Chapter 3098 - Ch: 116-122

Chapter 116: Pre-battle Mobilization

"The truth is, the summoning conditions of the sword have never had anything to do with House, nor with bloodline."

Amster pointed the sword downward, crossing his hands and pressing them against the end of the pommel. As he touched it, the Ancient Magic runes on the blade lit up with a faint gold-red light, like an awakening ancient life.

"There is only one kind of person who can summon this sword—those with a pure heart of guardianship."

The room was so quiet that one could hear the crackling of the flames in the fireplace, the low whisper of the night wind sweeping past the tower outside the window, and Professor Flitwick's heavily suppressed, hurried breathing.

"Whether you are Gryffindor or Slytherin. Whether you are pure-blood or Muggle-born. Whether you are a wizard or—" He glanced at Sirius, a flicker of complex emotion flashing across the latter's face. "House-elf. As long as your heart lacks selfish desires, lacks greed, lacks the thirst for power, and holds only the will to protect others—you can wield this sword."

He released one hand from the pommel, holding the sword horizontally with the blade facing everyone in the room. The gold-red light flowed along the blade, leaving a faint afterglow in the air.

"Today, we go to destroy Voldemort's Horcruxes. Not for conquest. Not for glory."

His gaze swept over every face present.

"It is for guardianship."

Dumbledore's blue eyes flickered slightly behind his half-moon spectacles. Professor McGonagall's lips pressed into a thin line, her jaw tight. Professor Sprout's eyes were red. Professor Flitwick straightened his small body, his chest heaving. Sirius's chin lifted slightly, and in those eyes whose light had been stripped away by Azkaban for twelve years, something was reigniting.

Snape stood in the shadows. There was no expression on his face, but his right hand—that always potion-stained, knuckle-prominent hand—was clutching the fabric of his black robes so tightly his knuckles turned white.

"So before we set off." Amster held the sword horizontally, the blade facing the crowd. "I want everyone present to try it once."

Professor McGonagall stepped forward first.

She did not hesitate, her steps crisp and decisive, exactly the same posture as when she walked to the podium in Transfiguration class. She stopped in front of Amster, looked down at the sword, and then reached out her hand.

The moment her fingers touched the pommel, the sword's light flared slightly. It was not a violent burst, but a steady, respectful acceptance. The gold-red light reflected on her square face, illuminating the fine lines at the corners of her eyes and that extremely faint trace of gentleness that had almost never been shown before her students.

She grasped the sword.

The sword vibrated gently in her hand, then quieted down, as if paying tribute to her. The runes on the blade glowed steadily, their light soft and firm.

McGonagall did not speak. She merely nodded ever so slightly, then handed the sword back to him. Before she turned to step back to her original position, Amster saw her blink rapidly once.

Professor Sprout was the second.

Her hands were much rougher than McGonagall's, with indelible traces of soil forever embedded in the gaps between her fingers, and the edges of her nails stained a pale brown by dragon dung fertilizer and Mandrake juice. It was with such a pair of hands that she gripped the pommel of Gryffindor's sword. The sword's light glowed gently, like the warm sun of a spring greenhouse, not dazzling, yet making one feel deeply grounded from the bottom of their heart. Professor Sprout did not let go immediately; she looked down at the sword in her hands, her lips moving slightly, as if speaking softly to a sick plant. Then she handed the sword back, and when stepping back to her original position, wiped her nose with a handkerchief.

Professor Flitwick stepped forward third.

He needed to stand on tiptoe to reach the horizontal pommel held by Amster. His small hands—those hands that had gripped wands in dueling championships and cast countless intricate spells—grasped the pommel. The sword's light did not diminish in the slightest, growing even brighter by a few shades. The gold-red light reflected on his face, which usually wore a benign smile, but at this moment appeared exceptionally solemn. Professor Flitwicktook a deep breath, released his hand, and stepped back. His eyes were rimmed with red, but his spine was held straight.

Then came silence.

Snape stood in the shadows, not moving.

Long enough for Amster to think he would refuse. Long enough for Professor McGonagall to tilt her head slightly, as if wanting to say something. Long enough for the flames in the fireplace to leap three times, emitting a slight crackle.

Then, the man in black robes moved.

He walked out from the shadows at a moderate pace, exactly the same speed as when he walked down the aisle of the Potions classroom. His face was like stagnant water, his black eyes bottomless. He stopped in front of Amster, not looking down at the sword, but staring straight into Amster's eyes.

That hand reached out from under the black robes.

Potion-stained fingers. Fingerpads made rough by years of erosion from sleeping bean juice and lacewing fly secretions. The dark traces of silver powder and dragon blood lingered at the edges of his nails. Such a hand hovered above the pommel, pausing for a breath.

Then it grasped it.

The sword's light flared abruptly.

Not a gentle acceptance, not a steady tribute—it was an eruption. Gold-red light spewed forth from the blade, stronger than when McGonagall held the sword, more dazzling than when Flitwick held it. The light surged into Snape's arms like a tide, illuminating his entire face and reflecting his pale skin into a warm golden hue. His black robes were pierced by the light, every fold glowing, like an entire river of molten lava pressed beneath black rock.

It was a nearly tender acceptance. The sword trembled slightly in his hand, not in resistance—but in recognition. Recognition that had been awaited for far, far too long.

Snape's fingers tightened for a moment.

Only a moment.

Then he let go, the pommel slipping from between his fingers. The light quickly receded, retreating back into the blade, like the receding tide leaving no trace on the beach.

He turned and retreated back into the shadows. The black robes closed behind him, swallowing him back into that darkness. From beginning to end, he did not say a single word. He did not look at anyone. But his right hand hung by his side, fingers slightly curled—as if retaining the lingering warmth of the pommel.

Sirius was the last.

When he stepped forward, his footsteps were heavier than Snape's, yet carried something that had been suppressed for twelve years. He stopped in front of the sword, not reaching out immediately. He looked down at the sword, his gaze moving from the ruby to the runes on the blade, and then to Amster's face.

"Twelve years ago," his voice was hoarse and low, "I thought I was going to hunt down Peter, to avenge James and Lily. That wasn't guardianship. That was anger."

He reached out his hand. His fingers hovered above the pommel for a moment, then grasped it firmly. The sword trembled slightly in his palm, then quieted down. The light was steady and soft, not erupting like when Snape held the sword, yet carrying a silent, weighty power.

"This time," Sirius looked at the sword in his hand, his voice so low it was as if he were speaking to himself, "for James and Lily. For Harry. For—" His Adam's apple bobbed. "For Regulus."

The runes on the blade flared once at that name, then slowly settled down.

Sirius released his hand, handing the sword back to Amster. His eyes were red, but there were no tears. He took a step back, crossing his arms over his chest, his chin lifted slightly.

Dumbledore did not step forward.

From start to finish, he sat in that high-backed chair, hands crossed and resting on his knees, his blue eyes quietly watching everyone in the room. When Amster's gaze fell upon him, he merely shook his head ever so slightly—that movement was almost imperceptible, like the wind outside the window brushing past his silver-white hair, merely a coincidence.

Amster did not invite him.

They all knew the reason. Dumbledore's heart held too many things—the unfinished feelings for Grindelwald, the eternal guilt toward Ariana, the heavy responsibility for the wizarding world's future. His heart of guardianship was real, but it was no longer pure. The sword would accept him, Amster had no doubt. But not as unreservedly as it accepted the others.

Some weights needed to be carried by oneself.

"Tomorrow." Amster drew the sword back to his side, the tip pointing obliquely at the ground. The silver-blue Ancient Magic light slowly receded from his sword-hand, sinking into the pommel. "We go to Grimmauld Place. Bring back Slytherin's locket. Destroy it on the spot."

He looked around the room.

"Now, everyone go back to rest."

McGonagall turned first, her steps decisive. Sproutfollowed behind her, still wiping her nose with a handkerchief. Flitwick jumped down from the stack of books, making almost no sound upon landing. Snape had already walked to the door, his black robes billowing behind him as he vanished into the shadows of the corridor.

Sirius was the last to leave. He paused for a step at the door, glanced back at the sword in Amster's hand, then pulled open the door and walked out.

The sound of the door panels closing echoed softly in the Headmaster's Office.

Amster laid the sword flat on Dumbledore's desk, the runes on the blade still bearing a faint afterglow. He did not look at Dumbledore, only speaking a single sentence.

"I'm going out for a bit. I'll be back soon."

Dumbledore did not ask where he was going. The old man merely nodded slightly, his blue eyes flashing behind his half-moon spectacles. He reached out and gently pushed the saucer of lemon drops on the desk toward Amster.

"Take two for the road," Dumbledore said. His voice was very soft, as if afraid of disturbing the portraits on the wall that had closed their eyes once more. "She should prefer Honeydukes' chocolate-filled biscuits. But you can't go to Hogsmeade tonight. Remember to prepare some in advance next time."

Amster's hand paused on the pommel for a moment. He did not ask how Dumbledore knew. He simply picked up a lemon drop from the saucer, unwrapped the wrapper, and put it into his mouth. The sweet-and-sour taste melted on the tip of his tongue.

He pushed open the door and walked down the spiral staircase.

Moonlight spilled through the high windows into the corridor, dyeing the stone walls a cold, pale grayish-blue. The portraits had long since plunged into dreamland, their snores rising and falling. He walked through the deserted castle, past the entrance hall, through the oak front doors, and stepped into the night.

In the direction of Hogsmeade, there was a light.

Chapter 117 Slytherin and Hufflepuff

The night in Hogsmeade was quieter than Hogwarts.

There were no snoring portraits in the castle, no wandering ghosts in the corridors, and no Filch patrolling at night with his cat.

There was only the wind occasionally passing through the narrow alleys between the cottages, stirring up a slight whistle before returning to silence.

A warm yellow light shone through the windows of Poppy's cottage.

Amster stopped in front of the familiar wooden door without knocking immediately.

The moonlight shone from behind, casting his shadow onto the door panel.

The scent of butter and cinnamon drifted out from the crack of the door—she was baking something.

So late, and she was still baking.

He raised his hand and knocked gently three times with his knuckles.

Footsteps came from inside the house, brisk and steady, carrying a certain rhythm he had long been familiar with.

The latch was pulled back, the wooden door opened inward, and the warm yellow light and the richer aroma of butter surged out together, enveloping his whole body.

Poppy stood in the doorframe.

She was wearing that light brown loungewear robe, her cuffs stained with a little white trace of flour, her hair loosely pinned up at the back of her head with a wooden hairpin, and a few stray locks hanging by her ears.

The firelight from the fireplace shone from behind her, dyeing her silhouette into a layer of soft gold.

She did not say things like "You've come".

She just looked at him, her eyes curved slightly, and then turned sideways to make room for him to enter.

"The biscuits will have to wait a moment longer," she said. "You came earlier than I thought."

Amster stepped across the threshold.

The door of the cottage closed gently behind him, shutting the night and the wind outside together.

The interior was exactly the same as in his memory.

The fire in the fireplace was burning brightly, and the firewood occasionally made a slight crackle.

On the small round table covered with a checkered tablecloth stood a clay pot, inside which were inserted a few wildflowers picked from who knows where, their petal edges slightly curled, looking like they were about to dry up.

On the windowsill stood a row of glass jars filled with honey, tea leaves, and various dried fruits.

The bookshelf in the corner was stuffed full, the spines of several books already cracked, and the marks of being repeatedly read were clearly visible.

Poppy walked back to the kitchen counter and continued kneading the dough that was already smooth enough to almost reflect light.

Her fingers sank into the soft dough, pressed down, folded over, and pressed down again, her movements unhurried, like a habit that required no thought.

Amster sat down by the table.

He did not speak, just looked at her.

Poppy's hand paused for a moment.

"You've looked at me several times today," she said, without raising her head, her fingers continuing to work on the dough. "Ever since you came through the door."

"Because you look good."

The tips of Poppy's ears turned a little red.

She didn't take up the conversation, but the corners of her mouth moved, failing to suppress that extremely faint arc.

She patted the dough into a thick round cake, picked up the cookie mold next to it—in the shape of a five-petal flower—and pressed them down one by one, neatly arranging the pressed flower-shaped dough pieces onto the baking tray.

"Was today smooth?" she asked.

"Smooth."

"That's good."

She didn't ask for details.

Poppy never asked for details unless he was willing to say.

She just slid the baking tray into the small oven on the side of the fireplace, closed the oven door, patted the flour off her hands, then turned around, leaned back against the counter, supported herself on the edge with both hands, and looked at him quietly.

The firelight danced in her eyes.

Amster stood up and walked over to her.

He didn't say any preparatory words.

He just reached out and gently tucked that stray lock of hair by her ear behind her ear.

When his fingertips brushed across her auricle, Poppy's eyelashes trembled slightly, but she didn't dodge.

"You're not going back today?" she asked.

"Not going back."

Poppy looked at him, her gaze quiet and direct.

She didn't ask again.

She would never ask an extra word when it wasn't needed.

She just raised her hand and gently dusted off a bit of dust that had somehow gotten onto the collar of his robe.

That movement was very light and natural, as if she had done it a thousand times.

Amster grasped her wrist.

Her wrist was very thin, so thin that every time he grasped it, he would subconsciously lighten his force.

His thumb pressed against the inside of her wrist, and he could feel her subtle pulse there—steady and gentle, like her person, never hurried, never flustered.

Poppy raised her head.

The firelight in the fireplace dimmed for a moment at this moment, as if the flame were holding its breath too.

He lowered his head and kissed her.

It wasn't the first time.

But every time was like the first time, making him feel that there was something in this action that could not be gotten used to.

Her lips were very soft, carrying a hint of butter and cinnamon scent—she must have stolen a taste of the dough before baking the biscuits.

Her hand gently broke free from his wrist, not pulling away, but moving up along his arm, finally stopping on his shoulder, her fingertips slightly gathering, clutching the fabric of his robe.

That kiss was very slow.

So slow that the flames in the fireplace recovered their brightness, so slow that the biscuits in the oven began to emit a richer sweet fragrance, so slow that the sound of the wind outside the window stopped and started again.

When they separated, Poppy's breathing missed a beat.

Her forehead pressed against his chin, her eyelashes drooping, casting two shallow shadows on her cheeks.

"The biscuits are going to burn," she said softly.

"Let them burn."

Poppy smiled slightly.

That laughter was very light, almost just a short nasal breath, but landing on his chest, it was clearer than any sound.

She still turned around to check the oven.

The biscuits were not burnt, and the edges had just turned a faint golden yellow, exactly at their best.

She took out the baking tray and placed it on the counter, the heat rising with the aroma of butter and sugar, blurring the contours of the side of her face.

Amster approached her from behind.

Both hands gently fell on her waist.

Poppy's movements stopped.

She was still holding the heat-insulating cloth for taking out the baking tray in her hand, hanging it in mid-air, and then slowly put it down.

Her back pressed against his chest, very lightly, like a leaf falling on the surface of the water.

"Amster." She called his name.

"Mm."

"Are you very tired today?"

He didn't answer.

He just rested his chin on the top of her head, closing his eyes.

Her hair also had the scent of butter and cinnamon, plus a bit of smoky aroma after the firewood burned, mixed together, smelling just like what the word "Poppy" itself should have.

Poppy didn't pursue the question.

She just stood there quietly, letting him lean on her, her hands covering the back of his hands resting on her waist, her palms warm and dry.

After a long time, Amster spoke.

"Today I pulled the sword of Gryffindor out of the Sorting Hat."

Poppy's fingers tightened slightly.

"Then Professor McGonagall held it. Sprout, Flitwick, Snape, Sirius—all of them held it. The sword recognized everyone."

He paused.

"Dumbledore did not hold it. I didn't invite him either."

Poppy didn't speak.

She just leaned her body lighter into his arms, the back of her head pressing against his collarbone.

"Tomorrow," Amster said, "tomorrow we go to Grimmauld Place. The ancestral home of the Black family. Slytherin's locket is hidden there."

Poppy's fingers gently rubbed the back of his hand.

"Is it dangerous?"

"A little."

She nodded.

Not afraid, just confirmation.

Then she turned around from his arms, facing him.

The biscuits in the baking tray raised the last wisps of heat between the two of them, quickly dissipating in the air.

Poppy raised her hand and cupped his face.

Her palms were not large, and her fingertips had a thin layer of calluses from years of kneading dough and baking biscuits.

She gently pulled his face down until their foreheads met.

"Then tonight," she said, her voice very soft, as if afraid of disturbing the fire dozing in the fireplace, "let's not think about tomorrow's matters."

She kissed him.

This time she took the initiative.

Slower and steadier than just now, carrying a quiet, unrefusable tenderness.

Her hand slid from the side of his face to the back of his neck, her fingers passing through his hair, pulling him closer.

Amster's hands tightened, pulling her whole person into his arms.

The wind outside the window rose again.

The night in Hogsmeade was long.

But the cottage was very warm.

Later, the flames in the fireplace gradually lowered, changing from bright orange-yellow to dark red embers, casting slightly undulating light and shadow on the walls.

The biscuits in the baking tray were eaten one by one, crumbs falling on the tabletop, and no one went to clean them up.

Poppy's head rested in the crook of Amster's shoulder, the wooden hairpin had somehow loosened, and her hair scattered down, spreading over his arm, carrying the scent of butter and cinnamon.

Her breathing was even and gentle, one hand resting loosely on his chest, her fingertips against the place where his heart beat.

Amster did not sleep.

He looked at the light and shadow cast by the fireplace embers on the ceiling, listening to the distant sound of the wind outside the window.

Poppy's body was very light, leaning against his side like a small ball of warm fire.

Her ankles pressed against his calves, slightly cool—she always forgot to wear socks.

He used his other hand to pull the blanket draped over the back of the chair to cover her feet.

She moved, shrinking a little closer into his arms without waking up.

Tomorrow.

He repeated the word in his heart.

Tomorrow they were going to Grimmauld Place.

There was a Horcrux there, a demented house-elf, walls full of screaming portraits, the locket left behind by Slytherin a thousand years ago, and unclean things that Salazar said were "more than one".

But at this moment.

At this moment Poppy was sleeping soundly in his arms, her eyelashes trembling slightly with the dream, her lips parted slightly, as if she had something to say but forgot how to say it.

The embers of the fireplace gave a final slight crack, and then went completely dark, leaving only a thread of moonlight seeping in from the edge of the window lattice, outlining an extremely faint silver edge on the contour of her side face.

Amster closed his eyes.

Tomorrow's matters would be thought about tomorrow.

When he woke up, Poppy was no longer in his arms.

The morning light squeezed in from the gap in the curtains, falling onto the floor, cutting out a narrow and bright strip of light.

The fire in the fireplace was burning again—Poppy must have gotten up to add firewood.

From the direction of the oven came the aroma of dough, different from last night, this time mixed with a hint of rosemary and coarse salt, it was breakfast bread.

Poppy stood in front of the kitchen counter, changed into a light gray loungewear robe, and her hair was pinned up again with a wooden hairpin.

She was spreading garlic butter on the sliced bread, her movements unhurried, exactly the same as when kneading dough last night.

Amster sat up.

The blanket slid off his chest.

Hearing the movement, Poppy turned her head back.

The morning light happened to fall on her face, illuminating her brown eyes into a shallow amber color.

"Awoken?" she said, her tone no different from usual, as if asking him how the weather was today. "The bread will have to wait a moment. You can lie down for another five minutes."

Amster didn't lie back down.

He stood up, walked behind her, and gently touched the wooden hairpin at the back of her head, lowering his head.

Poppy's hand paused.

"Good morning," he said.

The tips of her ears turned red again.

But she didn't turn back, just continued to spread butter on the bread, her movements still unhurried and steady.

"Good morning," she said.

Hogsmeade outside the window was waking up.

In the distance came the creaking sound of some family opening their door, an owl skimmed across the roof, and its shadow flashed across the curtains.

A new day had already begun.

Amster took the bread handed over by Poppy and took a bite.

The bitterness of rosemary and the richness of garlic melted on the tip of his tongue, and the chewiness of the dough was just right.

"When are we leaving?" Poppy asked.

She also took a slice for herself, leaning against the counter and eating it in small bites.

"After eating."

Poppy nodded.

She didn't say things like "Be careful".

She just broke off a small piece of bread, shoved it into her mouth, and chewed slowly.

Finishing the last bite, Amster stood up.

Poppy took the empty plate from his hand, put it into the sink, and then turned around to face him.

She raised her hand and straightened the collar of his robe—that movement was as light and natural as last night.

Then she stood on tiptoe and dropped a kiss on the corner of his mouth.

Very short, very light, like a dragonfly skimming the surface of the water.

"I left biscuits for you," she said. "Come get them when you come back."

Amster looked at her.

The morning light poured in from the gap in the curtains, enveloping her whole person in a soft golden light.

A few strands of her hair came loose from the wooden hairpin, floating by her ears, and her cheeks were still stained with a trace of flour.

He reached out and gently wiped away that bit of flour with his thumb.

"Okay."

He turned around and pulled open the wooden door.

The morning wind of Hogsmeade rushed toward his face, carrying the scent of grass and soil.

In the distance, the spires of Hogwarts Castle gleamed with a faint golden light in the morning light.

Amster didn't look back.

But he knew Poppy must still be standing at the doorway, watching him walk away until his figure disappeared at the end of the narrow alley between the cottages.

Just like every time.

(Chapter 117 End)

Chapter 118: 12 Grimmauld Place

Hogwarts was still shrouded in a layer of mist in the early morning.

Amster walked over from the direction of Hogsmeade, the hem of his robes dampened by the dew.

The outline of the castle gradually became clear in the morning light, its spires and towers resembling a stone forest growing out of the fog.

The entrance hall was empty, save for Peeves, who popped out from nowhere and made a grimace at him, only to be glared back by a single look.

The stone beast of the Headmaster's Office sprang aside after he stated the password.

The spiral staircase rose slowly, carrying him into that familiar circular room.

Dumbledore was already there.

McGonagall was there too.

Snape stood by the window, his black robes almost blending with the shadows of the curtains.

Sirius Black leaned against the bookshelf, his arms crossed, with dark circles under his eyes—he probably hadn't slept much last night.

Flitwick and Sprout stood in front of the fireplace, one nervously standing on tiptoe, the other with hands clasped in front, knuckles slightly turning white.

High up on the walls, the portraits of the four founders were all awake.

Godric Gryffindor's gold-red light flickered slightly, Salazar Slytherin sat upright like a statue, Rowena Ravenclaw's gaze was as calm as water, and a trace of imperceptible worry lingered on Helga Hufflepuff's rounded face.

The sword of Gryffindor lay flat on Dumbledore's desk, the runes on the blade glowing with a faint gold-red light in the morning light.

When Amster walked into the room, everyone's eyes fell upon him.

He did not explain where he had come from, nor did anyone ask.

"Everyone is here," he said, walking over to the desk and taking the sword in his hand.

The hilt was warmer than the morning light, as if it had been waiting for this moment all along.

"Let's set off."

Sirius was the first to straighten up.

"12 Grimmauld Place." His voice was hoarse, as if he were struggling to push every single word out of his throat.

"My parents' house."

From the inner lining of his robes, he took out a small piece of parchment with a line of writing on it—the address of the Fidelius Charm.

Dumbledore took the parchment, glanced at it, and then let everyone take a look.

When Amster saw that handwriting, he felt a strange pulling sensation, and the address itself embedded itself into a previously nonexistent gap in his mind.

"We will split into two groups," Dumbledore put away the parchment. "Apparition to the outskirts of the square, then approach on foot.

Do not materialize directly at the door—there is an Anti-Apparition Jinx there, and we don't know what other defenses there might be."

No one objected.

They filed down the spiral staircase, crossed the entrance hall, and walked out of the castle gates.

Most of the morning mist had dissipated, and birdsong came from the direction of the Forbidden Forest, everything so calm that it hardly felt like a morning set out to destroy a Horcrux.

In the clearing outside the castle gates, Dumbledoresignaled everyone to stop.

"Amster, Sirius, and I will be in one group," he said. "Minerva, you take Severus, Pomona, and Filius.

We will meet at the street corner on the northwest side of the square."

McGonagall nodded.

Snape walked to her side without a word, his black robes fluttering gently in the morning wind.

Amster took one last look at Hogwarts.

Every window of the castle reflected the morning light like countless half-closed eyes.

He thought of that row of glass jars on the windowsill of Poppy's hut, the scent of rosemary and garlic butter, and the feel of Poppy's hair when the wooden hairpin slipped from her locks.

Then he turned around.

"Let's go."

The squeezing sensation of Apparition surged from all directions, like an invisible hand grasping him, compressing him, and then forcibly squeezing him out through an extremely narrow pipe.

The morning light, the castle, the birdsong of the Forbidden Forest—everything was instantly pulled away, replaced by boundless darkness and pressure.

The next moment, his feet touched the ground.

The air in London was much heavier than that of Hogwarts.

It wasn't a metaphor; it was truly heavy, as if countless layers of Ancient Magic had been piled up on this land for too long, making even breathing feel stifled.

Amster steadied himself and quickly scanned his surroundings.

They were standing on a narrow street flanked by rows of old brick houses with mottled walls and paint peeling off most of the window frames.

The street was deserted, save for a lean tabby cat crouching on top of a wall, staring at them with yellow eyes for a moment before leaping down and disappearing on the other side.

Sirius stood by his side, his complexion even worse than it had been at the castle.

His gaze crossed the street, landing on the seemingly ordinary brick wall ahead—the squeezed and distorted gap between number eleven and number thirteen.

"We've arrived." His voice was as dry as sandpaper.

Dumbledore's figure emerged from the shadows behind them.

Almost simultaneously, a few soft pops came from the other end of the street—McGonagall, Snape, Sprout, and Filius had also arrived.

McGonagall's square cap was crooked when she landed; she raised a hand to straighten it, her gaze already locked onto that same gap.

The group gathered between number eleven and number thirteen.

Amster felt it.

Not seeing it, but feeling it.

An ancient, heavy magical aura oozed from the empty air in front of them, like something sealed deep underground breathing slowly.

His Ancient Magic talent was exceptionally sensitive to it—this wasn't Dark Magic, yet it was older and heavier than Dark Magic, composed of protective spells, blood pacts, and unspeakable secrets piled up generation after generation by a pure-blood family, layer upon layer, accumulating over hundreds of years.

"The Fidelius Charm," Dumbledore said softly, almost to himself. "The House of Black's Fidelius Charm has been maintained for at least two hundred years.

The last time I came here was..."

He didn't finish.

Amster didn't press further either.

Sirius stepped forward.

His pace was heavier than ever, every step feeling like he was walking through an invisible quagmire.

He stopped in front of that ordinary brick wall, raised his right hand, and pressed his palm toward the gap.

"I, Sirius Orion Black, the last legitimate heir of the House of Black." His voice was hoarse yet clear, every word squeezed from between his teeth. "In the name of my bloodline, lift the restrictions of the Fidelius Charm for this group of people."

The air trembled slightly.

Then, the house "squeezed" out from the void.

It didn't appear abruptly, but rather like an old garment folded for too long finally being unfolded.

Walls, windows, porches, steps—everything manifested in the slightly distorted light, transitioning from transparent to translucent, from vague outlines to tangible entities.

The black door of number twelve shimmered with aged paint in the morning light, its silver serpent knocker coiled into an "S" shape, its snake eyes being two dull emeralds.

12 Grimmauld Place.

Professor McGonagall took a slight breath.

Sprout gripped the lapel of her robes tightly.

Flitwick stood on tiptoe, his small body almost stiffening.

Snape's face was like stagnant water, but those dark eyes—bottomless dark eyes—were staring fixedly at that door, his pupils contracting slightly.

Sirius reached out and pushed the door open.

The hinges let out a teeth-setting screech, as if no living person had stepped through the front door of this house in ages.

The darkness in the entrance hall was almost tangible.

It wasn't the dimness of insufficient light, but something active, xenophobic, and refusing to be illuminated.

The air was filled with the stale smell of mold, the scent of decaying fabrics, and a deeper chill that seemed to seep into the marrow of the walls.

Amster could feel that every inch of the walls, every floorboard, and every crack in the doors of this house was saturated with the grievances of generations.

Dumbledore's wand lit up with a soft glow.

The light illuminated the entrance hall—narrow, cramped, the walls covered in faded dark-patterned wallpaper depicting intertwined snakes and vines.

At the end of the hall was a steep staircase with dark wooden handrails and baluster heads carved into the shape of snake heads.

A row of portraits hung on the wall, their frames made of heavy black wood, their surfaces covered in a layer of dust.

No, not dust.

When Amster's gaze swept across those portraits, he realized—that wasn't dust; the portraits themselves were asleep.

The images within the frames were not static, but quivering slightly, as if the people in the paintings were breathing slowly, waiting to be disturbed.

Sirius didn't look at those portraits.

His gaze stared straight into the deeper darkness at the end of the stairs, his Adam's apple bobbing.

"Kreacher," he said softly, not as a call, but merely a statement. "He's still here."

As if in response, something moved in the shadows at the foot of the stairs.

A pair of huge, bloodshot eyes floated up from the darkness.

Followed by a pair of bat-like ears, a flat nose, and a wrinkled face far older than ordinary house-elves.

Kreacher crawled out from the shadows, his movements stiff and sluggish, like a creature that had stayed underground for too long, finally startled awake by the light.

He had a dirty rag wrapped around his waist, which might have originally been a tea towel or pillowcase, now so filthy that its original color was indistinguishable.

His skin was greyish-white, hanging loosely over his frame, with age-old grime embedded in every wrinkle.

His cloudy gaze swept over Sirius, and then—lit up.

Not a benevolent light.

"The Young Master has returned."

Kreacher's voice was hoarse and grating, like two pieces of rusted iron rubbing together.

His lips twisted into a weird arc, revealing a few sparse yellow teeth, "Kreacher thought the Young Master would never step foot into this house again."

"Kreacher thought the Young Master had long forgotten the glory of the House of Black, along with those blood traitors, Mudbloods, and—"

"Shut up."

Sirius's voice was not loud, but it was like a whip lashing through the air of the entrance hall.

Kreacher's mouth snapped shut, but those bloodshot eyes still stared fixedly at Sirius, surging with a complex, almost frantic resentment—not fear, but resentment.

It was a resentment born from being left alone in this dark mansion for twelve years, cursed day and night by the mistress's portrait, and tormented almost to madness by the command to "protect Young Master Regulus's relics."

Amster did not look at Kreacher.

His gaze swept past the house-elf and landed on the wall at the corner of the stairs.

Hanging there was a portrait covered by velvet curtains.

The curtains were deep green, edged with embroidered silver serpent patterns, and they were trembling slightly at this moment, as if something inside were awakening.

Immediately, the screaming began.

Not coming from behind the curtains—but from all directions.

At that exact same instant, all the sleeping portraits on the walls of the entrance hall opened their eyes.

More than a dozen faces of past House of Black members twisted and opened their mouths simultaneously, bursting into harsh screams and insults.

"Traitor! An unfilial son who tarnishes the family's reputation!"

"Get out! Get out of my father's house!"

"You and your filthy friends—"

"Mudblood! Blood traitor! Defiler!"

The wave of sound struck the eardrums like a physical entity.

Professor McGonagall raised her wand, Sprout covered her ears, and Flitwick turned pale as death.

Sirius stood at the center of the screaming, his facial muscles twitching violently, yet he did not retreat a single step.

Dumbledore's wand shone brighter, but the screaming did not stop.

Then, the curtain at the corner of the stairs gave a violent shudder.

A withered, ring-laden hand reached out from the edge of the curtain and violently jerked the green velvet aside.

Inside the frame was an old woman.

Her face was like a piece of crumpled parchment that had been barely smoothed out, her skin taut over high cheekbones, her eye sockets deeply sunken, and her protruding eyeballs gleaming with a fanatical, almost manic light.

She wore a black high-collared robe, pinned at the collar with a brooch inlaid with a serpentine silver ornament, and her withered fingers were covered with heavy gemstone rings.

Walburga Black.

Sirius's mother.

She opened her mouth, her densely wrinkled face twisting into an expression of extreme hatred.

Amster had seen many portraits—those that could curse, those that were arrogant and aloof, those that were gloomy and reticent—but he had never seen such a pure, almost sacred hatred on the face of any portrait.

"You—"

Her voice did not come from the frame.

It was the entire house speaking for her.

The walls trembled, the floor resonated, and every gap in the doors, every loose baseboard, and every crack in the ceiling was conveying the poison in her voice to every corner of the mansion.

"How dare you return to my father's house!"

"You! An unfilial son who has tarnished the name of Black!"

"Scum who fraternizes with Mudbloods, blood traitors, and filthy werewolves!"

"I should have personally—"

Sirius's face was ashen.

He did not retort or roar; he simply stood there, enduring every curse squeezed out from the wall by his mother's portrait, his facial muscles twitching slightly, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, knuckles cracking.

Snape's lips twitched almost imperceptibly.

Flitwick tried to talk over the screams: "Can we—"

No.

His voice was drowned out.

McGonagall raised her wand, her lips moving as she muttered a spell.

A streak of silver light shot toward Walburga's portrait, but bounced off the instant it touched the frame.

The old woman in the portrait let out a shrill sneer.

"Useless!"

"This is my father's house!"

"My bloodline!"

"My—"

Amster did not draw his wand.

He simply raised his right hand, palm facing the corner of the stairs.

A silver-blue light lit up from his palm.

It was not aggressive Ancient Magic, nor the gentle spring water like when purifying the Sorting Hat—it was something older and heavier.

It was the power belonging to the Keepers' lineage that he had inherited from the map chamber.

The light did not shoot toward Walburga's portrait.

Instead, it spread from his palm like ripples, sweeping across the entrance hall's walls, ceiling, floor, stair banister, serpent-head finials, and faded patterned wallpaper.

Wherever the light reached, those screaming portraits fell silent simultaneously—not suppressed, but awed by an aura of older, more authoritative magic.

Their mouths remained open, but their voices stuck in their throats, as if they suddenly realized that a power they could not define and that did not belong to the House of Black lineage had broken into the house.

Walburga's voice was also weakening.

Not disappearing, but growing more distant.

Her lips were still moving, and the cursing continued, but her voice sounded as if it were coming from behind a slowly closing door, growing more muffled and indistinct.

A flash of emotion that Amster had never seen in a portrait flickered in her protruding eyeballs—not anger, but confusion.

This old woman's portrait had lived for too many years, cursed for too many years, and had long been accustomed to filling every corner of the house with her own voice.

She had never encountered such a thing: someone simply standing there, lifting a hand with a wave, and causing the entire mansion to quiet down.

It was not because she was suppressed.

It was because the house itself chose to listen to another power.

Amster lowered his hand.

The silver-blue light receded back into his palm, not entirely dissipating, but settling beneath his skin like a faint, ethereal glow.

The entrance hall was quiet enough to hear Kreacher's heavy breathing, to hear the subtle sound of Sirius's fingernails piercing his palms inside his clenched fists, and to hear the rustling movements of some rat or boggart crawling through the pipes in the distance—deep within the kitchen or basement.

Walburga's portrait was still there.

Her lips were still moving.

But her voice was almost inaudible, like a radio tuned to the lowest volume, leaving only the static of electric current.

Sirius turned to Amster.

His eye sockets were red, yet tearless.

In those eyes whose light had been stolen by Azkaban for twelve years, extremely complex emotions surged—gratitude, humiliation, and something even he could hardly name.

He did not say thank you.

He simply gave a very slight nod, then turned and strode toward the stairs, stepping heavily with every stride, as if trying to wake up the silent floors of this house with the soles of his shoes.

"Kreacher."

His voice was hoarse and cold, "Lead the way."

"I know what is in Regulus's room."

"Take us there."

Kreacher crawled out from the shadows at the foot of the stairs.

His large, round eyes rolled back and forth between Siriusand Amster, his lips twitching as if chewing something invisible.

He did not speak, but simply turned around, his back hunched, and climbed the steep stairs step by step.

His feet slapped against the wooden steps, making a damp, sticky pattering sound.

Dumbledore followed.

McGonagall and Sprout followed closely behind.

Flitwick trotted to keep up, striving not to be left behind by the height of the stairs.

Snape walked at the very back, his black robes dragging across the steps, silent and noiseless.

Amster paused for a moment at the corner of the stairs.

Walburga's portrait was right beside him.

Her lips were still moving silently, her eyeballs protruding, the rings trembling slightly on her withered fingers.

Across the frame, he could feel that pure, almost palpable hatred—not directed at him, but at her son, at anyone who dared to defile the Black name.

He did not speak.

He simply glanced at her, then continued walking upward.

Behind him, the lips of that portrait finally stopped moving.

It was not because the magic was lifted.

It was because the old woman finally realized—after cursing for twelve years, until her voice was hoarse, until every brick of this house was saturated with her hatred, her son still walked through this door today.

Bringing with him a group of people she hated most.

To take away something more important than all her curses combined.

The portrait fell silent.

A true silence, not suppressed, but a self-devouring silence.

Kreacher's feet slapped against the steps.

"Pat."

"Pat."

"Pat."

At the top of the stairs, the darkness was waiting for them.

Chapter 119: Regulus's Heirloom, Slytherin's Locket

The door to Regulus Black's room was pushed open by Kreacher.

The door hinges let out their second screech of the day, lighter than the first, like a sigh that had been suppressed for far too long.

The room was not large.

The walls were covered in deep green wallpaper, darker than the color of the foyer, bordering on black.

The heavy velvet curtains were drawn tightly shut, not allowing a single thread of light to filter through.

The bed was so neat it didn't look like anyone had ever lived in it — of course it didn't, as the person who had lived here was long gone.

On the desk sat a few History of Magic books and an unfolded piece of parchment, the handwriting faded yet still legible, slender and neat, entirely different from the screaming faces in the foyer's portraits.

The desk drawer was pulled halfway open, empty inside, save for a few old quill pens and a dried-up ink bottle.

On the bedside table lay a photograph — a black-haired boy dressed in Slytherin school robes, with a delicate and serious expression, no smile at the corners of his mouth, yet his eyes were bright.

The photograph did not move; the House of Black had never liked moving Muggle photographs.

Kreacher stood in the center of the room, his hunched back turned toward everyone, his shoulders trembling slightly.

"Master Regulus."

His voice changed abruptly, no longer the hoarse, harsh, and malicious tone from the foyer, becoming light and fragmented, like a withered leaf trampled into the mud,

"Master Regulus told Kreacher to destroy it.

Kreacher tried.

Kreacher tried every method.

Burn it, smash it, slash it with a knife, bite it with teeth — Kreacher tried everything.

But it just... it wouldn't..."

His voice stopped abruptly, turning into a low sob squeezed from deep within his throat.

Sirius stood at the doorway, unmoving.

His gaze swept past that static photograph, falling upon Kreacher's trembling back, his lips moving as if wanting to say something, but ultimately uttering not a single word.

Dumbledore stepped forward, asking no questions, only raising his wand to let a soft radiance illuminate the darkest corners of the room inch by inch: beneath the bed, atop the wardrobe, the gap between the desk and the wall, those places guarded by darkness for far too long.

The light suddenly halted.

Between the bedpost and the wall, there was a nearly invisible crack.

It was not a crack in the architectural structure, but a hidden space created by magic, one that only a house-elf's magic could open.

The aura overflowing from the edge of the crack instantly alerted Amster's Ancient Magic talent.

It was not Dark Magic, it was a Horcrux.

It was the twisted, unstable magical fluctuation generated by Voldemort's soul fragment being forcibly embedded in a Slytherin antiquity.

This aura was something he had once felt on the Gaunt ring, already carved deep into his perception, and he would never mistake it.

"There."

He said.

Kreacher's sob stopped abruptly, and he suddenly turned around, his bloodshot large eyes glaring at Amster, his lips trembling violently.

"Cannot — that is Master Regulus's... exchanged with Master Regulus's life... Kreacher promised... Kreacherpromised Master Regulus to destroy it... but Kreachercannot do it... Kreacher is a useless, useless—"

"You tried."

Amster said calmly, not as a question.

Kreacher was taken aback.

"You tried every method, burning, smashing, slashing, biting."

Amster looked at him, with neither pity nor disgust, merely stating a fact,

"You served two masters, one who hid it here, and one who traded his life to retrieve it.

You have been trapped between two commands for twelve years; this is not being useless."

Kreacher's lips parted, and within those bloodshot large eyes, something shattered — not tears, but a shell constructed by an aging house-elf over twelve years, intertwined with resentment and self-loathing.

He turned silently, stretching out his withered hand with dirt-filled fingernails, reaching into the crack between the wall and the bedpost.

The moment his fingertips touched it, the crack lit up with a dim, old-blood-like shimmer, and then opened.

Kreacher took that object out from within.

A locket.

The golden casing had long since dimmed, its surface covered in dense scratches — traces of knife slashes, tooth bites, and fire burning, yet all were faint, none truly able to damage the box itself.

Embedded in the center of the lid was a serpentine "S" pattern, pieced together from crushed diamonds and emeralds, shimmering with a deep, faint glow under the light of Dumbledore's wand, as if a living creature were breathing.

Kreacher held the locket in both hands, as if cradling something heavier than the entire House of Black mansion, his hands and indeed his whole body trembling incessantly.

Sirius stepped forward, his pace slow, every step feeling like trudging through a quagmire.

He stopped in front of Kreacher, looking down at the house-elf who was less than half his height, gazing at the locket in his hand that had taken his brother's life.

Silence lingered for a long time.

"Give it to me."

Sirius spoke, his voice harsh and low, yet far gentler than the "shut up" in the foyer.

Kreacher raised his head, his eyes bloodshot, turbid, and damp, yet at this moment holding not a shred of resentment, leaving only extreme fatigue and a near-numb bewilderment.

He handed the locket over.

Sirius took it.

The instant his fingertips touched the locket, his expression changed abruptly.

It was not pain, but something deeper — an emotion not his own seeping into his body from the metal surface: fear, anger, greed, and a distorted desire to trample everything in the world.

The Horcrux was testing him.

Amster stretched out a hand: "Give it to me."

Sirius practically shoved the locket into his palm.

The moment they exchanged it, Amster felt that force violently pivot toward himself.

Voldemort's soul fragment surged within the Slytherinrelic, attempting to find the fissures within his heart — fear, anger, greed, any emotion that could be exploited.

It found nothing.

It was not that Amster lacked these emotions, but that his Ancient Magic talent constructed a barrier within his body, not suppressing the Horcrux, but simply making the Horcrux's enticements clear and discernible.

He could feel that force attempting to invade, much like feeling the wind blow across his skin, yet without needing to resist, simply because he saw through it completely.

Seeing clearly how mutilated, how unstable, and how fragile those fragments were, which Voldemort had torn from his own soul and forcibly embedded into the locket.

"Back to the foyer."

He clenched the locket tightly; the metal was bone-chillingly cold, far surpassing ordinary gold ware, like a piece of ice that could never be warmed by body temperature,

"It is too cramped here."

Everyone went downstairs in turn, with Kreacher walking at the very end, his soles patting against the steps, patter, patter, patter.

Inside the foyer, Walburga's portrait remained silent, her eyeballs protruding, her lips tightly closed, yet her gaze was nailed dead to the locket in Amster's hand.

The portraits of the other House of Black ancestors also awakened, yet not a single person made a sound.

Amster stood firmly in the center of the foyer, placed the locket in the center of the faded carpet embroidered with the House of Black crest, and then drew the sword of Gryffindor from the inside of his robes.

The moment the runes on the blade touched the foyer's air, they suddenly lit up, no longer gold-and-red, but silver-blue.

The radiance of Ancient Magic flowed from the hilt to the tip, intertwining with the sword's own glow to condense into a color none present had ever seen before — not Gryffindor's raging flames, not Slytherin's deep waters, but a power far older, originating from before Hogwarts was founded.

Amster gripped the sword with both hands, the tip pointing downward, aiming at the locket in the center of the carpet.

"Wait."

Dumbledore's voice came from behind, calm, yet carrying a hint of solemnity that Amster rarely heard in the old man's tone,

"A Horcrux fights back when destroyed.

The ring is a curse, the diary is temptation, and this one—"

"I know."

Amster did not look back, "All of you, step back."

Footsteps sounded as everyone backed away.

McGonagall, Sprout, Flitwick, Sirius, Kreacher — that house-elf was gently pulled to the foot of the stairs by Sprout.

Snape's black robes brushed against the floor, stopping at the edge of the foyer.

Dumbledore stood beside him, and Amster could feel the old man's gaze falling upon his back, steady, yet not entirely calm.

High above the walls, the phantom of Salazar Slytherinmaterialized at some unknown moment.

It was not the portrait from Hogwarts, but the bloodline resonance of number twelve, Grimmauld Place.

With a silver-green outline, a lean face, and dark eyes, it was the final imprint left by Slytherin in his descendant's mansion, thoroughly activated by the Horcrux's aura.

The phantom's gaze fell upon the sword in Amster's hand.

Then, ever so lightly, it nodded.

Amster raised the sword high.

The silver-blue Ancient Magic and the gold-and-red sword light fused completely, illuminating the entire foyer as bright as day.

Walburga's portrait trembled violently within the radiance, Kreacher let out a short, mournful cry, and Sirius's hand gripped tightly onto the snake-head newel post of the stair banister.

Then, the sword came down.

Chapter 120: Regulus's Relic 2

The moment the blade touched the locket, the entire world seemed to have all its sounds and lights abruptly cut off by an invisible hand.

Everything that had been truly real just a moment ago—the cold foyer of the House of Black mansion, the mottled and faded wallpaper, the upward-spiraling wooden stairs, the grim yet silent portrait of Walburga Black on the wall, Kreacher's withered hands tightly gripping the corner of his clothes and trembling unceasingly, Dumbledore's figure standing with lowered eyes slightly in the shadows, and even the dust and stale musty odor that had pervaded the air for twelve years—was, at the very instant the sword tip contacted the cold metal, completely and without warning extracted, crushed, and dissolved into nothingness.

There was no feeling of weightlessness, no sensation of falling, yet Amster clearly realized that he was standing in a boundless, chaotic darkness.

There was no solid ground beneath his feet, no dome or sky overhead, and around him was an endless, thick blackness, as if he were sealed inside a bottomless ancient well, or floating in the most desolate vacuum of the universe.

He instinctively tightened his grip on the Gryffindor sword in his palm; the cold touch of the hilt was exceptionally real, and the shimmering silver-blue glow flowing along the blade became the sole light, the sole temperature, and the sole reality he could grasp in this dead and silent void.

This darkness was not simply devoid of light, but carried intense, suffocating negative emotions, pressing heavily upon his limbs and bones, seeping into his pores and the crevices of his bones.

It was the resentment lying dormant for decades, the paranoia etched into the soul, the insatiable greed, and a hint of emptiness and loneliness hidden deep within that even it was unwilling to admit. Entwined together, they transformed into invisible shackles, attempting to snare his mind and pull him down into the abyss together.

Immediately afterwards, the darkness began to speak.

There was no clear sound source; the voice surged from all directions, circling close to his auricles and seeping straight into the depths of his skull, causing his temples to ache slightly.

The voice was deep and slow, carrying a bizarre and intensely alluring rhythm; every syllable seemed imbued with magic, alluring people to listen and believe involuntarily.

Amster's heart sank slightly.

He recognized this voice.

When destroying the Gaunt ring previously, he had also perceived similar fluctuations, but that was merely the faint magical imprint left by Voldemort on the ring—scattered, weak, and devoid of method.

But the voice at this moment was completely different—this was a complete, conscious soul fragment sealed within a Horcrux, the truly evil will belonging to Voldemort that still survived after being torn apart.

Sealed in the Slytherin locket for decades, surviving on crumbs by devouring negative emotions, it had finally waited for a prey capable of stepping into its mental realm and conversing with it.

The darkness slowly surged and condensed before him, gradually piecing together a vague humanoid outline.

Tall, thin, yet exuding a chilling sense of oppression, it was like a thick black smoke forcibly kneaded into a human shape. Its edges continuously drifted outward, only to be desperately pulled back and re-gathered by a mighty force, maintaining a reluctant humanoid shape all along.

Its face lacked any facial features—no eyes, no nose, no mouth—yet Amster could clearly feel a chilling gaze locked fiercely onto him.

In that gaze was naked greed, greedy for the extraordinary magic within his body; it held the sharpness of scrutiny, scanning his soul and mind over and over, trying to find even the slightest fissure; and even more, it carried a determined malice, wanting to pinpoint his weaknesses and break through his psychological defenses in one fell swoop.

"There is a power within you that does not belong to ordinary wizards." The outline slowly spoke, its voice carrying a trace of intense interest that Amster had not expected—the excitement of a predator discovering a rare prey. "The Slytherin locket, the Gaunt ring, the deeply buried secrets of the four Hogwarts houses... You have touched too many things that have been sealed away and tabooed, meddling in a destiny that you should never have meddled in."

It paused, making its voice lighter and softer, shedding the previous chilliness and taking on a few hints of seemingly sincere admonition, like an elder who saw through the ways of the world, whispering pointers to a lost soul.

"You think that by holding a sword in your hand, you are destroying the darkness and guarding everything? You are wrong. Every time you use this special power, every time you destroy a Horcrux, you are pushing your own soul bit by bit toward the abyss of darkness, toward a place sharing the same source as mine. You think you are the guardian of the light, but the power on you has long since been stained with the aura of darkness. You and I fundamentally do not have much difference."

Amster's hand hanging by his side tightened slightly, but he remained utterly silent, steadily holding the sword in his hand without the silver-blue glow flickering by even a fraction.

He was not swayed emotionally by these bewitching words, but quietly stood in place, letting the other party probe and bewitch him.

Seeing this, the outline slowly took a step forward, the arms formed of smoke slowly lifting, its ethereal fingers approaching his chest step by step, staying merely an inch away from his heart as a chilling aura rushed towards him.

"I can see through all the secrets deep in your heart, and can touch your softest, most dare-not-touch vulnerability."

Its voice grew lower, carrying precise provocation, word by word piercing straight into the bottom of his heart.

"The promise you made to that girl, the vows are genuine, but this attachment will ultimately become your vulnerability; your desire to protect those around you seems to make you stronger, but this obsession is nothing more than a rope binding you. Every emotion is a rope, and every person you want to protect is pulling you from the other end of the rope, leaving you torn and struggling to walk. You think you are moving forward for protection, but in reality, you are merely a prisoner bound by emotions, forever unable to truly break free, forever unable to become strong enough."

"Put down these entanglements, put down this useless tenderness, accept the power within your body, accept the guidance of darkness. You and I can join hands to become the most supreme existence in the magical world, with no more constraints and no more regrets."

Amster remained silent, without the slightest wavering.

He was not led astray in his thoughts by the Horcrux's bewitchment; instead, at this moment, he quietly urged the Ancient Magic talent within his body.

That power hidden within his bloodline slowly stretched and awakened inside him, opening up abruptly like an eye that had been dormant for a long time.

Through this special "eye", he instantly saw through the essence of this cluster of smoke before him—

That was merely a broken and incomplete fragment forcibly torn from the main soul.

It was fragile, distorted, and hollow, relying on the protection of the Slytherin locket and surviving for decades by devouring negative emotions like fear, anger, greed, and ambition, barely maintaining its consciousness from dispersing.

All its bewitchment and provocation had a single purpose: to trigger emotional fluctuations within his heart. Whether it was anger, confusion, pain, or hesitation, as long as there was the slightest fissure in his mind, it could take the opportunity to attach itself, erode, and ultimately occupy his body.

This was by no means any powerful dark force, but merely a soul remnant trapped within an artifact and dead for many years, a pitiful wretch prolonging its life through negative emotions.

The outline seemed to instantly perceive his gaze, realizing that its essence had been completely seen through. The previously stable edges of the smoke abruptly began to vibrate and churn violently, and the steady yet intensely alluring voice from moments before showed distinct cracks for the first time, its rhythm completely disrupted, gaining a bit of panic and disbelief.

"What are you looking at?!"

"How can you see through my existence? You are merely an ordinary wizard, you simply do not possess such an ability—this is impossible!"

Its voice became sharp, carrying anger and embarrassment after its disguise was punctured, and the humanoid outline also began to become unstable.

Until this moment did Amster slowly open his mouth.

His voice was very soft, yet exceptionally clear, shining brightly in this nihilistic darkness. Every word was like a pebble thrown into a deep pool, rippling layer upon layer and shattering the bewitchment and oppression within the darkness.

"I am looking at a person who is already dead, a soul fragment long since abandoned."

He looked straight into the churning smoke before him, his tone calm and waveless, yet carrying unquestionable certainty.

"Tom Riddle, that boy who once studied at Hogwarts and harbored shallow desires, long ago personally tore off this incomplete soul and sealed it in the Slytherin locket in exchange for so-called immortality."

"This soul, trapped in a cold box, waited for countless days and nights. It waited for someone to open the locket, waited for someone to wear it, waited for someone to willingly listen to its words, waiting for the opportunity to bewitch minds, occupy another's body, and devour another's soul. Yet what it waited for was never the prey it wanted."

"What it waited for was Regulus Black. That boy who seemed cowardly yet was braver than countless pure-blood wizards, willingly gave his life to swap it away from Voldemort's side, hiding it in this deserted House of Blackmansion. For the next twelve years, it could only keep company with an aged house-elf, hidden in a dark corner, seeing no light of day, unable even to escape."

These words completely poked at the sore spot of this soul fragment.

The smoke before his eyes instantly began to churn and agitate violently. The human shape it had barely maintained completely collapsed; the smoke darted everywhere, its edges continuously crumbling, turning into specks of black fog and dissipating, only to desperately re-gather and struggle repeatedly, yet it was forever unable to restore its previous appearance.

Its emotions completely spiraled out of control, anger, panic, and unwillingness intertwined together, emitting broken roars.

"Shut up! You are not allowed to say anymore!"

"You don't understand anything at all! I am immortal, I am powerful, I cannot possibly be trapped here!"

Amster's gaze was calm, his tone without the slightest ripple, continuing word by word to shatter its final disguise.

"Twelve years of waiting, it finally waited for someone, but what it waited for was not a weakling who could be bewitched by it, not a vessel that could be occupied by it, not a soul that could be devoured by it."

"What it waited for was someone who came specifically to destroy it."

The moment the words fell, Amster slowly raised the Gryffindor sword in his hand.

The silver-blue glow on the blade abruptly exploded within this dark void, like the morning light of dawn, instantly dispersing the endless darkness surrounding it.

That darkness seemed to be scorched by raging flames, frantically retreating backwards, emitting silent, painful screams, yet perpetually unable to escape this mental space.

Under the illumination of the silver-blue light, that tattered soul fragment violently twisted and tumbled, desperately trying to hide in a corner where the light could not reach, but the light already filled the void with nowhere to hide, and it could only dissolve and disintegrate bit by bit within the light.

Without hesitation, Amster flicked his wrist slightly, and the blade plummeted abruptly.

There was no deafening explosion, no fierce curse backlash impact like when the Gaunt ring was destroyed; everything was quiet to the point of being eerie.

Beneath the sword tip, the Slytherin locket split in half at the sound, with smooth and clean cuts devoid of the slightest burrs.

The silver-blue glow surged into the interior of the locket along the crack, wrapping layer by layer and dissolving bit by bit the soul ash-fog that had lurked inside for decades.

The ash-fog struggled frantically, contracted, and tried to escape within the light, but every time it touched the light, it dissipated by a fraction, gradually growing thinner and thinner, until it finally turned completely into nothingness without a trace left behind.

The next second, the boundless darkness completely dissipated, and everything around instantly returned to its place.

The cold foyer, the faded wallpaper, the portraits on the wall, the stair banister, the soft glow at the tip of Dumbledore's wand, and the London morning light seeped in through the cracks of the door carrying a slightly cool dampness all returned to his eyes one by one.

Amster slowly knelt on the carpet, the hand holding the sword turning slightly white, the Gryffindor sword tip gently resting against the carpet. The residual silver-blue shimmer on the blade was fading bit by bit, ultimately leaving only the ruby on the hilt radiating a gentle, warm color in the morning light.

On the carpet in front of him, the Slytherin locket lay quietly there, already split into two halves.

The fractured section was neat and decisive, as if this ancient magical item had itself given up resistance, willingly ending its decades-long evil mission.

The inside of the box was already empty; the serpentine "S" insignia originally embedded with small diamonds and emeralds had completely lost all luster, turning into a pile of off-white powder like burnt-out paper ash that would scatter with a puff of wind.

He slowly raised the sword tip and gently took a breath; the confrontation in the Horcrux's mental space just now, though seeming calm, had actually consumed a vast amount of mental energy.

The two remnants of the locket lay quietly on the embroidered thread of the House of Black crest, like two fallen leaves withered by the autumn wind, no longer carrying a shred of their former evil and bizarreness.

Amster raised his eyes to look beside him, his gaze calm and resolute.

The second Horcrux, from this point on, ceased to exist entirely.

Chapter 121 Tom Riddle

No one spoke in the entrance hall.

Amster slowly stood up.

His knees felt somewhat weak — at the moment the Horcrux was destroyed, as that ball of grey mist struggled for the last time before perishing, he felt something.

An extremely brief, almost imperceptible transmission of emotion.

It was not Voldemort's.

It was Tom Riddle's.

That boy who had even smiled while studying at Hogwarts, at some moment when he tore his own soul, the trace of loneliness that had once existed deep in his heart.

Then it vanished.

Along with that fragment in the locket that had dragged out a miserable existence for decades, it completely ceased to exist.

Kreacher was the first person to make a sound.

He stumbled out from the foot of the stairs, knelt beside the two pieces of debris, his withered fingers hovering above the metal fragments, not daring to touch them.

His lips trembled violently, repeating the same word over and over, his voice so soft it was almost inaudible.

"Destroyed… Destroyed… Truly destroyed… Young Master Regulus… It's truly destroyed…"

Sirius stepped forward.

He crouched down beside Kreacher with very slow movements.

He reached out his hand and let it fall onto Kreacher's stooped back.

Kreacher froze.

"You guarded it for twelve years." Sirius's voice was hoarse, but lighter than Amster had ever heard it.

"Enough."

Kreacher's entire body began to tremble violently.

For the first time after being filled with resentment and self-reproach for twelve years, an aging house-elf was told by someone: "Enough."

He buried his face in those withered hands, letting out a fractured sob that had been suppressed for far too long.

Sirius did not withdraw his hand.

Dumbledore stepped forward and bent down to pick up the two pieces of the locket's debris.

The edges of the fracture gleamed with a dim metallic luster under the wandlight, and the ashes inside the box that had once surged with the aura of a Horcrux had completely cooled.

He pinched up a small pinch of off-white debris with his fingertips, gently ground them between the pads of his fingers, and then let them drift down from between his fingers.

The ashes fell onto the carpet, mingling with the embroidered threads of the House of Black crest, indistinguishable from one another.

"The second one." Dumbledore said.

His voice was very soft, but in this entrance hall that had finally grown truly quiet, everyone heard it very clearly.

"Gaunt's ring. Slytherin's locket. Both Horcruxes have been destroyed."

Amster sheathed the sword of Gryffindor.

The silver-blue light on the blade had completely faded, leaving only the rubies casting a faint, warm glow in the morning light.

"The Founders said—Hufflepuff's cup and Ravenclaw's diadem have both been tainted by unclean things."

He paused for a moment.

"They might not necessarily be Horcruxes. But if Voldemort chose to use the Founders' relics as vessels for Horcruxes—"

"Then the cup and the diadem are very likely to be as well." Dumbledore picked up his words.

The old man turned around, his blue eyes meeting Amster's behind his half-moon lenses.

"Gaunt's ring is his maternal bloodline. Slytherin's locket is proof of his being the heir of Slytherin. Every item he chose as a Horcrux vessel holds special meaning for him."

Amster fell silent for a moment.

"So we still need to find the cup and the diadem to confirm whether they are or not."

"Yes," Dumbledore said, "and I have reason to believe—the Horcruxes he made are not just these two."

Amster raised his head.

"Tom Riddle." Dumbledore's voice was very soft, as if recalling a student from long ago, "What he pursued was not power, but extremity. If he chose to split his own soul, he would not be satisfied with splitting it just once. He would continue to split it until he believed he had touched some sort of limit, or until he believed he had obtained what he wanted."

The entrance hall fell silent for an instant.

"How many do you think there might be?" Amster asked.

Dumbledore shook his head.

"I don't know. But there certainly won't be few, and I will investigate."

Amster looked at him.

There was a look in the old man's blue eyes that he rarely saw.

He suddenly realized that Dumbledore's understanding of Voldemort was far greater than what he had spoken aloud.

"You know what kind of vessels he would choose," Amstersaid.

Dumbledore did not deny it.

He only nodded slightly, then said: "When we return to Hogwarts, I need to talk to the four Founders about the cup and the diadem—and where they might be now."

Professor McGonagall walked down the stairs.

Her pace was slower than usual, her square cap held in her hand, a few strands of grey hair escaping from her bun.

She stopped at the edge of the carpet, looking down at the two pieces of the locket's debris, her lips pressed into a thin line.

"Is this Horcrux more mature than Gaunt's ring?" she asked.

Amster thought for a moment.

"The ring used a curse. Direct, brutal, wanting to drag the person who destroyed it to die together. The locket used bewitchment. It would find the softest place in your heart and then tell you that the things you desperately tried to protect were all ropes binding you."

Professor McGonagall's brow furrowed slightly.

"What did you hear?"

"When it tried to persuade me, it revealed its own flaw," Amster said.

He did not explain in detail.

Professor McGonagall's look at him—the one carrying scrutiny, worry, and a kind of elder-like concern—already indicated that she understood.

Professor Sprout walked up from behind Professor McGonagall.

Her eye sockets were still red, her handkerchief clutched in her hand, already crumpled into a ball.

She walked over to Kreacher, bent down, and gently patted the shoulder of the still-sobbing house-elf.

Kreacher did not dodge away.

Flitwick tiptoed, cautiously walking around the debris of the locket, and came before Amster.

He raised his head, his small face wearing a rare solemnity.

"When you raised your sword just now, the light on the blade—the silver-blue and Gryffindor's golden-red fused together. I've lived for so many years and taught Charms for so many years, yet I've never seen this color in any literature."

Amster looked down at him.

"That is not a charm."

Flitwick blinked, then slowly nodded.

He did not pursue the question.

Snape had been standing at the edge of the entrance hall all along.

From Amster raising the sword to the sword falling, to the locket shattering, Kreacher crying, and everyone conversing—he had not moved a single step.

His black robes hung at his sides, like a shadow forgotten in a corner.

When Amster's gaze swept across that shadow, their lines of sight intersected for an instant.

Snape's expression did not change at all.

But his right hand hanging at his side, that hand forever stained with traces of potion, had its fingers slightly curled.

Exactly the same posture as yesterday after holding the sword of Gryffindor in the Headmaster's Office.

Then Snape turned around, his black robes billowing slightly, and walked toward the deeper, denser darkness of the entrance hall.

Amster knew what he was going to do—in this mansion, Salazar Slytherin had spoken of more than one unclean thing.

The Horcrux was the most dangerous among them, but not the only one.

Snape was using his own way to clear away the remaining gloom.

Chapter 122 Aftermath

After Snape's black robes disappeared around the corner of the hallway deep inside the foyer, the silence lingered for a moment longer.

Sirius finally stood up.

His hand moved away from Kreacher's back, hanging by his side, clenching once before relaxing.

He looked down at the hunched house-elf at his feet — Kreacher's forehead was still pressed against the carpet, against the crest of the House of Black.

His scrawny shoulders no longer heaved violently, only twitching occasionally, like lingering swells on the sea after a storm.

"This house." Sirius spoke, his voice hoarse, as if he were forcing every word out from his throat, "I had intended never to return."

He paused for a long time.

McGonagall stood at the foot of the stairs, still holding the pointed hat, without urging him.

Sprout gently wiped the corner of her eyes with a handkerchief.

Flitwick sat on the third step of the stairs, his small body curled up into a ball, listening quietly.

"But Regulus did something I never did."

Sirius's gaze fell on that unmoving photograph — the photo was still upstairs, with Regulus wearing the Slytherin school robes, his features delicate and solemn, no smile at the corners of his mouth, but his eyes very bright.

"He discovered Voldemort's secret.

Then he decided to die, just to swap out a Horcrux.

He didn't even tell anyone."

Kreacher's whimpering stopped completely.

"You hid the locket for twelve years.

You tried every way to destroy it.

You kept this secret for him until you were almost driven mad."

Sirius's Adam's apple bobbed.

He didn't look at Kreacher, his gaze falling on the two fragments of the locket before him, his voice lighter than before.

"Regulus would be proud of you."

Kreacher raised his head.

In those bloodshot, oversized eyes, something shattered completely.

After being trapped in the darkness for twelve years, a house-elf heard someone say for the first time: "You have done well enough."

He didn't speak, only lowering his head again, his forehead pressed against the carpet, his scrawny fingers slowly reaching out to finally touch the two fragments of the locket.

The metal was icy cold, the ashes long since cooled.

He cupped it in his palm like holding a withered leaf, and his shoulders began to tremble again.

Dumbledore folded his hands in front of him and turned to Sirius.

"This house, how do you plan to deal with it?"

Sirius was silent for a moment.

"Can't sell it, can't burn it.

The Fidelius Charm is bound to the bloodline; as long as there are still living members of the House of Black, this house will always exist."

The corners of his mouth twitched, not a smile.

"I originally thought that once I died, it would probably collapse on its own."

"Perhaps it can serve another purpose."

Dumbledore said.

The old man's blue eyes gleamed slightly in the dim light of the foyer.

"Voldemort has returned.

The last time he was in power, we had an organization — a place where we could share intelligence, support each other, and look out for one another in the dark.

That place no longer exists."

He paused, "But this house, the ancestral home of the House of Black, a house protected by the Fidelius Charmfor two hundred years, can become a new stronghold.

If you are willing."

Sirius looked around the foyer.

Those silent portraits — his mother Walburga still hung at the corner of the stairs, her lips tightly sealed, her eyeballs protruding, but making no sound anymore; the portraits of other House of Black heads were also awake, but not a single one dared to open their mouth again within this door.

That steep staircase, that faded carpet, the house-elf with his forehead pressed against the ground, and the two withered-leaf-like locket fragments in the center of the carpet.

"The Order of the Phoenix."

He said.

Dumbledore nodded.

Sirius was silent for a long time again.

Then he walked over to Kreacher and squatted down once more.

"Kreacher."

The house-elf's shoulders stiffened.

"This house, starting today, belongs to the Order of the Phoenix.

You are still the house-elf here.

No one will drive you away, no one will order you to do anything you are unwilling to do."

He paused, his voice turning somewhat dry.

"But there is one thing I need you to promise."

Kreacher slowly raised his head.

His face was covered in tear stains, and the years of grime embedded in his wrinkles had been washed into a few pale streaks.

"If one day, I am no longer here."

Sirius said, "You guarded that locket for Regulus for twelve years.

If one day I am not here, you will guard this house for me.

Not for the glory of the House of Black — but for those who will come and go here.

Those who fight against Voldemort."

Kreacher's large eyes looked at him.

Silence stretched for a long time.

Long enough that in the foyer there remained only the subtle sound of a mouse crawling through pipes in the distant kitchen, long enough for Flitwick to change posture on the steps, long enough for Sprout to completely crumple her handkerchief into a ball.

Then, Kreacher spoke a sentence.

His voice was hoarse and broken.

"Kreacher... Kreacher is willing."

Sirius reached out his hand.

A palm-up hand waiting for a response.

Kreacher stared at that hand for a long time.

Then, he reached out his own scrawny hand, with grime deeply embedded in the gaps of his fingernails, and gently placed it in Sirius's palm.

Professor McGonagall gently cleared her throat.

"We need to return to Hogwarts."

Her voice resumed its usual crisp and decisive rhythm, but was a shade lighter than normal, "Matters here have temporarily come to an end, but there is a whole summer's worth of preparation work waiting for us at the school.

In addition —"

She glanced at Dumbledore, "I believe Amster still has matters to report to the four founders."

Dumbledore nodded.

He bent down, gently taking the two fragments of the locket from Kreacher's hands, and tucked them into the inside of his robes.

Then he turned to Sirius.

"You stay here.

Make a list of the things that need to be cleared out.

Severus has already checked the basement and the kitchen, there shouldn't be anything dangerous left.

But you know this house better than anyone — which things are Dark Magic objects, and which are just your mother's old tea sets, only you can tell them apart."

Sirius snorted, not a smile, but the corners of his mouth were finally not tautened quite so tightly.

"My mother's old tea sets probably count as Dark Magic objects too."

The corners of Dumbledore's mouth curved slightly upward.

"Then that makes it all the more necessary for you to judge."

Everyone filed toward the door.

Amster walked at the very back.

He paused a step on the threshold, turning back to glance at the foyer.

Walburga's portrait was still silent at the corner of the stairs, her eyeballs still protruding, her lips still tightly sealed, but her gaze fell upon the aging house-elf.

Kreacher was still kneeling on the carpet, but his hand was still holding Sirius's hand, not letting go.

Amster turned around and walked out of Grimmauld PlaceNumber Twelve.

London's morning light had completely dispersed the mist.

The gap between Number Eleven and Number Thirteen returned to its original state, leaving only a distortedly squeezed brick wall.

A tabby cat crouched atop the wall, watching with yellow eyes as this group of people walked out from the void, then lazily yawned, jumped off the wall, and disappeared into the alley.

Dumbledore raised his arm.

"We are returning to the castle.

Gather at the Headmaster's Office — Minerva, please notify Pomona and Filius.

Severus should still be in the mansion, no need to wait for him."

McGonagall nodded and took the lead with Apparition.

Sprout and Flitwick followed closely behind.

After three soft pops, only Amster and Dumbledore were left on the street.

"You asked me a question just now in the foyer."

Dumbledore said.

He didn't look at Amster, his gaze falling upon that invisible mansion in the distance.

"You asked me if I knew what kind of vessel he would choose."

Amster did not answer.

"I have no definitive evidence, only deductions based on his personality and obsessions."

The old man finally turned around, his blue eyes appearing exceptionally clear in the morning light, yet also exceptionally weary.

"Voldemort is extremely obsessed with his own specialness, obsessed with pureblood lineage and the glory of the founders of magic; he would only select items of extraordinary significance to himself to serve as vessels to carry his soul."

"Gaunt's ring, binding the bloodline of his maternal ancestors the Peverells; Slytherin's locket, being the symbol of his status as the heir of Slytherin.

Neither of these two items fails to corroborate his obsession."

Dumbledore's voice was even, carrying deep thought, "Inferring from this, Hufflepuff's cup, Ravenclaw's diadem — these two founders' relics are highly likely to have been targeted by him long ago as candidate vessels for Horcruxes."

Amster repeated this deduction, his fingertips tightening slightly.

"Two known, two suspected."

"Perhaps far beyond that."

Dumbledore said softly, his gaze looking into the distance, as if seeing through time, looking toward the adolescent Tom Riddle, "The essence of creating a Horcrux is splitting the soul; every single split makes the soul more fragmented and more mad.

And what he pursues is the ultimate eternity, absolute immortality; once he takes the first step of splitting his soul, he will never easily stop."

He looked at Amster, his voice becoming even lighter, yet carrying a heavy weight.

"Do you understand what this means?"

Amster did not answer immediately.

He thought of that mass of gray mist surging from the locket, thought of how when it tried to seduce him, that fragmentation and loneliness hidden beneath the madness.

A single torn piece of soul was already like this, if multiple pieces of soul were stripped from their main body, what remained of the person once called Tom Riddle might only be endless darkness and paranoia.

"It means his soul is already shattered to the point where almost nothing of it remains inside his own body.

Every single Horcrux is a weakness of his.

Find them, destroy them — and he becomes a man who can be killed."

Dumbledore looked at him, silent for a long time.

Then the old man smiled slightly.

That smile was very faint, very light, as if a sense of relief, or perhaps something deeper that Amster could not yet read.

"Let's go.

The founders are still waiting for us to report our progress."

Dumbledore extended his arm.

Amster grasped his forearm.

The crushing sensation of Apparition surged from all directions, pulling away London's morning light, the brick wall, the cat on the wall, and the invisible Grimmauld Place Number Twelve all at once.

When they stood firm again, the castle of Hogwartsalready stood before them in the morning light, its spires and towers gleaming with a familiar grayish-gold luster.

The foyer was empty, Peeves having no idea where he had hidden.

Dumbledore straightened his robes and walked toward the direction of the spiral staircase.

Amster followed behind him, the sound of their footsteps echoing softly against the stone walls.

The door to the Headmaster's Office was open, and the portraits were all waiting.