1977 - still late February - Dumbledore Manor
As the minutes stretched on, the fireplace in the adjacent room roared to life, casting the walls a green hue. Fleamont Potter leaped from his chair to greet Poppy Pomfrey, who appeared frazzled as she emerged from the flames.
"Mister Potter, what is the meaning of this?" she asked, slightly out of breath, presumably from rushing around her office at Hogwarts to gather supplies with the scant information she had received upon being summoned.
"We have a gravely injured witch who appeared during our meeting tonight, bringing the lifeless body of what we assume is her mother," he replied in a hushed voice, the haunting images still fresh in his mind.
"Just appeared? How is this possible? I thought the manor was under the Fidelius."
"It is, but Albus should provide a clearer explanation once he's in the right state of mind to address our inquiries," the Potter Matriarch replied solemnly, stirring further questions in the healer's mind. As she followed Fleamont to the other room, she observed the occupants standing in small groups on the far side, their faces etched with grim expressions. Her gaze settled on the centre of the room, where Albus and Euphemia stood silently over a young woman, working diligently to aid the battered witch.
"Albus," Poppy's voice was gentle as she sought his attention. Glimpses of the young witch told her something terrible had happened. The ashen pallor on his face as he turned towards her only confirmed her fears. Never before, in all her years of knowing him, had she seen such distress etched on his features.
"Poppy. Thank Merlin, you're here," he exhaled with palpable relief, stepping aside but refusing to release the witch's hand. Euphemia acknowledged the Hogwarts Medi-Witch with a nod before stowing her wand away and joining her husband at the table's side.
"What happened?"
"I don't know. We did our best to provide care, but our healing skills aren't as adept as yours. She lost consciousness shortly after arriving, leaving us with no clear information on what she endured," he spoke softly, earning a nod from Poppy.
"It's probably best if you leave the room so I can work on her. Euphemia, please stay with me."
"I'll stay too," Albus declared, his determination evident in his voice.
"It's best that you don't. You don't seem to have your wits about you, and I imagine there are some questions that need to be answered. I will work on her with Euphemia's assistance, and we will update you as soon as we can," Poppy replied firmly, leaving no room for further discussion. Hesitating for a brief moment, Albus nodded and gestured for the other members of the room to follow him out, his gaze passing over the deceased woman, who had been carefully levitated to the side by Minerva.
He guided them to the dining room down the hall, observing as the shaken members of the Order dispersed throughout the room, their eyes filled with uncertainty as they looked to him. "I assume you have questions," he rasped, his gaze fixed on the wooden table before him rather than meeting theirs.
"She referred to you as 'dad'," Edgar Bones spoke up, breaking the silence.
"Yes, she did. I am," Albus affirmed quietly.
No one knew quite how to respond to his revelation. The shock of the evening's events, combined with the sudden revelation that Albus Dumbledore had a daughter that no one knew about, left them all speechless.
Albus began, his voice faltering as the weight of his words settled upon him, the memory of the deceased woman haunting his thoughts. "Her mother, Seraphina Sarris, was a formidable witch from a prominent Greek wizarding family. We met during a joint research endeavour years ago and fell in love. However, we chose to keep our relationship secret due to the implications my name holds in Wizarding Britain, particularly concerning Voldemort and his Death Eaters."
"After two years, Hermione was born, and she became the single best thing that ever happened to me," Albus continued, his gaze distant with memories. "But it was imperative that no one knew about her. If Voldemort had discovered her existence, she would have been an easy target."
No one dared to speak, captivated by the anguish and pain evident in his voice as they absorbed the revelation of his secret life.
"Hermione, shielded from the weight of war, lived a childhood immersed in the teachings of Seraphina and her family in Greece. Their magical tradition, differing from ours, favoured wandless and non-verbal magic—an art they diligently instilled in her. Our days overflowed with warmth and laughter, as we embraced moments of love and shared knowledge. We poured all our affection into her, hoping it would be enough to shield her from harm. Sadly, it appears our efforts fell short," he sighed, his voice laden with resignation, conveying the gravity of the situation to the members of the Order of the Phoenix.
"Albus, this wasn't your doing," Minerva whispered, unable to bear the sight of the broken man before her.
"Wasn't it? We spoke on the Floo last night. She was so excited to tell me about her day and the growth of her potion business, which she started six months ago. I should have been more cautious," he responded dryly.
"I'm deeply sorry for your loss, Albus. I assume the woman Hermione brought with her is Seraphina, given the striking resemblance between them," Edgar said, offering as much empathy as he could muster. He understood that no words could ever fully assuage the pain of losing a loved one.
Albus nodded in acknowledgment of Edgar's words, but his gaze remained distant, lost in the tumult of his own thoughts and emotions. The weight of grief bore heavily upon him, a burden that seemed almost too much to bear. His mind drifted back to Seraphina, his beloved wife, whose memory is vibrant in his head.
Images of her laughter, her gentle touch, and the warmth of her embrace flooded his mind, each memory a bittersweet reminder of what he had lost. He had never imagined a life without her, and now the reality of her absence cuts him to the core.
But amidst his grief, there was another source of anguish, a gnawing fear that threatened to consume him—the sight of Hermione, gravely injured and fighting for her life in the next room. His heart ached at the thought of her pain and of the uncertainty that shrouded her future.
Albus knew he had to be strong, for Hermione's sake and for the sake of those who relied on him. But inside, he felt as though he was crumbling, his resolve wavering in the face of such profound loss and uncertainty. As he stood in an almost dark dining room, surrounded by his fellow members of the Order, he struggled to find the strength to carry on and face the challenges that lay ahead. But deep down, he knew that he had no choice but to keep moving forward and to cling to hope even in the darkest of times.
As the weight of the moment settled over them, Arthur cleared his throat, breaking the heavy silence that enveloped the room. "Albus, we understand this is a difficult time for you. If you need anything—anything at all—please don't hesitate to ask. We'll be here to support you and Hermione in any way we can."
The sentiment was echoed by nods and murmurs of agreement from the other members of the Order, each offering their silent solidarity to their leader in his time of need.
Minerva stepped forward, her voice gentle but resolute. "We can discuss the details later, Albus. For now, please take the time you need to grieve. We'll handle things here."
Albus nodded, a silent acknowledgment of their understanding and support. Though his heart ached with grief and worry for Hermione, he took solace in the knowledge that he was not alone—that he had the unwavering support of his friends and allies in the Order of the Phoenix.
As he made his way down the hallway towards the room where Hermione lay, he was met by Poppy Pomfrey hurrying in his direction. Her expression was grave, and Albus's heart clenched with a mix of dread and anticipation.
"Poppy," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, "how is she?"
Poppy paused, her features softening with sympathy as she placed a reassuring hand on his arm. "She's stable for now, Albus, but her injuries are severe. She's suffered multiple lacerations, broken bones, and internal bleeding. Some of the wounds were inflicted by a cursed knife, which has made her condition even more precarious."
Albus felt a wave of nausea wash over him at the mention of the cursed knife. The thought of Hermione enduring such pain sent a surge of anguish through him, tightening his chest with an unbearable weight.
"We're doing everything we can," Poppy continued, her voice gentle but tinged with concern, "but she's not out of the woods yet."
Albus nodded, his mind reeling with worry. "Thank you, Poppy. Please, keep me updated on her condition."
With a nod of understanding, Poppy rushed back inside the meeting room, leaving Albus alone with his thoughts. He sagged against the wall, sliding down to the floor. Despite his years of experience and wisdom, he felt utterly powerless in the face of his daughter's suffering.
As Albus retreated into the quiet confines of his thoughts, the remaining members of the Order of the Phoenix lingered in the dining room, their minds abuzz with the weight of the evening's revelations. With a collective understanding of the gravity of the situation, they began to strategize and assign responsibilities.
Minerva McGonagall, her voice steady despite the turmoil within her, took charge of coordinating surveillance efforts. "Alastor, I need you to liaise with the Auror Department and gather any intelligence they have on Death Eater movements. We'll need to establish a network of informants and increase patrols in vulnerable areas," she directed, her gaze unwavering as she met Alastor Moody's eyes.
Fleamont Potter, his expression grave, stepped forward to assist. "I'll work on strengthening the wards around Dumbledore Manor and reinforcing security measures. We can't afford any breaches, especially not now," he declared, his determination evident in every word.
Arthur Weasley, his mind already brimming with ideas, stepped forward to tackle the communication issue. "I'll explore alternative methods of communication, ones that can't be intercepted or tampered with. We need a secure way to stay in touch without risking exposure, especially considering the unreliability of the Patronus," he declared, his eyes shining with determination.
Meanwhile, Fabian and Gideon Prewett exchanged a knowing glance, silently acknowledging the gravity of the situation. "We'll need to bolster our patrols and tighten security measures around Hogwarts," Fabian proposed, his tone resolute.
As the members of the Order of the Phoenix dispersed, each tasked with their assignments, a sense of urgency hung in the air, mingling with the weight of sorrow. In the dimly lit corridor, Albus Dumbledore remained seated against the wall, his thoughts consumed by his gravely injured daughter.