Chapter 11: Bubble, Dumble, Toil & Trouble
While Harry had drifted off to sleep, Moira quietly arranged a gift box, with the marauder's map and the Peverell cloak, that she had added a clasp to, with the recovered Peverell Stone now encased in a black matted wood casing like a carved button. On top of that, she left a full list of all the treasures they had recovered three years ago. Her master had forgotten to take that into account because he had never explored the full haul. His simple, focused lifestyle was an anathema to the elf who had only dramatic and demanding children to compare her lovely master with.
But her master wasn't just very bright and kind. He was a true scholar. He often forgot all about his own well being when he immersed himself in one project or the other. He had gotten busy with studies and fighting dark curses and networking with powerful friends. Master Arcturus had advised her to present Harry with the Peverell Heirlooms on the day he would start school; a Potter family tradition that had been in practice for centuries.
Arcturus had arranged for Moira to strengthen the enchantments in the cloak with a pulse of elf magic pumped into it. He had decided to add the stone to the cloak as a pretty little engraved clasp with what looked like an etched onyx set in burnished gold. The Peverell Hallows, the older wizard had felt, needed to stay united, as soon as Harry had unknowingly picked the Peverell Wand as his practice wand. It would form one more layer of protection for the child, in his fight for freedom from the coils of Dumbledore.
Satisfied with the contents of the box, she carefully wrapped a blue satin ribbon over it, and inserted a note from Lord Black, and a reminder to be careful with the treasures inside. Fondly patting her master and tucking the messed up blanket carefully around him, she popped away to report to Mistress Lily and Master James in the apartment trunk. Wouldn't they be surprised to hear Master Harry was now in Ravenclaw? All three of them were. It looked like Lord Black was winning the bet.
Elsewhere in another tower in another part of the castle, three people were huddled together, rather discombobulated by this year's sorting. Especially the sorting of one Harry Potter. The infuriating child had been disrupting carefully laid plans since he was born; the headmaster mused in annoyance. He internally huffed and muttered to himself, as he bent over his desk, sucking on the sourest lemon drops he could find. It was not just the sorting that had him all out of sorts though.
His first wand wouldn't give him the power that the now-vanished elder wand gave; he, nevertheless kept prodding with his yew and dragon heartstring wand, at the now shining sorting Hat in frustration. "Give it up, Albus. My magic is impenetrable. You've known that for decades now. I peek into their minds, my dear boy. I don't keep anything I find there. Sticky fingers are your speciality, not mine." The many headmaster and headmistresses hanging on the walls around the office chortled, amused at the high and mighty Albus Dumbledore getting stumped once again.
A tall, greasy-haired wraith of a man leapt to his feet, infuriated and outraged on his mentor's behalf. "You dare accuse Albus Dumbledore of thievery?!" He thundered, ever loyal to the old man, and eager as always to jump to wrong assumptions as always. The Portrait of Phineas Nigellus Black, the only Slytherin Headmaster for more than three centuries, retorted, "Shut your gob and sit your arse down you greasy, insolent puppy! You would have found this out earlier had you actually gone down to Gringotts to check on the Prince Vaults, idiot boy!"
That seemed to freeze the ire of everyone in the room. Albus slumped down further in his throne-like seat behind the desk. McGonagall stiffened even more, her hands clutched at her throat and covering her mouth as if to choke back any protestations. Her mind cast back to her own McGonagall holdings and the seat in the Wizengamot. She hadn't thought of them in decades, certainly not since she had joined Hogwarts as a teacher.
Severus Snape stood, his mouth flapping open and shut, in an excellent imitation of a fish out of water. His thoughts raced; previously hidden and obliviated memories unlocked and compulsions fell away as the reality of the situation began to sink into his superbly occluded mind. He had always considered himself indebted to the headmaster for more than a decade now.
Many years and years of accumulated favours, many ugly indiscretions, and numerous complaints all swept under the rug, near-constant protection against any and all for nearly more than a decade now. He could no longer teach Potions, but he had remained as staff at the behest of the Headmaster, knowing very well that this was the last safe haven he would have; he could no longer proficiently defend himself against magical attacks.
Even his brilliant skills in mind magics were barely passing scrutiny these days. He stared at the Slytherin Black, hate warring with confusion and curiosity, as thoughts and memories had raced around in his mind in a sparse few seconds. As he turned to catch Albus suddenly paling and avoiding his eyes, implications of the guilt etched in the elder wizard's very body language began to seep in.
Ignoring the woman watching in mortified candour in the corner, Snape snarled in mounting anger and stalked off the room, determined to reach the gates and floo to the Bank before Albus could catch up and wipe his memory. Ever the consummate Slytherin, his sense of self-preservation came above pride, outrage, anger, and pretty much everything else. But It was the last thing on Dumbledore's mind, who was still stuck on the Potter dilemma. None realized it, but it was the last anyone would hear of the ex-potions master for a very long time.
"Albus?..." "Leave it, Minerva. Severus is a very temperamental soul. let him be. He will come back once he works the snit out of his system. You know how the loss of his magic, ever since that tragic potions accident, has affected him. It would cripple a lesser man. Let him be. Herman!" An ancient-looking house-elf draped in Hogwarts tea towel, secured like a toga, appeared. "How can Herman serve the esteemed headmaster?" The wrinkled, elderly elf asked in a raspy voice, bowing stiffly. Albus frowned at the creature and sighed. After seven decades working at the school, and Herman still had yet to warm up to him. He focused on the task at hand.
He frowned down at the creature, hiding his distaste, with an expectant smile, "Have the trunks of all students been delivered to their dorms?" "Of course, headmaster. I personally attended to the delivery of the trunks in Ravenclaw Tower." "Did you check for dark artefacts?"
"Of course sir. It is all clean for the first years to third years' possessions. There was an enchanted necklace laced with poison, two poison quills, and five smoke pelts. I've instructed the team to deactivate it all except the necklace and the quills. They disappeared as soon as the trunk was opened. A sixth year Slytherin's trunk. A Mister Derrick Peregrine, sir. I've already reported the same to Professor Slughorn. He's addressing the issue as we speak." The elderly elf intoned.
A vein throbbed behind all that silvery hair at Albus's aching forehead as he stared at the Head elf. Would nothing ever go right this day? "You've gone out of your way this time, Herman. May I ask why I wasn't notified until now? I recall specifically asking you to check Harry Potter's trunk and report back. You haven't done that either. Explain yourself."
The ageing elf drew itself to its full height, and met Albus's eyes, or rather his left ear. Even the creatures had learned to keep their thoughts out of his reach these days. "Headmaster, We elves of Hogwarts, answer to the castle, not any one person. I checked young mister Potter's possessions the same as any other student, for contraband or dark magicks, and none of us found anything even remotely alarming in his trunk. The Elves in charge of scanning the Slytherin trunks panicked when the contraband dangerous artefacts vanished and I am bound to first report it to the head of House, and then the deputy head of school, only if unresolved. It is being resolved as we speak. I find no cause to break from tradition that has been followed for centuries. Earlier Professor Snape and Professor McGonagall always ignored our reports, which is why we had been bringing them to you. Past one and a half years, Professor Slughorn has attended to most of the reports promptly. A few that did not pertain to Slytherin, Ravenclaw, or Hufflepuff houses were still brought to your attention."
Professor McGonagall began to huff and splutter in indignation at the indignity of being criticized by a lowly house-elf, even if it was mostly true, but Albus raised his hands to silence her. She fell back to fuming wordlessly. Dumbledore dismissed the elf, figuring out that he would get no more out of the castle elves. He had been plugging little signs of rebellion here and there for years now and it was finally wearing him down.
And right now, his brain was mush anyway. Any amount of prolonged exposure to Molly Weasley did that to anyone. The headmaster and his deputy then sat down to discuss his delay in attending the opening feast, especially when Harry Potter was being sorted; but Albus set it all at the feet of the annoying little hero of the wizarding world who was born to be the bane of his existence.
The whole fiasco was somehow the Potter child's fault and nobody could change his mind about this conclusion. He had set Molly to watch out for him, knowing that the boy wouldn't know how to get on to the platform. He had already deposited the appropriate bribe to her vault and primed her youngest to befriend Potter. But Potter had arrived early, apparently. And all his lovely schemes and plans had simply gone up in smoke, none of them any wiser.
And the Weasleys never did get anywhere or do anything on time. Even their family clock did anything except actually tell the time. Albus had forgotten that little detail about the Weasley clan and now it had come with dastardly results. Molly had ended up creating a ruckus at the King's Cross station when she grabbed a wrong kid and gotten herself arrested by the muggle policemen for public disturbance and attempted kidnapping. From there it had gone downhill; a woman and her five children, who had no paperwork, had no proof of citizenship had entered the muggle system and their bizarre behaviour and odd contents of the trunks had been noted and marked for further investigation.
Dumbledore had spent the morning setting up the third-floor corridor and organizing his spy network within the Gryfindor dorms and common room. He had honestly forgotten all about his little arrangement for the day with Molly Weasley. When Molly hadn't floo'ed with a report by noon, Dumbledore had finally gotten curious and gone looking.
But the Burrow had been closed off and empty, and there had been no signs of the redheads in any of the stores or elsewhere in Diagon Alley either. On a whim, he had contacted Arthur and then Alastor as well. Finally, Arthur, Alastor, and he had tracked her down to the city police station and had been forced to notify the DMLE, Magical Catastrophes & Oblivates squad to squash the incident.
Rita Skeeter had come sniffing after Albus, from the minute she had spotted him all agitated and holding a hushed conversation with an angry and worried-looking Arthur Weasley. It smelled like an excellent scandal and she had instantly transformed and chased after them all the way into the muggle world. She had caught on to the tail end of Molly's explanation where she said that she did it because Albus had asked her to.
Where there was trouble and toil, Rita couldn't be caught or bought off. He had expended a lot of hefty favours trying to smooth things over at the ministry and keep his and the Weasleys' names out of it today. Ever since Sirius Black case had come to light, he had been rapidly losing credibility left, right, and centre.
And now with Rita Skeeter baying for his blood, things were beginning to look bleak. He was still searching for his elder wand all over the castle and had no memory of when and where he had misplaced it last. How does one misplace a wand as powerful as that, anyway? Was he actually growing too old and senile, like Lucius Malfoy loved to accuse? No, even the passing thought of such a possibility could not be entertained.
But even this was the least of his woes.
The Elder-Wand wasn't the only thing he had lost. Any and all access to the Potter accounts, vaults, and properties had gotten closed and cut off any opened access to him ever since Sirius Black had been exonerated and reinstated as the boy's rightful godfather. It wasn't just a financial or magical loss but a political loss as well. He had lost claim over the Potter and Black seats too and now it looked like he would lose the Prince seat too, if Severus could be depended on being predictable.
Dumbledores were not an old enough clan to hold a traditional seat in the 'Gamot but Dumbledore had earned one with his illustrious defeat of Grindelwald. He had cleverly supplemented his seat of power with other orphaned seats carefully orchestrated to fall into his control but now, he was left with only the McGonagall Seat as the traditional vote. His own seat only gave him the ability to participate and maintain his position as the chief warlock, without offering any voting eligibility.
Now his castle of cards was falling all around him.
His aching bones needed a breather. He dismissed McGonagall, instructing her to send Mr. Potter to his office when she sees him next, no later than at breakfast the next day. Tomorrow was better suited to move things around to suit his preferences.
There was nothing to be done tonight. Only Morpheus beckoned.