Horcruxes, creations attributed to the ancient sorcerer Herpo, count among the darkest achievements of magic, capable of anchoring a fragment of the creator’s soul within an object.
They stand as some of the strangest artifacts ever devised in the pursuit of immortality.
In other traditions, similar concepts exist in the form of objects said to carry a spirit of their own.
Legend holds that the rarest of these arise spontaneously the moment a magical weapon is forged.
Other methods, darker still, involve human sacrifice as the binding act.
— Excerpt from Herpo’s Dark Creations: An Analysis of Horcruxes
Will recalled the dark magic texts he’d worked through back home, this particular volume practically committed to memory by now.
Being a cheap, mass-market copy picked up on Knockturn Alley, though, it had skipped most of the actual creation process, offering only a surface-level overview.
Judging purely by how Voldemort behaved, Will suspected splitting one’s soul carried real cognitive cost, some measurable toll on the mind and judgment of whoever attempted it.
While Will’s thoughts drifted along those lines, out on the pitch, Harry’s broom had started dragging him higher and higher, shaking violently the whole way.
Every eye in the stadium had locked onto him by now, everyone except Will, who remained largely unbothered, likely the only person present who understood Dumbledore would never let his most closely watched student die in something as absurd as a school Quidditch match.
Sure enough, the moment Hermione knocked Quirrell over mid-incantation, Harry’s broom settled instantly.
He wrapped up the match in seconds after that, delivering a crushing loss to Slytherin.
Boos erupted through the Slytherin stands, Malfoy loudest among them, hurling insults at the pitch below.
Will felt nothing but relief the match had ended quickly.
He shoved his book into his bag and pulled a visibly sulking Sylvia away from the stands.
“I can’t believe we lost.
To Gryffindor.
Seven years undefeated, gone,” she muttered on the walk down.
Will felt no particular attachment to house pride.
The Quidditch Cup meant nothing to him either way.
“Feeling that rough about it?
Let’s take a walk by the lake instead,” he offered.
So the two of them spent the rest of the afternoon at the Black Lake.
Will built a small fire, and they roasted fish over it together.
One minor mishap along the way: his attempt to conjure a small shelter against the wind via Transfiguration fell noticeably short of the mark.
They settled instead for three crude earthen walls stacked beneath a tree, good enough to block the worst of the cold.
Meanwhile, over in Hagrid’s cabin at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, four young wizards found themselves locked in a losing battle against a plate of rock cakes.
Neville had joined Harry, Ron, and Hermione on the visit.
The group sat baffled, cakes in hand, Harry fairly convinced Hagrid had somehow baked actual gravel into the dough.
“Longbottom, you’ve got more muscle on you than Harry does.” Hagrid clapped a hand roughly the size of a dinner plate across Neville’s back, nearly folding him in half.
“That was a close call out there, eh, Harry?
What happened with your broom?
I’ll pour you some tea, settle your nerves a bit.”
Neville rubbed his spine gingerly.
“Reckon Hagrid doesn’t know his own strength.”
Ron nodded knowingly.
He’d taken that exact hit before.
Neville was digging through his pockets, hoping to let Trevor out for some fresh air, but after a thorough search came up empty.
He sighed.
“Gone again.”
“Better start looking soon, then,” Ron warned.
“Forest’s right there.
Once he’s in, you’re probably never getting him back.”
“Accio Trevor.”
A grey-green toad shot up out of the grass outside and sailed straight through the doorway into Neville’s waiting hand.
Ron and Harry both blinked in surprise.
They’d known Neville had picked up the Summoning Charm, but not that he’d gotten quite this good at it.
“Have Will to thank for that.
He taught me.” Neville tucked Trevor safely back into his pocket.
Down by the Black Lake, still tending the fire, Will felt a notification surface out of nowhere.
[Someone feels grateful toward you.
Charm Experience +1]
“Still don’t understand why anyone would pick a toad as a pet.
Didn’t think Hogwarts had many of those left, honestly.” Ron dangled Scabbers by the tail and set him down beside the rock cakes.
The rat rolled over and went right back to sleep, entirely uninterested.
Just then, Hagrid set the teapot down, eyeing the toad in Neville’s hand.
“Fine little creature, that.
Toads make good friends for wizards, you know.”
“Why’s that?” Harry asked.
Personally, he’d never found toads particularly appealing.
Compared to Hedwig, they didn’t stand much of a chance.
“Toads help test potions, mostly.
Something’s got poison in it, they can process it through their skin without much harm done, and depending on the toxin, the color they turn tells you plenty,” Hagrid explained, before something else occurred to him.
“Oh, right, Harry, your mum loved toads.
Brilliant at Potions, she was, used them constantly for testing.”
Harry’s mind flashed back to Aunt Petunia’s old complaints.
If my rotten sister could do it, why shouldn’t you?
She got the very same letter, you know, vanished off to that school, came home every summer with her pockets full of toad spawn, turning teacups into mice right in front of us.
I saw exactly what she was, a proper freak.
But Mum and Dad never saw it, always going on about their precious Lily, thrilled to bits about having a witch in the family.
Something uncomfortable settled over his face, and he took a slow sip of tea to cover it.
Ron caught the shift in Harry’s expression but assumed it was leftover nerves from the match.
“Don’t worry, Harry.
We’ve worked out what actually happened out there.”
“It was Snape,” Ron told him.
“Hermione and I both saw it.
Neville too.
He was muttering something under his breath the whole time, eyes locked right on you.”
“Rubbish,” Hagrid said, refilling their cups.
“Why in the world would Snape do a thing like that?” Harry, Ron, and Hermione traded uncertain looks before Harry decided to just say it plainly.
“We found something out about him,” he said.
“On Halloween, he tried getting past a three-headed dog and got bitten for his trouble.
We think he was after whatever it’s guarding.”
“Wait, Harry, Snape wasn’t hurt that night, remember?
“It must have happened sometime after.”
Hagrid set the teapot down hard, staring at all three of them.
“How exactly d’you know about Fluffy?”
“Fluffy?”
“Yeah, he’s mine, bought him off a Greek fellow at the pub last year, lent him to Dumbledore for guarding something—” Hagrid caught himself mid-sentence, realizing what he’d just said.
“What’s he guarding?” Harry pressed immediately.
“That’s enough.
No more questions.” Hagrid’s voice hardened.
“It’s top secret, understand?
All of you.”
“But Snape was trying to steal it.”
“Absolute rubbish,” Hagrid snapped back.
“Snape teaches at this school.
He wouldn’t do something like that.”
“Then why’s he after Harry?” Ron shot back, his dislike of Snape apparently running deeper than he could fully explain.
“You’ve got it wrong, the lot of you!” Hagrid’s patience finally cracked.
“I don’t know what set off that broom, but Snape’s never once wanted to hurt a student, understand?
Now listen close, all three of you, you’re poking into something well above your heads.
It’s dangerous.
Forget the dog, forget whatever it’s guarding, this is a matter between Dumbledore and Nicolas Flamel—”
Hagrid, it turned out, made an exceptionally poor secret-keeper.
“Ha!” Harry pounced immediately.
“So there’s a name now, then.
Nicolas Flamel.” Hagrid looked furious, mostly at himself, for letting slip a secret Dumbledore had trusted him to keep.
The visit ended badly, the first real falling-out between Hagrid and Harry either of them could remember.
The three of them left the cabin, Ron kicking loose stones the whole walk back as though each one bore Snape’s face, until he nearly caught one sharp enough to slice through his boot.
Hermione, meanwhile, was mentally combing through every book she’d ever read, searching for any mention of Nicolas Flamel.
Then, off in the distance, two familiar figures came into view, walking back toward the castle.
Will and Sylvia.
“Will would know!” Hermione clapped her hands together.
“Why didn’t I think to ask him sooner?”
She hurried ahead, calling out as she went.
“Oh, brilliant,” Ron muttered under his breath.
Ever since the troll incident, he’d been avoiding Will whenever possible.
Partly guilt, for badmouthing him in front of Harry and Hermione beforehand.
Partly grudge, since he’d ended up soaked from Will’s water spell and spent several uncomfortable days in the hospital wing afterward.
Still, figuring out who exactly Nicolas Flamel was mattered more right now than old grievances.
“Oh, hey, you two.
What’s going on?” Will and Sylvia had just finished a solid meal of grilled fish, complete with a decent haul of cooking experience, and both were in good spirits.
“Do you know who Nicolas Flamel is?” Hermione asked, straight to the point.
Will’s answer landed immediately, brightening every face around him.
“Of course we do.”