Dumbledore did not wander through the labyrinthine aisles of the Room of Hidden Things with the aimless curiosity of a student; he moved with the focused intent of a man walking into a minefield. Albert led the way, navigating the narrow alleys formed by stacks of rotting furniture and discarded magical artifacts. They passed the moth-eaten troll specimen, its glass eyes staring blankly at them, and stopped in front of a massive, blistering cupboard.
The surface of the wood was foaming, the varnish peeling away as if a powerful acid had been splashed across it.
"I used this spot to stash Hertok Dagworth's gold card once," Albert said, pulling the cupboard door open. He gestured to a rusted cage tucked inside. "The skeleton in there... I came back to study it a while ago. Based on the bone structure and the five distinct limb sockets, I'm fairly certain it's a Quintaped."
Dumbledore peered into the cage, his silver beard brushing against the metal bars. "A Five-Legged One? Remarkable. Almost no one knows the exact coordinates of the Isle of Drear where they originate. Finding a specimen here... it's a testament to the school's ability to swallow history whole." He shook his head slowly. "Your deduction is likely spot on, Albert. It's a tragic end for such a rare creature."
"And the crown?" Dumbledore asked, his eyes sharpening as he straightened up.
"Just over there," Albert said. He pointed a steady finger toward a nearby chest. There, perched atop the bust of the scowling warlock, was the crown. It looked pitiful—a faded, rusty thing partially obscured by a dusty, moth-eaten wig.
Dumbledore began to reach for it, his hand moving with a natural curiosity, but Albert's hand shot out, catching the Headmaster's wrist before he could make contact.
The Headmaster paused, looking at Albert with a look of genuine surprise. "Is something wrong?"
"I think you should put these on first," Albert said, reaching into his robe and pulling out a pair of thick, reinforced dragon-skin gloves. "I've done a bit of extracurricular reading on Dark Magic artifacts. Some of them don't just wait for you to use them; they strike the moment they touch your skin. It would be a pretty miserable way to go, wouldn't it? Losing the Headmaster because of a dusty hat?"
Dumbledore stared at the gloves for a moment, then at the boy's serious, unblinking expression. A slow, warm smile spread across his face. "You know, Albert, it is a rare thing to be lectured on safety by someone who hasn't even taken their O.W.L.s yet. But you are quite right. I was being negligent."
He took the gloves, tugging them on over his long fingers. "Caution is never a waste of time when dealing with the unknown."
With his hands protected, Dumbledore reached down and lifted the crown from the bust. He held it up to the dim light, turning it slowly. Almost immediately, his smile vanished, replaced by a cold, clinical intensity. The air around the diadem seemed to thicken, a faint, rhythmic pulsing emanating from the blue stone.
"You were right to stop me," Dumbledore said, his voice dropping an octave. "This isn't just a relic. It's an abomination of the highest order. It's a very dangerous, very evil piece of Dark Magic. If you had touched this with your bare hands, Albert, I don't think I would have been able to save you."
"So it's as bad as it looks?" Albert asked, watching the Headmaster closely.
"It is worse than it looks," Dumbledore replied, his eyes narrowing as he scrutinized the runes etched into the tarnished silver. He looked like he was fighting a silent battle with the object, his lips pressed into a thin line.
Without another word, Dumbledore led Albert out of the room. As the door vanished back into the stone wall of the seventh floor, the Headmaster turned to the boy. "Your judgment today was impeccable. Most would have kept this discovery to themselves, or worse, tried to play with powers they don't understand. Gryffindor will receive fifty points for your alertness."
"I'm just glad it's in your hands now, sir," Albert said, offering a polite bow. "If you'll excuse me, I believe I have a class to get to."
Dumbledore watched him walk away, his gaze lingering on the boy's retreating back. "A very remarkable boy," he whispered to the empty corridor.
When Dumbledore returned to his office, the portraits were already in an uproar. The moment he set the crown down on the central table, the past Headmasters and Headmistresses abandoned all pretense of sleep, crowding into the frames nearest the desk.
"Is that it?" Armando Dippet asked, his voice trembling. "Is that the one from the photograph?"
"It looks like the legend," another voice piped up. "But is it the real thing? Or just another clever fake?"
"I'm afraid I can't confirm that on my own," Dumbledore said, looking at Dippet's portrait. "Armando, could you do me a favor? Find the Grey Lady. Tell her I have something that belongs to her mother and that I'd appreciate her presence in the office immediately."
Dippet didn't need to be told twice. He vanished from his frame, rushing through the network of paintings to find the Ravenclaw ghost.
A few minutes later, the air in the office grew cold. The Grey Lady glided through the wall, her expression one of permanent, haughty sorrow. "You summoned me, Dumbledore?"
"I did," the Headmaster said, stepping aside to reveal the crown. "I found this in the hidden places of the school. Can you tell me if my suspicions are correct? Is this the Diadem of Rowena Ravenclaw?"
The ghost's face went through a rapid succession of emotions: shock, grief, and finally, a deep, hollow horror. She drifted toward the table, her translucent hand reaching out as if to touch it before she recoiled. "It... it looks like it. But it cannot be. I left it... it was in a hollow tree. In Albania. How could it be here?"
"Albania?" Dippet's portrait whispered. "Then you are..."
"I am Helena," she said, her voice a ghost of a whisper. "And I was foolish."
Dumbledore watched her closely. "Someone brought it back, Helena. Someone you trusted. Someone who knew how to find the things you had hidden."
The Grey Lady looked at the crown again, her eyes filling with a ghostly light. "He was so charming. He spoke as if he understood my pain... my shadow. He said he wanted to return it to its rightful place."
"Tom Riddle is very good at wearing the faces people want to see," Dumbledore said softly. "But he didn't return it out of respect. He returned it to hide a piece of his own darkness inside it."
"You mean..." Dippet gasped. "It's been defiled?"
"It has been turned into a Horcrux," Dumbledore said, and the room went deathly silent. The portraits looked at the object with newfound terror. A Horcrux was a crime against nature itself.
"Can it be fixed?" Dippet asked urgently. "Can you save it?"
Dumbledore sighed, his wand out. He whispered a series of complex diagnostic spells, light dancing over the metal, but the diadem remained unchanged, its dark aura stubbornly intact. "Ordinary magic won't touch this. To destroy a Horcrux, you must damage the vessel beyond the point of magical repair. You have to use a force so destructive that the object's own protections are overwhelmed."
"Then do it!" Phineas Nigellus shouted from his frame. "Don't just stand there staring at it! If it's that foul, get rid of it! Use the Dark Arts if you have to—don't tell me you don't know how."
"Phineas, please," an old witch snapped, waving her cane at him. "This is a founder's relic!"
"It's a founder's relic that's been turned into a soul-cage!" Phineas retorted. "It's a ticking bomb, you old bat!"
Dumbledore looked at the crown. He knew what had to be done. There were several ways to destroy a Horcrux—Basilisk venom, Fiendfyre—but those were messy and hard to control within the confines of his office. He looked at the portraits, then at the Grey Lady, who was watching him with a look of desperate resignation.
"Forgive me, Rowena," Dumbledore whispered.
He raised his wand, his expression turning grim. "Avada Kedavra!"
A blinding flash of emerald-green light filled the office, reflecting off the silver instruments and lighting up the faces of the terrified portraits. The Grey Lady let out a sharp, silent gasp.
When the light faded, the crown was shaking violently on the desk. A series of hairline fractures began to spiderweb across the silver. Then, with a sickening crack, it split. A thick, ink-black substance that looked disturbingly like blood began to ooze from the fissures, and a faint, high-pitched scream echoed through the room—a sound of pure, concentrated agony that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once.
The scream died away, leaving only the sound of the whirring silver instruments. The diadem lay in pieces, the dark aura that had plagued it finally extinguished.
"It's gone," Dippet whispered, his voice shaking.
"The Horcrux is destroyed," Dumbledore said, lowering his wand. He looked at the Grey Lady. "I am sorry, Helena. I will do my best to see if the pieces can be mended, but its power... its wisdom... that is lost to us now."
The Grey Lady didn't look angry. She looked relieved. "Thank you, Dumbledore. And... thank that boy. Albert. He saw through the lies I couldn't."
Dumbledore nodded. "I believe Mr. Anderson deserves a Special Award for Services to the School for this. And please, everyone—this must stay within these walls. The fact that Voldemort created these objects... that he hid one here... it is a secret that must be guarded at all costs."
The portraits nodded solemnly, though their eyes remained fixed on the broken silver.
...
Far away, in a classroom on the other side of the castle, Albert Anderson felt a sudden, familiar ripple in his mind. He didn't look up from his notes, but a small, satisfied smile played on his lips.
On his internal "quest board," three high-level tasks suddenly flickered and turned gold.
Dumbledore really doesn't mess around when he's motivated, Albert thought, his quill never missing a beat. A Special Award and a massive XP dump? Not a bad morning's work.