This trial was much like the previous ones, with hardly any danger. Will even found it a little boring—these trials really weren't very well designed.
He was more interested in knowing where the final cache of ancient magic was hidden.
Another circular hall, another Pensieve.
The memory unfolded.
"Welcome. Please, come in."
Isidora Morgana stood in a drawing room that was not particularly spacious, wearing Hogwarts professor's robes and a gentle smile. Opposite her stood Percival Rackham, Charles Rookwood, Niamh Fitzgerald, and San Bakar—all four were present, each with a different expression.
"Welcome to my home." Isidora was delighted.
In one corner of the drawing room, an old man sat in an armchair.
His hair was graying, his face covered in wrinkles, and his eyes clouded and vacant. His hands rested on his knees, motionless. He was Isidora's father.
"My father," Isidora said, walking over to the old man, "has been like this ever since the drought. His pain is like a thorn lodged in his heart that cannot be pulled out. So this is my solution."
Isidora raised her wand and aimed its tip at her father's chest.
The old man's body suddenly went rigid. His eyes widened, his mouth opened, and he let out a low groan that seemed to have been forced up from deep in his throat.
A cloud of black mist drifted out of his chest, slowly swirling in the air as though it were alive.
The mist was very dark, streaked with faint traces of red and blue. Its surface churned and writhed, as though something were struggling inside it.
Isidora guided the mist with her wand, drew it into a crystal bottle, and put in the stopper.
The old man's body relaxed, settling against the back of the chair, and his breathing steadied.