The destruction of the Horcruxes was a solemn, secret affair.
With only two spheres remained—the one from Nagini and the one from Harry—Ariana held up a hand.
"Wait, Professor," she said.
Dumbledore looked at her, questioning.
"Destroy the one from Nagini," she instructed. "But keep the last one. The one from Harry."
"Ariana?" he asked, confused. "Why? Why would we leave him even one anchor, however small?"
"Because," she explained, her eyes gleaming with a cold, strategic light, "we do not want him to know he is mortal until the last possible moment. If he were to sense that all of his Horcruxes were gone, his self-preservation instinct would override his arrogance. He would flee. He would hide. He would spend years creating new anchors. We cannot allow that."
She outlined the final phase of her plan. "We will leave this last fragment intact. He will still feel its connection, however faint, and believe he is immortal. It will make him arrogant. It will make him accept my challenge. Just before the duel begins, you will destroy this final piece. He will walk onto the battlefield believing he is a god, only to discover in his final moments that he is just a man. We will not just destroy his body; we will psychologically dismantle him in the process."
It was a move of such profound, ruthless psychological warfare that even Snape, who had been summoned to witness the event, looked at her with a new level of awe and terror. She was not just planning to win; she was planning to annihilate.
Dumbledore, seeing the grim, unassailable logic of her plan, slowly nodded and placed the last sphere carefully back into its containment box.
The next morning, the wizarding world awoke to a new kind of shock. It was not a story of death or terror. It was a challenge.
Ariana had bypassed the Daily Prophet. She had no interest in their sensationalism. Instead, she had contacted every major magical publication in the world, from France's Le Cri de la Gargouille to America's The New York Ghost. She had issued a single, open letter.
It appeared as a full-page advertisement in every paper. The layout was simple, elegant, and devastating. At the top was a picture of Ariana, serene and powerful. Below it, the text was not an impassioned plea, but a cold, logical, and deeply insulting challenge.
An Open Letter to Tom Marvolo Riddle
You have operated under the nom de guerre 'Lord Voldemort' for some time now, a name designed to inspire fear. Fear is a tool for the weak, a tactic for those who cannot win through logic or superior power. Your recent activities—hiding in forgotten manors, sending minions to do your bidding, relying on traps and deceptions—are not the actions of a powerful Dark Lord. They are the actions of a coward.
You claim to be the Heir of Salazar Slytherin, a wizard of immense power and ambition. Yet you lurk in the shadows. You have failed to secure the Ministry. You have failed to retrieve the prophecy. You have failed to eliminate Harry Potter. Your record is one of consistent, repeated failure.
I, Ariana Dumbledore, hereby challenge this claim to your supposed greatness. I challenge you to a formal duel. No minions. No traps. Just you and me. Your magic against mine.
The location: the open plains opposite the graveyard in Godric's Hollow. A place of significance for us both, I believe. The time: sunrise, three days from now. Let the world see if the great Lord Voldemort has the courage to face a sixteen-year-old girl in open combat, or if the Heir of Slytherin is, in fact, nothing more than a frightened man hiding behind a fearsome name.
I await your response. Or your silence, which will serve as an answer in itself.
The letter was a global sensation. It was an act of supreme, audacious arrogance, a public slap in the face so profound that it could not be ignored. She had not just challenged him; she had mocked him, questioned his power, belittled his name, and called him a coward on the world stage.
In his secret lair, Lord Voldemort read the letter, and the rage that filled him was a palpable, destructive force. This girl! This Dumbledore pretender! She had outmaneuvered him, dismantled his plans, and now she was publicly taunting him. His followers were looking at him, their own fear now mixed with a flicker of doubt. His arrogance, the very foundation of his being, could not allow this insult to stand. To refuse would be to admit she was right, to prove himself a coward in front of the entire world.
He would go. He would go to Godric's Hollow, and he would not just kill her. He would annihilate her. He would torture her, break her, and make her beg for a death that he would grant only when he was satisfied. He would show the world what true power looked like.
In her quiet London flat, Ariana felt no fear, no anxiety.
She turned to Dumbledore, who was looking at her with an expression of profound gravity. "He will take the bait," she said calmly.
The trap was set. The final duel was arranged. The endgame was in motion, precisely as she had planned. She had appealed to his one fatal, predictable weakness: his pride. And now, he was walking willingly to his own destruction.