The Raven's Call

Bequeathments

Friday, 1st August 1997

As the Weasleys, Harry, and I help set up the marquee, I feel the weight of everything still pressing down on me—Mad-Eye and Alex... the loss is still so raw. Then, just as we're finishing the last touches, a familiar figure emerges from the distance, walking toward us.

"Bloody hell. What is the Minister of Magic doing here?" A mended George asks as the Minister beckons to Harry, Ron, Hermione, and me, his face set in that serious way we all know too well. Without a word, we follow, stepping inside the marquee, the tension lingering in the air.

"To what do we owe the pleasure, Minister?" Harry asks, his voice laced with a mix of curiosity and caution as we all step into the living room.

The Minister's gaze flickers over us before he sets down his briefcase with a soft thud and takes a seat. "I think we both know the answer to that question, Mr. Potter," he responds, his voice steady but carrying a certain weight.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione squish together on the couch, their expressions expectant. I take a seat on the arm of the couch, feeling a strange tension between us all.

"And this is...?" Harry asks, gesturing toward a small package the Minister had placed on the table in front of us.

The Minister doesn't answer right away. Instead, he pulls out a letter, which floats up into the air, unraveling itself with a soft rustle.

"Herein is set forth the last will and testament of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore," he reads aloud. His voice reverberates with something heavy, something final.

"First," he continues, eyes scanning the parchment, "to Ronald Billius Weasley, I leave my Deluminator, a device of my own making, in the hope that when things seem most dark, it will show him the light."

"Dumbledore left this for me?" Ron asks, his voice full of disbelief as he looks at the device in his hands.

"Yes," the Minister responds with a nod, his expression unreadable.

"Brilliant," Ron mutters, still processing the idea. "What is it?" He turns the object over, inspecting it with furrowed brows.

The Minister remains silent, for he does not know.

Ron lifts the latch on the side, and the lights in the room suddenly flicker and move, all of them gathering inside the device like moths to a flame. The room goes pitch black, save for the natural light filtering in through the windows. Everyone sits in the sudden darkness, unsure of what to expect next.

With a quick press, Ron lifts the latch again, and the lights return to their usual spots, casting the room back into its normal glow.

"Wicked," Ron breathes, his voice filled with awe as he examines the device in his hand.

"To Hermione Jean Granger," the Minister continues, his voice steady as he reads the will aloud. "I leave my copy of Tales of Beedle the Bard, in the hope that she finds it entertaining and instructive." He hands over the old book, its cover well-worn and the pages yellowed with age.

I watch Hermione take it from him, her fingers brushing over the familiar text, a nostalgic smile forming on her face. I remember that book well too—it's something that had always been in the background of our childhood.

"Mum used to tell me those," Ron murmurs with a smile, his eyes softening at the memory. "The wizard and the hopping pot, Babbity Rabbity and the Cackling Stump..." He trails off, clearly lost in his own thoughts.

Silence stretches out for a moment as the rest of us glance at one another, unsure of how to respond.

"Come on. Babbity Rabbity?" Ron presses, glancing around the room. His voice is laced with disbelief. "No..? Nothing?"

More silence. It's clear no one has a witty retort for him this time.

"Moving on," the Minister says briskly, cutting through the awkwardness, his eyes flicking from Ron to the next part of the will.

"To Atticus Dorian Grey-Gaunt," the Minister continues, "I leave you Fawkes, my dearest companion. His loyalty and wisdom have guided me through the darkest times. May he be the same for you, and may his song provide comfort when you need it most."

That one I already knew, Fawkes has been a good friend and companion to me since and before Dumbledore's passing. 

"And," the Minister goes on, "I also leave you the Gaunt Family ring. This ring has been passed down for generations, a symbol of your bloodline and the strength within it. It has the power to call upon the Gaunt ancestors in times of need, though it has never been used lightly. Wear it with care, for it bears not only the weight of your family's legacy but also the burden of their choices."

He places the ring on the table, and I can see it immediately—sleek, black onyx set in silver, with intricate carvings of the Gaunt family crest. A sharp chill runs down my spine as I feel the weight of its significance, not just as an heirloom, but as a piece of my identity and my family's past.

"May it guide you as you carve your own path," the Minister adds, his voice low and serious. I pick up the ring and slide it onto my finger, a perfect fit.

"To Harry James Potter," the Minister reads, "I leave the snitch he caught in his first match at Hogwarts as a reminder of the rewards of perseverance and skill." He hands the snitch over, and there's a moment—just a beat—where we all expect something to happen, but nothing does.

"Is that it then?" Harry asks with a sigh, clearly hoping for more.

"Not quite," the Minister continues, glancing down at his notes. "Dumbledore left you a second bequest: The sword of Godric Gryffindor. Unfortunately, the sword was not Dumbledore's to give away. As an important historical artifact, it belongs—"

"To Harry," Hermione interrupts, her voice firm. "It belongs to Harry. It came to him when he most needed it in the Chamber of Secrets."

"The sword may present itself to any worthy Gryffindor, Miss Granger," the Minister responds, his voice still formal, "but that does not make it the wizard's property. And, in any event, the current whereabouts of the sword are unknown."

"Excuse me?" Harry asks, his eyes widening, disbelief flooding his voice.

"The sword is missing," the Minister says, his gaze hardening. "I don't know what you are up to, Mr. Potter but you can't fight this war on your own. He is too strong."