"Caught it! Harry's got the Snitch!"
Lee Jordan's voice, amplified as if by a Sonorus Charm, echoed across the Quidditch pitch, making the stands rumble.
"Match over! Gryffindor wins!"
Malfoy's hand froze mid-air, his expression shifting from eager anticipation to utter disbelief.
His face flushed red, and he yanked his broom handle sharply, nearly tumbling off as he muttered something incoherent, drowned out by the roar of Gryffindor's cheers.
Harry clutched the Snitch tightly, steadying himself on his Firebolt with his other hand.
He raised the hand holding the Snitch high, golden glints shimmering through his fingers.
The Gryffindor stands erupted like a cauldron boiling over—screams, whistles, and stomping feet threatening to shake the wooden bleachers apart.
Ron was at the front, practically dangling over the railing, his voice hoarse from shouting, tears welling in his eyes.
In the staff section, Professor McGonagall sat up straighter, her face lit with rare excitement, even brushing a tear from her eye.
The Slytherin stands were deathly silent.
A few reluctant grumbles rose but were quickly swallowed by the tidal wave of Gryffindor cheers.
The entire pitch vibrated with celebration.
Dillon watched the match's end.
Slipping away from the raucous crowd, he headed back to the dormitory.
Without wasting a moment, he went straight to his bedside, opened what looked like an ordinary suitcase, and slipped inside.
The moment he entered, Dillon Apparated to Ravenclaw's palace.
There, a carefully arranged space awaited, its centerpiece a large, polished workbench scattered with odd-shaped metal tools and vials of colorful potions.
At the center of the table lay Ravenclaw's Diadem.
Its ancient metal surface seemed to hold a faint, lingering shadow.
Dillon stood before the workbench, his gaze fixed intently on the Diadem.
He slowly raised his wand, its tip aimed at the ancient relic, and murmured, "Let's see how this works."
He hadn't spent all his time recently just binge-watching dramas.
Grindelwald and Dumbledore—two of the wizarding world's greatest minds.
Their youthful experiences, especially those tied to magical research, held immense academic value.
What he was about to attempt was a spell inspired by Grindelwald's early years.
But just then, a head popped out of the Diadem.
"Wait! What are you doing? I already told that woman everything I know, like you asked!"
Dillon gave a slight smile. "Nothing much. Just testing a spell. You wouldn't mind, would you?"
His expression could almost be called kind, but to the Riddle in the Diadem, it was more terrifying than a devil's grin.
Riddle gritted his teeth but didn't dare argue.
He silently retreated back into the Diadem.
Dillon steadied his wrist, a dark red glow gathering at his wand's tip.
With a clear incantation, he said, "*Soul Split!*"
The red light shot precisely into Ravenclaw's Diadem.
Inside, the soul fragment—already weakened from countless Cruciatus Curses—tore apart the moment the red light hit, splitting into two.
Each half was more fragile than the original, their edges trembling as if on the verge of dissolving completely.
The magical bond between the Horcrux and its soul fragment couldn't split in two.
Like a living thing, it instinctively clung to one of the fragments, maintaining its connection.
But in the moment of splitting and as the invisible force nudged the halves apart, the bond showed faint signs of wear.
As the connection stabilized on one fragment, the other—already near breaking—lost all its anchors, floating aimlessly within the Diadem, radiating weak, chaotic pulses.
Seeing this, Dillon's eyes lit up with excitement.
He swiftly waved his wand, casting another spell: "*Imperio!*"
An invisible force enveloped the stray soul fragment, gently collecting it.
Guiding it with precision, he directed the fragment toward a glass container in the corner of the workbench.
Inside, a cockroach crawled slowly.
Under the Imperius Curse's guidance, the soul fragment found a new host, seeping into the cockroach.
The insect paused briefly before resuming its crawl, its eyes glinting with an almost imperceptible strangeness.
Dillon lowered his wand, observing the scene, and muttered to himself, "Of course, the solution lies with the source. Why didn't I think of this sooner?"
He paused, then added, "But when it comes to dark magic, Durmstrang really is a cut above. To think they'd have manuscripts from someone as ancient as Herpo the Foul. Impressive."
The soul-splitting spell he'd used came from a manuscript Grindelwald had acquired at Durmstrang.
Its original owner? Herpo the Foul.
According to the manuscript, the spell was one of Herpo's creations during his experiments with splitting souls to create Horcruxes—a byproduct of his many failures and attempts.
Dillon had wondered if a spell born from Herpo's Horcrux research might affect a Horcrux directly.
A dark wizard like Herpo would likely have prepared countermeasures in case his Horcrux method fell into the wrong hands.
The results were now clear.
Even if it wasn't certain whether the spell could fully counter a Horcrux, it could at least affect the soul fragment within it—and that was enough.
Dillon tapped his wand lightly on the workbench's edge.
The cockroach, now carrying Voldemort's soul fragment, crawled out of the glass container under the Imperius Curse's influence, scuttling to the edge of the Diadem.
It stopped there, joining Dillon in staring at the shimmering silver relic.
"Now, Tom, it's time to say goodbye to this Diadem," Dillon said calmly.
"No, wait! You can't—"
In a small cabin, the soul fragment of Riddle in the diary suddenly shuddered.
He emerged slowly, glancing around warily.
The room was quiet, save for the rustling of leaves in the evening breeze outside.
He paused, sensing nothing unusual.
"Strange… what's this uneasy feeling?" he muttered.
After a moment of silence, he looked at the diary.
The Diadem was gone.
Ravenclaw had taken it earlier that day.
Riddle had no idea where it was now.
But it wasn't his concern.
With a flicker, he retreated back into the diary.
Meanwhile, in Ravenclaw's palace laboratory, Dillon raised his wand again, dark red light gathering at its tip.
"*Soul Split!*"
"*Soul Split!*"
"*Soul Split!*"
The spells rained down one after another.
The red light struck the Diadem like relentless drops of rain.
Inside, Voldemort's soul fragment was torn apart and separated time and again.
The stray fragments, severed from the magical bond, were guided by Dillon's wand into the cockroach's body.
"Damn it! You can't just use me up and toss me into this filthy creature—no!!!"
The soul in the Diadem, now impossibly weak, clung to its last breath, letting out a final, desperate scream.
But all it got in response was another crimson flash.
The Horcrux's resilience far exceeded Dillon's expectations.
Souls weren't like physical matter.
Even when split repeatedly, they persisted, like something infinitely divisible.
Though weakened to the point of fragility, barely able to withstand any disturbance, the soul fragment held its form, sustained by the Horcrux's magic, like a candle flickering in the wind.
But the magic sustaining it wasn't as inexhaustible as the soul itself.
Each split, each separation, wore down the bond between the soul and the Diadem.
Dillon's movements were relentless, his spells steady as a metronome.
His eyes stayed focused, watching the faint shadow on the Diadem grow thinner and fainter with each red flash.
Time passed silently in the rhythm of his incantations, until one afternoon.
The sunlight was especially bright, streaming through the dormitory window and casting dappled shadows on the floor.
Inside the suitcase, as another "Soul Split" landed, the last trace of shadow on the Diadem vanished.
The bond between Voldemort's soul fragment and the Diadem finally broke completely.
Dillon could almost hear a silent wail explode in his mind.
Of course, it was just his imagination—the soul fragment's final struggle as it dissipated.
Using Legilimency, he scoured the remaining fragment for any useful memories, confirming it held no further value.
Then he stopped.
As for the Voldemort soul fragments now in the cockroach, Dillon glanced at them.
They could be left for the diary's Riddle to absorb.
Whether it was their vitality or something else, they should serve some final purpose.
No sense wasting so many soul fragments, even if they were weak.
The first cockroach, at least, seemed to retain some independent will, screeching like mad every day.
Dillon had never heard a cockroach roar before.
The later fragments he'd split and fused were barely recognizable as Voldemort's soul anymore.
He lifted the Diadem gently.
Without the Horcrux's magic, it returned to its original state.
No longer radiating that eerie allure that tempted people to wear it.
Time had left its marks—dull patches and faint wear along the edges.
But the gems embedded in it still sparkled, catching the sunlight filtering through the window and casting soft, radiant glimmers.
"Should I restore it? Maybe polish it to bring back some shine?" Dillon's fingers brushed the dulled metal surface.
He dismissed the thought quickly.
He recalled the Muggle principle of artifact restoration: "repair as it was."
Preserving the marks of time was key.
The Diadem wasn't meant to be worn anyway—no need to alter its current state.
Besides, items like the Diadem carried a deeply personal significance, typically passed down within families, unlike Gryffindor's sword, which remained at Hogwarts as a house symbol.
So far, only its creator, Rowena Ravenclaw, and the Ravenclaw house ghost, the Grey Lady, had any claim to wearing it.
And the Grey Lady had no descendants.
In that sense, the Diadem was purely a historical relic, best left as it was.
Plus, Dillon didn't mind if people noticed its minor wear when he wore it.
That's right—he'd never planned to leave Riddle's soul in the Diadem.
After all, he intended to wear it himself.
Keeping Voldemort's soul inside? Who knew if it might try something sneaky?
Even if it couldn't succeed, it would still be a hassle.
Better to destroy it outright.
There was still the diary, not to mention several other Horcruxes.
One less Diadem wouldn't matter.
But the word "artifact" sparked a sudden thought.
What if, one day, the Death Eaters went wild and stormed the British Museum, causing a massive loss of precious artifacts?
Given their chaotic nature, it didn't seem entirely implausible.
Huh.
Now that he thought about it, letting Voldemort focus solely on Hogwarts and nibbling at the Ministry's soul supply felt like a waste.
If his influence spread to other countries, it could stir up more chaos, maybe even divert attention…
Dillon sucked in a breath, quickly cutting off the thought.
Greed could lead to overreach, and an out-of-control situation might backfire.
Better to keep things contained around Britain for now.
He was already planning to hunt down some Death Eaters over the summer.
Once his experiments were done, they could be put to use—let them contribute some "residual heat."
His mind wandered again.
If he could donate a trove of artifacts, could that earn him an invitation to a state banquet?
Now that would be something to taste.