Albus Dumbledore was not, by nature, a kind or good-hearted person. His skill with magic and brilliant mind had only exacerbated what he knew was a heavy load of natural arrogance, and as a result he had always been inclined towards viewing those with less power as objects to be arranged rather than people. Much of the kindness and empathy Albus felt was deliberately cultivated, a learned response rather than an instinctual one; he had always been impressed by – even a little envious of – Harry's easy empathy, his concern even for those he did not know.

Nevertheless, Albus was still greatly relieved when he returned to Grimmauld Place after a week and found Bella still alive.

Not only alive, but sitting at the kitchen table and speaking with Harry in as amiable a tone as Albus had heard Bella use since she had left school: one step short of mockery, warmed by the implicit threat of violence.

"Yes, there are stronger shields," she said, sounding irritated, and went on about the weaknesses of static shielding. She was facing away from the door and did not see Albus standing behind her. He glanced around the room, saw a sink full of dishes washing themselves under Kreacher's direction, saw Harry listening to Bella and carefully not looking at Albus, saw that Bella was wearing an old-fashioned gown that had been resewn for her figure and somewhat daring fashion sense. And because Albus had spent almost as many years practicing being insightful as he had being foolish, he saw that Harry had asserted some degree of traditional control over Kreacher and had put aside his emotions enough to learn duelling from Bella.

"Black," said Harry after a minute, flicking a glance at Albus.

"I know he is there, Potter," said Bella. "I heard the Floo, and there is only one person with access to this mouldering dump arrogant enough to just stand there." She turned around to face Albus as Harry processed her remark. "Come to check on Harry's homework, Professor? I'd give him an Exceeds Expectations for Defence, but I suppose he gets that just for being alive."

"I am, of course, partly here to see how the two of you were getting along," said Albus, keeping his tone even. "But mostly I am here to speak to Harry. In private."

"Why?" Bella narrowed her eyes. "I have as great an interest in this war as Potter."

"No. You don't," said Harry, not angry or mocking but only weary. Albus saw the impact of Harry's tone on Bella, the calculation in her eyes, the fear of ignorance. Voldemort must have enjoyed having such a transparent servant, her every emotion visible even without legilimency.

"Very well," Bella said after a moment, and she marched out of the kitchen. Harry watched her go, then looked to Albus.

"Evening, Professor," he said amiably. "Would you like a cup of tea? A biscuit? Kreacher's specialty is gingernuts. Apparently Sirius's great-grandfather liked to celebrate killing someone in a duel with a glass of brandy and a gingernut."

"Tea and a gingernut, please Harry," Albus said cordially, sitting at the end of the table rather than taking Bella's seat. He drew his wand and warded the kitchen, slicing through the expected eavesdropping charm from Bella. Kreacher moved to a cabinet and extracted an elaborate tea service of pale china. There was a painted scene on the side of the teapot: a single wizard fighting a group of short, brutish figures that were most likely meant to be muggles. Kreacher made and poured tea and set out gingernuts for Harry and Albus, then looked to Harry, who frowned back before speaking.

"Go polish the silver," said Harry. Kreacher bowed and disappeared, Harry still frowning at where he had stood before reaching for a biscuit. Albus added milk to his tea, blew on it, took a sip, set it down, opened his mouth to make a comment about the design on the teapot and realised that he was stalling.

"Harry," he said, pushing through his instinctive reluctance to reveal secrets. "Have you ever wondered how Voldemort survived his first defeat at your hands?"

Harry paused mid-nibble and set down his biscuit. "Not really." He didn't look curious, only resigned. Albus could have wept, but now was not the time for regrets.

"There is a thing," he said carefully, "called a Horcrux..."

- \ * / -

Harry fiddled with a gingernut. A lot of things made more sense now. A handsome young man who had been trapped in a diary. A snake that Harry dreamed himself into. Splitting your soul through murder...Harry remembered Cedric dying, so casual, kill the spare, over in an instant. As if it was nothing. And of course it wasn't, not for Voldemort. Harry broke his biscuit in half. Making Horcruxes out of artifacts from Hogwarts history, that made sense too – it was something Harry could image Voldemort doing. Harry had met a piece of Voldemort that called itself Tom Riddle, and that boy had been obsessed with proving himself. And of course he would do it with things from Hogwarts, the school was the first home he had ever had, the first place he had ever belonged, and it was so much more real than any other place...Harry wasn't sure whether he was talking about himself or about Voldemort.

Harry realised that he had crushed his biscuit into crumbs. He wiped his hands on his pants, suddenly wanting to smash the sick teapot that he'd thought was funny when Kreacher had first brought it out.

"So they're things from Hogwarts history, in places important to him," he said at last, brushing crumbs from his lap to avoid meeting Dumbledore's eyes. "But he would have hidden them."

"What can be done by magic can be undone," said Dumbledore, taking a sip of tea before going on, "a fact that Voldemort never grasped, or perhaps never allowed himself to believe. In any case, I believe I have already located two of them. One is in young Bella's Gringotts vault, unavailable to us without a great deal of preparation. The second is much more accessible. It is in the shack where Tom's mother's family once lived; or rather, he has placed some incredibly complex wards upon that site and I cannot imagine another reason to do so."

"You're going to destroy it." Harry leaned forward on his stool, crumbs forgotten. "When?"

"Tonight," said Dumbledore casually. His eyes were cold.

"Can I – no, I can't." Harry bit his lip. "If I go, he'll track me there. Dammit." He thumped his fist against his thigh. "Who are you taking?" Dumbledore took another sip of tea and Harry raised his eyebrows. "Sir, you have to take someone with you."

"I cannot," said Dumbledore, and set down his tea cup at last. "Harry, the only advantage we have is that Tom does not know that we know his secret. Every person I tell increases the chance that he will discover that his horcruxes have been compromised."

"Then why are you telling me?" Harry shot back.

"Because ignorance is the greater risk for you. Because Tom appears to suffer great pain when he enters your mind. Because you are safe here, and others are not." Dumbledore took a breath, let it out, looking less than serene for the first time. "I am sorry, Harry. I should not lecture you so. But who could I ask? It is not a question of trust." He looked old and worn, and Harry remembered that Dumbledore was over a hundred years old.

"Sir..." Harry trailed off. He wanted to say you need to take someone, but just repeating it wasn't going to work. He tried to pull something more rational from his misgivings. "The first horcrux, the diary...it pulled at me. I don't know if that was magic or the bit of soul or just Voldemort being persuasive, but it talked to me and I listened. It was worse for Ginny. She had it longer and it almost took her over. But it didn't work as much on me because I had Hermione and Ron." Dumbledore opened his mouth, but Harry shook his head and kept talking. "I know you're a great wizard, but it's not about that. I needed someone to tell me I wasn't myself, because I was never going to notice on my own."

Dumbledore looked at Harry for a long moment, then stared down into his teacup.

"I had not considered that," he said softly, almost a murmur. "I am prepared for wards and curses, but you are right. I have always found it difficult to watch myself. But we return to the same problem, Harry. Who could I ask to accompany me, knowing the risk?" They sat together in silence for a moment, and then Harry sat bolt upright as an idea flashed through his mind.

"Professor," said Harry, "you can take Black."

Dumbledore blinked, ran a hand through his beard. "That is...a very good idea, Harry. Hmm. I think I shall do that. Do you have any questions before I go?"

Harry tilted his head. Dumbledore sounded like he was about to go out for a stroll, rather than destroy an incredibly dangerous – ah. "How are you going to destroy it?"

"Well, once you return to school I had hoped you would guide me into the Chamber of Secrets to retrieve some basilisk venom," said Dumbledore, "but tonight I shall use fiendfyre. A tad dangerous, but with Bella's assistance I believe all shall be well."

"She's...good at magic. I'm learning duelling from her," Harry said defensively.

"There are few more skilled than her," said Dumbledore. "Top of her year on her Defence and Charms NEWTs." He sounded regretful, and Harry wondered what Bella had been like when Dumbledore taught her.

"The duelling's not really working because she can't attack me, even just to practice. I know it sounds-"

"Harry," Dumbledore cut in. "If you desire it, I will alter my instructions to Bella. I ask only that you be mindful."

"Mindful of what?"

"Just mindful in general," Dumbledore said airily as he stood up, and Harry had to smile. "Now, I will speak to Bella and then we shall be off. With luck, we shall return with an empty horcrux and no major injuries."

"Professor," said Harry, standing up as well. He bit his lip. "He really was dangerous, the him in the diary." Dumbledore inclined his head, almost a bow, and left the kitchen. Harry took a gulp of his cooling tea. It was difficult, imagining someone besides himelf in direct danger from Voldemort.

- \ * / -

Bella had not seriously expected to listen in on the conversation, but the ease with which Dumbledore had severed her charm was annoying. The only thing worse than a meddling old fool was a meddling old fool who made it look easy. She waited in the corridor a minute and tried the charm again. It slid off the ward, making as much impact as rain on a bonfire. Bella whirled around and stomped up the stairs. Potter and the old fool wouldn't hear through the ward, but it made her feel better.

Feeling caged, she picked a room at random to explore. It was a sitting room. She could vaguely remember it from her childhood, torturous family events spent doing nothing interesting. The only good thing in the room was the family tree tapestry on the far wall. When Father or Uncle had had a few brandies, they would tell stories about Bella's ancestors. Bella stood before the tapestry and reached up to touch the name of her favourite ancestress, Dibella Gatria Black, who had killed a man for kissing her hand without permission. Bella traced the line down from Dibella to her own mother, and then to her own name...and next to it, Narcissa's.

"Oh, Cissy," she said under her breath. She hadn't given her sister a single thought when she fled, but of course her Lord would punish Bella's family. She scraped a fingernail over Cissy's name and ignored the regret that began to rise up inside her. There was no room for regret in her heart, not since Azkaban.

Her gaze slid to the scorch mark between her name and Cissy's, and she drove the regret away with anger, more than a decade old but still fresh and hot. Suddenly the tapestry was mocking her, reminding her of the Black family's broken present rather than their glorious past.

"You traitor," she growled, "why did you – worthless!" Bella drew her wand and conjured fire along the tapestry. It was charmed fireproof, of course. She laughed, shrieked, went to use an incineration curse that drew from her hatred. Every muscle in her body went tense and her mind rang like a gong as she slammed into the limit of her Vow.

"You bastard, Dumbledore," she gasped, stumbling to an armchair. She took a deep breath and laughed. "I can't use the Dark, but Potter can. So very you."

Dumbledore found her in the library an hour later. She snapped Lives of the Warlocks shut, raised an eyebrow.

"Have you finished discussing strategy with a schoolboy? I can wait, I'm sure the elf has some useful tips on complex transfiguration for you."

"I imagine he does, but I would be at a loss to implement them," Dumbledore said gravely. Bella rolled her eyes. "Now, Bella. You will accompany me on my errand this evening. You will contact no one, you will do your best to keep the both of us healthy and undetected, and you will not reveal what we do to anyone without my explicit permision. "

"You're letting me out?" Bella frowned, hating the excitement in her voice. "I mean, what errand?"

"We will destroy an artifact that Voldemort holds dear..." Dumbledore noticed her twitch, but unlike Potter he didn't enjoy it. "It will require the use of Fiendfyre."

"No Dark magic, Bella," she said in her best schoolteacher voice.

"In the future, I hope to have less unpredictable tools available," he went on, ignoring her gibe. "Shall we go?"

Potter was waiting in the front hall, hands stuffed in his pockets. Bella blew him a kiss as Dumbledore led her out the door.

"Jealous, Potter? I'll bring you back a souvenir from the outside."

"See that you do," he said, not looking away. Before Bella could reply, Dumbledore took her arm and they Apparated, landing in a country lane. Bella pushed Dumbledore's arm away, fighting down a surge of nausea.

"Some warning, professor!" Bella hissed. She tilted her head. "Why am I whispering?"

"Because some small part of you remembers that my orders included stealth," said Dumbledore. "That shack to your right holds what we seek."

"Ugh." Bella wrinkled her nose. "Are you sure he would hide something of his here?"

"Quite sure." Dumbledore – and a reluctant Bella – walked to the shack's front door. It was run-down and dirty, clearly abandoned for years. Both of them drew their wands, Bella looking around while Dumbledore drew intricate patterns in the air with his wand. "It is safe to enter."

"Why not just fill it with Fiendfyre?" Bella suggested.

"Terribly unsubtle. I am hoping to replace the object with a copy, and leave your former master unaware that it has been destroyed. Let us proceed."

Dumbledore led the way into the shack. Bella kept a few paces back from him, wrinkling her nose at the mouldy walls and rotting timbers. Dumbledore spread his arms wide and half-closed his eyes.

"Fascinating," he murmured. "Ah, Tom. Not all of us are like you..."

"There's nothing here," said Bella. She didn't like the grubby little shack. It felt steeped in misery and wretchedness. It reminded her of Azkaban.

"But there is," said Dumbledore. He flicked his wand, and suddenly the shack's walls were on fire. Bella started and raised her wand - "No," said Dumbledore, and his command forced her wand down even as the flames spread across the floor. They left a corridor of untouched floor leading to the door, but gave off neither heat nor smoke as they began to dance over Bella and Dumbledore's feet.

"An illusion?" said Bella tightly.

"At the moment," said Dumbledore. "I imagine that if we had used magic, or moved for the door, it would not be so harmless. A test of nerve."

"You might have warned me," said Bella. "You would have warned Potter."

"Yes, of course. Harry is not compelled to obey me; he might have taken harm. Ah." He waded further into the flames, and bent over. "A trap-door; not literally, I believe. A hand, Bella?."

"How, exactly, could I refuse?" she muttered to herself as she walked closer.

Two pairs of hands curled around the heavy iron ring set into the trapdoor, and slowly heaved it up and over to lie flat against the floor with a solid whomp, at which the flames now filling the shack went out. The square hole in the floor was pitch black; Bella thought about calling light, but it seemed a risk. Dumbledore crouched down and waved a hand through the darkness, but there was no ladder or staircase.

"Only one thing to be done," Dumbledore said lightly, and he slid his feet into the hole and let himself fall. After a moment there was a thump.

Bella stared after him. Her survival hung on the fool's well being for now, but she couldn't help picturing a broken neck, spine...ankle at the very least. Then his voice floated up to her out of the dark, still mild and unconcerned.

"Quite soft down here," said Dumbledore. "Come down."

She did, rolling into the landing and ending up sprawled on what felt like thick moss. She pushed herself to her knees, cursing Dumbledore's warped sense of humour and the Dark Lord's choice of defences. "May I call light now?" she said, doing her best to ignore the humiliation of asking.

"Yes, but nothing more," said Dumbledore.

"How reassuring." Bella summoned a ball of pearly light and set it to hover over Dumbledore's head, in case anything attacked the source of light. The two of them stood in a perfectly round room, perhaps fifteen feet across. It seemed to have been carved out of the dirt, the walls held solid by magic. In the centre was a small stone plinth. On it sat a gold ring set with a black stone.

"What is it?" said Bella, glancing from the ring to Dumbledore. He said nothing. "You're not even going to tell me what I'm about to destroy?"

"It has never seemed particularly important to you in the past," said Dumbledore, but without his usual serene condescension. His voice was distant, and he did not look away from the ring gleaming in the centre of the room.

Now that Bella looked at it closely, she could see the attraction. The gold band's stark, arrogant simplicity would look fetching against her pale skin, and the stone...it was jet black, the colour of night and other Darknesses, the perfect thing for the last Black. Bella felt suddenly certain that she could see them again if she only put on the ring. Sirius would forgive her, admit that he had been wrong. Her parents would tell her...why did she want to see her parents? She had no interest in what they had to say. Her thoughts were foggy, confused. That was wrong. Even in Azkaban her mind had been clear – drowning in a well of misery, but clear. Something was wrong.

Bella blinked, looked up from the ring. She was closer to the plinth than before, and on the other side of it Dumbledore stood closer still, his free hand floating above the ring. Tears were running down his face and turning his beard a darker shade of pale.

"Dumbledore," said Bella, for a moment too stunned to think. She had seen him stern, angry, mocking, resigned, but never – never grieving. His hand drifted a little closer to the ring. The ring. The Dark Lord's ring. Of course it was cursed. "Dumbledore," she said again, circling around the plinth with her eyes averted. "Don't touch it!" She raised her wand, but the idiot's offhand instruction to do no more than call light still gripped her. "Serve you right if I – ah!" She lunged forward and caught Dumbledore's wrist with his fingers an inch from the ring.

He strained against her grip, but didn't command her to let go or turn her bones to lead with his wand. Obviously not in his right mind. Bella was more than his physical match; she yanked his arm up, and shoved him away from the plinth.

"You're bespelled, you senile old bastard!" she shouted in his face, rather enjoying it. He stared back at her helplessly. His eyes were open and guileless as a child's, set in a much-lined face that had lost its relentless energy. For the first time in Bella's memory Dumbledore looked his age.

"She's waiting for me," he said quietly. "She forgives me." Bella recognised his tone. Azkaban's corridors were full of it, and when she reached her breaking point it had filled her cell as well. It was the voice of someone who could not find the strength to scream any more. Someone who was no longer trying to ease or erase their pain, but instead hold it tight, remember who they were.

"Dumbledore," she said again frantically. "This is the Dark Lord's doing! Remember that!"

"She's waiting for me," he said again. "They're all waiting for me. It's going to be all right."

"Argh!" Bella plucked Dumbledore's wand from his hand and pushed him further back, to the wall, ignoring his weak struggles. Bella couldn't think how to reach him. What would bring a man like Dumbledore back to himself? "Professor Dumbledore," she said reluctantly. "Headmaster!"

"She's waiting for me."

"I don't care!" Bella slapped him across the face with the back of her wand hand, but it didn't stop his eerie chant. "It's the ring! The thing we came to destroy, which you refused to discuss!" She glared at him. "And wasn't that a good idea?" She sighed, leaned a little closer so her breath stirred stray hairs from Dumbledore's beard. "Remember the Dark Lord. Remember...oh, Merlin." Bella looked around the room, shook her head at her own idiocy. The Dark Lord wasn't lurking in this room, and if any wards were active she wouldn't see them. She went on tiptoe to whisper into Dumbledore's ear. "Remember Voldemort."

"Voldemort?" he echoed, breaking his chant. He frowned down at her, confusion creeping into his hollow gaze.

"Yes, V-Voldemort," Bella said. She frowned at her stutter, said it again. "Voldemort. Remember him?" The name of an enemy had done something, but not roused his mind to action. She needed something else. "And your teenaged saviour, Harry Potter. That madman Moody. Shacklebolt. The mangy werewolf Lupin. Do you remember them?"

"I remember," he said, and there was something other than hopelessness in his voice. "I remember...there is more..." He fell silent for a long moment and Bella held her breath. "There is more for me to do," he finished.

Dumbledore shook his head slowly, blinked. His gaze sharpened. He drew back from Bella, glancing from his wand in her hand to her face and back.

"Ah," he said, more exhalation than exclamation. "Thank you, Bella. I had not..." Another period of silence, Bella still trembling with adrenaline and Dumbledore recovering. "Give me back my wand," he said at last. Bella handed it over before the Vow forced her, and Dumbledore nodded. "Now. Fiendfyre. I will summon and direct it, while you keep it contained. If it escapes our control, hover me out the trapdoor and I will summon you to me."

"Can you do this?" Bell said sceptically. "This thing just got inside your head and made you cry."

Dumbledore touched his cheek, blinked at the salty dampness he found there. "I am prepared now. You were lucky, Bella. Ignorance is strength in this case."

"I don't believe that," she said sharply. "You have more dead people to see than I do, that's all."

"Hm." Dumbledore did not respond to that. "Move to the other side of the stand."

Bella and Dumbledore stood facing each other, the plinth between them. She kept half an eye on Dumbledore, but either the enchantment was inactive now or he was better prepared this time. He flicked his wand in a triangle and slashed a line through it, saying nothing; unlike most of the powerful Dark spells Fiendfyre could be summoned without an incantation. Controlling it once it arrived was another matter.

A bead of white flame appeared just over the plinth, so bright Bella couldn't look directly at it. She kept her wand and her will ready. The white light exploded out into a whirl of orange-red fire that tore at the air, snapping and retreating in a blur of claws, fangs and beaks. Bella concentrated and focused her will, curling the cursed fire in on itself until it was about the size of a Quaffle. It crackled sullenly. Bella saw Dumbledore's wand move out of the corner of her eye, and the ball of Fiendfyre lowered to the plinth to envelop the ring.

There was a sound, a shriek that started low and swept into the upper registers, piercing and inhuman; Bella had tortured, and been tortured, and she had never heard the like. A dark mist rose from the plinth, and was consumed by the Fiendfyre.

"Put it out," said Dumbledore, and he and Bella bore down on the fire. As if it sensed its dismissal approaching, it roared up in a sheet of orange light that almost reached the trapdoor. There were faces in the flame. Wolves snarled, eagles glared, semi-human faces mouthed curses. Bella tried to clear her mind and eradicate the desire to destroy, but she wanted to destroy. No. She needed Dumbledore. She pictured him alive, testifying on her behalf, Potter too; the boy was saying how useful she'd been – not, not useful, essential. She saw herself walking out into sunlight, hugging Cissy, kissing Andy on the cheek-

"Well done, Bella," said Dumbledore. He sounded exhausted, which made Bella feel a little better about her sweaty face and pounding headache. "Harry was right. I could not have managed alone..." He ran a hand over his face.

Bella frowned at the plinth. The stone was scorched and part-melted, but the ring with its dark stone was unharmed. Dumbledore didn't seem worried, so it was that dark mist that they had come to destroy rather than the ring itself.

"Is it safe to touch?" she asked.

"You may keep it," Dumbledore said with an odd little smile. As Bella picked up the ring, he bent over and scraped a handful of dirt from the floor of the room. Poking it with his wand, he murmured an incantation and was holding a copy of the ring. He repaired and cleaned the plinth, then set the false ring on top in exactly the same orientation as the original.

"Why does...he...value this so much?" said Bella, peering down at the ring in her hand. "This looks like a pebble, and a cracked pebble at that."

"It belonged to his grandfather," said Dumbledore. He was still breathing heavily, and stood a little hunched over, seeming to welcome the rest before they left.

"But why destroy it?" said Bella, even as she gave the ring a little smile. It belonged to a real Slytherin again, not a false and faithless Lord. "What do you care about his heirlooms?"

"Voldemort draws strength from certain objects, in a way I do not care to explain," said Dumbledore. "This ring is one. The cup in your vault is another." He took a slow breath and stood a little straighter. "You will not mention these objects to anyone, save on my order. Now, shall we go?" As if they were visiting a famous wizard's grave, or touring a castle. Bella shook her head, and slid the ring onto her middle finger.

"Now you belong to a proper pureblood," she murmured to it.

Dumbledore chuckled. "I'm sure it is glad to hear it. Now let us depart."

Out in the lane, Bella ran her eyes over the mouldering shack one last time.

"Why here?" she said, not quite expecting an answer.

"It was where his mother's family lived," said Dumbledore. "He could not escape his legacy, so he mastered it." There was disgust and regret in his voice. "Enough memories." He took Bella's arm and with a sickening twist of reality they were back in the entrance hall of Grimmauld Place.

- \ * / -

Harry was sitting on the kitchen table watching the tea service dry itself under Kreacher's direction. The familiar krak of apparition echoed from the hall, and Harry stood up and went out, hoping that Dumbledore – and Black, he supposed – was all right. Both of them were tired and sweaty, but Bella gave Harry her savage smile and held out her left hand to display a new ring.

"A souvenir, Potter. Suits my colouring, doesn't it?"

"It's very Black," said Harry. The ring actually did suit her. "Is it safe, sir?"

"One down, Harry," said Dumbledore with a smile. "We succeeded, and now the ring is...no more than you make of it, I suppose. I must return to Hogwarts. Ah." He smiled at Harry and turned to Bella. "You may use magic directed against Harry, but only for the purpose of teaching him to defend himself. You may not use anything that causes permanent damage."

"Such trust, professor," said Bella.

"I trust that you understand my expectations of you." He nodded to Harry, then strode past him into the living room and vanished in the crackle of the Floo.

"Have a brandy, Black," said Harry. "You look horrible." And he went up to bed.

- \ * \ * \ -

A/N: Wait as long as you want, but you won't get one, one update, ah ah ah!

There is a reason Dumbledore didn't use Gryffindor's sword.