CHAPTER SIX
The Fall Out
Professor Merrythought's office was a shrine to vigilance. Enchanted sconces flickered over Dark Detectors, their copper spirals quivering and shadows shifting in the Foe-Glass.
A massive orrery rotated slowly, its golden arms casting shadows that flickered with the red glow marking Germany—Grindelwald's growing power.
The four students—Moody, Prewett, Cecily, and Hagrid—sat stiffly before Merrythought's imposing desk. Despite the warmth of the fire, tension hung heavy in the air. Moody's jaw ached from clenching, Cecily fidgeted, and Hagrid hunched awkwardly in a chair far too small for him, his gaze fixed on the orrery's ominous glow.
Merrythought's sharp gaze swept over the students, her tone measured but firm. "Do you see this?" She gestured to the orrery, its red glow casting jagged shadows. "Prewett, your father's guarding our waters against Grindelwald. And you, Moody—your father gave up his ability to fly for the sake of keeping these shores safe. Half the castle is empty from fear—and you bring me this?"
The words landed with a dull weight, and Moody's jaw tightened. He shifted slightly in his chair, his grip tightening on the edge of his cloak. The mention of his father sent a ripple of discomfort through him—not outright anger, but a prickle of irritation that she'd dragged his family into this. His father's sacrifice wasn't something he liked to think about, let alone have tossed into a lecture. Still, he bit back a retort, his irritation smouldering just beneath the surface.
Her voice rose slightly, though not enough to shatter the tense quiet of the room. "Tom Riddle excels in every subject. Bringing me half-baked rumours like this—it's reckless."
Moody frowned, forcing himself to keep his expression neutral. Reckless? He didn't think so. Irritating Merrythought wasn't exactly fun, but this wasn't nothing, either. Still, doubt tugged at the edges of his thoughts. Had they overstepped? Dragged her into something that wouldn't amount to anything? The weight of her words sat heavily on his chest, but beneath it was a small, steady flame of conviction. He wouldn't have come here if he didn't think it mattered.
Merrythought turned sharply to Prewett, her expression softening just enough to allow a flicker of curiosity. "Is this personal?"
Prewett stammered, "Sorry, Professor. I know it's not much, but if you'd heard him—" He glanced at Cecily, who added quickly, "I didn't hear it, but you should've seen them. Pale as puffskeins, both of them."
"That notwithstanding," Merrythought snapped, "spreading rumors is reckless. Haven't you seen the Muggle signs? 'Careless Talk Costs Lives.' Imagine the consequences if Professor Slughorn caught wind of this."
Silence fell, heavy and oppressive. Then the door creaked open, and Professor Dumbledore entered, his calm authority softening the tension. "Ah, Galatea," he said lightly, his blue eyes twinkling. "I do hope I'm not interrupting."
Merrythought straightened, smoothing her robes. "Albus," she said coolly, "I wasn't aware you were even at Hogwarts these days." Her pointed tone hinted at her frustrations with his frequent absences.
Dumbledore inclined his head, his voice calm yet weary. "Understandable. I've only just returned from the Wizengamot. The Minister sought my perspective on matters of security. One must tread carefully when the world is so eager to tip."
His presence eased the room's tension, though Moody felt a pang of guilt for drawing him from critical work. Dumbledore's warm tone continued, "As Head of Gryffindor, I thought it prudent to join this discussion. After all, young Mr. Moody, Mr. Hagrid, and Miss Figg are in my house, and I wouldn't want them to feel unsupported."
Merrythought's lips thinned as she nodded curtly. "Very well, Albus. Perhaps you can talk some sense into him." She added sharply, "Though I half expect you to be preparing for the Minister's chair yourself."
"Twice, Galatea," Dumbledore said mildly, almost to himself, "twice, they have asked, and twice I have declined. Leadership is needed most where it matters, Galatea. Armando and I agreed I could do more beyond these walls."
Dumbledore's gaze shifted briefly to the students, his expression thoughtful, before returning to Merrythought. When he spoke, his voice was steady, measured. "Armando provides this castle with stability and wisdom—qualities I cannot always offer while my attention is… divided. It was a decision made out of trust and necessity, Galatea. Nothing more."
Merrythought's lips thinned, her frustration evident as she gestured sharply toward the orrery's ominous glow. "I can't do this alone, Albus. Half the parents are pulling their children out of school, the staff is stretched to breaking, and now this? If you won't lead, the least you could do is stay here to guide us."
Dumbledore's tone softened, his words deliberate. "I trust your judgment, Galatea. That trust is why I leave these matters in your capable hands."
Her reply came quick, tinged with sharpness. "Trust won't stop Grindelwald, nor will it contain the unrest brewing in these halls. Presence might."
Moody shifted in his seat, the weight of their exchange settling heavily on him. Dumbledore's calm precision and Merrythought's sharp frustration felt like part of a conversation far beyond him, one he hadn't been prepared to witness. His cheeks burned faintly, and he glanced at his hands, hoping to hide the sense that he didn't quite belong.
The silence that followed was thick, every word unsaid tightening the air. Dumbledore's gaze softened, almost wistful, before he finally spoke. "You may be right," he said quietly. "But I've found I am far more effective where the chaos is."
"And now," he continued, his voice calm but purposeful, "what seems to be the concern?"
Moody swallowed, straightening under Dumbledore's steady gaze. Despite his relief at Dumbledore's presence, the guilt gnawed at him; he just hoped it had been worth it.
Prewett spoke first, his words halting but earnest. "Professor, we overheard Tom Riddle in The Three Broomsticks. He said something would happen on Halloween—something that would change Hogwarts. He said, 'The masks will fall. Hogwarts will finally reflect what it was always meant to be.'"
Dumbledore's bright blue eyes rested on Cecily for a moment before drifting to Moody and Prewett. His gaze, calm yet piercing, seemed to weigh their words as though measuring the truth against some unseen scale. The air in the room grew heavier, the faint hum of the Dark Detectors and the rhythmic ticking of the orrery the only sounds cutting through the silence. The flickering firelight painted their faces in shifting shadows, adding to the suffocating stillness.
Moody looked down then stole a glance at Dumbledore, whose calm, unreadable expression only made the guilt worse. What if the professor agreed with her?
After a long pause, Dumbledore spoke, his tone even but probing. "And nothing else?"
"No, sir," Moody replied, his voice taut with frustration. "But isn't that enough? The way he said it—it wasn't harmless. It was... reverent. Like he's planning something."
The words came out harder than he intended, and Moody's jaw clenched. His chest tightened with a mix of determination and guilt. The knowledge of what Dumbledore had been doing before he returned to Hogwarts weighed on him like a leaden cloak. Advising the Minister for Magic on international security felt galaxies away from this—an overheard remark, suspicions of a teenage boy.
Moody's mind churned. What if Dumbledore thought this was a waste of his time? What if he was right? Yet the memory of Tom Riddle's tone—calculated, reverent—clung to him like a curse, driving his conviction even as his conscience prickled.
Dumbledore tilted his head slightly, considering. The silence stretched, each second pressing on Moody like a physical force. When the professor finally spoke, his voice was calm but carried an undeniable weight. "I see," he said, his tone layered with meanings Moody couldn't decipher.
The faintest flicker of weariness passed over Dumbledore's face, gone almost as quickly as it came, and Moody felt his stomach twist. Glancing down, Moody tightened his grip on the edge of his cloak, guilt coiling tighter around his chest. He'd made his choice to bring this forward, but the weight of that choice was heavier than he'd expected.
Merrythought exhaled sharply, the sound echoing her growing exasperation. "This is all conjecture, Albus. These children are spinning an elaborate tale out of nothing more than their own anxieties."
Dumbledore raised a hand slightly, a gesture that quieted the room without force. His gaze lingered on the glowing Earth within the orrery, as though drawing wisdom from its slow rotation. "And yet," he said softly, "even anxieties have roots, Galatea. The question is, how deep those roots run—and what they may yet reveal."
He turned back to the students, his expression thoughtful but kind. "Tom Riddle is a name that commands attention, not only for his academic excellence but for his... particular charisma. It is not unreasonable to suspect that he might attract admirers—or followers, as you suggest. But suspicion alone does not warrant action."
Moody leaned forward, his frustration breaking through. "But, sir—"
Dumbledore's gaze softened, and he interrupted gently. "What would you have me do, Alastor? Confront Tom or Professor Slughorn, his head of house, with vague accusations? Investigate students whose only crime is excelling in their studies? To act without proof risks far more than you might realize. Shadows thrive on fear, and the more we chase them in haste, the darker they grow."
Moody looked away, his frustration deflating into embarrassment. Prewett shifted uneasily in his seat, while Cecily stared at her lap, her earlier resolve now flickering uncertainly. The weight of the conversation hung heavy in the air.
Merrythought stepped forward, her tone sharp but laced with a flicker of restraint. "You've been heard. But I suggest more care in the future, Mr. Moody. Words have consequences—ones that ripple far beyond yourself."
As the tension seemed to ease, Moody's mind sparked. He sat upright, his eyes narrowing on Hagrid. "Wait—Hagrid, you were following those seventh years in Hogsmeade, weren't you?"
Hagrid froze, his eyes wide. "Wha—what're yeh talkin' about?" he stammered.
"You were keeping an eye on Audrey Potter and her lot," Moody pressed. "What did you see?"
The room stilled, all eyes on Hagrid. He fidgeted, clutching his robes as his face reddened. "I didn't see nothin' worth mentionin'," he mumbled. "They were laughin', talkin'—They said somethin' about gloves and maybe costumes, 'nd usin' an abandoned classroom. Honest, it were nothin' serious."
Merrythought's expression hardened, her voice cutting through his defenses. "Costumes?" she repeated, her tone incredulous. "You mean to tell me this entire charade stems from Halloween costumes and idle chatter?"
Her lips pressed into a thin line as a shadow flickered across her face, her voice softening for a fleeting moment. "Do you have any idea what false accusations can cost?" She paused, her gaze distant. "During my training, I saw a man ruined by whispers—his life, his family, gone because someone spoke without thinking. Careless talk…"
The weight of her words lingered in the room as her eyes snapped back to the students. "You've disrupted this school's peace and tarnished the name of a brilliant student like Tom Riddle for this? I will not have it. Five points will be taken from each of your houses."
The students sat in stunned silence as Merrythought turned away, her features once again composed, but the moment of vulnerability hung in the air like a ghost.
The room descended into a stunned silence, broken only by the faint whirring of the orrery in the background. Dumbledore, who had remained silent during Merrythought's outburst, finally stepped forward, his calm voice cutting through the tension.
"Galatea," he said gently, "I believe we have all had our tempers tested tonight. Let us not lose sight of the lessons here—for all involved."
His gaze shifted to Hagrid, then to Moody and Prewett, his voice taking on a pointed edge. "It seems we have all spent quite a bit of time observing others—listening to their words, speculating on their intentions. But perhaps," his eyes twinkled slightly, though his tone remained serious, "it would be wiser to reflect on our own actions. After all, vigilance must begin within."
The words hit Moody like a hex, cold and cutting. From within. He'd known it—felt it in every glance, every whisper in the halls. But hearing it spoken aloud made it real in a way he wasn't ready for. His hand brushed the wand tucked in his sleeve, seeking reassurance in its familiar weight. If it came to it, would he be ready?
Dumbledore's gaze softened once more as he turned to Hagrid, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "And Mr. Hagrid, I must say, I've always found Bowtruckles far more predictable than students. Perhaps next time, they might provide more fruitful observations?"
Hagrid blinked, startled by the sudden shift in tone, before letting out a nervous chuckle. "Aye, Bowtruckles are a simpler lot, sir."
The gentle humor worked to diffuse the tension in the room. Merrythought exhaled sharply, clearly working to rein in her temper, while Cecily and Prewett exchanged uncertain glances. Moody slumped back into his chair, his earlier confidence thoroughly deflated.
Dumbledore turned his attention back to the students, his tone steady but kind. "You have done well to bring your concerns to us, but for now, we must wait. Halloween will come soon enough," he said, his tone grave but steady. "And if there is truth in what you've heard, it will not remain hidden for long."
The door to Merrythought's office closed softly behind them, and the group stood in uneasy silence. The corridor was unnervingly still, the torchlight casting restless shadows across their faces. Moody started toward Gryffindor Tower with purposeful strides, while Hagrid shuffled behind, his broad shoulders slumped in thought. Prewett lingered at the back, staring at the door as though expecting it to swing open and call them back in.
As they climbed the staircase, Prewett finally broke the silence, his voice quiet but strained. "I don't understand," he said, his words trembling at the edges. "How could they just... dismiss it? Did we say it wrong? Did I—" He stopped, dragging a hand through his hair. "Did I mess it up somehow?"
Moody slowed, glancing back. "It's not your fault, Prewett."
"Isn't it?" Prewett asked sharply, though his tone wasn't angry—just raw. "I'm the one who pushed to talk to Merrythought. And I—I couldn't even make her listen. I don't think I've ever been so..." He trailed off, shaking his head as if the words were too bitter to say.
"So ignored," Moody finished for him.
Prewett hesitated, then nodded, his eyes fixed on the stairs ahead. "I don't get it. It's not like I've never had to convince someone before, but this... She didn't just ignore us. She looked at me like I was wasting her time."
Hagrid cleared his throat, his voice hesitant. "Maybe Dumbledore'll keep an eye on things. Yeh know, even if Merrythought doesn't take it serious."
Prewett gave a short, bitter laugh. "Yeah. Sure. Let's hope 'keeping an eye on things' is good enough when Halloween rolls around, and something awful happens."
"Prewett," Moody cut in, his tone firm. "Stop it. Blaming yourself won't fix anything."
Prewett stopped walking, staring down at the stone steps as if they held the answer to some unspoken question. "I just—I thought if we were right, if we had the facts, they'd have to believe us. Isn't that how it's supposed to work?"
Moody turned back, studying him for a moment. "It's not always about facts. Sometimes people just don't want to see what's in front of them."
Prewett's shoulders slumped, and for a moment, he looked almost small despite his usual confident demeanor. "I thought we could stop it," he said quietly, his voice barely audible.
Moody stepped closer, his voice softening. "We still can. But we'll have to do it ourselves."
Moody glanced at Prewett, then Cecily and Hagrid, their determination reflecting his own. He might not have Dumbledore's wisdom or Merrythought's authority, but his instincts hadn't failed him yet. And he'd be damned if he let them now.
"If we're wrong," Cecily said softly, "this could backfire. Badly."
Moody's gaze hardened. "Then we don't give them a reason to suspect us. We watch. We prepare. And if something happens, we're ready."
They reached the Fat Lady's portrait, and Moody gave the password, the painting swinging open to reveal the warm glow of the common room. Prewett hesitated in the doorway, his gaze sweeping the room with a distracted air.
"It's... cozy," he said after a moment, his voice subdued. "I guess that makes sense for Gryffindors. You lot need somewhere to retreat when all that bravado wears off."
Moody raised an eyebrow but didn't rise to the bait. "What were you expecting?"
Prewett shrugged faintly, his lips quirking in an effort at humor. "Something bigger, grander. But no, this feels..." He hesitated, searching for the word. "Safe."
As they stepped into the Gryffindor common room, the warmth of the fire washed over them, but it did little to chase away the chill of frustration lingering from Merrythought's dismissal. Moody dropped heavily onto the settee nearest the hearth, his head leaning back against the cushion with a weary sigh. Cecily followed, folding her legs underneath her as she settled beside him. Hagrid sank carefully into the oversized armchair opposite, his large hands gripping the arms as though to steady himself. Prewett hesitated before slumping into the remaining seat on the settee, his movements sharp with irritation.
The fire crackled, filling the silence with soft pops and hisses. None of them spoke for a long moment, their earlier resolve tempered by the weight of Merrythought's indifference. It was Cecily who finally broke the silence, tilting her head toward Prewett. "You sure you'll be alright getting back to Ravenclaw Tower? It's late."
Prewett let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Oh, I'll manage," he said, his voice bitter. "Not like the teachers are going to notice anything, anyway. They're all too busy fighting Grindelwald to keep their students safe. Isn't that the real message here? 'Don't cause trouble, don't expect help, and whatever you do, don't be a nuisance while the grown-ups are saving the world.'"
Cecily winced, glancing at Moody as if hoping for backup. "That's not fair, Gideon. They're doing the best they can—"
"Are they?" Prewett cut her off, his voice rising slightly. "Because it sure doesn't feel like it. They've got enough time to lecture us about spreading rumors but not enough to even consider that we might be right."
"Blaming them isn't going to help," Moody said quietly, his voice firm but not unkind. "We know what we heard, and we know what we have to do. That hasn't changed."
Prewett opened his mouth, then closed it again, his frustration giving way to something closer to resignation. He sank back into the settee, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. "It just feels... wrong," he muttered. "If something happens, it's going to be down to us."
"Maybe it is," Moody replied, his voice quiet but resolute. "But that's why we stick together. If Riddle's planning something, we'll stop him."
Prewett frowned, his thoughts visibly racing. "He's a Slytherin," he began slowly, his tone uncertain but growing sharper with each word. "And he's got this tight-knit group around him—Rosier, Lestrange, all of them. They're practically his shadows. And it's not just students, is it? He seems to have Slughorn wrapped around his little finger. And now—" He hesitated, his expression darkening. "Now it feels like Merrythought's playing along, too."
Moody's jaw tightened, but he let Prewett speak.
Prewett leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You know, I heard a rumor about him once. Apparently, he's an orphan—doesn't have a proper home to go back to. Instead, every summer, he stays with one of those pureblood families hanging around him—Rosier, Lestrange, maybe even Malfoy. They've practically adopted him."
A faint smirk tugged at Prewett's lips. "It's almost funny, isn't it? Him with no family, hopping from one grand estate to another like some—"
"People don't choose their families, Prewett," Moody interrupted, his voice cutting through the air like a whip. He sat up straighter, fixing Prewett with a hard stare. "And that's not what makes him dangerous."
Prewett blinked, startled by Moody's tone. "I wasn't—"
"I know what you meant," Moody said, his voice firm but measured. "But that doesn't change anything. Riddle's not dangerous because of where he came from. It's what he's doing now, and we need to focus on that."
Prewett opened his mouth as if to argue, then closed it again, his face flushing slightly. "Alright, fair enough," he muttered, looking away. "But it's still odd, isn't it? These families, treating their bloodlines like they're sacred, letting someone like him in."
Cecily tilted her head thoughtfully, breaking the tension. "Maybe they see him as one of them. Not by blood, but by… I don't know, ambition. Riddle doesn't need a name to make people follow him. He just knows how to make himself… indispensable."
"Or he's using them," Moody muttered darkly. "They're not adopting him; they're being played."
Prewett nodded slowly. "And the worst part is, I think they know it. And they don't even care."
His voice grew more heated as he spoke, but then he sat bolt upright, his eyes wide. "Blimey! Why didn't I think of it before?"
Moody blinked, startled by the sudden outburst. "Think of what?"
Prewett turned to face him, his earlier frustration replaced by a sharp, almost frantic energy. "Slughorn! He's having one of his soirées on Halloween night. He invited me weeks ago, but I didn't think anything of it. Riddle's bound to be there—he's Slughorn's favorite!"
Cecily raised her eyebrows, the tension in the room breaking slightly. "Of course Slughorn's having a party while the rest of us are stuffing our faces at the feast. Typical."
Moody leaned forward, narrowing his eyes. "You can keep an eye on him there."
Prewett nodded, his expression hardening with determination. "I will. If he so much as breathes suspiciously, I'll see it."
Cecily grinned, leaning back into the arm of the settee. "Well, if Gideon's playing spy at the soirée, someone needs to keep an eye on the library. If Riddle's up to something, he might've left breadcrumbs there."
"I'll cover the grounds," Hagrid volunteered, his deep voice rumbling with quiet resolve. "Won't let anythin' slither past me out there."
Moody glanced around at the group, feeling a flicker of hope amidst the tension. "Alright. We keep watch. No assumptions, no jumping to conclusions—just eyes open, all of us."
Cecily gave a mock salute. "Aye aye, captain."
As the clock chimed faintly, the group began to disband. Cecily rose first, brushing crumbs from her skirt. "Don't let paranoia keep you up, Moody," she teased, shooting him a grin as she slipped out. Hagrid stretched, his frame casting a shadow over the room. "I'll check the grounds first thing. G'night," he said, lumbering off with heavy steps.
Prewett lingered, his hands tucked into his pockets as he watched the fire. "Don't overthink it, Moody. We've got this." His voice was soft, almost reassuring.
As he moved to leave, his fingers brushed against Moody's hand on the armrest—light, fleeting, almost like an afterthought. But it sent a jolt through Moody's chest. Prewett didn't seem to notice or, if he did, gave no sign. He glanced back with a faint smile, his auburn hair catching the firelight. "Goodnight, Alastor."
"Goodnight," Moody replied, though his voice caught slightly in his throat.
The room fell silent, save for the dying crackle of the fire. Moody slumped into his chair, the day replaying in his mind. It had been a whirlwind: the overheard words in Hogsmeade, the confrontation with Merrythought, Dumbledore's calm intervention, and now this plan. Yet, through it all, Prewett stood out.
Moody exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. Being with Prewett today had felt… incredible. Gideon's quick mind, his easy confidence—it was infuriating, maddening, and exhilarating all at once. And terrifying. The brief brush of his fingers on Moody's hand lingered, faint but inescapable, like the glow of embers refusing to fade.
He shifted in his chair, his gaze fixed on the fire's remnants. He hadn't asked again. He'd meant to, but Riddle had interrupted—shifting the moment away before Moody could find the courage. But why hadn't Prewett brought it up, either? Had he forgotten? Or had he avoided it?
He imagined his father's voice, calm but clipped. "A pilot doesn't get caught up in distractions, Alastor. You've got a mission. Focus on it. Stay sharp." The words weighed heavily, steadying and suffocating all at once. His father, with his unshakable focus, would never understand this.
Prewett's touch lingered like the faint glow of embers, stubbornly refusing to fade. Why did he have to light up every moment, every plan? Moody groaned, burying his face in his hands. He needed focus. Distractions like this could get them all killed.
And then it struck him. Prewett hadn't said yes. Or no.
Moody sat up, his heart thudding in his chest. Had it been deliberate? An oversight? Or was Prewett leaving him to figure it out on his own?
Leaning back in his chair, Moody rubbed his temples with a low groan. The embers glowed faintly as the room darkened around him. One thought lingered, persistent and maddening:
What if it was?
