As [Ariana] and [Grindelwald] let out piercing shrieks, the grey mist suddenly swelled, flooding the room like smoke from a dying fire.
The oil lamps and candles scattered throughout the old Black house were swallowed whole. Their dim flames turned an eerie green, and deep within each flickering heart, faint patterns of the Dark Mark emerged—serpents coiled inside skulls.
At the source of the ever-expanding fog, a pair of pitch-black eyes peered out from behind the locket's tiny glass window. There was no triumphant glee in them—only thin veins of blood creeping across the whites, a mix of savagery and barely concealed panic.
Dumbledore gazed at the two spectral figures: the sister he had lost to death, the friend he had lost to betrayal. His clear blue eyes seemed to pierce through decades, seeing the real people behind the illusions.
Melvin, watching from the sidelines, was in no rush. From the beginning, Dumbledore showed no sign of being swayed. He simply wanted to observe exactly how a Horcrux operated.
Now that things had calmed, Melvin's thoughts sharpened. He stared straight through the mist into those eyes.
"This is the Slytherin locket's power at work. You can't actually see the Headmaster's memories, can you?"
"Of course I can!" [Ariana] and [Grindelwald] answered in unison—both using Riddle's voice. The overlapping tones created an eerie harmony, yet they couldn't hide the underlying desperation.
"His filthy memories, the fear buried deep inside, the past that old man refuses to face, every hidden secret—I see it all!"
"Looks like you never bothered to truly understand Slytherin's work," Melvin said, shaking his head with a tsk. "Salazar Slytherin may not have been the most powerful dark wizard, but he was undoubtedly the furthest traveler on that path. He built shelters along the way for those who came after—a treasury filled to the brim."
The Chamber of Secrets beneath Hogwarts. The basilisk that slept for a thousand years. The snakewood of Ilvermorny. The locket passed down through generations… Among the four founders, Salazar Slytherin left behind the richest inheritance.
Melvin knew this better than most. "Slytherin's research touched the soul long before Herpo the Foul. He sought the true essence of magic—not the crooked path of tearing one's soul apart to beg Death for mercy. Your shortsightedness made you miss the real treasure. You raced down the wrong road like a fool."
"Don't talk to me in that tone!" Riddle's voice hissed like a striking viper. "You don't understand—this is magic that conquers death!"
Melvin kept pouring salt into the wound. "If I'm right, the locket originally had a function to guide emotions—but it wasn't designed for rage, hatred, or the like. It was your soul that corrupted it."
"This is it fulfilling its greatest purpose!"
"The locket is the key to Slytherin's vault. It points the way for its inheritors—guiding them to understand the relationship between emotion, soul, and magic. The advanced alchemy carved into it completely bypasses Legilimency. It needs no eye contact, no Occlumency defense. It simply resonates with magic and draws out the memories etched deepest in the soul."
Melvin explained patiently, every bit the professional professor.
"Truly… astonishing magic," Dumbledore murmured in quiet admiration.
Sirius and Kreacher looked slightly lost—they couldn't follow the complex theory.
"Tom Riddle—you call yourself Slytherin's heir, yet you followed that vile Herpo and made Horcruxes, picking up sesame seeds while throwing away the watermelon…"
Melvin looked into those eyes, expression complicated. "You treated the key itself like a mere trinket."
The casual remark carried unintended contempt. Behind the glass window, the eyes bulged with fury. [Grindelwald] let out a savage roar:
"Shut up! You people and your disgusting, superior professor attitudes! You're just like Dumbledore back then!"
[Ariana] screeched in a thin, piercing voice: "I can see, Dumbledore! I've already seen your weakness. Just wait—I'll use it to make you suffer. I'll use it to end your life!"
[Grindelwald]'s form stretched long and serpentine. His hands clamped around [Ariana]'s throat in a death grip. His eyes glowed scarlet, hair whipping like flames. His face twisted into pure monstrosity.
Riddle was reenacting Ariana's death—right in front of them.
The Horcrux had dropped all pretense. It would do anything to enrage Dumbledore, to force him to taste that pain again.
Yet Dumbledore simply watched the locket, expressionless. Though the sudden appearance of the two figures had indeed stirred long-buried memories.
"Tom Riddle—or perhaps I should say Voldemort—if you could truly rifle through my memories, you probably wouldn't waste time on these cheap tricks…" the Headmaster said calmly.
Melvin nearly laughed out loud. He was the only one who fully understood.
If the Horcrux fragment could actually access Dumbledore's complete memories, the ancient scandals of his youth would pale next to more recent humiliations:
Being rejected twice for the Defense Against the Dark Arts post.
The Dark Lord at the height of his power—defeated by a one-year-old baby.
The true body of Voldemort, even now, cowering in an Albanian ditch, barely clinging to life.
And the Horcruxes he had hidden so carefully—being hunted down one by one.
"…"
Ever since Riddle began splitting his soul to make Horcruxes, his personality had grown increasingly warped. In youth he had been deep and calculating; as Voldemort, he became erratic and temperamental.
Judging by the fragment's extreme bias inside the locket—if it could truly see Dumbledore's memories—it would have far more pressing concerns than manufacturing hallucinations to provoke him.
"That's enough," Dumbledore said, his gaze turning cold.
Inside the locket, a cluster of orange-red flame erupted.
Fiendfyre ignited the specters and the mist in an instant. The two bubble-like figures shattered. Tongues of flame swallowed the locket—yet left the metal untouched. With exquisite control, the fire passed through the glass window and reflected deep inside those black pupils.
The next moment, Riddle's eyes were set ablaze. Molten blood poured from them. The soul fragment inside let out a hoarse, guttural scream.
"No—no—no… Dumbledore! You will pay for this!"
The frenzied shrieks grew weaker… then faded completely.
Grimmauld Place fell silent once more.
Melvin looked down at the locket. Whatever had lived inside it was gone. No scorch marks marred the surface. The colorful silk lining hadn't even curled.
Only on the inside of the glass window—dripping blood had left faint, black-brown scorch lines.
At the far end of the long table, Sirius and Kreacher stared at that tiny window. Their bodies trembled slightly. Noses red. Eyes wet.
…
Albania – Forest Tavern
Bertha Jorkins sat in a corner by the window. She touched the Ministry badge pinned to her chest, then looked up to survey the circular hall on the tavern's ground floor.
A small suitcase rested at her feet—Undetectable Extension Charm holding all her luggage. A cross-body leather bag contained essentials: loose change in both Muggle and wizard currency, a reminder memo, identity documents.
As a diligent employee of the International Magical Cooperation Department, Bertha had spent the past few weeks successfully completing her assignment—helping Bagman prepare for the Quidditch World Cup. Mr. Crouch had praised her work and granted her an extended family-visit leave.
"You'd best find a companion. Unfortunately, most colleagues are busy for the next few months," Crouch had told her patiently before she left. "Write these suggestions on the front page of your memo and follow them one hundred percent. Your trip will go smoothly."
The department head truly was a caring superior. He had prepared many things for her: three Ministry badges to wear at all times during travel—to clearly identify herself and deter ill-intentioned wizards; carry only small amounts of money to avoid becoming easy prey…
All the advice had seemed practical—right up until Bertha reached the Dinara Mountains in Albania.
"Your aunt lives in a treehouse on the forest edge? Never heard of it… Maybe it's a different forest? Never heard of any other witch named Jorkins either…"
That was the answer she kept getting when asking other wizards for directions.
Bertha Jorkins had to face the grim reality: she couldn't find her aunt's address. She was lost.
"The tavern keeper here knows everything. Maybe ask there… Ministry?"
A passing wizard had spotted her badge and smirked. "Don't get your hopes up. Albania isn't Britain. The Ministry has no real power here."
"Where exactly is my aunt's forest?" Bertha scratched her head in frustration.
Professor Lewent from Muggle Studies had once published a paper suggesting that wizards could suffer from "old-timer's disease"—a degenerative condition in the brain discovered by Muggle doctors. Afflicted elderly wizards developed memory and cognitive impairments: frequent forgetting of recent events, missing important appointments, repeatedly asking the same questions, then remembering nothing afterward.
Bertha suspected she might have caught it too.
She couldn't remember when the forgetfulness started. Dates and times slipped away. She forgot what she'd eaten for breakfast. Sometimes she simply froze in place.
She kept a diary as a memo. Every time she opened it, the handwriting was unmistakably hers—yet it always felt strangely foreign.
"Why am I going to visit my aunt again?"
The question suddenly popped into her head. She flipped open the memo, searching for the reason.
No answer on the parchment.
The lone traveling witch sat quietly, thinking. She decided to write on the newest page—for her future self who would inevitably ask again.
How old is my aunt this year?
Did she invite me because she's old and wants a final goodbye?
Or did I decide to go myself?
Her memory was deteriorating fast. Soon she might forget her aunt entirely.
"A glass of sherry, on the rocks…" a witch ordered at the bar.
In the only tavern in the Albanian forest, a customer ordering was normal. But that witch's high, piercing voice carried easily—everyone in the room heard it.
"No problem, ma'am. Your drink." The server moved smoothly. Ice clinked crisply into the glass.
Bertha felt a strange familiarity. She glanced toward the bar—at the short, stout witch whose face was hidden beneath a hood. A few curly strands poked out. Velvet bows decorated the cloak.
Seeing such a witch in Albania was odd. Most who hid their faces tried to stay inconspicuous.
"From Britain?" The server caught the accent and switched to fluent London English. "Anything else I can help you with, ma'am? The Forest Tavern offers the best service in Albania—no one does it better."
The voice felt familiar, but she couldn't place it.
Bertha stared fixedly at the witch, poking her own temple in frustration.
"Jane Selwyn, pure-blood from Devon. I'm looking for information." Umbridge pinched her voice into an affected tone and took a delicate sip of sherry. No one here knew her real identity.
"Information, goods trading—nobody's better suited than us." The server immediately leaned in, smile almost obsequious.
Albania was a chaotic mix of people, but information flowed freely. British pure-blood families were famous—wealthy, generous… or, in local terms, rich idiots begging to be fleeced.
Selwyn family?
Bertha felt an inexplicable unease. She had the nagging sense this witch wasn't really a Selwyn.
"I'm looking for a wizard… arrived not long ago." Umbridge lowered her voice.
She pulled a clipped newspaper photo from her pocket: a short, balding, middle-aged wizard with sly, rat-like eyes.
"Ah—the escaped fugitive himself. Peter Pettigrew."
The server recognized him instantly. Albania was the top bolt-hole for British wizards on the run; this tavern faithfully followed the Daily Prophet.
"You really have news of him?" Umbridge's face lit up.
"Honored to be of service, ma'am." The server gave a knowing smile and gestured—price.
"Ninety Galleons?! You might as well rob me!" Umbridge's voice cracked despite herself, but the server's grin never wavered. He clearly knew she'd pay—no room for haggling.
Umbridge gritted her teeth. "Deal. Tell me."
"House rules—payment first… but for a Selwyn, I'll make an exception and show good faith."
The smile grew even brighter. "Mr. Pettigrew had dinner here two nights ago. Very late. Hood up, of course—but my nose is sharp. I smelled rat on him."
"That's hardly worth ninety Galleons."
"Don't worry, Ms. Selwyn. We have a reputation to uphold."
The server leaned closer, voice dropping professionally. "He bought a stock of food and water from us. I asked a casual question or two—he let something slip. Said he was heading to the shores of Lake Ohrid. Seemed to be looking for something."
"What thing?"
The server shrugged, palms up. "That's the customer's privacy, ma'am."
Umbridge nodded thoughtfully. She drained the sherry in one gulp, set the glass down with a decisive clink, tossed a few silver Sickles on the bar for the drink and tip, and turned to leave.
"Hey—ma'am! You haven't paid yet!"
"I only had one sherry. I've already paid what I owe."
Umbridge lifted her chin smugly and walked out under the server's stunned gaze, steps light and triumphant.