Shawn. The owl painting said,
"Wizards have defeated too many enemies. And so magic becomes something that is inevitably lost.
Ignorance, little wizard, is not the obstacle to the progress of magical civilization—arrogance is."
"So you won't Confund me again?" Sean asked.
"You foolish little wizard."
With a flap of its wings, Mr. Owl—and the entire portrait—vanished.
In the huge tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy trying to teach trolls ballet, both the troll and Barnabas stared quietly in this direction. Only after the voices died away did the troll resume beating Barnabas senseless.
Sean cast a glance at the portrait—on the adjacent wall, a perfectly smooth door had appeared.
He stared at it, then grasped the brass handle, pulled it open, and stepped into a spacious room lit by torches like those in an underground classroom.
Along one wall ran a row of wooden bookshelves. There were no chairs on the floor, only large satin cushions.
At the far end of the room, countless wooden racks displayed Sneakoscopes, Secrecy Sensors, and all kinds of instruments.
Most conspicuous was a table with several steaming bowls set on it.
Curious, Sean looked closer—there was nothing inside them.
He immediately understood: the Room of Requirement only used basic Summoning Charms and Transfiguration, so it still obeyed Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration.
That is: Transfiguration cannot conjure delicious food out of thin air.
If you know where food is, you can summon it.
If you already have some, you can transfigure it—or multiply it.
That was why his pumpkin juice hadn't appeared.
After taking in the Room of Requirement at a glance, Sean raised his wand and walked into the wooden shelving on the left.
A high window cast a pillar of light, revealing the shelves like a city of towering walls. Sean could tell it was all built from the objects generations of Hogwarts people had hidden here.
Along the "streets" were precariously stacked broken furniture—junk from other rooms that the Room of Requirement had deliberately gathered up;
or things hidden by the house-elves who maintained the castle's dignity.
Maybe, just as Mr. Owl said, this really was the dumping ground for Hogwarts' clutter.
Deeper in the alleys were tens of thousands of books—undoubtedly restricted books, vandalized books, or stolen books;
Winged slingshots and Fang Frisbees, a few of which were still lazily circling above the mountainous piles of contraband;
Broken bottles filled with potions that had already solidified; hats, jewelry, cloaks, something like a dragon eggshell;
Several stoppered bottles still glimmering with an evil light; a few rusty swords, and a bloodstained great axe.
In that sea of junk, Sean's eyes immediately locked onto a corroded, darkened diadem.
—Ravenclaw's diadem.
He silently retreated a few steps. From within the Wizard's Book, the basilisk fang floated out and hovered at his side.
But he didn't destroy the diadem right away. Instead, he slowly turned his gaze toward the entrance.
A figure appeared as if shrugging off an invisibility cloak.
"Welcome back, Sean," Justin said with a smile.
"Smell again?" Sean paused, then sighed.
"So… is there anything I'm allowed to know?" Justin's smile faded as his eyes shifted to the diadem.
He had a thousand things he wanted to say, but for him, many things could yield to one.
"Mm. The Restricted Section—have you been there?" Sean said quietly.
"Moste Potente Potions?" Justin asked.
"There's a darkest kind of creation—one that can only be made through the vilest acts.
Voldemort… that name means: fleeing death." Sean explained softly.
"So I saw him fly away back then… and that's why Headmaster Dumbledore couldn't kill Voldemort?!" Justin seized on the point.
"What did he do? Sean, do you know—"
He stopped mid-sentence. His mouth opened, but no words came.
The Room of Requirement shouldn't have any cold wind, and yet he felt chill seep into his bones.
Suddenly he understood why those green eyes were always so calm—never joyful, never sorrowful, as still as a lake.
He knew that kind of gaze always carried something bleak and resolute beneath the surface.
And now, everything seemed explainable—
"No matter whether he comes back or not… we'll win in the end…" Justin forced a smile.
He remembered facing Voldemort; remembered standing shoulder to shoulder with Sean, planning how to fight a battle they were doomed to lose.
What would Sean say?
No—Sean never made speeches. He answered with action. The important thing was to keep fighting—fight, fight, fight again—because only then could evil be contained, even if it could never be completely erased—
Justin felt as if his heart had clogged. He suddenly realized the entire wizarding world was hanging by a thread.
Because Voldemort possessed Black Magic beyond anything they could imagine.
He hadn't died. He would return.
And Hogwarts' safety had never been Dumbledore's work alone.
Because there was someone—always standing between Voldemort and terror.
Even in the hardest moments, they all comforted themselves by imagining Dumbledore would protect them from any harm.
But someone had already discarded that fantasy.
"Only relying on yourself gives you the best chance," Justin murmured.
It was like falling into a nightmare.
And now no one could wake him from it—nor would he keep clinging to wishful thinking.
A twelve-year-old wizard, in that moment, abandoned every last shred of luck.
He understood with brutal clarity that he had to stand with Sean—always.
Because more than ever before, he could sense how alone Sean truly was.
"Horcrux."
At last, Justin said the term—the one he'd seen in Moste Potente Potions:
[As for still more dreadful paths—Horcruxes, the darkest magical invention—we ought not speak of them, nor offer guidance.]
Now Justin understood: this magic allowed evil to flee death, in a cruelty they could barely comprehend.
"So… this is a Horcrux? How do I destroy it? Basilisk fang?"
Justin spoke, his eyes burning with resolve—brighter than ever.
"No. Stand farther back," Sean said.
Justin's shoulders fell, and he instinctively backed away.
Sean also retreated, unwilling to risk any variable.
If Tom Riddle's diary could corrode the soul and control a wizard's thoughts, then no amount of caution with other Horcruxes could be excessive.
As Sean lifted his wand, the Room of Requirement's walls shifted dramatically.
A stone statue nearly three meters tall stepped out from the wall. In the space of a heartbeat, it took up the basilisk fang and, like a gladiator, strode toward the wooden shelving.