Hogwarts: Proficiency Panel

Chapter 514 515: The Cold Gleam of the Blade

The wind rattled the heavy curtains of the Black ancestral home—those thick,

velvet drapes that had seen centuries of dust—allowing thin, wavering ribbons of

moonlight to flicker across the room.

The parlor was filled with a thick, restless silence. Sirius Black paced a tight

circle, his eyes darting to the hallway every few seconds. He was impatient, yet

he allowed no trace of irritation to show. He waited with the fervor of a man in

prayer, like the dark of night waiting for the first sliver of the moon.

Beside him, Kreacher stood as a silent witness. To the house-elf, the passage of

time had become a blurry, indistinguishable cycle. He had watched the weeds in

the center of Grimmauld Place wither, turn brittle, and yellow in the sun for

years, his existence as unchanging as the stone walls around him.

For a long time, Number 12 had no guests. The Muggles of the square had grown so

used to the ridiculous architectural error of Number 11 sitting directly against

Number 13 that they no longer even saw the gap.

But today was a day unlike any other.

Kreacher glanced down at the fake locket resting against his chest and felt

"new." The house itself seemed to share the feeling. The kitchen below had been

scrubbed until it was nearly unrecognizable to Sirius. Every surface gleamed:

the copper pots and pans shone with a rose-colored luster, the wooden table had

been waxed to a mirror finish, and the dinner service was laid out, sparkling in

the glow of the hearth where a great cauldron simmered with a merry fire.

The house-elf scurried forward to meet Sean, looking far more dignified than he

had in decades. He was wrapped in a snow-white towel, the hair in his ears as

fluffy and white as cotton wool. Regulus's locket—the symbol of his

burden—bounced against his thin, bony chest.

"Master Green!" Kreacher croaked with delight.

"Mr. Green," Sirius added, offering a respectful, slight smile.

Directly ahead of them, a figure emerged from the shadows of the staircase.

Sean Green's dark, messy hair caught the dim light, and his emerald eyes

remained sharp and bright even in the gloom. Following close behind was the

small, ever-vigilant figure of Will the Pukwudgie.

But it was what the boy carried that drew every eye. In his hand, Sean held a

long, elegant blade. It was sharp, noble, and ancient, with a massive, blood-red

ruby set into the hilt.

"The Sword of Gryffindor?" Sirius blurted out, his face pale with shock. He knew

that blade. Every student of the red-and-gold house knew the legend, but seeing

it in the flesh was another matter entirely.

"You've got a good eye, wizard," Will the Pukwudgie huffed.

"How... how is this possible?" Sirius breathed. He was utterly baffled. He knew

his "Lord" was a Ravenclaw through and through. How was a student of the eagle

house walking around with the most sacred relic of the lions?

Where did he find it? How did he draw it? And why, in Merlin's name, did

Hogwarts allow him to just walk out the front door with it?

"To destroy a Horcrux, one requires a powerful magical medium," Sean explained

calmly, as if he were discussing a textbook assignment. "The Sword of Gryffindor

was forged by goblins; it absorbs only that which strengthens it, taking into

itself the power of the things it slays."

"But..." Sirius found himself at a loss for words.

Merlin's beard—what Gryffindor hadn't spent their school years fantasizing about

finding that sword? What lion hadn't dreamed of being a duelist like Godric

himself, wandering the world with that magnificent blade at their side?

And yet, here it was, in the hands of a Ravenclaw who spoke of it with such

terrifying casualness. His tone suggested a simple, undeniable logic: I required

the power of the Sword of Gryffindor, so it appeared, and thus, it belongs to

me.

"May I... may I touch it? Ah—forgive me, Mr. Green. I'm just... I'm

overwhelmed." Sirius quickly checked himself, regaining his composure.

"It's quite alright," Sean said.

He understood the impact the sword had on a true Gryffindor. Truthfully, even he

hadn't fully expected to be able to draw it. The Sorting Hat had always insisted

he possessed the brand of courage Gryffindor favored, though Sean often felt he

was simply a man moving toward a goal.

"Will," Sean said softly.

The Pukwudgie butler nodded and reached into a lead-lined, sealed box. The

moment the object was revealed, the temperature in the room seemed to drop.

Sirius stared at it with a mixture of awe and visceral fear. He looked at the

serpentine "S" inlaid with glittering green emeralds. In the flickering light,

it was easy to imagine it as a real snake, coiled and waiting on a cold stone

floor.

Kreacher immediately began to shriek.

"That is it! That is it! Kreacher could not leave a single mark upon it!" the

elf wailed in a desperate, piercing hiss. "Kreacher tried everything! Every way!

Every spell! But not one, not one worked...

"The magic on the box is too strong. Kreacher believed it could only be

destroyed from the inside, but it will not open! Kreacher punished himself,

tried again... punished himself, tried again! Kreacher failed his Master!

Kreacher could not destroy the locket!"

The elf was gasping for air, his voice thick with tears. Even Sirius looked

pained.

"You miserable thing! How could you have possibly destroyed it?" Sirius said,

though his voice lacked its usual bite. "If it requires something as powerful as

the Sword of Gryffindor to leave a scratch—where would you have even found such

a thing?"

"Kreacher could not find it... Kreacher failed Master Regulus's final wish..."

The elf slumped, letting the cold wind bite at his fingers, which were scarred

from years of self-inflicted punishment.

"It is alright, Mr. Kreacher," Sean said gently. He raised the sword.

In an instant, a sudden gale seemed to sweep through the house. The heavy

curtains billowed inward, and the moonlight flooded the room, outlining Sean's

silhouette. He stood tall, his grip on the sword steady, his eyes as sharp as

the edge of the blade.

But he did not strike yet. Sean had remembered one final, crucial detail. The

locket was protected by layers of ancient, defensive magic. Striking the casing

would be futile. It had to be vulnerable.

"Open," Sean commanded.

But he didn't speak in English. He spoke in Parseltongue.

The word came out as a low, sibilant hiss. Everyone froze, their eyes locked on

the locket. The emerald "S" seemed to writhe. Inside the golden casing,

something began to rustle and scuttle like a swarm of caged cockroaches.

With a final, hissing roar from Sean, the golden lid of the locket clicked and

sprang open.

Inside, behind two small glass windows, were two living eyes. They were dark,

bright, and alert—the eyes of Tom Riddle, just as they had looked before they

turned blood-red and his pupils thinned to slits.

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