HP: Redemption of The Platinum Boy

Chapter 73: The Damaged Hufflepuff Cup

The boy stopped before the gargoyle with a dripping spout in the third-floor corridor.

He flicked his wand, seemingly uttering something silently, and his face immediately became composed.

The dripping gargoyle was snoring softly when it sensed someone's arrival. It opened its eyes, looked him over, and pricked up its ears, as if waiting for something.

"Cockroach Cluster," he said expressionlessly—the gargoyle immediately jumped aside with a mischievous grin.

Draco stepped onto the spiral staircase, which rotated higher and higher until he finally arrived at the Headmaster's office on the eighth floor.

He knocked on the brass door knocker, and a kind voice came from within.

"Please come in."

"Good afternoon, sir." Draco walked in.

The clock in the Headmaster's office struck four.

"Very punctual, Draco. Sit down," Dumbledore said with a smile.

Draco sat and looked around, trying to guess why Dumbledore had summoned him.

The circular office was exactly as when he'd last seen it: the spindle-legged desk was piled high with delicate silver instruments emitting wisps of smoke, and the Sorting Hat sat listlessly on a shelf on the far side. The portraits of former Headmasters dozed in their frames. Fawkes perched on his stand behind the door, wearing an inquisitive expression similar to Draco's.

"My boy," Professor Dumbledore said seriously, "I imagine you must be wondering why I called you here."

"Yes, sir."

"Any guesses?" His silver beard reached his waist, and Draco noticed he'd tied a ribbon around its tip.

"If you've summoned me to offer comfort, to tell me not to worry about Peter Pettigrew being at large, or to suggest I'm too weak to face Dementors, you can rest assured..." Draco said dismissively.

"Oh, to be honest, I'm not particularly concerned about either matter," Professor Dumbledore said cheerfully. "You handled both admirably, didn't you? But I do need to advise you not to take further risks beyond your capabilities."

His deep blue eyes regarded him inquisitively, as if referring to something specific.

Draco shrugged, trying his best to look like an innocent third-year. Was Dumbledore referring to the possible existence of more Horcruxes, or to his poorly executed Patronus Charm?

"Last term, we had a conversation in this office about Horcruxes," Professor Dumbledore said. Seeing Draco's unyielding attitude, he didn't press further and quickly changed the subject.

A brief pause.

"You said you wanted to conduct some research," Draco said.

"Precisely. I've spent several months investigating, and I believe things are beginning to look promising." Dumbledore opened a drawer in his desk and placed a blackened, twisted, broken cup before him.

Draco could vaguely discern it should be a golden cup, but for some reason it had been severely damaged.

"This is—" He looked at Professor Dumbledore with a puzzled expression. A thought suddenly flashed through his mind.

"Yes, I believe this is another Horcrux that has been destroyed," Professor Dumbledore said calmly.

"Another one?" Draco said in disbelief.

Though he already knew the Dark Lord was mad and had mentally prepared for his evil, he was still shocked seeing the evidence firsthand.

How many Horcruxes had he actually created?

"Where did you find it? How was it destroyed?" Draco stared intently at the broken and deformed cup, his tone revealing rare eagerness.

"Let me answer your second question first," Professor Dumbledore said. "It was destroyed by the Sword of Gryffindor, and the one wielding the sword was not I, but Sirius Black. The night before last, Fawkes suddenly flew away with the Sorting Hat in his beak, and shortly after, Sirius found me with Fawkes, the Sorting Hat, the sword, and this cup."

The phoenix beside them gave a triumphant trill and displayed his magnificent tail feathers on his perch.

"Undoubtedly, Sirius had a fierce battle with the malevolent fragment in the cup. You can imagine how brutal it was from his condition. Fortunately, he didn't suffer any irreversible damage. I've arranged for him to recuperate in the Hospital Wing, and he'll recover shortly," Professor Dumbledore said with a smile. "I've already informed Harry; he's probably visiting his godfather now."

"How touching!" Draco exclaimed insincerely. "I don't understand what this has to do with me."

"That begins with where the cup originated," Dumbledore said calmly, his blue eyes gleaming. "I understand Sirius received the cup from your mother."

"Impossible! I've never seen this in our home before..." Draco blurted out in shock.

"I'm certain this doesn't belong to the Malfoys. I understand she took it from the Lestrange vault," Professor Dumbledore said.

Draco fell silent momentarily.

Suddenly, an image flashed before his eyes: his mother carrying a small package, gracefully walking out of the Lestrange family vault.

Given her familiarity with her deranged aunt Bellatrix, it wouldn't be surprising if Mother casually "borrowed" a few pieces of gold jewelry from the vault for her.

"When did this happen?" he asked coldly.

"I don't know the precise date, but it was probably after Sirius was released from Azkaban," Professor Dumbledore said casually.

"Oh—" Draco said, his face pale. "I think I know when it was."

As far as he knew, Narcissa had almost no communication with her cousin, Sirius Black.

There was only one occasion. They'd had a face-to-face conversation when they'd gone to Grimmauld Place. Draco had thought his mother was merely discussing the Dementors' weaknesses with her cousin; he hadn't expected they might have discussed something else entirely.

No wonder his mother had left partway through that day. When she'd returned to collect him, she'd looked rather unwell.

Draco had initially assumed her unhappiness stemmed from some internal power struggles within the Black family; now it seemed there was more to the story.

"He must have deceived her. My mother probably didn't know what she brought him," Draco said, his eyes narrowing, his tone unpleasant.

"I suspect so," Dumbledore said, his tone relaxed as if discussing what to have for dinner. "So I'm giving you fair warning: the Malfoys have been involved in this. Your parents, whether intentionally or not, have contributed to destroying a Horcrux and have stood against Voldemort."

"You don't seem concerned about my family's safety," Draco said coldly, his gray eyes fixed on him. "I did all this to protect my family, not to endanger them. Have you considered how Bellatrix will treat my mother when she discovers this?"

"I am very sorry about this. The only consolation is that Bellatrix is currently imprisoned in Azkaban," Dumbledore said, looking at him with deep blue eyes.

"That doesn't mean she won't escape," Draco sneered. "Sir, have you forgotten about Peter Pettigrew, who's still at large?"

"That's another topic," Dumbledore said.

"I never imagined a great wizard like yourself would suffer from the common bureaucratic flaw of evasive responses. Is there really anything more to discuss about this broken cup?" Draco said impatiently. He'd already stood, ready to leave.

Dumbledore smiled slightly, unperturbed by the boy's sudden outburst. He pushed the cup toward Draco. "Look at the pattern on this cup. Look closely."

Draco bent down to examine it.

He could vaguely discern the exquisite carving that had once adorned the cup; it appeared to be a badger.

"This is—" he said softly, his tone revealing unexpected emotion.

"Precisely, Hufflepuff's Cup," Dumbledore continued. "One of the relics of the four Hogwarts founders. I've already had some of the oldest house-elves in the school identify it, and when they saw the cup destroyed like this, they wept so hard they nearly fainted... This should be Helga Hufflepuff's Cup."

Draco nodded slightly.

Earlier, in various legends he'd consulted, the cup was the first vessel used by house-elves at Hogwarts to transport magical food. It wasn't surprising the house-elves could recognize it; they were naturally capable of accurately sensing such magical implements. They shouldn't be mistaken.

"You may have noticed that Voldemort is very interested in the history and relics of the four founders. For example, Hufflepuff's Cup, and Slytherin's Chamber of Secrets. I believe the four treasures of the founders must hold great attraction for Voldemort. I cannot be certain whether he's found the Slytherin and Ravenclaw items, but I'm certain the only known relic of Gryffindor is safe and sound." Dumbledore nodded toward the Sword of Gryffindor displayed on one side of the Headmaster's office.

"On this point, I agree with your thinking. At least, Slytherin relics have always been very attractive to Slytherins," Draco said.

The Dark Lord was like a provincial peasant who'd never seen the world, collecting souvenirs at every turn, then in a completely uncouth manner, destroying the wizarding world's shared treasures that should have been carefully preserved, he thought disdainfully.

If the four founders knew about this, their anger toward the Dark Lord would probably overflow the entire Black Lake at Hogwarts.

To place one's filthy soul fragment on someone else's belongings was no different from a dog defecating in someone else's garden. It could be seen as an extremely degrading act.

No wonder the Grey Lady had been so eager to destroy Ravenclaw's Diadem! Who would tolerate someone tampering with their precious heritage? It was practically blasphemy.

Now that Ravenclaw's Diadem had been secretly destroyed by him, where were Slytherin's relics? Draco frowned in thought.

"I've called you here precisely because I need your help. Given that you're a Slytherin student, I hope you can inquire within your House and try to discover the current whereabouts of the Slytherin relics, and confirm whether they remain safe and sound," Dumbledore said solemnly to Draco, breaking the Headmaster's office silence.

Draco was so angry he almost laughed.

"You just shamelessly admitted to exploiting my poor mother, and now you're brazenly exploiting me?"

"There is no one more suitable. The fewer people who know about this, the better," Dumbledore said calmly. "Even Sirius only thought he'd destroyed a Dark artifact. I didn't tell him about Horcruxes. He still doesn't know what he destroyed."

"You seem to trust me considerably," Draco said with a forced smile.

Professor Dumbledore said calmly, "What you've done has proven you're worthy of my trust."

Draco looked into his calm and wise eyes, then suddenly slumped back into his chair, deflated, unable to vent his anger.

"Even so, even if I were willing to investigate, I wouldn't know the specific details of the Slytherin relics. There are too many fakes, and many copies based on hearsay—in the end, they're all merely legends," Draco said dejectedly, his mood inexplicably sinking.

Dumbledore smiled. He stood, walked around the desk, and passed Draco. He took a shallow stone basin engraved with strange runes from the cabinet near the door.

Draco recognized it as a Pensieve. There was a similar one in the corner of his grandfather's study. However, Abraxas had never been a Pensieve enthusiast.

Wizards who could use the Pensieve were mostly masters of Legilimency. Draco examined the Pensieve and was once again glad he'd used Occlumency before coming.

At this moment, Dumbledore still couldn't get Draco to lower his guard and reveal everything.

"Let's take a walk through Bob Ogden's memory," Professor Dumbledore said, unaware of Draco's thoughts. He busied himself pouring a bottle of silvery substance into the Pensieve and said lightly, "You can see clearly what the Slytherin relics look like in his memories."

Draco took a deep breath before the Pensieve and plunged headfirst into the silvery substance.

(For Bob Ogden's memories, please refer to the chapter "The House of Gaunt" in the sixth book, Half-Blood Prince. The original text will not be repeated here.)

After a considerable while, Draco stood steadily back on the floor of Dumbledore's office. The sunlight outside the window had dimmed, and the sky was filled with sunset's glow.

But Draco was completely oblivious to the changing scenery outside. A deluge of information overwhelmed his chaotic mind, occupying all his attention.

That poor girl named Merope... and the gold locket around her neck... the Gaunt family... the dead snake nailed to the door... the black gemstone ring... that fleeting glimpse of the Peverell coat of arms...

"Those two items, the black gemstone ring and the gold locket, are Slytherin relics..." Draco murmured.

"Precisely. Those were the last two possessions of the Gaunt family. Marvolo valued them highly, as much as his son Morfin, and far more than his daughter Merope," Professor Dumbledore said.

"Marvolo, he's—" Draco asked, his voice tinged with doubt.

"Voldemort's grandfather."

"He's also a Parselmouth?" Draco asked again, certain of his identity.

"I believe so."

"Unfortunately, I couldn't understand what they were saying," Draco said curiously. "How could you understand and translate for me? You're also—"

"No. I can only understand a little," Dumbledore said with a smile. "I don't speak Parseltongue."

"Can you really learn Parseltongue later in life?"

"Yes, but it's very difficult," Dumbledore said, shrugging. "In my opinion, even Mermish is easier than Parseltongue."

Draco paused momentarily, then began to ask, "The girl in the shack—Merope—she's his mother?"

"Very clever," Dumbledore said, a hint of approval in his eyes.

"As everyone knows, the last male descendant of the Gaunt family was Morfin, and we've never heard of him having any offspring," Draco said.

Moreover, last school year he'd already guessed it fairly accurately based on the Dark Lord's middle name "Marvolo."

The reason he was called "Tom Marvolo Riddle" and his surname didn't contain "Gaunt" could only be this: he was Marvolo's grandson, not his great-grandson.

"Oh, wait a moment—Merope's husband, wasn't he the Muggle outside the window?" Draco asked, frowning.

During his holiday, he'd searched through the Malfoy family library but never found a noble family with the wizarding surname "Riddle."

"I must admit, your lateral thinking is quite impressive. That Muggle, old Tom Riddle, is quite handsome, isn't he?" Dumbledore said with a smile.

"So... the Dark Lord is a half-blood wizard," Draco said softly, a chill running down his spine from the shocking conclusion.

"Very perceptive," Dumbledore said with great interest. "You seem quite shocked."

Draco was, of course, shocked.

The Dark Lord, who kept clamoring to "revive the glory of pure-blood wizards," was actually half-blood himself.

Was there anything more ironic than this?

Did those die-hard supporters know this?

Did his father know, given how fervently he'd supported the Dark Lord?

What about Mother? Did she know about this? Her sister, Bellatrix, had such a close relationship with the Dark Lord; did she know all this?

Draco cried out inwardly.

He'd long suspected the Dark Lord was dubious! He'd long felt the Dark Lord showed no regard for pure-blood wizards' bloodlines and was extremely cruel. Every murder he committed against pure-bloods trampled the bottom line pure-blood wizards adhered to.

In the past, pure-blood wizards never killed each other, even with conflicting stances.

Wizarding bloodlines were such precious and rare things! Even if they weren't of the same lineage, there was basic respect between them. Protecting, preserving, and passing on wizarding bloodlines was once a fundamental consensus among all wizards.

The Dark Lord never followed any boundaries. He disregarded this basic consensus. He killed indiscriminately and squandered lives.

Now, everything had an answer.

A half-blood wizard!

How could the Dark Lord truly want to restore pure-blood glory when he himself was no longer pure-blood?

"I think he's using the pure-blood wizards," Draco said bitterly, "using people's convictions to achieve his own goals—whatever those goals may be, they're definitely not what he claims."

"I must say, I'm very surprised," Dumbledore said, giving him a penetrating look. "I didn't expect you to see this. Few people would realize it, especially not a teenager."

"This is merely a reasonable guess," Draco said, avoiding eye contact with Dumbledore.

This was bad. His last words had been too heartfelt, and Dumbledore had noticed.

That wouldn't do. He couldn't reveal too much of his true thoughts.

What was wrong with him today? Why was he so emotionally unstable?

Draco took a deep breath, regained his composure, and changed the subject.

"That Muggle man—he doesn't seem to like her at all. I suspect she used some charm on him," Draco thought of the Amortentia Professor Slughorn had brewed.

"A reasonable speculation," Dumbledore said, his eyes flickering slightly. He let it pass, continuing his explanation. "I suspect she did use some means, but those means obviously didn't last. Here's some background information—just a year later, old Tom Riddle left her while she was pregnant, returned to Little Hangleton, and claimed he'd been deceived."

"Poor wretch," Draco sneered.

Being forced to love someone you don't love, versus loving someone who will never love you back—he really didn't know which was more tragic.

"But I remember Harry telling me that Tom Riddle in the diary grew up in an orphanage. What about Merope? Is she dead?" Draco asked.

"I suspect so," Dumbledore said softly.

"So the gold locket also disappeared with her?" Draco asked pointedly.

Dumbledore poured some new memories into the Pensieve and swirled it.

The figure of an old man emerged from the silvery-white substance. His hair was so thick it completely covered his eyes.

"Yes, we acquired it under very special circumstances... a young witch before Christmas... dressed in rags, looking haggard, and pregnant... I examined it closely, and sure enough, the locket bore the Slytherin mark... that thing was priceless... I bought it for only ten Galleons..."

"This is Caractacus Burke's memory," Dumbledore sighed. "Merope sold it when she was destitute. I heard from Burke that he later sold the locket to Hepzibah Smith, a very old and very wealthy witch and a very discerning collector."

"Her? She died long ago, didn't she?" Draco interjected.

Dumbledore nodded.

"After she died, Burke wanted to buy back the gold locket, but he didn't see it at the auction of her belongings," he said casually.

"Hepzibah Smith—isn't she a distant descendant of Hufflepuff?" Draco returned to his seat, gazing at the twilight sky outside the window, and remarked casually, "I've seen that branch in some wizarding genealogies."

"Yes, that's worth investigating," Dumbledore said, tapping the table casually while staring at the broken cup. "I think there might be some connection."

"What about the black gemstone ring? Is it still with Morfin?" Draco asked again.

"To be honest, I visited Morfin in Azkaban a while ago. Due to time constraints, I won't show you his memories. In summary, after he was released from prison following his last attack on Muggles, he lived alone in that shack, always wearing that ring—until young Tom Riddle visited him," Dumbledore said patiently.

"What happened?"

"None of us know—Morfin's memory was severely altered. When he regained consciousness, he'd already been captured and sent to Azkaban for murdering old Tom Riddle and his family of three. The ring on his hand was missing," Dumbledore said, glancing outside as he tried to convey the most important information.

"He killed his Muggle father?" Draco asked, not at all surprised.

This was very much what the Dark Lord, that inhuman madman, would do.

"I believe so," Dumbledore said slowly.

"Then he made a Horcrux..." Draco said softly, feeling a wave of weariness wash over him.

"Very likely."

"Indeed, it's more likely he chose the black gemstone ring as his Horcrux. We haven't found a direct connection between him and the locket yet..." Draco carefully chose his words.

"The disappearance of that locket is suspicious. I smell conspiracy in it," Professor Dumbledore said in a deep voice. "Draco, why don't you use your imagination a bit more? Why not... both of them...?"

"Both of them? They've both become Horcruxes? That's too evil," Draco said, no longer able to maintain his composure.

"In this matter, we must prepare for the worst," Dumbledore said seriously, a sharp glint in his eyes.

"But beyond the description, I have absolutely no idea where these two items are currently located," Draco said bluntly to Dumbledore.

"We're not completely without leads; Hepzibah Smith is an excellent starting point," Dumbledore said.

"But she's already dead. Searching for these people is a waste of time. No matter where they were before, once they're in the Dark Lord's hands, it's entirely different wherever they're hidden," Draco said bluntly.

"On this point, I hold the opposite view," Dumbledore said, resuming his smiling expression. "I think it's necessary to trace his past, as this will give me a clearer understanding of his thinking."

"If he really cared about the past, he should have hidden the items in an orphanage, or in the Gaunt family's dilapidated shack..." Draco asked defiantly. "Did you search for them? Did you find them?"

"The orphanage is full of Muggles, and I can't sense any magical fluctuations there," Dumbledore said. "As for the Gaunt shack, it was a ruin many years ago, and there's nothing there anymore."

"Perhaps he's not sentimental. I'll wager he'd use extensive Dark magic to hide those items in secluded places and curse anyone who finds them..." Draco mused.

"Of course he would. Even without becoming Horcruxes, the magic inherent in those objects is powerful enough. Salazar Slytherin must have had his reasons for choosing them as the House's treasures. Listen, Draco, I simply hope you can ask around among your Slytherin classmates if anyone has seen anything similar. Once you have any leads and discover where these items are, don't touch them carelessly; come tell me, and I'll handle them, all right?" Dumbledore looked at Draco with a serious expression.

Draco dropped his false smile.

He remembered the second-year diary, which could influence minds, devour souls, and cause chaos at Hogwarts. It could even materialize into human form, speak, and control the Basilisk. Harry had only managed to destroy it by chance, thanks to Fawkes's blessing and the Sword of Gryffindor, utilizing the Basilisk's fangs.

He remembered Ravenclaw's Diadem in the Room of Requirement, and the seductive whispers he'd heard before piercing it with fangs. If not for the Grey Lady's presence, the tormented ghost who'd suffered at its hands, reminding him, he might have put it on, and if he had, he might have died long ago. Recalling the diadem's destruction often sent chills down his spine; he felt he should have been more careful.

Hufflepuff's Cup was no ordinary object. It could severely injure a wizard of exceptional magical talent like Sirius Black—and even with Madam Pomfrey's superb skills, he still needed "some time" to recover. Draco, conversely, had all his bones regrown in just one night.

"You're right, Professor Dumbledore," Draco said, softening his tone. "I also think Horcruxes are very dangerous items. Destroying them isn't easy. Perhaps you should consider finding a helper when investigating these things, instead of working alone."

"Oh, I'll consider it," Dumbledore said gently. "However, it's getting late. Draco, I must ask you to leave, or you'll miss dinner."

Draco stood, feeling utterly exhausted.

He'd received too much information today, and he felt a throbbing pain in his temples.

"Wait—"

Draco turned and saw Dumbledore standing there, his face showing obvious fatigue and genuine apology. "I'm sorry about your mother. Sirius didn't know the danger he'd dragged you into. If anything happens in future that endangers your parents' safety, I will do everything in my power to help."

"I hope you keep your word," Draco said calmly, "and that you don't do anything else to exploit them."

"As you wish," Dumbledore said.

"And don't tell anyone else what I'm doing," Draco said coldly, reverting to the expressionless Draco Malfoy who'd walked into the office.

"What happens in this office will remain in this office," Dumbledore said after a long pause.

Draco gave him a reluctant nod and left the office.

The sky above Hogwarts was completely dark. Looking out from the eighth-floor corridor window, the pitch-black castle resembled a beast awakened from the night. Dementors lurked outside, their shadows menacing, seemingly ready to pounce and feast at any moment.

All of this made Draco feel weary.

He had no appetite for dinner. Instead, he walked down the stairs, through the bustling, noisy students, and returned to his private room, pale-faced.

His lingering anxieties since the holidays had come true—the Horcruxes were multiplying, and the threads were becoming increasingly tangled.

That old fox Dumbledore! He'd thought that by handing this matter over to him, Draco could finally catch his breath.

Little did he know, this was just the beginning of another nightmare. Lockets—where did he even begin with these items?

Draco lay on his bed, his mind in turmoil.

The image of that small gold locket—with its ornate serpentine S—kept flashing in his mind, giving him a strange sense of familiarity.

He must have seen it somewhere before.