HPTD - CH 133 - Gaunt Let You Do That

The floorboards creaked as Dumbledore swept his wand across the warped patch the snakes had pointed out. Dust lifted, swirling like ash in the dim light.

Ben stepped forward and crouched beside him. "Want me to knock?"

Dumbledore didn't answer. A faint shimmer of enchantment peeled away, revealing a section of the floor that was slightly raised. With a flick, he sent the boards flying back.

"Show off," Ben muttered.

Beneath them was a shallow pit, carved into the packed earth. And in it, a golden box.

"Ooh, a golden box. I'm sure it's not booby trapped," said Ben, eyeing it.

Dumbledore eyed the box closely for a second then, tapped it with his wand twice and the box flipped open. 

Surprisingly, no snakes came jumping out of the box. Just a hand—withered, shrivelled, curled in on itself like it had died angry. And on its ring finger, a thick gold ring with a black stone.

Dumbledore looked transfixed at the triangle, the circle, the line—burned into the centre of the stone.

Ben blinked. "Well. At least it's not flipping us off."

Dumbledore didn't respond. He was already leaning in, eyes locked on the ring like it was whispering secrets only he could hear.

But Ben already knew those secrets. That was the Deathly Hallows mark, and it was the resurrection stone. Dumbledore had spent his life looking for that stone, and now it was finally within his reach. 

Ben looked down at the ring on the bony hand, then back at Dumbledore.

I've already got the Cloak. Here lies the Stone, and Dumbledore's got the Wand. 

Ben's breath suddenly hastened.

If he puts it on… and dies…

He could take the Stone. Take the Wand. He'd have all three.

The thought came uninvited, velvet-soft and poisonous.

Master of Death. And all I have to do is...nothing.

His fingers twitched.

Dumbledore was already moving. He reached out slowly, reverently, and lifted the ring from the skeletal hand.

Ben stiffened. "Careful—"

"I know what I'm doing," Dumbledore said, his voice distant.

He didn't.

As soon as the ring left the finger, the bone cracked with a sharp hiss. Then the rest of the fingers followed, cracking and turning into dust, leaving behind ominous hisses echoing through the Shack.

Ben jumped away from the box. Dumbledore may or may not have understood what those hisses meant, but he definitely did, and it was nothing pleasant.

Ben's heart pounded loudly in a moment of silence.

Then the walls answered.

Hissing rose like wind through dry grass.

Ben turned.

The carvings along the walls glowed faintly. Spirals, marks, old curses—all flickering like embers waking up.

Shapes peeled away from the room. Chair legs cracked and slithered. A length of rope hissed and uncoiled. Cracks yawned open in the walls. Even the shadows crawled.

Ben gritted his teeth. "This theme is getting old real fast."

Dumbledore still hadn't moved. He stood transfixed, the ring in hand, drowning in whatever dream it promised him.

Everyone had a fatal flaw, a clink in the armour, and that stone was Dumbledore's. Ben could feel the ring's temptation, too, but it didn't affect him like it did Dumbledore.

"Albus?" Ben called out.

No response.

The first snake lunged.

Ben blasted it away with a Depulso. 

Dozens more followed, pouring in from holes in the stone, coiling along the ceiling, rearing to strike. The shack was alive with them now, a pit of hissing movement.

Ben backed toward Dumbledore. "Snap out of it, old man. Now's not the time for an end-of-life crisis."

Nothing.

Ben waved his wand, and a protective shield flared up around them, blocking the nearest snakes. They hissed and struck, but the barrier held.

The ring glinted in Dumbledore's fingers. Slowly, almost peacefully, he raised it toward his hand.

Ben's blood ran cold.

He's going to put it on.

He could see it—Dumbledore's hand lifting, slow and dreamlike. The ring glinted between two fingers. Almost there.

If he dies...

Ben's hand twitched again.

If he dies, I can take it all.

And just like that, the whisper was back.

Take it. Finish it. You deserve it.

The snakes swayed outside the barrier, watching him.

Ben's gaze snapped to them.

Something was pushing at his mind—subtle, persistent. Was it the Horcrux? The Hallow? Whatever it was, it was feeding his greed, wrapping tendrils around his thoughts, whispering that the stone was his.

But beneath all that, he felt something else.

Anger. Deep, rising, coiled like a spring inside his chest.

He drew in a breath.

Then he hissed—furious, guttural, and loud. Less a hiss now, more a roar. Not words. Just power.

"SEZIR!"

The word tore through the shack, scraping along the walls like metal on bone.

The snakes froze. Then cowered. A few crumbled into dust.

Every last one—flesh, conjured or cursed, slithered back into the cracks they'd come from.

Even the shadows hissed and shrank into the corners. The room fell still.

Well. That was new, Ben thought.

He turned, just in time to see Dumbledore lifting the ring to his finger.

"Don't."

Too late. There was no time to think.

"FUS!"

The Shout cracked through the shack like a thunderclap.

Dumbledore flew backwards, his robes flaring as he slammed into the fireplace with a grunt. Ash exploded into the air. The bricks cracked with the force.

The ring clattered to the floor and spun.

Ben stomped toward it, breathing hard, the power still buzzing behind his eyes.

He stared down at it.

"Master of Death, my arse."

Dumbledore, surprisingly sturdy for a man who just got launched into a fireplace, was already crawling toward the ring like it was calling his name.

"Albus," Ben warned.

But the man didn’t stop. He looked… determined.

Ben groaned. "Bloody hell. I'm definitely putting this in your memoir, old man."

And for a moment, he let himself consider it. This time, without the Horcrux whispering in his ear.

Let him take it. Let the curse have him. Then grab the Wand. Take the Stone. Done.

One neat shortcut to power.

But then he really looked at Dumbledore. The bleeding hand. The shaking fingers reaching out. His face wasn’t twisted with greed. It was something older. Deeper.

Loss. Regret. Desperate longing.

And honestly? This could be a test. Wouldn’t be the first time the old man ran some elaborate scheme just to test a literal child.

Ben sighed, shook his head, and moved to block his way.

"Can't let you do that, old man." He pulled a crystal vial from his pocket and uncorked it.

One drop of shimmering green venom fell onto the ring.

The metal hissed, bubbled, and screamed. Smoke curled upward, forming an ugly serpentine face. The gold cracked and violently shattered into pieces. The stone pulsed once, then dulled to black.

Magic tore loose in a jagged rush, as the ugly soul fragment of Voldemort got ripped screaming from its prison and was dragged away by death.

The shack shuddered.

Dust rained from the ceiling.

And then, it was over.

-To be Continued...

Well, Ben added a new word of power. What do you guys think?