Melvin stared at the murky liquid in the cup. As he withdrew his hands, ceasing the flow of magic, the pewter-gray surface quickly dulled, like oxidized metal. A complex stench, laced with a faint, sickly sweet tang, filled the air. He didn't need to taste it to know it was deadly poison.
His eyes lingered on the mysterious liquid in the Hufflepuff Cup, his thoughts racing to make sense of it.
The Hufflepuff Cup responded to pure, radiant magic, transforming clear water into a milky-white liquid with healing properties. But beyond Helga Hufflepuff's magic, something darker lurked within—a fragment of Voldemort's soul, tainted by malevolent energy.
The liquid it produced was corrupted by this foreign magic. Melvin wasn't sure if it was the will of Voldemort's soul fragment or damage from the Horcrux creation process, but it rendered the cup unusable for its intended purpose.
"Hiss…" Yulm, the young snake coiled on the table, nudged its head forward in a comforting gesture.
"It's alright," Melvin said, gently stroking the snake's smooth scales. "At least we've figured out how the cup is supposed to work. Now we just need to find a way to cleanse it of that contamination."
He observed the cup and the liquid closely, waiting in silence. There were no further changes. It seemed Voldemort had no intention of revealing himself.
Melvin tapped the cup with a finger, channeling a surge of magic and incantations.
"Aparecium!"
"Revelio!"
Ripples spread across the liquid's surface, and tiny bubbles rose from the bottom. The foul odor grew stronger, but that was all. No black mist with glowing red eyes emerged. No sinister face appeared on the cup's surface. The artifact remained unchanged.
Melvin sank back into his chair, frowning, lost in thought.
It had been days since he retrieved the cup from Gringotts' underground vaults and returned to Hogwarts. If the fragment of Voldemort's soul inside the cup could sense the outside world, even the most cautious soul would have grown restless by now. It should have tried to contact him, to manipulate or deceive him in an attempt to resurrect or cause chaos.
But Voldemort hadn't shown himself. Not because he didn't want to, Melvin thought, but because he couldn't.
The method of communication must be wrong.
Melvin grabbed a glass vial and poured out the toxic liquid. Opening the window, he conjured a gust of wind to clear the room of the foul smell. After cleaning the cup thoroughly, he held it in his hands, pondering how to connect with it.
"Hey? Anyone there? Can you hear me? This is Hogwarts," Melvin said, speaking into the cup's base before pressing his ear to it, hoping to catch some magical response, as if the cup were a seashell.
Silence.
A faint echo of his own voice bounced back, dulled by the metal's vibrations. There was no eerie whisper to drive him mad—just his own voice, alone.
After a moment's thought, Melvin tore a few sheets of parchment into scraps, tossed them into the cup, and set them alight. He watched the rising smoke with anticipation.
Centaur tribes and African wizards used similar divination methods, burning specific herbs or wood and interpreting the shapes of the smoke or the direction of the sparks. Egyptian priests would throw spices into fires, claiming the smoke could reveal lingering spirits. The Divination classroom in the North Tower was always thick with the choking scent of incense, which Melvin found overwhelming every time he passed by.
Gray smoke curled upward, carrying a faint charred smell and forming odd shapes—but none revealed his long-lost pen pal.
Yulm tilted its head, watching curiously. For the next half hour, it observed as Melvin poured ink, juice, champagne, and even milk into the cup. He even tried Veritaserum, but the liquid's surface never reflected a noseless face.
Melvin slumped back in his chair, sighing. "It can't be human blood, can it?"
…
Monday Morning
The day's classes were light, and Dumbledore made a rare appearance at breakfast, sitting with the other professors at the high table, swapping stories about recent school events.
Professor McGonagall, however, didn't join in. She listened quietly, spreading jam on her toast with a blank expression. After taking a bite and swallowing, she couldn't hold back any longer. Turning to the white-bearded headmaster, she said, "Albus, could you please consult me before approving any extra school expenses?"
Dumbledore, in the middle of a terrible joke, paused at her complaint. After a moment's thought, he asked, "Are you referring to the house-elves' wages?"
"I'm not against paying the house-elves," McGonagall said, "but you need to inform me first. Otherwise, the financial reports won't balance. By the end of the term, the Board of Governors will be nitpicking again."
"My deepest apologies, Minerva…" Dumbledore said, the esteemed headmaster of Hogwarts showing not a hint of defiance.
Melvin kept quiet, overhearing the trouble he'd caused. He turned away, hoping to avoid McGonagall's ire.
But he bumped right into Professor Sprout, who was also grumbling. "The last time you visited Ravenclaw's common room, they wouldn't let you in, and you left them a philosophical riddle. But when Hufflepuff invited you to lunch and showed you the orchards, you just left without leaving anything behind."
Professor Flitwick smirked, clearly enjoying the show.
Melvin couldn't argue. He promised to make it up next time, his tone and expression oddly reminiscent of Dumbledore's.
The professors finished breakfast amid laughter and chatter, then headed to their classrooms. Melvin seized the moment to catch Snape, pulling a glass vial from his pocket and holding it out. "Professor Snape, I came across this potion over the weekend. I'm not sure what it does—it's pretty mysterious. Could you take a look at it for me?"
Snape eyed the vial. The gray-black liquid inside gave off an unsettling vibe. He frowned. While potions weren't judged by color alone, this one screamed dangerous—likely a toxic brew. And it was unlike any potion he'd ever seen or read about.
"If it's too much trouble, I can ask Madam Pomfrey at the hospital wing," Melvin added.
Snape took the vial, his face cold and expressionless. "I'll analyze it. No set timeline. I'll let you know when I have results."
Melvin watched him walk away, shaking his head. Before he could reflect further, Dumbledore's voice came from beside him. "Severus is a dedicated Potions professor."
"I think so too," Melvin replied, unfazed, as he walked upstairs with the headmaster.
"I was going to ask him for some Draught of Living Death, but Severus doesn't like people mentioning it around him. It reminds him of that old narcissus hypothesis of yours," Melvin said.
Dumbledore chuckled wistfully. "I just wanted a sleeping potion. You know, at my age, sleep doesn't come easy. Last night, I forgot to grab a hot cocoa from the kitchen, and at one in the morning, I was still awake, rummaging through the Pensieve, revisiting old memories."
"Pensieve… Developing Solution…" Melvin's mind sparked with an idea.
…
Melvin entered his office, set down his books, and summoned the Hufflepuff Cup from the shelf.
Yulm was lazily curled inside, coiled in neat loops. Melvin lifted the snake out, tossing it onto the sofa, and wiped the cup clean with a cloth. Inspired by Dumbledore's mention of the Pensieve, he decided to try Developing Solution.
Not the kind used for magical photographs, but the potion used in scrying mirrors—a concoction Wright had developed to mimic the misty effects of a Pensieve, capable of visualizing memories.
What better way to reveal a soul fragment hiding memories?
"Tom, my dear pen pal, it's time we finally met," Melvin said, uncorking a vial and pouring in the silvery, mist-like potion.
The liquid spilled out, creating a cloud of vapor like a stage effect with dry ice. Within the swirling silver mist, a face appeared—a handsome young man with dark hair, pale skin, and striking light-colored eyes.
Based on the timeline, Voldemort would have acquired the Hufflepuff Cup shortly after graduating, while working at Borgin and Burkes, not yet 20 years old. His features hadn't yet been warped by dark magic, though hints were there—his eyes faintly red, with slit-like pupils. The silver mist was tinged with threads of black.
This was the wizard whose name must not be spoken.
"Hello, Tom," Melvin said, nodding in greeting.