Harry Potter and the Secret Treasures - H.P.S.T Chapter 1632: The Destroyed Cup

“He was torturing someone…” Harry gasped, struggling to draw in more fresh air.

“Who was it?”

“I don’t know, I couldn’t see clearly!” said Harry, forcing himself to recall the scene he’d just witnessed.

A huge wave of fear rose in him again; unease filled his chest. The trembling figure in the dark corner seemed to be…

Harry shook his head hard, then stubbornly repeated, “I don’t know, I couldn’t see clearly!”

“Alright, whoever that poor soul is, it doesn’t concern our plan,” said Evan. He suspected the person Voldemort was torturing might be Ollivander or Gregorovitch. Though he pitied them, there was nothing he could do now. After a moment’s thought, he went on, “Let’s go back.”

They needed a quiet place to decipher the secrets of the Slytherin family deed and Hufflepuff’s cup.

“Any news about Ron?” Harry suddenly asked.

“No!” Evan looked at him strangely.

Why bring up Ron all of a sudden?!

They had just escaped from Gringotts and hadn’t seen anyone. How could there possibly be any news about Ron?

“You’re confused, Harry! We haven’t seen Sirius yet!” said Hermione.

“Oh… I must have mixed up the timing,” said Harry, pressing his scar hard, his voice unconvincing.

But he hadn’t mixed up anything, and that wasn’t what was worrying him. What truly unsettled him was the shadow he had seen when he’d entered Voldemort’s mind.

He had a feeling — a dreadful, chilling feeling — that the figure trembling in the darkness was Ron!

Even with the deep darkness obscuring his vision, Harry still felt that the person before him was somehow familiar — a familiarity like the kind he felt every night in the dormitory, when he looked across the aisle at the figure lying in the four-poster bed beside his own.

Yes, Harry was very familiar with that silhouette. He and Ron had been roommates for six years.

Every night for six years, all he had to do was turn his head to see that familiar shape.

No one was more familiar with Ron’s figure in the darkness than he was, not even the Weasleys. But in that damp, moldy room, cloaked in deeper darkness, that familiarity had begun to blur into something unreal.

As time went by, Harry became less certain.

Voldemort couldn’t possibly have captured Ron… could he?

And even if he had, why would he interrogate him personally?

It made no sense. Voldemort wouldn’t waste time on that. Besides, Harry still remembered Voldemort’s emotions from that vision. Though he’d gotten no useful information, he hadn’t been angry. In fact, there had been a faint trace of pleasure.

That was utterly strange. If Ron couldn’t reveal the whereabouts of Evan and Harry, why would Voldemort be so pleased?

“Well, I just hope the Order has already found Ron,” said Hermione anxiously. “Poor Ron, he must be all alone now…”

Hermione’s voice echoed faintly in Harry’s ears, but the unease inside him only grew stronger. He kept telling himself over and over not to think too much about it.

“He might be hiding, too scared, somewhere the Order and the Death Eaters can’t find him.”

“That’s possible. Ron’s actually quite smart. He’ll know how to take care of himself. Are you sure you’re alright, Harry?” Evan pressed, noticing something was off about Harry.

“I’m fine,” said Harry quickly, a bit flustered. He glanced around. “Where’s the dragon?”

“It flew away. It’ll keep flying south, probably across the Channel. The Death Eaters will have a hard time catching up to it. Hopefully, they’ll think we’re still on its back — if they’re stupid enough, that is,” said Evan, pulling Harry to his feet. “Come on, Harry, hold on a little longer. This place isn’t safe. We’d better go back quickly…”

A few seconds later, the four of them reappeared inside the familiar, crumbling old house, Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.   

The house was exactly as they’d left it that morning. Kreacher shuffled toward them, holding a pair of slippers. There was no sign of Sirius.

That meant the Order hadn’t found Ron yet, and the realization cast a shadow over all four of them.

In an eerie, unspoken agreement, no one mentioned Ron.

In the kitchen, flames flickered tenaciously in the grate, their glow reflecting off the cold stone walls and creating a faint illusion of warmth.

The four of them gathered around the small round table. Kreacher brought dinner, while Evan laid out the Slytherin family deed and Hufflepuff’s golden cup.

Alongside them lay the basilisk fang. This cup was one of Voldemort’s Horcruxes and needed to be dealt with.

Evan lifted the cup carefully, cautiously examining the patterns.

“House-elf craftsmanship…”

It wasn’t as crude as one might have imagined; the cup was exquisitely crafted.

The badger was carved with exquisite lifelike precision, and the intricate and delicate patterns on the cup were a delight to the eye.

Crafting a golden cup like this would require immense effort, not just for a house-elf, but even for a skilled wizard.

Evan’s fingers brushed across the engraved Hufflepuff badger. A second later, the badger stirred, turning its head toward Evan. Then, Evan heard a voice speak in his mind: Tom Riddle’s voice.

It was identical to the one he’d heard in Dumbledore’s Pensieve, the voice belonging to a young Tom Riddle.

Riddle’s tone was gentle, polite, and courteous, almost charming, as he introduced himself to Evan. Compared to the soul fragment inside Slytherin’s locket that had directly tempted Evan, the Riddle in the cup was a significant improvement. He was more charming and alluring, but still, it was the same formula, the same flavor, the same trick.

After destroying so many Horcruxes, Evan had grown weary of Voldemort’s.

“You haven’t improved, Tom!” he whispered.

A second later, he grabbed the basilisk’s fang from the table and stabbed it fiercely into the cup.

The fang pierced the badger on the golden cup, and a burst of black smoke emerged. The badger on the cup was quickly corroded.

A sharp and piercing scream rang out from the golden cup, and a human face made of magic, with a ferocious expression, emerged from the place where Evan had pierced it. It wailed and rushed directly toward Evan.

Tom Riddle’s face passed through Evan’s body and dissipated into the air.

“Good, that’s one more Horcrux destroyed; and we’re a step closer to victory,” said Evan calmly. He drew his wand and tapped the golden cup lightly, “Reparo!”

Before their eyes, the cup swiftly mended itself, the metal knitting back together until it looked exactly as it had before.

Translating_Wizard

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