The percentages were up.
The board was, at last, appeased.
And the next Defense Against the Dark Arts professor—merlin be praised—had been secured for the coming year.
Albus Dumbledore exhaled a long, weary breath as he removed his half-moon spectacles and pinched the bridge of his nose. Exhaustion rolled over him like a tide breaking against worn cliffs. He had known, when Armando Dippet offered him the Headmastership two years prior, that he was inheriting a troubled legacy. But nothing—not even the worst of wartime triage—had prepared him for the depth of rot buried beneath Hogwarts' hallowed stones.
The institution had been quietly bleeding for over a decade. Renovation funds were squandered on vanity projects and siphoned off by unscrupulous contractors with well-placed friends. Once a sanctuary of the arcane elite, Hogwarts now scraped by with second-rate instructors and crumbling infrastructure. The plumbing was an outright catastrophe. The Quidditch pitch resembled a battlefield. Examination scores, both OWL and NEWT, had plummeted to historic lows. More alarmingly still, the castle's foundational enchantments—ancient, sentient, and hungry—had begun to stir without guidance. No one had reviewed the protective wards in years; it was deemed too costly by those with eyes fixed on ledgers rather than legacy.
Worst of all, Slytherin House had become a crucible for a new generation of pure-blood supremacists. Whispers of clandestine rituals, of burgeoning cults devoted to dark, long-forbidden arts, threaded their way through the dungeons like smoke.
There had been no gentle onboarding for Albus. He had struck the ground running, and run still he must.
His first priority had been funding—immediate, substantial, and unsullied. A string of lavish galas ensued, gilded affairs buoyed by his war hero fame and the lingering shimmer of the Dumbledore name. They had succeeded—barely. Enough coin was raised to keep the school afloat for a year, maybe two. But the Ministry of Magic circled still, rapacious and eager, seeking to subsume Hogwarts into its byzantine machinery of bureaucracy.
That, Albus would not abide.
The seat once held by Rowena Ravenclaw would not be surrendered to careerists and sycophants.
So he had turned to the last, most sacred option: Nicholas Flamel.
The ancient alchemist, his mentor and truest friend, had not hesitated. He understood—as few still did—what was truly at stake. With quiet gravity, the Flamels opened their legendary coffers, the weight of their gold matched only by their discretion. More astonishing still, Perenelle—brilliant, capricious, and ever fond of mischief—had agreed, on a passing whim, to teach Potions for two years. Slughorn, citing mysterious ailments and an overdue sabbatical, had vacated the position just in time.
And so, with coin secured, staff stabilized, and the ancient heart of the castle beginning—just beginning—to steady its beat, Albus allowed himself a moment. One breath. One sigh.
The battle was not over. But—for the first time in years—Hogwarts had hope.
.
..
Albus Dumbledore exhaled a plume of grey smoke, the tip of his pipe pulsing amber in the dim light of his office. A bad habit, inherited not from pleasure but necessity—born in the trenches of Grindelwald's war, where silence reigned and nerves frayed. The scent of tobacco clung to the velvet drapes and mahogany shelves like an old, persistent ghost.
He drew in deeply. The warmth curled into his lungs, dulled the edge of his shoulders, softened the air around him. Today was meant to be quiet—peaceful, even. A rare reprieve.
But serenity eluded him.
He tried, half-heartedly, to root through the thicket of his unease. Was it staffing? No. That matter, at least, had stabilized. Young Minerva McGonagall had joined his ranks, bright as steel and twice as sharp. A marvel, that one—disciplined, brilliant, incorruptible. Kettleburn had secured the post for Magical Creatures, and Slughorn, ever pliable when flattered properly, had returned to his old haunt once Lady Flamel found her interests drifting elsewhere. She had grown fond of her "tiny mages," but even she had to admit that twelve-year-olds and eternal alchemy made uneasy bedfellows.
No, that wasn't it.
He took another drag, slower this time, watching the pipe glow red-hot before the smoke curled skyward like a whisper. Horace was a complication—but not the root.
Somewhere, a voice—quiet, sly, and unkind—stirred in the back of his mind.
You know what's wrong. You've always known. You're simply too much a coward to name it.
Albus stiffened. The words were old, worn thin by repetition, yet still sharp enough to cut.
Memories surged like floodwater—unbidden, unstoppable.
The echo of screams in the Great Hall, black owls spilling names of the newly dead onto long tables.
Widows outside his door, hoarse with grief and desperation, pleading for a war he could not bear to wage.
Children orphaned. Soldiers disfigured. And always, always, the eyes. Why won't you stop him?
Because he wasn't a warrior. He was a scholar.
Because—
"You are a coward, Albus. And you shame Ariana's memory."
Aberforth's voice, acid on his soul.
He trembled. Sweat bloomed cold beneath his robes. Somewhere in his chest, panic curled its claws.
Fiendfyre screaming in the trenches. Flesh turning to ash. Men howling as the sky cracked open above them.
Occlumency was useless against this. The memories were no longer thoughts—they were truths, branded into his being. They came, always, and always in the same sequence. The war. The fire. The guilt. And then, the face.
A pale boy with eyes that never blinked.
I can make things move without touching them. I can make animals obey me. I can make bad things happen to people who are mean to me. I can make them hurt... if I want.
And with that face—always—the transformation. Grindelwald's maniacal laughter bleeding into Tom Riddle's charming smile. That knowing smile. The one he wore the day he accepted his diploma with highest honors, every accolade Albus could bestow. The boy had smiled at him with a look that said:
I know that you know.
And now it's your move.
Outwardly, Riddle had murmured a gracious farewell, all politeness and gratitude. But Albus recognized it for what it was. A quiet declaration of war. He had seen that same glint once before—in a different youth, with different dreams, but the same hunger.
Predators knew their own.
Was he letting it happen again? Was Tom Riddle merely Grindelwald's echo, or his evolution? The boy had vanished the moment he left the castle, slipping through every spell, every sight, magical and otherwise. Albus begrudgingly acknowledged the truth: only two men had ever evaded him that completely.
Now there were three.
Knock. Knock.
The sharp rapping on the door tore through his thoughts.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Louder now. More urgent.
"Albus?! You in there?" came Horace's unmistakable drawl.
Albus gasped, as though surfacing from deep water. His hands shook as he stubbed out the pipe.
"Just a moment, Horace," he called, already reaching for his wand to tidy his appearance.
He looked into the mirror. His face was presentable. His soul? Far less so.
.
..
The door creaked open with theatrical indignation as Horace Slughorn bustled in, red-cheeked and puffing like a winded bullfrog. His moustache bristled, robes rustling with every indignant step.
"Really, Albus," he huffed, fanning himself with a silk handkerchief embroidered with dancing pineapples. "Leaving an old friend banging on your door like a solicitor? I've half a mind to hex the hinges off next time."
Albus offered a warm, apologetic smile—the kind that softened even the sharpest rebuke.
"My deepest apologies, Horace. I was rather… adrift in thought," he said gently, gesturing toward the inviting armchair beside the hearth. "Do make yourself comfortable. How was your vacation?"
As if a charm had been triggered, Horace's face lit up like a Christmas chandelier. He flopped into the chair with theatrical flair, his grudge already forgotten.
"Oh, divine, my dear boy, divine. I took the Royal Eluvian Line straight to the Caribbean—white sand, enchanted surf, and a resort so exclusive they don't even let Unspeakables in without an appointment."
Albus nodded, his smile thinning ever so slightly as Horace leaned forward conspiratorially.
"Veelas, Albus. Real ones. Three quarters of the staff. And the guests! Quidditch stars—entire Bulgarian starting lineup. And mage theorists, too—Scamander, Wilson, that eccentric from the Corsican school with the silver beard and the ring of living fire? Delightful company. We spent hours discussing spellcraft over cocktails that floated, Albus. Floated!"
"How splendid," Albus murmured, swirling his tea with the grace of a man enduring a paper cut to the soul. Horace's idea of "relaxation" always seemed like a fever dream of the aristocracy—equal parts charm and excess.
"And," Horace added with a gleam in his eye, "I didn't pay for a thing. Half my old Slug Club was there. All grown up and filthy with galleons. They absolutely showered me in gifts. Custom robes, enchanted cigars, a bottle of Phoenix Brandy aged in a time pocket—probably illegal but who's checking? Ah, it's good to be appreciated."
Albus raised his brows politely. "How gratifying. Did… any particular former students visit?"
Horace paused only a moment—too brief to be natural—and waved the question away with his handkerchief. "Oh, you know, the usual lot. Minister's aides, a few from the International Confederation. Shining stars, every one."
"Was Tom among them?"
The name fell like a weight between them.
Horace blinked, then busied himself with a stubborn thread on his cuff. "Horrid humidity there, really. Took a charm and two house-elves just to keep my curls from going wild…"
Albus's voice remained gentle. "I only ask because I've been wondering where he is these days. A man who broke nearly every academic record we've kept—not since, well—" he gestured vaguely toward himself, "—and yet, he vanished without a whisper."
Horace gave a forced chuckle, fat fingers tugging at his collar.
"He never broke everything, Albus," he said with faux cheer. "Couldn't catch a Snitch to save his life, could he?"
Albus's smile didn't waver. "Indeed. But he didn't need to. A boy like that… hailed as the next Merlin, some said. And now? Silence. Not a letter, not a trace."
The warmth drained from Horace's face. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, eyes darting toward the door as if escape might offer reprieve.
"For Merlin's sake, Albus," he snapped, more sharply than intended. "How the hell should I know? I haven't kept tabs on the boy. He left. Off to do… something grand, no doubt. He was always ambitious."
Dumbledore gave a pleasant hum, as though mildly amused.
"Oh yes, grand indeed," he said, settling back in his chair, the steam from his tea curling lazily between them. "You once compared him to Merlin, if I recall. The Merlin. A touch hyperbolic, perhaps, but one never forgets such praise. Especially from the esteemed founder of the Slug Club."
Horace's expression twitched—caught between flattery and discomfort.
"Ah well, I've said things about a few promising students," he mumbled. "You know how it is. Dinner talk. Buttering them up a bit to keep them encouraged."
"Of course," Dumbledore said smoothly, "but it's a curious thing. One would imagine that a student of such extraordinary promise—hailed in your own words as the greatest mind of his generation—might have kept in touch with his favorite professor. Surely the Slug Club wasn't too small a stage for the Second Coming of Merlin?"
Horace let out a defensive sniff. "Tom was never one for clubs. Not really. Liked to keep to himself."
"Did he?" Albus asked, gaze unwavering. "And yet I remember him as terribly… attentive. Especially when rare magic was discussed. Theoretical paths. Darker corners of scholarship. Surely he must've asked you something… about alchemical oddities, advanced transformation… legacies of permanence."
The last word hung in the air like incense—sweet, heavy, and unmistakably laced with something sharper beneath.
Horace's fingers fidgeted on the armrest. "If he did, it was years ago. Nothing important. Just idle curiosity."
"Mm." Albus's voice remained serene, but there was steel hidden in its folds. "Idle curiosity from a boy who collected knowledge like dragon hunters collect scales. I wonder, Horace… is there anything you forgot to mention to me about Tom Riddle's… questions?"
The silence stretched, until Horace's temper finally snapped.
"Why don't you ask your new pet, then?" he barked. "Where's Harry Valemont these days, hmm? I don't see you drilling him about the dangers of being too clever. Or too curious."
The air in the room shifted, subtle as the intake of breath before a storm. The fire behind the hearth dimmed, shadows stretching an inch too long across the floorboards.
Dumbledore blinked slowly. When he spoke, his voice was gentle—almost painfully so.
"I apologize, Horace. That was unkind of me. I've been dwelling on ghosts, and letting them speak too loudly."
Horace grumbled something unintelligible, still stewing.
"To make amends," Albus continued, drawing open a drawer in his desk, "I thought I might offer a small gift."
"I don't need a bloody gift," Horace muttered, though his eyes betrayed him as Albus withdrew a thick cream envelope, sealed with an iridescent sigil.
"This is not a trinket," Albus said with a faint smile. "It's an invitation. Perenelle Flamel is hosting a private dinner. A symposium, technically—five guests. Six at most. Potioneers and theoretical alchemists of… considerable stature. I was invited, as I always am."
Horace blinked.
"You… were invited?"
"I always am," Albus said mildly. "But I won't be attending this year. I thought, perhaps, you'd enjoy taking my place."
Horace stared at the envelope as though it might combust from sheer prestige.
"Perenelle," he whispered, reverent. "She… she knows who I am?"
"Not yet," Albus replied, smiling faintly. "But I imagine she will."
Horace reached out, hesitated, then snatched the envelope with all the subtlety of a starving man reaching for bread.
"This is… extraordinary," he breathed. "They say she only invites people who've published something that made a rune-wright weep."
"I imagine you'll fit right in," Albus said with careful grace, standing. "Do let me know how it goes."
As Horace beamed down at the envelope, Albus turned back to his desk, his quill already hovering over parchment.
He would need to write to Perenelle, of course. An apology. Possibly a warning.
And a gift. A bribe, if one was being honest.
Something ancient. Something clever. Something that would remind her that even Dumbledore's mistakes came wrapped in excellent wine.
.
..
The door clicked shut behind Horace, muffling his humming and the rustle of celebratory parchment.
Albus stood in the silence that followed, his limbs heavy with exhaustion. The fire had burned low, casting long shadows across the stone floor, as though the castle itself had stretched and sighed. He extinguished the lamps with a wave of his wand and moved toward his private quarters.
The night was cool and quiet, and even so, he could feel the faint thrumming of old magic in the stone. The castle never truly slept—neither, it seemed, did he.
He brushed his teeth in silence, the mint stinging like winter on his tongue. He rinsed, spat, dried his hands with an old linen towel, and looked up to face himself in the mirror.
Except it wasn't the mirror.
Not the mundane one, at least.
The cool, rippling sheen of the Pensieve's basin stared back at him, not with judgment, but with invitation.
He hadn't realized he'd wandered back into his study. The basin sat quietly beneath the mirror's frame, gleaming faintly in the moonlight seeping through the window. The mirrored surface offered no reflection of his face—only the swirling hint of memory just beneath its surface, seductive and dangerous.
Albus's breath caught in his throat.
Not tonight, he told himself. Not again.
But even as he turned away, he felt the tug. The subtle unraveling of his resolve. A name whispered in the back of his thoughts. A girl's laugh—light, broken, gone.
He dropped to the floor, spine pressed to the cold wall, and slid down until his head rested against the edge of the Pensieve's pedestal. He closed his eyes.
For a moment, he simply breathed.
Why, he thought. Why had Horace's words pierced so deep? He's said worse before. Others have.
And then, like the cold blade of a forgotten truth slipping through old defenses, the answer came.
It wasn't the jab about Tom.
It was the name.
Harry Valemont.
.
..
Even thinking the name brought a strange pressure behind Albus's eyes, like the weight of a storm that refused to break.
He remained slumped at the base of the Pensieve's pedestal, its silver surface quietly pulsing beside him. He hadn't touched it—but he didn't need to. The memories were already flooding back, unbidden.
Seven years.
Seven full years at Hogwarts.
Seven years of a boy no one invited.
The castle itself had summoned him.
The Sorting Ceremony had been halfway through—house banners fluttering overhead, McGonagall's voice ringing over the new first-years—when the wards trembled. Not subtly. Not gently. The entire hall felt it: the wards recoiling, expanding, adjusting.
A ripple of ancient magic passed over every surface, every stone. The floating candles flickered. A few of them went out entirely.
And then he was there.
A boy. Pale, quiet, unassuming. Standing among the other children, dressed neatly, looking neither lost nor afraid. No one had seen him enter. None of the professors remembered escorting him from the train, or guiding him through Diagon Alley for supplies. There had been no conversation, no orientation. He was simply present—as though he had always been meant to be.
The faculty had been stunned into silence.
Horace, of course, hadn't been. He'd spent the rest of the feast loudly blaming Dippet's lax administration. "This is what happens when you let sentiment rule instead of standards," he barked to anyone within earshot—already positioning himself for the headmaster's chair.
Others had reacted more quietly. A few professors had whispered to each other. Flitwick had pursed his lips so tightly they vanished. Even Hooch had gone pale. Only Albus, even then, had stared at the boy with something more than confusion.
It was impossible. And yet it had happened.
And the oddities only compounded from there.
The boy—Harry—had steadfastly refused to explain how he had arrived. Someone had clearly instructed him on what to say. He repeated the line verbatim every time he was questioned:
"I received my Hogwarts letter. I came."
Dippet had, in his usual sardonic manner, asked if Harry had also reserved a meeting with the school's finance registrar to discuss tuition fees.
The very next morning, all seven years of education—supplies, books, boarding—had been paid in full. Quietly. Anonymously. Through Gringotts.
The amount had been exact to the knut.
And then came the name.
Valemont.
It struck the faculty like a thunderclap.
The Valemont line had been dead. Dead and damned, most believed.
A family infamous for its seafaring blood—pirates, naval enchanters, deepwater cursebreakers, treasure-hounds with too much daring and far too little sense. They'd sailed to the edge of magical maps, unearthed half-sunken ruins, fought in foreign mage wars for coin and glory, and eventually tore themselves apart through duels, vendettas, and ruinous debts.
The final blow had been the last Goblin Rebellion. The last of the Valemonts were said to have vanished beneath the sea, defending a cursed vault that had no right to be opened. Their seat on the Wizengamot had been quietly seized. Their holdings scattered and sold.
Their manor had been sold off to pay for the family's considerable debts.
And yet—there he was.
Harry Valemont.
Standing in the Sorting line like a shadow resurrected.
Not a trace of the old blood madness. Not a whiff of reckless arrogance. Just quiet eyes and a posture too still for his age.
.
..
Not a trace of the old blood madness. Not a whiff of reckless arrogance. Just quiet eyes and a posture too still for his age.
The Sorting Hat had placed him in Ravenclaw—not loudly, not dramatically. No shouts, no debate, no hesitation. Just a soft murmur of "Ravenclaw" that barely echoed through the Great Hall. There had been polite applause. Nothing more.
At the time, it had seemed… normal.
It was only after that the unease began to stir.
From the very first week, the boy had flung himself into his studies with a devotion that bordered on monastic. He didn't just enjoy learning—he seemed to require it. Like his life depended on it. Books, scrolls, obscure alchemical diagrams, old treatises on pre-Goblin War spellwork—all devoured with mechanical precision.
He didn't try to make friends.
Not in the casual, fumbling way most first-years did. Not even the studious ones. His fellow Ravenclaws—competitive and cerebral by nature—found themselves irked. This was a House where students had to be escorted out of the library by professors at curfew. And even they whispered that Harry Valemont made them feel… crowded. Distant.
He was never cruel. Never dismissive. In fact, when asked for help—rarely, and only by those brave or desperate enough—he gave it freely, often going beyond what was requested. But always with a certain emotional detachment. Like a healer treating an injury he did not want to remember.
Useful. But unknowable.
His marks were exceptional from the beginning. Not meteoric—he wasn't a comet like Riddle had been—but relentless. Riddle had scorched his name into the parchment of Hogwarts history. A genius, a blazing sun. Everyone had seen it.
Harry?
He was a torch—steady, persistent, burning without pause.
And unlike Tom, he never faltered at hard work. Where Riddle flinched at subjects that resisted his innate brilliance—Care for magical creatures, , Herbology—Harry leaned in. Albus had once overheard a first-year grumble that Valemont had spent four hours diagramming an arithmantic rune series that was only worth five points on a quiz.
"Why?" the boy had asked.
Harry's answer had been simple.
"I didn't understand it yet."
It wasn't pride. It wasn't fear. It was something more dangerous—discipline without ego.
Riddle had charm, wit, ambition, cruelty. But he lacked patience. He expected things to come easily—and often, they did. And when they didn't, he would abandon them with a sneer, convinced the world was flawed for not yielding to his will.
Harry Valemont was the opposite.
He didn't expect things to come easy.
And he didn't walk away when they didn't.
He was never at the top of the year, not officially. Always floating within the top ten, sometimes slipping to sixth or seventh—not for lack of ability, but because he refused to follow the curriculum rigidly. He'd wander off into obscure areas of study, subjects not even taught at Hogwarts. Albus had once found him reading a doctoral thesis on thaumic feedback loops, annotated in three different inks.
He never turned it in. He never even spoke of it.
That was what unnerved Albus the most.
Not the mystery of his arrival.
Not the weight of a resurrected name.
But the feeling that everything Harry did had a purpose—and that purpose lay far beyond these walls.
.
..
But the feeling that everything Harry did had a purpose—and that purpose lay far beyond these walls.
Albus closed his eyes.
There it was again. That bitter, quiet thing lodged in his chest.
Jealousy.
He hated to name it. He, the saintly savior, the brilliant Headmaster, the so-called greatest wizard of the age—jealous?
The world would laugh. Or worse—pity him.
The Dumbledore of the war memorials. The Dumbledore of the Chocolate Frog cards. The Dumbledore whose name children whispered with awe. To imagine that man, envying a quiet boy in Ravenclaw robes? It was absurd. Sacrilegious, almost.
But it was also true.
He was only human, after all. A deeply fallible one.
No, it hadn't been jealousy alone—it had been fascination. From the first day.
While most boys and girls his age were far too busy trying to strip each other beneath clumsy charms in dark corridors, or giggling in corners over who had the "coolest" spell—(Albus scowled faintly, muttering under his breath, "Cool. I still don't understand what that means. The word used to mean cold…")—or chasing Quaffles like it might earn them a crown, Harry had stood apart.
Isolated, yes. But not lonely.
Focused.
There was no arrogance in it. No hunger for recognition. The boy simply did not care for the games the rest played.
Albus had tried—genuinely tried—to build a bridge to him.
He'd approached gently, with carefully chosen words and small kindnesses. Books passed through intermediaries. Invitations to tea that weren't formal enough to provoke scrutiny, but just warm enough to imply welcome. He'd hoped to begin the delicate work of mentorship, to perhaps nurture something… lasting.
Instead, he'd been met with a stare. A look—unmistakably sharp, cold, and full of contempt.
It had stunned him.
Not in its intensity—he had known hatred before—but in its clarity. The look Harry gave him wasn't confused or dramatic. It was direct. He had measured Albus and found something lacking.
Tom Riddle would've been delighted by that kind of scorn. He would've laughed and said, finally, someone worth knowing.
But for Albus… it cut.
He'd spent days afterwards reviewing every interaction, every word, every gesture. Had he said something cruel? Had he offended the boy in some way he hadn't realized?
The answer never came.
And that, somehow, hurt more.
Only two others in recent memory had ever met him with such quiet frost: a brooding sixth-year named Severus Snape, whose bitterness was so potent it clung to him like smoke—and his own Transfiguration assistant, Minerva McGonagall.
Minerva, who was brilliant, dutiful, and impossibly kind. Who had poured herself into her work with that old Highland rigor, never once asking for recognition. And he… had barely acknowledged her.
He had been cold. Distant. Not out of malice, but out of fear that warmth might unravel him.
And yet, he'd watched the way Horace's face lit up when Slughorn spoke of his "Slug Club darlings." The joy on Nicholas's face when he explained a new alchemical concept to a curious apprentice. Scamander, too—so gentle with his creatures, and gentler still with the wide-eyed students who adored him.
Albus had seen the happiness teaching brought to those men.
And, quietly—foolishly—he'd hoped.
He had hoped Harry might be that for him.
Alchemy was dying. No one cared for its intricacies anymore—too slow, too theoretical, too sacred. His great experiment to revive it at Hogwarts had begun with such promise. He had taken Minerva under his wing for Transfiguration, hoping the dual rebirth of both disciplines might inspire a golden age of magical scholarship. But the project was already failing.
Minerva was overworked, and Albus… was alone.
He had wanted one brilliant student. Just one. Not to worship him, not to flatter him, but to walk beside him into mystery. To carry something forward. To prove that Dumbledore wasn't just a monument to war and tragedy—that he could pass something down.
Instead, Harry had left him with nothing. Not even a goodbye. Not even a word.
And Albus still didn't know why.
He turned his face slightly, his cheek pressing to the cold marble edge of the Pensieve. The memories inside stirred faintly, a silvery gleam in the dark.
He hadn't looked into them yet. Not for Harry. Not fully.
But he was starting to think that, perhaps… he must.