Albus Dumbledore stared at the black stone set in the simple gold ring, his hand trembling. For a century, this had been his darkest secret, his most profound yearning. The chance to see the true her, to speak to her, to beg for a forgiveness he knew he did not deserve. He had almost sacrificed himself, his mission, everything, for this single, selfish desire. And now, this extraordinary girl with the same face was offering it to him freely, not as a temptation, but as a tool for healing.
He took a deep, shuddering breath. He looked from the stone to the living Ariana, whose calm, empathetic eyes held no judgment, only understanding. Then, he looked at Snape, who still stood guard, his face a rigid mask of conflicting emotions.
Slowly, Dumbledore slipped the ring onto his finger and turned it once in his hand.
The air grew still. A figure began to coalesce from the dusty shadows of the shack. It was not a ghost, transparent and shimmering, but something more solid, more real, like a memory given form. It was a young girl with long, honey-blonde hair and kind, gentle eyes that held a deep, lingering sadness. It was the first Ariana Dumbledore.
She looked at her brother, not with anger or accusation, but with a sorrowful love.
"Albus," she whispered, her voice like the rustle of autumn leaves. "You have carried this for so long."
Tears streamed freely down Dumbledore's face. He was no longer the great Headmaster, the powerful wizard. He was just a boy, facing the ghost of the sister he had failed. "Ariana," he choked out, his voice thick with a century of guilt. "I am so sorry. For everything. For my pride, my ambition… for what happened."
"It was not your fault, Albus," she said gently. "It was a storm of anger and fear. We were all lost in it." Her spectral eyes then shifted, moving past her brother to look at the living girl who wore her face. She looked at the new Ariana, and her expression was one of profound, quiet gratitude. "You are so strong," she whispered. "You carry our name not as a burden, but as a shield. Thank you… for being the light I could not be."
The living Ariana simply inclined her head, eyes closed, a silent acknowledgement passing between the two souls who shared a face and a name but had walked two vastly different paths.
Dumbledore spoke with his sister for a long time, his words a torrent of confession and regret, hers a soft balm of forgiveness and peace. Finally, with a last, sorrowful smile, she began to fade. "Let me go, Albus," she whispered. "It is time for all of us to be at peace."
With a final, heartbroken sob, Dumbledore turned the stone again, and his sister vanished, leaving him weeping but, for the first time in a hundred years, unburdened.
He slowly, painfully, pulled the ring from his finger. He looked at it, no longer with desperate yearning, but with a weary, newfound wisdom. He held it out to Ariana. "It should be destroyed. Its lure is too great."
Ariana looked at the ring, at the Resurrection Stone. She saw not a dangerous temptation, but a tool. A tool that had just healed one profound wound. And she knew there was another, just as deep, standing in the same room.
She did take the ring, but did not keep it. Instead, she turned to Snape.
He was staring at the spot where the spirit had vanished, his face a mask of utter shock. He had just witnessed a miracle, a conversation with the dead.
"Professor Snape," Ariana said, her voice soft.
He flinched, his black eyes snapping to her.
"The stone does not only call back family," she said gently. "It calls back those whom the user loved most deeply. Those with whom they have a powerful, unresolved connection." She nodded towards the ring in Dumbledore's hand. "I believe there is someone who would wish to speak with you."
Snape stared at her, his mind struggling to comprehend. He looked at the ring, and a lifetime of carefully constructed walls, of bitterness and bile and self-loathing, began to tremble.
"That is… foolish sentimentality," he hissed, but his voice lacked its usual cutting force. It was brittle, fragile.
"Perhaps," Ariana conceded. "But I believe the opportunity for a final conversation is a logical prerequisite for true emotional closure."
Dumbledore, his own face now calm and clear, understood at once. He walked over to Snape and held out the ring. "Severus," he said, his voice full of a gentle compassion Snape had never heard from him before. "She would want to see you."
Snape's hands were shaking. He looked from Dumbledore's kind eyes to Ariana's steady, knowing gaze. He felt cornered, not by a threat, but by an act of profound, unexpected grace. After a long, agonizing moment, he took the ring.
His fingers trembled as he turned it once.
And there she was.
Standing before him, just as he remembered her from that last, terrible day, was Lily Evans. Her dark red hair shimmered, and her brilliant green eyes, the eyes he saw every day in the boy he tormented, were filled not with anger, but with a deep, sorrowful understanding.
"Severus," she said, her voice a perfect echo in his memory.
All the air left Snape's lungs. The cold, sarcastic Potions Master, the feared Head of Slytherin, the man who had built a fortress around his heart, completely shattered. A raw, animal sound of pure, undiluted grief tore from his throat, and he fell to his knees.
"Lily," he sobbed, the single word containing a lifetime of regret. "I'm sorry. I am so, so sorry."
"I know, Sev," she said softly. "I always knew." Her spectral form knelt before him, her hand hovering near his face. "I forgive you."
"You shouldn't," he choked out. "I did this. I led him to you."
"You made a terrible mistake," she said, her voice firm but gentle. "But you have spent every day since trying to atone for it. You have protected my son. Even in your own cruel way, you have kept him safe. That is enough." She looked at him, her green eyes full of a final, earnest plea. "Let go of the hate, Sev. For me. Let it go. And look after him. Truly look after him. He needs you."
Her gaze then shifted to Ariana, who was watching from a respectful distance. A warm, grateful smile lit her face. "And you," Lily's spirit said, her voice echoing in Ariana's mind as well as Snape's. "The girl who became his shield. Thank you for caring for my son. Thank you for being the friend he needed."
With a final, radiant smile, she began to fade. "Be happy, Sev," she whispered, and then she was gone.
Snape remained kneeling on the floor, his body wracked with silent, cleansing sobs. Dumbledore and Ariana stood in silence, allowing him his moment of private grief and absolution.
When he finally rose, he was a different man. The bitterness that had defined him for over a decade was gone, washed away by a tide of forgiveness. His face was still stern, his demeanor still severe, but the deep, soul-deep poison had been drawn.
He handed the ring back to Ariana, his hand steady. "Thank you," he said, his voice hoarse. It was not clear to whom he was speaking—Dumbledore, Ariana, or the ghost of the woman he had loved. It didn't matter.
Ariana knew, in that moment, that she had done more than just destroy a Horcrux. She had healed the deepest wounds of the two most powerful men who would stand against Voldemort. She had mended the cracks in their own souls. And in doing so, she had just made their alliance, and their chances of winning the coming war, infinitely stronger.