Meanwhile, in a shabby-chic café in Diagon Alley that specialized in overpriced coffee and the kind of atmosphere that made people feel sophisticated about drinking beverages that cost more than most wizards spent on groceries, Ted Tonks sat across from Rita Skeeter and wondered if this was what selling your soul to the devil felt like, assuming the devil wore lime-green robes and had fingernails that could probably be classified as offensive weapons.
Rita Skeeter was exactly what you'd expect from someone who'd built a career on turning other people's private tragedies into public entertainment: all sharp angles, calculating intelligence, and the kind of predatory smile that suggested she was already composing headlines that would make everyone involved question their life choices and possibly require therapy.
Her Quick-Quotes Quill hovered beside her notepad like a vulture waiting for something to die so it could begin the feast, its enchanted tip practically vibrating with anticipation for whatever scandalous revelations were about to unfold.
"Theodore Tonks," Rita purred, her voice carrying the honey-smooth tones of someone who'd perfected the art of making people feel comfortable right before she destroyed their reputations in print, "calling me for an interview after all these years. How deliciously unexpected. Last time we spoke, I believe you described my journalistic methods as 'somewhere between libel and open warfare against truth, justice, and basic human decency.'"
"That was before I had a story that actually required your... particular talents," Ted replied, his Scottish accent becoming more pronounced as his discomfort with this entire situation grew like a legal brief that kept getting more complicated the deeper you read into it.
He set a small stack of documents on the table between them with the careful precision of someone handling explosives that were both necessary for his plan and likely to cause spectacular damage to everyone in the immediate vicinity.
"I need someone who can present complex legal evidence in a way that will make the general public understand exactly how thoroughly their government has failed them," Ted continued, his voice taking on the tone of someone who'd decided that desperate times called for measures that violated his personal ethics but served the greater good of systematic justice reform.
"And you need someone who specializes in making government officials so uncomfortable they have to choose between reform and complete public humiliation."
Rita's eyes lit up with the kind of professional excitement that usually preceded either Pulitzer prizes or lawsuits that required their own legal teams to handle properly.
"Government corruption?" she asked, her voice carrying the purring satisfaction of a predator who'd just spotted prey that was both substantial and completely unaware of the approaching danger. "Official misconduct? Systematic cover-ups involving high-ranking Ministry officials?"
"Wrongful imprisonment of innocent wizards," Ted said, checking off points on his fingers like someone presenting a menu of governmental disasters that would require extensive damage control and possibly complete administrative overhaul. "Systematic mail fraud targeting a minor's inheritance rights. Marriage contracts that amount to legalized magical slavery enforced through blood magic. And a conspiracy involving the Chief Warlock himself to place the most famous child in wizarding history with abusive relatives despite explicit provisions in his parents' will forbidding exactly that placement."
The silence that followed was the kind of profound quiet that usually preceded either great revelations or complete nervous breakdowns. In Rita's case, it was probably both, along with the realization that she'd just been handed the story that would either win her every journalism award in existence or get her killed by people with very powerful connections and very strong motivations to keep certain information from becoming public knowledge.
"The Boy Who Lived," Rita whispered, her voice carrying the reverent tone usually reserved for discussing religious experiences or really excellent gossip that could destroy entire political careers. "You're talking about Harry Potter."
"I'm talking about a ten-year-old boy who's been systematically abused for his entire life while the wizarding world celebrated him as a hero and the people responsible for his protection conspired to ignore explicit legal documents that would have prevented his suffering," Ted corrected with the clinical precision of someone presenting evidence that was going to require very careful legal documentation and probably some very expensive therapy for everyone involved.
Rita's Quick-Quotes Quill was now moving so fast it was practically smoking, taking notes at a pace that suggested it was either having the time of its existence or preparing to spontaneously combust from excitement overload.
"Abused how?" Rita asked, though her tone suggested she already suspected the answer was going to be the kind that sold newspapers and possibly resulted in government officials requiring new careers in locations without extradition treaties.
Ted opened the first document with the careful precision of someone handling evidence that was both legally explosive and morally devastating for everyone who'd been complicit in ignoring obvious warning signs.
"Systematic starvation. Physical abuse. Imprisonment in a cupboard under the stairs for days at a time without food or water. Forced labor inappropriate for a child of any age. And emotional abuse designed to convince him that he was worthless, unwanted, and deserved whatever treatment he received," Ted said, reading from Andromeda's medical documentation with the clinical detachment that legal professionals use when discussing things that make normal people require immediate counseling.
"All documented by qualified healers, all occurring while the child was supposedly under the protection of blood wards placed by Chief Warlock Dumbledore, and all in direct violation of his parents' will, which explicitly forbade his placement with these particular relatives due to their demonstrated hostility toward magical individuals and their complete unsuitability as guardians for any child, much less a magical one."
Rita's fingernails—which were long enough to qualify as architectural features and definitely sharp enough to perform emergency surgery—drummed against the table with the rapid rhythm of someone whose professional instincts were having a field day while her ethical considerations tried to figure out how to process information that was both incredibly valuable and morally horrifying.
"You have documentation," she said, and it wasn't really a question because Rita Skeeter had survived in journalism by developing an excellent sense for when someone was presenting genuine evidence versus when they were trying to manipulate her for their own purposes.
"Complete medical records, legal analysis of the inheritance fraud, copies of the will with all the provisions that were ignored, and testimony from multiple witnesses including the victim himself," Ted confirmed, his voice carrying the satisfaction of someone who'd built an absolutely devastating case using nothing but facts, proper documentation, and the kind of attention to detail that made opposing counsel consider career changes.
"Plus," he added with the kind of dramatic timing that suggested he'd been saving the best for last, "detailed analysis of the marriage contracts that turned multiple pure-blood women into magically enslaved assets for their husbands' political activities, including torture, murder, and other war crimes they were literally incapable of refusing to commit."
Rita went very still, which was somehow more alarming than if she'd started screaming or throwing things around the café. When Rita Skeeter went still, it meant she was processing information that was going to change everything and probably result in several government officials requiring witness protection from their own constituents.
"Marriage contracts," she repeated slowly, her voice carrying the weight of someone who'd just realized she was holding information that could fundamentally restructure wizarding society and definitely wasn't covered in any journalism textbook she'd ever read. "Magical enslavement. War crimes committed under compulsion."
"Including Bellatrix Lestrange," Ted said, watching Rita's reaction with the clinical interest of someone who'd just dropped the biggest bombshell in magical legal history and was waiting to see how much collateral damage it would cause.
"Who has spent fifteen years being condemned as one of the most evil witches in history while she was actually a victim of magical slavery who was literally incapable of disobeying her husband's orders to torture and kill people."
The Quick-Quotes Quill appeared to have some kind of mechanical seizure and fell over onto the notepad, possibly overwhelmed by the implications of what it was being asked to document.
"Bellatrix Lestrange," Rita breathed, her voice carrying the kind of awe usually reserved for witnessing historical events or really spectacular natural disasters that would require extensive cleanup and possibly geological surveys. "Is innocent. Of war crimes. Because she was magically enslaved."
"And has spent nine years in Azkaban paying for crimes she was compelled to commit against her will," Ted confirmed grimly, his legal training providing clinical terminology for something that was essentially systematic injustice on an scale that probably required new categories in the books about governmental failure and human rights violations.
"While the men who actually controlled her actions maintained their freedom, their social status, and their ability to continue systematically oppressing women through contracts that should have been outlawed centuries ago."
Rita stood up from the table with the kind of sudden movement that suggested she'd just realized she was sitting on the biggest story in wizarding history and needed to begin preparations for what was probably going to be either the greatest triumph of her journalistic career or the most spectacular way to end it through assassination by people with very powerful connections.
"I need to see everything," she said, her voice carrying the focused intensity of someone who'd just shifted into full investigative journalism mode and was prepared to burn down entire institutions if that's what proper reporting required. "Every document, every piece of evidence, every testimony that supports these claims."
"I thought you might," Ted said with the satisfaction of someone whose strategic gamble was paying off exactly as he'd hoped. "But there are conditions."
Rita's expression shifted to something considerably more calculating, like a predator who'd just realized the prey might be more dangerous than initially anticipated and was recalibrating her approach accordingly.
"What kind of conditions?" she asked, though her tone suggested she was prepared to negotiate because the story was worth almost any reasonable compromise and possibly some unreasonable ones.
"Complete accuracy," Ted said, counting off requirements on his fingers like someone outlining the terms of a contract that was going to change everything and probably require extensive legal documentation. "No sensationalism, no dramatic interpretation, no creative editing for better narrative flow. Just the facts, presented clearly and comprehensively."
"You want me to write boring journalism," Rita said, her voice carrying the tone of someone who'd just been asked to perform her profession with one hand tied behind her back and possibly both eyes blindfolded.
"I want you to write devastating journalism," Ted corrected with the kind of smile that suggested he understood exactly what he was asking and why it would be more effective than her usual approach. "The facts are sensational enough without embellishment. Present them clearly, and they'll destroy every person responsible for these injustices more thoroughly than any creative interpretation could manage."
Rita considered this for a moment, her professional instincts warring with her personal preferences for dramatic flair and creative truth enhancement.
"And the exclusive rights?" she asked, because Rita Skeeter might have questionable ethics, but she understood the business aspects of journalism with the clarity of someone who'd built a career on turning information into profit.
"Yours completely," Ted confirmed. "First publication rights, exclusive access to all documentation, and personal interviews with everyone involved who's willing to speak on the record."
"Including Harry Potter?" Rita asked, her voice carrying the kind of anticipation that suggested she understood exactly how valuable that particular interview would be for her career and possibly for systematic governmental reform.
"If he chooses to speak with you," Ted said carefully, his paternal instincts reminding him that Harry was still a ten-year-old boy who'd been through enough trauma without being subjected to interrogation by someone whose journalistic methods could charitably be described as aggressive. "He's been through considerable trauma, and his welfare takes priority over any journalistic considerations."
Rita nodded with the understanding of someone who'd realized that this story was too important to risk losing through overly aggressive interviewing techniques that might cause key witnesses to become uncooperative.
"When do I get to see the evidence?" she asked, already mentally organizing what was probably going to be either the most complex investigative series of her career or the most important single article in the history of wizarding journalism.
"Tomorrow," Ted said, standing up with the satisfaction of someone who'd just set in motion events that were going to fundamentally change wizarding society and probably result in several high-ranking officials requiring new careers in fields that didn't involve public service. "Ten o'clock. I'll send you the location."
As Ted left the café, Rita Skeeter sat alone with her notes and began to contemplate what was probably going to be either the greatest story of her career or the last story she'd ever be allowed to publish, depending on how many powerful people decided that systematic justice reform was less important than maintaining their comfortable positions and avoiding responsibility for decades of systematic failure.
Either way, it was going to be spectacular.
---
Meanwhile, at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, Harry was discovering that cosmic entities occasionally experienced what could best be described as "supernatural indigestion with a side of existential alarm."
He'd been in the library with Sirius and Bellatrix, researching marriage contract law and trying to understand exactly how systematic magical enslavement had been legal for centuries without anyone thinking to mention that it might violate basic principles of human decency, when Drakor suddenly went very still inside his head.
*"Harry,"* Drakor's mental voice carried the tone of someone who'd just detected something deeply concerning and possibly dangerous lurking in their immediate vicinity, *"there's something in this house that feels... familiar. Uncomfortably familiar."*
*What do you mean?* Harry asked, pausing in his reading of a particularly appalling marriage contract that apparently gave husbands the legal right to rent their wives' magical abilities to other wizards for unspecified purposes and probably violated several international treaties about human rights.
*"The same magical signature I detected in your scar,"* Drakor said, his mental voice taking on the focused intensity of a predator who'd just caught the scent of something that needed immediate investigation and possibly consumption. *"Another piece of Tom Riddle's soul. Somewhere in this house."*
Harry felt his stomach drop like it had just discovered that gravity was more enthusiastic than previously advertised, which was already unpleasant before you added in the implications of finding more pieces of dark wizard soul in your ancestral home.
"There's another Horcrux here," Harry said aloud, his voice carrying enough alarm to make Sirius and Bellatrix look up from their own research with the kind of immediate attention that suggested they'd both had enough experience with dark magic to recognize when something required urgent attention.
"Another what?" Sirius asked, though his tone suggested he already suspected the answer and definitely wasn't going to like it.
"A Horcrux," Harry explained, standing up with the kind of focused movement that suggested he was preparing to deal with something dangerous and possibly soul-sucking. "It's what Voldemort did to achieve immortality—he split his soul into pieces and hid them in objects. The piece in my scar was one of them. Drakor absorbed it when we bonded, along with all of Tom Riddle's memories."
"And there's another piece here," Bellatrix said, her voice carrying the understanding of someone who'd spent fifteen years being magically compelled to serve Voldemort and had developed a very good sense for when dark magic was lurking in inconvenient places.
*"Leading me right to it,"* Drakor said with the satisfaction of a cosmic entity who'd just figured out how to solve a problem through direct action and probably some very educational violence. *"Follow my guidance. We're going hunting."*
Drakor's enhanced senses guided Harry through the house with the efficiency of a cosmic bloodhound that had strong opinions about dark magic and was really looking forward to the opportunity to educate more soul fragments about the inadvisability of existing in his vicinity.
They moved through rooms that had been decorated by people who thought subtlety was for families without proper ambition, past portraits of Black family ancestors who were thankfully still asleep and therefore not available to comment on the current state of household maintenance or the general decline of pure-blood values.
*"Stronger,"* Drakor murmured as they approached what appeared to be a drawing room that had been designed by someone who'd taken the phrase "intimidating family wealth" as a personal challenge. *"Much stronger. Whatever it is, it's powerful. More substantial than the fragment in your scar."*
Harry pushed open the door to reveal a room that looked like it had been designed as a shrine to pure-blood supremacy and traditional values that probably violated several modern principles of human decency. Dark wood paneling, heavy curtains that blocked most of the natural light, and enough family artifacts to stock a museum dedicated to the proposition that some people were inherently better than others and had the expensive decorations to prove it.
*"There,"* Drakor said with the satisfaction of a cosmic entity who'd just spotted his prey and was already planning the most efficient method of consumption. *"In that cabinet. Something small, metal, and absolutely radiating dark magic like a beacon for cosmic entities with strong opinions about soul mutilation."*
The cabinet in question was an elegant piece of furniture that probably cost more than most wizards earned in a year and had definitely been crafted by someone who understood that proper pure-blood families required storage solutions for their most valuable possessions.
Inside, nestled among other family heirlooms and artifacts that probably had their own interesting histories involving political intrigue and systematic oppression, was a locket.
It was beautiful in the way that dangerous things often are—ornate silver work inlaid with emeralds, clearly the product of master craftsmanship and probably enough accumulated wealth to fund several small countries. The kind of jewelry that suggested its owners had excellent taste, unlimited resources, and possibly some very interesting stories about how they'd acquired both.
But it also radiated the kind of malevolent energy that made smart people remember urgent appointments elsewhere, and when Harry got close enough to examine it properly, he could swear he heard whispers that definitely weren't coming from anyone currently alive and present in the room.
*"Oh, that's definitely a Horcrux,"* Drakor confirmed with the clinical precision of someone who'd become quite familiar with fragmented souls and their tendency to take up residence in expensive jewelry. *"Substantial piece too. This isn't just a fragment—this is a significant portion of Tom Riddle's soul, probably containing decades of memories and magical knowledge."*
"Don't touch it," Sirius said quickly, his voice carrying the authority of someone who'd grown up in a house full of dark artifacts and had learned through painful experience that touching mysterious magical objects was an excellent way to discover new varieties of unpleasant curse and possibly several types of possession that weren't covered in standard magical education.
"Kreacher!" he called, his voice echoing through the house like someone summoning either assistance or supernatural judgment, depending on how you felt about house-elves who'd been maintaining dark artifacts without proper supervision.
The ancient house-elf appeared with his usual dramatic timing, but his reaction to seeing them gathered around the cabinet was immediate and visceral. His bulging eyes went even wider—which seemed physically impossible until you remembered that house-elf anatomy apparently operated on different principles than standard biology—and he began making a sound that was part keening and part what might have been grief if house-elves processed emotions the same way humans did.
"Master Regulus's locket," Kreacher whispered, his voice carrying the kind of profound sorrow that came from decades of accumulated guilt and probably some very traumatic memories involving family members who'd made poor life choices. "Kreacher tried to destroy it. Tried so hard. But Kreacher could not. Kreacher failed Master Regulus. Kreacher failed the Noble House."
Sirius felt something cold settle in his chest that had nothing to do with the temperature and everything to do with hearing his brother's name connected to dark magic and what was obviously a very painful story that he'd never heard and probably wouldn't like.
"Regulus?" he asked carefully, his voice carrying the tone of someone who suspected they were about to learn something important and probably tragic about family history that had been kept secret for very understandable but ultimately counterproductive reasons.
"Tell us about the locket, Kreacher," Bellatrix said gently, her voice carrying the authority of someone who'd grown up in this house and understood that Kreacher operated on protocols that had been established decades ago and needed to be approached with proper respect for house-elf traditions and emotional states.
"Master Regulus discovered the Dark Lord's secret," Kreacher began, his voice taking on the careful cadence of someone recounting a story that was both incredibly important and incredibly painful to remember. "Master Regulus learned that the Dark Lord had split his soul, had made himself immortal through the darkest magic, had hidden pieces of himself in objects that would ensure his return even if his body was destroyed."
The silence that followed was the kind of heavy quiet that usually preceded either great revelations or the discovery that someone you thought you knew had been considerably more heroic than anyone had given them credit for.
"Regulus figured out about the Horcruxes," Sirius said slowly, his voice carrying the dawning realization that his little brother—who he'd always thought had been just another pure-blood supremacist who'd gotten in over his head with dangerous politics—had actually been conducting his own investigation into dark magic and probably trying to save the world in his own quiet way.
"Master Regulus commanded Kreacher to help him destroy the locket," Kreacher continued, his voice breaking with emotion that had been building for over a decade. "But the locket was protected. Hidden in a cave, guarded by terrible magic, surrounded by the dead who served the Dark Lord even in death."
"Inferi," Bellatrix said grimly, her forced memories of Voldemort's preferred defensive measures providing context that she definitely wished she didn't have. "Animated corpses that attack anyone who tries to take what they're guarding. Virtually impossible to fight, incredibly dangerous, and probably traumatic for anyone who encountered them."
"Master Regulus drank the potion that protected the locket," Kreacher continued, his voice taking on the kind of profound grief that came from watching someone you cared about sacrifice themselves for the greater good while you were powerless to prevent it. "Terrible potion. Made him relive his worst memories, made him weak, made him helpless. But he made Kreacher promise to take the locket and destroy it, no matter what happened to him."
"And you couldn't destroy it," Harry said softly, his voice carrying the understanding of someone who was beginning to piece together a story of heroism, sacrifice, and the kind of tragic failure that haunted people for decades.
"Kreacher tried everything," the house-elf said, his voice carrying years of accumulated frustration and guilt. "Fire, cutting curses, blasting hexes, everything Kreacher could think of. But the locket was protected by magic too powerful for house-elf abilities. Kreacher failed Master Regulus. Kreacher brought shame to the Noble House."
Sirius looked like someone had just explained that everything he'd believed about his family was wrong and that his little brother had died trying to save the world while Sirius was off playing pranks and thinking himself superior to pure-blood politics and family obligations.
"Regulus died a hero," Sirius said quietly, his voice rough with emotion that had been building for over a decade. "He figured out Voldemort's secret and died trying to destroy it. While I was..."
"While you were fighting the war in your own way," Bellatrix interrupted firmly, her voice carrying the authority of someone who'd been forced to participate in enough war crimes to understand that there were many different ways to resist evil and all of them required different kinds of courage. "Regulus chose investigation and sabotage. You chose direct confrontation and protection. Both were necessary. Both were heroic."
*"And now we finish what he started,"* Drakor said with the satisfaction of a cosmic entity who'd just figured out how to honor someone's sacrifice while simultaneously solving a problem through direct consumption and possibly some very educational absorption of dark magic.
*"Stand back, everyone. This is going to be significantly more dramatic than the soul fragment in Harry's scar."*
"Drakor, wait—" Harry started, but his cosmic partner was already taking control, and Harry felt his consciousness being gently but firmly moved to the passenger seat while something considerably older and more powerful took over the driving.
Harry's features shifted as Drakor assumed direct control, his ten-year-old face taking on the kind of ancient authority that suggested something very, very old was looking out through his emerald eyes and had very strong opinions about soul fragments that had been hiding in expensive jewelry for over a decade.
"Regulus Black," Drakor said, his voice carrying harmonics that made the air itself vibrate with cosmic authority, "your sacrifice will be honored. Your mission will be completed. And this abomination will trouble no one ever again."
He reached for the locket with movements that carried the fluid grace of someone who'd been dealing with dangerous magical artifacts since before most civilizations had figured out agriculture, let alone proper containment protocols for fragmented souls.
The moment his fingers touched the silver, the locket began screaming.
Not metaphorically screaming—actually, physically screaming with the voice of Tom Riddle in absolute agony and cosmic-level panic as he realized that the thing touching his Horcrux was considerably more dangerous than anything he'd planned for when he'd been setting up his immortality insurance policies.
*"YOU CANNOT DESTROY ME!"* the locket shrieked, its voice carrying the kind of imperious authority that came from someone who'd gotten used to being the most dangerous thing in any given situation and was having difficulty adjusting to new management. *"I AM LORD VOLDEMORT! I AM IMMORTAL! I AM—"*
"You," Drakor interrupted with the casual tone of someone correcting a particularly slow student who'd missed several important points in the lecture, "are lunch."
The same impossible mouth that had consumed Dementors and Death Eaters opened in Harry's transformed features, revealing rows of cosmic teeth that made the locket's screaming reach frequencies that probably violated several natural laws and definitely disturbed every portrait in the house.
Unlike the soul fragment in Harry's scar, this Horcrux fought back. Dark magic lashed out like tentacles made of concentrated malevolence, trying to find purchase on anything that might allow it to escape or possess or at least cause some spectacular damage before being consumed by something that treated dark lords like appetizers.
But Drakor had been consuming cosmic threats since before Tom Riddle had figured out which end of a wand was dangerous, and his approach to struggling prey was both efficient and thoroughly educational for anyone watching.
*"Stop struggling,"* he said conversationally, his voice carrying the patient tone of someone explaining proper etiquette to dinner that was being unreasonably difficult about the consumption process. *"You're only making this take longer, and honestly, the aftertaste gets worse when prey is this agitated. Very unprofessional behavior for someone who's supposed to be a dark lord."*
The Horcrux made one final, desperate attempt to escape by trying to possess Kreacher, sending tendrils of dark magic shooting toward the house-elf like someone making a last-ditch effort to hijack the nearest available transportation.
Drakor caught the magical attack midair with the casual efficiency of someone swatting a particularly annoying fly, then absorbed it along with the rest of the soul fragment in one smooth, cosmic gulp that somehow managed to be both civilized and absolutely terrifying.
"Mmm," Drakor said, his voice taking on the satisfied tone of someone who'd just enjoyed a particularly excellent meal that had also solved several long-standing problems, "Much better flavor than the fragment in Harry's scar. Years of accumulated power, decades of magical knowledge, and just the right amount of existential horror to provide complexity to the dining experience. Very robust."
The locket crumbled to dust, its protective enchantments failing completely now that the soul fragment that had powered them was busy being digested by something that existed on frequencies that Tom Riddle had never imagined and definitely hadn't planned for.
"Master Regulus's mission is complete," Kreacher whispered, his voice carrying the kind of profound relief that came from decades of guilt finally being resolved through cosmic intervention and really excellent problem-solving by interdimensional entities.
Sirius was staring at Harry—or rather, at Drakor wearing Harry's features—with something between awe and the dawning realization that his godson's cosmic partner was considerably more powerful than anyone had initially suspected and definitely had very creative approaches to problem-solving.
"How many more?" Bellatrix asked, her voice carrying the practical concern of someone who'd been forced to serve Voldemort and was really looking forward to ensuring he could never return to make anyone else's life miserable through magical enslavement and systematic oppression.
Harry's features shifted back to normal as Drakor returned control to his young host, though his emerald eyes still held that otherworldly gleam that suggested his cosmic partner was never entirely absent and had just gained access to several decades worth of additional magical knowledge.
"According to the memories I just absorbed," Harry said, his voice carrying information that was probably going to require immediate action and definitely wasn't going to make anyone's day less complicated, "there are four more. A ring that's currently in the ruins of the Gaunt family hovel, hidden under layers of protective enchantments and probably several varieties of lethal curse. A cup that belonged to Helga Hufflepuff, currently in the Lestrange vault at Gringotts. A diadem that once belonged to Rowena Ravenclaw, hidden somewhere in Hogwarts Castle. And the diary that was supposed to be Tom Riddle's first experiment in soul-splitting, and according to these memories, it is currently in the possession of Lucius Malfoy."
"Four more Horcruxes," Sirius said, his voice carrying the weight of someone who'd just realized that their campaign for systematic justice was about to become significantly more complex and probably require extensive travel to locations that were definitely going to be heavily protected by people who didn't appreciate unexpected visitors.
"Four more opportunities for educational experiences involving cosmic justice and the systematic elimination of dark magic," Harry corrected cheerfully, his voice carrying the anticipation of someone who was really looking forward to completing a project that someone else had started and died trying to accomplish.
"Plus," he added with the satisfaction of someone who'd just gained access to decades of insider information about dark wizard operations, "thanks to absorbing this Horcrux, I now have complete knowledge of Voldemort's organizational structure, his remaining followers, their locations, their methods, and their plans for maintaining power and influence even after their master's supposed death."
*"This is going to be so much fun,"* Drakor said with cosmic satisfaction, his mental voice carrying the anticipation of someone who'd just been handed a comprehensive list of people who deserved very creative educational experiences about proper ethics and human rights. *"I haven't had a good systematic evil organization to dismantle in centuries. It's like Christmas morning for cosmic entities with strong opinions about justice."*
Bellatrix smiled with the expression of someone who'd just realized that the people responsible for fifteen years of her magical enslavement were about to discover exactly what cosmic justice looked like when it was applied with precision, creativity, and access to detailed intelligence about their operations and weaknesses.
"Where do we start?" she asked, her voice carrying the anticipation of someone who was really looking forward to systematically dismantling the organization that had destroyed so many lives through magical slavery and systematic oppression.
"We start," Harry said, his voice taking on the determined tone of someone who'd inherited both his father's reckless heroism and his mother's fierce protective instincts, "by making sure that no one else ever has to suffer the way you did, the way I did, or the way anyone else has suffered because these people thought power was more important than basic human decency."
"And then?" Sirius asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer and was definitely looking forward to it.
*"Then we educate them,"* Drakor said cheerfully, his mental voice carrying the satisfaction of a cosmic entity who was really looking forward to providing some very memorable lessons about the consequences of systematic oppression and the inadvisability of treating people like property.
*"Very comprehensive educational experiences. The kind that really stick with you. Possibly permanently."*
As they prepared to begin what would probably be the most systematic dismantling of dark wizard operations in wizarding history, Harry couldn't help but feel that everything was finally falling into place. They had evidence, they had allies, they had legal representation, and most importantly, they had the power to ensure that justice was served with the kind of cosmic thoroughness that would make sure these problems never happened again.
It was going to be beautiful.
---
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