Orange-red sparks burst from the diary's cover. They scattered across the tablecloth, the coffee cup beside it, and Dumbledore's sleeve. He did not move away. The tip of his wand did not move. The orange-red light continued drilling into the diary like a bore, carving a small, glowing hole with charred edges into the black cover.
The voice within the diary leaked from the crack in its cover. Not words, but sound—sharp and grating, like fingernails scraping glass.
"Ahhh... help!" The voice echoed through the room, but it screamed for only two seconds before changing. The scream became laughter.
Not joyful laughter, but dry and parched laughter, like two pieces of sandpaper rubbing together.
"Heh heh heh... Did you think I would beg for mercy? Dream on. You think a mere Fiendfyre Curse can make me submit? Burn me, then. Keep burning. The stronger it burns, the happier I am. Your magic is feeding me. You're helping reinforce this body. Thank you, Dumbledore."
Dumbledore did not raise his wand. The orange-red light was still drilling into the diary, but the flames were changing color. Orange-red became dark red, dark red became black. Accompanied by a hair-raising sucking sound, the Fiendfyre Curse, which could only be extinguished by End All Spells, was completely devoured by the diary.
The diary's voice came from the center of the black flames, muffled as though it were separated by a thick wall. "You know nothing of the Master's power. Do you think standing in the light means you have won? Do you think being righteous means you can win? Dumbledore, you are too old. Too tired. It is time for you to retire. Hand Hogwarts over to capable newcomers, hand the Ministry of Magic over to Fudge, and hand Potter—over to me."
Dumbledore lifted his