Chapter 319: Chapter 319: "The Night of Two Missions"
Harry's feeling wasn't wrong. Something was happening on Halloween, though thankfully for the students at Hogwarts, it was far from the castle grounds.
Far away in Little Hangleton, a biting wind rustled through the desolate underbrush around the Gaunt shack. Loose scraps of parchment and bits of rotted timber stirred, and the moon, veiled by shifting clouds, cast faint silver rays on the half-collapsed roof. At first glance, the place appeared abandoned, untouched for decades.
But as the quiet evening deepened, Albus Dumbledore Apparated at the edge of the yard, his dark cloak billowing softly in the breeze. His usually twinkling eyes were sharper tonight—focused, determined. He was not here out of curiosity but for an urgent mission.
Dumbledore would have preferred to spend the evening with his students at the Halloween Feast. But ever since he had lost his beloved Elder Wand, he had felt his strength slipping away little by little. Time, he knew, was no longer on his side, and there were tasks that needed to be finished before it was too late. One of those tasks had led him here, to Tom Riddle's childhood home. He was certain a Horcrux lay hidden in this place.
As Dumbledore began weaving detection spells around the shack's perimeter, he wasn't the only one facing a fateful Halloween night. Far across Europe, under a storm-laden sky, another group was on the move.
High in the Austrian mountains stood Nurmengard, its spires piercing the swirling fog like jagged teeth. Tonight, the fortress—once a symbol of terror—was the stage for another mission. Voldemort, flanked by Magnus Blutreich of the Schwarzwald Zirkel, led a small group of dark wizards through layers of ancient wards and enchantments. Every step was calculated, every spell cast in hushed precision as they moved closer to their goal: freeing Gellert Grindelwald, the infamous prisoner locked away for decades.
They had chosen Halloween for its cover. The guards, lulled by the festive night, were distracted—perfect for a stealthy operation.
Two pivotal events unfolded simultaneously, separated by miles yet bound by a strange synchronicity. The hush of each location—and the tension of the moment—suggested that what would happen tonight might reshape the wizarding world in ways unseen since the darkest of times.
---
A biting wind rustled the underbrush around the Gaunt shack, stirring scraps of parchment and rotted timber. The moon, hidden behind shifting clouds, cast thin silver rays on the half-collapsed roof. The place seemed abandoned, untouched for decades. But in the stillness of the evening, Albus Dumbledore Apparated at the edge of the yard, his dark cloak swaying gently in the wind. His usually twinkling eyes were sharp and focused tonight—he wasn't here out of curiosity but for an urgent mission.
Dumbledore's boots crunched softly over the gravel as he approached the ramshackle structure. The air was thick with the weight of old curses and bitter memories—a haunting reminder of the Gaunt family's twisted history. Unknown to him, this place had been visited by another not long ago. Harry had ensured his visit left no trace, hiding it even from Dumbledore.
Pausing inside the overgrown yard, Dumbledore lifted his wand. "Homenum Revelio," he murmured. The spell revealed nothing—no living presence. That, at least, was expected. His sharp gaze swept the crumbling walls and the debris-strewn ground. Moldering wood and shards of glass jutted out like jagged teeth. Somewhere here, Dumbledore was certain, Tom Riddle had hidden a Horcrux.
His research—painstaking and secretive—had led him to this decaying shack. Though his strength was waning, especially after the loss of the Elder Wand, his resolve was unshaken. Destroying this Horcrux could deal a crucial blow to Voldemort.
The cold wind tugged at his white beard as he stepped closer to the shack. The warped frame of a narrow door loomed before him, its wood splintered with age. Dumbledore ducked under the low lintel and stepped inside, his wand raised.
The gloom was oppressive. Moonlight seeped faintly through cracks in the walls, casting eerie beams on a collapsed table, tattered rags, and scattered animal bones. Dust covered every surface, and the smell of neglect hung heavy in the air.
"Careful, old friend," Dumbledore whispered to himself, his voice low. He conjured a soft light at the tip of his wand, illuminating the room. A dark, malevolent presence seemed to pulse faintly from the shadows, growing stronger as he moved further in.
He had to find it—and soon.
---
Meanwhile, halfway across Europe, thunder rumbled over the Austrian peaks as the other event unfolded. Voldemort stood at the foot of Nurmengard, his dark robes whipping in the gusty wind. The towering fortress loomed above, its heavy stones steeped in decades of isolation. Beside him, Magnus Blutreich studied a parchment covered in runes, double-checking their infiltration plan. They had left the usual Death Eater rabble behind for this mission. Only a small group of elite curse-breakers and two Zirkel members, experts in dismantling ancient wards, accompanied them.
Before them stood a colossal iron gate, sealed with powerful wards said to have been cast by Dumbledore himself. The gate was a cruel irony, for the fortress had been built by Grindelwald only to become his prison. Two granite gargoyles perched overhead, their stone eyes glowing faintly as they scanned for intruders. Magical lines shimmered faintly across the gate, a silent warning that breaking through would not be easy.
Magnus flicked his wand and muttered an incantation, scanning the magical defenses.
"They're designed to repel large groups," he rasped. "Good thing we kept our numbers small. We slip in, free him, and vanish."
Voldemort didn't reply, his gaze fixed firmly on the gate. The prospect of meeting Grindelwald face-to-face stirred something in him—anticipation, caution, perhaps even curiosity. With a sharp motion of his hand, he commanded, "Proceed."
A tense silence fell over the group as two curse-breakers knelt before the gate. They began chanting in unison, their voices low and deliberate as they unraveled the protective spells one by one. Sparks danced around their hands, forming intricate, glowing patterns as each layer of magic was tested and carefully undone. The wind howled, and thunder cracked across the mountains, but the group pressed on.
If they succeeded, they would awaken an ally with memories older than the wars of the present—an ally who, if their gamble paid off, could shift the balance of power in their favor.
Things were heating up at both places, setting the stage for a night that would have far-reaching consequences for the wizarding world.
Chapter 320: Chapter 320: "The Ring and The Prison"
The curse-breakers at Nurmengard exhaled in relief as the final ward dissolved with a faint shimmer. The massive iron gate creaked open, revealing a pitch-black corridor within. Voldemort stepped forward, wand in hand, his every movement radiating silent, lethal confidence. Magnus followed close behind, his excitement barely contained, flanked by their small, carefully chosen group.
The fortress corridors twisted and turned, their oppressive walls damp and cold. Only a skeleton crew of guards patrolled—most had grown complacent over the years. The intruders moved in near-perfect silence, cloaked by Disillusionment Charms. They encountered a handful of guards - none survived to raise the alarm. Each fell silently to flashes of sickly green light, their bodies cleaned up to maintain the illusion of an empty corridor. Voldemort had been clear - no survivors who might later identify them.
Deeper and deeper they went, descending into the heart of the fortress. Soon, they reached the lowest levels, where the ancient, specialized wards guarding Grindelwald's cell were said to lie.
A row of heavy iron doors stretched ahead of them. Faint torchlight flickered along the walls, casting long shadows across the cold stone floor. At the final door, the magic was unmistakably powerful—runic symbols glowed faintly, pulsing like a heartbeat. Magnus stepped forward, muttering an incantation as he began unraveling the wards.
The process was painstakingly delicate. Twice, Magnus cursed under his breath, his hands pausing mid-motion to prevent triggering the deadly locking mechanisms. Sweat beaded on his brow, but finally, with a low groan, the last of the barriers gave way.
The heavy door creaked open, revealing a large, barren cell. It was shockingly plain, considering it had housed the most infamous dark wizard of a generation. The air inside was stale, and a rough cot sat in the far corner, where a gaunt figure rested.
Gellert Grindelwald stirred at the noise, his once-golden hair now stark white, his frame wiry and wasted. Yet, as his eyes flicked to the intruders, they burned with unmistakable sharpness. Slowly, he rose to his feet, the chain at his ankle rattling softly against the stone floor.
Voldemort stepped forward, his crimson eyes gleaming in the dim light. A faint smirk curved his lips. "Grindelwald," he hissed, his voice rich with both curiosity and command. "It's time for you to leave this prison behind and breathe fresh air once more."
---
Miles away, in the decrepit Gaunt shack, Dumbledore crouched near the ragged remains of a fireplace. His wand hovered over a patch of stone on the floor, faintly pulsing with an eerie, otherworldly hum under his detection spells. The air around it reeked of dark magic—potent and vile. His heart pounded.
There was no doubt. Only a Horcrux could carry such a signature of dark power. It was here, but it wasn't unguarded. Wards and curses, layered and lethal, surrounded it. If he hoped to reach it, he would need patience and precision.
For hours, Dumbledore worked tirelessly, dismantling the protections one by one. It was far from simple. Unlike Harry, who had been able to deactivate many of the protections with a single phrase in Parseltongue, Dumbledore had no such advantage. He had to unravel each layer individually—blood wards, curse nets, and deadly hexes designed to kill intruders instantly. Each enchantment was masterfully woven into the next, forming a web of dark magic that pushed his skills to their limits.
His progress was slow but steady. "Finite Incantatem," he murmured, focusing on a particularly vicious curse meant to boil the blood of anyone who approached. The spell flickered and fell, revealing a hidden compartment near the fireplace. Dumbledore didn't move. He knew better than to assume the protections were fully neutralized.
Conjuring a slender silver rod, he guided it cautiously toward the opening. As it neared, a surge of malevolent energy lashed out, nearly melting the rod in his hand. He withdrew, his jaw tightening. Riddle's magic was as cunning as it was deadly.
Layer by layer, curse by curse, Dumbledore pressed forward, dismantling the remaining defenses with meticulous care. Finally, the last ward fell, and the compartment clicked open. Inside, a small, golden box rested. It radiated a sense of dread, like a coiled serpent waiting to strike.
Dumbledore steadied his breathing. "Steady," he whispered to himself, summoning every ounce of discipline to stay calm. He had come too far to falter now.
Carefully, he eased the box open. Inside, nestled in tarnished cloth, lay a ring. It was ornate, its black stone glinting ominously under the faint moonlight. A strange emblem was etched onto the band—something familiar, something that stirred long-buried memories.
Dumbledore's chest tightened as recognition struck him. The Resurrection Stone. He couldn't be mistaken. The legendary artifact from the Tale of the Three Brothers rested before him, bound to the Peverell coat of arms etched onto the ring.
A pang of regret and unease coursed through him. Memories of old obsessions surfaced—moments from a time when he and Grindelwald had dreamed of harnessing the power of such objects. Now, the stone lay before him, its allure undeniable, its curse almost palpable.
---
Back in Nurmengard, Grindelwald lifted his gaze, a faint, sardonic smile curling his lips.
"Voldemort," he said softly, using the name with a hint of mockery. "How interesting. I never expected the thorn in my old friend's side to come and rescue me." His voice was rough from years of disuse. He turned his attention to Magnus, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly. "And you… even after all these years, you come for me?"
Magnus bowed his head slightly, his voice steady but thick with emotion. "We never stopped searching, my lord. We always knew you were alive."
Grindelwald's smile grew, his expression thoughtful. "It is good to know I rightly chose loyal followers like you."
Before more could be said, Voldemort's sharp voice cut through the exchange. "I didn't come to indulge in sentiment," he said, his tone icy. "I've come to break you free, Grindelwald. The wizarding world has changed, and Dumbledore no longer stands as the untouchable figure he once was. Join me, or walk your own path—but first, we must deal with those chains."
At Voldemort's signal, Magnus flicked his wand. The old manacles shattered with a crackling burst of runic energy. Grindelwald staggered slightly as the restraints fell away, rubbing his wrists and glancing around at the small group of intruders.
"The world I knew has indeed changed," Grindelwald murmured, his voice gaining a trace of its old strength. "But I suspect you want more than to free an old prisoner. You wouldn't risk a stealth mission into these wards without purpose." His gaze settled on Voldemort. "What did my followers promise you to gain your cooperation? Enlighten me."
Voldemort's lips curled into a thin smile. "All in good time, Grindelwald," he replied. "For now, we must leave. If we linger, the entire fortress will awaken—and I've no interest in fighting the combined forces of Europe's wizards before I've stabilized my rule in Britain."
He stepped aside, motioning toward the exit. "Let's go."
---
In the silence of the Gaunt shack, Dumbledore stood frozen over the ring, sweat beading on his brow. He knew better than to touch it directly—the diary's possession of Miss Rosier had been a harsh lesson in what Horcruxes could do. But this was different. This wasn't just a Horcrux; this was the Resurrection Stone, one of the Deathly Hallows he had spent decades chasing.
A sharp ache twisted in his chest: a memory, a name. Ariana. Her face flickered in his mind, and with it came the suffocating weight of old guilt. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to focus. The Horcrux had to be contained and dealt with back at Hogwarts. But as the ring sat there, pulsing with dark energy, it whispered to him, bringing flashes of his sister's smile, the sound of her laughter, and the echo of words he'd never said.
"Focus," he murmured, voice firm but shaking as he levitated the ring toward a containment vessel. Yet as it rose, the symbol etched onto the band—the Deathly Hallows—caught the moonlight. That faint, insistent whisper grew louder: You could see her again. You could ask for forgiveness.
Dumbledore's hand trembled, his resolve unraveling. Decades of caution and wisdom buckled under the weight of longing. Just one moment, one glimpse of the sister he had failed to protect.
"I must," he whispered, barely audible, and before he could stop himself, he slipped the ring onto his finger.
Pain erupted instantly. A vile curse surged up his arm, black tendrils of magic writhing under his skin. Dumbledore let out a cry, staggering as the necrotic energy tore through his bones and nerves. His hand burned as if aflame, the cursed magic searing into him. He clawed at the ring, desperate to remove it, but it wouldn't budge. The curse had sunk too deep.
Suddenly, a burst of scarlet light filled the shack. Fawkes, sensing his master's distress, appeared in a rush of fire and wings. The phoenix let out a mournful, piercing cry that echoed through the rotting walls. Fawkes fluttered around Dumbledore, his golden tears falling onto the blackened arm, but the curse was too strong, too deeply rooted in dark magic.
Realizing direct healing was futile, Fawkes circled Dumbledore once more. With a brilliant blaze of gold and scarlet, the phoenix engulfed them both in flame, transporting them away in a swirl of fiery light.
---
The night air howled with triumph and tragedy. In the Gaunt shack, where Dumbledore had stood minutes before, only the opened golden box remained, sitting empty in its secret compartment. Miles away, in the storm-lashed Austrian mountains, Voldemort and Magnus led Grindelwald out of Nurmengard. They stepped into the raging storm, their eyes alight with triumph.
Two journeys, two pivotal moments, had reached their climaxes at the same hour. One man—a so-called leader of the Light—lay gravely cursed, while another—the darkest threat Europe had ever known—walked free once more. The wizarding world, still blissfully unaware, would soon feel the shockwaves of these events.
The rotting timbers of the Gaunt shack would keep their secrets. Nurmengard's watchtowers would see their quarry vanish into the storm. And the tempest overhead would rage on, heralding a new era of shifting alliances and deepening shadows.
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