CHAPTER 51: UNVEILING SECRET
Dumbledore was an extremely angry man. Worse than that, he was furious. But was there even a gradual difference between these two emotions? For him, it was all the same, but at the moment, he couldn't care less about reflecting on a topic as uninteresting as the degree of anger that could consume him. His consumption of sweets, however, could testify to it. For an hour now, the headmaster of Hogwarts had been ingesting astronomical quantities of lemon sorbets without even worrying about the alarming decrease in the level of his favorite candies in the bowl in front of him or the possible repercussions on his health.
Oh no, he had much more important things to do, and absorbed in contemplating the recent events in his school an hour ago, he mechanically picked and repicked from his bowl, bringing his hand to his mouth so mechanically that the subjects in the paintings on his office walls began to wonder if it was indeed the restless headmaster of Hogwarts sitting in his chair or an automaton with the sole purpose of stuffing itself over and over. None, however, asked him aloud, for rarely had the headmaster seemed so agitated, in such a murderous mood, and in the grip of a rage he could barely control.
"This filthy little...," he muttered, glaring at the poor window near his desk. Like mother, like son... Is their only goal in life to humiliate me at every opportunity?
"I don't know what he's talking about, but nothing would please me more than to see him so disturbed," Phineas Black mumbled to his neighboring portrait.
In general, no one could grasp the meaning of the headmaster's thoughts, but he didn't care about the former headmasters and their possible concern. His own thoughts were solely focused on this lively young man, handsome indeed but terribly arrogant, who hadn't hesitated for a second to throw his own ignorance back in his face. How could it be otherwise with the mother he had! Lamballe had probably briefed him since childhood to mock him, humiliate him in public, and challenge his authority at every opportunity. Dumbledore had never been able to have any control over this woman, so on her own son... It would be like hoping that Matthew became intelligent, that Sirius gave up the company of women, or that James became a completely different man than the irascible, thoroughly unpleasant character he had been for a few years.
A sigh that could shake the walls escaped his mouth, and as if to give himself courage, Dumbledore took the opportunity to stand up from his seat and approach the nearest cabinet. He opened it a few seconds later and pulled out a heavy, wide stone basin, which he struggled to place on his desk. Raising his wand to his temple, he pressed it there for a few seconds, then moved it slightly away, letting the slimy-looking filament slide from his skin toward the basin. It mixed with the liquid already inside, and for a second, Dumbledore could see snippets of the battle that had taken place before the memory disappeared.
"I'll analyze it in detail later...," he commented absentmindedly, placing the Pensieve back on his shelf. "When I'm... More composed."
Being composed was probably the opposite of the behavior he was displaying at the moment, and realizing that it would take time, some former headmasters sniffed lightly while others simply didn't laugh. The latter received a stern look from Dumbledore, but he refrained from going further and setting fire to the most daring portraits. Instead, he immersed himself again in the memories of the ball, which, in his eyes, was now a monumental fiasco. But, to be honest, he didn't know whom to blame: that mysterious boy who wasn't so mysterious after all, or Matthew, who once again couldn't behave in public without causing a disturbance with consequences that generally eluded him quickly? A bit of both, in his own opinion, but the Frenchman remained the main culprit.
The ball should have been the director's moment of grace, the opportune moment for him to dazzle his guests, glorify his school, and demonstrate through its grandeur, luxury, and entertainment that Hogwarts remained, of course, the most prestigious school in all of Europe. It should overshadow that miserable institution for French girls only good for marriage and childbearing and surpass that barbaric school lost on the outskirts of the steppes... If Durmstrang was indeed located there. To achieve such results, Dumbledore had invested financially, even discreetly dipping into the school's private funds. But to impress his guests, all means were fair, right? Who would imagine installing ice sculptures even in the gardens of Hogwarts, creating artificial snow in the Great Hall, and inviting the best orchestra in Europe if not him, after all? And to pay for the orchestra, his personal purse was clearly not enough, so what difference did a few hundred Galleons taken discreetly make? Everyone would only marvel at such beauties, forgetting to ask him where he had found the necessary funds.
So, the evening should have unfolded according to his plans, much like any other ball celebrated elsewhere: Opening dance, hearty and delicious meal, a few small gestures on his part with Madame Maxime to distract the French half-giant for a while, a small introductory speech of his own incorporating a few sentences celebrating the history and dominance of Hogwarts over the rest of the magical educational institutions in Europe, and then... Well, let things take their course. The youth didn't need their hands held to have fun on their own either!
However, the first hiccup appeared even before the start of the ball with the unexpected and unwanted presence of that Frenchman, that foreign prince whom Dumbledore, even knowing his family ties, would never have bothered to invite among them. What was he doing there, why, and above all, who could have invited him? The director hadn't asked such questions when he discreetly glimpsed the Frenchman, too busy containing the excitement of some students or giving his final instructions to the kitchens for the preparation of typical dishes from each country. Perhaps if he had paid more attention to him, to his surroundings, and to the person who invited him, he could have prevented the Frenchman from crashing his little party.
The opening of the ball had also been another point of disappointment in his eyes. Far from the admiring gazes he hoped for as he paraded before them, Dumbledore mostly encountered indifference, slight interest at times but quickly erased when the champions entered. He, who hoped to be in the spotlight, had missed it!
"Ingrates...," he muttered, watching absentmindedly from the window of his office as a few couples strolled in the snow-covered park alleys. "I bend over backward to please them, and I don't even get a thank you!"
Behind him, he could easily hear Phineas chuckling at the director's incomprehensible remarks, but Dumbledore preferred to return to contemplating the park rather than facing the former headmaster of Hogwarts and his little stinging remarks that most of the time left him speechless.
This brought him back to the course of the ball and to another point of discordance between what he had hoped for and what had actually happened: The dance! Oh, by Merlin, why hadn't he hired a dance master for Matthew for a few weeks! But, more importantly, why hadn't he inquired about his young friend's dancing talents before considering for a moment making him dance in front of an audience ready to pounce on him at the slightest misstep? For less than that, he would have banged his head against all the walls of the school, but doing it in front of his students would certainly have earned him a one-way ticket to St. Mungo's and the Department of Magical Diseases. Overall, Matthew's performance had been much inferior to those of his competitors, far from what one would expect from the chosen one, but fortunately, dancing did not count as a task for the Triwizard Tournament.
The evening, or rather the humiliation in Dumbledore's eyes, could have ended there, with everyone going to eat, drink, dance, or do other more intimate things that require no further description. But as always, a flaw had to creep into the machinery that was this ball and break its gears, and in this case, that flaw was none other than Matthew Potter, yet again.
"I should have tied him to a chair for the rest of the evening to make sure he stayed quiet," Dumbledore muttered darkly, furrowing his brow.
And perhaps that precaution would have been advisable, given that the subsequent events proved him right. Unable to resist the urge to make a scene, the young Gryffindor had approached the Frenchman, ready to shoot a few arrows to provoke him, thinking wrongly that, like most students in the school, he would not retaliate due to Matthew's supposedly great influence in the higher echelons of power. Bad move. The Frenchman probably didn't know him, unless he was not at all intimidated by the young heir in front of him. In less time than it took, Dumbledore found himself with an honorable duel on his hands, and in his own school! Now everything about the ball was shattered by the stupidity of his student and the misplaced pride of a Frenchman who shouldn't even have been there!
Right away, Dumbledore had tried to end it, although perfectly aware of the clauses of an honorable duel, he knew that nothing could put an end to it. At best, he could postpone it to a later date, but at the moment, he hadn't even thought about it, and the other boy had taken care not to mention it. Desperate at the thought that the press would only talk about this rather than the success of his ball, Dumbledore had still tried to end it by putting forth some convincing arguments, but the son of Princess Lamballe had been well educated because none seemed to have any hold on him.
The duel had then taken place, and by the director's own admission, it perfectly met the expectations of a spectator eager to see one with their own eyes... At least on one side of the field because the other was not particularly brilliant. To make matters worse, this other person was his own student, a student who had followed training during the holidays, had had private lessons at home, and who should, therefore, have achieved a certain degree of skill in his eyes. But as always with him, he had miserably failed, demonstrating once again his total inability to succeed in anything positive.
Dumbledore felt this sense of failure every time he laid eyes on Matthew or when his name was mentioned in a conversation. A failure, a flop, almost a mistake... Those were three of the adjectives that best characterized his student. Yet, he was the first to defend him in public! But there... He could only be forced to admit that something was wrong with him. There was no question of doing another inventory of his student's personality, as many had already been done in the past. And then, what more could be said about a student embodying all possible and imaginable flaws in a boy his age? There was nothing to keep from his character, nothing at least that could be useful to him in the future and in the face of Voldemort. His magical abilities? He certainly had them, but they were far from what one would expect from the one who had officially defeated Voldemort. From a school perspective? There was nothing to say about him, and that was precisely where the problem lay: There was absolutely nothing noteworthy to distinguish him from other students. Matthew was an average student, neither better nor worse than another, with no particular talent or aptitude setting him apart from his classmates. His grades were okay in some subjects, not so good in others, but he never reached the heights of the pyramid of the best students in his year. He displayed better skills than others in duels, but to be completely honest with himself, Dumbledore mainly attributed that to the training his young protege received outside the school term under the supervision of Moody; otherwise, his level would probably be the same as that of his classmates.
"He's barely superior to them even now," he sighed, absentmindedly cleaning his glasses.
How could one conceive for a single moment that Matthew could be the chosen one of the prophecy? How could someone so insignificant, through a stroke of luck or abilities far from exceptional, defeat the Dark Lord? Nothing at the moment predestined him for such a role, and given his lack of interest in progress, Dumbledore doubted he could ever compete with the one who had tried to kill him in the past. The events of recent years had easily demonstrated this. Twice, Matthew should have faced Voldemort himself – first year through Professor Quirrell and the specter of the Dark Lord lodged in his skull, and the second time through an enchanted diary containing a part of Voldemort's soul that opened the Chamber of Secrets, releasing the ancient serpent lurking within for centuries.
But on both occasions, Matthew had backed away, driven by a lack of interest and manifest cowardice. Danger frightened him, as did the unknown, and he preferred to wallow in the secure comfort of Gryffindor's common room rather than solving the problems the school faced. The quest for the Philosopher's Stone in his first year had not interested him in the slightest. Dumbledore had to handle all the work to prevent Quirrell from seizing it. At that time, the director had simply attributed his student's total lack of participation to youth. However, the second year and the Chamber of Secrets had started to worry Dumbledore about Matthew. Neither the opening of the chamber, nor the blood-written messages on the walls, nor the petrified students and the basilisk had broken Matthew's shell of indifference. He seemed like an empty shell, or perhaps a flabby and limp jelly that nothing could reach.
"I'd almost compare him to one of my former students gone astray if he had only a quarter of his magical abilities," Dumbledore murmured, stroking his beard.
But no, Matthew had nothing in common with Voldemort except for his manifest detachment in any situation requiring a reaction. Then came his third year, which one could consider much calmer than the previous ones, except for the fact that an Azkaban prisoner, a Death Eater and former friend of the Potter family, had escaped. The first thought that crossed Dumbledore's mind was that Pettigrew had escaped with the sole purpose of targeting Matthew on behalf of his master. To counter this, a detachment of a hundred Dementors had been requisitioned to protect Hogwarts and recapture the fugitive. However, nothing happened. The smallest rat imaginable did not disturb the tranquility of the school, and after a year, the Dementors returned to feast on the prisoners' dwindling happiness in Azkaban.
Matthew reluctantly endured the presence of these creatures like everyone else, even though they seemed to have more influence on him than on others. Yet, he never seemed to grasp the danger of his situation and the target he had become for the infamous traitor. Perhaps this kind of attention bored him profoundly, causing him to escape it by any means. But now, the Triwizard Tournament was here, and to his misfortune, he had been designated as the fourth participant. Even Dumbledore could not believe such a turn of events. While pleased that his school would have two champions, he couldn't ignore that Matthew's participation was not random but the work of someone else, someone who, aware of the tournament's danger, had planned to include the Potter heir regardless, perhaps to harm him. But who was involved, and how did they manage it? Dumbledore had no doubts about the person behind it, but Voldemort would never have bothered to come here and enchant a parchment to ensure Matthew's name came out. The Dark Lord must have gained some complicity within the school, meaning one of his followers might be walking among them without anyone knowing. Dumbledore had no idea who could be powerful enough to tamper with the Goblet of Fire, and it worried him.
As for Matthew, if the prospect of being in the tournament didn't enchant him, he showed no effort to make a good impression. As usual, and despite the distrust from other students, he followed his own path without any desire other than to shine despite everything. However, he didn't lift a finger to achieve that. He seemed to have waited for someone to explain the first task to him, and even when advising Moody to give him some hints to obtain the golden egg without difficulty or penalty, Matthew had once again done as he pleased, leading to the destruction of part of the dragon's clutch. Dumbledore couldn't help but sigh with frustration, a frustration that increased when considering that Matthew hadn't solved the riddle of the golden egg or even bothered to find a partner for the ball in recent weeks. He was not ready to make an effort or roll up his sleeves to progress on his own in the tournament. The result of the first task and Matthew's behavior led Dumbledore to label him as a failure, both personally and collectively. It was far from the hero he had hoped to shape.
At times, Dumbledore doubted that Matthew could be the chosen one of the prophecy destined to somehow defeat Voldemort. Moreover, he wondered if he was the cause of this failure. Had he, by trying too hard, somehow diverted Matthew from the young man he should have been? Should he have stepped back, let him live and grow on his own without any external intervention? Perhaps his student would have been different, stronger, smarter, more independent, and more sociable. But now, perhaps the prophecy was no longer relevant because of him. Far from the knight in shining armor, Matthew was now just a boy whose armor was evidently too big or too heavy for him. He lacked the stature, the material, and even the appearance. He had never been able to stand out or accomplish an act that could elevate him above others. Never had he managed to attract attention, admiration, hope, and respect from other students in his behavior, habits, or school life. As he calmly pursued his fourth year, Matthew showed no interest in anything that did not revolve around him, even if the opposite was possible. His entry into the tournament, the reason, and the plans of its instigator were all forgotten. The only thing that remained was the petty rivalry he continued to maintain with Draco Malfoy.
Despite all this, as if a small voice whispered in his ear, Dumbledore persisted in believing that there was still hope for Matthew to win the impending war. He clung to the thought that no other boy could better fulfill this role. The dates, the surrounding context, the commonalities between Trelawney's words, and both external and internal elements of Matthew's life all pointed to him. Everything coincided, including the scar. "And he will mark him as his equal..." No one he knew had such similarities with the prophecy. It could only be Matthew; otherwise, who else could fill this role?
"Nobody," he said decisively, plunging his hand back into his bowl of candies. "There are too many coinciding factors for doubt to creep in."
Far from the knights of ancient legends, Matthew might be a new model of hero. A hero whose personality, skills, and talent were far from the ideal that ordinary people would envision, but a hero in his own way. Even if Matthew managed to defeat Voldemort, it was not certain that he would survive. So, for the legend, future generations would likely prioritize facts over the person. Dumbledore would be there to remind everyone, speaking highly of his young student and reaping the fruits of labor in which he had no part. Even if Matthew somehow survived and managed to recount his exploits, the director would be there to silence him... permanently.
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