Chapter 446: A Difficult Practical Lesson
Now, the first obstacle was cleared. But Sean did not feel the slightest bit of relief.
Before Will could unlock the box with magic and before Professor Quirrell could destroy the ring with Fiendfyre, Sean focused his attention outside the house.
"Professor, if possible, please try to preserve the Resurrection Stone," Sean said.
"Ah... I shall obey your will."
Quirrell didn't hesitate. To him, whether the stone was precious or not mattered little; Mr. Green's will was the only thing that needed to be carried out.
Sean looked toward the door again. He was slightly puzzled... had he been wrong? He turned his thoughts back to the stone itself.
It was a fact often noticed but rarely fully understood in the wizarding world: there was a very high probability that Salazar Slytherin was a descendant of Cadmus Peverell, the second of the three brothers. The tale of the brothers predated the founding of Hogwarts, and the Gaunt family was both a line of Slytherin descendants and a line of the three brothers. From this, it wasn't hard to deduce that Slytherin had, at some point, possessed the Resurrection Stone.
The memories of Ravenclaw in Sean's mind confirmed this. She had once studied Slytherin—not just his Parseltongue, but his Resurrection Stone ring.
The Resurrection Stone, the legendary gift from Death that could bring the dead back to life. In truth, it did not truly resurrect the dead; it merely summoned a substance that was more real than a soul but more ethereal than a physical entity, much like the Riddle that emerged from the diary.
But it clearly involved the mysteries of a wizard's soul. From Ravenclaw's research, Sean easily drew a conclusion: the stone could interfere with a wizard's soul, but it did so through a terrible, brutal form of ancient magic. This powerful alchemical artifact could pierce the Veil to summon a soul that had departed, but that was all. The summoned soul was an empty shell, missing the most essential component. Without a link to the wizard's own living soul, the stone could only summon a wizard "devoid of magic"—lacking both the wizard's wisdom and their emotions.
It was meant to be an item Death used to mock the greedy, but it now appeared to offer an unexpected opportunity. It could summon a wizard's soul. In his dreams, this was a capability Sean desperately needed.
On the other side of the room, Quirrell had cautiously begun. With a roar, a rolling, rushing sound filled the house. It started as a tiny wisp of flame, but rapidly ballooned. Soon, the fire began to shift, forming a great mass of fiery beasts: Chimeras, salamanders, and dragons. They lunged, fell, and rose again. The broken junk littering the house was tossed into the air, vanishing into their fanged maws and trampled by their fiery claws, consumed by the hellish blaze.
The fiery beasts surrounded the ring at the center of the room, closing in, their claws and tails lashing as the heat walled the artifact in. Sean remained hyper-vigilant; Fiendfyre was notoriously difficult to control, and Professor Quirrell could not be distracted.
Sean checked the outside again. Silent, pitch-black, with only the occasional startled bird. It seems I was wrong, he thought. Professor Dumbledore isn't so fond of following a little wizard after all.
Soon, the smoke and heat became suffocating. Before Sean's eyes, the malevolent fire devoured the Gaunt shack, consuming the filthy walls and all the secrets hidden in the room. As the monstrous fire-beasts shrieked in unison, a piercing, heart-wrenching scream tore through the air.
"Damnable thing—!"
The voice roared in agony, causing Sean and Quirrell's eardrums to vibrate painfully. Professor Quirrell was clearly familiar with this presence; he couldn't stop shivering, his entire body shaking like a leaf. As the ink-black cloud with a distorted face surged toward them, Quirrell's veins bulged. He let out a mighty shout, and a torrent of flame erupted from the tip of his wand.
The wave of fire grew visibly more intense, and the creature's wail grew even louder. If Sean hadn't cast a silencing charm early on, every villager in Little Hangleton would have been roused from their sleep. Sean didn't want to be discovered, nor did he want to be summoned by the Ministry; he knew that the more decadent an institution was, the more it loved to flaunt its authority.
Quirrell was still trembling, his eyes bloodshot, yet he stared fixedly at the black, head-shaped mist.
"Come on, you wretch!" he spat out, as if finding some release.
The struggle lasted for several minutes until, at last, the Fiendfyre burned itself out. A ring lay on the floor.
Quirrell collapsed in a shivering heap, caught by a pair of hands.
"Professor, you've done well," a voice whispered in his ear.
"Ah..." He rasped, unable to speak. His body wasn't physically damaged, but his mind had undoubtedly undergone a trial by fire. Voldemort... that was Voldemort...
"My, am I interrupting something?"
An unexpected voice echoed through the room.
Sean's fingers moved instinctively, hooked the Resurrection Stone, and tucked it into the Wizard's Tome.
"Professor Dumbledore," Sean said, looking up.
The elderly wizard with the long, silver beard stood in the doorway, gazing at Sean with a kind expression. Sean sighed. It seemed Dumbledore did like following little wizards after all.
They had destroyed the Horcrux, but that did not mean they had destroyed the curse. Sean had assumed he had plenty of time to figure out how to break it—or, failing that, to destroy the stone—but time, it seemed, loved to play games.
"Professor, do you remember what we discussed?" Sean asked softly.
"Of course."
Quirrell, having steadied himself, stood beside Sean without hesitation, glaring at Dumbledore alongside the Pukwudgie butler.
"This will be dangerous," Sean said.
"For your will," Quirrell said, enunciating every word.
From the doorway, the aged voice spoke again:
"Shall we talk?"
Dumbledore's smile vanished. He looked as if he had aged years in an instant.
"Yes." Sean tightened his grip on his wand. He had learned many spells, some of great power, but facing Dumbledore, he felt no certainty.
"I have sought it for so long... I have had to learn to live with guilt and profound grief; that is the price of my shame... but now, is there a chance for things to change?" Dumbledore said, his voice raspy.
Sean saw that the spark of wisdom was gone from Dumbledore's eyes; he realized that the greatest of wizards was, in this moment, likely swayed by the overwhelming tide of his own emotions.
"Even if it is dangerous?" Sean asked.
"Even if it is dangerous." Dumbledore's deep eyes were like a boundless, dark ocean. "My boy, I want you to understand: this is my choice. Love and death are one and the same; the will to seek love is also the will to die for it."
He said.
"Professor Dumbledore," Sean asked suddenly, "would you be willing to give me a practical lesson in combat?"
"Of course," Dumbledore smiled.
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