Hogwarts: Third Dark Lord

As Wentworth hovered the diadem above the ghostly blue flames, a flicker of fear flashed across Ron's face. He muttered:

"Why did I just say you couldn't destroy it? I don't even recognize what you're holding... so why... why does it make my heart race with dread?"

"That crown in your hand—it feels important to me somehow! But… what is it? Why can't I remember?!"

While Ron stood there in confusion, Harry had already taken up the Sword of Gryffindor and approached the massive Basilisk.

But the moment Harry drew near, despite its eyes being tightly shut, the Basilisk suddenly lunged toward him. With a swift raise of its head, it struck out.

"Harry, the sound—it's your voice!" Wentworth called out urgently. "It may not be able to see you, but it can still hear you!"

As Harry fought the Basilisk, Ron's dazed expression suddenly shifted. One moment, he looked lost in thought; the next, his face twisted into something dark and menacing.

"Wentworth?" he said in a cold voice. "I don't know how you found Rowena Ravenclaw's diadem, but it won't matter. You can't threaten me. In just a few minutes, I'll be reborn through this boy's body—and by then, that relic will be worthless to me."

"And when that happens, all of you… will die."

Wentworth gave a cold chuckle as he stared into Ron's twisted expression.

"Tom Riddle, you really think you've scared me? In that case, I think it's time to torch this little treasure of yours."

With that, Wentworth moved the diadem closer to the ghostly flame.

As the artifact edged toward the fire, Ron's dark expression began to contort in pain and panic.

Seeing this, Wentworth's lips curled into a smile.

"How does it feel, Tom Riddle? To have a piece of your soul burning before your very eyes?"

But before he could finish speaking, Ron's expression changed again—his face now blank and vacant. He stared dumbly at the diadem in Wentworth's hand and said:

"Wentworth… I think I was dreaming. A long dream… and in it… the diadem in your hand… it became me…"

Wentworth frowned, puzzled for a moment—until realization dawned on him.

"So… he's hiding in the deepest part of Ron's soul… to dull the pain?"

Then, his voice hardened with frustration.

"Ron Weasley, you utter coward. Even your sister has more backbone than you. Can't you fight back? Force that other soul out of your body!"

Ron, unfazed by the insult, responded calmly:

"Force it out? Why would I do that? That is me."

"And you, Wentworth… who are you to lecture me? I'll admit—you're powerful. But that's only because the professors and the Headmaster gave you special treatment. Especially Professor Dumbledore—everyone knows he favors you."

"Why should you get that kind of privilege? Why should you be the one he took to see the Quidditch World Cup Final? Why should you be on the front page of every newspaper? Why not me?!"

Wentworth stared at Ron's furious expression… and suddenly, he laughed.

"Well, now I see why Tom Riddle had such an easy time with you, you idiot."

Before Ron could retort, a deafening BANG erupted from the other side of the Chamber.

Everyone turned instinctively toward the sound. Harry was slumped against the stone statue, soaked in sweat. One of his arms was caught inside the Basilisk's gaping jaws.

"Harry!"

Ron cried out in panic, but immediately clutched his forehead in pain, his face twisting in agony.

Nearby, Kirk looked anxiously toward the scene.

"This can't be good," he muttered. "If Harry Potter loses an arm down here, do you think Dumbledore's going to pin it on us?"

But before anyone could respond, Harry let out a roar and heaved his arm free from the Basilisk's mouth.

Clutched in his bleeding hand was the Sword of Gryffindor—its blade dripping with blood—and embedded in his arm, a massive venomous fang, just as soaked in red.

Seeing that Harry had managed to save his arm, Wentworth, Kirk, and Cedric all breathed a sigh of relief.

Then, gritting his teeth, Harry yanked the fang from his arm and let both it and the sword clatter to the floor.

Clutching his bleeding wound, Harry stumbled toward Ron.

Cedric moved to stop him, but Wentworth raised a hand and held him back. Without taking his eyes off Harry, he spoke:

"Harry, unless you can get that diary back from Ron, don't blame me if I stop holding back. I'll have no choice but to destroy them both—Ron and Voldemort—before he's fully reborn."

Realizing how cold that sounded, Wentworth added:

"Of course… if Voldemort does return using Ron's body, Ron's as good as dead anyway. If he has to die, I'd rather it not be in service of the Dark Lord. I hope you understand."

As he spoke, Wentworth walked over to the Basilisk, casually picked up the venomous fang, and climbed onto the corpse, now slumped like a mountain. He perched atop its head, staring down at Harry.

Harry faltered, clearly shaken by the words. But when Wentworth finished, he gave a heavy nod—silent, grim acceptance.

Blood dripping from his arm, Harry pressed forward, step by painful step, toward Ron.

Cedric and Kirk moved to stand beside Wentworth. Cedric murmured:

"Are we really going to…"

But before he could finish, Wentworth cut him off with a wave of his hand, eyes locked on Ron and Harry.

"Cedric, save your bleeding heart. If Voldemort comes back, Ron won't be the only one who dies."

Kirk, far less sentimental, was already aiming his wand discreetly at Ron.

"Wentworth," he said softly, "Just say the word—when do we strike?"

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