The Darkest Muggleborn

Chapter 1

No More.

The morning was a picturesque tableau, bathed in the gentle embrace of sunlight streaming down from the ceiling of the Great Hall. Dumbledore's gaze swept over the assembled students, his heart heavy with a mix of emotions. It was indeed a beautiful morning, the brightness contrasting starkly with the shadows that lingered in the corners of his mind. The date held significance to the magical world at large, but specifically for him and the decisions he's made.

October 31st, 1982. A year had elapsed since the tragic attack on the Potters, an event that had shaken the wizarding world to its core. To many, it appeared that Lord Voldemort had perished that night, his reign of terror coming to an end. Yet Dumbledore alone bore the weight of the knowledge that the Dark Lord's spirit remained, lurking in the shadows, biding its time. The trials of the Death Eaters, the tragic fate of the Longbottoms, and Sirius Black's betrayal and murder of Peter Pettigrew were layers of a complex tapestry that Dumbledore had to weave carefully.

In his wisdom, maybe hubris, Dumbledore had chosen to keep his suspicions about Voldemort's continued existence largely to himself. He recognized that sharing his insights might lead to skepticism or even accusations of fearmongering. It was a delicate balance between safeguarding the truth and ensuring that his words were received with the gravity they deserved.

As evening approached, the castle buzzed with anticipation of the Halloween celebration. The first since that fateful night. The excitement of the students painted a veneer of normalcy over the past year's trauma. However, the undercurrent of tension was palpable, especially among those students who still held allegiances to Death Eater relatives or embraced the remnants of the Dark Lord's ideology. Their reluctance to celebrate the anniversary of his defeat cast a shadow over the festivities, a poignant reminder of the deep-seated divisions that persisted.

Dumbledore's heart ached for the young souls who had been pulled into the darkness. The realization that so many had become entrapped by hatred at such an early age was a testament to the enduring power of ideology. As he observed the students, he couldn't help but contemplate the complex web of choices and beliefs that had led them to this point. The beautiful morning was a stark contrast to the somber thoughts that occupied Dumbledore's mind, a reminder that beneath the surface of the enchanting world they inhabited, a deeper struggle raged—a struggle that Dumbledore remained resolute in addressing, even if it meant carrying his burden in solitude.

To Dumbledore's right, the Slytherin table lay spread with an air of subdued gloom, their expressions a tapestry of hidden emotions. Slytherins were masters at concealing their feelings from their peers, though to the astute eyes of the seasoned Hogwarts staff the undercurrent of melancholy was discernible. The weight of the past year's events cast a shadow on their young faces, an invisible burden that they carried within the complex chambers of their minds.

Dumbledore's fingers were poised to reach for his goblet, containing a fizzy Muggle beverage known as Coca-Cola, when a subtle yet unmistakable ripple in the wards caught his attention. It was a sensation he recognized, albeit one he hadn't anticipated. Three Aurors were making their way up the path from Hogsmeade: Amelia Bones, John Dawlish, and Alastor Moody. The trio's unexpected presence bore an ominous implication—when the head Auror, his apprentice, and a rookie ventured together, it typically heralded troubling news. Dumbledore's sigh carried a note of resignation, his thoughts momentarily drifting to the dissonance between the beauty of the day and the impending disturbance.

As he lowered his gaze, his eyes fixed upon the entrance doors to the Great Hall, Dumbledore's anticipation grew. The scenario unfolding before him was a somber reminder that even on the most splendid days, the echoes of darkness were never too far behind.

Minerva McGonagall, ever watchful, turned her attention to Dumbledore, her concern palpable. The exchange of glances between them conveyed unspoken understanding, a bond forged through years of collaboration and shared trials.

"Albus, is everything all right?" Minerva's inquiry was soft yet probing, reflecting the worry etched on her features. In the midst of the bustling Great Hall, their conversation held a gravity that mirrored the unspoken tensions that accompanied their responsibilities.

Dumbledore's response to Minerva's query was measured, revealing the presence of visitors from the Ministry and hinting at the gravity of the matter. As he asked Minerva to manage things in his absence, the great doors of the Great Hall parted, revealing the three Aurors making their entrance. The eyes of the students tracked their progress, a hushed murmur of whispers spreading through the hall. Younger students pointed excitedly, their curiosity ignited by the sight of the enigmatic magical law enforcers.

Leading the trio was the oldest of the Aurors, Alastor Moody, a man whose once-handsome visage was now marred by scars. His face told a story of battles fought and ordeals endured. A prosthetic leg emitted an audible clunking and clinking as he moved, its presence a testament to the sacrifices made in the line of duty. The most prominent and mysterious aspect of Moody's appearance was his magical eye, which spun and surveyed its surroundings with an unsettling intensity that still often made Dumbledore wonder how they man could walk at the same time as that thing was spinning.

Walking beside Moody was a woman of around thirty-six years, her features sharp and hawklike. Her fiery red hair, typically cascading to shoulder length, was tightly bound in a bun atop her head. Her gaze remained fixed on the Slytherin table, occasionally sweeping the hall with a vigilance that spoke of her dedication to her role. Even within the confines of Hogwarts, Amelia Bones and Moody were unwavering in their watchfulness, a reflection of their commitment to the so called 'constant vigilance' Moody expected of his Aurors.

Amelia's eyes briefly met Dumbledore's gaze, and within that fleeting moment, the fire of anger blazed in her eyes. The pain of her recent loss—her brother and sister-in-law—still smoldered within her, a reminder of the personal toll that their line of work exacted. Dumbledore understood the tumult of emotions that Amelia carried, and he respected the strength that enabled her to continue her duty despite the heartache.

As they approached the head table, the presence of the Aurors cast a solemn shadow over the celebratory atmosphere. The students' whispers hushed as their attention turned to the unfolding scene. The weight of responsibility and the enigmatic aura surrounding the Aurors' visit permeated the air, a reminder that even in the midst of festivities, the specter of darkness and danger remained ever-present.

Dumbledore keenly sensed the weight of Amelia's blame, a heavy burden borne in the wake of personal tragedy. Her brother and sister-in-law had fallen during a mission for the Order of the Phoenix, Dumbledore's clandestine resistance group. While he understood her grief-fueled resentment, he also knew that placing blame was a nuanced matter. The sacrifices demanded by their fight against the darkness had always been daunting, and the line between duty and personal loss was a jagged one to tread.

Beside Amelia stood John Dawlish, a younger Auror of unassuming appearance. His unremarkable demeanor belied a potential for danger and competence that was often concealed by his ordinariness. Dumbledore understood all too well that the façade of ordinariness could mask the most remarkable capabilities, a fact he had encountered numerous times throughout his long life.

Dumbledore rose from his seat as Moody approached, a somber expression etched upon the veteran Auror's face. The sight of that expression was not unfamiliar to Dumbledore—it heralded grave events that demanded his attention and expertise in unraveling magical complexities. Such encounters had been infrequent, typically coinciding with times when Tom Riddle had personally visited his victims, employing twisted forms of torture and execution that pushed the boundaries of dark magic.

With a nod of understanding, Dumbledore acknowledged Moody's unspoken request for assistance. Turning, he led the way to a concealed passageway that would guide them through the labyrinthine halls of Hogwarts, ultimately leading to his office. The hushed conversations and anticipatory gazes of the students lingered behind as the trio moved forward, the aura of gravitas surrounding them a stark reminder that the veneer of normalcy often masked a world teeming with secrets, dangers, and the relentless pursuit of justice.

The ascent up the stairs was marked by a silence that hung heavy, each member of the small group wrapped in their own thoughts. As they moved through the passages and employed the castle's hidden routes, Dumbledore took advantage of the brief respite to organize his reflections. Voldemort's return seemed unlikely, given the short span of time since his supposed defeat. The complexity of the situation remained elusive, leaving Dumbledore to ponder the nature of the disturbance they were about to discuss.

Thanks to his deep familiarity with Hogwarts' layout and his command over its magic, their journey was efficiently shortened. The entrance to his office was reached mere minutes after leaving the Great Hall. The benefits of his long-standing connection to the castle and his mastery of its enchantments proved invaluable, ensuring their prompt arrival.

Seated within the confines of Dumbledore's office, the trio settled in, a sense of anticipation filling the air. The room exuded an air of tranquility, providing a haven amidst the tumultuous world beyond its walls. In a seamless orchestration, a small tea service materialized, its delicate chime a soothing accompaniment to the scene.

The exchange of words remained suspended, a testament to the darker nature of the matter at hand. Dumbledore's gaze shifted to Moody when the seasoned Auror reached for his flask instead of the proffered tea. It was a subtle cue that communicated his expectation for Moody to partake in the tea. The unspoken understanding between them was evident as Moody's diagnostic charms brushed over the cup before he took a cautious sip. The phrase "constant vigilance" took on a multidimensional meaning in this context, encompassing not only their surroundings but also the subtle dynamics of the situation they were about to address.

Once the tense atmosphere had loosened its grip on both Amelia and Dawlish, Dumbledore cleared his throat, his presence commanding the room's attention like a gentle but firm breeze breaking through stillness.

"It pains me to see that look in your eye, Alastor," Dumbledore's voice was like a comforting, weathered book, its pages imbued with the weight of history. His words carried a touch of nostalgia, as if he were reminiscing about times both distant and painful. He took another sip from his cup of tea, a concoction that, if he were to be entirely candid, leaned more towards sugar than actual tea.

Moody clenched his jaw, his emotions a storm beneath his gruff exterior. He set down his tea on the small table beside him, a gesture of resolute focus.

"This morning, Albus, the Nott family was attacked. It is terrible, worse than anything I have ever seen, and you know what I have seen," Moody's voice held the scars of countless battles and trials. He retrieved a flask from his coat, the scent of pain potion and fire whisky mingling in the air.

Dumbledore refrained from commenting on the questionable mix of potions and alcohol, understanding the depths of pain Alastor endured daily. He pondered the news, memories of Theodore Nott Sr.'s trial resurfacing. The decision to clear him with the Imperius curse defense had not sat well with Dumbledore. He believed in redemption, not easy absolution. Perhaps, he mused, a victim had taken matters into their own hands as a form of revenge.

Amelia's voice sliced through the contemplative silence, devoid of emotion it felt almost cutting.

"We have no idea what has been done. Even the Unspeakables we called in couldn't decipher it. They left the scene looking as if they'd lose their breakfast," her tone was direct, her frustration palpable as she glanced past Dumbledore at a portrait containing one of her ancestors.

Dumbledore's mind whirred, analyzing the situation. Moody wouldn't have come without a plan. He spoke, his words measured.

"Do you need me to allow a portkey through the wards?" Dumbledore's question was pragmatic, recognizing Moody's preference for efficiency. Moody nodded, placing a length of rope on Dumbledore's desk. With a wave of his wand, the rope became exempt from the protective wards, a pathway for Moody's intended journey. The unspoken understanding between the two veterans lingered, a symphony of trust and shared purpose that resonated in the room.

"Minerva's well aware I might be heading out," Dumbledore stated as he rose from his seat, adjusting his robes with a practiced motion. He found his attire quite to his liking, a present from Nicholas, who had an uncanny knack for knowing Dumbledore's fondness for robes that bordered on extravagant. The fabric flowed in a rich blue, mirroring the hue of the night sky during a full moon. Across it danced shooting stars, tracing a celestial path amid highlighted constellations. Dumbledore's skill in advanced transfiguration and charms allowed him to swiftly swap this set for another, plainer ensemble from his wardrobe—ones he wouldn't hesitate to soil. This new set was a deep red, reminiscent of rust, adorned with subtle threads of gold. It was his go-to attire for his numerous alchemical pursuits.

The three aurors wasted no time, their fingers closing around the rope as Dumbledore's hand gripped it firmly. A primal rumble resonated from Moody's throat as he uttered the activation word, 'vigilance,' and in an instant, the quartet was cast into a whirling expanse, hurtling through the fabric of space towards the Nott family's dwelling.

As they disembarked from their arrival and brushed off the residue of their journey, Dumbledore's gaze shifted toward Nott Manor. It had been a span of numerous years since his last encounter with the rather unadorned, yet undeniably graceful, estate. The Notts, while not possessing the opulent wealth of the Malfoys, bore the weight of antiquity and a certain measure of affluence. Their aesthetic philosophy leaned away from flamboyance and ostentation, leading to the creation of a manor that radiated classic beauty, with just a hint of embellishing illumination to accentuate its features.

Clustered at the entrance to the edifice, a small assembly of individuals formed a crowd. The majority among them adorned the distinctive crimson robes emblematic of Aurors, exemplifying their duty as enforcers of magical law. Amidst this scarlet majority, a minority of green-robed figures stood, signifying the presence of healers. Yet, a solitary figure shrouded in the obsidian mantle of an Unspeakable sat ensconced in shadow, their countenance buried in their palms. Such a sight was far from promising.

As Dumbledore surveyed the scene, his attention settled upon the figure of authority in the realm of magical law enforcement—Barty Crouch Sr. While accustomed to witnessing a countenance etched with stern resolve and unyielding determination in Crouch's demeanor, today unveiled a different facet of the man. A combination of his son's conviction and the enigma concealed behind the doors of the manor had successfully managed to erode the very bedrock of his steely composure. With a glance that conveyed volumes of shared concern, Crouch hastened his approach toward Dumbledore and Moody, bridging the distance with urgency threaded into each step.

"Morning, Dumbledore. I wish to prepare you for what you're about to witness. This surpasses anything from the war; not even You-Know-Who would have orchestrated something like this," Crouch's voice quivered ever so slightly, a tremor so faint it almost went unnoticed. It was this subtle vulnerability that struck Dumbledore deeply, his stomach plummeting in response. He nodded in acknowledgment before inhaling a fortifying breath and pushing open the door.

The initial assault on Dumbledore's senses was the smell. It carried the acrid, metallic tang reminiscent of blood meeting searing iron. Beneath this, an undercurrent of urine and other unspoken bodily emissions added to the sensory disarray. This blend of scents elicited a disconcerting churn in Dumbledore's stomach.

Stepping into the room, his eyes were immediately drawn to a crimson lattice of delicate threads, akin to a spider's web but bearing a sinister hue. This web stretched across the floors, walls, and ceiling, creating an intricate yet unsettling pattern that played with the mind. However, the epicenter of the grim spectacle lay at the convergence of these morbid threads.

With an almost magnetic pull, Dumbledore's gaze was fixated on a distant wall within the living space—a wall transformed into a nightmarish gallery. Hanging there, like morose ornaments, were over a dozen human hearts, their rhythmic beats reverberating with an eerie vitality. Hovering above these pulsating organs, pairs of eyes maintained their watch, surveying the ghastly scene with an unsettling awareness. Suppressing the rising unease threatening to consume him, Dumbledore steeled himself and moved forward cautiously, his steps guided to avoid the exposed human nerves strewn across the ground like grim confetti.

Dumbledore's wand was set into motion, his voice a symphony of incantations uttered in diverse tongues, casting a medley of diagnostic charms and spells. His efforts were a desperate attempt to decipher the intricate weave of magics, to unravel the nature of the sorcery that had given birth to this horrifying tapestry, and, above all, to discern whether any avenue of reversal existed. The revelations that would unfold from this harrowing exploration would forever haunt him, an indelible mark on his conscience. His stomach churned, and he turned to face Alastor, his voice carrying a hint of bile's restraint.

"This is utterly monstrous," Dumbledore declared, his vehemence and fury resonating in his tone, visible to all those who bore witness to the headmaster's raw emotion.

"What can you tell us, Dumbledore?" Crouch inquired, his gaze fixated on the wall before him. The contours of his expression reflected both disgust and a profound empathy, a fusion of repulsion and sorrow.

"Alchemy," Dumbledore began, his voice heavy with the weight of revelation. "That's why your attempts at diagnosis yielded naught. They've undergone a transfiguration, sewn together with some manner of stitching curse, and then melded through an alchemical transmutation." He paused, his gaze unflinching as he surveyed the disturbing composition. "Their minds have been preserved, concealed within an expanded pocket within the very crevices of the stonework. Multiple enchantments sustain their hearts and consciousness, including one I had hoped had vanished into the annals of time. This particular spell enhances mental acuity, almost inducing a stasis of cognition to shield the mind from degradation amidst torment. They are fully sentient, plunged into unimaginable agony without the respite of mental detachment." The words hung heavy in the air, a suffocating truth that bore witness to boundless suffering.

Dumbledore's eyes traveled to the exposed dark marks beneath several pairs of eyes on the wall—a chilling testament to the victims' allegiance.

"The million galleon question, Dumbledore: can you reverse it?" Alastor inquired, his eyes locked onto his friend, his tone laden with hope and urgency.

Dumbledore's gaze shifted to meet Alastor's, his expression somber. "If that were the sole extent of this malevolence, Alastor, I could potentially reverse it. However, the individual responsible for this abhorrence took measures to ensure that survival wasn't an option for their victims. The enchantments have been layered with multiple redundancies, attempting to undo any one of them would trigger a cascade failure. Ultimately, the very expanded space that safeguards their brains would collapse, resulting in instant death. Unraveling these spells safely, without triggering the withering curses entwined within their hearts, would demand more time than these poor souls have." Dumbledore's words carried the weight of grim reality, delivering the unsettling truth.

Alastor blinked, absorbing the information—withering curses nestled within their hearts, intricately connected to fail-safes. The realization rendered the Death Eaters akin to somewhat dangerous puppies. While his disgust and anger burned fiercely within him, Alastor found a degree of solace in the knowledge that the victims were individuals he wouldn't have minded seeing behind bars.

Crouch, however, was unraveling before their eyes. His gaze remained transfixed on the eyes embedded in the wall, his recognition dawning upon a particular pair. It was Allana Nott, once Allana Crouch—his younger sister. She had wed into the Nott family prior to the confrontation with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. His son's defection, his wife's sacrifice, and now this—each layer of tragedy seemed to build upon the last. With a heart weighed down by a burden many doubted he bore, Crouch approached the eyes belonging to his sister, a mixture of sorrow, anger, and regret evident in his demeanor.

"If there is nothing we can do for them, a painless death is the only mercy we can give them. What would be the best spell to cast, and where should I cast it, Dumbledore?" Crouch's voice quivered with a mixture of desperation and sorrow. The tremor in his words only heightened Dumbledore's concern. He followed Crouch's gaze, realizing the depth of the younger man's anguish as it was focused on a particular set of eyes amidst the grim tableau. Surveying the twisted mass of flesh, bone, and agony before them, Dumbledore identified a point where the transmuted matrix seemed most vulnerable.

Dumbledore considered the question, knowing the weight of the decision that rested upon Crouch's shoulders. "Right there, just below that heart. Cast a 'finite incantatum'; it will trigger the failsafe within the expanded spaces. It'll be the quickest way to release them," he explained, deliberately avoiding the term 'kill,' recognizing the complex state these victims existed in—trapped between life and release.

Crouch nodded, his gaze heavy with the weight of his decision. He turned to address the others, his voice steadier now. "Please, give me a moment alone with my sister," he requested, his eyes locked on the agonized eyes that held a history of shared experiences.

Understanding the gravity of the situation, the assembled group respectfully retreated from the room, the door sealing behind them. Outside, a somber silence enveloped them, a poignant acknowledgment of the heart-wrenching choice Bartemius Crouch was about to make.

Alastor kept a vigilant watch on his superior, his magical eye locked onto Crouch. Despite Crouch's reputation as a stern authority figure, Alastor was determined to ensure his safety. Though Crouch could be as formidable as some of the captured Death Eaters, Alastor's loyalty didn't waver. He would protect his boss at all costs. As Crouch aimed his wand and unleashed the spell, the room transformed before their eyes. The mass of flesh, once a grotesque display on the wall, began to wither and shrink, its color darkening to a desolate black. Piece by piece, the macabre composition fell from the wall, descending to the ground with a dreadful thud.

Crouch's swift turn prevented him from witnessing what Moody did. With each section of flesh released, previously obscured words emerged on the wall behind the grotesque mass of human flesh. From the distance they stood, Moody couldn't discern the exact words, realizing he would need to examine them more closely once Crouch emerged from the room.

Finally, Barty Crouch Senior exited the building, his face a mask of solemnity. He approached Amelia Bones without a word, his demeanor laden with a gravity that transcended their differences.

"Amelia, we haven't always seen eye to eye, I acknowledge that. While some of my decisions may have been influenced by political considerations, I've always prioritized the well-being of our people. It's for that reason that I make this proclamation: I name you as my successor. I'm resigning from my position, and I'll be discussing this with Minister Bagnold shortly. I apologize for thrusting this burden onto your shoulders," Crouch's voice carried a mixture of sincerity and regret.

Crouch turned to Moody next, addressing the issue at hand. "I'm aware you're next in line for the position, but I had reservations about your disposition and your inclination toward the role," he admitted. Moody's agreement was swift, the decision a clear one in his mind. "Amelia is the best choice," Moody affirmed just as Crouch gave a nod of agreement. With a soft crack, Crouch vanished from the scene, leaving behind the weight of his decisions.

"No time to adjust to your new job, boss. We have a problem," Moody's voice was brusque and laden with urgency as he spoke to Amelia, gesturing for her and Dumbledore to follow him. They entered the building, ascending to where the writing on the wall had been unveiled.

"We have watched. We have waited. You have failed, and we say NO MORE. We say this: it is your turn to watch, your turn to wait, your turn to experience fear. We declare: Death to all Purebloods!" The words etched on the wall bore a chilling manifesto, a callous declaration of intent that sent shivers down their spines. Beneath the inscription, a curious glyph, reminiscent of a modified Eye of Horus, caught their attention. It was followed by a signature that sent a grim realization reverberating through the air—the Ancient Heart.

The weight of the threat hung heavily in the room, the implications of these words and the signature itself carrying profound implications for the magical community. In the face of this sinister message, a new era of uncertainty had dawned.