Year 6 (pt.3)
They were quiet for a long time after the locket shattered. The thing had screamed.
It had screamed in Dumbledore’s voice, and in Michael’s, and in a voice that whispered things neither of them would admit to hearing. It curled in the fire like it was alive, like it knew, and when it finally split open with a hiss and a burst of black smoke, Michael didn’t breathe for nearly a minute.
Now they sat by the fire, their tent rustling softly behind them. The night pressed in from all sides.
Hermione wrapped her hands tighter around her tea mug, eyes unfocused. “Are you okay?”
Michael didn't answer for a while staring at the flames, jaw tight, “No.”
Hermione didn’t say anything. Michael finally spoke. “He knew. Dumbledore knew destroying the ring would kill him. And he didn’t tell us until after.”
“He did it to weaken Voldemort—”
“He did it to die,” Michael snapped.
Hermione swallowed. “He trusted you.”
That’s not the point,” Michael said, voice low and shaking. “I trusted him.”
Silence again. The fire crackled. Somewhere in the dark, a twig snapped. Hermione moved closer. “I don’t think he wanted you to carry all this alone.”
“Well, too bad,” Michael muttered. “That’s what’s happening.”
They both sat still for a minute. Then Hermione pulled a folded map from her bag and spread it on the ground between them.
Michael stared. “What’s this?”
“Gringotts,” she said. “The Lestrange vault. That’s where Hufflepuff’s cup is. I overheard Bellatrix talking while we were in the Malfoy Manor.”
Michael blinked, still staring at the map. “You’re serious.”
She gave him a tight, grim smile. “We’ve broken into the Ministry of Magic. The wizard bank can’t be that much harder.”
“Oh yeah?” Michael said. “You ever fight a dragon?”
Hermione paused. “...No. But you have.”
He barked a laugh. It sounded more like a cough.
She nudged him gently with her shoulder. “We’ll figure it out. We always do.” He stared at the fire a moment longer, then gave a small nod. “Okay. One horcrux at a time.”
~
Michael and Hermione stood just outside the looming marble facade of Gringotts. The sky overhead was grey, moody, and tense, like it knew what was coming. Hermione double-checked the polyjuice potion in her coat pocket, her breath shallow. Michael was quiet. Too quiet.
“We know the plan,” she said gently.
“Yeah,” Michael replied, eyes far away.
But something was off. He hadn’t slept. He hadn’t eaten. And when a crumpled copy of The Daily Prophet fluttered by on the wind, it landed right at his feet. Bold black letters screamed up at him:
“DUMBLEDORE DEAD – Hogwarts in Crisis”
He froze. Michael’s hands balled into fists. Hermione reached for him. “Mike—”
“I’m fine.”
They reached the grand entrance. Just as Michael stepped forward, an arm crossed his chest, barring the way.
“Sorry, sir,” said a security goblin in uniform. “Can’t let you in with that sword. It’s a safety hazard.”
Michael looked down at him slowly. “Go ahead and take it, then. I’ll make it easy for you.”
He unstrapped his giant sword from his back and held it out horizontally. “Go on. Take it.”
The goblin hesitated, sweating. After an awkward beat, he dropped his arm not taking the sword and gestured them through without another word. Step one: complete.
Inside the bank, everything glimmered gold and steel. The marble gleamed like bone. Michael made a beeline for the goblin at the main desk. He was halfway there when he overheard a guard laugh and say to another:
“Dumbledore’s dead. Good riddance. Maybe now Hogwarts’ll finally get some real leadership.”
Michael stopped. The blood in his ears roared. Hermione sensed it before it happened. “Mike—don’t—”
He didn’t listen. Michael marched up to the goblin running the front desk and said, voice like a blade, “You’ve got two options: you take me to the vaults, or everyone here finds out what the inside of your head looks like.”
The goblin scoffed. So Michael slammed his head into the desk. Once. Twice. Blood exploded across the marble. Screams followed.
Guards ran toward them. Hermione drew her wand, panicking. “MIKE! WHAT THE HELL?! WE HAD A PLAN—”
But Michael was already swinging. His sword slashed through the first two guards. One lunged with a punch, Michael caught his arm and snapped it like a twig, then drove his sword through the man’s neck. Blood misted into the air. Hermione was screaming something, but Michael wasn’t hearing her.
He leapt into a minecart.
Hermione yelled, “MIKE, STOP—!”
Too late. The cart took off with a lurch. But it hadn’t been empty.
A giant in enchanted armor rose from the back of the cart and wrapped its arms around Michael, lifting him into the air as the cart whipped into a steep descent. Michael roared, stabbing his sword again and again into the giant’s plated chest. The thing snarled and held on, even as blood sprayed from its mouth. They dropped together into the darkness. The minecart crashed. Michael hit the ground hard, dust and sparks flying around him. He rolled, panting, bruised, and bloodied. Security forces surrounded him in a ring.
He stood slowly, sword low.
“Okay,” he said. “Let’s do this.”
The standoff cracked when one guard flinched. He charged.
Michael met him head-on, blocked the blow, then crushed the man’s windpipe with a punch. He grabbed the limp body and used it as a shield as spells exploded around him. Smoke and rubble erupted from the ground. Behind him, Michael spotted a massive vault door. With a grunt, he turned and drove his metal fist through the wall, grabbing the vault door and yanking it loose with a roar. He hurled it at the guards like a discus. It flattened half of them in an instant.
Silence fell in the wake of destruction. Michael stood alone. Ahead of him was Bellatrix Lestrange’s vault. And in front of that, chained in agony, was a dragon. Its pale scales were marred with whip scars. It breathed heavily, as though the fire had been beaten out of it. Michael stepped forward.
It snarled and lunged.
He dodged, barely, sword grazing along the side of its neck. The dragon screamed, the walls shook, and the vault’s chains snapped. It surged forward again, snapping its jaws inches from Michael’s face. But then he stopped. Dropped the sword. Raised his hands. The dragon paused. He stepped closer. Slowly. Cautiously. Its eyes narrowed—but it didn’t strike.
Hermione, now rushing in from the carnage, watched in disbelief as Michael touched the dragon’s snout. And it let him.
“Mike,” she said quietly, “what are you doing?”
He looked over his shoulder, wild-eyed, a manic grin forming on his face. “We’re getting out of here.”
~
Inside the vault, everything shimmered under layers of enchantments, piles of treasure glinting gold and red in the low, flickering torchlight. The moment Michael stepped in, goblets and jewels began to multiply wherever his gaze landed. Hermione rushed in behind him, already scanning the mountain of cursed treasure.
“There!” she cried, pointing to a dull, grimy cup perched on a ledge — small, gold, and humming with a sickening sort of energy. “That’s Hufflepuff’s cup!”
Michael didn’t hesitate. He leapt over a pile of cursed coins, ignoring how they seared his boots as he landed. With his metal arm, he swatted aside a multiplying brooch. When he reached the cup, it was hot, almost pulsing like it had a heartbeat.
As soon as he touched it, the vault groaned — the enchantments tightening, everything beginning to multiply tenfold.
“Hermione, got it!” he shouted, holding up the cup like a prize.
“Good,” she said, her voice tight with panic as the treasure started to bury her ankles. “Now let’s get out before this place eats us alive!”
~
They rode the dragon out. The wind screamed in their ears. The roof of Gringotts shattered above them. Gold rained down over Diagon Alley. When they landed in the woods miles away, the dragon fled into the mountains. Michael jumped down, breathing hard. Alive.
Hermione followed—then threw her pack on the ground.
“I can’t do this anymore.”
He turned. “What?”
“I can’t. You don’t listen. You don’t care. We had a plan. And you just killed half a bank and rode a dragon like it was nothing!”
“We got the cup, didn’t we?”
“That’s not the point, Mike!” Her voice cracked. “You’re not the person I started this with.”
Michael stepped forward. “Hermione—”
She raised a hand. “Don’t. I’m leaving. You can finish this alone.”
And with that, she shoved the Sword of Gryffindor into his hands, turned and walked into the trees. Michael stood there, sword still in hand, alone with the weight of everything they'd lost.