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On The Hunt: Chapter 36
🕑 Added 2025-05-15 16:30:02 +0000 UTCDawn broke over Black Rock with a reluctant gray light that seemed to mirror the mood within its walls. Harry woke with a start, his heart hammering against his ribs before he registered Daphne's warm weight beside him, her hair splayed across his chest. For a moment, he allowed himself to simply breathe, to feel her steady heartbeat against his side, before the memories of Azkaban came flooding back—the chaos, the screams, the terrible blue fire, and the loss.
Benjy Fenwick. Elphias Doge. Stalwarts of the first war. Gone. And there will be more in the future. The mere thought of it made him shudder.
Releasing a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, he slipped from the bed carefully, trying not to wake Daphne, but her eyes fluttered open anyway, instantly alert. "Morning," she murmured, her voice still thick with sleep but her eyes sharp as she took in his tense posture. "Bad dreams?"
"No dreams at all, actually," Harry replied, running a hand through his messy hair. "Just... reality."
Daphne sat up, the blanket falling to her waist as she reached for him. "I know. Come here."
He sat back on the edge of the bed, and she wrapped her arms around him from behind, her chin resting on his shoulder. The weight of her body against his back was comforting. He felt his breathing slow down to match hers.
"You're thinking about what comes next, aren't you?" she asked quietly. Her fingers moved up and down his arm in a gentle touch.
Harry nodded. "I keep seeing their faces. All the people who died. All the ones who won't see the end of this."
Daphne hugged him tighter. The morning sun coming through the window made the room warmer around them.
"They would want us to keep going," she said, her voice getting stronger. "They would want us to finish this." She put her hand over his heart. "We do it for them too."
He put his hand over hers and squeezed it. They'd been through so much together in the past months. Preparing, enduring, planning. Sometimes, they couldn’t believe they’d come to trust each other with their lives.
"When did you start making so much sense?" he asked with a small smile as he turned to look at her.
She gave a short laugh. "I've always made sense, Potter. You just never listened before." Her words were teasing but kind.
Harry turned around to face her properly. He took both her hands in his. Her skin was cool from the morning air, so he rubbed her hands gently to warm them.
"I'm glad you're here," he said simply. "These last few months... I don't know how I would have managed without you."
Daphne looked at him directly. When they were alone like this, she didn't have the hard expression she showed to others. "We've helped each other," she said, reaching up to brush his hair off his forehead. The scar there was nonexistent, and he smiled when she stroked the skin where it used to be. "That's what we do now."
They leaned forward until their foreheads touched. They sat quietly for a minute. Harry closed his eyes, feeling better just having her there. Tomorrow would be hard, but right now was okay.
Daphne's fingers moved to the nape of his neck, gently massaging the tension she found there. "You carry too much," she murmured, her voice barely audible.
"So do you," he countered, opening his eyes to find hers already watching him, sapphire blue meeting emerald green.
She smiled, a rare full smile that transformed her usually guarded features. "Then we'll carry it together. Isn't that what you Gryffindors are always preaching? Sharing burdens and all that sentimental nonsense?"
Harry couldn't help but laugh, the sound surprising him with how genuine it was. He didn’t think he could laugh after the events of the previous day.
"And here I thought Slytherins were all about self-preservation,” he smiled.
"We are," she replied, her smile turning mischievous as she leaned in closer. "And I've decided that preserving you is essential to preserving myself. Quite practical, really."
He brushed a strand of blonde hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. "Practical," he repeated, his tone warm with affection. "Is that what we're calling this?"
Instead of answering, Daphne closed the distance between them, her lips meeting his in a kiss that spoke of comfort and longing in equal measure. Harry's hand moved to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing against her skin as the kiss deepened, both of them pouring their fears and hopes into this moment.
When they finally parted, Daphne rested her head against his shoulder, and he wrapped his arms around her, holding her close as the morning light grew stronger around them.
"I didn't think it would be like this," Harry said after a while. "Us, I mean."
"Me neither," Daphne admitted. "If someone told me last year I'd be here with you like this..."
"You'd have hexed them?"
"Probably," she agreed with a small laugh. "But things change. People change."
Harry nodded. "You still scare most people, you know."
"Good," she said firmly. "I like it that way. Keeps them from bothering me."
"You don't scare me," he said.
She pulled back to look at him with raised eyebrows. "Maybe you're not as smart as I thought."
They both laughed at that, and it felt good. Normal, almost. Like they were just two regular people.
"Remember the first time we talked?" Harry asked. "Really talked, I mean. Back in second year. In the library."
"You spilled ink all over my essay," Daphne reminded him. "I nearly cursed you."
"But you didn't."
"I was too shocked that Harry Potter was actually apologizing to a Slytherin," she said.
Harry shrugged. "You helped me find that book I needed. Even though you didn't have to."
"I still don't know why I did that," she said thoughtfully. "Maybe I was sick that day."
He smiled and touched her face gently. "Or maybe you're nicer than you want people to think."
"Don't tell anyone," she said with mock seriousness. "I have a reputation."
Harry leaned in and kissed her again, softer this time. "Your secret's safe with me."
They stayed like that for a moment, drawing strength from each other, before a soft knock at the door broke the silence.
"Harry? Daphne?" Sirius’ voice came through. "Everyone's gathering downstairs. Augusta says it's time."
Harry felt a weight settle in his chest. "Tell her we'll be right there."
They dressed quickly and in silence, throwing on fresh clothes that someone—probably Ginny or Tracey—had left outside their door during the night. As they made their way down the creaking stairs of Black Rock, the murmur of voices grew louder, a somber air that matched the heavy sky visible through the windows.
The ballroom had been transformed overnight. Gone were the maps and charts and scattered furniture. Only Sirius and Amelia stood there, seemingly waiting for them.
“Everyone’s already left,” Sirius said, holding out a rope. Harry and Daphne grabbed hold of it, and with a firm tug at their navel, they were whisked away.
XXXXX
They emerged in a mausoleum.
In front of them stood rows of chairs facing a simple wooden platform where two shrouded forms lay side by side, each covered with a cloth bearing the symbol of the Order of the Phoenix—a rising bird embroidered in gold thread against deep purple.
"Dumbledore transfigured them," Tracey said quietly as Harry and Daphne approached her. Her eyes were rimmed with red, her face haggard.
Neville stood at her side, his hand clasped with hers in silent support. Behind them, the clearing was filled with people—all the survivors from yesterday's mission, plus those who had remained at Black Rock, and a fair few whom they didn’t recognize.
"Who are they?" Harry asked, nodding toward a cluster of older wizards and witches standing near the back.
"Old friends," Dumbledore answered, appearing suddenly at Harry's elbow. "Colleagues of Benjy and Elphias from their Ministry days. They came as soon as they heard." The ancient wizard looked even older today, the lines in his face carved deeper, and his bright blue eyes dimmed behind half-moon spectacles. "It is time to say goodbye."
Everyone took their seats, and Augusta Longbottom stepped onto the platform. Her tall figure, usually so imposing with that ridiculous vulture-topped hat, seemed somehow more dignified today in simple black robes, her gray hair pulled back severely from her lined face.
"We gather today," she began, her voice strong despite her age, "to honor Benjy Fenwick and Elphias Doge. Warriors. Friends. Heroes."
Harry felt Daphne's hand slip into his as Augusta continued, her words painting a picture of the two men—Benjy with his booming laugh and talent for breaking curses, Elphias with his quiet wisdom and unwavering loyalty.
"I knew Elphias for over sixty years," Augusta said, her stern gaze sweeping the room. "He was there when my Harold and I were married. He held Neville as a baby. He stood with us after Frank and Alice..." She paused, swallowing hard, and beside Harry, Neville ducked his head. "And Benjy—that boy could make even Alastor Moody crack a smile when he was in the right mood. He fought in the first war, survived things that would have broken lesser wizards, only to fall now."
Her voice hardened. "Some would call their deaths a tragedy. A waste. But I say they died as they lived—fighting for what was right. Standing against the darkness." Augusta straightened, her spine like iron. "And we will honor them not with tears, though Merlin knows they deserve them, but with action. With resolve. With victory."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the assembled group. Harry glanced around, seeing determination hardening on faces still streaked with grief—Bill's jaw clenched tight, Tonks with her hair a somber black rather than its usual vibrant pink, McGonagall's thin lips pressed into a line so firm they'd nearly disappeared.
"Now," Augusta continued, "as is our tradition, if anyone wishes to speak about Benjy or Elphias, please do so."
One by one, people stood to share memories. Moody gruffly recounted a mission with Benjy during the first war, his magical eye spinning wildly as if looking for threats even as he spoke of his fallen comrade. McGonagall shared a story about Elphias singing Scottish drinking songs at three in the morning after a particularly tense Order meeting years ago. Sirius spoke of both men's kindness when he'd first escaped Azkaban, how they'd been among the first to believe in his innocence.
When the last person had spoken, Dumbledore stepped forward, raising his wand. Soft music began to play—a haunting melody that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.
"Benjy always said he wanted to go out in a blaze of glory," Bill said softly as the cloths covering the two forms began to glow with a gentle light. "Guess he got his wish."
The light grew brighter, and the shrouded forms slowly rose into the air, hovering a few feet above the platform. Then, as the music swelled, they dissolved into thousands of tiny points of golden light that drifted upward, swirling like fireflies before streaming out through the windows and into the gray morning sky.
A profound silence fell over the room as the last traces of light vanished. Then Augusta cleared her throat.
"And now," she said firmly, "we get back to work. Because that's what they would expect of us."
XXXXX
The Black Rock was depressing, and no one wanted to spend another minute in that dilapidated excuse of a manor. However, they had to return once the funeral concluded, for their prisoners were stationed there, and their work was not finished.
Harry felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to find Sirius looking at him with tired eyes.
"You alright?" he asked quietly.
Harry nodded, though the lump in his throat made it hard to speak. "Yeah. You?"
Sirius gave a small, sad smile. "Getting there. Amelia's..." he glanced across the room to where the stern witch was now conferring with Moody, "she's been my rock through this."
"I'm glad," Harry said sincerely, clapping his godfather on the arm. "You deserve that."
"We all do," Sirius replied, his gaze shifting to include Daphne, who stood talking with Tracey nearby. "Some happiness in all this mess." He straightened, a familiar gleam entering his eyes. "Speaking of messes, it's time we had a chat with our guests upstairs. You coming?"
Harry nodded, and together they made their way through the bustling room toward where Dumbledore stood with Amelia, Augusta, and Moody—the unofficial leadership council that had formed in the wake of the previous day’s disaster.
"—should be awake by now," Moody was saying as they approached. "Stunner's would've worn off hours ago."
"And the Veritaserum?" Augusta asked, all business despite the dark circles under her eyes.
"Ready," Amelia confirmed. "Three drops each, as per protocol."
"Who's going in?" Harry asked, joining the circle.
Dumbledore regarded him over his half-moon spectacles. "I believe a small group would be best. Intimidating but not overwhelming. Myself, Alastor, Amelia, and..." he paused, considering, "you, Harry, if you feel up to it."
"Me?" Harry blinked in surprise. "Why?"
"Because you're the one he fears most," Moody growled, his magical eye swiveling to fix on Harry. "The Boy Who Lived. The one to defeat him all those years ago. Seeing you might rattle our guests enough to get something useful even without the Veritaserum."
"I'm coming too," Daphne said, appearing at Harry's side as if she'd been part of the conversation all along. When Dumbledore opened his mouth to object, she cut him off with a look that would have made Professor Snape proud.
Augusta's lips twitched in what might have been approval. "The girl has spirit. I see no harm in her going with you lot."
"Very well," Dumbledore conceded.
The small group made their way up the winding staircase to the eastern wing, where Fred and George stood guard outside a heavy wooden door, their usually cheerful faces uncharacteristically grim.
"All quiet?" Moody asked.
"Amycus Carrow woke up about an hour ago," Fred reported. "Started screaming bloody murder until George hit him with a Silencing Charm."
"His sister joined the party about twenty minutes later," George added. "Quieter, but nastier. Been trying to wandlessly cast something ever since—you can see her lips moving."
"And Travers?"
"Awake but silent," Fred said, his expression darkening. "Just sitting there, staring at the wall. Creepy git."
"Good," Moody growled. "Let's see how long that lasts." He pulled out a small vial filled with clear liquid. "Who's first?"
"Travers," Dumbledore decided. "He was closest to the inner circle."
Moody nodded and tapped his wand against the door in a complex pattern. The heavy wood swung open to reveal a small, stark room that had clearly once been a storage closet, now magically expanded and reinforced. Three cells lined the far wall, separated by iron bars that glowed faintly with protective enchantments.
In the leftmost cell, a tall, gaunt man with greying hair sat on a narrow cot, his hollow eyes fixed on the middle distance. He didn't look up as they entered, didn't even seem to register their presence until Moody rapped his wooden leg against the bars with a sharp clang.
"Rise and shine, Travers," the ex-Auror barked. "You've got visitors."
Slowly, Travers raised his head, his sunken eyes taking in each of them before settling on Harry with a flicker of something—fear? Hatred? Both?
"Potter," he said, his voice a dry rasp. "Come to gloat?"
"Come to talk," Harry replied evenly, stepping closer to the bars. "About Voldemort."
The Death Eater flinched at the name, and tried to mask it with a sneer. In the other two cells, the Carrow twins gasped, cowering.
"Nothing to say,” Travers muttered.
"Oh, I think you'll find yourself quite chatty in a moment," Amelia said coolly, nodding to Moody.
With a flick of his wand, Moody bound Travers to his cot, invisible ropes pinning his arms and legs. Another motion had the Death Eater's head tilted back, his jaw forced open.
"Three drops," Dumbledore murmured as Moody approached with the Veritaserum.
The clear liquid fell onto Travers' tongue, and almost immediately, his face went slack, his eyes glazing over. Moody released the binding spell, and Travers sat upright again, now looking oddly docile.
"State your name," Amelia began, the formal protocol of an Auror interrogation.
"Edward Alexander Travers," came the monotone reply.
"Are you a Death Eater?"
"Yes."
"When did you join Voldemort's ranks?"
"1978. I was twenty-two."
"Were you present at Azkaban yesterday?"
"Yes."
The questions continued, establishing the basics before delving deeper. Harry watched as Travers answered each one without hesitation, the powerful truth serum stripping away any resistance. Next to him, Daphne stood rigid, her eyes never leaving the Death Eater's face.
"Where is Voldemort's current base of operations?" Dumbledore asked, leaning forward slightly.
"I don’t know," Travers replied tonelessly.
“Makes sense. Voldemort was there to break them out, not discuss plans,” Daphne muttered.
"How many Death Eaters are with him now?" Moody pressed.
"The inner circle—Bellatrix, Dolohov, the Lestrange brothers, Malfoy, Nott, Rowle, Rookwood. Crabbe. Goyle…" He kept taking names in the same monotone voice.
"What are his current plans?" Dumbledore asked, his voice gentle but insistent.
Travers blinked slowly. "Recruitment. Building forces. The Dark Lord will build the greatest army ever seen.”
None of it was news to them. They already knew the giants had already pledged allegiance. Hagrid had sent the message a while ago. They also knew Voldemort was in working on starting negotiations with the vampire clans as well. And then there was Greyback, whose task was to rally the werewolves to the Death Eater cause.
"Voldemort is too prideful to change tactics," Harry remarked, earning everyone’s attention. "He knew he would’ve won last time if not for what happened. It would makes sense that someone like him would carry on with those plans.”
Dumbledore nodded in agreement. “Last time, Tom went to take down the Ministry first. I believe he would’ve targeted Hogwarts next. Once both fell, the rest of the country would’ve followed within days.
“Is the correct?" Harry asked firmly.
“Yes.”
“That checks out then,” Harry muttered.
"And has Voldemort ever mentioned any... objects of particular importance? Items he keeps close or protected?" Dumbledore asked suddenly, earning curious looks from everyone around him.
A flicker of confusion crossed Travers' drugged expression. "He used to guard something. A golden cup that looked enchanted and quite expensive. Kept it with him always or left it with Bellatrix."
Harry saw Dumbledore's eyes sharpen with interest.
“Can you describe it more? Be as detailed as you can.”
The command took hold firmly, as Travers began speaking. “Small, gold, about the size of a teacup. Real polished, expensive-looking. There was a badger carved into the side, looking like Hufflepuff’s symbol. Handles on both sides, thin and curved. Magic rolled off it. You could feel it in the air around it. It was old. Like, really old. But in perfect condition. Not a scratch.”
“Hufflepuff’s cup?” Amelia asked in shock as Harry and Daphne exchanged a look.
"Anything else?" the headmaster pressed. "Any other objects he has ever seemed unusually protective of?"
"I don't know," Travers said, the Veritaserum compelling honesty. "The Dark Lord doesn't share everything, even with the inner circle. Especially towards the end. He'd been... different in the last few weeks. More secretive. More volatile."
The answer seemed to have mollified Dumbledore because he nodded and leaned back, straightening once again. Harry glanced at the old wizard curiously, only to find him engrossed in some deep thoughts.
They continued questioning Travers for a while, trying to extract every scrap of information they could about Voldemort's forces, plans, and allies. Most of it was information from the previous war, but even that was valuable.
When they'd exhausted that line of inquiry, they moved on to the Carrow twins, who proved to be even less valuable sources—lower in the hierarchy, privy to fewer secrets, but still able to confirm much of what Travers had revealed.
By the time they finished with Alecto Carrow, Amycus’ twin sister, Harry felt drained, his head pounding with the weight of everything they'd learned. The picture they'd assembled was grim: Voldemort was going to be gathering an army more extensive than even Dumbledore had feared, with plans already in motion that made their previous skirmishes look like child's play.
"Lock them back up," Moody ordered Fred and George as they left the interrogation room. "Stasis charms every four hours. We can't risk them somehow breaking free."
"Yes, sir," the twins replied in unison, looking unusually serious.
The impromptu war council reconvened in the ballroom, where Dumbledore quickly shared the intelligence they'd gathered with the rest of the Order members. Maps were updated, timelines revised, and faces grew grimmer by the minute.
"Little to go on," Sirius muttered, tracing his wand on one of the maps. "We knew it’d be like this. Those lot upstairs have been rotting in Azkaban since the war ended. No way they know the current plans or anything of note."
"It’d be safe to assume the current plans are to lay low and build numbers,” Bill added, frowning. “Which means no fixed location either.”
“A part of me feels he’s in Little Hangleton,” Harry said suddenly, glancing around when he saw eyes on him. “That’s where the graveyard is.”
"Possible, but we'd be expected," Daphne pointed out. "After Azkaban, Voldemort has to know we'll come hunting, and he’d also know we’d think of that village."
Augusta snorted. "Of course he’d know."
While the others debated, Harry noticed Dumbledore quietly slipping away toward a small door at the back of the ballroom. The old wizard caught his eye and gave a slight nod before disappearing through it. Without a word to the others, Harry followed, instinctively knowing this was a conversation meant for him alone.
He found Dumbledore in what appeared to be an old study, dust covers still draped over most of the furniture. The headmaster stood by a narrow window, looking out at the churning sea below the cliffs, his hands clasped behind his back.
"Close the door, Harry," he said without turning around.
Harry did as asked and waited, sensing that whatever Dumbledore was about to say required careful consideration.
"I believe it is time," Dumbledore finally said, turning to face him, "for me to tell you everything. About Tom Riddle. About why he survived that night in Godric's Hollow. About why he was able to return in that graveyard this past summer."
"It's more than just the prophecy, isn't it?" Harry said, taking a seat in one of the dusty armchairs. "There's something else."
"Indeed." Dumbledore sighed heavily, suddenly looking every one of his many years. "Tell me, Harry, what do you know about Horcruxes?"
"Horcruxes?" Harry frowned. "Nothing. I've never heard the term."
"I'm not surprised. It is among the darkest of magical arts, so foul that most books have been purged of any mention of it." Dumbledore settled into the chair opposite Harry's. "A Horcrux, Harry, is an object in which a Dark wizard has hidden a fragment of their soul."
Harry stared at him, trying to process this. "Their soul? But why—"
"To achieve immortality," Dumbledore said gravely. "As long as that fragment of soul remains earthbound and undamaged, the wizard who created the Horcrux cannot truly die, even if their body is destroyed."
A cold realization washed over Harry as the pieces clicked into place. "That's how he survived when the Killing Curse rebounded. And how he was able to come back."
"Precisely," Dumbledore nodded. "To create a Horcrux is a violation of the deepest laws of nature. It requires an act of supreme evil—murder—to split the soul, and then a spell of terrible power to encase that fragment in an object."
Harry's mind was racing. "So Voldemort has one of these... Horcruxes? And that's why he didn't die?"
"I believe Tom Riddle has created more than one Horcrux, Harry."
The statement hung in the air like a thunderclap. Harry felt the blood drain from his face.
"More than one? Is that even possible?"
"Unprecedented, but yes, possible for a wizard of Tom’s abilities and determination," Dumbledore confirmed. "And based on certain... patterns I have observed, I believe he aimed for a specific number, though I cannot yet be certain what that number is."
Harry leaned forward, his hands gripping his knees. "Have we... have we destroyed any of them?"
"Yes," Dumbledore said, a glimmer of pride in his blue eyes. "You did, Harry. In your second year."
"The diary," Harry breathed, understanding immediately. "Riddle's diary that possessed Ginny."
"Indeed. That diary was more than a memory, Harry. It was a piece of Voldemort's soul, preserved from when he was sixteen years old. When you pierced it with the basilisk fang, you destroyed that soul fragment."
Harry sat back, stunned by the implications. "And now we need to find and destroy the others before we can actually kill him."
"Before he can be defeated permanently, yes." Dumbledore nodded solemnly. "I have been researching, hunting for clues about what objects Tom might have chosen and where he might have hidden them."
"The cup," Harry said suddenly, remembering Travers' words. "Hufflepuff’s cup. That has to be a Horcrux, right?"
"I believe so," Dumbledore confirmed. "The cup certainly fits Tom's pattern—he always coveted objects of historical significance, particularly those connected to Hogwarts founders."
"So we need to destroy the cup," Harry said, his mind already turning to how they might accomplish this. "And are there others?"
Dumbledore hesitated, and Harry could see him weighing how much to reveal. "I have suspicions about other objects," he said finally. "But I need more evidence before I can be certain. What I can tell you is that Horcruxes can only be destroyed by something so powerfully destructive that the Horcrux cannot repair itself. Basilisk venom, as you've discovered, is one such substance."
"Fiendfyre," came Daphne's voice from the doorway. Both Harry and Dumbledore turned to find her standing there, her expression grave. "That would work too, wouldn't it?"
"Miss Greengrass," Dumbledore acknowledged with a slight nod. "Your timing is impeccable, and your knowledge, as ever, impressive."
"I followed Harry," she admitted, stepping into the room and closing the door behind her. She moved to stand beside Harry's chair, her hand resting on his shoulder. "If Voldemort has made multiple of these things, then we're dealing with something far beyond what we imagined."
"Indeed we are," Dumbledore agreed. "And yes, Fiendfyre would be effective, though extraordinarily dangerous to wield."
"The sword," Harry said suddenly, remembering. "Gryffindor's sword—it killed the basilisk, so it's impregnated with basilisk venom now. That could destroy Horcruxes too."
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled with approval. "Very good, Harry. Yes, the Sword of Gryffindor would indeed be an excellent tool for our purpose."
"So what's the plan?" Daphne asked, all business. "We locate these Horcruxes and destroy them, then take the fight to Voldemort?"
"Essentially, yes, though the first part may prove challenging," Dumbledore sighed. "I have been trying to track them down for some time now, with limited success. The diary is gone, and thanks to our prisoners, we now know about the cup. But I suspect there are others."
"How many would he have made?" Harry asked.
Dumbledore's expression grew troubled. "That is a question I have been trying to answer. Tom was always drawn to powerful magical numbers. Seven is traditionally considered the most magically powerful number..."
"Seven Horcruxes?" Daphne looked aghast.
"Six Horcruxes," Dumbledore corrected. "The seventh piece would remain in his body. But again, this is speculation. He may have chosen another significant number."
Harry stood up, unable to sit still with the weight of this revelation bearing down on him. "So this is why you've been distant this past year. Why you've been disappearing from Hogwarts. You've been hunting these things."
"Among other duties, yes," Dumbledore admitted. "I had hoped to locate and destroy more of them before involving you, Harry. But after yesterday's events, it's clear we must accelerate our efforts."
"Why tell me now?" Harry asked, then immediately answered his own question. "Because I've already destroyed one. Because the prophecy says I have 'power the Dark Lord knows not.' Because in the end, it has to be me."
Dumbledore's eyes were sad but determined. "You have always risen to challenges far beyond what anyone should ask of someone your age, Harry. I would spare you this burden if I could, but—"
"But you can't," Harry finished for him. "I understand. I've always known, somehow, that it would come down to him and me." He felt Daphne's hand tighten on his shoulder, and he reached up to cover it with his own. "But I'm not alone in this. None of us are."
A knock at the door interrupted them, and Sirius poked his head in. "There you are. We've been looking all over—" He stopped, taking in their serious expressions. "What did I miss?"
Harry looked to Dumbledore, silently asking him to share what they'd discussed. Dumbledore frowned but nodded.
"Sirius, please join us," Dumbledore said, conjuring another chair with a wave of his wand. "We were just discussing Voldemort's immortality strategy."
As Sirius entered and closed the door, Harry caught him up on what they'd learned about Horcruxes, watching his godfather's face shift from confusion to horror to grim determination.
"So that's how the bastard kept coming back," Sirius muttered when Harry finished. "Split his soul into pieces. No wonder he looks barely human anymore."
"Precisely," Dumbledore agreed. "The creation of even one Horcrux damages the soul irreparably. Multiple Horcruxes would have... profound effects."
"And we've got to find and destroy all of them before we can end him for good," Sirius summarized, running a hand through his long hair. "Well, at least now we know what we're up against."
"Knowledge is power," Daphne said quietly, "But in this case, it's also a heavy burden."
Harry met her eyes, seeing the fear she was trying to hide, but also the unwavering support. "We'll find them," he said with more confidence than he felt. "All of them. And then we'll end this."
"Together," she reminded him, echoing their promise from the night before.
"Together," Harry agreed, looking around at the three people in the room—his godfather, his betrothed, and his mentor. Despite the enormity of the task ahead, he felt a surge of determination. Voldemort might have split his soul in his quest for immortality, but Harry stood whole, surrounded by people who would fight beside him until the end.
Dumbledore rose from his chair, his blue eyes once again bright with purpose. "Let us rejoin the others. We have much to plan."
As they filed out of the small study and back toward the bustling war room, Harry caught Daphne's hand in his, squeezing it gently. Whatever came next—Horcruxes, Death Eaters, Voldemort himself—they would face it as they had faced everything else.
Together.
To be continued…
