Year 6 (pt.2)
The next day, the sky was overcast, casting a dull gray light over the forest clearing. Hermione woke early, the Sword of Gryffindor resting beside her. She hadn't let it out of her sight all night.
Michael was already up, of course, running drills with his massive blade a few yards away, his breath misting in the morning air. He paused when he saw her emerge, sword in hand.
“Ready?” he asked.
Hermione nodded, her face set. “Time to destroy the horcruxes.”
Hermione had kept the diadem wrapped in layers of protective cloth, sealed to keep its foul magic at bay. She set it on a flat stone, unwrapping it carefully. The diadem shimmered, beautiful and sickening at the same time.
Michael stood behind her, sword at the ready, just in case. Hermione raised the Sword of Gryffindor.
It gleamed again, that same sharp silver light, and when she brought it down onto the diadem, the reaction was immediate. A burst of black mist screamed out, an unearthly howl echoing through the trees. The horcrux shattered, and the forest confused with what sound it just heard.
Hermione stumbled back, heart pounding.
~
That afternoon, they moved on to their next target: Marvolo Gaunt’s ring. Hermione approached it cautiously, Sword of Gryffindor in hand, mouth dry.
“You sure about this?” Michael asked, arms crossed.
“It worked once. It should work again,” she said, more to herself than to him.
She brought the sword down—clean, powerful, focused. Nothing. No shriek, no explosion, no puff of cursed smoke. The ring remained, intact and utterly unmoved. She frowned, reset her stance, and tried again—this time pouring more of her magic into the blade. Still nothing.
“It’s not working,” she muttered, panic starting to take her over.
Michael stepped forward, eyes narrowing. “That blade took out the diadem like it was paper. Why not this?”
“I don’t know!” Hermione snapped, backing away. “It—it should’ve! It’s Goblin-made, it absorbed basilisk venom—this doesn’t make sense.”
Michael picked up the ring, testing its weight. “You think Voldemort did something different with this one?”
Hermione's mind was racing. “Maybe… maybe Dumbledore didn’t tell us everything. Or maybe the ring’s magic is deeper. More protected. He did say it was cursed—maybe destroying it requires more than just a powerful weapon…”
She looked down at the sword, suddenly unsure. The magic that had felt so strong in her hands now felt… quiet. Still. “I don’t get it,” she said softly, frustrated. “Why would it work on one and not the other?”
Michael looked at her, then down at the ring in his hand. “Guess we’re not done learning.”
Hermione wrapped the ring back in its cloth, heart heavier than it had been that morning. The sword had been a gift, a sign they were on the right path. But the path ahead just got darker.
~
They didn’t want to go back just yet, feeling like this meant defeat. But they found themselves at Hogwarts once again. In search of answers. If anyone knew what to do about the ring it would be Dumbledore, there has to be something he didn't tell them. He said not to put on the right, and they haven’t but Hermione had a suspicion that that is what would break the curse.
Hermione and Michael found Dumbledore in his office, standing at the window, hands clasped behind his back, as if he already knew what they had come for. He turned slowly when they entered, eyes falling first on the sword in Hermione’s hands, then on the bundled ring cradled in Michael’s palm
“So,” he said gently, “you found it.”
Hermione nodded. “But… the sword didn’t work. Why didn’t it work?” Dumbledore stepped forward, taking the ring carefully, reverently. “Because some things cannot be undone without a cost.”
He sat behind his desk and held the ring up to the light, the stone glinting darkly. “This horcrux is unlike the others. It is tied not only to Voldemort’s soul, but to a cursed legacy, a trap. One I… once fell into myself.”
His voice softened. “To destroy it, you must draw out its curse. Let it run its course. The ring feeds on the one who holds it.”
Hermione’s eyes widened. “But—then you’ll—”, Dumbledore nodded.
Michael’s jaw clenched. “You’re not serious.”
“I’ve lived long enough, Michael,” Dumbledore said quietly, with a small, almost sad smile. “And I’ve made mistakes that need balancing. This is one I can still fix.
He stood, slowly. “Go now. I need solitude.”
“But—” Michael began.
“No goodbyes,” Dumbledore said. “Only gratitude.”
~
They left without another word. Michael didn’t speak as they exited the office, didn’t speak as they passed the great staircases or the Great Hall. Only once they were out under the gray sky did he finally stop walking. Hermione turned to him. And saw he was crying.
“Mike…”
He wiped at his face with the back of his hand, but the tears kept coming. “He’s been there my whole life. Took me on as a kid when I didn’t know who the hell I was.”
Hermione stepped closer, resting her hand on his arm. “He did this so we could keep going.”
Michael took a shaky breath. “Then we damn well better finish this.”
As they walked past the stone gates, Snape appeared like a shadow out of the archway, black robes in the wind.
He looked at Michael, then Hermione. “It’s done,” he said, voice like a dry crack of thunder. “He asked me to tell you one thing before you go.”
Snape stepped closer, his face unreadable. “The locket,” he said. “Slytherin’s locket. It’s in the Ministry.”
Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “Where in the Ministry?”
Snape’s lip curled. “Around her neck.”
Michael’s breath caught. “No.”
They stood there a moment, silent. Then Michael looked down at his hand. The scars still hadn’t faded. Each groove from that “detention” burned like a fresh wound. The words were still there, harsh and raw.
‘FUCK YOU UMBRIDGE’
Michael’s fingers curled into a fist. “She’s dead.”
~
The dungeons of the Ministry were colder than Michael expected.
His fingers, thinner, softer than he was used to, tugged awkwardly at the tight collar of the wizard’s robes he now wore. “This is so weird,” he muttered under his breath, voice different, higher. “How do people live like this? I feel like a wet noodle.”
Hermione, disguised as a sharp-faced Ministry employee, smirked. “Get over it. We’ve got five more minutes before someone notices we’re not where we’re supposed to be.”
They moved quickly through the corridors, passing enchanted lanterns and security checkpoints. Michael tried not to flinch when he saw a mirror scan his reflection. Then he saw her. Dolores Umbridge. Smiling. Laughing. Wearing a fuchsia coat so pink it hurt to look at. And around her neck, swinging with every dainty little step she took, was the locket.
Slytherin’s locket.
He whispered to Hermione, “Let me handle her.”
“You can’t punch her here.”
“I wasn’t going to just punch her.”
Hermione raised an eyebrow but nodded. “We’ll need to lure her away.” Michael nodded. “That part I can do.”
He stepped forward, awkward in the too-small body, and put on his best obsequious voice. “Ma’am? Sorry to bother you—but there’s a confidential message from—uh—the Minister. Says it’s for your ears only.”
Umbridge blinked rapidly. “Well, of course it is. Lead the way, dear.”
Michael led her down an empty hallway, then another, toward the secured filing rooms. Once they were out of earshot, Michael turned, dropped the act, and coldly said, “Take off the locket.”
Umbridge blinked. “I beg your—”
He slammed her into the wall so fast it knocked the wind out of her. “I said, take off the locket.”
She wheezed, struggling, trying to reach for her wand, but Michael already had it. He pointed it at her chest, not even bothering to hide the venom in his voice. “Give me the locket. Or I swear, no magic in the world will save you.”
She fumbled with the chain. Hermione arrived just as the locket came off. Her face was pale. “Mike, we need to go. Now.”
Michael tossed Umbridge’s wand back at her feet.