Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction based on the Harry Potter universe. All recognisable characters, plots, and settings are the exclusive property of Joanne K. Rowling. I do not claim ownership.
Edited and beta-read by Himura, Bub3loka, Ash, and Kingfishlong.
Also, if you're feeling generous, want to support me, or want to read ahead, you know where to find me.
20th of October, Tuesday
Harry
It became increasingly difficult to swallow his frustration; not even his monotone training and studies provided any relief. Even the anticipation of becoming an animagus dwindled as no thunderstorm arrived, and he still had to religiously do the sunset and sundown chants until one appeared. The tedium had its way of sucking out the joy of things. Regardless, he was no closer to finding Riddle's diary than he was after the Malfoy summer gala.
There were no clues besides Botley, who had fallen down the stairs. The fall was beyond nasty, with a broken nose, three broken ribs, both ankles twisted, many fractures, and bruises - nothing that Pomfrey could not fix overnight but still terribly painful. The staff rarely cared about some altercation between the students, but the Botley incident had them take action, for there seemed to be obvious malice in this, as the fall had gone dangerously close to murder, and Botley swore he felt someone push him.
The Slytherins pointed fingers at the Gryffindors, who obviously denied any involvement.
"It's not some feud or rivalry inside Slytherin either," Flora had told him when he asked. "While Botley isn't exactly well-liked, his only scuffles are with the other Quidditch teams, the Gryffindors most of all. Oh, and he has a fight with Montague over courting Fawley, though she doesn't pay either of them the time of day."
It couldn't have been a coincidence. After seven years in Hogwarts, Harry well knew that even the usual schoolyard scuffles weren't so immediately violent. A few pranks on someone you dislike, or perhaps scathing remarks or offhanded insults, posturing, or trying to one-up each other in practical classes or Quidditch, were typical. Then, pranks would turn into jinxes, biting remarks, and attempts to get the target of your dislike in trouble with the staff. Dislike would slowly turn into anger, and hexes would follow. Once the anger had grown into hatred, even curses would fly around.
The only such case Harry could genuinely recall nearly turning fatal was his spat with Malfoy in Myrtle's bathroom during his sixth year when Draco opened it with an Unforgivable.
A part of Harry still felt sour at the memory–he had been right all along that Malfoy had been up to no good. It didn't help that Harry was severely punished for that fight while Malfoy walked out of it scot-free despite casting the Cruciatus Curse, an act that should have landed him in Azkaban for life.
The more he looked back on it, the more it irked Harry. Nobody had even asked him what had happened in that bathroom; they had just punished him. It was unfair, but the whole world was so.
It was a harsh truth but one which taught Harry Potter a valuable lesson. Nobody could solve your problems–or wave them away with a wand. You have to face your troubles, fears, and enemies with your own strength, on your terms, if possible.
It was even more odd to be on friendly terms with Malfoy–Draco, here and now. Sure, the blonde Slytherin boy was still a stuck-up ponce, but refreshingly genuine in a way Harry could have never expected. So, it was easier to reconcile being cordial to a young Draco Malfoy instead of Dumbledore. That betrayal there ran deep, but perhaps Harry was at fault. His blind trust that the headmaster was always right and powerful enough to fix everything, despite being proven many times otherwise, still ached deep inside in a part of Harry he had tried his best to bury. Albus Dumbledore was only human and as flawed as the rest of them. Or perhaps it was that the greatest men carried the greatest flaws.
Harry didn't think he could even trust Dumbledore with the previous blind faith anymore. He wasn't even sure if he wanted to trust Dumbledore at all. After all, trust was a two-way street; if the headmaster refused to be honest, Harry had no reason to confide in him.
Alas, there was only so much a single man could do.
No matter how late he stayed up, how much Harry dwelled on the Marauder's Map, camped under his cloak in Myrtle's bathroom or tried to keep an ear for people acting strange, he got no results. Sure, plenty of students were acting strange, but that was the norm for most children in Hogwarts. The house elves proved a dead end, too. "We only deals with lost itemses after school year ends, master Potter," an old elf named Blinky had firmly told him in the kitchens.
Draco still hadn't said a word about the phoenix tears either. A part of Harry almost regretted closing the entrance to the Chamber. Another part wondered if he was just being paranoid and the attack on Botley was not Riddle but a lover spat gone wrong.
But nobody was punished, despite the teachers looking cautious and inspecting the students. Even Merula Snyde was on the prowl, stopping every suspicious student she encountered and interrogating them. Which practically meant every second Gryffindor or Slytherin.
Needless to say, Harry and Juno got waylaid by her when they returned from a morning run four days ago.
"What are you doing here?" She had asked, suspicion dripping from her voice as she sized the two of them critically. "Why are you both so sweaty and out of bed so early?"
"Just some morning practice," Juno had answered first while Harry was still scratching his head - it had been the first time they were stopped by anyone as they were not out during curfew.
For some reason, the reply made Snyde even more suspicious.
"Neither of you are on the Ravenclaw Quidditch team. What sort of practice were the two of you having?"
"Where does it say that we have to be on the Quidditch team to be in shape?!" Harry exploded when he realised what the older girl insinuated.
Peeves had chosen that moment to start pelting them with dung bombs, of course, though Harry found his hand was already in motion, his wand lashing out and launching the stinky trouble at the other end of the corridor.
"Little ickle Pothead," the poltergeist taunted but made himself scarce as Merula groaned and went after him with a glowing wand, giving them a chance to escape the annoying caretaker.
The worst thing was not really the failure to progress but the unknown. Harry had no idea what the diary-possessed student would do, and it twisted his insides in an anxious knot. It was like a constant shadow, looming behind a corner but never truly there if he approached.
After over a week of trying various things and failing miserably, Harry realised he needed to change his approach. But the only thing that came to his mind was almost as simple as reverting the password again.
Perhaps he needed a break to wind down and ease up his nerves and mind. But being idle after over a year of constantly doing things felt odd. He feared taking a break would make him enjoy the idleness too much and hesitate to return to his routine. Thus, he found himself in the Come and Go Room instead, looking for something he had subconsciously ignored until now: the Ravenclaw diadem.
But combing through literal centuries-old mountains of abandoned garbage was easier said than done. Apparently, whatever restricted the mention and usage of the Room did not apply to House Elves, at least those who worked in Hogwarts.
Of course, as with the diary, neither the Summoning nor any Divination Charms worked. The ugly bust of the old warlock wasn't where Harry remembered either, and when he finally found it, even the tarnished tiara on his head wasn't skewed under his ugly wig.
It took hours and hours of going through dented shields, rusty swords, stacks of parchment rolls filled with gibberish, chipped vials filled with congealed potions, furniture in various stages of decay, a heavy-looking bloodstained axe, and the towering stuffed troll that loomed above everything.
In the end, Harry sat on one of the battered chairs next to the rusty iron cage with the skeleton of a beast with five crooked feet he still didn't recognise.
He must have dozed off for some time because when he opened his eyes, he was met with the transparent face of Helena Ravenclaw staring straight at him. For a second, it even seemed that her eyes were sinister crimson. Jumping in fright and hitting his leg on the iron bars made him hiss with pain.
"Looking for something?"
Harry blinked and saw no trace of red–her eyes were definitely transparent greyish, just like the rest of her. Was he going crazy with training? Or were the nightly nightmares even haunting him during his naps?
"A tiara," Harry eked out as he rubbed his leg. After cautiously putting weight on the leg to see the extent of the pain, he decided nothing was broken; at most, it was a bruise. "Your mother's famous diadem."
The ghost spun around, inspecting him with that haughty gaze as if he were an ant at her feet.
"How… refreshingly direct," Helena noted neutrally. "As ambitious as any Slytherin. Uncle Salazar would weep if he saw you in my mother's house, though your lack of subtlety would probably amuse him more than anything else. You're not the first one to ask me for my mother's infamous diadem, in truth. Probably won't be the last who lusts after the supposed legacy of something she left behind. But why would I tell you anything?"
"I… don't really need the diadem," he professed. "Err… I just want to check it."
The ghost scoffed. "I've fallen for this trick once, and you're not nearly as charming as him."
Harry had a pretty good idea who him was, but he got tired of her catty behaviour.
"Look. I don't even know why you care," he snarked. "I never asked for your presence or even advice, let alone help."
"As if I would have aided a snot-nosed brat like you," the annoyance shamelessly continued. "Though I find myself surprised that you think my mother's treasured artefact has ended up here."
"I just thought it might be here around the piles of garbage." Harry gave Helena the most innocent, childish face he was capable of. "There's a ton of interesting stuff here, and it would be a fitting place for nobody to think of searching."
Helena's face soured.
"A little boy like you has no idea what you are getting into-ow-ow-ow, stop it!" She swirled around, trying to avoid the rapid fire of ghost-tickling hex that erupted from his yew wand. It was a useful spell Harry had picked up from the notes Sirius had gifted him. Helena finally hid behind an old cabinet and shrieked, "I am the patron ghost of your house, boy. Show some respect!"
"Perhaps I will when you show yourself deserving of it," Harry retorted, finally stopping his attacks. "Have you perhaps thought of not being such a rude, unpleasant trollop?"
"Rude, disrespectful brat," she cursed. "This is not how you ought to treat a lady! I will remember this."
The irritation bubbling in his chest turned into anger.
"Good, because I fail to see any ladies before me, just an arrogant old spinster ghost with a stick up her arse and a shitty love life," Harry laughed scornfully. "You come to me, meddle in my business, and demand respect after insulting me?"
The tip of his wand glowed again, and the ghost dove into the mountains of garbage and junk, cussing at him like an old sailor.
"So much for being a lady." Harry could only shake his head at the irony of the situation. A part of him regretted arguing with a ghost that could have potentially helped him with finding Ravenclaw's diadem… but Helena Ravenclaw's attitude just rubbed him the wrong way.
It felt good not to swallow his discontent and take the abuse meekly or try to think up clever, backhanded compliments that could bring him even more trouble. He was no longer just Harry, a young boy that anyone could just walk over.
It felt good.
The power to not bow your head to others, not to always apologise despite being on the receiving end of all the abuse, felt so exhilarating. Sweeter than any treacle tart he had tasted, even. Self-respect, as Sirius would call it.
"Know yourself, Harry, and your worth. I can respect that you aren't nearly as childi-er-carefree as your father and I were at your age. It's almost surprising to see your sensible desire to avoid all trouble, but if someone starts a fight, don't hold back. Don't hesitate and finish it."
"What if it gets me in trouble?"
Sirius' smile had turned feral.
"Good, that way, those fools who would provoke you would know that you fear no repercussions and would drag them with you to hell rather than suffer an insult or take needless abuse. I hate my family with a passion, but there's one thing my father told me that has stuck with me since I was a child: It's better to be known as a mad dog than an obedient bitch."
Not for the first time, Harry wondered how his godfather came out relatively sane after all the horror stories he had heard about the House of Black. Then again, Juno came out alright, so perhaps it had more to do with his harridan mother than anything.
"Don't be afraid to live in a way that allows you to respect yourself and have no regrets." His godfather had grown uncharacteristically solemn then. "I did some pretty terrible–and stupid–things when I was young, things that I sometimes regret to this day. Don't be like me."
Genuine advice like this made Harry wonder if things would have been different if Sirius had lived last time. It made the memory of his tragic demise and life on the run all the more tragic.
Checking his watch, Harry groaned and realised dinner time was already underway. Sighing, he pulled on the invisibility cloak and started the long descent towards the Great Hall. Usually, Harry would use the Room to create a shortcut passageway directly to the ground floor, but he wanted to stretch his legs–his body still felt stiff after the impromptu nap.
As he went down one of the spiral staircases, Harry was met with the strange sight of the Weasley Twins crowding around the statue of Gregory the Smarmy on the fifth floor, looking incredibly frustrated.
"This one is sealed too, Fred," George rubbed his neck, glaring at the statue. "At least the other ones opened, even if we saw solid bedrock that we couldn't even scratch."
"Well, I'd wager it's because of last year, George," the other Twin said with false levity, but the slumped shoulders betrayed him. "They did say Petrov escaped through one of the secret passageways. It shouldn't have been such a surprise if Dumbledore wanted to secure the school…"
Now, that certainly explained why the map was looking a tad different. Harry felt a bit silly, then–he had been looking for names, not paying attention to the labyrinthine layout of the castle that could occasionally change.
"Well, that's good, but how are we going to smuggle items from Hogsmeade now? No more undercutting owl postage means-"
"Less knuts and sickles in our pockets, I know," Fred groaned. "But if our Ronniekins can break Snodgrass and Ashford's noses without even drawing a wand, surely we can figure something out."
"How can we, fine gentlemen, ever deign to compare to our little brother who has turned himself into a purveyor of pure, unadulterated violence and defender of fair maidens?"
"Our dear Ron has definitely gotten more cunning. The idiots were too humiliated to complain to McGonagall, even-"
Shaking his head, Harry continued down to dinner. A part of him was glad that Ron was genuinely doing well and looking out for Luna and Greengrass' younger sister. Perhaps he could find a pair of true friends in the two girls.
He finally arrived at the ground floor and hastily removed his cloak before checking for other students in the hallway. The Great Hall was as lively as always.
"Elise Farren is dating Higgs…"
"Did you hear Falmouth Falcons's Edgar Presley has declared a sick leave just before the match with Appleby Arrows-"
"Heard that Woods has a new ace seeker-"
"Jane Appleton and Andrew are now dating-"
"Lockhart was spotted in the Levant…"
"Heyo, Harry," Diana greeted him with her usual enthusiasm as he sat between her and Juno. "We almost thought you would miss dinner."
"I almost did," he said absentmindedly as he piled pieces of roasted chicken breast with onion sauce and a serving of mashed potatoes. "Decided to take a break and ended up taking a nap until a nasty ghost woke me up."
Helena Ravenclaw chose that moment to float from the floor and give him the stink-eye, making him roll his eyes.
"I didn't think you knew the meaning of the word rest," Diana noted with a straight face before bursting into giggles and was quickly joined by Padma and MacDougal.
Harry yawned.
"Even I get tired sometimes."
"Self-discipline is continuing despite not wanting to, even when you get tired," Juno added wryly.
"Right, we can hardly measure up to Potter, who has the patience and the resolve to file a sword into a needle," Michal Corner drawled from two seats to the left.
"I didn't see you anywhere near the top twenty at the end of last year, Corner." Padma shot back. "A disgrace for Ravenclaw, really-"
"Stop it," Harry hastily swallowed a mouthful of chicken. "It's just grades, guys. It doesn't matter as much as learning itself. At least, until O.W.L.s or N.E.W.T.s."
Suddenly, the chatter died out, and Harry realised the whole Ravenclaw table was looking at him as if he had grown another head.
"Of course, Mr Potter," Flitwick clapped as he passed behind him, and Harry felt uncomfortable under the multitude of gazes. "Splendidly said. A point for Ravenclaw for such words of wisdom!"
Harry groaned inwardly as the professor's words carried through the whole Great Hall, and he could feel the envy and resentment of some gazes stabbing in his back. Sometimes, Harry thought Flitwick did this with such aplomb just because he enjoyed seeing him troubled. 'I mean, words of wisdom? Really, Professor?'
Dumbledore smiled with almost childish enthusiasm from the staff table. Sirius raised a toast to Harry with a golden cup filled with what was probably some sort of wine, but the rest of the teachers didn't seem as enthusiastic.
"Of course, Flitwick will find a way to give Potter points again," someone murmured from the Hufflepuff table, making Harry cringe. He really didn't even care about points either, but the diminutive Charms master and many of the other professors showered him with many for displaying a 'knowledge beyond his years'.
The whole thing made him feel like a fraud. But unlike Lockheart, he couldn't bring himself to strut around and wear it with pride.
Dinner continued similarly until Dumbledore's face suddenly darkened, and the headmaster and Horace Slughorn hastily rushed out of the Great Hall to everyone's confusion. All of Harry's instincts screamed that this didn't bode well.
It wasn't until an hour after Harry and his friends arrived at the common room that gossip started tickling through the Hogwarts rumour mill. Melony Burke had fallen down the stairs like Botley did–and had apparently hit her head horribly.
Some even said she was dead. Harry's veins turned to ice, but something searing hot simmered in his belly, burning through his fear.
24th of October, Saturday
Dumbledore
He stroked his beard, peering into the liquid as the sickeningly sweet pink mist dispersed from the cauldron. Cautiously, he summoned a piece of pale auburn candy and popped it into his mouth.
"Hmm, another failure," he noted. "It's too sweet, and the flavour is still off."
"Perhaps we should try using… lemons at some point, professor," Juno suggested stonily.
Albus smiled genially at the girl who tried too hard to keep her formal facade, yet he could see her brows twitching and her hands flexing. At first, he would have said the young Black girl was her mother, writ younger and smaller, but now he knew better. The resemblance to Bellatrix was hard to shake off, but a surprising measure of self-control and humility tempered her pride.
Bright, powerful, talented, and disciplined to a degree that reminded Albus fondly of his own school years, Juno has every reason to be proud to the point of arrogance. Yet almost every single last trait of it had melted away around the start of the month, and she no longer seemed as bothered by his eccentric manners.
Albus would love to claim that such progress was his doing, but he knew he contributed little aside from poking at her nerves to test her character and self-restraint. No, this had to be the work of young Harry. The irony of James's son being such a good influence on Bellatrix's daughter wasn't lost on Albus in the slightest.
Regardless, he found himself liking the young witch. The teacher in him hoped that she succeeded in her little quest. It would prove that Juno's intent had a genuine purity lacking in both Rodolphus and Bellatrix later on. It was a harsh thing to judge someone for who their parents were, but blood was thicker than water, no matter how much Albus wished otherwise.
Family magic was even more so, and fewer families were darker than House Black's.
Each witch and wizard had a natural inclination, affinity even, towards certain branches of magic and years of upbringing to go with it. Overcoming that from scratch, like Sirius Black, was not easy, and even the white sheep of the Black family had done it out of sheer spite rather than anything else.
Albus idly stroked his beard as he watched Juno feed the failed lemon drops to the ageing Fawkes, who joyfully gobbled them up. The love of sweets was one of the things that had gathered them together all those years ago, after all.
"Miss Black," he cleared his throat, earning an inquisitive glance. "How is your work with the Patronus Charm progressing?"
"I thought the detention wasn't about spell practice, professor."
"Well, it is good that today's detention ended three minutes ago," Albus nodded towards the grandfather clock on the wall. "If you would indulge an old man's curiosity. I don't mean to boast, but I have some measure of skill in the charm, and perhaps I could be of assistance."
Juno hesitantly drew her wand. "With your permission, headmaster?"
How endearingly polite to ask. Dumbledore found himself liking the young witch more and more. "Go ahead, Miss Black."
Scrunching up her face in focus and closing her eyes, the hawthorn wand sprung into motion as Juno intoned: "Expecto Patronum!"
An unexpectedly powerful ray of light funnelled out of her wand, filling the room with a fleeting sense of joy. It formed into a shield, and for a moment, it simmered and fluttered, making Dumbledore think it would turn into a corporeal guardian. But alas, it quickly stabilised into its shield form, which was more potent than what most Aurors could produce.
Fawkes, the kind soul that he was, flapped his wings happily and trilled, feeling the air with his power, and the light shone brighter and started wiggling again. Now, the spell turned into a churning ball of light, yet Dumbledore knew it wasn't enough. No matter how genuine the phoenix's intentions were, the strength of intent powered the magic. It was the purity of joy and happiness that could coalesce into a corporeal guardian even under the weight of the dementors' oppressive presence.
Eventually, the light dimmed, and Juno released the spell, gasping for breath as if she had run one of those muggle marathons.
"Extraordinary, Miss Black," Albus couldn't even hold his praise. "You're quite close. The last step can be the hardest, but you might be served better by trying different memories. Sometimes, the simplest things can be surprisingly powerful."
"I… I know." This was the first time he had seen the young witch looking so unsure. "But what I did is nothing special."
"Interesting." Albus paused, surprised by the sheer honesty in her words. "What makes you come to such a conclusion?"
"I've seen another student succeed in producing a corporeal Patronus with far less difficulty," she admitted, her voice dull.
Things clicked in his mind so neatly then. Her pride had been broken, shattered to a million pieces in a way that her ego might never fully heal. He understood because he had been young, talented, and prideful himself.
There was only one student in Hogwarts younger than Juno with a similar level of talent and hard work that could shake her so: Harry Potter. It couldn't be an older student to smash her pride in such a manner. A part of Dumbledore was pleasantly surprised James and Lily's son had so effortlessly produced the Patronus Charm, yet he couldn't help but be alarmed.
Something was wrong.
It didn't take much to deduce or confirm why Juno Black was the way she was. Dumbledore was well aware of Arcturus and Cassiopeia's character and the circumstances of House Black.
But what drove Harry Potter to such lengths to seek power while remaining genuine enough to produce a corporeal Patronus at such a young age?
Hatred for Muggles? No, while his relatives were unpleasant, there had been no problems there–and Harry Potter's muggle-born friend was not treated differently than the rest.
More than ever, curiosity gnawed at his mind.
Dumbledore ignored it.
"Comparing yourself to others might be counterproductive. It is the road to envy, and envy is the bane of honesty and earnestness, gnawing them from within." Albus sighed, feeling old. "Despite what some might tell you, life is not a race, and the only one you should compare yourself to is yourself."
His words only seemed to confuse the young witch even more.
"I…"
"No man or woman is a master of all magic," he said kindly. "Even I myself am woefully weak in Herbology and Astronomy. My mind just refused to make sense of most of it, and I only excelled in these subjects because I cheated by memorising tables and charts with Arithmancy. And while some things might be true, the only question you ought to ask yourself is if you are better at the Patronus Charm this week than the previous one."
"Only slightly," Juno muttered weakly.
Dumbledore chuckled.
"Believe in yourself, Miss Black. Intent is an integral part of magic, and if you don't think you can do it, you have already failed."
Her cold blue eyes thawed, shimmering with genuine curiosity that warmed his old heart.
"Is that all it takes? Just a little faith?"
"When everything else is pushed to the limit? Yes." He placed the Death Stick on the desk and closed his eyes. Immersing himself in that pure, precious moment when he taught countless students their first spell and the joy in their young eyes as they stepped onto the road of magic, he tugged on his magic and shaped his intent. A small, ethereal phoenix formed in his hand. "Sometimes the thin line between failure and success is just a little faith in yourself."
"This… this should not be possible," Juno stood there, her eyes unblinking on the miniature Patronus in his grasp. "Casting complex, high-level magic without a focus…"
Truthfully, he could make it more powerful, but the strain on his mind and magic would increase exponentially.
"Impossible?" Albus opened his eyes and let go of his magic, and the miniature protector faded. "Never. Improbable? Too difficult or cumbersome to even consider attempting? Quite possibly so. But this is the beauty of magic. We, wizards and witches, are whimsical beings but can reach for the stars if we want to, and nothing worthwhile is truly easy. And who said I have no focus? A wizard's strongest weapon has always been his mind."
A thoughtful Juno Black left his office, but her shoulders were far straighter than before. Albus Dumbledore felt more fulfilled than he had been in the last two decades of slogging through the bureaucracy of the Ministry of Magic and the ICW.
It reminded him of simpler times, of the small but powerful joys of teaching.
"My descendant is quite the specimen," Phineas's smarmy voice gloated loudly, making the other portraits groan.
"Naturally, without a corrupt old flop like you to lead her astray," Dilys Derwent snarked back.
Ignoring his quarrelling predecessors, Albus's mind turned to less pleasant topics that could not be put off. Like finding out who was attacking Slytherins so blatantly yet managing to avoid being seen by portraits, ghosts, and house elves alike.
25th of October, Sunday
"I don't have anything, Albus," Horace wiped the rivulets of sweat running down his bald head with a conjured towel. "Someone is targeting my students, and I don't know why, but I'm certain it's not someone from my house!"
"Troubling," the headmaster stroked his beard. "Miss Burke almost broke her neck with that fall. Nearly fatal."
"Word has gotten out of the school as we thought–children talk, after all. Plenty of concerned parents have sent me owls, demanding we do something!" The Potions Master reached for the crystalised pineapple Dumbledore idly handed him and started munching on it.
Albus sighed. "We are already doing all we can aside from meddling with the minds of our students." Not that such a step would ever be accepted. Even if it was, the vile act of breaking into the minds of the young was risky and damaging.
Such a sudden, unexplained bout of violence was worrying on many levels. The last time such things had happened was during the Blood War and half a century prior when Tom Riddle had studied at Hogwarts. May Merlin be his witness, Albus loathed violence, especially when aimed at the young and impressionable, but if he did not discover the cause of these attacks...
"Of course, of course," Horace quickly nodded, his slug-like face jostling with hesitation. "But, Albus, you must know that the Slytherins are a proud and ambitious lot, not to be pushed around. They're not… happy. And they blame the Gryffindors."
Because problems rarely come alone.
"I am aware," Albus reassured. "We have eight students in detention already–even if none of them were responsible for the attacks."
'Kill them all. Snuff out their worthless self-' Clamping down on the annoying whispers coming from the Death Stick, the headmaster groaned inwardly. Of course, the cursed wand would leap to violence at the mere mention of it.
"Of course, Minerva is doing everything to keep her lions in check, but we both know this is not how Gryffindors act."
"Yes, while some of them are hotheaded, they would opt for an open confrontation rather than that sort of malicious attack…" the plump Potions Master continued babbling, more to assuage his worries than anything else, but his words did not sound that convincing.
Attempting to kill someone who did you no harm was an act of pure malice, which made it particularly worrisome that a student in his school was capable of such. Contrary to what others thought, Albus loved observing his students in his rare moments of free time. The worst thing was that there were no good suspects, and the only thread Albus had pointed to Ron Weasley and his grudge from last year's beating with Botley. But the youngest Weasley son had no reason to attack Miss Burke.
"Merula and some of the ghosts promised they would keep an eye on the staircases," Dumbledore assured. Perhaps some strolls of his own would not be remiss either. Of the invisible sort, of course. Perhaps he could charm the steps to be cushioned, but Albus quickly waived that idea off; the charms would not hold for long due to the ambient magic of Hogwarts, and even if it did, the softened stone would be more of a hazard when a student expected solid ground.
After a short chat that probably failed to assuage Horace's worries, the Potions Master excused himself, leaving Dumbledore alone with his thoughts.
There was something in common with both of the victims. They had shown a tendency for bullying–or even lording over those younger than them. Melony Burke was far from innocent; the third-year witch was particularly petty, according to the portraits and the other teachers. Yet this underlying motive did not bring him any closer to finding the culprit.
The worst part was that the helplessness Albus felt was not new. It reminded him of those years half a century prior when a certain very bright student had managed to fool many with his charm and frame others for any distasteful deeds he had committed. This once again reeked of Tom Riddle, but the real question was how?
The explosion should have scattered what remained of Voldemort, and even if he survived, it ought to take a significant amount of time for his wraith to reform, if ever.
If it somehow was Lord Voldemort, he had no reason to go after children. Why target a seemingly random selection of Slytherins? What purpose did it serve? Revenge? A show of force?
And if so, to whom?
"Ah, Professor Dumbledore!" A significantly rounder Trelawney beamed at him with a strained smile. Her room, which she had rented in some muggle place in Yorkshire, looked surprisingly cosy. The sherry bottles he had grown used to seeing with the Divination Mistress were all absent from the tables, and she seemed to take her pregnancy quite seriously.
A few enchanted metal pins were dancing in the air on their own around balls of yarn, knitting what seemed to be baby clothes.
"Sybill," he greeted warmly. "I hope I'm not intruding."
"Not at all," she waved him over. "Tea? Or perhaps some sweets?"
Albus flicked his wand, conjuring himself a suitably comfy chair, and sat across the pregnant witch.
"I'm afraid I have to decline. I have found myself busy as of late, and my free time is sparse," he admitted. "But I just had to visit after I promised I would."
The smile Trelawney gave him made something inside him twist with guilt. She was so… happy, despite the lie, despite the heartbreak over losing her 'lover'.
"Oh, headmaster, teaching the children comes first," she said softly, placing her hands on her swollen belly.
"That it does," Albus agreed.
They exchanged a few more pleasantries, and the old warlock strained his senses to the limit. Yet he found no sign of darkness. Looking at Trelawney's genuine happiness made everything so surreal.
Would she still act as she did right now if she found out she had fallen in love with a man possessed by the dark lord? That it had never been Quirrell or even love, and that she was just a means to an end?
Could he bring himself to take her happiness away?
"Excuse me if my next question comes out rude, Sybill." The words felt so heavy on his tongue, even more so as she nodded joyfully. "Yet a certain quandary continues to wiggle in my head, often keeping me up at night. If I might be so bold to inquire, did you ever discuss Divination with dear Quirinus?"
Trelawney's smile turned brittle, and she mechanically sipped what smelled like honey mint tea while her eyes grew distant.
"Not at first. But every time I raised the subject, he asked me insightful questions. It's part of why I liked him so much," she whispered.
After exchanging a few more pleasantries, Albus headed to the ministry, leaving with another piece of knowledge under his belt–the child was expected in a little over three months.
The unpleasantries at Hogwarts had forced his hand. Without much effort, he passed the desk at the atrium, which wasn't particularly hard. Jennelin, the clerk standing there, looked bored out of her mind, and the Auror, whom he didn't recognise, was half asleep. Sighing, he made his way to the Department of Mysteries.
Avoiding the Unspeakables wasn't easy, but only three were left on Sundays. After half an hour of passing all the annoying tricks they had placed, Albus finally reached the ninety-seventh row in the hall of prophecies.
S. P. T. to A. P. W. B. D.
Dark Lord and (?)Harry Potter
The orb sitting so innocently on the shelf was a dull grey, a stark contrast to the few bright ones with roiling mist.
"Dumbledore," a voice masked by magic echoed from his side as a cloaked figure wrapped in dark, impenetrable robes appeared by his side.
"Croaker," Albus returned the greeting without even turning. His relationship with the Unspeakables was lukewarm at best, but they knew better than to challenge him. "Can you perchance do me a favour?"
"Ah, Grindelwald's Downfall, the mighty wizard who always asks for favours and gives none in return." Clearly, Croaker was more than annoyed today. But then again, the man never really liked Albus. "I know your tricks, Dumbledore. If I decline, Fudge would doubtlessly learn and throw a fit to make my life harder. I can aid you… depending on the favour."
The old warlock stroked his beard.
"Do you perhaps keep a record of when this prophecy was fulfilled?"
"We don't have the personnel to track each prophecy," was the annoyed reply. "But you're in luck–this one was on our very short list for observing."
That was all they did in the end. They might have pushed the limits of magic, but it was supposed to be strictly observational without affecting things outside of the Department of Mysteries. It made Augustus Rookwood's betrayal even more severe, for he had been the first man from the Unspeakables who betrayed their tenets in the vilest way–by using his gained knowledge from the Department for his own goals.
With the sole saving grace of the Unspeakables compromised, the Ministry had cut their funding even further. After all, who would toss gold to researchers delving into the most esoteric knowledge that often turned out impractical or too expensive to implement only to leak to dark wizards?
Budget cuts to the Unspeakables weren't anything new, but the one at the start of '82 had been the most brutal. A part of Dumbledore appreciated how they delved into the depths of the Arcane while avoiding the pitfalls of dark magic to the best of their ability. But some of the experiments they did here scared him, like the idea of time-turners, a dangerous tool for meddling with time.
Thankfully, the quarter-century-long project never managed to gain sufficient funding in the early sixties. Some of the depths of magic were better left unplumbed–a bitter truth Dumbledore had learned in his hubris long ago.
And he still struggled with it; the Death Stick's corroding presence would weigh on his mind forever.
"Then, perhaps you would be so kind as to enlighten me when the prophecy in question was indeed fulfilled?"
"Somewhere during last year," was the humourless reply. "And before you ask, we have better things to do than to observe dusty old prophecies. We only check the first day of January. The prophecy was active on the first day of 1991 but not on the first day of the next year. Yet there is something… even more odd. Someone broke into the Department the night before Christmas. They were very subtle, took nothing, and visited this same room and came to this very prophecy. The only reason we found them was the footsteps in the thin film of dust that can only be seen with our special lighting."
The day before Christmas… when Quirrell had excused himself from Hogwarts to care for his elderly Grandmother. Worse, Voldemort cared little for familial affections, or the poor old witch wouldn't have perished by the end of the school year.
The coincidence in timing was too great to ignore.
"Thank you, Croaker."
"Well, get out of here, then," the head Unspeakable clicked his tongue. "Unless you have any more of your nosy questions?"
"Not for now." More than he had entered with, but none for Saul Croaker.
The picture in his mind was even messier than before. Just as Dumbledore felt he approached a sign of Voldemort, it all slipped away or revealed his own gross incompetence even more. However, Albus was confident in one thing: Voldemort no longer cared about Harry Potter because he didn't consider him a threat. With the knowledge that the prophecy had been fulfilled, the only reason to target Harry Potter would be his wounded pride.
But, for all his faults, Tom Riddle was far from stupid, and he knew the real culprit of his demise that night in Godric's Hollow: Lily Potter. Dumbledore would even wager that taking revenge on a young wizard for something he didn't do wouldn't be high on the dark lord's list if he ever managed to return.
In the end, it removed a burden from young Harry's shoulders.
But it raised an entirely different question. How was the prophecy fulfilled last year? What exactly had changed for the Divination magic to consider its stringent conditions satisfied?
With a heavy heart and a clouded mind, Dumbledore's final stop for the day was Surrey.
"The boy never returned after Professor McGonagall came," Arabella reported after they exchanged pleasantries. "The Dursleys were acting different for quite a while before, though."
"Different how?" Albus inquired, running his fingers through the slick tawny fur of one of the kneazles that playfully tried to ambush him from the nearby table.
"It's hard to describe," Arabella scrunched her brow, looking particularly troubled. "There was this tenseness to them. And their son, Dudders or something, became quieter. I'd say he lost a third of his weight last year and no longer looks like a barrel with legs."
Transfiguring his stylish robes into an even classier dark purple tailcoat and his hat into a fashioned bowler hat, Dumbledore crossed Privet Drive and stopped before the door of number six, where Harry Potter had spent ten years of his childhood. By all reports, James and Lily's son wasn't happy here, even if he was safe and with the closest kin who wouldn't seek to kill him.
Was Albus about to face yet another one of his failures?
After a brief moment of hesitation, he rang the bell. As he waited, his gaze wandered around. The walkway was immaculately kept, just like the small row of flowers and the grass in the yard. Everything looked neat and tidy. A part of Albus could appreciate how Fate itself could laugh at his face– the protections he had anchored here had long faded, and not even a trace of them lingered.
Straining his ears, he heard cautious footsteps behind the door that creaked open slightly, and Petunia's horse-like face appeared in the crack. She looked significantly older than a decade prior.
"We don't want your kind here!" she tried to shoo him away fearfully. "My nephew escaped one day the summer after that professor of yours came over and never returned. We don't want him back! We never did in the first place!"
"Petunia, who is it?" A rumbling voice belonging to a most unpleasant muggle neared, and Albus had the joy of seeing Vernon Dursley's walrus-like form. His hair was dotted with wisps of grey despite being only in his thirties.
Were muggles ageing that quickly?
"You?" His face quickly turned a shade of puce as he set eyes on Dumbledore and angrily stabbed a sausage-like finger at Albus' chest. Yet the anger quickly turned to fear as the man hastily stepped back. "We never wanted the boy or any of that unnaturalness. Begone!"
The last part was hissed out in a most unfriendly manner while Petunia shakily nodded from his side. Vernon Dursley was heaving as if merely speaking the words had tired him. Dumbledore felt no threat from them, though their ability to threaten him would be laughable at best.
A brush on their minds had him nearly recoil. They were both afraid, terrified, and not merely from him or his presence.
"Very well, I shall not overstay my welcome," Albus nodded earnestly.
"You lot were never welcome here," Petunia said, her face as pale as chalk.
Sighing, he apparated back into his office, uncaring to face their rudeness any longer. Fawkes greeted him with a weak trill and burst into flames, turning into ash, but Albus' mind wandered.
Why were Petunia and Vernon so afraid of magic? It wasn't the fear of a vague possibility of the unknown and the strange but a different kind of fear, far too raw and primal.
A thousand scenarios passed through his mind, from bad to worse, but neither fit with the young and earnest Harry Potter who could cast a corporeal Patronus Charm–magic that even Tom Riddle never managed to fake in his genius. Or the issue could be something else entirely. Albus could profess himself tempted to go back and delve deeper into Vernon and Petunia's minds.
Breaking the trifling muggle-baiting laws would be laughably easy, and the headmaster knew how to hide his magic and leave no traces of his presence if the ministry ever bothered to check particularly on the Dursleys. It would be so easy to do so, but it wasn't right. The Death Stick's urging, stoking his frustration and urges for violence, was all the more reason not to. One slip down the slope of temptation, and he would fall faster than he could blink.
Yet, the day dwindled, and the new questions would not leave his mind. Even as night came, the sweet embrace of sleep did not come easy.
Why were the Dursleys so afraid?
Author's Endnote: Harry's plan worked out so well, but the consequences smack him in the face. Here we have Albus again, faced with trouble and questions. The old man can't get a break.
I update a chapter every second Thursday (or early Friday morning if I'm late/depending on your time-zone)! You can find me on my Discord (hVMvHF7g2m), where you can read ahead, come chat, or ask me or others questions.