Now, the first obstacle had been dealt with.
But Sean didn't relax for a second.
Before Will used magic to open the box, before Professor Quirrell destroyed the ring with Fiendfyre, Sean kept his attention fixed on the world outside the shack.
"Professor—if possible, please preserve the Resurrection Stone as much as you can," Sean said.
"Ah… as you wish," Quirrell answered without hesitation.
Whether the Stone was valuable or not didn't matter to him. Mr. Green's will had to be carried out.
Sean looked outside again.
He felt a faint, puzzled doubt… Had he misjudged it?
So his thoughts returned to the Resurrection Stone.
There was a fact in the wizarding world that was easy to notice, and yet few people seemed to know: Salazar Slytherin was very likely descended from Cadmus Peverell—one of the Three Brothers.
The tale of the Three Brothers predated Hogwarts, and the Gaunt family were both Slytherin's descendants and the Peverells' descendants.
From that alone, it wasn't hard to infer that Slytherin may once have possessed the Resurrection Stone.
The memories Sean carried—Ravenclaw's memories—confirmed it.
Ravenclaw had studied Slytherin.
Not just his Parseltongue, but his ring—the ring that held the Resurrection Stone.
The Resurrection Stone: the fabled rock "from Death" that could bring the dead back to life.
In truth, it couldn't truly revive the dead. It could only summon something that was more real than a soul, and more unreal than a body—like the Riddle that emerged from the diary.
But it clearly touched the secrets of a wizard's soul.
From Ravenclaw's research, Sean arrived at a conclusion easily:
The Resurrection Stone could interfere with a wizard's soul—but the interference was closer to a brutal, crude form of ancient magic.
This powerful alchemical artifact could pierce the Veil and call back a soul that should have been gone.
But that was all. The "soul" it summoned was a shell—missing the most important part.
Without a link to the wizard's true soul, the Resurrection Stone could only call up a "wizard without magic"—
no wisdom, and no emotion.
It should have been a thing Death used to mock the greedy. Yet now it seemed to offer a different possibility.
It could summon a wizard's soul.
And in the dream-world, that was a power Sean needed badly.
On the other side of the room, Quirrell began—careful, precise. He shouted, and the shack filled with a roaring, surging sound.
At first it was only a small tongue of flame—but it swelled rapidly. In moments, the fire changed shape, becoming a pack of beasts made entirely of flame:
fire salamanders, chimeras, and fire-dragons. They leapt up, fell, rose again.
The rotten rubbish piled in the shack was flung into the air, dropped into fanged mouths, crushed under clawed feet, and swallowed by hellish fire.
The fire-beasts circled the ring in the middle of the room, pressing in closer and closer. Claws, feelers, and tails lashed with sharp crack after crack, and the heat built like a wall around it.
Sean was even more cautious now—Fiendfyre was notoriously hard to control, and Quirrell couldn't be disturbed.
Sean glanced outside once more: silent, pitch-black, broken only by the occasional startled birdcall.
It looked like he'd guessed wrong.
Dumbledore didn't actually enjoy tailing a student that much.
Soon the smoke and heat grew thick enough to choke. Before Sean, the wicked fire consumed the Gaunt shack—its filthy walls, its rot, every secret hidden in this room.
Then, amid the chorus of monstrous shrieks, a new sound split the air—
a howl so raw it made Sean and Quirrell's ears ring.
"Damn you—!"
The scream tore through them like a blade.
Quirrell clearly recognized it. He started trembling uncontrollably—his whole body shaking like a leaf.
When that pitch-black, face-twisted, human-head-shaped mass of smoke lunged forward, Quirrell's veins stood out. He roared, and his wand tip exploded with blazing fire.
The tide of flames surged visibly stronger—and the thing's screams grew even louder.
If Sean hadn't cast a Silencing Charm long ago, the entire village of Little Hangleton would have been jolted awake.
He didn't want to be discovered. He didn't want to be dragged to the Ministry for questioning. And he knew that the more rotten an institution was, the more it loved to flaunt its authority.
Quirrell was still shaking. His eyes were bloodshot, locked on that smoky head with a feral hatred.
"Come on," he spat, as if finding relief in the insult. "Come on, you bastard!"
The struggle lasted several minutes.
At last, the Fiendfyre burned itself out.
A ring fell to the floor.
Quirrell sagged, trembling with exhaustion, and a pair of hands caught him and held him up.
"Professor," a voice said near his ear, "you did well."
"Ah…" Quirrell rasped. No words would come.
His body wasn't badly spent—but his mind had just endured a trial.
Voldemort…
That was Voldemort.
"Ah—did I arrive at just the right time?"
A voice, unexpected.
Sean reacted on instinct, hooking his finger and slipping the Resurrection Stone into the Wizard's Book.
He looked up.
"Headmaster."
Dumbledore stood in the doorway—beard long and white, watching Sean with that gentle, grandfatherly expression.
Sean sighed. So Dumbledore did like following students after all.
They had destroyed a Horcrux—but that didn't mean the curse was gone.
Sean had thought he still had time to unravel it. If he failed, they could always destroy the Stone later.
But time, as always, liked to play tricks.
"Professor," Sean murmured to Quirrell, "do you remember what we agreed?"
"Of course." Quirrell—recovering—moved without hesitation to Sean's side, alongside the Pukwudgie butler, both of them watching Dumbledore with full alertness.
"This could get dangerous," Sean said.
"For your will," Quirrell answered, each word carved in stone.
At the door, Dumbledore spoke again.
"We need to talk."
His smile was gone. He looked suddenly older—much older.
"…Yes." Sean tightened his grip on his wand.
He had learned many spells, some of them powerful, but facing Dumbledore… he couldn't pretend he was confident.
"I've searched for it for so long," Dumbledore said in a hoarse voice. "I've had to learn to live inside guilt and unbearable grief—that is the price of my shame… but now—has everything finally turned?"
Sean saw it: Dumbledore's eyes no longer held only calm intelligence. There was something else now—something dangerously human, something tidal.
"Even if it's dangerous?" Sean asked.
"Even if it's dangerous." Dumbledore's gaze was like an endless sea.
"Child, understand this: it is my choice.
Love and death are always one. To seek love is, too, to be willing to die."
Sean paused—then asked, unexpectedly:
"Headmaster… would you be willing to give me a practical combat lesson?"
Dumbledore smiled.
"Of course."
~~~
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