Chapter 117: The Final Ward
"Tom Riddle is, after all, on the same level as us. He is far more powerful than Pope Innocent VIII. To purify such a spirit," Nicolas Flamel said, shaking his head, "is very difficult." He denied having such overwhelming power.
"Just capturing him is a great victory," Dumbledore said. "Now, we must go and deal with the aftermath. Gellert, Nicolas, there's no need for you two to be involved in the tedious details that follow. You can head up to the Headmaster's office."
The two men could hardly wait for some private space for their research, especially when faced with a research subject that a wizard might only see once in a century. It was a literal statement; the appearance of "raw materials" of this caliber was so rare that, on average, one might not appear every hundred years. The only times such individuals had appeared in clusters were during the era of the four founders and in the current century. And that was just the appearance of the "raw material," to say nothing of acquiring it for study.
"Be—" Dumbledore began, seeing the expressions on their faces. They looked like ancient gourmands who had been starving for six hundred years and had just been presented with an exquisite delicacy. "—be very careful. It's extremely precious!"
He handed over the seal with great reluctance. He wanted to study it, too!
Damn this Headmaster job! Whoever wants it can have it! he fumed internally. It's nothing but endless meetings, and it gets in the way of my magical research!
Dumbledore departed with Snape, both men looking back over their shoulders every few steps. One, however, was longing for research, the other for revenge.
For Snape, who had dedicated the vast majority of his life to the field of Potions, the "raw material" that was Voldemort wasn't particularly relevant. To him, Voldemort's only use was as a personal stress toy. Therefore, Snape had a sudden epiphany, a person should dedicate their limited energy to the infinite process of tormenting Voldemort. Only then does life have meaning.
"Wow, you're so strong! You two are way better than them!" Doro, the wolf-rider golem, said cheerfully, harvesting the last animated gargoyle with her long spear. She hopped over to the two middle-aged witches who had just arrived.
"The... the relic!" a young wizard, tied up securely by Neville, mumbled. A Golden Galleon was embedded deep in his chest, surrounded by a gnarled, grotesque web of flesh and thick blood vessels that pulsed with his heartbeat.
"This person is so weird! He keeps talking about a 'relic.' Is he talking about this?" Doro asked, tossing the spear in her hands.
"He is," Professor McGonagall explained. "Some people have a habit of calling top-tier alchemical creations 'relics,' much like the Deathly Hallows."
"You have done wonderfully, Miss Doro. You've protected many young wizards. I believe you deserve a Special Award for Services to Hogwarts," she said, transfiguring a small trophy from a piece of stone and handing it to Doro.
"Hooray! Doro got a trophy! We got a trophy!"
The smaller golems all cheered, lining up to magically etch their names onto the award. McGonagall smiled at the little constructs, already planning a formal award ceremony in the Great Hall where all of them would be honored guests.
Initially, when she'd heard Dumbledore's plan to use these golems as the main force for protecting the students, McGonagall had been vehemently opposed, believing them to be combat-ineffective. In the end, it was Ryan who had suggested letting Doro wield the Dagger that Dumbledore had brought back. He had even taken Professor McGonagall to personally witness Doro's combat capabilities.
Crucially, Dumbledore had granted the Dagger special authority, allowing its wielder to draw an endless supply of magic from Hogwarts Castle itself. With that advantage, any person—not even necessarily a wizard—could stand within Hogwarts, hold the Dagger, and fend off a large squad of Aurors. Combined with the fact that the golems were not flesh and blood and could be easily repaired, their safety factor was much higher.
All these reasons had finally convinced McGonagall to relent, though she remained deeply skeptical about entrusting the castle's safety to Doro. It wasn't her fault; as a witch from the early-to-mid twentieth century, she had never encountered a situation where an important mission was executed by an alchemical creation. In her experience, any precise and vital work was a job for wizards. The constructs she had seen in her lifetime lacked such advanced intelligence, and few creators would bother to input a logical framework built from constructed memories.
But after receiving Ryan's message on the Communicator, she and Pomona Sprout had rushed back to the castle, only to find the situation was far better than their most optimistic estimates. They had expected, at best, to find the little golems holding the line with a few capable students, locked in a stalemate with the invaders.
They never imagined that Doro the wolf-rider would be so devastatingly effective, single-handedly clearing out nearly all the enchanted statues and rounding up every student driven mad by the cursed gold.
Watching Neville and the others drag over the trussed-up students, McGonagall felt that letting Voldemort's riot happen at a time of their choosing had been an absolutely brilliant decision.
"It looks like Madam Pomfrey is going to be busy," Professor Sprout said, counting the captured students. There were thirteen in total—a rather memorable number. They were from all years and all Houses.
Furthermore, she could tell from the state of several of the captives that the ones who had tied them up were true "artisans." How to describe them? Let's just say their particular talents might have been better suited for Mahoutokoro in Japan, where their... expertise... could truly flourish.
To top it off, these artisans were currently comparing notes.
"My knots are the most beautiful."
"Nonsense! Mine are the most practical!"
"Hehehe~"
Listening to them, Professor Sprout felt that she was getting too old to truly connect with the younger generation.
There is something fundamentally wrong with the education at Hogwarts! she thought, a sudden, startling clarity washing over her. The source of this academic decay is the Headmaster! He consorts with Dark Lords! He even cultivates them!
In that one instant, the normally cheerful witch seemed to achieve enlightenment. Or perhaps she had simply been exposed to some unspeakable, forbidden knowledge, causing a momentary brain overload that her mind interpreted as a profound realization. After all, both Dark Lords she knew of had once been proper European gentlemen who would never have countenanced such... things.
After the initial chaos had been settled...
In the Hospital Wing.
Ryan and Flitwick carried Quirrell to a bed. Their first task, however, was to revive Madam Pomfrey and Ron. Fortunately, both had protective charms on them and had only fallen into a magically-induced coma. After a dose of healing and calming potions, they were both fine.
"Can't... let you... go..." Ron mumbled, his consciousness still hazy, before slumping back into a deep sleep.
Ryan was about to say something when he heard a wave of footsteps approaching the door. A moment later, led by the two professors, a group of students shuffled in, carrying thirteen people. Each of the thirteen had the tell-tale mark of a Galleon embedded in their flesh.
"Put them all here," Professor McGonagall instructed, pointing to the empty beds surrounding Quirrell's. She had the students place the afflicted on the beds, then conjured ropes to secure them to the four bedposts.
What is this, some strange mentor and his thirteen disciples?
Looking at the scene before him—this living masterpiece he could only title The Final Ward—Ryan was at a loss for words.
Hey! Isn't the biblical symbolism a little thick today?
Ryan gave up thinking. It was all just a coincidence.
~~~
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