A light drizzle fell against the grey sky, misting the grounds of Hogwarts in a gentle veil of rain.
Harry shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket, head bowed slightly as he walked beside Fleur.
The wind was cool against his damp fringe, but he hardly noticed; his thoughts spiralled in an endless loop around the memory of first-year Ron's crooked smile.
How many times had they strolled the very grounds he was walking on together—laughing about Quidditch, grumbling about homework, or complaining about Malfoy's latest jibe?
Now, every step Harry took along the gravel path felt like a betrayal, as if, in moving forward, he was leaving Ron behind.
Fleur brushed her delicate fingers against his shoulder, and he glanced sideways.
Even through the gloom, her silvery-blonde hair seemed to shimmer, damp though it was.
She offered him a tentative smile. "Harry... are you all right?" Her French accent was softer now, nearly blending with a British lilt.
Harry hesitated, swallowing the knot in his throat.
It had been three months since they'd started seeing each other, and Fleur had been gentle—almost reverent—with his grief.
Still, he struggled to find the words that could convey the weight he felt.
"I'm okay," he whispered eventually, but they both knew it wasn't true.
They passed a cluster of elm trees near the lake.
Harry paused to stare at the tranquil surface, droplets of rain distorting the reflection of the castle's towers.
A swirl of memory played in his mind: he and Ron fishing for plimpies with Hagrid near the shallows, joking about how Hermione would scold them for skiving off homework.
That had been back at the beginning of their second year—so long ago now that it felt like someone else's life.
Fleur slipped her arm around his.
"You do not 'ave to pretend with me," she said gently.
The sincerity in her tone made Harry's chest tighten.
He closed his eyes, letting the patter of rain wash over him.
The funeral had been just a few days ago—a blur of eulogies, tearful goodbyes, and raw sorrow.
He'd stood in the back, separated from the Weasley family by his own sense of guilt and shame.
In truth, he couldn't remember any of the words spoken.
All he remembered was the crushing finality of the casket.
"I keep thinking… maybe if I'd just handled things differently, if I'd tried harder to make Ron understand—" He broke off, voice catching. "We never made up, Fleur. We never got to fix things."
The drizzle intensified, and Fleur raised her wand to cast a subtle charm to shield them from the rain, letting the raindrops roll away from them in soft arcs. "Ron was stubborn," she said softly.
"It was not entirely your fault."
Personally, she thought that Harry was more than generous with his late best mate but she kept that thought to herself.
It wouldn't do any good to Harry now, not when he was already drowning in his own guilt.
Harry's hand clenched around his wand in his pocket. "I know," he said, though self-reproach gnawed at him.
"I know we were both at fault. But it just… it feels like I lost him long before he actually—" He couldn't finish the sentence.
They walked on in silence, the path crunching softly beneath their feet.
Every so often, a gust of wind swept through the courtyard, rattling the branches overhead.
Harry recalled how he and Ron used to race through that path, returning from Quidditch practice.
At the base of an ancient oak, Harry paused.
Nestled among the roots was a small patch of daisies—simple, white petals that shivered under the rain.
He knelt down and gently touched one of the blossoms, thinking back to the time Ron had tried to impress Hermione by picking random wildflowers, only to realise too late they were full of stinging nettles.
How red Ron's ears had been that day, how Hermione had teased him, how Harry had stood by, struggling not to laugh.
"I wish we could've had one more conversation," Harry sighed. "A real one. Where he wasn't being his… stubborn self."
Fleur rested a comforting hand on his shoulder.
She didn't speak right away, letting the rain fill the gap.
Sometimes silence was kinder than empty reassurances.
When she did speak, her voice was low. "Despite what happened between you two, I think he knew—deep down—that you still cared."
Harry gave a faint, sad nod.
Perhaps Ron had known, even though he hadn't realised it himself at the time.
Perhaps he hadn't.
The not-knowing was worse than anything else.
And it was a question that would forever remain unanswered…
He stood up, wiping his damp hands against his jacket.
The sky rumbled softly, and the rain continued its lazy descent.
The gloom of the afternoon pressed in, but there was something faintly comforting in how the weather matched his mood.
As though the world itself understood his grief.
They continued their walk past the greenhouses, the glass walls fogged with condensation.
Inside, Harry could just make out the silhouettes of swaying plants—Herbology lessons that Ron used to dread, preferring to daydream about playing for the Chudley Cannons.
He recalled how they'd once stayed up half the night drafting Quidditch strategies, even though Harry was rubbish at actual planning.
That naive excitement felt like another lifetime.
Fleur's hand slipped down to clasp his, and for a moment Harry's chest loosened.
He found a shard of comfort in that small gesture.
Fleur leaned her head against his shoulder. "You will feel better with time," she murmured.
Harry felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes.
He inhaled the damp air, letting the scent of wet grass and the hush of the rain ground him.
Eventually, they reached a small wooden bench near a cluster of lilac bushes.
The blooms drooped with the weight of rainwater, a subdued purple in the dim light.
Harry sank onto the bench, gazing across the rolling lawns.
Somewhere in the distance, thunder mumbled, echoing the quiet storm roiling inside him.
Fleur sat beside him, resting a comforting hand on his arm. "We cannot change the past," she said gently. "But we have the present. And we can make sure we live it in a way Ron would be proud of."
Harry mulled over her words.
He could almost imagine Ron rolling his eyes at the sentiment, telling him to stop being so sappy—and maybe adding a biting remark about preferring a good sandwich to philosophical talk.
The corners of Harry's lips twitched in what almost could've been a smile.
"Maybe," he finally murmured. "I just… I don't want to forget him. Even the bad parts."
Fleur wrapped her arm around him, letting his head rest against her shoulder as the rain continued its gentle descent.
"You won't forget him," she assured, her voice soft but firm. "Nothing is going to change that."
For a long time, they sat there in the drizzle, neither speaking.
Harry still hurt.
He still regretted.
But maybe Fleur was right.
Maybe memories—good and bad—were all he had now, and they were worth holding on to.
The rain grew heavier, but Fleur's spell kept them relatively dry as they sat in silence.
"What will you do about Dumbledore?" Fleur asked, studying his face in the dim Harry's jaw tense on her shoulder, and his fingers curl into fists at his sides.
"It's high time he started paying."
.
A flash of lightning streaked through the sky, illuminating the courtyard for the briefest moment.
Thunder rumbled a second later, rolling into the hush that hung between Harry and Fleur.
Her wand remained raised, the rain continuing to arc neatly around them.
A step ahead, Fawkes was perched on the low stone wall, his red-gold feathers flickering in the gloom.
'You seem troubled, fledgling,'came the phoenix's voice in Harry's mind, the mental tone gentle yet tinged with concern.
Even after four months, the telepathic link still felt surreal—like a bright, warm presence in the back of Harry's thoughts.
'Unlike Ash,' he thought, amused.
Harry exhaled, forcing himself to focus on the here and now.
'I'm fine,' he sent back, though he knew it was only half-true. 'Just… a lot to think about.'
It felt odd that the range of human speech and emotions could be compressed so directly into a mental nudge.
Still, he was grateful for Fawkes's steadying influence.
Fleur lowered her wand and the shield vanished, letting the drizzle patter softly onto their heads.
"You said we should go in," she reminded him quietly.
Harry nodded, turning toward the archway that led into a side corridor.
The castle loomed ahead, torchlight flickering behind rain-streaked windows.
Fawkes trilled softly and Harry felt an encouraging warmth radiate from their link…
They walked in silence for a few moments, boots crunching gravel.
The hush inside Hogwarts was broken only by the distant crackle of torches.
Water dripped from the hem of Harry's jacket, forming tiny puddles on the worn stone floor.
'I hope Filch won't catch us tracking water through his precious corridors,' Harry thought wryly, not really caring about the caretaker's potential reaction.
He'd dealt with enough of the man's grumbling over the years to know it would pass like everything else…
Fawkes hopped down onto a nearby railing, surveying the gloom with sharp, golden eyes.
Harry caught the flicker of curiosity in his companion's mental presence.
Fleur's gaze drifted to Harry. "Earlier… you spoke of Dumbledore. You said he must pay."
The anger simmering beneath Harry's grief rose to the surface again.
He inhaled deeply, steadying himself.
"I won't do anything reckless, but I'm done with him and his secrets. If not for his manipulations, maybe Ron would still be—" He broke off, throat tight.
Fleur hesitated, then stepped closer and laid a comforting hand on his arm.
The corridor's dim torchlight sculpted shadows on her face, but Harry could see the compassion in her eyes.
"You have a plan," she ventured.
Harry glanced at Fawkes, whose gaze met his in silent encouragement.
He remembered how, a few months ago, that same phoenix had bonded with him after Dumbledore's attempt at obliviating Harry.
That betrayal had changed everything.
"I do," Harry said, voice low. "First, I'll handle Dumbledore's public image. He's built it up carefully for decades—but I've got leverage."
A delicate arch of Fleur's eyebrow prompted him to continue.
Harry couldn't help but recall Rita Skeeter's smirking face, her acid-green quill dancing in the air. "I have an understanding with someone," he added. "Someone who owes me big time—and let's just say they'll do whatever I ask if it'll protect their own hide."
Fleur's grip tightened on Harry's arm.
But if she felt any moral reservations, she kept them to herself. "If it buys you room to breathe," she said softly, "then I understand."
A wave of empathy rolled through Harry from Fawkes.
'Caution, fledgling,' the phoenix's mental voice was soft, but firm. 'Do not let the thirst for justice consume you. The line between justice and vengeance is—'
'Thin,' Harry finished for him. 'I won't, don't worry.'
Fleur seemed to sense his shift in focus; though she couldn't hear Fawkes's thoughts, she knew they were able to communicate mentally.
"You might still need to confront Dumbledore directly," she said, stepping aside to let Harry pass.
Her eyes flicked warily to the gloom of the corridor ahead. "He won't just stand by while you undermine him. He's already tried to break into your mind once."
Harry's jaw tightened.
"He won't succeed," Harry replied, determined. "My Occlumency is leagues beyond my old self, and if he tries to duel me again—" He paused, remembering how it had been to face the old wizard's raw power and skill. "I am confident that I can at least escape. There's also Fawkes now."
A rush of warmth and pride flowed through their mental link as Fawkes puffed up his chest feathers.
Fleur nodded in solidarity. "I suppose you are right."
They continued through the winding corridors, passing the occasional student who complained about the weather.
Thankfully, none lingered to stare; most had grown used to seeing Harry and Fleur together.
Eventually, they reached a narrower passage branching off from the main hallway.
Fleur stopped walking, turning to Harry. "Before you leave for your training, do you want to talk to me about… us?"
Harry hesitated, swallowing.
She looked vulnerable for a moment, uncertain.
He recalled the weight of her confession: how she'd killed a Grindylow with the Killing Curse, purely out of reflex and fear.
Of course, he knew about that before she told him.
The unforgivable had blazed like a beacon to his heightened magical awareness—and he hadn't judged her for it.
However, Fleur wasn't so easy on herself, and the memory still haunted her.
"Fleur, you're a part of this," Harry said quietly. "I don't want to push you away. But you've seen how bad things can get."
His voice hitched slightly. "This might get worse before it gets better."
She reached out, lacing her fingers through his. "I know and I'm here by choice. If I wasn't willing, I would've left a long time ago." Her eyes, usually so bright, shone with raw conviction.
A gentle warmth radiated from Fawkes—a subtle pulse of approval.
Harry squeezed Fleur's hand. "All right," he said. "Then we do this together. First, I'll set Skeeter on Dumbledore, and force him to explain himself to the public. After that… Well, we'll see." He finished lamely, unwilling to promise more than he could guarantee.
Fleur gave him a small nod, and a ghost of a smile touched her lips. "I think Ron would approve of at least giving the old man some trouble," she said softly, her tone bittersweet.
Harry felt something inside him loosen—grief, yes, but also a flicker of wry amusement.
He could almost see Ron rolling his eyes and muttering again about sappy moments. "Probably," Harry said, exhaling.
"It's been a long day. We can talk more tomorrow morning," he said, shaking off the heaviness.
.
The mid-morning sun filtering through the enchanted ceiling did little to brighten Harry's mood as he settled at the Ravenclaw table with Fleur.
Across from them, Luna Lovegood was humming quietly, fiddling with a pair of lilac quills behind her ears.
Next to Luna, Hermione and Neville were deep in a discussion about applying fertiliser in Professor Sprout's advanced Herbology course, but they both paused to greet Harry and Fleur.
Harry couldn't help but grin at the innocent brushing between them.
They seemed completely oblivious to how their shoulders kept touching during their animated discussion.
Even Luna had a knowing smile playing at her lips, though she pretended to be absorbed in adjusting her quills!
Suddenly, a burst of crimson light drew everyone's eye as Fawkes flashed into the hall and perched on the back of Harry's seat, preening his scarlet-gold feathers.
The phoenix's grand entrances had become commonplace over the past few months, but students still cast curious looks whenever he arrived.
Harry paid them no mind, smiling faintly at the soft trill that seemed to brighten the Great Hall's mood in an instant.
He reached up to gently stroke the phoenix's wing, feeling the comforting warmth radiating from his familiar's feathers.
"Did youforgetto bring Ash with you, again?" Fleur asked with a knowing smile, gesturing to the phoenix.
Fawkes trilled softly in response.
Harry could tell his familiar was quite pleased with himself for "accidentally" leaving the snake behind in the Chamber.
Just then, the rush of wings overhead announced the arrival of the morning post.
Birds of every size and colour swooped down to deliver letters and parcels.
Hedwig, her snowy-white plumage unmistakable, soared gracefully among them.
She circled once above Harry's head before landing—rather pointedly—right on the table in front of him,almostknocking over his goblet of pumpkin juice.
She held theDaily Prophetin her beak, her amber eyes fixed on Fawkes in a silent challenge.
Fawkes responded with a low musical note, ruffling his feathers in what Harry could only interpret as mild offence.
'Your bird has quite the attitude towards her superiors,' Fawkes communicated through their bond.
Hedwig gave a quick, indignant hoot as if to say,I know you are talking shit about me.
Harry couldn't help but grin. "Good morning, Hedwig," he murmured, taking the paper from her.
"Don't worry, Fawkes thinks he is special because he can flash around."
Hedwig nipped affectionately at Harry's fingers and then levelled Fawkes with a smug look.
Fawkes let out a soft, melodic whistle—perhaps equal parts amusement and surrender.
The students nearby chuckled at the customary 'fight' for Harry's attention.
Meanwhile, a smaller screech owl landed near Fleur, hooting quietly as it presented her with a neatly wrapped bundle of parchment before fluttering away.
Turning back to Hedwig, Harry scratched the soft feathers around her neck, earning a satisfied ruffle of plumage from the snowy owl.
The phoenix, not to be outdone, tilted his head so Harry could reach the spot just behind his crest.
With both creatures suitably attended to—though each still eyed the other warily—Harry finally caught sight of Rita Skeeter's byline on the front page.
His pulse quickened.
"Looks like the article's already out," he muttered, carefully unfolding the newspaper before him.
Hermione leaned forward, curiosity sparking in her gaze. "What article?"
.
CARNAGE IN THE BLACK LAKE!
Triwizard Tasks Take a Sinister Turn!
By Rita Skeeter,Daily ProphetSpecial Correspondent
HOGWARTS—No one expected the second task of the Triwizard Tournament to devolve into a scene more reminiscent of a dragon's lair than a friendly competition, yet that's exactly what transpired last week under the freezing waters of the Black Lake. A colossal serpent—twice the size of any recorded sea creature in British wizarding history—made an unexpected appearance, devastating the local Grindylow population and terrorising our champions. If that wasn't monstrous enough, this "super-serpent" was also fused with a mythical Cloaked Lethifold, creating a nightmarish hybrid we never thought we'd see outside the darkest texts of the Restricted Section!
That alone would have been enough to strike terror into the heart of any skilled Auror, let alone four school-aged competitors. But dear readers, brace yourselves: the task also featured human "hostages," living and breathing friends and family of the champions! Underwater. Tied up. Defenseless. All approved by the esteemed tournament judges—most notably Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, who many believed would uphold the highest standard of care for students. Well, it seems those many were mistaken.
Just a day before the second task, Hogwarts Champion Harry Potter—yes, the same Harry Potter who saved us all when he was nothing but a babe—made a stirring speech calling for an end to the use of human hostages. In a passionate stand witnessed by all four houses, Potter said: "We are here to celebrate unity and courage, not to endanger innocent people for points." Such words, however, fell on deaf ears. Dumbledore and his fellow judges pressed on. And oh, how quickly it all went wrong.
Word from sources inside the castle confirms that the other champions, meaning, Viktor Krum of Durmstrang, Cedric Diggory of Hogwarts, and Fleur Delacour of Beauxbatons, each showed visible unease about the hostage element. Yet they were assured by the judges—led by none other than Dumbledore—that 'ample safety measures' were in place. Ample! That must surely be a new definition, because soon, the champions found themselves face-to-face not only with an unforeseen serpent-Lethifold hybrid, but also a nest of enraged Grindylows, and Merfolk who apparently do not appreciate uninvited guests (especially those wielding wands).
Reporters were banned from entering the lake—how convenient—but I, Rita Skeeter, have pieced together the truth from firsthand accounts and exclusive interviews with individuals who prefer to remain anonymous. The champions fought tooth and nail to free the hostages, barely escaping the underwater battleground alive. Indeed, those who surfaced described a scene out of the worst nightmares: watery illusions, monstrous shadows, and the serpent's final attempt to devour everyone as they rocketed skyward. Eyewitnesses claim the massive creature was only stopped when Potter unleashed a blinding pillar of 'holy light.' Readers, this reporter has never heard of such magic emerging from a wizard!
Yet the biggest shock came after the champions broke through the surface. For as any bystander can confirm, the monstrous serpent's remains rained down in a swarm of dark wisps—and we all know how that ended: Professor Dumbledore himself fired off a lethal blast to finish the job. But not before the Lethifold remainders sought another victim… and, tragically, one was found. Ronald Weasley, formerly Potter's best friend, lost his life in the ensuing chaos. According to some, it was a 'freak accident.' Others, however, are not so sure.
Was Dumbledore too quick to cast his deadly spell? Was there a way to save young Weasley? The victim's siblings, Fred and George Weasley, and sister Ginny Weasley, were said to be 'furious' at the Headmaster, who did not appear to offer a single apology. Perhaps it's all part of Dumbledore's grand plan—this same wizard who famously keeps secrets even from his own staff—and perhaps we should all ask: how many more 'accidents' must occur before this competition is called into question?
Some of you may recall that Harry Potter, following the champion announcement, has consistently questioned the Headmaster's methods. Now, it seems these dark events lend weight to Potter's concerns. One cannot help but wonder: Is the Triwizard Tournament a shining symbol of magical unity… or a breeding ground for disaster?
Let us not forget: The next task looms on the horizon, and no one knows what horrors may lurk there. This reporter will be watching—and writing—every step of the way, determined to keep the magical public informed (and outraged, when outrage is warranted!). In the meantime, our thoughts go to the family of Ronald Weasley, the champions who survived an ordeal far more dangerous than they signed up for, and anyone else caught in the fallout of the ever-mysterious Albus Dumbledore's decisions.
I, Rita Skeeter, vow to continue shining a light into these deep, dark waters… so keep reading, dear friends. After all, the truth is out there—and I'll see to it you get every riveting detail!
.
Harry lowered the paper, hand trembling slightly.
The hall around them was abuzz with conversation, several students pointing at theDaily Prophetin their hands.
There was no question: Rita Skeeter had turned his speech—and the entire second task—into front-page drama.
Sensational, yes, but it got the point across.
Hermione let out a long whistle. "Wow. Not only did she not put you in a bad light but... I'm… impressed?"
Neville nodded in agreement. "I can't believe she actually wrote the truth for once."
Harry couldn't help but chuckle at the confused expressions his two Gryffindor friends were sporting.
Fleur read the article over his shoulder, her expression torn between relief and wry amusement.
"This is… much better than I expected," she admitted. "She's twisted some details, of course, but the truth is in there. The public will see it."
Harry felt a curious mix of satisfaction and apprehension.
'At least now they'll know,' he thought. 'At least now, Dumbledore has to face some backlash.'
He cast a glance at Fawkes, who bobbed his head, a ripple of approval drifting through their shared bond.
As the Great Hall buzzed with talk of Rita's exposé, Harry set the newspaper aside.
He'd done his part: reaching out to Skeeter, gathering the champion Q , drafting that speech.
The seeds of change were planted. Whether it would all blow up in Harry's face or do actual damage to Dumbledore's image—remained to be seen.
.
The morning light filtering through the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall felt oddly harsh to Albus Dumbledore's eyes.
Beneath the unlit floating candles and murmuring students, he cut a stoic figure at the High Table, his fingers curled around a half-finished cup of Earl Grey tea.
A ripple of whispers carried down the long house tables, but he ignored them.
He focused instead on Harry Potter, who was seated at the Ravenclaw table—of all places—next to that Delacour girl.
Potter glanced up from his conversation with her and offered Dumbledore a cool, almost challenging smirk.
It was the barest twitch at the corners of his mouth, yet it spoke volumes.
Once upon a time, Dumbledore had expected that boy's every glance to carry admiration and even awe.
Now, there was only defiance…
Fawkes, of course, was perched on Potter's shoulder.
That detail still stung Dumbledore's pride.
The phoenix had abandoned him, choosing Potter after their 'duel'.
'Short-sighted bird,' Dumbledore thought bitterly, making no sign of outward irritation.
He simply returned a mild, impassive look.
At the staff table, several professors shifted uneasily in their chairs.
They felt the tension.
The Daily Prophet's front-page coverage had exploded across the school.
If the glances from down the table were any indication, many were wondering how he would respond.
In truth, Dumbledore himself had not uttered so much as a sentence in public. Not yet.
He took another careful sip of tea and then set the cup aside.
'Patience,' he reiterated inside his head.
A great many illusions could be maintained if one displayed calm.
He had been controlling narratives for decades—he would do so again now.
'And no hasty remarks.'
He had learned that lesson the hard way: let others show their cards before revealing your own.
Just then, Professor McGonagall cleared her throat as she approached him.
"Headmaster," she murmured. Worry etched her features. "Shall we address the… Prophet?"
"Not yet." His voice was smooth, with no trace of anxiety. "I believe the school will benefit more from stability than from yet another dramatic declaration. Later, Minerva."
Her lips pursed, but she merely nodded and withdrew.
Dumbledore lowered his gaze to the half-empty plates.
'Let them whisper,' he told himself.
'Soon enough, the tension will soften… and that is when I will act.'
.
After breakfast, Dumbledore slipped away to his private office, ignoring the swirl of students in the corridors.
The gargoyle parted, revealing the spiral staircase leading to his domain.
Once inside, the door sealed itself with a firmthumpthat banished the noise of Hogwarts's daily bustle.
Silence reigned amid the ticking silver instruments and the usually talkative portraits.
The former headmasters and headmistresses hung motionless in their frames, feigning sleep.
Dumbledore strode to a tall cabinet lined with personal records of staff and students alike—tomes bound in peacock-blue leather.
He removed a smaller logbook from the second shelf and turned its pages.
Harry James Potter.
He skimmed the notes he had made during the last decade: indicators of potential threats, ways to influence the boy—now mostly obsolete.
Potter had grown bolder, craftier, and much more powerful than anticipated.
The boy had cultivated unexpected allies, most surprisingly, the press.
The corners of Dumbledore's mouth tightened.
"Let's see," he murmured, flipping the logbook closed with asnap.
Rita Skeeter.
She was the source of his current predicament.
He would not confront her publicly, no.
That would only give her more fodder. But she could be contained. Oh, yes.
He had already sent discreet word to a certain old friend at the Ministry—a senior figure who owed him far too many favours.
In time, he would see Skeeter's "sources" dried up, her access restricted, and perhaps even her legal standing jeopardised.
No direct confrontation. That would be beneath him.
But subtle letters, with well-placed suggestions about unregistered Animagi?
Those could do wonders.
'Next, there's the damned boy. Potter himself.'
The boy had proven far more dangerous than he once believed.
Stripping him of house points or giving detentions would be petty, too transparent, and pointless.
No, Dumbledore needed to erode the foundations of Potter's support—discreetly.
Reaching for another drawer, he retrieved a parchment.
A list of prefects, Quidditch captains, and older students with influence.
Dumbledore traced his finger down it, pausing at certain names.
A subtle word in the right ear, a hint that Harry Potter was "unhinged" or "meddling in dangerous affairs."
Small rumours, cultivated carefully…
'He's not the only one who can play games,' Dumbledore thought darkly.
'I have decades of experience, and unlike an impetuous teenager, I know the value of working from the shadows.'
'Patience,' he reminded himself.
He would ensure that key staff took a more watchful eye on Potter.
'I'll put Severus on heightened surveillance duty. His personal grudge against the boy would serve well—and his natural inclination toward suspicion could be particularly useful. Perhaps a few "chance encounters" in the corridors would suffice.'
Yes, Dumbledore decided.
'No furious outbursts, no hasty counter-speech. Let Potter think he has the upper hand for a while. I'll let the Wizarding public froth over Rita's dramatic accounts and by the time they realise I have never publicly addressed the matter—it will be too late. I'll have already moved behind the scenes—pressuring Skeeter into silence, sowing doubt about Potter's mental stability, and quietly fortifying my own power base at Hogwarts.'
He steepled his fingers, eyes drifting to where Fawkes's perch used to stand.
'Ungrateful bird.'
An unwelcome pang of loss rose in his chest, but he brushed it aside.
Soon enough, the wizarding world would either accept his decisions—or find themselves outmanoeuvred.
Already, a half-smile touched Dumbledore's lips.
They might revile him in private, but publicly he would remain what he had always been: Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, champion of the Light.
It was a mask he wore well, and for all Potter's newfound cunning, the boy still had much to learn about these political games.
With a swirl of his robes, he left the office to set those wheels in motion, confident that in time, when he did finally respond, it would be on his own terms—and with decisive force.
.
.
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[p=atreon=.=c=o=m/Mr_0ne] : Chapter 30 - Heartstrings and Dreams
Or do a Google search of'p=atreon Fake Violinist'.
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