Maverick climbed the final stair and stepped into a rather plain-looking corridor on the seventh floor. The place was unusually quiet, the stone walls broken only by the occasional tapestry. One in particular caught his eye—a wizard attempting to teach a group of trolls ballet, the trolls stumbling about in frilly tutus. A faint smile tugged at his mouth. This had to be the place.
Drawing a steady breath, he closed his eyes and cast his senses outward in a wide arc. The familiar hum of Hogwarts' wards buzzed faintly at the edge of his awareness, but beyond that, the corridor seemed... ordinary. Still.
No hidden enchantments stirred, not even the faintest sensation of a ward's magic brushing against his own. It was as if the castle itself was holding its breath.
Interesting, he thought, narrowing his eyes.
He tried again, this time pushing more magic outward, until, a moment later, something flickered at the edge of his awareness—a complex web of runes so intricate that even he could not immediately make sense of it. His eyes lit up. Not because he understood the runic algorithm, but because he didn't.
For a master alchemist like him, to encounter runes he couldn't immediately decipher was like stumbling across a buried treasure. The craftsmanship was exquisite, layers of ancient magic woven together with such precision that it bordered on the impossible. Already, his mind was racing with the possibilities. But for now, he had another purpose.
Focusing again, he homed in on the point where the magical concentration was thickest—right along the stretch of blank stone wall opposite the tapestry. That must be the entrance.
Now, how did it work again? He tapped his fingers thoughtfully against his chin.
"If I remember right... you have to walk back and forth," he muttered under his breath, trying to recall exactly how the Room of Requirement revealed itself.
He shrugged, stepped forward, and began to pace.
I want a space to take a quick nap.
I want a space to take a quick nap.
I want a space to take a quick nap.
Over and over, he repeated it in his mind as he walked. On his third pass, there was a soft click, and he felt the magic surge through the runic lines, triggering something deep within the wall. He stopped, watching closely.
Before his eyes, a door appeared—growing out of the stone as if it had always been there, simply hidden from sight. It was an old wooden door, sturdy-looking, with a brass handle and carvings around the frame that shimmered faintly with magic.
Still cautious, he reached out with his Magical Sense trying to probe inside. And to his surprise, his magic slipped away the moment it touched the door—almost as if it had been devoured, or tossed into a black hole.
From what he understood, if someone wanted to counter Magical-Sense, they would either have to block it with a spell or push back with stronger mental force. He had never encountered anything—any form of magic—that could simply swallow Magical-Sense whole, the way this did.
His intrigue deepened.
Whoever had built this place had to be far beyond a grandmaster in their craft—perhaps someone forgotten by history altogether.
Without hesitation, he grasped the handle, turned it, and stepped through. Whatever secrets lay behind the room's craftsmanship could wait—for now.
Inside, the room was exactly what he had asked for: a simple bed with a soft-looking mattress, a high-backed chair by the wall, and nothing else. It was small, comfortable, and eerily close to what he had pictured in his mind.
But something gnawed at him.
He had never felt the room probing his thoughts. No hint of intrusion. No flicker of detection spells. For an Archmage like him, whose mind was protected by defenses stronger than most could dream of, that was nearly unthinkable. Yet somehow, the room had read his need as easily as reading a line of text.
Could it be something subtler than direct mind magic? A form of enchantment he had never encountered before?
Within the span of a few minutes, Maverick's head was already buzzing with unanswered questions. Fascinating as it was, there were more urgent matters to deal with.
Namely, the destruction of one of Voldy's Horcrux.
He stepped back out again, closed the door behind him, and paced again—this time with a sharper purpose.
I need the place where everything is hidden.
I need the place where everything is hidden.
I need the place where everything is hidden.
The door shimmered into being once more, and Maverick gave a soft hum of approval.
"Here goes," he muttered, and pushed it open.
The Room of Hidden Things stretched out before him, vast and cluttered. Towers of forgotten objects loomed on all sides—broken cabinets with doors hanging off their hinges, cracked cauldrons, tattered books, broomsticks with their bristles half-missing, rusted cages, cloudy mirrors, dusty weapons, and countless other things he couldn't even name. The ceiling soared high above, swallowed by shadows, and the air was thick with the smell of dust and old magic.
He rose into the air and, for a moment, simply stared, marveling at the sheer amount of stuff piled into mountains below. It was like a graveyard of Hogwarts' forgotten secrets, where centuries of lost or hidden things had been left to gather dust.
"How in Merlin's name did Potter ever find anything in here?" he muttered, landing lightly in a narrow gap between two towering piles.
Let's try the straightforward way first... see if it's just like in the books, he thought, stretching out his hand and pointing his index finger ahead.
"Accio Diadem!" he called.
Nothing happened.
He tried again. And again. Still nothing.
Sigh.
It was worth a shot.
He then closed his eyes, thinking back to how Potter had first stumbled across the diadem. If I remember correctly, he mused, it should... probably... be sitting on a bust of some old warlock.
That gave him an idea.
Rising higher, he glided slowly across the maze of forgotten things, his eyes narrowing, his magic brushing over the piles below like a silent current, searching for any sign of what he sought. It took nearly five minutes before he spotted it—an old statue in the distance, something small and nondescript at first glance.
Without wasting a second, he flew over and landed softly nearby. Immediately, he felt it—the prickling, cold sensation of dark magic radiating from the object resting atop the bust's head.
The lost diadem of Ravenclaw.
And just as he took a step forward, a cold, hissing whisper brushed past his ear.
"Wear me... Wear me... Claim me, and I shall grant you all you desire..."
The corner of his mouth curled into a slow smile. So typical, he murmured under his breath.
Without hesitation, he raised his palm, and a slender dagger along with a small glass vial shimmered into existence, floating neatly above his hand.
He did not bother touching either directly. With a flick of his magic, the cork of the vial popped free, and a thin sheen of purplish liquid brushed itself along the dagger's edge, coating it carefully.
The vial vanished again, slipping back into his personal dimension without a sound, leaving only the dagger, now gleaming faintly with the deadly sheen of basilisk venom.
The poison of the Serpent King was no small thing. It was extremely rare, dangerous, and heavily restricted. Even with all his resources, Maverick had only managed to procure a small amount—paying a hefty sum of gold to a connection deep within India's shadowy side of the wizarding world.
Now, he could have used Fiendfyre, of course. But since he had the venom on hand... why waste the good stuff? Besides, if everything went according to plan, he would soon be running his own little basilisk venom empire.
The dagger floated a little higher, spinning lazily in the air.
But before he pulled the trigger, there was one thing he needed to check.
He concentrated his magical energy, sharpening his Magical-Sense to its highest alert, then stepped closer and raised his hand to touch the object.
The tempting whispers grew louder and louder, but to him, they were nothing more than the annoying buzz of a persistent fly.
He picked up the tiara with one hand and waited...
Until, a second later, the expected message appeared in his mind.
[ Detected an item of extraordinary characteristics ]
[ Item: Rowena Ravenclaw's Diadem ]
[ Extraordinary Characteristic: Wisdom Amplification ]
[ Grade: Excellent ]
[ Extraordinary Characteristic: Horcrux ]
[ Grade: Basic ]
Sure enough, just as he expected, there were not one but two extraordinary characteristics.
Unfortunately, he could not tell how they would benefit him without first replicating them and then integrating them into his magic.
And to do that, he needed Extraordinary Characteristic Points—and right now, he did not have any to begin with.So, he made up his mind to skip the diadem's extraordinary characteristics entirely. Plus, he wanted to nip this Horcrux in the bud sooner rather than later.
The Wisdom Amplification did sound tempting—being an excellent-grade characteristic and all—but not tempting enough to waste a precious point, not when he had far more valuable items lined up that he would soon have the chance to copy from.
As for the Horcrux trait, he had no idea how it would even help him. Would it boost his soul power directly? Or something else entirely? He had no clue.
Moreover, it was only a basic-grade trait, so he dismissed it without a second thought.
Carefully placing the tiara back on the bald statue's head, he took two steps back and exhaled slowly.
Then, with a nudge of his will, the dagger, still hovering and rotating slowly above the stone bust, paused it's motion—and then—
Whoosh!
It dropped like a bullet, plunging straight through the heart of the tiara—burying deep into the stone head beneath it.
The reaction was instant.
A shrill, piercing scream tore through the room, high and thin, like glass shattering inside his mind. Shadows burst from the diadem in frantic whorls, thrashing madly against the invisible grip of death. Dark tendrils reached out, clawing at the air, trying to latch onto anything—anything—that might save it.
Maverick watched with cold, detached eyes as the Horcrux writhed and howled, its false life bleeding out in streams of smoky blackness. Cracks spiderwebbed across the tiara's surface, widening with each second, until finally—
Crack.
The sound was oddly soft, almost gentle. And then the vile magic winked out, snuffed like a candle in the wind.
Satisfied, Maverick nudged the ruined diadem with his magic, lifting it into the air. It floated toward him, broken and hollow.
He brushed one finger lightly across it.
Nothing. No tingle of magic. And, unfortunately, no prompt from the system either, which meant it was completely destroyed—just a cold, useless hunk of twisted metal.
Maverick sighed.
Burn it.
A flick of his wrist summoned Fiendfyre—pure, ravenous—and the broken crown melted instantly, liquefying into a molten puddle that sizzled and vanished into the floor.
He dusted his hands off and brushed aside the still lingering thoughts about the characteristics. On the bright side, he mused, that makes three Horcruxes down.
He glanced around once more, and the glint of interest returned to his eyes.
"Now then," he muttered, stretching his fingers, "let us see what other good stuff Hogwarts forgot."
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