Chapter 269: The First Hunt
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The array of contorted lights and scenery flashed past Quinn's eyes.
His feet landed on the solid ground after apparating through the fabric of space. He stretched his extremities, relieving himself of the usual feeling of being stuffed through a narrow tube.
Quinn raised his face hidden behind the Noir mask to glance upon the majesty of the blazing summer sun. He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the new light.
He stood in a country lane bordered by high, tangled hedgerows, beneath a summer sky as bright and blue as a forget-me-not. Some ten feet in front of him walked a little girl with pigtails, skipping down the dusty road with a thing of flowers in hand. The girl passed by Quinn, seemingly oblivious to his masked and hooded presence under the anti-muggle charm covering him.
Quinn walked forward with deft steps on the path he had surveyed multiple times before during the initial scouting of his target destination. He stopped and stared at the wooden signpost that stuck out of the brambles on the left-hand side of the road. The wooden sign had two arms. The one pointing in the direction the little girl had walked toward read: GREAT HANGLETON, 5 MILES. The other arm, which pointed to the front, said, LITTLE HANGLETON, 1 MILE.
He walked the short path with grass on either side with nothing to see but the hedgerows, the vast blue sky overhead, and his own light footsteps. Then the lane curved to the left and fell away, sloping steeply down a hillside so that he had a sudden unexpected view of a whole valley laid out in front of him. Quinn could see a village, undoubtedly Little Hangleton, nestled between two steep hills, its church and graveyard clearly visible. Across the valley, set on the opposite hillside, was a once handsome manor house surrounded by a wide expanse of eerier weed-covered lawn.
Quinn looked down the downward sloping hill with a steep angle and considered if he should trot down but decided against it. He stepped forward, and the winds came sweeping in beneath Quinn's feet, lifting him a foot above the ground as he glided down the slope.
If he continued down to the base, he would have reached Little Hangleton; however, the village wasn't his final destination. He rounded right on a curve and entered upon a narrow dirt track bordered by higher and wilder hedgerows than those he had left behind. The path was crooked, rocky, and potholed, sloping downhill like the last one, and at the end of it was a patch of dark trees a little below him. The track soon opened up at the copse, and Quinn cut the gliding winds and came to a halt on the ground.
Despite the cloudless sky, the old trees ahead cast deep, dark, cool shadows, and despite having scouted the area before, it took a few seconds before he could discern the building half-hidden amongst the tangle of trunks.
It was a strange location to choose for a house, or else an odd decision to leave the trees growing nearby, blocking all light and the view of the valley below. It was clear from the moss growing on the walls and the broken-off tiles on the roof, which left the rafters exposed, that the place was inhabited. Nettles grew all around it, their tips reaching the windows, which were tiny and thick with grime.
'So this is it,' Quinn stared at the old cottage, 'The Gaunt Shack.'
The ancestral home of the Gaunt family, located in the woods just outside the village of Little Hangleton. It was a shabby little shack that once housed Marvolo Gaunt, his wife, their son Morfin, and daughter Merope. The father and the son being the other two Parseltongue residing in Britain other than Voldemort and Harry Potter.
Quinn walked to the decrepit door of the cottage and stared at the rotten door, which had bent out of its frame and only stood ajar because of its odd position. He waved a hand, and the door separated from its joint and flew to the side as Quinn stepped inside.
The house seemed to contain three tiny rooms. Two doors led off the main room, which served as kitchen and living room combined. A broken and filthy armchair sat beside a choked and dusty fireplace. The ceiling was thick with cobwebs, the floor beneath his boots coated in grime. The only light came from broken and boarded windows that received the sunlight filtering from the trees outside.
The floorboards under his feet creaked as he walked around the house, looking around. He stood in the middle of the cottage, and a light blue aura spread out from him in a dome shape, phasing through the broken furniture, pillars, walls, doors to cover the entire house. He got no response from the scan, so he tried it again. A red dome scanned the Gaunt Shack, then a green one, followed by a variety of detection charms looking for magical enchantments.
*Ping*
The voice came from the bedroom where a bed split down the middle lay broken on the floor. Quinn waved his hand, and the bed shrunk down to a matchbox, leaving the part of the room empty. He stared at the floorboards that were as patchy and grimy as any other piece of the floor in the cottage, but there was something magical in them.
The wooden boards creaked as rusted nails holding down them popped out, and the planks held down by the age-old glue came out apart easily. There was a patch of the earth beneath them, but Quinn wasn't fooled; he dug the mud out with magic and finally laid his eyes upon the motive of him coming here.
A golden box sat there buried in the foundation of the house.
Quinn bent his forearm up, and the box rose up. It was heavy. Quinn suspected it was genuine gold. If it was, then it would be fitting the nature of its owner and creator. Quinn blew on it, and the mud and dust were stripped away, bringing out the gleaming and inviting sheen of the gold box.
The box was set down on the floor, and Quinn kneeled beside it. His eyes and magic observing the enchantments keeping the box locked. He had to admit, they were powerful, despite the very long period of lack of care.
"Now, let's break them up."
Quinn's magic began its work and worked to dismantle the enchantments that made the box into a black box capable of surviving being blasted in the sky and dropping down the high altitude down to the ground in freefall.
"Magic from various cultures," commented Quinn, his eyes looking at the box a complicated and excited eyes. The amalgamation of different cultures of magic worked together to create something that even Quinn found tricky to solve, and yet it was the proof of concept that he wanted to accomplish.
*Click*
The box unlocked after an hour of effort.
Quinn took a deep breath and raised his gloved finger to lift up the lid, and sucked in a cold breath at the solitary ring that sat inside.
It was a gold ring etched with detailed designs and looked as if it had been just polished, gleaming like the rays of the sun itself.
Marvolo Gaunt's Ring.
On the top of the ring, fixed underneath the four gold fangs, was a black gemstone. Quinn's eyes remained fixed on the gemstone, on the design that was inscribed onto it — a line with a circle drawn from the top enclosed inside a triangle.
The signature of the Deathly Hallows.
And, the gemstone. . .
"Resurrection Stone," said Quinn sighing a cold breath in the mid-summer.
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He thought it was beautiful, enchanting, and something that would look great on his finger, where it belonged.
*Thud*
"Hmph," he smirked. His mental shields had effortlessly thwarted the mental curse.
Quinn looked down at his hand and saw the Gaunt Ring in his right with his left hand's fingers outstretched, obviously so that he could put on the ring. A cold sweat trickled down his temple beneath his mask, and his nap felt cold.
He had just nearly put the cursed ring on.
The ring. Gaunt's Ring. A terrible curse was cast upon it. A curse that would wither away the one who would put it on, leading to a swift and quick death to get them away from the ring. However, there was one more, another curse that made the ring more deadly than it was — it enticed those who gazed upon it to slip it on so that it could lead them to their death.
"Won't you look at that, the mighty Quinn West trembling in front of a measly magical ring?"
Quinn looked up from the ring and saw himself. . . 'him'. . . squatting in front of Quinn, matching eye levels. 'He' looked exactly the same as Quinn; the only difference was that 'he' was dressed in a suit while Quinn was dressed in the Noir transformative suit.
"It has been a while, hasn't it," 'Quinn' said, smirking. "The last time we met was in Lupin's class, and the Boggart took the form of yours truly," he said, touching up his tie with a confident smirk. [Ch. 79]
Quinn's eyes went to the 'Quinn's' hand and saw a wand — Acacia wood, fourteen inches, rigid.
"Oh, you notice this beaut," said 'Quinn,' holding the wand in both hands. "Of course, you'd notice it; it's the wand that chose you and the one you have been betraying for the past six years. I don't know what your problem is, but I quite like it," 'he' smirked, "I'm power incarnate with it in my hand."
Quinn stared at 'him,' "Why would you, my worst fear, be here to convince me to put on the ring? I would never do a thing you say."
'He' laughed loudly. It was wild, rambunctious, and louder than Quinn had ever laughed in his life.
"Me, your fear?" 'he' said between laughs. "Man, you can crack a joke or two from time to time." 'Quinn' leaned forward, put his face close to Quinn, and stared at him with 'his' glowing purple eyes. "I'm not your fear, Quinn. I am you. I'm you when your worthless Ego is eliminated, and the golden Id is given time to shine. I'm your Greed, Pride, Gluttony, Sloth, Envy, Wrath, and Lust.
"Speaking of Lust, you bagged Daphne; good job there. She's a total hottie. But why are you wasting time by just tasting her. . . when you can eat her up. . . I can imagine it, she'll taste heavenly," 'Sin-Quinn' cackled, "just ask her, she'll agree. . . you have noticed it, right? She never disagrees with you, always supportive like a good pureblood wife. . . such a good girl.
"I'm sure she won't refuse if you bring in the spicy redhead into the mix," said 'Sin-Quinn,' licking his lips. "A ménage-a-trio. . . just thinking about sends a shiver down my spine."
"Shut up!"
'Sin-Quinn' grinned and raised his hands in surrender. 'He' looked down at the ring and spoke, "But you have to agree with me when I say that they deserve some closure, don't they?"
"What the hell are you talking about?" asked Quinn.
"Come on, you know what I'm talking about, silly, I am you, after all," said 'Sin-Quinn,' placing a hand on his cheek and looked at Quinn as if he was a child. "Grandfather lost his young son before time; he was so young. And Lia lost both her parents at the tender of ten, leaving her to care for her younger brother of one. Don't you think they deserve to meet Adam and Aria West one last time to get some closure in their eyes. . . after they both only have each other in the name of family.
". . . After all, we took their precious grandson and brother away from them," 'he' said.
Quinn looked at his alter-ego, but instead of red rage, there was a look of stunned surprise on his face.
"Why do you make such a face?" he asked, looking at the guilty look on 'Sin-Quinn's face.'
'Sin-Quinn' looked down at the ring with a twisted wry smile, ". . . Why are you being silly again? Didn't I tell you? I am you. I'm the essence of your deepest and truest feelings. . . just like the worthless you, even I feel guilty about taking the child's life and taking over."
"Quinn died from falling from his window," Quinn bit back heatedly, clenching his empty trembling hand.
"Not according to our memory, he didn't," said 'Sin-Quinn.' "The bout of accidental magic made him bounce off the ground, and then we took over." 'Sin-Quinn' sighed again and shook 'his' head, "It doesn't matter what happened, you know," 'he' stared at Quinn, "as long as you believe that you killed Quinn, logic has no place in this argument."
Quinn had no rebuke to that. It made sense. . . Sin-Quinn was his everything multiplied and let out without a moral filter. Humans were inherently illogical beings, who ran on their emotions rather than logic, and if he believed certain things, then that was it.
"So, how about it, buddy?" said 'Sin-Quinn,' putting 'his' hand on Quinn's shoulder. "How about we put on the ring and let our beloved family meet their loved ones. . . maybe we can even try calling for the real Quinn and find the truth — if we didn't cannibalize his soul, then he would appear, and that would grant us some peace, don't you think."
"Y-Yes. . . Yes, we should do that," said Quinn. "Lia, grandfather, Uncle Elliot, and Ms. Rosey would be ha-a-ppy. . . w-we can call the Real-Quinn. . . ah, I-I-I can even call grandmother and-and let grandfather meet her. He would be so happy!"
'Sin-Quinn' nodded with a smile, a patent Quinn controlled-smile.
Quinn patted his chest once, and the mask disappeared — leaving behind an unamused expression on Quinn's face as he stuck out his tongue.
"Did you thought I would say that YOU FUCKING THIRD-GRADE FAKE OF A REPLICA?" Quinn said, rendering 'Sin-Quinn' stunned. "Come on, man, what kind of shitty curse is that? Hey Dark Lord, is this the best you can do with a soul attack? Hey, are you listening?"
"W-What?" asked 'Sin-Quinn.'
Quinn stood up from his kneel and took out a spherical glass container with a cloudy tint. "Are you really supposed to me? I was convinced that the soul attack got everything until you started to spout the bullshit about using the Resurrection Stone. Because I would never suggest no matter how delirious I was.
"Why would I willingly take on a life-ending curse which will kill me when I have a sure-fire method to destroy the curse?" said Quinn taking out a small vial with the same cloudy tint. "If I wanted to use the Resurrection Stone after I destroyed the retched object it's attached to."
He poured the deep-purple-almost black liquid from the vial into the sphere container.
"W-What are you doing?" asked 'Sin-Quinn' looking between Quinn's face and his hands. "What's that?"
"You don't know?" asked Quinn. "The curse must really depend upon the mental aspect that I blocked. And here I thought that the soul-splitting maniac would have better knowledge of the soul. But I'll give you the credit where it's deserved — you sure got a lot of memories that were connected deeply to my emotions despite the mental failure."
Quinn swivelled the liquid in the sphere container. "This my fake-me is Basilisk Venom," he smirked at 'Sin-Quinn,' whose eyes widened to the limit. "You guessed right, it's from the same Basilisk that you found in the Chamber of Secrets when you were in school — Tom Marvolo Riddle."
'Sin-Quinn's' face darkened at the mention of the name.
"You might not know because it wasn't in the book, but Basilisk Venom can destroy a. . . Horcrux," said Quinn, continuously enjoying the ugly expression on 'his' face. "I actually told the same thing to the Diary you — man, you have the best expressions — but both the Basilisk and Horcrux were created by Herpo The Foul. Quite ironic, don't you think? The man who created a magic of immortality also created the things that could destroy it."
A horrified expression and stark-white expression of fear appeared on 'Sin
Quinn's' face as 'he' raised 'his' hand to reach out to Quinn, but 'his' hands passed through Quinn.
Quinn held the ring between his index finger and thumb, showed it to 'Sin-Quinn,' grinned, and dropped the ring inside the sphere. "Bloop~!"
"No!!!" yelled 'Sin-Quinn.'
A violent sizzling sounded inside the glass sphere, with a black haze filling the inside of the sphere.
Quinn looked up at his likeliness started to melt and burn while letting out painful screams in his own voice. 'Sin-Quinn,' about to perish, looked at Quinn, who spoke some parting words.
"I wish I could say that you got close to enticing me, but I would be lying. . . sorry, Horcrux, but my wand is more tempting than you."
As Quinn's words ended, so did the life of Voldemort's Gaunt Ring Horcrux.
"Oh, shit!" Quinn hurriedly straightened his hands as the activated Basilisk Venom, which just had a violent reaction with the Horcrux, ate through the specially-made glass (Quinn's invention) which could hold Basilisk Venom for a couple of months.
Quinn goggled at the bubbling Basilisk Venom that ate through the wood and seeped into the ground below. His eyes went back to the sphere as he removed his hand from it and let it float. He transfigured a hole back open and let the blackened ring fly out of it.
A blob of water covered it, and it sizzled immediately because of the residual venom, which spent itself by eating away at the water, leaving the ring safe for Quinn to grab.
Quinn grabbed the ring with his gloved hands. He grabbed the ring-hoop with one and pulled out the gemstone with his other.
He stared at the gemstone, which, unlike the charred ring, looked untouched — the Basilisk Venom hadn't harmed it. . .
"Resurrection Stone. . . maybe because it's a soul artifact, the Horcrux couldn't attach itself to the stone and only stayed on the ring," said Quinn, but it was only speculation from his side.
". . . Soul Artifact."
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Quinn West - MC - The First Kill Of The Hunt
'Sin-Quinn' - Defense Mechanism Manifestation - Soul-based attack of Horcrux.
FictionOnlyReader - Author - Re-Read if it's not clear. And I will leave it up to you to think about where the truth of the 'Sin-Quinn' ended and where the lies began. . .
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Chapter 270: Meeting At Cirkus
If you want to read ahead, you can check out my Patreón @
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The link is also in the synopsis.
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Cirkus, a long-running restaurant in Vertic Alley of the magical market district of London, was a restaurant with nine levels divided into three segments — the underground segment with three levels catered to the shady members of the society who didn't wish to be seen and demanded privacy, the base segment with aboveground three levels that served any and everyone who wanted to drink and dine at the established, and finally, the upper segment with the top three levels that hosted the wealthy and influential with an assortment of services.
Michael was a front desk host situated on the first floor of the upper segment. He had been working at Cirkus for fifteen years. He had started as a server on the base segment and had worked his way to his current position, and wanted to continue on his rise through the ranks to one day become a floor manager, preferably in the upper segment.
The elevator in front of Michael's desk, which only served the upper segment, dinged. Michael looked up from his work and got up to serve the guest as the elevator door opened. To his surprise, there was only one person along with the elevator operator. However, the single person wasn't the reason for his surprise, but the person's appearance.
The person placed a sack of coin onto the operator's hands and stepped out of the elevator. The boy, who Michael thought couldn't be any older than eighteen or nineteen stepped walked to the front desk.
"Good morning," said the boy, "I would like to use one of your private rooms."
Michael's fifteen experience wasn't for naught. He had picked up the tricks of his craft from years of observing the people who came to Cirkus. He had caught the relaxed demeanor of the boy. The boy in front of him might have looked young, but Michal looked past that and observed the blue suit with red checker grids — it looked simple enough, but his trained eyes could see the quality of the fabric and the craftsmanship of the stitching.
The boy was definitely some who could afford to be at the upper segment of Cirkus.
"Of course, sir," said Michael. "We offer an array of private rooms, which one would you like to use today—" He hadn't seen the boy here before, so he went through the entire selection.
"I don't require anything extensive, just somewhere my companions and I can sit, have a discussion and enjoy our meal in privacy," said the boy looked down at the list on the table.
"It'll be arranged, sir. How many guests would be joining you?"
"Two people."
Michael rang a bell behind his counter and summoned a bellman. He handed a key to the bellman and said, "Escort our guest to room 1-07."
"Ah, I just remembered. . . I would like a room on the top-most floor," said the boy.
Michael and the bellman stared at the boy, and Michael started to have doubts if the boy truly knew about Cirkus. "Dear sir, the third floor is exclusively reserved for our most esteemed guests. I regret to tell you this but only with that special access can use the top-most floor's"
"You mean this one?" When Michael stopped talking, the boy took out a solid silver card with the classic Cirkus tower etched in the middle with a border all etched in gold.
". . . Yes, that exact one," said Michael, receiving the very exclusive and very rare membership card, and it was real. "Ahem, my apologies," he handed the card back, "please follow the bellman, and he will show you to your room.
But before that, sir, I would like to know your and your guest's names so that we could escort them to your room when they arrive."
"My name is Quinn West, and my guests will be Nott and Zabini," the boy with stone grey eyes looked at Michael as he said, "I can expect privacy from Cirkus about our meeting, correct?"
". . . Of course, sir, please be rest assured," said Michael. In one sentence, he had received some big names. West and Nott — both of those names were esteemed patrons who had access to the top floor while the infamous Madam Zabini was a regular guest.
After a while, the elevator once again dinged open, and two people stepped out.
"Good morning; how can Cirkus serve you today," said Michael looking at the two teenagers.
"We are meeting someone today," said the blonde teen.
"Mr. West has been waiting for you, Mr. Nott," said Michael recognizing Theodore Nott Jr from earlier visits and turning to bow to the other teen. "It has been a while since you have graced our doors, Mr. Zabini.
Blaise Zabini held back a sigh. His mother had dragged him here more than enough times. He had suffered through numerous kitty parties full of his mother's social circle without someone of his age to talk to. Because of those gatherings, Cirkus had indeed become a circus where he was the main attraction for the ladies to bother.
"Mr. West is waiting for you on the third floor," said Michael as the bellman arrived.
The two Slytherins looked at each other simultaneously. Neither of them had been to the third floor before, even Theodore, whose father was one of the exclusive patrons.
They took the elevator again and reached the third floor. It was completely different from the first floor, which was already posh enough, but the third floor was above and beyond. It was also deafeningly silent as they walked through the marble floor that reflected as well as any mirror, passing by a few identical heavy, elegant doors — all private rooms, specially created for a very exclusive clientele, who Cirkus would provide with anything he would request.
They reached another identical door, and the bellman pressed a bell before speaking, "Dear guest, your companions have arrived."
"Come in," came a voice that was distorted because of the room's magic to protect privacy. The bellman opened the door, bowed to Theodore and Blaise, and left right after entering.
"Nott, Zabini," said Quinn looking at the two Slytherin, "how nice to meet both of you after such a long time — please sit down."
The two sat down nervously, looking at Quinn, who raised a cup to take a sip. Both of them had discussed with each other before calling a meeting with Quinn, who had called them both to Cirkus. The times had changed ever since Voldemort had shown himself in the Ministry, and their parents had begun moving in response to the event. They had Quinn's promise of help and were worried that things were moving faster than they had expected, and thus this meeting was called.
"Both of you look anxious," said Quinn. He looked at Blaise, "I get why he looks like he has been losing sleep, but what about you? Your mother doesn't move in the circles with the Dark Lord and his cosplay party. . . what, cosplay? Ah, it means dressing up in costumes."
Blaise rubbed his forehead and leaned back into the sofa. "Ever since the news of You-Know-Who's return, she has caught a worry. She has been thinking about moving to Italy, and I can tell because she told me that she missed Italy and then spent hours telling me great things about the country. Then, after a few days, she tried to sneak in a talk about the school there.
. . . And the worst part, mother has been recently seeing a man from Italy. At this rate, she's going to pull me out of Hogwarts and take me with her."
Blaise didn't want to leave Hogwarts. He had spent the last five years in the school and its dorms, living there for most of the year. All of his friends were there, with who he had spent more time than his own mother since joining. Just the thought of leaving Hogwarts to go to another school set a weight in the pit of his stomach.
"Oh, that's indeed a cause of worry," said Quinn before leaning forward and looking at Blaise with serious eyes. "Just one question though. . . the man she has been seeing, by any chance, is he surnamed Abate?"
Blaise blinked in confusion at the sudden question. "No, his surname is something else. Why do you ask?"
"Nothing serious, just a personal curiosity." Quinn pulled back and waved the question off. The Abates would have been a bite bigger than to be chewed, even for the famed temptress.
"She's not going to pull you out this year, right?" asked Quinn.
"No, but at this rate, she might just do it the next year," said Blaise shaking his head with a sigh.
"Then, you don't actually have a problem," said Quinn shrugging. "You'll be 'of age' the next year, an adult magical, and will have the legal authority to attend any school you want. . . and if you don't have the money, you can always take a loan for me — I'll lend you the school fees and then some for living costs. If you want something other than that, you can show me how it's important, and I'll dispense more money. The only downside is that you'll have to pay more when you finally start working."
Quinn gazed at Blaise, who seemed to sink into thought about his proposal. Even if there was a simple situation to separate from his mother, the decision was tough: from one day living his normal life to the next where he had to depend on someone who wasn't his family. Quinn wouldn't blame Blaise if he decided to follow his mother's wishes.
"What about you?" Quinn turned to Nott. "What has your father been doing these days? Having fun alone at home with his family, I hope."
"Only if," said Theodore spitting out a heavy sigh. "He has been meeting with the Dark Lord more and more these days. I secretly listen to my parents when they talk about father's Death Eater meetings."
"So you're worried that Nott Snr going to take you to the Dark Lord so that he can brand you as a junior Death Eater?" asked Quinn. "A legitimate worry."
"It has already started," said Theodore with a worn-down look. "One day, I heard that father has been going to ceremonies. . . ceremonies to add new people into Death Eaters, and there have been these ceremonies every week." He covered his face with his hands. "And I don't know why but father suddenly had the idea to have me branded with Dark Mark as soon as possible. I was lucky that mother forbade it that father had to back away. . . but I know it won't be like this the next year — he will try again when I turn 'of age,' and I'm not sure if mother will be able to stop him at that time.
I might become a Death Eater while I'm studying at Hogwarts."
Quinn probably knew why Nott Snr had the sudden thought of turning his minor son into a Death Eater. He had gotten intimidated by his peer, who went by the name Malfoy; seeing the other Death Eater offering his son to become a Death Eater prompted Nott Snr to possibly offer Jnr to do the same.
Quinn silently sighed as that brought up one of the pieces of information he was missing. He hadn't seen the shadow of anyone named Malfoy in the entire summer break; as such, he had no idea if Draco was branded with the Dark Mark. He hadn't dared to go near the Malfoy mansion in fear of being spotted by the Dark Lord or his Death Eater, especially after the Amelia Bones incident.
"Zabini doesn't want to leave Hogwarts, but it seems like you leaving Hogwarts might be the only option," said Quinn softy.
Theodore's face reappeared from behind his hands as he stared at Quinn incredulously. "What do you mean?" he asked, but the fear of knowing what exactly Quinn meant built up in his chest.
"Next year, if you go home, your father will try to make you a Death Eater, and if you refuse, I'm not sure if you will survive." Both Theodore and Blaise felt cold shivers go down the spine. "I do not know your father, but either he will kill you himself for being a 'blood traitor,' and if he doesn't do that, the Dark Lord will do it himself.
Let's say your father doesn't kill you; he might just drag you to the Dark Lord and brand you. If you choose to stay. . . I'm sorry to say this, but Nott, your chances are looking bleak."
Theodore went deathly pale. His fears had been spoken in words. He was either going to die or become a Death Eater. A drowning and chocking thought dominated his mind, 'I'm trapped—'
"But if you go away," said Quinn, "if you disappear, you can escape death and the fate of becoming a Death Eater." Quinn stared deeply at Nott. "I can do that for you. I can make you disappear like a star in the bright morning sky."
Theodore took a slow, lengthy breath as he leaned back into his seat. He knew what Quinn's offer entailed. It meant that he would have to uproot his life and move to another place. And if he took the last war in mind, he might have to move away for a decade, or maybe even more if the Dark Lord wasn't brought down.
"Is there no other way?" asked Theodore.
He wasn't excited about the possible relocation. He didn't want to leave his life. Was he so helpless that to escape and change his entire life was the only option?
"There's an option that doesn't require you to leave," said Quinn, and it instantly poured stars of hope into Theodore's eyes as he looked at Quinn intently.
"You can defect," said Quinn.
". . . What?" asked Theodore.
"You can reach out to the Minister, or the Grey faction, or the Light faction and tell them that your father is looking to make you a Death Eater and ask them to rescue from that," said Quinn, proposing the alternative idea. "The Ministry won't move if you can't provide them with proof, but next year when you turn 'of age,' you'll have great chances of getting their protection. As for the Grey and Light faction, they won't help you out in public, but they'll support you from the shadows — you, like Zabini, can choose to go to Hogwarts, and when you're out of Hogwarts in the summer break, the three groups might help you out."
Theodore's status as a Death Eater's son, who wants to be rescued, was a great political hook that all the political factions would love to exploit. It would not only look good, but Theodore was a potential source of information — something he himself didn't know about.
"Th-That. . . I-I don't. . ." said Theodore, hesitating.
"It's a suggestion, Nott," Quinn said, looking at the troubled boy. "You're, unfortunately, not in a favorable situation — both of my suggestions have their merits and demerits, it's up to you what you want to take — or you don't take either and come up with a solution of your own."
"I don't have anything of my own," said Theodore; it was why he was here talking about his problems.
"But you are desperate, and believe me, desperation is a strong motivator. So don't give up hope yet. Think about it, and if you aren't successful — my option is open, and the second one is worth giving a try."
Quinn treated the two stressed Slytherin to a hearty meal before leaving Cirkus. He turned to face the two outside the restaurant.
"Think about what you want to do, but don't let it dominate your lives," he said. "Both of you have my help as a safety net, so while you can't ignore the problem, there's no need to treat it like the world's end.
Now, gentlemen, I'll take my leave. Reach home safely."
Quinn took out his fake wand, and after a lazy wave goodbye, the space twisted, and with a pop, he was gone.
"Oh, that's right," said Blaise. "He turned seventeen, didn't he? He's 'of age'. . . lucky."
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Dumbledore apparated onto a path with long, wild hedgerows on both sides. He glanced around with his wand out to see if someone required a quick memory charm; fortunately, there was no one in the vicinity. He walked down the crooked, rocky, and potholed path, sloping downhill with a nervous rhythm in his step.
He reached the shabby shack hidden amongst the tangle of trunks. It was the Gaunt Shack in Little Hangleton. The place Dumbledore knew as the hiding place of Tom Marvolo Riddle or as he was better known as Lord Voldemort's vile immortality providing Horcrux.
The place that he had found out through Bob Ogden's memories of when he had arrived at the place to meet the residents Marvolo Gaunt and his children, Morfin and Merope, for Ministry business about Morfin Gaunt breaking the wizarding secrecy laws by torturing the muggles down in the village.
He arrived at the crooked door of the shack and was about to detach the stuck door when he stopped to observe the door — he wondered why the door looked different than what he had seen from away in his previous visit. He dove into his memories, and contrary to his observation, the door looked the same as the one in his memories. Just to be sure, he cast detection spells on the door, and there wasn't any magic cast on the doors, so he detached the door and walked inside the shack.
Again, there was something off in the shack. Dumbledore hadn't been inside the shack, but something felt off to him — maybe it was something about how the cobwebs looked or how the grime below his feet felt, but he couldn't put his finger on it.
He set off detection charms through the shack and detected magical enchantments, just like his previous scouting attempts, and yet again, his intuition was proven wrong.
"Maybe it's something Tom added to turn people away," Dumbledore muttered to himself.
His detection charms told him to head towards the bedroom where he saw the broken bed, and this time, he ignored the strange feeling and shrunk the bed to access the floor underneath.
He frowned. There was something wrong with the floorboards. But this time, he chalked it up to the presence of the source of magical enchantments underneath. He pulled them out, dug the ground, and uncovered the golden box.
There it was, the container of a Horcrux. It was going to be the second Horcrux that he was going to come across; the first one, the Diary, sat in his office with a big hole stabbed through it.
He lifted the box with magic, and to his utter surprise, the lid of the golden box rattled. . . it rattled.
'No, that can't be,' thought Dumbledore, 'Tom wouldn't be so careless.'
A spark of unease was lit inside him as he set the golden box down, performed detection charms to ensure there was no trap — there wasn't, and now even that didn't bode well in Dumbledore's heart. He opened the door, and everything suddenly made sense.
A charred, burnt, damaged black ring sat inside the box along with a slip of parchment stuck on the inside of the lid.
It read in printed black letters:
"Here lie the remains of Dark Lord Voldemort's destroyed Horcrux."
Everything suddenly made sense. Why everything since the door felt strange — while he couldn't tell the origin of discomfort, but his mind could instinctively detect those that he consciously couldn't.
Someone had gotten here before him and had destroyed the Horcrux. Someone else had the knowledge about Voldemort's Horcrux other than him.
The question that screamed in the silence was: Who? Who was the individual who knew about Voldemort's secret to immortality?
Dumbledore kneeled on the floor and took the ring into his hand. The damaged ring still held value. He had seen it in the Morfin Gaunt's memories of his meeting with a young Tom Riddle. In those memories, there was a black gemstone stone studded on the ring — and it had the mark of the Deathly Hallows. He stared at his wand — the Elder Wand, one of the three Death Hallows, and the last one being in the hands of the Potter children, the Invisibility Cloak.
Dumbledore frowned at the cracked and broken charred gemstone on the top of the ring. He squinted his eyes, and he could see the mark of Deathly Hallows with a crack splitting the mark.
"Was I wrong?" Dumbledore muttered. "Was the ring a counterfeit?"
It wasn't a reaching thought as Morfin Gaunt didn't have a job, and he might have sold the ring and replaced it with a fake for sustenance. But that meant that Dumbledore had no idea where the third Deathly Hallow was.
Dumbledore threw the thought behind his mind and focused on the Horcrux problem. He could tell that the parchment wasn't old, at least not old as the war; he was sure that the parchment wasn't older than a couple years.
Which meant someone had destroyed the Horcrux in a span of a couple of years from the current day.
Dumbledore frowned. It bothered him that there was an unknown element out there with Horcruxes.
Dumbledore didn't like it.
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Quinn West - MC - 'Of Age.' Used an old parchment.
Blaise Zabini - Anxious Slytherin #1 - Wants to stay and might get to.
Theodore Nott - Anxious Slytherin #2 - Wants to stay but might not get to.
FictionOnlyReader - Author - «Ah. . . I should just—»
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