Sunday, July 4, 1993
(Gilderoy Lockhart)
Twenty minutes to midnight, Fawkes arrived in a burst of warm, golden flame, the air around the Flamel cottage momentarily shimmering with phoenix fire. I had been expecting him, of course. Tonight was the night, the one when we would destroy the first Horcrux.
Grindelwald had apparently completed his modifications to the ritual over a week ago. An astonishing feat, considering that rituals of even moderate difficulty usually required months, sometimes years, of careful study and revision for even the smallest modifications. And this was not some parlor trick. This was soul magic. Ancient, easily corruptive, and dangerous beyond measure.
The only reason we had not already performed it was simple: the moon.
It had to be full.
It had to be perfect.
I grasped gently at Fawkes' feathers, and the world vanished in a spiral of heat and light.
A second later, I stood in the middle of a quiet forest clearing, cool night air brushing my face. Fawkes settled comfortably on my shoulder, a warm, reassuring weight.
The first thing I noticed was the circle.
It was enormous, at least ten meters across. Intricate runes carved into the earth shimmered faintly, awaiting activation. It dwarfed the life-transfer ritual I had undergone before, and my spine tingled at the power coiled within those symbols.
Dumbledore and Grindelwald stood on opposite edges of the circle waiting.
Dumbledore turned first, smiling at me as though we were about to share tea rather than dismantle a fragment of a Dark Lord's soul.
"Good evening, Gilderoy," he greeted.
"Evening, Professor," I replied, inclining my head.
Grindelwald did not look at me. His pale gaze remained fixed on the sky, tracking the moon's slow, majestic climb.
"You arrived precisely on time," he said flatly.
"Good evening to you as well, Mr. Grindelwald, I would hate to be late for something of this magnitude."
A minute passed in silence.
Then another.
Even the forest seemed to hold its breath.
Suddenly, Grindelwald's head snapped slightly upward.
"Albus," he said quietly, reverently. "Now. It's time."
They stepped into position across from one another and dropped into a crouch, both lowering their wands to the runes at the circle's edge. Their voices joined in a low, ancient chant, words that sounded older than language itself.
The runes ignited and silver light spilled from them, threading across the ground and into the air as if the moonlight itself had been captured and given form.
At the center of the circle, Ravenclaw's Diadem began to tremble as it slowly lifted into the air.
From within it, dark mist began to leak, writhing and pulsing like something alive. It twisted upward, condensing into a grotesque, half-formed face, its expression twisted in pure, unrestrained fury. A silent roar of hatred vibrated through the ground beneath my feet.
The thing tried to break free, but chains of silver light burst from the circle, lashing around it, dragging it back, binding it in place.
"Albus, now!" Grindelwald shouted.
There was a flash of blinding silver as the horrid mass was ripped from the diadem and compressed violently, torn screaming into a prepared silver cup floating just above the ground.
The forest fell silent again.
Grindelwald straightened slowly, wiping sweat from his brow. For the first time, his eyes flicked toward me.
"Would you like to do the honours?" he asked.
Did I ever.
"With pleasure."
I stepped forward, every part of me humming with power and anticipation. I raised my staff, pointed it toward the cup, and gave a sharp flick of my wrist.
The silver vessel shot skyward and I whispered the words with careful, deliberate precision:
"Pestis Incendium."
The cursed flames of Fiendfyre erupted into existence, twisting through the air and taking the shape of an enormous lion, its body formed entirely of living, devouring fire. It leapt upon the cup, jaws parting wide, and swallowed the cup whole in midair.
An inhuman shriek split the heavens and black smoke erupted outward like a shattered storm cloud before dissolving into nothingness.
Heart pounding, I swung my staff downward, severing the spell. The flaming lion tried hard to resist, but I applied more magic and it slowly vanished, leaving only quiet moonlight and a faint scorch in the sky where evil had once existed.
I exhaled slowly.
"...Phew. That was far more difficult than I anticipated," I admitted. "It seems I shall need quite a bit more practice with that particular spell."
Grindelwald looked almost amused.
"Indeed," he said dryly. "That was rather sloppy. I see I'll be putting you through extensive training once your formal lessons begin."
Dumbledore merely smiled at me, eyes dancing once more.
"But," he added gently, "you did magnificently all the same."
I accepted the compliment humbly, well, as humbly as Gilderoy Lockhart can pretend to be, which honestly isn't much.
But I had the right to be proud, we had just destroyed fate's first chain.
And I had been the one to set it on fire.
…
After allowing the energy to settle, the three of us approached the center once more where the Diadem lay, now quiet.
This was the most critical part.
After all, this ritual had been a test. A trial run for what would one day be performed upon Harry Potter himself.
If the vessel had been damaged in the process, even slightly, it would mean disaster.
Dumbledore and Grindelwald moved in slow, synchronized motion, casting diagnostic charms, scanning every inch of the Diadem for cracks, fractures, taint, or lingering corruption. Their expressions remained unreadable as minute after minute passed.
Finally, Albus straightened and a slow, relieved breath escaped him.
"It is… a perfect success."
Grindelwald smirked instantly. "Of course it is. Who do you think you're working with? My work has always been flawless."
Dumbledore shot him a sharp side-eye. "Need I remind you of the Qilin incident?"
Grindelwald bristled, sputtering indignantly. "That was hardly my fault! That ridiculous Scamander brat…"
I couldn't help myself and laughed out loud.
…
After a minute or so, I turned to them, unable to keep a very important question to myself any longer.
"And… when do we deal with the one inside Mr. Potter?"
Grindelwald answered this time, his gaze drifting briefly to the faint glow of the fading runes. "A living vessel requires making some adjustments to the ritual. Small ones, but crucial. We will also need several rare ingredients, since we won't have the full power of the moon to rely on."
"What do you mean?" I asked at once.
Dumbledore stepped closer, his expression grave but… hopeful. Enough to make my chest tighten.
"We shall perform the ritual at the end of this month."
Understanding crept over me in a slow, chilling wave. "As the seventh month dies…" I murmured.
"Precisely," Dumbledore said. "The ritual must align with the prophecy, since it is the very chain we are trying to break."
For a moment, none of us spoke. The forest was silent around us, as if even the earth held its breath.
And for the first time since learning about the boy and his burden, it truly began to feel possible.
That fate might actually lose.
…
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