CHAPTER 28: THE NOBILITY OF DARKNESS

Albus Dumbledore found himself utterly taken aback. The situation involving Harry Potter had spiraled far beyond his expectations ever since that fateful night during the Third Task of the Triwizard Tournament. It had all started with the inexplicable monochromatic barrier, an eerie force that seemed to drain the very essence of life and color from the world. Witnessing Harry sprawled on the ground, his heart still bravely pulsating amidst the lifeless bodies strewn about, had etched a haunting image in Dumbledore's mind. It was an idea that he had occasionally contemplated but ultimately dismissed—a notion that had crept into his thoughts from time to time.

The boy's loss of control during the interrogation was deeply troubling. Dark and profoundly twisted magic, unlike anything Dumbledore had encountered in his one hundred and fifty years of experience, loomed over Harry, casting an ominous protective shadow.

That aura, that unnatural aura, left Dumbledore profoundly unsettled. Tom Riddle, in his quest for power, had committed countless horrifying acts, some too dreadful to even contemplate. He had employed his formidable intellect to delve into the darkest and most forbidden aspects of magic, constructing a sinister existence that Dumbledore would not even consider at his most vulnerable. And yet, despite all of Riddle's atrocities, the aura surrounding Harry seemed to dwarf even the malevolence of Lord Voldemort himself.

As the days unfolded, Dumbledore delved deeper into the mystery, his thoughts a tumultuous sea of contemplation and concern. He found himself poring over ancient tomes and dusty scrolls in the restricted section of Hogwarts library, seeking any shred of information that could offer insight into the nature of the enigmatic force that had ensnared Harry that night. Every chapter he turned, every arcane symbol he deciphered, only deepened the sense of foreboding that lingered in the air.

For days that followed, Dumbledore grappled with the haunting notion that he might have conjured the entire experience from his imagination. Was it a trick of his aging mind, playing cruel tricks on him in moments of vulnerability? Or was there truly something otherworldly at play, something that defied the very laws of magic he had spent a lifetime studying?

Then, in an unexpected turn of events, Tom Riddle sent him a memory—a Pensieve-like recollection of the events that had transpired that ominous night. The memories swirled and danced in the silvery substance, revealing the raw emotions and the unfiltered reality of what had occurred. Dumbledore found himself captivated, unable to tear his gaze away from the unfolding scenes that played out before him. It was as if he were transported back to that haunted maze, feeling the oppressive magic that permeated every inch of the space.

The revelation brought both clarity and a new layer of complexity to Dumbledore's understanding. The memory wasn't a mere recounting of events—it was a glimpse into the very fabric of the magical forces at play. As Dumbledore delved into the intricacies of the memory, he realized that what he had perceived as malevolence was, in fact, a delicate balance between light and dark, life and death, teetering on the edge of cosmic significance.

This newfound knowledge only fueled Dumbledore's determination to guide and protect Harry, recognizing the profound destiny that awaited the young wizard. The echoes of that night continued to reverberate in his mind, and as he delved deeper into the complexities of the magical world, Dumbledore knew that the true nature of Harry's connection to the mysterious force was a puzzle that required the utmost care and attention. The journey ahead was uncertain, and Dumbledore, with a heavy heart and a mind ablaze with curiosity, prepared to unravel the enigma that surrounded the Chosen One.

And it was at this point that Dumbledore's worst nightmares became a startling reality. Harry Potter, the one destined to confront Lord Voldemort, left him grappling with a haunting uncertainty. Would this confrontation signify the ultimate victory of Light over Darkness, or would it be the unsettling ascent of an abominable force over the ashes of a dark wizard? Albus found himself in the throes of doubt, questioning the very essence of right and wrong, truth and illusion. Was the boy Sirius Black proudly presented as his godson truly the Harry Potter he had known, or was he a monstrous entity, donning the boy's identity like a macabre disguise?

Uncertainty gnawed at him.

Uncertainty gnawed at him.

Until this moment.

A third, unexpected variable entered the equation, one that Albus had never before entertained. How could he have foreseen it? None could have anticipated the revelation that had jolted him during Harry's appearance before the Wizengamot.

The Peverell Family Magic.

Harry James Potter, its Lord and Master, had claimed it by virtue of his status as a Vessel.

The sheer weight of this revelation was mind-boggling, unleashing a tidal wave of memories that battered against Dumbledore's consciousness. These were memories of a time so distant that it felt like the recollections of a different lifetime.

The Peverells—the originators of the Deathly Hallows, a trio of powerful artifacts capable of endowing their wielder with the Power of the Master of Death, a term young Albus had once associated with invincibility. In the past, Gellert and he had believed that collecting all Three Hallows was the key to unlocking the long-lost Peverell bloodline. They had committed unspeakable acts in their fervent pursuit of this power. And now, after decades of waiting, a Vessel had emerged, representing a Clan that had been extinct for fifteen hundred years.

Dumbledore and Gellert's past misjudgment regarding the Hallows was undeniably clear, but it posed a pressing question: had he also been mistaken about Harry Potter? Could it be that the extraordinary power he had sensed in that graveyard, the enigmatic presence that had manifested in his office, and the disturbing glimpse he had seen in Tom's memory were not abominations or the consequences of the horcrux, but rather the indomitable and unfathomable essence of Peverell Magic?

The Power of the Master of Death.

Was this the concealed source of Harry's immunity to the Killing Curse? Could the Curse of Sundering sever the soul of one who defied death?

He continued to gaze at Harry Potter, his contemplation giving way to laughter. It was not a laughter of madness but a laughter born of understanding, a recognition of the cosmic significance that intertwined with the boy's destiny. In that moment, Dumbledore realized that the threads of fate were more intricate than he could have ever imagined, weaving together the past, present, and future in a tapestry of magic, mystery, and unforeseen possibilities.

As the laughter subsided, Dumbledore's eyes held a glint of determination. He understood that the road ahead was fraught with peril and uncertainty, but he also knew that Harry Potter, with the dormant power of the Peverells coursing through his veins, held the key to a destiny that could reshape the very fabric of the magical world. The Power of the Master of Death was both a blessing and a curse, and Dumbledore, with a newfound clarity, prepared to guide Harry through the labyrinth of challenges that awaited, fully aware that the boy's journey would not only determine his own fate but also the fate of all those touched by the tapestry of destiny.

It began as a faint chuckle, soft and hardly recognizable as laughter, but it quickly gained momentum. His shoulders trembled as the laughter intensified, ultimately reaching a crescendo as he threw his head back and roared with mirth. It was the laughter of a man who had been blindsided by extraordinarily good news. It was the laughter of a man who had just grasped the meaning of the most comical joke he had ever heard. It was the laughter of someone utterly delighted by a surprise gift.

The entire Wizengamot sat stupefied, their eyes fixed on Albus Dumbledore as his entire frame convulsed with the force of his laughter. And still, it continued, until he seemed to run out of breath, and his laughter gradually tapered off to the soft chuckles with which it had all begun. By the time he regained his composure, everyone in the chamber, including Harry himself, wore bewildered expressions, struggling to comprehend the sudden outburst.

"Poetic," he declared, flashing the extraordinary young boy a wide and uncharacteristically mischievous smile. "Tom accomplished seemingly impossible feats of magic, ventured down paths with no return, transformed himself into an abomination so vile that he can hardly be called a human being anymore, all due to his unrelenting fear of death, and now..."

He turned his gaze towards Harry, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "Death has finally caught up with him. The power he—"

And once more, laughter overcame him.

"Um, Chief Warlock..." Dullard interjected tentatively.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," Albus waved him off with a dismissive gesture. "Yes, this has been a most delightful surprise." He beamed at Harry. "I'm exceptionally intrigued to witness the path you'll chart for House Peverell, young Lord. I had the privilege of witnessing your ascension to the title of Lord Peverell. You may now take your rightful place."

"Are you suggesting that what transpired at the cemetery was a consequence of this Peverell family magic?" inquired Joseph Macmillan.

"Lord Macmillan," Albus reprimanded gently, "I'll reiterate my earlier statement. Harry Potter's trial has not officially commenced yet. I would kindly ask that you restrict your questions, statements, and objections to the matters related to his notices."

Macmillan nodded, suitably chastened. "My apologies, Chief Warlock," he muttered before retaking his seat.

A familiar clearing of the throat interrupted the proceedings. "Hem-hem!"

The irritation was beginning to fester within him. What now, he wondered, as the first inklings of annoyance took root. Undoubtedly, this woman – Cornelius's secretary – had something exceptionally irksome in mind. This was precisely why he loathed the intricacies of politics.

"Yes?" He turned toward the woman. "Madam Umbridge?"

Dolores Umbridge, with her toad-like features and a penchant for wearing bows that seemed to clash with her overall demeanor, stood with an air of false politeness. "Chief Warlock Dumbledore, I couldn't help but notice the jovial atmosphere, but let us not forget the seriousness of this trial."

Dumbledore's eyes narrowed, and a bemused smile played on his lips. "Of course, Madam Umbridge. We shall proceed with the utmost gravity. Please, continue."

Umbridge cleared her throat again, seemingly pleased to have the Chief Warlock's attention. "I would like to remind everyone that Harry Potter stands accused of violating the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy, and the use of underage magic in the presence of Muggles. These are grave charges that demand our undivided attention."

Dumbledore's smile remained, but a flicker of annoyance flashed in his eyes. The unexpected twist in the trial's tone did not escape his notice. The stage was set for a more serious, controlled discussion, but Dumbledore, ever the master of adaptability, leaned forward, his gaze unwavering.

"Indeed, Madam Umbridge, we shall not forget the gravity of the charges. But, as you astutely pointed out, it seems we have an additional layer of complexity to consider—the Peverell Family Magic. A matter that, I believe, deserves its due examination. Wouldn't you agree?"

Umbridge's toad-like eyes widened, and for a moment, her confident facade wavered. The unexpected turn in Dumbledore's response had caught her off guard, and the atmosphere in the chamber shifted as the Wizengamot members exchanged uncertain glances. The trial had taken an unforeseen detour, and Dumbledore, ever the orchestrator of fate, awaited the next move in this intricate dance of power and revelation.

She responded with a sickeningly sweet smile. "My apologies for the interruption, Chief Warlock. You see, prior to my appointment as Senior Undersecretary to the Ministry, I was employed at the ICW Archives."

"I fail to see how this is relevant to the current proclamation," snapped Amelia Bones.

Umbridge offered a portly bow. "Oh, I apologize, DMLE Director," she said with a nervous chuckle. "However, the matter I wish to address concerns the reactivation of House Peverell. To the best of my knowledge, it was not originally listed among the Founding Houses of the Wizengamot."

Albus exhaled, sensing that her words were leading to trouble.

"As per Clause 21A of the Inheritance Act within the Wizengamot Charter, last revised in 1931," Umbridge continued, "the failure of a Noble House to pay their annual Wizengamot dues—amounting to eight thousand galleons, adjusted for inflation—over three consecutive years would be deemed a serious breach of protocol. Such a breach would result in their seat being declared dormant or forfeited." She cast a pointed glance in Potter's direction before adding, "Article 133 of the Charter also stipulates that Noble Houses are regarded as members of the Wizengamot from its very founding."

"Where is this leading?" inquired Augusta Longbottom.

Umbridge cleared her throat. "Hem! This is me pointing out that House Peverell has transgressed on both counts. It is a millennium too late to seek admission into this esteemed assembly."

Dolores Umbridge made a stiff bow to the assembly. "I mean no disrespect to this esteemed Body, but should House Peverell seek to obtain a seat, one it never held in the first place, it must fulfill its obligation to the Wizengamot by paying its annual dues from the very beginning until the Founding Day—equivalent to a thousand years of unpaid dues. While there is no higher honor than securing a place among the Noble Houses registered with the Wizengamot, I am left to ponder if House Peverell possesses the necessary wealth to meet this obligation."

Albus cursed under his breath.

Whispers rippled through the courtroom in response to Dolores Umbridge's grave accusations. The gravity of her statement reverberated on multiple levels, eliciting shock and surprise.

Even Harry found himself taken aback. He had never expected such meticulous research within the Wizengamot on this specific topic, especially considering that no one should have anticipated the emergence of House Peverell. Just who was this woman?

Ascending to the status of Nobility was the highest distinction any House could aspire to achieve. It brought political influence, diplomatic immunities across Magical Europe, elevated social standing, and, most importantly, an almost unparalleled freedom to keep their accumulated magical knowledge concealed from the world under the banner of Family Magic. The Nobility were, in essence, hoarders of magic, much like the mythical elder dragons hoarded their treasures.

The irony that he would need to relinquish wealth exceeding the combined value of House Black to become a hoarder himself was not lost on Harry.

"A thousand years of dues?" inquired a feminine voice from the jury. "Is that not a rather excessive demand? Surely there must be some consideration for exceptional circumstances?"

"Unfortunately, Lady Brown," Umbridge responded in her wheezy tone, "there is none."

"I do not question your authority, Madam Umbridge," came the insinuating tone of Lucius Malfoy, and Harry struggled to restrain his irritation. "But could you perhaps enlighten us with any precedents in this matter?"

Why not, Harry thought bitterly, throw salt on the wound while pretending to tend to it?

"Why, certainly," the woman in pink replied, her expression drenched in an excessive sugary sweetness. "Indeed, there are precedents, Lord Malfoy. In 1803, the Noble and Most Ancient House of Crouch had to make up for fifty-four years of defaulted annual dues, during which their House Seat lay dormant. And if we consider more recent events in this century, there was the application for the reactivation of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Gaunt, submitted by a certain mu...muggleborn, which was rejected on the grounds of impure blood status and an inability to pay the overdue dues of eighty-seven years."

Harry blinked. Did she just—

Yes, she did.

He smiled. Perhaps he could use this to his advantage.

"Madam Umbridge," he called out, "I beg your pardon for the inquiry, as you seem well-versed in such legal matters. Could you enlighten me as to who this Muggle-born was?"

"I fail to see the relevance of that question in this trial," the woman scoffed.

"Well, one can never be too sure. Please, I insist."

She narrowed her eyes, suspicious of Harry's intent. If Harry had to wager a guess, she had not been privy to the finer intricacies of pureblood hypocrisy.

"Tom Marvolo Riddle," she replied stiffly, becoming suddenly aware of the courtroom's murmurs around her. She gazed at Harry challengingly, as if to say, 'What of it?'

Harry grinned and locked eyes with Dumbledore. There was a peculiar gleam behind those half-moon spectacles, indicating that the old wizard had caught onto his scheme and was giving it his silent approval.

"Tom Marvolo Riddle," he began, his gaze resting on the inquisitive members of the jury, "the son of the Muggle Thomas Riddle and Merope Gaunt, the squib daughter of Marvolo Gaunt. He spent his formative years as an orphan until he came to the attention of Albus Dumbledore, who was the Transfiguration Professor at Hogwarts during that time. Tom was sorted into Slytherin House, despite his Muggle parentage, and he received a trophy for Special Services to the School in 1943, ultimately becoming Head Boy in 1944."

"Is this leading somewhere?" inquired Amelia Bones.

Harry grinned. To access the ancestry test records taken by Tom Riddle in 1943, he had paid Gringotts seventeen galleons. He had been certain that after discovering and gaining access to the Chamber of Secrets, Tom would have made an effort to undertake an ancestry test. Griphook had been rather bewildered by his insistence on obtaining the records of a Muggle-born related to the miserly Gaunts and had been shocked when Harry had eventually revealed the reason. As far as he was concerned, those seventeen galleons had been well-spent.

"Yes, Madam Bones," he replied with a gentle smile, "because of his Muggle-born status, the Gaunt Charter rejected him as a Gaunt Heir, despite his exceptional magical abilities and, most importantly, his ability to speak Parseltongue."

"No... no, that couldn't be..." Rosier breathed. The man's complexion paled, and Harry wondered if he had discerned the impending revelation.

"I'm afraid it is, Lord Rosier," Harry declared, "and now, with the Chief Warlock's permission, I would like to demonstrate something before you all."

With Dumbledore's approval, Harry retrieved his wand. It thrummed with power ever since he had summoned the Peverell Thestral. Closing his eyes nonchalantly, he recalled the spell that the fourteen-year-old Tom Riddle had casually demonstrated to him within the Chamber of Secrets.

His hand rose, a slender thread of bright, fiery light emanating from the tip of his wand.

Flagrate! he thought, and began inscribing fiery letters into the air.

TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE

With a swift, jerking motion, he compelled the letters to rearrange themselves, forming new words.

I AM LORD VOLDEMORT

"YES!" he declared loudly, his voice piercing through the growing whispers in the crowd. "It's a fabricated name that he adopted during his school years, known only to his most trusted confidants, all of whom, quite interestingly, are no longer among the living. In his own words, why would he, who carries the blood of Salazar Slytherin himself in his veins, bear the name of his filthy Muggle father? No, he crafted a new identity, a name he knew that witches and wizards everywhere would one day utter in terror when he had risen to become the greatest sorcerer in the world."

Silence hung in the courtroom, with everyone seemingly immobilized. Harry observed as the crowd fixed their eyes on him in horrified and speechless astonishment. Finally, someone dared to speak up.

"This... this has to be a lie!" declared a red-haired man, who was introduced as Lord Gibbon by the Court Reporter. "The Dark Lord—"

"He was a Muggle-born and posed as a champion of pureblood rights," Sirius interjected. "My godson possesses proof: a certified copy of an Ancestry test conducted at Gringotts in 1943."

"It's a forgery!" exclaimed another voice. "The Dark Lord is the heir of Slytherin!"

"Is?" Madam Bones picked up on the wording. "Is that an acknowledgment of the Dark Lord's return, Travers?"

"Uh... no," Travers stammered. "I mean, that's what I heard a lot, you know, when I was under the Imperius Curse during the last war."

Harry's frustration bubbled over as he recounted the conversation he had with Sirius about the so-called 'potential' Death Eaters and their use of the Imperius Curse as a defense. He couldn't help but roll his eyes, exasperated by the sheer number of individuals who had managed to evade imprisonment using this flimsy excuse. During his session with Sirius, the former convict had explained that these individuals had indeed been subjected to Imperius curses, effectively forcing them to follow orders without resorting to chaos. This, in turn, had contributed to the unnervingly orderly behavior of the Death Eaters, rather than the chaotic rabble one might have expected.

However, Harry was not about to let the matter rest without a parting shot at Lord Travers and his ilk. He leaned forward, his voice charged with sarcasm, and stated, "You can believe whatever you want, Lord Travers. Take my own trial, for example. Individuals clad in Death Eater robes tried to murder me, and yet, here I am, accused of being the bad guy."

The room fell into an uneasy silence, punctuated by the steely glare from Lord Travers. Harry couldn't help but notice the stupefied expressions on some of the attendees. It was evident that many of them were entirely unaware of this vital detail regarding the use of Imperius Curses, a fact that had fueled the structured behavior of the Death Eaters for years. This revelation left Harry pondering why Dumbledore, the venerable Headmaster, had chosen to keep his knowledge of Voldemort's history and tactics hidden from the general public, raising questions about the true motivations behind such secrecy.

The pained expression on Lucius Malfoy's face, as he sat among the Wizengamot members, was priceless. It was a small victory, a fleeting sense of satisfaction that Harry couldn't deny himself. Justice, in the Wizengamot, was a mere illusion, a mask donned for the sake of power plays and political maneuvering. It served as an excuse to bring someone down, a ploy to weaken and ultimately destroy one's enemies. The concept was both intoxicating and repulsive in equal measure, and Harry had come to learn that firsthand.

Understanding that if he had merely cried foul at the outrageous words of Dolores Umbridge, he would have achieved nothing. He would have been reduced to a child caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar. It would have instantly deflated the momentum he had gained from the House Peverell issue. Instead, he had opted for a more calculated approach. He seized upon the narrow opening that Umbridge's statement had provided and abandoned any pretense of defense, opting to go on the offensive. The scent of blood may have still been in the water, but it wasn't just his own. Judging by the reactions of those around him, he was confident that he had dealt a significant blow to Voldemort's forces with this strategic move, especially in the context of his ongoing trial.

"The brat is lying!" bellowed a bald, boisterous man from the crowd, his voice filled with outrage. "There's no way this Riddle mudblood—"

The man's sentence was cut short as Harry's sharp retort, laced with a mix of determination and indignation, pierced the air, "I'll have you know, my parentage has no bearing on the facts I've presented today." The room quivered with tension as Harry continued to press his case, determined to see through the web of deception and power plays that had plagued the Wizengamot for far too long.

"KRAKOW!" The resounding thunderclap of Albus Dumbledore's gavel reverberated through the room, immediately quelling the commotion. The bald man in the jury, who had been so boisterous a moment ago, slowly sank back into his seat, silenced by the headmaster's authoritative gesture.

Turning his attention to Harry, Dumbledore spoke in his measured tone, "Mr. Potter, you have made your point. But, I would like the court to return to the point of order. As Madam Umbridge has clearly stated, the laws are clear, and there is provision for the demands she has stated. Is House Peverell willing to pay the appropriate dues and take up its place on the Wizengamot?"

At this critical juncture, Joshua, Harry's legal counsel, stepped in decisively. "That will not be necessary," he declared, his voice carrying a sense of finality.

Minister Greengrass was about to interject, but Joshua swiftly cut him off, asserting, "Lord Greengrass, this is House Peverell's business. You, I'm afraid—"

But before the Minister could finish his sentence, Joshua firmly clarified his role, "I'm representing Lord Harry Potter's interests as his solicitor and defense counsel. I was about to state my position right before the trial, but these events forced my hand."

The Minister fell silent, recognizing that he had no ground to challenge Joshua's role or authority in the matter. The courtroom was held in rapt attention, as the balance of power within the Wizengamot seemed to shift with each passing moment.

"Madam Umbridge," Joshua spoke in a tone dripping with politeness, "You are absolutely correct in pointing out the provision of a thousand-year-old fine. Had House Peverell been an entirely new House, with a Lord unaffiliated with any Houses already existing under the Wizengamot's Charter, one could indeed argue over the imposition of such a fine. However, this case deviates from that scenario. House Potter is already a longstanding member of the Wizengamot, and despite the unfortunate passing of its Lord back in 1979, it has consistently paid its annual dues and remained active. What my client seeks to do is not to gain an additional House under his dominion, but rather to elevate House Potter to the status of House Peverell."

"But that would mean—" Lady Brown began to protest.

Joshua swiftly cut her off, his legal knowledge on full display. "The subsumption of the House of Potter into the House of Peverell, yes. It is important to note that the word 'Nobility' does not feature in Clause 21A, which specifically addresses the Sacred Twenty-Eight, the Founding Houses of the Wizengamot. The term 'Nobility' has its origins dating back to the Wizard's High Council, and even further back to the Arcana Cabana, the Gathering of sorcerers presided over by none other than the Emrys himself. The ability to forge a 'Family Magic,' as described in our earliest testimonies alongside phrases such as 'gaining Divine Providence' and 'achieving True Magic,' is what allows an entity and its bloodline to be classified as 'Noble.' As Lords and Ladies are well aware, none of the Houses today bear their original names. The Noble and Most Ancient House of Greengrass, for instance, has been known as House Brisingamen and Clan Folkvangr in the past."

Joshua's words presented a compelling legal argument, challenging the status quo within the Wizengamot and adding a layer of complexity to the proceedings. The room was filled with a palpable tension as the fate of House Peverell and its connection to House Potter hung in the balance.

Every single person in the courtroom hung on Joshua's every word, their anticipation almost palpable.

"In short," Joshua continued, his voice clear and resolute, "the House Name does not matter. As Mr. Potter, excuse me, Lord Peverell, so nicely surmised earlier, it is one's accomplishments and one's legacy that hold greater value than the blood we carried, back in the old days. If you do not wish to welcome House Peverell into your ranks without demanding a... forgive me, most outrageous and unfair penalty,"—Umbridge scowled, her displeasure evident— "then my client can simply use his authority as Vessel to subsume the Potter name into the Peverell identity, because unlike some, he does believe in, and respect the traditions of old."

The courtroom was suddenly filled with the sound of applause as several people rose to their feet, appreciating the wisdom and rationale behind Joshua's argument. Harry exchanged a triumphant grin with Joshua, who leaned in and muttered, "Told you, it's all about control."

It seemed that, for the moment, the scales of power had tilted in their favor, and Harry's determination to uphold the legacy of both House Peverell and House Potter was one step closer to being realized.

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