazar said. "Godric was too set on saving other people to ever do something so selfish as follow his own heart. Rowena had only one daughter, and it seems my only two descendants are trying their best to kill each other. Soon there will be nothing left of us but a divided school, Godric's scruffy hat, that ridiculous sword, and two forgotten, empty rooms."

"What about Helga?" Harry asked, a glimmer of hope in his voice.

Salazar considered this for a moment. "Helga's line has always been shrouded in secrecy, and I fear it may have died out long ago. If there are any of her descendants left, they keep their heritage well hidden. It's a shame that the noble intent of creating a united Hogwarts has led to such division and secrecy."

The weight of their shared history hung heavily in the air as Harry and Salazar contemplated the legacy and the mysteries left behind by the Founders.

Salazar's voice held a hint of nostalgia as he spoke of Helga Hufflepuff's family. "She had family, a big one, once, but if you don't know of them, I suspect they no longer exist. Perhaps some of her work survives, the plants she created, the potions, spells, or even that useless cup." Salazar chuckled, his laughter filling the chamber. "She convinced Rowena to spend hours helping her enchant a cup to absorb the properties of her phoenix's tears, only to forget that phoenix tears don't actually do anything if you drink them. Only Helga could have made such a mistake."

Harry smiled at the Founder's cheerful recounting of their quirks. "What mistakes would you and Rowena have made?"

Salazar's humor faded, and he became pensive. "Rowena would have lost the thing," he admitted. "I, well, if it was really important to me, I would've probably ended up sacrificing it for something I couldn't manage to do in the end."

"But you could've done it if you'd had more time," Harry pointed out.

"Maybe," Salazar conceded, his voice tinged with regret. He then pointed his wand at Harry, his tone turning serious. "Don't repeat my mistakes. Some things are out of reach."

"I just want Fleur," Harry whispered, the yearning evident in his voice. "That's all. I can endure without anything else. I have before. But not her. I need her."

Salazar blinked, a rare moment of vulnerability in his expression. "I know, Tom."

Harry snorted. "You are going senile. I'm Harry. Tom was the other one."

Salazar blinked again, then retrieved his snake with a faint chuckle. "You should go, Harry. You came here to get the Prophecy, not to listen to me reminisce about our flaws, many though they were."

"They make you seem human," Harry observed, a thoughtful smile on his lips. "Without them, you'd be just as distant and unreachable as the other names that've outlived the faces they were once associated with."

Salazar acknowledged the point with a hint of pride. "That sounded wise, like something I would say."

"Wisdom can be found in the strangest of places," Harry retorted.

Salazar nodded. "Now go, go and find out what's so important about this prophecy that both Dumbledore and Voldemort will sacrifice lives for it."

"I will," Harry replied, his resolve strengthening. He kicked the marred circlet into the pool, watching it sink into the dark water. "It will remain lost." He disillusioned himself and pictured the fireplace in Borgin and Burke's. "The Floo network here will do. I doubt they'll run to the Aurors to complain about a break-in, knowing who their customers are."

With that, Harry was ready to continue his quest to unravel the mysteries of the Prophecy, knowing that his journey would be fraught with danger and unexpected revelations.

Harry appeared before the fire at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place with a soft snap, the green flames dying down as he stepped out of the fireplace. He took a pinch of Floo powder from the open top of a human skull, then whispered, "Number Twelve Grimmauld Place," tossing the powder into the fire.

As the green flames flared, he stepped into the fireplace, inhaled a lungful of smoke, and landed unceremoniously onto the cold, hard stone floor of the dark and decrepit house.

"I hate Floo travel," Harry grumbled as he dusted off his robes. Tattered wallpaper, rotting plaster, and crumbling mortar surrounded him. Grime caked the corners and crevices of the once-grand house. He drifted out of the kitchen and into a narrow, dimly lit hallway. The scratched, scraped, and rotting hardwood floorboards creaked beneath his feet, and the thick must of mildew reached his nose.

"Who'd want to live here?" Harry muttered to himself, glancing around at the sorry state of the place.

Suddenly, thick, velvet curtains flew open to his left. Harry instinctively flicked his wand into his hand and turned to face the interruption. A detailed, life-size painting stared at him, the woman depicted in the portrait bearing a strong resemblance to Sirius Black.

"You're not my blood-traitor son," the woman in the painting said, her face twisting out of an expression of ugly disdain into something that would have been beautiful had age not marred it.

Harry contemplated his options. "I should incinerate you," he thought, raising his wand slightly. "You've seen me." But he quickly dismissed the idea, realizing it might be difficult to explain the sudden disappearance of a painting.

"You look like you come from a good family," the woman continued, ignoring his silent contemplation. "Good bone structure and nice eyes. What's a proper pure-blood doing among the half-breeds and traitors my son consorts with?"

Harry relaxed his grip on his wand, choosing to engage in conversation instead. "I'm Harry. I'm afraid I don't have the pleasure of knowing your name?"

The woman identified herself, "Walburga Black," and offered a disconcerting smile, shedding several decades of age in an instant. Harry took note of the name, recognizing her as Sirius's mother. "Do you have a family name?"

Harry chose to remain discreet, sharing only the essential information. "Slytherin."

"An honor," Walburga Black responded with a nod. "I assume you aren't here to join my son's little group of muggle-lovers."

Harry clarified, "No, I have very different aims."

"Do you follow the Dark Lord?" she inquired, her tone revealing her expectations. "My Regulus followed him. He was a proper pure-blood scion."

Harry hesitated, not wanting to reveal too much about his own allegiance. "I have my own path to follow, and it may lead in different directions," he replied cryptically.

The exchange left a trail of uncertainty in the air, with both Harry and the portrait of Walburga Black concealing more than they revealed. Grimmauld Place held its secrets, waiting to be uncovered.

Top of Form

"No. The Dark Lord has been unmasked. His real name is Tom Riddle, a muggle-raised, half-blooded wizard who doesn't even believe in blood purity," Harry explained.

Walburga Black's voice turned to a whisper as she absorbed this revelation. "He lied," she finally said, her tone filled with disbelief. "But my Regulus died for him."

"So did many others," Harry acknowledged, his voice tinged with sadness. "So will many more."

Walburga Black gazed down into the bottom of her frame, her thoughts consumed by the grim reality of her son's sacrifice. "Then why are you here? You didn't come to rip apart the last shreds of a long-dead woman's world."

"I came to meet with Sirius," Harry replied.

"So you are one of the blood-traitors," Walburga observed with disdain. "Your noble ancestor would be ashamed."

"No, he wouldn't," Harry retorted firmly. "Neither he nor I care about blood purity. There's only power, and the intent with which it's wielded."

Walburga Black clung to her belief in blood purity, asserting, "All powerful wizards are pure-bloods. Just look at my family. My sons, even the disappointment, are powerful wizards, Cissy, Bella, and the other one are all powerful witches, even her half-blood girl is."

"Tell that to your Dark Lord. He's just a half-blood, too, remember," Harry pointed out.

"I serve no half-blooded imposter," she hissed. "That liar stole my Regulus from me and brought half a hundred old families and bloodlines to an end. He is no lord of mine."

"He's a distant relative, as I'm sure you've realized," Harry acknowledged reluctantly. "But he's no friend of mine."

Walburga Black turned her scrutiny toward Harry, questioning his own bloodline. "And what about you? You never actually said. I assumed you're pure-blooded if you truly carry the Slytherin name, but I made the same mistake with the Dark Lord."

"I'm not sure," Harry admitted. "I don't know the exact boundaries, but I don't particularly care, either. I'm stronger than most my age or older, pure-blooded or not."

"Very likely a pure-blood by my estimation," Walburga declared with conviction. "You have the feel of a pure-blood and the looks of one, too. I can't imagine you'd be anything else. Not if you're using that name."

Harry clarified his stance, "I don't use that name except in particular company."

Walburga scowled, her beliefs unwavering. "Understandable. There're many muggle-lovers who'd like nothing more than to condemn us for being more than they are. We are not born equal; magic is in the blood, and our blood is the oldest and purest of them all."

The divide in their beliefs was evident, and their conversation revealed the stark contrast between Walburga Black's unwavering devotion to blood purity and Harry's pragmatic perspective on power and intent. Their encounter left questions unanswered and viewpoints unshaken, as they remained entrenched in their respective convictions.

"You're not going to convince me to adopt the pure-blood agenda," Harry firmly stated. "I judge each individual on their own merit and make fewer mistakes because of it."

"A pity," Walburga Black sniffed. "I'd hoped you might knock some sense into my son before he completely ruins this family by selling us out to blood-traitors."

"If your family comes to ruin, it will be the work of Voldemort and Dumbledore," Harry muttered.

"It will be the work of my eldest son," she hissed. "He is the last scion of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black. He needs to find himself a suitable wife and an heir. Regulus would be married by now."

"If only he wasn't dead," Harry mumbled, his thoughts turning to Sirius. He realized he needed to find out where his godfather was.

Walburga, with a sudden shift in conversation, asked, "I don't suppose you know any eligible girls from good families?"

Harry chuckled. "Not off the top of my head. I don't think Sirius will be keen, though."

At her call, the house elf Kreacher apparated with a loud crack, his hunched figure and pale blue eyes in stark contrast to the disheveled grandeur of the Black family's home. He bowed low before the painting, his nose almost touching the floor.

"This is… Harry," Walburga introduced. "He is from a very respectable family. You will treat him as he deserves, not like the other blood traitors my shameful son has brought into my home. Find the family records, search for any other possible male heirs of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black. My son cannot be trusted to take his duties to the family seriously. He never has had any love for us."

Kreacher grinned with a strange mix of obedience and malevolence. "Yes, mistress."

"Until next time," Walburga concluded, and the curtains swept closed.

Kreacher, still in Harry's presence, shifted his attention to the young wizard. "From a respectable family, Mistress says, but Kreacher knows only nasty traitor Master's friends can come to Mistress's house. Blood traitors, filthy creatures, and mud-bloods, all of them. But Mistress gave Kreacher orders, and Kreacher will follow them."

Harry realized that Kreacher's loyalty to Walburga Black was unwavering, and his disdain for those he perceived as traitors ran deep. He also understood that this encounter was just one more thread in the complex tapestry of the wizarding world's politics and prejudices. The mysteries surrounding the Black family and their allegiances remained unsolved, and Harry had to find Sirius and continue his quest for answers.

"Shut up, Kreacher, you've got a decade of cleaning to catch up with," Sirius Black snapped as he entered the hall from the other end. "He's a miserable little house elf, malicious as the day I left this place, and a whole lot less sane than I remember."

Kreacher mumbled his disapproval as he shuffled away, muttering about blood traitors and the family's abandonment.

Sirius directed his intense gaze toward the elf's retreat. "I hate that elf. I hated him before I left this awful, miserable, blood-stained place, and I hate him even more now that Mother's portrait has driven him mad."

Harry, however, was undeterred by Kreacher's peculiar behavior. "I spoke with your mother," he mentioned, a grin playing on his lips. "She seemed nice."

Sirius's expression twisted in disbelief. "I didn't hear any screeching?"

Harry shared the strange conversation he had had with Walburga Black, describing her interest in finding eligible girls for Sirius to marry and produce a male heir.

Sirius shuddered at the thought. "That's why I ran away, you know. Bella's not been right since she had an accident as a little girl. Mother wanted me to marry and look after her, keep everything neatly in the family, and in return, Regulus would've been the heir and done all the things I hated. But I would've rather slept on the streets than get dragged into that."

"So you left?" Harry inquired.

Sirius confessed, "I ran away from here. I ran away from James. I ran away from Azkaban. Now, I'm stuck here, back where I started, and I can't even run away this time."

Harry listened, absorbing the weight of Sirius's story. "I told your mother's picture Voldemort's a half-blood. She seemed quite upset about that."

"She would be," Sirius replied. "She sent Regulus off to die for him." His frown deepened. "After Bella's accident, they never let up on us for a second. Andi left the family the first moment she could. Cissy… She just gave in. I left. Regulus had a kind heart; he never had a chance."

Realizing the gravity of the situation, Harry asked, "So have you really been stuck in here all this time on your own?"

Sirius shook his head. "This isn't even the worst bit. Follow me; we haven't cleaned the top floor yet. I'll show you what the whole place was like when I came back."

Harry drifted up the stairs after Sirius, ready to explore more of the secrets held within the dark and forgotten home of the Blacks.

Sirius carefully navigated around a few dubious, dark stains on the floor. "I'm not always on my own, though. During the school holidays, some of the Order members come to stay here. This is the headquarters, after all. My father had the whole place warded as extensively as possible, and after Dumbledore cast the Fidelius Charm, it became all but impossible for anyone to come here without an invitation. Still, you've no idea how much I've been looking forward to getting out of here."

As they moved through the house, Harry noted the stark contrast between the scoured walls and floors in the areas that had been cleaned and the rot, mildew, damp, and mold that persisted in other parts, all covered in dark, smeared, dust-coated wall-hangings.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Sirius quipped.

Harry couldn't help but feel anger rise within him. "The whole place was like this? And Dumbledore just left you here?"

Sirius explained, "Until this summer. I didn't really notice after Azkaban and living on the run, but Molly wasn't having any of it and started everyone on cleaning the moment she arrived. Ron, Hermione, and the other Weasleys helped a bit at Christmas, but the top floor has the library, my father's study, and the attic. Nobody wants to use any of them, so I've had Kreacher start cleaning them."

Harry looked at the state of the corridor. "He doesn't seem to have got very far."

"I know," Sirius admitted. "I was hoping there would be doxies, another boggart, or something that would finish him off, but sadly, the horrible wretch lingers on to irritate me."

A loud rattle came from the room at the end of the corridor. "That's probably him now," Sirius muttered. "He's likely trying to save everything he can find that belonged to my family before doing any actual cleaning. I'd better go and stop him before he manages to hide anything away again. He had a whole stash of treasures, you know. It took Hermione and Ron a whole day to get rid of his little hoard."

Sirius pushed the door open, and the metal lock tore straight through the rotted wooden frame. Inside, Harry's parents stood, their arms folded across their chests, their faces twisted in anger. They leant away from each other as if they were joined at the hip.

"You failed us," James hissed. "You left our Harry and threw yourself in prison. Now you hide in here. You should be out fighting! We fought, Remus is fighting, even Peter fought for someone. You're a coward, Black, a pitiful, terrified coward. You sicken us."

Harry recognized the scenario immediately. It was a boggart, and he pulled out his wand, ready to face it.

Then, as his mother's hair darkened and slipped across her face to cover it, James melted away into her side. They shrunk into the skeletal, cloaked form of a dementor, casting a cold, creeping chill across the room. The dementor tugged back its hood, revealing gray, withered lips and a gaping orifice.

Sirius moaned and yanked at his hair. "I escaped," he whispered. "I'm free, they're gone, they're gone, they're gone. I'm not a coward," he yelled, swinging his fist at the dementor.

Harry pushed Sirius out of the way, but his godfather struck a bookshelf and collapsed to the floor, curling up into a shivering ball.

The dementor twisted about, then melted into a slim shadow. 'Au revoir,' it whispered in Fleur's voice. A ring of burning gold shone upon her left hand. 'Au revoir, Harry. I'm afraid perfect wishes just don't come true.'

Harry watched the shadowy figure of Fleur vanish, his heart heavy with the weight of the unresolved past and the haunting memories that still lingered in this house.

Harry's heart sank into the darkness, but he clawed it back with a cold rage that surged through him. Fragments of images invaded his mind: Fleur arm in arm with a shadow, embracing, entwined, ecstatic; its dark hands in places where only Harry's had been. How dare it? How dare it show me that?

His anger fueled his actions as he unleashed the Fiendfyre from his wand. Crimson flames devoured the boggart and the desk, and Harry watched it writhe and burn, still shifting and showing fragments of the haunting images. Red eyes gleamed through the bright flames, Fleur's silver hair smoldered and sprang into flame. He stared until it fell still and crumbled to ash, then extinguished the Fiendfyre.

Harry was resolute. Nothing would send him back to the way he used to be. He wouldn't lose Fleur. She had promised.

Sirius croaked, "Is it gone?"

Harry replied, "Yes. It showed me something I didn't want to see and is probably very much regretting it."

Sirius struggled to his feet and opened his eyes. "I don't like dementors. Or boggarts."

Harry agreed, "Me neither. Let's go, Sirius. We need to get that prophecy."

With determination, they continued their mission, pushing aside the haunting past to focus on the task at hand.

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