Chapter 594: Deductions
The atmosphere of the feast shifted subtly the moment the newspapers arrived.
The students were still whispering, but their voices had dropped to a low,
frantic hum, as if the room were suddenly filled with frosted glass, blurring
the clarity of the evening. In their corner of the Ravenclaw table, Sean set the
paper down. The plate of roast beef in front of him had gone completely cold.
"You haven't touched a bite," Hermione said, leaning across the table. Her own
plate was equally neglected.
Spread out before her was a copy of An Analysis of Nordic Dark Artifacts, which
she had checked out from the library before dinner. A few drops of pumpkin juice
had stained the parchment, but she was clearly too preoccupied to worry about a
lecture from Madam Pince.
"Is it cold...?" Sean muttered. He poked a piece of meat with his fork.
It was indeed cold. He considered taking it down to the kitchens to have Ira or
Ava reheat it.
"Honestly, you two," Justin said with a weary smile. He drew his wand and gave
the table a sharp tap. The steak began to steam instantly. "You know, I do know
a few practical household charms."
"Sean, are you thinking about the soul-anchors?" Hermione asked. It wasn't
really a question.
Justin remained silent, watching Sean with a steady, focused gaze. He was the
kind of person who didn't need to speak to let you know he was listening.
"Mmm. The last one," Sean replied.
Hermione's brow furrowed. She sat up straight, her fingers tightening around the
edge of her book. "The Diary, the Locket, the Diadem—these are all Founders'
relics or items tied deeply to Voldemort's origins. If he's following a pattern
for his Horcruxes, the final one should follow the same logic."
"Perhaps not," Justin countered. His voice was mild but firm.
Hermione turned to him. "What do you mean?"
"I mean—everything has changed, Hermione," Justin said, putting down his fork
and choosing his words carefully. "Sean, you know where the Headmaster went,
don't you? If... if you're willing to share."
"What?" Hermione's ears perked up.
Sean nodded. "I know."
"You do?" Hermione's eyes widened. "Is that why the werewolves and giants
are..."
"Mmm." Sean saw no reason to keep it a secret. It wasn't as if the news was a
threat to the plan. Why hide the fact that Dumbledore is hunting Voldemort like
a common animal? "The Headmaster has hunted him down four times already."
"Merlin's beard..." Hermione breathed.
As the murmurs in the Hall continued, Sean quietly recounted the details of
those four nights for his friends—the image of Albus Dumbledore wielding a
silver sword with an unstoppable fury.
"...So, think about it, Hermione," Justin said, guiding her logic. "If you were
a man who had been hunted four times, and you knew your pursuer was
systematically destroying your anchors one by one... would you hide the final
piece in a place he could easily guess?"
Hermione opened her mouth to argue, but stopped. She began to rapidly reorganize
the information in her mind.
"Voldemort wouldn't choose something meaningless," she said finally, though her
pace was slower than usual. "He has an obsessive fixation on 'greatness' and
'prestige.' Look at the choices he's made so far. The Gaunt Ring—it was his
proof of bloodline. The Slytherin Locket, Hufflepuff's Cup, Ravenclaw's
Diadem—all relics of the Founders. He made the Diary a Horcrux because it was
his first proof that he was the Heir of Slytherin. Whatever he chooses, it must
have personal significance.
"But Justin is right—with Dumbledore breathing down his neck, he might have
changed his strategy. The sequence for a Horcrux is: murder, soul-split, then
containment. Before the fourth hunt, he tried to use a wizard's life to make
one. The ritual was interrupted, but what was the vessel intended to be?"
Sean fell into a long silence. His gaze fell on Hermione's book, but his focus
was miles away, across the sea.
"If I were Voldemort," Sean said slowly, "and I had been hunted four times by
Albus Dumbledore... if I had lost an arm, half my face, my serpent, and a
servant...
"I would know Dumbledore was closing in on my final pieces. I would know he has
the Sword of Gryffindor—one of the few things capable of shattering a Horcrux.
If I were a man who had lost six fragments and was down to my final anchor...
where would I hide it?"
"A place you trust implicitly," Hermione suggested.
"A place Dumbledore would never think to look," Justin added.
Sean shook his head. "There are too many such places. But look at it from
Dumbledore's perspective. If we don't know what the Horcrux is, how do we find
it?"
Hermione gasped. "If he's changed his pattern, we shouldn't look for where he'd
hide it. We should look for when he made it."
Sean nodded. "Horcruxes can only be forged during a murder. The Diary was
Myrtle—when he first opened the Chamber. The Ring was his father and
grandparents. The Locket and Cup were during his time at Borgin and Burkes—he
killed Hepzibah Smith for them. The Diadem was hidden when he returned to
Hogwarts to ask for a job; the murder must have happened shortly after he left
school."
"And the newest one?" Justin asked. "Whose life was used for that?"
The three of them went silent. The chatter of the other students felt like a
distant tide, separated from their table by an invisible wall. Sean looked at
his congealed mashed potatoes.
"Wormtail," Sean said finally.
"What?" Hermione whispered.
"On the night Voldemort was resurrected, he killed Peter Pettigrew," Sean said,
each word clear and heavy. "He told Peter—'You have one final use.' He murdered
him, used the act to tear his soul once more, and forged his latest anchor."
Hermione's pupils dilated in the candlelight. She started to speak, but Sean
continued.
"Hufflepuff's Cup is the last known Horcrux," he said. "But if he made a new one
after his rebirth—using Peter's death—then that anchor isn't in any of our
records. We don't know the vessel, and we don't know the location. But the
sequence remains the same: the murder happens before the vessel is finalized."
Justin slowly set down his fork. "So... when Peter died, Voldemort's soul was
already torn open. But at that moment, in an abandoned Albanian inn, he didn't
have a golden cup or a locket. He didn't have anything 'prestigious' on hand."
"Therefore," Sean said, a vague doubt finally solidifying into a certainty, "if
he chose an object, it had to be something already present in that room."
For a moment, Sean sat in a trance. During his time with Wormtail, Voldemort had
been hungry for a kill. Frank Bryce and Bertha Jorkins were intended sacrifices.
But Sean had saved them both. If they had died, Peter would have seen the
vessel. Sean had prevented the deaths, but he had also blinded himself to the
Dark Lord's choice.
Life cannot be traded for information, Sean reminded himself.
He thought of Voldemort's obsession with the number Seven. He didn't believe the
Dark Lord would make an eighth Horcrux, splitting his soul into nine pieces. He
wanted a perfect seven-part split.
Of course, Voldemort had already ruined his own symmetry without realizing it.
Between the six intentional Horcruxes and the piece within Voldemort himself,
his soul was supposed to be in seven parts. But the anomaly of the night in
Godric's Hollow—and the subsequent changes Sean had made—meant the Dark Lord's
soul was anything but stable. Seven was a magically significant number. If
Voldemort had achieved it, he might have found a terrible kind of balance. But
that balance was long gone.
"We need to investigate that inn," Sean said, standing up.
After the discussion, Hermione and Justin headed to their respective
dormitories. Sean, however, remained in the Great Hall. He listened to the
distant, mournful lowing of the Thestrals at the edge of the Forest.
He produced two glass phials from his bag.
The first was the memory from Remus and Sirius, recording the exterior of the
house in Little Hangleton. The second was his own—the one harvested through his
link with Peter, showing the final moments of the rat's life.
Sean dove back into the second memory. He had plenty of time to scrutinize the
details. What would a man like Voldemort pick if he was forced to choose a
vessel in a hurry? He wouldn't pick trash; even in a crisis, he had standards.
The interior of the inn was more derelict than it appeared from the outside. The
mortar on the stone walls hadn't been replaced in decades. Cracks webbed out
from the chimney flue, reaching toward the low, soot-stained ceiling. The heavy
oak beams were a dark, oily brown, reflecting the dim candlelight with a greasy
sheen.
There were only five tables. All of them were battered and scarred.
In the southwest corner, by the window, several unusual items were scattered as
if discarded. In a remote Albanian pub, they stood out:
1. A battered, leather-bound book with a moldy cover and a cracked spine. Sean
peered closer. It was a copy of Secrets of the Darkest Art. The only known
copy was supposed to be at Hogwarts. This wasn't the original; it was a
handwritten transcription. In the corner of the title page was a faded
signature: Tom Marvolo Riddle.
2. A silver goblet resting upside down on a dusty tray. It featured a relief of
a badger. The craftsmanship was ancient—gold beaten into thin foil and
pressed into the silver while it was still hot. Around the rim was a faint
inscription in Old English.
3. A locket. It bore the serpentine 'S' of Slytherin, but unlike the real one
Sean had destroyed, this one was made of brass, and the emerald was merely
stained glass. It was a high-quality replica, nearly indistinguishable from
the real thing to the untrained eye.
Behind Voldemort, the trapdoor to the cellar was half-open. The dark void below
emitted a strange, pungent odor. A large iron cauldron stood nearby, surrounded
by bleached bones and various jars of ingredients.
The wind of the memory whistled, and Sean withdrew.
The Great Hall was almost empty now. The candles were being extinguished one by
one. Sean sat in the gloom, thinking.
What did he choose?
Voldemort wouldn't have brought those items out for no reason. He had been
deciding. A book, a relic of Hufflepuff, a replica locket. Or perhaps the
cauldron itself? Or one of the jars?
The choices were still too broad. Voldemort knew about Peter's potential for
betrayal, yet he had displayed these items openly. He was confident that even if
his secrets were exposed, his true intent remained unreachable.
Sean found himself missing Professor Snape. Rather than guessing Voldemort's
choice, he preferred a future where Voldemort had no choices left. He thought of
Dumbledore's relentless hunt.
He's looking for me, Sean thought. And he knows that, eventually, I will be the
one to find him.
There was only one plan left: Face the Dark Lord, break him, and pull the truth
directly from his mind.
Sean looked at his panel one last time before leaving.
[Legilimency (Special Modifier): Master (292/?)]
He was ready.
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