Chapter 1: Pieces on the Board
Chapter Text
It was just another ordinary day at the Dursleys’ house. Another day where Harry was slowly recovering from the adventures of the past school year and adapting once more to life in that house that felt more like a prison. Uncle Vernon seemed more enthusiastic about handing out punishments than ever, especially after all Harry had done to escape the previous summer: stealing a flying car and everything else. Perhaps the man feared Harry might have told someone important what really went on in that household.
The truth was: Harry had told someone. But Dumbledore hadn’t believed him. And if Dumbledore didn’t believe… who else would?
Shaking his head, Harry carried the trash out after cleaning the entire house. He knew his uncle would complain if even a speck of dust remained or if the bin was full. He took advantage of the few free minutes he had to run to the park and breathe some fresh air. Whenever he stepped outside, he could almost feel the edge of the protective wards Dumbledore had set around the property. Crossing that invisible line always made him feel lighter. And Merlin knew he needed that.
It was right as he crossed that line that a large owl, as if it had been waiting for him, swooped down in front of him. Harry stepped back, trying to find a discreet place to receive the letter without anyone noticing, but the moment he crossed through the wards the owl began acting strangely. It seemed confused, almost unable to locate him.
Harry hurried forward, frowning in confusion. The owl fixed him with what looked like indignation before flapping its wings furiously and thrusting out its leg without even landing. Awkwardly, Harry took the letter, and the brown owl departed with a resentful screech.
The twelve-year-old slowly looked down at the envelope in his hands and immediately recognized the seal of Gringotts. What on earth did the goblins want with him?
Dear Mr. Potter,
It is of the utmost importance that you present yourself at one of our branches to address a delicate and urgent matter concerning your inheritance and vaults. You have reached the proper age to demand the recognition of your name, and you must formally appoint your proxy for your seats in the Wizengamot. Such forms must be completed at Gringotts Bank for your legitimacy to be recognized by the Lady Magic itself.
We have attempted to draw your attention to this fact during your last two visits to our Diagon Alley branch, but our warnings were promptly ignored by your companions.
Should your travel be compromised, this letter also serves as a portkey that will bring you directly to the nearest branch. Simply use the password “Gold” to activate it. Your account manager, Nangok, will be at your disposal at any time upon your arrival at our bank.
May your vaults never run dry,
Griphook
Harry knew it was close to 5 pm, and the bank would soon close its doors for the day and reopen in the morning. And the owl's strange reaction, moving away as he passed through the ward surrounding his house. Then, without thinking about anything else, Harry Potter spoke just one word. A word that guided him to the greatest change of his life.
"Gold."
Traveling by Portkey, Harry discovered, was one of the worst possible experiences. Worse even than Floo powder. The sensations were completely different, and he was left utterly dizzy. It took him several minutes to realize he was standing in a corner inside Gringotts. A few goblins were already watching him with suspicion.
Quickly, Harry approached one of the goblin tellers and waited until he was acknowledged.
“What is the purpose of your visit today?” asked the goblin, grimacing at the sight of the boy’s clothes.
“Good afternoon… I’d like to speak with… Nangok? He’s expecting me,” Harry replied, uncertain.
“And who exactly is he expecting?” The goblin’s stare grew sharper, as though searching his face for any hint of a lie.
“Harry Potter.”
That was the moment everything changed. The goblin straightened, examined him once more, then stepped down from his chair before uttering a curt, “Follow me, Heir Potter.”
And Harry followed, growing more and more confused.
The path inside Gringotts was not something easily memorized. It took years of practice to navigate its labyrinthine corridors. Even curse-breakers who worked for the bank often got lost. And the London branch, nestled in Diagon Alley, was one of the oldest and most confusing of them all.
The goblin leading Harry stopped before a heavy door and knocked. A guttural voice answered from inside in Gobbledegook. He entered, leaving Harry to wait outside, and the boy could only imagine what was being said in there. Soon after, the goblin returned and opened the door with a clear gesture.
“You may enter now, Heir Potter. Nangok awaits you.”
Harry stepped into the office, still puzzled by the repeated 'Heir Potter'.
“Good afternoon, Heir Potter. I am Nangok, the account manager responsible for the Potter Family vaults.”
“Good afternoon. Well… I’m Harry Potter. And I’m sorry, but—what do you mean by that? I honestly don’t understand why you keep calling me ‘heir,’ or why you speak of vaults, plural. As far as I know, I only have the one vault my parents left me.”
Nangok’s expression flickered briefly with confusion before the mask of professionalism settled back into place.
“Your Magical Guardian has not taught you anything about your rights and duties as the Heir of the Potter Family?”
“Well… I didn’t even know I had a Magical Guardian.”
“And as for your vaults and accounts? You haven’t received any of our notices regarding transactions carried out in your name?”
“I think there’s something about the protections placed around my relatives’ house,” Harry explained, frowning. “The owl with your letter got completely confused whenever I was inside the ward lines, as if it couldn’t even find me. She only delivered it when I stepped beyond the protections. And as for vaults...I only have access to the one I withdraw from every summer to buy my school supplies.”
At last, Nangok could no longer keep the mask of impassive professionalism. He was face to face with a child the Guardian had sworn, before the Wizengamot and the Goblin King himself, to train and prepare for his duties as Heir and future Lord Potter since the age of five. But apparently, it had all been one colossal lie. And if that was a lie… what else had this Guardian been capable of twisting to deceive the entire wizarding world?
“I can, Heir Potter, begin explaining everything you need to know. But before that, we must conduct an Inheritance Test to see exactly what has been done to you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Blood does not lie. Blood remembers. Blood is the strongest magical element. Whatever has been done to you: physically, mentally, or magically, blood will reveal. For that, we must perform the Inheritance Test. You will make a small cut on your hand, let seven drops fall upon this parchment, and it will reveal everything we need to know. Once it is done, we will understand the path we must take.”
He slid a silver knife and a thick parchment toward Harry. The boy took the blade with trembling hands, made a shallow cut in his palm, and guided his hand over the parchment, counting each of the seven drops as they fell. The instant the seventh drop touched the surface, the parchment began to glow. Nangok gestured sharply, cleaning the blade with a flick and healing Harry’s hand in the same motion.
“Blood is precious, Heir Potter. Never allow anyone to gain easy access to it.”
When the parchment finally stopped glowing, Harry knew at once that nothing in his life would ever be the same again. When the glow finally faded, the parchment had doubled in size. Harry felt a chill run down his spine: he was certain it contained details about every single abuse he had endured at the Dursleys’ hands.
Nangok frowned deeply as the writing spread across the page. His eyes, trained by decades of reading contracts and heritages, widened in shock and something close to outrage. Slowly, he looked up at Harry, as if truly seeing the boy for the very first time.
Without a word, he slid the parchment toward him, silently studying Harry’s reaction.
---
Name: Hadrian Thomas Riddle
Adoptive Name: Harry James Potter
Date of Birth: July 31, 1980
Father: Thomas Marvolo Riddle (Status: alive/incapacitated)
Mother: Lily Riddle (née Evans) (Status: alive/incapacitated)
Adoptive Father: James Fleamont Potter-Prince (Blood Adoption) (Status: alive/incapacitated)
Twin Sister: Hania Lily Riddle (Status: alive. Adoptive Name: Hermione Jane Granger)
Godfathers:
Severus Tobias Potter-Prince (Status: alive/memory altered)
Sirius Orion Black III (Status: alive/illegally imprisoned)
Magical Guardian: Albus P. W. B. Dumbledore (Illegal)
Mate: [BLOCKED]
Creature Inheritance: [BLOCKED]
Magical Core:
[ ]Dark
[x]Grey
[ ]Light
-
Abilities:
Parseltongue (80% blocked – by APWBD – 60% broken)
Parselmagic (100% blocked – by APWBD)
Eidetic Memory (90% blocked – by APWBD)
Intelligence (80% blocked – by APWBD)
Critical Thinking (90% blocked – by APWBD)
Animagus (100% blocked – by APWBD)
Wandless Magic (90% blocked – by APWBD)
Nonverbal Magic (95% blocked – by APWBD)
Natural Legilimency (100% blocked – by APWBD)
Natural Occlumency (100% blocked – by APWBD)
Fire Affinity – Creature Heritage (90% blocked – by APWBD)
Accelerated Healing – Creature Heritage (100% blocked – by APWBD – 45% broken after contact with phoenix tear)
Twin Magical Connection (80% blocked – by APWBD)
Spells, Compulsions, and Potions:
Block on natural elemental affinities – by APWBD
Block on access to magical core – by APWBD
Loyalty Potion to Albus Dumbledore – by APWBD
Hatred of Slytherins – by APWBD
Compulsion toward Reckless Behavior – by APWBD
Concentration Difficulty – by APWBD
Memory Alterations (multiple) – by APWBD
Potter Family Luck Curse – through Blood Adoption – by JFP
Skelegrow (repeated) – by PP
Basilisk venom active in bloodstream, immunized by Phoenix Tear
Unknown Dark Magic within scar – by APWBD
Medical Record: clear signs of physical, mental, and emotional abuse. Full diagnostic and magical cleansing recommended.
Titles:
Descendant & Heir Apparent of the Most Ancient and Most Noble House of Peverell (paternal and through blood adoption)
Descendant of the Most Ancient and Noble House of LeFay (maternal)
Descendant & Heir Apparent of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Slytherin (paternal)
Heir Apparent of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Gryffindor (through blood adoption)
Descendant of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Ravenclaw (maternal)
Descendant & Heir Apparent of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Gaunt (paternal)
Heir Apparent of the Ancient and Noble House of Potter (through blood adoption)
Possible Heir of the Most Ancient and Imperial House of Pendragon
Vaults:
Riddle – Main Vault (700) and Trust Vault (862)
Gaunt – Main Vault (023) and Trust Vault (307)
Slytherin – Main Vault (009) and Trust Vault (186)
Peverell – Main Vault (013) and Trust Vault (297)
Potter – Main Vault (055) and Trust Vault (713)
Gryffindor – Main Vault (007) and Trust Vault (184)
LeFay – Main Vault (012) and Trust Vault (454)
Ravenclaw – Main Vault (008) and Trust Vault (185)
Evans – Sole Vault (964)
For details of family vaults in stasis, family grimoires, weaponry, portraits, furnishings, and libraries, check the adjacent chambers of each Main Vault.
For information regarding transactions, investments, withdrawals, transfers, and family estates, speak directly to the Account Manager.
-
Harry’s eyes raced over the parchment, disbelief mounting with each line. None of it made sense. How could he possibly be “heir apparent” to so many ancient families? How could he be Tom Riddle’s son? His own father had tried to kill him! A blood adoption from James Potter? And worst of all: how could Hermione be his twin sister?
“By Gringotts’ steel…” Nangok muttered under his breath before composing himself again. “Heir Potter...no. Heir Riddle. What has been done to you is…” He swallowed hard. “…intolerable.”
Harry shrank back.
“Intolerable? What… what do you mean by that?”
Nangok drew a deep breath, his gaze grave.
“I mean you have been deceived. Manipulated. Nearly every facet of your magic has been shackled. And worse still...” his voice dropped to a shadowy growl “...by the very man sworn to protect you.”
Before Harry could respond, the office door opened. Another goblin entered: taller, clad in black armor, golden rings glinting on his fingers. His very presence seemed to fill the room. Nangok bowed his head respectfully.
“My King.”
Ragnok stepped forward, his obsidian eyes sweeping over Harry, assessing every inch.
“So this is the heir Dumbledore tried to erase,” he said, his deep voice rumbling like muted thunder. “Show me the parchment.”
Nangok handed it over without a word. Ragnok scanned the writing in silence, his expression hardening into steel.
“An Inheritance Test conducted at Gringotts never lies. Blood remembers, boy. And your blood bears the marks of many ancient lineages. You are the son of Thomas Riddle and Lily Evans. More than that: you have a living twin sister.”
Harry blinked rapidly, stunned.
“This… no… this can’t be true. He tried to kill me!”
“He did not try to kill you,” Ragnok corrected, his gaze sharp as a blade. “He tried to destroy the falsehood Dumbledore had woven around you. But that is a matter for later. For now, Heir Riddle, you require healing. Every compulsion, every spell, every block must be removed. Only then can we speak of inheritance.”
He turned to Nangok.
“Prepare the Healing Chambers. And inform Lord Potter-Prince that the time has come to fulfill his oath.”
Harry opened his mouth to protest, but before he could, a healer was already at his side and the world tilted around him. The last thing he heard was Ragnok’s voice, solemn and resolute:
“The Nation does not abandon its allies, boy. You are not alone.”
The healer closed the door behind Harry and began escorting him deeper into the bank. The passageway was carved directly into stone, its steps short and uneven, clearly meant for goblin legs, causing Harry to stumble more than once. Eventually, they reached an antechamber, where the healer handed him a white cotton robe.
“You will remove all your clothing and put this on. Once you are ready, simply step through that door. I’ll be waiting with my team.”
And so he did. The threadbare, second-hand clothes he had worn were folded neatly in a corner, his worn trainers placed beside them. Now dressed only in the white robe, Harry padded across the cold stone floor.
When he pushed through the door, his breath caught.
He was standing in a vast underground cavern, deep beneath London. Sunlight filtered in through cleverly angled mirrors, catching on dozens of magical lanterns scattered throughout the chamber. At its center stretched an enormous natural pool, its waters reflecting light onto the distant vaulted ceiling.
To the right of the entrance stood a neat row of hospital beds. To the left, a massive ritual table carved with ancient runes and inscriptions Harry suspected were Gobbledegook, the goblin language.
“This way, Heir Riddle,” called the healer, standing beside the table with several other goblins in healer’s robes.
Harry approached hesitantly, climbing onto the table with their help.
“Do not worry,” the healer reassured him gently. “When we begin, we will place you in a trance. It will feel as though you are merely asleep. Once we have removed every spell, compulsion, and potion from your system, we will immerse you directly into the Healing Pool. When you awaken, you will feel much improved.”
Harry nodded nervously, clutching the edge of the robe.
There was no more time to hesitate. His eyelids grew heavy as the goblin placed a cool hand over his forehead, and the world slipped away into darkness.
There are many forms of abuse. This was a fact Hermione had learned very early. She knew she couldn’t compare herself to her friend, Harry Potter, who visibly suffered physical and psychological abuse at home, but she also knew that the way she was treated by her parents was abuse. They wouldn’t talk to her, shoved more and more books at her to read, giving her attention only when it came to her grades. Very, very early on, she learned that she had to maintain a certain level and quality just to be the minimum source of recognition from her parents. Only recognition. They never felt proud of her.
Every time she set aside her studies to play with other children, she would hear from her mother how she had wasted precious revision time just to do something fleeting. That was why she learned from an early age to keep her grades as high as possible, not just to gain recognition, but also to avoid criticism.
Because she was intelligent, Hermione discovered early on that she was not a Granger by blood. She had been adopted when she was very young. She wasn’t a baby; she could walk and talk, though she didn’t remember anything from that time. She never knew her real birth date. That was why she was registered with the day and month of her adoption: September 19. The year ’79 was an estimate of her birth, since she was adopted in ’82. Her parents were most likely dead or imprisoned in Azkaban. She knew very well the time period she had been born in, in the wizarding world. That’s why the term “Mudblood” upset her so much. Because very likely, Hermione Granger had been a lost Pureblood, considered dead… or worse: unknown.
This was why Hermione spent so much time in the Hogwarts library. To her friends, she was studying. In reality, she was searching for the truth. She knew she had to find a way to uncover the truth about her own story. This was also why she enrolled in every subject in Hogwarts in her Third Year. She wanted to gain as much knowledge as possible and discover her family.
The Granger house was silent as always. The clock in the living room read four o’clock in the afternoon, but no one seemed to notice Hermione was there. Her parents had left early for work, leaving a quick note on the fridge about dinner and the pile of Muggle books she was supposed to review during the holidays. No one knew she was still enrolled in a Muggle school and was being “homeschooled.” All exercises and exams were sent home, and her parents submitted them to the Department of Education.
Hermione sighed and closed her Biology book. She had spent the entire morning reviewing, not because she wanted to, but because she knew that when her parents returned, they would ask what she had learned, and any vague answer would be met with a disappointed look.
She got up from the table, went to the kitchen, and made herself a cup of tea. She enjoyed the ritual: heating the water, separating the leaves, waiting for the aroma to fill the air. It was the only moment of the day that felt entirely hers.
On her way back to her room, she walked through the expanse of the “Granger residence,” each space meticulously designed to display the image of the perfect family and prodigy daughter. Some photos of trips her parents had taken, lectures they had given, and the successes they had achieved, and she appeared in only three photos. But all were placed with millimetric precision to seem as if they were proud of her, even though the truth was the complete opposite. When she left the living room, Hermione stopped in front of the hallway mirror at the foot of the stairs. For a moment, she studied her reflection: her untamable brown hair, anxious eyes, dark circles betraying sleepless nights. “Who are you, Hermione Granger?” she whispered.
The silence of the house did not answer.
Then she went to her room, the only safe place in the house. It could barely be called hers, since every year, upon returning from school, she had to remove the things her parents had left in her room.
Hermione climbed onto her bed and curled up, hugging one of the old books she had brought from Hogwarts for the summer. As she read about ancient genealogies, her heart beat faster. Maybe, just maybe, a clue was hidden somewhere. Perhaps she could discover where she came from, who her real parents were…
And at that moment, as if fate had heard her thoughts, the soft flapping of wings echoed by her bedroom window, and there was a brown owl, perched with a letter clutched in its claw.
“Oh! Good afternoon!” she said, reaching out to take the letter from the owl’s paw.
As soon as the envelope was free, the owl hooted in satisfaction, puffed out its chest, and took off.
It wasn’t a letter from Harry, as he wouldn’t have sent another owl instead of Hedwig. It wasn’t from Ron, who had sent a letter via Errol the day before, telling her about the family trip to Egypt the next day. It was a letter from Gringotts.
Dear Miss Granger,
It has come to Gringotts’ attention that you have never undergone the standard procedure at the Bank, also known as Inheritance Test to confirm your family’s First Magical Generation lineage, nor registered your magical signature in the system, so that we may recognize you for any future activities at the Bank.
It is of utmost importance that you appear at one of our branches to address this delicate and urgent matter. These forms must be completed at Gringotts Bank in order for your legitimacy to be recognized by the Lady Magic.
Should your travel be compromised, this letter also serves as a portkey that will bring you directly to the nearest branch. Simply use the password “Silver” to activate it. The goblin Nangok will be at your disposal at any time upon your arrival at our bank.
May your vaults never run dry,
Griphook
Hermione remembered well that night at the beginning of her second year.
The library was silent, so empty that even the sound of her quill scratching across parchment seemed too loud. She had hidden at the last table in the back, an enchanted candelabra illuminating the stacks of books she had brought herself.
In front of her were three open volumes:
Lines of Blood and Ancient Inheritances
Wizarding Wars: An Untold History
and an old register of magical births that she had “borrowed” discreetly from the restricted section.
Her eyes burned from reading so much, but she did not stop.
“Granger, Granger, Granger…” she whispered softly, as if the adopted surname were a password to something greater. But there was nothing. No mention.
“Maybe they don’t even know I exist,” she thought, with that tightness in her chest she had learned to swallow.
A soft sound made her lift her eyes: Harry and Ron laughing at the back of the hall, carrying stacks of sweets. She almost smiled. Almost. But she turned her eyes back to the register, as always.
“One day,” she promised herself. “I will find out where I came from. And when I do… nothing will stop me from knowing the truth.”
And then, back in the present, with the Gringotts letter in hand, Hermione felt a shiver. As if the answer she had always sought was finally within reach.
Hermione reread the letter carefully, her eyes scanning each line as if it were a puzzle. Then she read it three more times, her eyes running over every word as if the ink could change its meaning.
Gringotts. Inheritance Test. Magical lineage.
The Bank did not write without reason. Every word of that message was measured, and the mention of the “standard procedure” made it clear: there was something official about her in the Bank’s system. This was not a mistake.
She sat at her desk, opened a fresh sheet of parchment, and began to scribble, as she always did when she needed to organize her thoughts and make an important decision.
Her heart raced, but her mind fired off a list of pros and cons. And facts.
Facts: Gringotts recognizes her magic; there is a record, albeit incomplete, of her lineage; the letter includes a personalized portal key, something that would not be issued without security measures.
Pros: she could finally discover where she came from, who she really was; she could understand why she had always felt that something… was out of place, wrong, in her life. If she were a lost Pureblood, as she had always suspected, she might even have family somewhere.
Cons: what if it were a mistake? What if it were a trap? What if she disappeared and no one noticed?
Risks: not knowing exactly what she will encounter; activating the key without informing anyone; the possibility, however small, that it could be some kind of trap.
Conclusion: the likelihood of it being a fraud is minimal; the information obtained could clarify gaps of years; the advantages outweigh the risks.
She looked at the bedroom door. Her parents probably wouldn’t return before eight. Even if she disappeared, they would only notice later, and perhaps wouldn’t notice the difference at all.
She pressed the parchment between her fingers, taking a deep breath. Part of her, the wounded, needy part, wanted to run. But the part that calculated coldly reminded her: if Gringotts was calling, it was because there was a record. And Gringotts did not make mistakes.
Hermione set down her quill, inhaled deeply, and looked at the letter once more.
“Two years of searching,” she thought, feeling her eyes sting. “Two years hiding in the library, and the answer has always been here. If there’s even the smallest chance of finding out who I am, I will take it,” she thought, her mind already running through the possibilities that would open up from that moment.
Then Hermione made her plan. What were the chances of returning to that house? And her things? What would happen to her books, her robes, the gifts Harry had given her? Everything she valued?
If Gringotts had the answer she wanted, she would not leave empty-handed and would not accept being sent back to that house for even another minute, if she could stay in the wizarding world permanently. Maybe… maybe she could convince Harry to do an Inheritance Test too.
But for that, she would have to do hers first. And for that, she had to get ready.
Skillfully, she opened her wardrobe and trunk. With the agility of someone used to planning and organizing her things, she soon had everything packed. Including her go-bag, carefully hidden between the desk and the wall. Soon her room was empty of personality, and everything that had ever belonged to Hermione Granger was securely stored inside the heavy trunk, which she held firmly in one hand, while in the other she held the parchment and her wand. Then she spoke, her voice clear and precise:
“Silver.”
Chapter 2: Blood and Power
Summary:
Draco having his "how to be a bastard without being a villain 101"
Hermione doing her "Who am I?" thing
The Notts studying...like Always
and the Weasley Family being a trully chaotic zoo going to Egypt.
Notes:
Had to check some thing in the chapter 01.
Just noticed that 1 or 2 phrases wasn't in the published part.also published in portuguese.
I think it will go smoothly this way.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Silver.
It was what reflected on every surface of the drawing room, from the family crest carved into the marble fireplace to the flawless gleam of the silverware in Narcissa Malfoy’s hands.
The wealthy and opulent Malfoy Manor, contrary to popular belief, was open, bright, airy, and extremely inviting. Overall, the décor leaned toward shades of rosé gold, gold, and bronze. Only the drawing Room, where guests were received through the Floo Network, bore the expected tones of Slytherin.
Draco sat in a high-backed armchair, posture straight, watching his father leaf through an ancient tome about governance and alliances between pure-blood families. Lucius Malfoy possessed the patience and the imposing presence of one who knew every detail of the wizarding world, and today’s political lesson would be no different: Draco would learn the importance of subtlety and the manipulation of information, for these are sharper tools than any sword.
“Remember, my son,” Lucius began, his voice as firm and cold as the marble fireplace, “it is not strength that keeps a family at the top, but the ability to remain invisible when necessary, and to know exactly when to display the power you possess.”
Draco nodded, absorbing each word as if they were spells cast directly upon his mind. To him, these lessons were not merely obligatory, but vital. A single misstep could stain generations of Malfoys... just as it had with the Weasleys.
“To command a room is far more than having the loudest voice. It's knowing whom you are speaking to and controlling that person, often without them ever realizing they are being controlled.”
Meanwhile, Narcissa arranged the finer details of a luncheon to be held the following week, her posture always impeccable, embodying the perfect balance of grandeur and hospitality. Even her most seemingly insignificant gestures carried the precision of an ancient choreography, rehearsed since childhood.
The house-elves entered and exited without Draco needing to rise, their every movement studied as part of the silent choreography that kept the household running without the slightest disorder. He observed, learning not only the politics of great families but also the unspoken message contained in every gesture, every glance, every silence of Malfoy Manor.
By the end of the morning, Draco made his way to Lucius’s office to review company documents, bank reports, and information on negotiations. It was constant training, but necessary. He knew that despite wealth and magic, the true strength of a Malfoy came from the mind, from the ability to shape the world without it ever noticing.
“I have a question,” Draco began, analyzing the earnings report from the last quarter. “if we are superior to Muggles, why do we own businesses in the Muggle world?”
“What did you learn about the Roman Empire in Eyris?” Lucius replied. “How did they dominate the continent?”
Draco frowned at the unexpected history question instead of a direct answer.
“Through assimilation. The Romans assimilated the culture and beliefs of the peoples they conquered, minimizing the chance of rebellion and civil war.”
“Exactly. So then, Draco, why do we have Muggle businesses?”
“We’re assimilating their culture? To... what? Eventually dominate the Muggles?”
“No. Not dominate, but control. Muggles are ruled by money far more than goblins are by gold. Our Queen is one of the few living Muggles who knows and understands both worlds, and her, we do not control. But we can control her subjects here on the island, expand to the continent. And from there... invest in America.”
Draco nodded, showing he understood.
The day passed between lessons and small instructions on etiquette, the control of information, and the observation of allies and enemies. Every detail was etched into Draco’s memory, for one day he too would have to command, not merely as heir, but as the living symbol of all his family represented.
The silver clock marked the beginning of the afternoon as the Malfoy family gathered on the veranda overlooking the carefully designed gardens. The sun reflected off marble paths and crystal fountains, creating a scene of peace and absolute control: every stone, every flower, exactly where it should be.
Narcissa ordered iced tea and small portions of exotic fruits, all arranged on silver trays gleaming under the sunlight. Lucius settled into a high-backed chair, legs crossed, his posture that of a man who observed far more than he spoke. Draco, meanwhile, enjoyed the soft breeze, feeling his own blood pulse with the energy that only he, among the Malfoys, carried.
The matter of his Veela heritage: the luminous, alluring presence that emerged with every intense emotion, was something he kept carefully in check. Draco knew letting too much slip could be dangerous, especially if an unsuspecting visitor or rival detected signs of such pure, potent magic. Today, however, in the safety of his home, he could allow himself to relax a little.
Veela blood had run through Malfoy veins for generations, an inheritance from the family’s French origin. The Clan guarded each descendant with meticulous care, fully aware of the secrets and powers they carried within. From time to time, the Veela Queen sent emissaries to the part-Veela families, seeking to gauge the strength of each member. Draco had a natural affinity with the elements, particularly air. Lucius, by contrast, was more connected to the earth.
“It’s improving, isn’t it?” Narcissa remarked, noticing her son’s looser posture, his aura subtly calmer.
“You can maintain control without apparent effort.”
Draco offered a small smile, adjusting the collar of his robe.
“Yes. It’s only a matter of concentration. I still feel the emotion trying to break free sometimes, but I’ve learned to channel it.”
Lucius raised an eyebrow, curious but satisfied.
“Good. A Veela must learn to govern his own allure before he attempts to govern anything else. Control is power, Draco. Never forget that.”
The conversation drifted toward lighter subjects: new books Lucius had acquired, details of ancient family alliances, and even discreet gossip from the aristocratic world. Yet to Draco, every word carried hidden lessons; he read beyond what was spoken, absorbing intentions and strategies like a player studying an endless chess match.
When Narcissa suggested a walk through the gardens, Draco rose and followed her. As they walked among perfectly aligned rose bushes and steaming fountains, the breeze seemed to toy with the boy’s silvery hair, a detail only his family would ever notice. It was the mark of the Veela within him, a subtle beauty that demanded care and discipline.
The afternoon unfolded in muted laughter, silent observations, and small demonstrations of skill: Draco showing how he could manipulate delicate currents of energy to move petals through the air, or Lucius demonstrating an old spell that shaped flower stems. Every gesture was training, every moment a lesson.
As the sun began to sink, painting the gardens in gold and copper, Draco felt the familiar mix of pride and responsibility pulsing in his chest. It was this balance between power and control that defined a Malfoy, and he knew that life beyond the manor would only be more challenging, demanding far more than brilliance or magic to survive the games of the outside world.
As the sun began to set over the quiet Malfoy gardens, a faint breeze of change stirred in the bustling heart of Gringotts, in London.
The golden warmth of the afternoon contrasted with the calculated coldness of the great building, yet the place was no less controlled, on the contrary. Every corridor, every counter, every guard was part of a silent choreography that kept the bank running with almost military precision.
Hermione Granger appeared in the building’s atrium, holding tightly to the handle of her trunk. Despite the usual disorientation of Portkey travel, her gaze remained sharp, sweeping across every detail with curiosity. Despite her young age, her sense of responsibility and power was evident: someone accustomed to being surrounded by secrets, someone used to noticing what others would miss.
She walked with steady steps to the front desk and waited. When the goblin lifted his face, suspicious eyes narrowing at the young witch, she simply handed him the letter and caught the slight shift in his expression when he grew agitated upon reading the correspondence. Something was indeed happening.
“This way, Miss Granger.”
The path was confusing and complex. Hermione doubted she could find her way out without an escort, much less return to the goblin’s office on her own. Soon she was seated, face-to-face with the goblin who studied her every movement, as though expecting her to attack at any moment.
“Good afternoon, miss. We do not usually involve ourselves in your wizarding disputes, but due to what was revealed to us this afternoon, it was our duty to bring you here.”
She simply nodded, following every word carefully.
“What do you know about your lineage?”
“I’m adopted.” She didn’t miss the flicker in Nangok’s eyes. “My parents gave me little information, and what I do know, I discovered on my own. I was adopted in ’82, probably born in ’79 or ’80, the orphanage had no records. I was left on its steps in June of ’81. That was the most information I managed to get from the Muggles.”
“Extend your hand, Miss Hermione. We shall begin your Inheritance Test and uncover the gravity of what was done to you, and the truth that was denied.”
She extended her hand, which he held gently while Nangok made a small cut and guided seven drops of blood to fall upon the parchment. And in that instant, Hermione felt the familiar sensation of being watched, a distant yet intense presence, as if the very magic of the place knew something was about to change.
The silence that followed seemed to stretch beyond time. The seven drops spread across the parchment in fine lines, like roots seeking their way through earth, until they began to glow with a bright golden hue. Ancient symbols surfaced, forming runes Hermione did not recognize, and then letters emerged: clear, firm, almost as though they were being branded onto the page by fire.
Nangok lifted his eyes to her, and for the first time Hermione saw a different emotion break through his usual composure. Respect. Perhaps even a trace of reverence.
“Miss...” He paused, taking a deep breath. “..Riddle.”
The world seemed to tilt beneath Hermione’s feet. She blinked, certain she had misheard.
“Excuse me, what?”
The goblin turned the parchment and slowly pushed it toward her.
---
Name: Hania Lily Riddle
Adopted Name: Hermione Jane Granger
Date of Birth: July 31, 1980
Father: Thomas Marvolo Riddle (Status: alive/incapacitated)
Mother: Lily Riddle (née Evans) (Status: alive/incapacitated)
Adoptive Father: Jonathan Michael Granger (Illegal Muggle Adoption) (Status: alive)
Adoptive Mother: Helen Jane Granger (née Bennett) (Illegal Muggle Adoption) (Status: alive)
Twin Brother: Hadrian Thomas Riddle (Status: alive. Adopted Name: Harry James Potter)
---
The letters pulsed for a moment before stabilizing, as if the magic itself confirmed there was no room for doubt.
“Someone... tampered with your blood, child. Altered records, documents, even your name. But magic does not lie. It always finds its way back to the truth.”
Hermione continued to stare at the parchment, as though if she blinked the words would change. Her heart pounded unevenly, and the strange sensation of being watched returned, stronger, as if the bank itself acknowledged the truth now revealed.
“And what about...” she tried, her voice faltering. She swallowed hard and tried again. “What about my brother?”
Nangok placed a small, firm hand upon the parchment.
“He is the reason you are here. Less than an hour ago, he arrived the same way you did, only he was... unprepared.” He glanced at her trunk on the floor. “He underwent the Test and we uncovered his identity. And from what I see here, both of you were deliberately separated, your memories tampered with, your destinies stolen.” He drew a long breath, holding back his fury in the name of solemnity. “And, miss, this is not a simple adoption. The fact it is listed as an illegal Muggle adoption means there is more information we do not yet know.”
Hermione closed her eyes for a moment, feeling the weight of revelation settle deep in her bones. Riddle. The name sounded like a forbidden curse, like something that might burn her tongue if spoken aloud. She recalled the previous year, what Harry had said about the diary, about Tom Riddle. About Voldemort. Their father.
And deep within the unseen corridors of the bank, the ancestral magic of Gringotts whispered in response, as though it saluted the return of a forgotten name, a power that had always been there, merely waiting to awaken.
“What do I do now?” she finally asked.
“Now, you finish reading your test. You must gather all the information possible. And then, we begin undoing everything that was done to the Riddle family.”
Hermione agreed and turned her gaze back to the parchment, hands trembling as she heard the rush of her own blood.
---
Godparents:
James Fleamont Potter-Prince (Status: alive/incapacitated)
Remus John Lupin (Status: alive/memory altered)
Magical Guardian: Albus P. W. B. Dumbledore (Illegal)
Mate: [BLOCKED]
Creature: [BLOCKED]
Magical Core:
[ ] Black
[X] Grey
[ ] White
Abilities:
Parseltongue (100% blocked – by APWBD)
Parselmagic (100% blocked – by APWBD)
Eidetic Memory (90% blocked – by APWBD – 80% broken)
Intelligence (20% blocked – by APWBD)
Critical Thinking (80% blocked – by APWBD – 100% broken)
Animagus (100% blocked – by APWBD)
Wandless Magic (90% blocked – by APWBD)
Nonverbal Spells (95% blocked – by APWBD)
Natural Legilimency (100% blocked – by APWBD)
Natural Occlumency (100% blocked – by APWBD)
Affinity with Water – Creature inheritance (90% blocked – by APWBD)
Accelerated Healing – Creature inheritance (100% blocked – by APWBD)
Twin Magical Connection (80% blocked – by APWBD)
Spells, Compulsions, and Potions:
Block on natural elemental affinity – by APWBD
Block on access to magical core – by APWBD
Loyalty Potion to Albus Dumbledore – by APWBD
Hatred of Slytherins – by APWBD
Obedience to Authority Figures – by APWBD
Memory Alteration (multiple) – by APWBD
Medical history shows signs of mental and emotional abuse. Complete diagnostic and magical cleansing recommended.
Titles:
Descendant of the Most Ancient and Most Royal House of Peverell (paternal)
Descendant and Heiress Apparent of the Most Ancient and Royal House of LeFay (maternal)
Descendant of the Most Ancient and Most Noble House of Slytherin (paternal)
Descendant and Heiress Apparent of the Most Ancient and Most Noble House of Ravenclaw (maternal)
Descendant of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Gaunt (paternal)
Vaults:
Riddle – Main Vault (700) and Trust Vault (862)
Gaunt – Main Vault (023) and Trust Vault (307)
Slytherin – Main Vault (009) and Trust Vault (186)
Peverell – Main Vault (013) and Trust Vault (297)
LeFay – Main Vault (012) and Trust Vault (454)
Ravenclaw – Main Vault (008) and Trust Vault (185)
Evans – Single Vault (964)
For details of family vaults in stasis, family grimoires, weaponry, portraits, furniture, and libraries, check the adjoining rooms of each Main Vault.
For transaction details, investments, withdrawals, transfers, and family properties, consult the Account Manager.
---
Creature? Mate? Nothing made sense anymore.
“I have so MANY questions! Starting with my bloodline. And what does it mean that I have a Creature, a creature inheritance? What does any of this mean?”
“It means we have much to do.” Nangok rose, carefully storing the parchment away. “First, we must begin your cleansing. Every compulsion, every block, is restricting your magical core, which is sealed. You could collapse.”
Hermione nodded, hand gripping the handle of her trunk tightly, as if the gesture could anchor her. Her mind still spun with questions, but her body seemed to know there was no turning back.
A healer approached silently and guided her toward the Healing Chambers. Unknowingly, she was walking the very same path as her brother. As she changed clothes, a strange shiver crawled up her arms. For an instant, she felt the vivid sensation she was not alone, as though someone, somewhere, was calling out to her.
When she passed through the indicated door, she found herself in a vast cavern. The air was thick, saturated with burning herbs and a low hum that vibrated straight into the bones.
“This way, Miss Riddle,” the healer said firmly.
Hermione was guided to a ritual table, the goblin’s hand always steady at her back, for she felt compelled to turn another way, unaware that Harry was undergoing the same ritual only meters away, inside a protective ward, on a table identical to hers.
“After we remove every spell, compulsion, and potion from your body,” the healer explained, “we will place you directly in the healing pool. You will wake feeling much better.”
And as the team tending to Hermione began their ritual, the team with Harry exchanged glances.
“The core is finally responding,” one murmured, before doubling their efforts.
The deep vibration of the magic being worked echoed through the chamber, but in the upper halls of Gringotts, the air was different: cold, precise, like a sharpened blade. Nangok climbed the steps in silence to the main office, where Ragnok already awaited him before a table of dark stone.
“They have begun cleansing the young lady,” Nangok reported, placing two parchments upon the polished surface. “The bond between the twins is awakening faster than expected. They endured similar trials, even without being with the same family. Their connection is strong.”
Ragnok did not reply immediately. His eyes scanned every line of the magical reports, lingering a moment longer over the names “Riddle” and “Evans,” before looking up.
“And the Muggles?” he asked, his deep voice laced with restrained contempt. “The Grangers and the Dursleys?”
“They will be... handled,” Nangok replied, each syllable heavy with promised efficiency. “A team is already prepared to collect all of young Riddle’s belongings from Privet Drive. As for the Grangers, Miss Riddle apparently brought all her possessions when she activated the Portkey. I recommend altering their memories and monitoring them for now. The adoption was illegal but performed through Muggle channels, so we can remove them swiftly and cleanly. There will be no trace that there was ever a Miss Granger.”
Ragnok pressed his claws against the stone table, golden tips scraping a subtle sound into the surface.
“For now,” he repeated, almost as a warning. “If they dare to interfere with the Riddles illegally again, the Bank will show no mercy.”
Nangok inclined his head in agreement.
“Understood, my king.”
“And Dumbledore?” The question lingered in the air like a poised strike. “He will not remain idle once he realizes he has lost control. Too many seats in the Wizengamot, too much money at stake.”
“We are already preparing the glamour bracelets. We will have to teach them about their Creature powers once we know which they inherited. We must cast a decoy over vault access for all wizards, so Dumbledore will not notice his loss. Dumbledore may be powerful, but Gringotts is older than any living wizard. And the Nation does not retreat.”
Ragnok allowed the barest nod, the kind that carried approval.
“Keep me informed of every step. And when they awaken...” His black eyes gleamed like obsidian. “...prepare them. The world will not be kind to the truth.”
“Understood.”
Ragnok raised his gaze from the parchments one final time, the light in his eyes reflecting the certainty of one who sees farther than all others.
“Magic changed today,” he said, voice low as a contained growl. “And those who know how to listen.. will feel it.”
Nangok only inclined his head in respect. The message had been delivered: silent, subtle, like the beating of wings in the dark.
Eyris Hall – West Wing, Research Laboratories
The night began lazily over the gardens of the school estate. Inside the pale stone mansion, however, nothing was lazy. Gears turned in synchrony with spells, glass tubes glowed with potions in different stages of development, and in the back, a group of children laughed as small colorful explosions marked yet another botched exercise, having fun while they waited for their parents to come pick them up.
Theodore Nott sat in the shadow of a bookshelf loaded with old parchments, pretending to read about advanced transfiguration while watching the younger apprentices. The family’s preschool was one of the Notts’ prides: a space where wizarding children learned not only to control their magic before age eleven, but also the basic lessons any regular Muggle school would teach. And for those children who revealed themselves as squibs, the school accepted them to continue their studies after eleven and even graduate, just as it accepted the siblings of Muggleborns, creating a safe and healthy bond between the two worlds, learning together.
On the upper floor, Edmund Nott interrupted his work as he felt a peculiar shiver, like a whisper passing through his bones. He dropped the quill on the desk, his clear eyes narrowing toward the horizon.
“Did you feel that?” he asked, almost to himself. In the hallway, one of the older instructors, a gray-bearded wizard, lifted his head from the book he was correcting.
“A tremor in the current,” he replied. “Ancient... but contained.”
Edmund merely nodded, his expression grave. He did not know what it meant, but he knew how to recognize when the world’s magic shifted. And that day, something had shifted.
“Continue,” Edmund said firmly, regaining control of the room. “The research does not stop.”
But inside, he knew that vibration was not ordinary. Rising without another word, he Disapparated to his home.
Theo felt it too. A fleeting instant: a cold breath across the nape of his neck, the candle flames flickering without a breeze. Maybe... just maybe... three days straight of researching his magic was finally exacting its toll on the lost sleep. He closed the book he was reading and walked to the fireplace by the entrance.
Theo lingered for a few seconds in front of the hearth, feeling the faint shiver run down his spine. It was not merely exhaustion or the effect of weeks of intense study: there was something different in the magic around him. The air seemed denser, charged with a vibration he could not ignore.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to identify its source. Instinctively, he extended his hand, not to touch anything physical, but as if he could feel the invisible magical current that snaked through the mansion. The gears in the laboratory began to tremble lightly, and small sparks of energy appeared in the glass tubes, reflecting the candlelight as though responding to his perception.
“Strange...” he murmured. “This is not a common current.”
On the other side of the room, one of the children lost control of their magic, causing a puff of purple smoke to explode over the workbench. Theo dodged, but his eyes stayed fixed on the small fluctuations of energy. They seemed to resonate in tune with something. or someone, very far away, yet still connected.
“Mr. Nott, did you feel that?” asked an older instructor, pointing to the night sky visible through the tall windows. The moon reflected its silvery light over the gardens, but something seemed different: the breeze carried a touch of electricity, as though the night itself were whispering secrets.
Theo frowned, wondering how to explain it to the children without alarming them.
“Yes... but it’s nothing you need to worry about right now.” And, beneath his firm tone, he added: “Just feel the magic, learn to respect it.”
As he walked through the laboratory, his attention returned to the school’s crest, so different from the crest of his family, reflected on the opposite wall. Every detail seemed to pulse with its own energy, almost alive. Theo realized, with a shiver of awareness, that it wasn’t just the ancient magic that was reacting; he himself was part of this growing current, connected to something greater he did not yet fully understand.
In silence, he closed his fists, channeling his focus. Small threads of bluish energy began to dance between his fingers, light and hesitant, but visible. It was an unconscious test, a first reaction of his body and his heritage to the change running through the world.
Theo lifted his gaze to the vaulted ceiling of the laboratory, and for a moment, felt as though his days of research, experiments, and observation had only been preparation. Now, the true trial was coming. Something was awakening, and he would be part of it.
Unnoticed by him, a faint glow began to emerge on the Eyris crest, reflecting in Theo’s eyes. The school, the students, and every glass tube now seemed mere spectators of something that would transcend any magic he had ever known.
And then, with a sudden impulse, Theo headed for the Floo network to the Nott Manor, knowing that what he needed was at home. The most detailed information about his family inheritance and the magic his blood could command lay within the family grimoires, and he had the feeling that what was awakening in the world would finally allow him to access those ancestral tomes.
The Floo trip was short, but Theo stepped out of the main fireplace of Nott Manor with his breath racing. The hall was empty, lit only by the silvery glow of the moon streaming through the high stained-glass windows. He did not need to announce his arrival, the house, alive with the magic of the Notts, seemed to feel the urgency burning in the heir.
“Theo?” His father’s deep voice echoed from the upper floor, carried by impeccable control. “You felt it too.”
Theo lifted his eyes, meeting Edmund at the top of the staircase, still in work clothes, sleeves rolled up, blond hair tousled. It was not a question, but a confirmation.
“It’s unlike anything I’ve ever felt,” Theo replied, his voice steadier than he expected. “It’s not just a change in the flow. It’s… like the world is breathing again.”
Edmund descended the steps in silence, each stride measured, until he stood before his son. He studied him for a moment, as if seeking invisible confirmation, then nodded slowly.
“The ancient magic is calling,” he said, his tone grave, almost reverent. “And not only for me. You have been touched as well.”
Theo swallowed hard, immediately understanding the weight of those words. His inheritance was awakening faster than expected. There were grimoires that even he, the family heir, had never been allowed to open. Scrolls so ancient that the very magic of the house sealed them. And now… the seals were breaking because his creature was emerging.
“I want to see them,” he said without hesitation.
Edmund tilted his head, weighing his son’s determination.
“Then prepare yourself.” And with a nearly imperceptible gesture, the corridor lit up, revealing the path to the family catacombs.
As they descended the cold stone stairs, Theo felt the air change with each step, denser, more alive. When they reached the central chamber, Edmund stopped before a door of black iron inlaid with runes.
“This vault holds secrets most of our kin will never know,” the patriarch said, his voice low, almost a murmur. “Only the Lord Nott and his heir, if already tested by the family’s magic, may access this place.”
Theo raised his hand. The runes pulsed, one by one, until the lock yielded with a dull click. The portal opened, revealing a vast hall filled with shelves of grimoires, artifacts wrapped in ancient silk, and, at the center, a stone pedestal holding a tome so old it seemed to breathe.
Theo approached slowly, feeling the energy vibrate in the air, as though the book recognized him. When his fingers touched the cover, a surge of magic coursed through his body, burning through every nerve yet without pain, it was recognition. Acceptance.
Edmund merely watched, his narrowed eyes heavy with a mix of pride and fear.
Theo lifted his gaze, breathless, and saw the ancient runes in the shadows of the room glowing in response. And moments later, he collapsed, his body needing to adapt to the new power of the High Elf.
The next day dawned hot and sunny at the Burrow, already a good sign for a trip that promised to be anything but calm. Molly Weasley ran back and forth, her wand in one hand guiding the floating suitcases through the house, trying to maintain some kind of order in the absolute chaos of preparing five children for an international trip.
The suitcases crashed onto the hall floor with a thud, startling the old family clock, which quickly shifted Ron’s face on the dial from “home” to “imminent doom” and back to “home.”
“Come on, come on!” Molly shouted, wand in hand, trying to shrink a cauldron that stubbornly refused to fit into the trunk. “Arthur, for Merlin’s sake, where’s the international Portkey authorization?! Ginny! If I find one more robe stuffed into that cauldron, you’ll be without dessert for a month!” she bellowed, while Fred and George laughed in the background.
“Oh, Mum, we were just testing its magical waterproofing!” Fred called from somewhere upstairs. “You never know when it might rain in the desert...”
“Next time we can test her bikini,” George added. “That way we’ll know if the robe gets wet, the bikini won’t.”
The noise the twins made upstairs fooled no one.
“Ready for Egypt!” Fred and George shouted, descending the stairs in a synchronized leap, each carrying a suspiciously heavy backpack.
“Ready to get rid of you lot, that’s more like it,” Ginny retorted, rolling her eyes.
Arthur appeared in the middle of the chaos, clutching a bundle of Egyptian scrolls and wearing an almost childlike look of fascination.
“Did you know that wizards there still use hieroglyphs in their spells?” he asked, speaking to no one in particular. “Imagine this: magic so ancient, still alive! Oh, and I heard they have a spell to ward off scarabs.. amazing, isn’t it?”
“Arthur!” Molly said exasperatedly. “The authorization form!”
“Here, dear! It was in the cookie jar... No idea how it got there.”
“Of course not,” Percy muttered, clutching his briefcase as if it were a trophy. Meanwhile, he tried desperately to convince his mother that he didn’t need to share a room with the twins at the hotel near the ruins.
“I’m a prefect, Mum, heading to be Head Boy! I need space to study for my N.E.W.T.s!” he complained, already wearing his neatly ironed shirt, which would inevitably be wrinkled before they even reached Egypt.
Ron, on the other hand, was more concerned with not forgetting Scabbers and making sure no one touched his snack stash for the trip.
“Mum, if Percy doesn’t want to stay with the twins, I don’t either! They’re always testing their inventions on me!”
Amid that charming chaos, the sound of powerful wings filled the backyard. Hermes, Bill’s owl, had brought a letter from him, waiting for them in Cairo.
“‘I can’t wait to show you the tomb we found this week. Dad, you’re going to love it!’” Arthur read, eyes sparkling like a child in a candy shop.
Ginny, excited, spun around the yard with her backpack ready.
“I want to see the mummies! And maybe bring one back to scare Percy...”
“Don’t even think about it, young lady!” Molly retorted, trying, and failing, to hide a smile.
Finally, when everyone was ready: suitcases sealed, pets secured, and Molly on the verge of a nervous explosion, the family gathered by the fireplace.
“Everyone with the Floo powder?” Arthur asked, too excited to notice his wife’s exasperated glare.
“If that thing gets sand in my ear, I swear...” Ron muttered before vanishing in a green whirlwind.
And thus, the Burrow fell silent for a brief moment, before the chaos resumed at the atrium of the Ministry of Magic, their first stop for an international trip.
The clerk attending that riot of red, orange, and brown wasn’t prepared for the Weasley family chaos.
“Don’t forget, kids, hold the Portkey firmly. Don’t let go before the time,” he instructed Mr. Weasley. “George, take your hand out of your pocket and hold tight. The key could activate any moment!”
And soon, the clerk activated the Portkey, noticing that everyone was holding firmly onto the leather suitcase, sending that walking disaster straight to Cairo.
Taking a deep breath, he noticed a caramel on the floor. He was about to pick it up when a teenage boy in line for a Portkey called out to him.
“Hey! If that fell from one of the Weasleys’ pockets, I’d throw it away! I bet one Galleon it’s a prank.”
“Do you think he took it?” Fred whispered, ecstatic.
“I hope so!” George said, eyes gleaming. “Our first beta test of the Ton-Tongue Toffee has to count for something.”
Not even two seconds after arriving in Cairo, the twins were already whispering together, heads bent close.
“I don’t even want to know what you managed to get up to five minutes out of the house,” Mrs. Weasley began. “Just stay out of trouble and help me find your brother before you discover some way to use the mummies in your pranks.”
Once they left the Portkey reception area, a witch appeared, calling them to her desk.
“Welcome to Egypt, you are at the Ministry of Magic, Cairo. Please provide your travel authorization form, wands, and documents.”
“The wands too?” Percy asked, handing over his wand.
“Yes, so we can register you in our system and know when tourists are performing magic.”
The customs process was quick, and soon they were heading to the Ministry atrium. Unlike in the UK, the Egyptian Ministry of Magic was made of heavy reddish stones, the air scented with incense, and it didn’t take long to spot Bill, dressed in Egyptian wizard robes quite different from what they were used to at home.
“Welcome,” he said excitedly, “to the Sultan Hassan Mosque, where our Ministry of Magic has been so well hidden for centuries.” hugging his siblings briefly, shaking their father’s hand, and letting their mother squeeze him in one of her maternal hugs. He quickly led them outside and into the Ministry car that would take them to their wizard hotel.
In Egypt, magic was more open, more intertwined with daily life, so small spells or potion effects often went unnoticed by Muggles. They usually attributed such things to the pyramids or some tomb curse. That’s why, when eight people stepped out of a small car in front of Khan el-Khalili Market and vanished through a side entrance, no one batted an eye. Meanwhile, the Weasleys were exploring the Egyptian wizarding market.
The heat hit them like an invisible wall. The air smelled of spices and ancient dust, and the hum of the streets seemed to come from all directions.
Ron stopped mid-sidewalk, eyes wide at the bustling market of colors.
“I... I think I saw a mummy,” he said, pointing to a hooded wizard crossing the street with a floating chest behind him.
“That’s just a badly dressed tourist, Ronniekins,” Fred laughed, patting his brother on the shoulder. “But if it were a real mummy, I bet Percy would bump into it.”
Percy pretended not to hear, but tripped while crossing the entrance, dropping his briefcase. An important scroll flew away in the desert breeze. He ran after it, under his siblings’ amused eyes.
“Classy, Perce!” George shouted, nearly doubling over with laughter.
A dark-skinned wizard in a golden turban caught the scroll and returned it to the redhead with a playful smile.
“Be careful, young one. The desert loves to steal secrets.”
Percy’s face turned as red as his hair as his brothers doubled over laughing.
Ginny, meanwhile, could barely contain herself.
“Look at that!” she pointed at a magical artifact shop, its windows glittering with golden charms. “Do you think we can buy one?”
“Don’t wander off, young lady,” Molly warned, pulling her daughter by the hand.
Even with the confusion, Arthur merely shook his head, a small smile on his face, holding Ginny’s hand firmly as he guided her through the market.
At the hotel, everything went smoothly. Percy and Ron shared a room, while Fred and George had another. They were surprised to find Charlie waiting in the lobby, along with the luggage.
“I’ll stay at Bill’s house, Mum,” Charlie said when his mother worried about his lodging. “It’s small for all of you, but enough for the two of us. I’ll only be there a few days. I can’t be away from work too long.”
She smiled, stroking her son’s face, feeling complete with the family finally together.
“All right! We just need to make a few adjustments to our plans.”
Notes:
I try to update frequently, but I'm publishing in two languages.
Please leave your comments!!!
Chapter 3: A Hundred and Twenty pages plan
Summary:
A 120-page plan, teetering towers of scrolls, a phoenix that loves to mock, and mint tea: welcome to Dumbledore’s world. Better than any organizational tutorial you’ve ever suffered through, he somehow manages to control everyone and pick the right sock for every occasion. And yes… Dudley sets off an explosion. Tiny, just enough to make an entrance. Nothing too dramatic—just your standard daily chaos.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Plans. Dumbledore always had many, more than any human being could ever execute in a lifetime, which, in his distorted mind, only proved that he was more than human. While most of the wizarding community worried about potion prices in Diagon Alley, the weather forecast in the Daily Prophet, or who had the most abusive taxes: Gringotts or the Ministry of Magic, Dumbledore concerned himself with far nobler things: controlling ministries, rearranging genealogies, erasing inconvenient memories, deciding who should or should not survive until the next winter. Oh, and choosing the right sock for the occasion. Priorities had to be kept.
The old wizard scribbled on parchments that sprawled across the oak desk in his office, organized in piles that defied gravity and logic. In one: “International Crises.” In another: “Supreme Court Heirs.” And, prominently, a parchment with elegant handwriting: “Harry Potter.”
He tapped the quill against his chin, thoughtful. The boy had survived the Chamber of Secrets. Once again, defying statistics, probabilities, and, above all, convenience. Irritating. Extremely irritating. And at the same time aligning with the plans to prepare the boy for his ultimate end. All in time for him to appear and save the world, once again. Reaffirming his place as the greatest wizard since Merlin.
Only he had hidden things from him. Withheld information. And that was not the most appropriate thing at the moment. Nothing that couldn’t be circumvented, obviously, after all, Dumbledore had plans. He always did.
Fawkes chose that moment to, in a dramatic swoop, knock half of the “International Crises” pile to the floor. Parchments flew everywhere, scattering across the office. The phoenix landed on the nearby bookshelf, singing in a tone that sounded very much like sarcasm. Dumbledore sighed, like someone enduring a rehearsed performance.
“Very well, my friend. Convincing interpretation of ‘the tragedy of an overburdened Headmaster.’” he murmured, while starting to pick up the papers. Fawkes snorted, as if that wasn’t the title of his song.
Before he could organize them again, a pop announced the arrival of a house-elf carrying a tea tray.
“You asked for calming herbal tea, Master Headmaster,” said the creature, placing the tray on the desk.
Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. In the teapot, the smell was unmistakable.
“Chamomile?” he asked, his voice deep and suspicious.
“Yes, Master. Very calming!” replied the elf, proud of a job well done.
The wizard stared at the teapot as if the fate of the world depended on that infusion.
“I asked for mint tea. Mint keeps the mind alert. Chamomile… induces passivity.” He gave a tragic sigh. “It’s impressive how a poorly served cup can ruin decades of careful planning.”
A laugh rang out from the surrounding portraits. Phineas Nigellus Black, with his usual smug smile, leaned forward.
“Or perhaps, Albus, it’s just a cup of tea,” he remarked, as if it were obvious. (Which, in fact, it was.)
Dumbledore pretended not to hear, deciding to drink the tea anyway, even though it was not the much-needed mint. The other portraits muttered among themselves, half mocking, half shaking their heads in disapproval. He took a sip and noted something on Harry’s parchment, adding in tiny letters:
“Observe resistance to subtle poisons. Tea included.”
Fawkes let out a sharp trill that sounded dangerously like a laugh. Or an indignant chuckle. It wasn’t very possible to predict what goes on in the mind of a bird, especially a phoenix bound to Albus Dumbledore.
Dumbledore set the teacup down with a calculated gesture, his mind already tracing parallels of possible and unimaginable situations. A new parchment was pulled from a secret drawer, marked only with a simple title: “School Year: Strategic Review.”
The third year promised to be… delicate. Children grew up far too quickly when they shouldn’t. Harry was beginning to show signs of rebellion. Hermione… well, Hermione knew too much for her own good. And then there was Snape.
Ah, Severus. A valuable pawn, but with a stubbornly resilient mind. The loyalty spells the Headmaster maintained over him no longer had the same strength. Besides, Severus was a master Legilimens and Occlumens, which already complicated the long-term effect of mental enchantments, and the bond of the Prince House with the Potter House made the layers of compulsion tremble in subtle, almost imperceptible points, but Dumbledore, who knew every comma of the story he wrote, noticed everything.
“Reinforce compulsions,” he noted, with an arrow toward Snape’s name. “Consider ancient runes. Mix with emotional reinforcement: guilt and fear still work well. Evaluate inclusion of external psychological element.”
A murmur came from one of the nearest portraits, that of Headmistress Dilys Fawley, who could read every stroke made on the parchment:
“You’ll end up shattering his mind, Albus.”
“Minds are flexible, my dear Dilys. They mold according to necessity,” he replied, without lifting his eyes from the parchment. “The problem is when they forget they need a hand to guide them.”
Phineas Nigellus laughed again, crossing his arms.
“And you, of course, believe yourself to be that hand.”
Dumbledore merely smiled, the tip of the quill scratching the parchment with cruel elegance.
“Believe? No, dear Phineas. I know.”
The silence that followed was not respect. It was compulsion. Long ago, Albus had woven enchantments into the portraits of his office, ensuring they were as loyal as they were alive. The former headmasters could grumble, laugh, or even criticize, but they would never reveal what they saw or heard inside that room. Involuntary guardians of secrets they had not chosen to bear. And the cruelest part: one portrait, which no one seemed to notice, right above the last headmaster’s, in an even more honored and prominent place, had its four occupants frozen and silenced, so that no one could consult them for information about the castle and its history. Godric, Rowena, Helga, and Salazar could only watch, in silence, what was being done with their legacy and their descendants.
While Fawkes made a point of knocking yet another scroll to the floor, Dumbledore redrew ritual lines and enchantments, seeking the best formula to optimize his result.
The air in the room was heavy, filled with the metallic smell of the weapons the goblin kept on his wall and the scent of old parchments, stored in drawers and shelves. Harry rested his hands on the table before him, trying to take in what he was seeing. Documents, lineage records, pieces of a history that until then had been denied to him.
Two days after receiving the letter from the bank, Harry woke up in the healing halls, side by side with Hermione, his sister, and had been pulled from one place to another by the goblins. Not one of the best experiences, it should be noted. New Inheritance Tests were carried out, to ensure that everything had been removed, new information had been uncovered, and new documents had been found.
“So Dumbledore not only controlled our lives… he edited them.” Hermione murmured, her voice low but vibrating with anger. Her eyes ran over the words that appeared through magic on the parchment, as if reading a death sentence. “Every signature, every line, every compulsion spell… everything runs through him.”
Harry snorted, with that bitter humor he only used when he was about to explode.
“Of course. He writes fanfics about our life. Too bad they’re bad ones. REALLY bad.”
Hermione almost laughed, but the look she cast back at the parchment was too hard to sustain any lightness.
Nangok, the manager, cleared his throat. By the way, that was another matter that had to be settled. Nangok was the manager of the Potter Family, and they were Riddle. To preserve their identity and ensure that fewer people knew what was happening, all the accounts the twins controlled were transferred to Nangok’s command. His long, metallic fingers ran across a rune stone that glowed in a dull red.
“There is, however, a peculiarity in Mister Riddle’s inheritance,” he said, each word dragged out like a blade being sharpened. “An unusual magical interference…”
Harry and Hermione immediately exchanged glances.
“Interference?” Hermione repeated, already pulling out her quill to write. “What kind?”
Nangok raised his gaze, black eyes glinting in a way that was uncomfortable.
“A magical block tied to your maternal blood, Mister Riddle, and one you have come into recent contact with. An old block anchored… forcefully. It does not belong to you, but it resonates in your lineage.” He tilted his head. “Cruel. Ineffective in the long term. But cruel.”
Harry frowned, confused.
“Maternal blood… does that mean I somehow had contact with my mother? Or does it have to do with Hermione?”
“No, it is too recent to have been from any time you were at school. That is, if she was hidden at the school. And your sister shows no sign of the same contact. Which means she was not near whoever carries a block anchored to your blood.”
Hermione closed her mouth, as if pieces of a puzzle were beginning to fall into place in her mind.
“Her sister,” she murmured. “Petunia.”
“Petunia? Aunt Petunia has nothing magical about her other than the ability to know everything happening inside the neighbors’ house.”
“Maybe exactly because of that,” Hermione shot back, her eyes burning with reasoning. “What if she isn’t just a muggle? What if there was… a squib in the family? You saw our Test, you saw how powerful Lily’s blood is. If the block were on her… and it was used against you, or against…”
She suddenly stopped, her mind seemed to work at full speed to arrive at several conclusions at once and determine which one was the most likely. Nangok did not correct the direction her thoughts were taking; he merely observed, with the kind of silence that seemed to confirm more than deny. He would not complete the unspoken sentence, though it was apparent there was much more to be said, but after all, nothing is free at Gringotts.
Harry felt his stomach turn. The memory of Dudley, of his entire life on Privet Drive, now seemed more distorted than ever.
“So… if the block isn’t mine… whose is it?” he asked, his voice lower, almost afraid of the answer, even though, apparently, he had reached the same conclusion Hermione refused to speak aloud.
This time, Nangok leaned back in his stone chair, his finger-claws tapping slowly against the table’s surface.
“Your cousin’s,” he answered simply, confirming everything the two siblings had thought. “The magic in him did not disappear. It merely… sleeps. Inaccessible. Blocked.”
The silence that followed was so thick it could be cut with the sharp blade of the axe displayed on the wall behind the goblin. Hermione’s eyes widened, her mind racing. Harry went pale, unable to decide whether he wanted to laugh or smash something.
“Dudley is a wizard?” he muttered, incredulous. “My cousin Dudley? Who can’t spell ‘School’ even when staring at the word on a wall. The biggest Muggle inside the word Muggle?”
Hermione took a deep breath, as if with each word reality gained a new meaning.
“He always was a wizard. They just… didn’t let him be.”
Hermione ran a hand through her hair, agitated, her eyes fixed on nothing, calculating countless possibilities, visualizing multiple realities, and applying it all to the one they lived in and were uncovering in that manager’s office.
“It makes sense,” she said, her voice firm despite her haste. “A squib doesn’t have active magic, but the blood still carries remnants. It’s like recessive DNA, it’s there and only needs a specific condition to be active. That’s why institutions like Eyris exist, dedicated to helping squibs maintain their bond with the wizarding community. A squib, for example, can care for magical plants, brew potions… The magical blood never vanishes, it just… sleeps. If Petunia is a squib, Dumbledore could have used that link to build a block. Anchored on her… and projected onto her son. And you came into recent contact with it, because you live in her house, with her. The block could even affect you, if it uses the sequence that connects her, you, and Dudley.”
Harry stared at her as if she had started speaking another language.
“You’re saying… my aunt let Dumbledore… block her own son’s magic? And even tied the magic into a DNA sequence from the biology Muggles study?”
Hermione hesitated for an instant. The cold logic clashed with the cruelty of the conclusion.
“First, it is widely known by scholars that Magic and DNA are related and that this can lead to the emergence of Squibs and Muggle-borns. Second, Petunia didn’t just let him.” She continued, her fingers tapping against the parchment where she was writing down all her thoughts and conclusions. “She asked. It’s the only way you can expect the ritual to remain stable. It needs blood consent. And Dumbledore must have taken advantage of that authorization to strengthen all the work he did on you. Two for the price of one.”
Harry felt a knot in his stomach, anger mixing with the bitter taste of betrayal. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, as if he had swallowed something acidic. The idea that Aunt Petunia, the same woman who had once forced him to scrub the floor on his knees until his fingers bled and his knees were raw (and then made him clean up the blood he spilled), had put a magical block on him and on Dudley…
“So she hated Mum that much… to the point of thinking magic was a curse. And Dumbledore took advantage.”
Nangok, silent until then, tapped his claws lightly against the table. The sound echoed in the room like a sentence.
“Wizards should not underestimate the cruelty of their own relatives. They could learn a thing or two from Goblins. We do protect our Clans, it is true, but we also have many internal power struggles to determine who will lead the family,” he said, with the malice in his gaze of someone who had already seen and actively taken part in such power struggles. He would not be the one to teach these young wizards all the politics of War and Blood that Goblins lived and guarded. “And Dumbledore… he knows exactly the power family resentment has, and how to exploit every weakness in its fullness.”
Hermione closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. Each revelation seemed to uncover a larger picture of a painting she wasn’t sure she wanted to see complete. When she spoke again, her voice was firm, but low:
“If Dudley manages to break this block… he will awaken. And when that happens, I don’t think Dumbledore will be able to control the narrative.”
Harry rubbed his eyes, trying to process it. Dudley, the cousin who shoved him into the cupboard, who laughed at the Hogwarts letters, who seemed like the embodiment of Privet Drive’s cruel normality… a wizard.
“Great,” he muttered, bitter. “This is going to be… fun.”
Hermione gripped his arm tightly, serious.
“It’s not fun at all, Harry. It’s dangerous. With his magic leaking from the block uncontrollably, it could bring physical consequences not only for him but for the environment around him. A house could collapse on him, or on the neighbors. He went through two cycles of magical maturation without allowing his body to adapt properly.”
Nangok nodded.
“You are completely correct, Miss Riddle. As expected of you. We have a team ready to go fetch Mister Riddle’s belongings from his family home, I will alert them of the importance of investigating this information.”
“Fetch Harry’s things? What do you mean?” Now, that was news to Hermione.
“Unlike you, who prepared to come here and discover what was happening upon receiving a portkey, your brother had no glimpse of the possibility of not returning, he simply activated the portkey without bringing anything he owned, only his wand.”
“HARRY!”
“What? I thought I’d be back by dinner. No one was going to miss me!!”
“And Hedwig?”
Harry blinked, stunned. For a moment, thinking of Hedwig was almost like a balm of relief, as if the owl were the only stable thing amidst it all.
“Right. She must be missing me.”
“You mean your snowy owl?” Nangok asked, still writing the necessary information to forward to the responsible team. When he lifted his gaze and saw the siblings nodding, he simply continued speaking. “Very clever. She arrived the same day you did. She has been enjoying the comfort of our owlery, and I believe she has already climbed a few ranks in the hierarchy of our owls.”
A summons from Gringotts should never be denied. Under no circumstances. Severus Snape simply did not understand why he was being called at that moment. The letter he had received, as direct and polite as possible, for goblin standards, was very clear: Come here now or face the wrath of the Nation. The only concession allowed was: finish any potion that demands time and attention and then come.
That was why it took him a day to answer the summons. Obviously, he expected some alteration in his vault, some payment not received from the potions he sold to apothecaries and St. Mungo’s. What he did not expect was to be received by the King of the Goblins and directed to one of the most protected management rooms of the Nation. (A fact he only knew because he was a friend of Lucius Malfoy and godfather to Draco.) And above all, he did not expect the King’s question.
"Master Snape, what do you know about the wizards you call Harry Potter and Hermione Granger?"
That was why Severus’s answer was extremely well-articulated and prepared in advance:
"What?"
At number four, Privet Drive, Petunia Dursley struggled to keep up appearances, even with her nephew absent. The breakfast table was set, the curtains impeccably aligned, but the fine china trembled in her hands. Dudley watched in silence, his face red and swollen with anger. Meanwhile, the orange juice in the glass before the boy bubbled without anyone touching it.
“This can’t be happening… it can’t…” Petunia muttered, rising and pacing around the kitchen. “I asked, I begged him to block this… he promised me!
The words carried the sour scent of sweetened lemon she only ever felt near one person. Her only luck at that moment was that Vernon was not home to witness what their son was doing. The problem, which Petunia did not know, was simple: magic never goes away. It only hides, bends, if it is blocked. And if it is not tended… it always demands its price.
The doorbell rang. Once, twice. It wasn’t the postman. It wasn’t one of the neighbors. The bell sounded different, deeper, as if each ring vibrated along the spine. When she opened the door, three goblins stared at her, dressed in dark tunics, their eyes shining maliciously, the reflection of their weapons glinting in the sun. A tall man accompanied them, and even though he looked normal, she quickly realized that he was like her sister and her nephew, a wizard.
“Petunia Dursley?” His voice cut the air like a blade. “We have unfinished business.”
The glass of juice exploded in the kitchen behind her. Dudley screamed.
“And no time to spare,” one of the goblins added, shoving the woman back inside and entering, followed by the others. “We’ll start with the boy. Smethwyck, you fetch the items from our client.”
The steady gaze fell upon Dudley. The air seemed to compress around the boy, who paled instantly, as if the very house had decided to crush him together with the secret he hadn’t even known he carried until that instant, and he wasn’t even sure he fully understood it.
“No… don’t touch him!” Petunia shouted, trying to put herself between the goblins and her son. But her voice no longer had the same firmness with which she barked orders at her nephew. It carried a high-pitched, nearly broken timbre that betrayed terror. “I did what he told me! I obeyed!”
One of the goblins raised his chin, studying her as though she were a cockroach he had just crushed with a new boot of albino dragon leather (a rare and special boot, it must be noted).
“And yet, the payment came in blood,” he murmured coldly. “It always does.”
Dudley shrank back in his chair at the goblin’s words, especially at the mention of blood. The shattered glass in the kitchen began dragging itself across the floor, reacting to the boy’s fear. Petunia’s eyes widened, but the movement didn’t stop: cutlery clinked inside the drawer, a crack opened on the wall behind Dudley, thin like a vein showing through stone.
“Stop this!” she begged, turning, seeking out the wizard who had accompanied the goblins, believing he was the only sane one who could understand her, but he was focused on inspecting the cupboard under the stairs, the boy’s trunk sitting beside the door. “You… you know! I asked for this not to happen. I begged him to erase it, to… to lock it away forever!”
The man lifted his eyes and regarded her in silence. His expression was calm, like someone who had heard a hundred identical excuses. When he spoke, his tone was low, almost respectful, but hard as iron.
“Magic does not disappear, Mrs. Dursley. Not because you are ashamed of it. Not because you envy it. It only waits.” Then he pointed toward the cupboard, where a filthy mattress was crumpled in a corner. “Magic tells us what happened here inside for nine years. Every tear, every drop of blood spilled. You forget that his blood came from the same place as yours.”
Petunia blinked rapidly, her eyes filling with tears she tried to hold back. Her sister’s name had not been spoken, but it hung in the air, poisonous.
The wizard turned away, looking at her with disgust. He soon climbed the stairs and had no difficulty finding the room Harry had occupied. What he found there was less than what had been locked downstairs, but he still took the empty owl cage and the hidden stash beneath the loose floorboard in the corner. When he descended again, the situation had already changed.
The goblins had begun spreading through the living room. One, Burgock, climbed onto the armchair, touching the wall with a short runed dagger, and the beige paint peeled away like old skin, revealing symbols burned into the wooden structure. Another, Grodbik, threw a handful of black powder over the china cabinet, and immediately three concealment charms glimmered, flickering before breaking apart. A small box, wrapped in silver chains, fell to the floor with a dull thud.
Petunia gasped.
“No… no, that’s nothing… it’s just a keepsake… just family things…”
“Family?” Bogrod, the oldest of the three goblins, laughed, a low, cutting sound. “You wanted to deny yours, and now it comes back to collect. Got everything, Thelonius?”
“Yes, sir,” he replied briefly, making his presence felt again in the room.
Dudley jumped to his feet, his face swollen with fear. He looked from the wizard to the goblins, focused on the marks on the wall. His fear only grew.
“What’s happening? Mum? What do they want?”
The air vibrated. The lamp in the corner exploded in blue sparks, and Petunia screamed, pulling her son toward her.
“It’s you,” Thelonius whispered, looking directly at Dudley. “It’s your magic responding. The block is failing.”
Dudley shook his head, stunned.
“I’m not… I’m not like him!” He pointed at the empty air, but they all knew who he meant: Harry. “I’m not!”
But at that instant, the rug under his feet writhed, its fibers forming spirals like living roots. The boy stumbled, knocking over the chair, and the remaining intact china on the table shattered all at once, as if it could no longer pretend to be normal.
Petunia sobbed, unable to stop it.
“I only wanted a normal life…”
“And yet, you chose to toy with blood magic without knowing the consequences,” said the goblin, picking up the box. “It’s always blood.”
Smethwyck pulled out a quill with a silver tip and began recording every movement, every word spoken, as if writing an official transcript. His calligraphy was calm, elegant, relentless.
Dudley, on the floor, gasped as though he had run miles. Small magical pops still escaped from him, cracking the chandelier, making the juice flow back into the broken glass in an absurd dance.
Bogrod approached, bending to observe the boy closely. His eyes gleamed like sharpened stones.
“Wake up, little one. You were not made to sleep forever.”
Petunia tried to pull her son back, away from the goblin, but an invisible force restrained her, pinning her against the wall. The wizard, who had drawn his wand, continued tracing runes in midair.
“End your silence, Human,” said Burgock, who was unraveling the runes painted within the house’s walls. “It is time for answers.”
And the silence that followed was so dense it seemed to stick to the skin.
Dudley panted on the floor, his hands clutching his chest. His heart pounded too hard, each beat echoing like a drum in his ears. He felt heat coursing through his veins, a strange fire that burned inside, but did not hurt, on the contrary, it seemed to want to leave, to escape, to find the world.
“S-s-stop…” he stammered, trying to rise, but his legs trembled. The rug beneath him kept twisting, responding to each erratic beat of his heart. “I don’t want this! I don’t want to be…”
A crack split the air: the kitchen window shattered into a thousand fragments, but none fell to the floor. They hung suspended, shining in the air like little pieces of crystal. Petunia screamed her son’s name, desperate, but could not move.
Bogrod stretched out a wrinkled hand, and one shard of glass floated into his palm. He studied the boy’s distorted reflection in the fragment and smiled cruelly.
“Magic never lies, little one. You are made of it.” He raised his gaze to Dudley, as though examining him from the inside. “And what you feel suffocating you is the block breaking apart.”
Dudley shook his head violently, tears streaming down his flushed cheeks.
“I’m not like him! I’m not like Harry!” he shouted again, but in the next moment, all the suspended shards shot against the walls, embedding themselves like arrows around the room. Not one touched him.
Petunia sobbed, trying to stifle her own voice, but the magic escaping her son gave her no reprieve. Nor did it protect her, as she felt several shallow cuts on her skin. A low sound rumbled through the floor, as if the house itself were alive and feeding on the drops of Petunia’s blood dripping onto the ground.
Thelonius Smethwyck, the Spellbreaker, lowered his wand and secured it in the holster on his arm, stepping toward the boy. His voice, low and almost compassionate, echoed through the room:
“Do not fight this, boy. The more you deny it, the more it will hurt.”
Dudley lifted his face, eyes brimming with tears, breathing too fast. For an instant, a spark of blue flickered in his pupils, as if lightning were ready to burst inside them.
“I don’t want to be… different…”
The walls trembled, the chandelier broke free from the ceiling and fell, but before touching the ground, it stopped in the air, suspended, slowly spinning like a hypnotic pendulum. Dudley was on his knees, but his hands, spread before his body, vibrated with an energy he did not understand, and that terrified him.
“You will not be different. You will be, at last, what you were always meant to be.”
“No… no…” he repeated, as if he could shrink back inside himself.
Grodbik stepped closer, eyes blazing, and said in a low, almost solemn voice:
“It is too late to deny your blood, young Dursley. You have already awakened.”
The silence shattered with a deep crack, like a bone snapping. It did not come from outside, but from within Dudley. His body arched, his mouth open in a scream that did not escape, muffled by a wave of energy that exploded from inside him, sweeping through the entire room.
The chains on the floor, fallen from the silver box, broke with a metallic sound, and the black powder scattered through the room was sucked into the boy’s chest as if obeying an ancient call. The air smelled of iron and ozone, and every lightbulb in the house burst at once, plunging everyone into a bluish gloom, lit only by the sparks flying from Dudley’s body.
Petunia screamed her son’s name, but her voice seemed distant, as if miles separated them.
The goblins did not move. They observed. Cold. Calculating.
And the wizard only murmured:
“The block has broken.”
The boy’s magic roared through the house, and Privet Drive reverberated with the sound coming from number four, drawing everyone’s attention to that oh-so-ordinary, so normal house.
Looking into the King’s eyes was a grave offense, but suddenly Severus was seized by a strange, almost involuntary courage, and he could not look away. A shiver ran down his spine, leaving him completely disoriented. The words he had heard made no sense.
How could the entire wizarding world have been manipulated in this way? How could he have married the person who had tormented him the most throughout his entire school life? And yet, the feeling he knew he still harbored for Lily remained, fierce and contradictory.
But the Inheritance Test parchment did not lie. Damn it. Goblins were a race known for not lying. And Severus did not know where to start undoing the entire mess he was now involved in. Especially with the news that, because James had done a blood adoption, Harry could also be considered, legally, his son. Even if the adoption had been illegal, as it probably should have been. Courtesy of Dumbledore.
“I like you, Master Potter-Prince,” Ragnok said, a sharp smile slowly appearing on his face. “Hard as diamond, but moldable like the rarest steel from our mines. You will serve very well to ensure that what we need happens.”
Severus swallowed hard. The magnitude of what he had just heard crushed every logical thought, and for a moment, the air around him seemed heavier, loaded with omens. Something moved in the shadows, silent, waiting.
Notes:
Thanks for the kudos!
Leave a comment, it really motivates me!!
I was supposed to post this last week, but I was so sick I couldn’t even think.
I hope you enjoy this chapter!!
Chapter Text
Waiting for the goblins to finish the meeting with Professor Snape, Harry and Hermione didn’t know how to proceed with their own lives from that moment on. They knew they had to have a plan formed about what they would do and how they could deceive Dumbledore, the greatest manipulator that ever existed on the face of the Earth. Obviously, being twins, they were two halves of the same coin. Harry, more impulsive, couldn’t plan any action. However, Hermione was already starting to outline possible parallels.
“The most important thing, Harry, is that we find our parents.”
“But I’ve already found our father before, remember? Madman. Tried to kill me. Twice. Three times, if we count the cursed diary.”
“And who guarantees that he tried the first time? If Dumbledore had such control over us, he must have the same control over him. He made the world believe that James Potter was your father!”
“Indeed…” came Snape’s calculating voice, entering the office where they were. “He made the reality we live in be altered without anyone noticing. And it’s not up to you to plan what to do. That’s why I was called. I am, from now on, your Legal and Magical Guardian. I and the goblins will carefully think about how to protect you and prevent him from doing anything else.”
Snape closed the door with the same precision he would close a potion vial: silently, yet impossible to ignore. The silence that followed held more questions than answers, and all of them found the indifferent face of the professor.
“Legal Guardian.” he repeated, as if pronouncing those words made the spell tangible. “You are under my protection while I judge what is best for your safety. That means one thing you hate: rules.”
Harry raised an eyebrow, his body still trembling from something that was more than just frustration. Hermione, on the other hand, held the reins of her own anxiety firmly in her fist and leaned forward, her eyes sharpening like knives.
“And what would the first rule be?” she asked. Her voice was controlled, her mind already listing possibilities.
“You will not return to your homes.” said Snape. “Not today, not while there is a single gap through which Dumbledore, or whoever he placed to watch you, could touch anything that belongs to you.” His words were harsh, but there was something more: a warning that he would not let anything happen to either of them.
The twins exchanged an almost instinctive glance; this was already a certainty they had just by talking to the manager of their account. It seemed the fact hadn’t been exposed to their Guardian. Harry felt urgency rising; Hermione tensed in a gesture of planning.
“Not that it’s difficult. Hermione already has her things. Mine are being retrieved by the goblins at this moment. But here’s the main question: Where do we go?” Harry said, unable to sit still any longer. “I don’t want to live behind vaults and goblin walls. I want…” he stopped, searching for the right word “I want to be able to do something.”
Snape rested his hand on the table, long fingers tracing an invisible line across the wooden surface.
“You will do what must be done little by little. The first step is already done: healing. Second: information. Third: training. Fourth: exposure.” He enumerated, as if pointing out the step-by-step of a potion recipe. “The goblins have already done their part. Gringotts has already recorded the Inheritance Test you took. Nothing can change that. As for the legal documentation with the Ministry, the goblins are preparing the legal documentation in the best possible way, without revealing the truth about your blood. This way, living with me will be legalized even for wizards, and there will be nothing Dumbledore can do, for now. But remember: uncontrolled information is a trap. Dumbledore has networks. He alters memories, history. We will need evidence that isn’t just scrolls. We will need witnesses, artifacts, and people brave enough to confront the Wizengamot, for when we eventually reveal the truth.”
Hermione gripped the wand in her pocket like it was a tic.
“And how are we going to get that? Who will help us?” The question wasn’t just curiosity; it was pure strategy. There was no illusion that a public exposure would be simple.
Severus looked at her for a moment and smiled. A sharp movement, almost cruel.
“People who received little in return, but still harbor hatred for poorly done favors. Some of the goblins. There are a handful of professors who do not like Dumbledore’s politics. And, more dangerous, the Ministry itself, if we declare that Gringotts proved irregularities in the hands of the Potter Guardian. But none of this is done in broad daylight. We proceed in steps. For now, you learn to defend yourselves.”
A clearing of the throat drew their attention to the wall, where Nangok, discreet as an ancient seal, had just bowed in reverence. He approached, his rings gleaming under the lamp.
“His Majesty Ragnok ordered” he said, his voice curt “that we receive and protect you. There will be healings and secure records for whoever you find that needs them, if they are allies of your family. While you search, you must be instructed about the heritage of your creatures and the vaults that belong to you. However: maximum caution. Dumbledore has ears everywhere.”
The mention made Harry’s neck tingle. In the goblin’s words, there was less promise and more warning: the world outside was no longer just a place of old enemies; it was a minefield of rewritten memories.
“Very well.” murmured Hermione. “Then let’s start with what we can control.” She nodded toward Snape. “The complete cleansing has already been done; now we observe and make a list of whom we can inform. And…” she hesitated for a second, which was rare for her “we need books: original records, Wizengamot voting lists, any minutes showing decisions he made while governing our seats. If we can formulate an irrefutable chronological line, we can mitigate Dumbledore’s influence.”
Nangok wrinkled his nose, evaluating the young witch’s words.
“I will check access. There will be, for a limited time, authorization to read in Gringotts’ sealed chambers. But nothing will leave the bank without a goblin present. And nothing will happen without your Guardian’s signature.” The statement was almost a decree. “You are still minors. The magical world would treat you as children at the mercy of manipulative adults if what the law allows to protect you is not done.”
Harry, who instinctively opposed any type of control by any authority, bit his lip. But Hermione already had her mental file full of plans, and that gave him something solid to anchor his anxiety.
“And what exactly do you want from us?” he asked finally, looking accusatorily at Snape, who acted so differently from what he was used to.
“Patience.” said Snape, without irony. “And practice. You will learn the basics of Occlumency and Legilimency. We will reinforce your mental protections so that no one tries to control you again. Hermione” looking at her with some severity “I do not want you trying to ‘read’ records without permission. Curiosity is useful; recklessness, fatal. Harry” he looked at him firmly and carefully, remembering Lily’s explosive personality “you will have lessons in self-control, and I will personally supervise your progress.”
Hermione closed her eyes for a second, and when she opened them, there was the unmistakable resolve that made her dangerous.
“Then we start now.” she said.
Snape leaned slightly, a rare gesture of praise.
“Now.” he confirmed. “I’ve already gone through my own cleansing. I’ve restored my title again, and I remember my own history. The goblins have already given me my portfolio along with James’, and I’ve already found the property we will occupy. We’ll go there as soon as they bring Harry’s things.”
He let out a deep sigh.
“It may have escaped your mind, seeing your results, but I am married to James, and with the blood adoption he made, this makes Harry not only my godson but also my son. And you, Hermione, are as much my goddaughter as James’. And as much my daughter as Harry’s sister. Now, you are mine. And I protect what is mine.”
The two had indeed forgotten this fact, and so they exchanged a shocked glance.
“When we get home,” he continued “you must sleep and rest. When you wake, the world will have tilted a little more toward the truth, and a little more toward danger. Therefore: learn to lie to protect yourselves. Learn to keep silent to gain time. Learn to build evidence that no one can take from your hands.”
The words hung in the air like a promise that resembled more an oath. Harry felt the knot in his chest loosen just a little, not because things were resolved, but because, for the first time, there was a plan and names for what threatened them. And there was an adult willing to care for and protect them.
“If this works” murmured Hermione, almost only to him “we will recover everything. And we will make sure no one thinks of stitching stories into our heads again.”
Harry smiled crookedly.
“I’d rather break the needle.” And both laughed, a little nervous, a little genuine. Snape restrained a laugh.
“And you will break the needle when you learn to be a little more Slytherin.”
“Actually…” Harry began to reveal, glancing sideways at the professor. “The Sorting Hat tried to put me in Slytherin. I refused and fought with it.”
Severus would have liked to be shocked, but he had always suspected there was a bit of ambition running in Harry’s blood. The surprise came when Hermione added:
“It also wanted to put me there. It said I was a Slytherin and a Ravenclaw. But in the end, it chose Gryffindor…” she finished thoughtfully. “Even though it never considered the house at all.”
“I think…” began Nangok after exchanging a glance with Severus “it’s more than time to reinforce the protective spells around the castle. Ensure everything is in order for another school year. Salazar’s basilisk has been awakened, after all.”
Behind the door, long shadows moved: men and goblins aligning papers, and far away, in some office whose door no one could easily unlock, a tall figure noted: “Risk: Dumbledore. Action: Observation.”
Getting used to living in a mansion, even with Severus (and how hard it was not to call him Snape anymore, now that he had gone back to using the name Potter-Prince) saying this wasn’t even their largest property, was not an easy thing. Naturally, there were key points. A huge Quidditch field, where Harry spent most of his mornings, and an enormous library, where Hermione spent the entire day.
In the first days, Severus gave them free time so they could adjust, not only to their new appearances, but also to the magical ability they now had, and even to their own names: Hadrian and Hania. However, the resting time was over. They needed to start preparing.
Severus watched, through the library window, as Hadrian flew calmly over the Quidditch field, while at his side, completely immersed in a book on the culture of Old Ways, Hania absorbed information that other pureblood children already had. The next day, the adult thought, everything would change. And he wasted no time. Even before the sun touched the lake at the back of the property, he called the twins for what he named “the first exercise in mental control and defensive magic.”
“Today,” he said, wand in hand, eyes fixed on Harry and Hermione, “you’re going to start learning what every child who grew up in a wizarding household knows. The ‘mask,’ as people often call it. It’s simply the effect the body shows while the mind is protected by a mental barrier – Occlumency. This way, whatever emotions and reactions you have, no one can guess them from your body language, and more importantly, whatever thoughts you’re having, they won’t be readable by a Legilimens.”
He saw the moment comprehension began to dawn in the children’s eyes. This was what it was about: how he could understand everything they felt just by looking at their faces, and he said as much. And more:
“I’ll use a very clear example that you’ve probably complained about several times. The Malfoys’ cold façade is nothing but this: a mask. A way they use so no one knows what they’re really feeling.”
“But is that so bad?” Hadrian asked. “Someone knowing what I’m feeling, I mean.”
“Can you say with confidence you could look at the Headmaster and not make a face of disgust and hatred?”
The boy didn’t even have to think. The answer was automatic:
“No!”
“Exactly! The mask is important precisely to stop him from finding out his plans are slipping away. And he will suspect. We only haven’t changed your names in the school register, but the goblins are making copies of all your results and storing a parallel record under your legal names.” it was visible when Hania breathed a sigh of relief. Obviously, the girl worried more about academic results than was clinically healthy. Storing that information for later, he continued. “And that’s why we’re going to start learning the principles of Occlumency. That way you protect your thoughts and knowledge from Dumbledore, and at the same time, you create and strengthen your mask.”
“You said the Malfoys’ coldness is a mask…” Hania began. “But does each family have its own type, or is it all… coldness?”
“In general, aristocratic families have a mask more oriented toward coldness, toward indifference. The Malfoys, as I said, are coldness; the Greengrasses are indifference – in fact, your classmate Daphne mastered her mask so quickly that people get confused by her and think she has no empathic connection with anyone; the Parkinsons’ is superiority – a complex that hides much of the fear and weakness they carry; the Blacks have a talent for using madness as a mask – no one wants to enter the mind of a madman, and their facial reactions should never be taken seriously; but there are also masks with other kinds of reactions – the Lovegoods are the greatest example, people don’t even notice there’s a mask there; the Longbottoms use fear – who would believe that a coward has important information, or would have any other connection beyond… fear? And then there are the Weasleys…” he took a moment before saying the last name, waiting for the children’s reaction, and he was not disappointed.
“What?” they said in unison.
“Of course they have a mask! Or do you think someone who works at the Ministry can go around without fearing someone will try to find something out?” he laughed. He LAUGHED. “The Weasleys’ mask is their personality. If someone believes they’re so… expansive with their emotions, they don’t need to pay attention to them, they’ll think they know what they’re thinking. But who would guess your friend Ronald, so explosive, is so good at tactical thinking?”
“Now it all makes sense!” Hania commented, clear understanding on her face. “If people expect the twins to be messing around all the time, they won’t notice when they’re serious or considering other things.”
“It’s all, Hania, a great theater where muggleborns are thrown without any previous preparation. And we’re going to change that for you.”
“What… what’s our family’s mask?” Hadrian asked, uneasy.
“Riddle is your father’s muggle surname, but his witch mother was a Gaunt. Your father is a half-blood, your mother a muggleborn from a squib line that didn’t pass down the family knowledge. Your paternal grandmother died in childbirth, so she couldn’t teach your father anything. So the mask is… personal. You can choose how your mask will be, because you can’t apply family tradition in building it. I know your father’s mental protection was a nest of snakes, while your mother’s was an immense garden which, after marrying your father, occasionally had snakes appear to help with the protection.” Severus looked thoughtful for a moment, remembering friends he had lost and forgotten. “But we’ll talk about mental protection later. I could teach you the Potters’ mask, but that wouldn’t be fair to Tom, and especially it would make it too obvious that you had more access to information about the Potters, Hadrian. After all, they use charm as their mask. Something I know you’re incapable of doing,” he finished with a crooked smile. “And I don’t believe you’d want to use the Princes’ mask of contempt.”
“That’s a mask?”
“Yes. Who would try to invade the mind of someone who despises them?” Severus shrugged, unconcerned with the silence that followed.
“But…” Hania began. “If you know all these masks, then you know the feeling isn’t real, which doesn’t stop anyone from being curious.”
“For the mask to take shape, the feeling must exist. It doesn’t matter for what, for whom, or to what level. All people have that feeling somewhere in their mind. They just project it all the time to the surface. Entering the mind of someone whose mask is firmly in place means feeling those feelings on first contact, before reaching the mental protection. That’s why the mask is the first stage of learning Occlumency.”
Severus then rose from the armchair he was sitting in and made the children stand up as well.
“First we’re going to stretch the body after this talk. The body has to be calm and relaxed. Let’s stretch a bit,” he said, raising his hands above his head and making the siblings do the same.
He ran them through a quick sequence of exercises, aiming to stretch and relax their muscles. After 15 minutes, he led them to the rug in front of the fireplace. Severus conjured comfortable cushions and made sure the fire was cozy.
“Occlumency isn’t just the mask. It’s closing the mind and preventing anyone from accessing your thoughts and manipulating your memories. It’s knowledge. And above all, it’s understanding. It’s knowing yourself, mastering yourself, protecting yourself. And for that, you need to close your eyes, take a deep breath, and meditate.”
His voice was calm, almost hypnotic. Severus spoke with a cadence that soon left the twins in a trance-like state. He guided them through the initial steps of meditation: clearing the mind of all feelings, not just expressive ones like anger and hatred, but also warm ones like love and care. He spoke of the importance of understanding and knowing oneself, knowing each feeling and what leads to that feeling. He spoke of imagining a safe place, calm and under one’s control, where one could place and organize memories.
To no one’s surprise, Hania’s safe space was a library. She noticed that, even though she could see the end of the Library, if she walked in that direction, the wall kept receding and she only got farther from the librarian’s desk. When she heard the distant voice of the professor/guardian speaking about ‘placing and organizing memories,’ she noticed boxes upon boxes appearing and piling up at the Library’s entrance as if being delivered. Opening one, she saw it was full of books, and each book, when touched, made her remember something. Instinctively, she understood that the empty shelves behind her would store the books of her memory. And by the number of boxes, she understood it would be a complex task, not one she would finish in a single meditation session.
Hadrian, on the other hand, did not see a Library. His mind was an expanding Quidditch field at night, lit by the full moon and full of shadows. Each memory shone in the distance, scattered across the space. Everything was alive, moving on its own. Each thought carried the restlessness and impulsiveness only Hadrian knew was his modus operandi. Severus spoke about organizing memories and Hadrian felt the pulse of each recollection. And he understood he would have to relate each memory, each pulse, to some feature of the field.
Hadrian’s safe space was not a Library, nor a Garden. It was the place where he had felt truly free for the first time in his life, under the moon’s watchful gaze and bathed in its light. Memories of the comfort he had felt at night in the Dursleys’ house, when everyone was asleep and he could escape from the cupboard under the stairs to get food, glimmered and pulsed a few steps away. Hadrian raised his hand and guided those memories to the Dark Side of the Moon. A place he knew was unexplored and where no one knew what happened. That’s where he wanted the memories of his aunt and her husband to go. And he understood what to do with each memory: find a place in the field where he could store each group of memories. And slowly, for the first time, Hadrian felt there was a place inside him no one could invade, an invisible yet tangible fortress. A space he could carry wherever he went, a space that would grow with him as he learned to tame and organize the chaos of his mind. It wasn’t order, not yet; it was a first step toward control, and that was more than he could remember ever feeling in his entire life.
When Hadrian and Hania opened their eyes, the fire in the fireplace seemed less aggressive and safer. Hania took a deep breath and realized, along with her brother, that she had a safe place to retreat to, not only within her own mind, but here, with “Professor Snape.”
“You don’t have to tell me what you saw or how you felt. That’s intimate and personal. But you’ve advanced a lot with just one meditation session, if your comfort is any indication. Tonight, when you go to bed, you should meditate again and try to organize the memories inside your safe place in a way that makes sense to you and matches your way of thinking. That way, new memories will already be stored more comfortably.”
Then, clapping his hands and standing up, he smiled, a once rare fact, but now extremely common when it came to the sibling pair, and said:
“And I can already smell the lunch the house elves prepared for us. Let’s have lunch, because after lunch we’re going to another part of your education that you’ve been wanting to know.”
“About our creature?” Hadrian asked excitedly.
“Or about the mate?”
“About both,” he clarified. “Because there’s no such thing as one without the other, as you’re going to discover.”
Something was wrong. The light there never had the right color. Sometimes it was golden, sometimes gray, and at other moments, like now, almost black, as if the space had decided not to exist at all. And she knew that was wrong. She had always found comfort in the soft pink glow of the sunset, and that was the only color that never appeared in her Garden.
A distant sound, familiar and strange at the same time, echoed in her ears. Words that seemed to come from both far away and very near, repeating themselves without meaning. She blinked, trying to catch some detail, some memory, but all that came were fragments: laughter, tears, a familiar voice calling her name… or was it just her mind making it up?
She looked around her Garden in search of those memories. She knew she had to look for specific flowers for each type of memory, but she couldn’t recall which flower meant what. Her thoughts tried to arrange themselves, but every sentence formed was pushed out of her head and promptly forgotten, as if her Garden wasn’t so safe anymore.
Something moved to her right. Lily turned her head and saw a shadow watching her, quiet, patient. Someone was there, in her Garden. She thought of screaming, of doing something, but she knew it would be useless. A snake slithered near her, and as she reached out to it, the shadow took form. It was her, Lily.
“This isn’t your Garden, Lily. It’s an illusion. Remember what matters, fight. Before he reapplies the spells and you forget again what is important.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re bewitched. We don’t know where. Three times you managed to break free from the compulsions and memory spells. You brought me here, to give you strength to fight back. So far, you haven’t managed to escape the trance. I only know that someone is helping us grow stronger. Each time you begin to resist, you get stronger, even if he doesn’t notice.”
“And who is He?”
“Who else would it be…? The one who… took our babies and hid our partner… Dumbledore.”
Lily brought her trembling hands to her abdomen. She hadn’t remembered before, but now she recalled feeling little kicks in her belly, hearing, through prenatal spells, two tiny hearts beating.
“Hania and Hadrian!” she said with excitement and joy, a shiver running down her spine. And the light gradually shifted into orange, making the False Garden clearer, the Other Lily sharper.
“This is the first time you remember their names. You’re getting stronger! We need to save our children.”
“How long have we been here?”
“It’s hard to say. Here time doesn’t flow like out there. What feels like seconds for you, could be years outside. And I believe it’s already been some years. I keep doing the initial task you gave me and the memories I’ve stored seem compatible with the passage of years.”
Lily was silent for a few minutes.
“Does he use Legilimency to know if I’m resisting the spells?”
“Every time.”
Then Lily focused, returning the sky’s light to its previous ambiguous state, leaving the Other Lily in the shadows.
“Then let’s keep the place just as he expects to find it.”
At last, she was truly growing stronger.
Meanwhile, sitting on the floor with his legs crossed carelessly, staring at the stone walls of the place he knew was a fake version of his Laboratory, was James. The stone texture changed gradually, never fixing into the pattern he knew it should follow. That was what gave away that it wasn’t his safe space. There was silence there, but no peace. Space, but without the comforting air that brought him security.
For a long time he tried to remember how he had arrived there, placed in that trance, but he never reached a conclusion. He could sense when, whoever had trapped him there, scanned his mind to see if he was still compliant. At those times he adopted the expected posture of someone calm and comfortable. Only then did he avoid the unknown spell being reapplied.
It was in that contemplative state that, suddenly, everything became clearer. Slowly the dormant cauldron in the corner of the Laboratory began to bubble, its steam bringing aromas James hadn’t even remembered he loved: the smell of fresh herbs being prepared for a potion, the scent of fire against copper in a cauldron, and a very particular musk belonging to one person.
Severus, his mate. The missing key for James to take control of his consciousness. The golden magical ribbon, representing their bond, appeared on his wrist. And the illusion of his Laboratory quickly unraveled, revealing the True Laboratory, along with his Assistant, the Other James, the subconscious part responsible for keeping his mind always storing information.
“Welcome back to the conscious world, James.”
“Finally,” he said with excitement. “I was exhausted from waiting. Did you manage to notice what broke the spell?”
“It was Severus. He must have gone through something that strengthened our bond, and that’s only possible because we performed the ancient union ritual that not only joined our families but united our magic. And since you noticed early what was happening, you grew stronger quickly and didn’t need me. I was able to stay alert to our surroundings and perceive more about where we are and what’s going on.”
“And so?”
“It’s only us, Lily, and another wizard I can sense. Occasionally he shows up to reinforce the spells on Lily and see if you need reinforcement. You’ve been fooling him well, because he firmly believes you’re under his control and that only Lily is rebelling. She’s had the spells reapplied three times, from what I’ve heard. I couldn’t identify which magics he casts, so I can’t say the effects beyond what you already know, since you emulate them so well.”
“It’s not that hard to fool Dumbledore, when he thinks he’s the smartest person in the room.”
The Other James was surprised. James had managed to keep that information even from his own subconscious.
“We’re stronger than I believed. That’s good.”
“And now?” James asked, preparing to access the memories his subconscious had stored.
“Now, you need to rid yourself of the remaining traces of the spells still on us. And you need to meet our ally, the one who has been watching and protecting us all this time. And you need to plan. For that, James, you have to wake up.”
Somewhere in Europe, in a cold stone chamber richly decorated, lying on a comfortable bed, was a thin man with extremely messy black hair. Suddenly, he took a deep breath, as if regaining air after being submerged for a very long time.
The air entered harsh, burning his unaccustomed throat; his lungs ached as if they had never fully expanded. He blinked several times, dazed by the faint light that seemed more alive than any brightness he had seen in years. The weight of the blanket on his body and the chill of the stone beneath the bed made him shiver, reminding him this was no longer an illusion.
With effort, he turned his head to the side, his stiff muscles protesting, and let out a hoarse, almost disbelieving laugh.
James Potter was awake.
In the library, the place Severus had chosen to teach most things to Hania and Hadrian, they sat on comfortable sofas, leaving the meditation cushions aside. The moment now was for calm conversation and an introduction to another reality.
“They say that when the Goddess gave us our magic, we had help to master our powers with the aid of other magical creatures. We can see traces of some of these creatures in their hybrid versions when studying Egyptian mythology. Eventually, couples were formed between some creatures and wizards, and the children born of those unions carried in their blood specific qualities and powers of each creature, of each race. Nowadays, it’s hard to find a pureblood wizarding family that doesn’t have some creature trait.”
“But…” began Hania, who had obviously already read some of the laws that had been voted with their family’s votes. “we have so many anti-creature laws. How is that possible?”
“Because those who vote to approve them are prejudiced, don’t understand our history or other people, since they don’t carry any creature inheritance, or they deny and block their own heritage.” Severus shook his head, recalling some of those people. “And because of the laws in force, others, even proud of their origins, don’t reveal their inheritance. Because they fear the repercussions it could bring. Of course, there are those who cannot hide it, like Professor Flitwick, but the fact that he is part goblin – the only race that, even if only slightly, wizards treat with some degree of decorum – allows him to have a normal life among other wizards.”
“Do you know of more people?” asked Hadrian, curious.
“Obviously, I know of countless people in our community who carry creature blood. But I won’t say their names or families. As I said, people keep that kind of information secret and only share it with those they trust.”
“And what does it mean, to have a creature as an ancestor? You said that certain creatures have specific magic”
“Of course! Certain types of fairies carry the power of a seer, for example, or immunity to poisons; other creatures, like elves – and here I mean different from house elves – have the ability to see Magic, called Magic Sight, or to talk to other animals. There are those who carry resistance or affinity to certain elements, or fast healing.” he commented, looking intently at the two. “There are others who carry curses, which are activated depending on various factors. The Potters inherited the Curse of Luck, which I believe has partially passed on to you, Hadrian, with your adoption.”
“But how is that a curse?”
“A lot of Luck requires a lot of Misfortune to balance it.”
“Now everything makes so much sense.” Hadrian commented, surprised.
Severus let out a laugh.
“And with your creature, you receive a destined mate. Someone for whom your magic… sings. The ideal person for you.”
“Like a soulmate?”
“Very similar, Hania. That doesn’t mean that with a mate you won’t have to work on the relationship, it only means you’ll have a reason to dedicate yourself more. However, there are cases of destined couples who didn’t stay together. Don’t take your destined mate as an absolute certainty.”
“You and my father… I mean, James, are destined mates?”
He gave a calm smile.
“He’s still your father. He adopted you, and you thought of him as a father for years. But yes, James and I are destined. And we only stayed together because your mother fought for it, more than the two of us put together. And I regret nothing, because I learned a lot from it.”
“And since we have Veela blood,” Hania continued, remembering the information that had been unlocked in the Test. “does that mean we can only be with another Veela?”
“No. That only guides which types of spells you can channel better, and when you turn fourteen and your blood naturally awakens, you’ll be able to know and possibly connect with your mates. That is, if they aren’t older. It’s possible they might know this before you, if they carry a creature in their blood.”
“Connect?” questioned Hadrian.
“Exactly.” Severus was terribly nostalgic, thinking of his partner as he taught the children about heritage and creature blood. “When you spend more time with your mate, you create a connection like the one you share as twins, which you’re still getting used to. You begin to share a bit of each other’s feelings, of each other’s being. And if you go through the same kind of ritual I went through with James at our bonding, we even connected the magic of our families, uniting us and making us stronger.”
Every word and thought of Severus, directed at and about his kidnapped mate, was filled with love, longing, tenderness. And somewhere within his mind, he wished and sent those feelings to James. Then he felt a snap inside him, almost like a stretched elastic band breaking, startling him. And then, twelve years since he last heard that voice, that nickname…
“Sev…?” James called, weakly, through the bond of mates. Severus felt his heart race, a shiver run through his whole body, and his hand trembled slightly. Emotion overtook him and he completely forgot about the twins.
Notes:
Oops... This one took a while to come out.
And honestly... Lily and James surprised me!
WHAT ARE THEY DOING HERE?!?!
James, obviously, being an exemplary Marauder and ruining my planning and waking up early.Don't forget to comment, it makes a difference.
Chapter 5: Suite with sea view...of Despair
Summary:
Welcome to a guided tour of the Dementors' Zero-Star Resort, and the delightful presence of its lifelong guests.
Until they decide to shake things up a bit........
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Twins, better yet, Magical Twins usually share a unique kind of bond. While Hadrian and Hania were still learning what that meant, Fred and George had already mastered it, and were experts at using it to their advantage. Especially when it came to planning and executing their pranks.
They practically lived inside each other’s heads, which explained how they could speak in perfect unison and finish each other’s sentences. Of course, sometimes they whispered their schemes instead. No one needed to know they were magical twins.
But it was precisely because no one could ever predict what they were planning that led them to that moment: standing near the top of a pyramid they had climbed with dedication and, somehow, without anyone noticing.
At least until Bill had the brilliant idea to gather everyone for a photo. They had to capture the moment to send to The Daily Prophet for the annual lottery feature. How could they have guessed that their eldest brother had placed a tracking charm on them?
“Honestly, if I didn’t already know how the Great Sphinx lost its nose, I’d assume it was your doing!” said Bill, apparating beside them and forcing the twins into a side-along apparition.
“Now, stay still for two seconds so we can take a proper family picture,” complained Mrs. Weasley, finishing the adjustment of the kids as one of Bill’s colleagues raised the camera.
The twins exchanged a mischievous glance before looking at Jacques.
“Two…” George began.
“…One!” Fred finished.
They tried to bolt, but Charlie intercepted them at the exact moment the flash went off.
In the developed photo, the twins can be seen laughing as Charlie, equally amused, holds them back from escaping the edge of the frame. Percy, in the corner, holds a book and looks over his shoulder in mild exasperation. Arthur and Molly Weasley stand at the center, Arthur’s hand resting on Ginny’s shoulder while Molly attempts to hug Ron, her arm blocked by Scabbers’ tail perched on the boy’s shoulder. Bill, his long hair tied back, stands on the opposite side of the frame, gazing at his family with a proud smile. And behind them, rising beneath the sun, one of the great pyramids stands tall, sealing yet another portrait of Weasley chaos.
“Bet I can reach the top of the pyramid before Bill stops me this time!” Fred shouted, laughing as he ran off.
“Don’t underestimate my natural talent for dangerous things!” his older brother retorted, not even moving to stop him, Fred tripped and fell before he had the chance.
From a distance, Molly watched, hands on her hips, sighing deeply.
“Can someone explain how these twins still have so much energy?”
No one answered. Competing with the combination of heat, adventure, and pure mischief that defined the Weasley twins was simply impossible.
Percy, ever dignified, tried to keep a serious face as he documented his brothers’ antics, Fred returning to the group with Molly tugging at his ear while Ginny giggled beside them.
“You do know there are rules for archaeological exploration, right? You might disrupt Bill’s work.”
Fred just pulled a face, while George responded with a dramatic bow, flourishing his arms in exaggerated reverence.
Suddenly, George slipped on a loose stone and nearly fell, but Fred caught him just in time.
“See? That proves I’m essential!” George laughed, regaining his balance.
Ginny rolled her eyes, shaking her head, while Molly took a steadying breath, trying not to panic.
“It proves you share the same brain cell, that’s what it proves,” Ron snorted.
Their visit to the pyramids didn’t last much longer. Soon, the family was heading back to the Egyptian Bazaar to cool off at the hotel and grab something to eat. Each tent brimmed with fascinating magical trinkets, and the streets buzzed with local and visiting witches and wizards.
One stall, in particular, caught Ron’s attention. On display were several curious objects, one of them, a small glass spinning top, suddenly lit up, twirled, and whistled as he drew near.
“Ah! A fine eye, young sir! Keen for quality, I see!” the vendor said eagerly. “That’s a Sneakoscope! Detects the presence of Dark forces, it does! Lights up just like that when something untrustworthy is nearby!”
Ron’s curiosity piqued, he immediately thought of Harry. The vendor noticed.
“And how much is it?”
It would make a perfect birthday gift, he thought. Harry would love it. Merlin knew how often his friend ran into suspicious situations at school…
“A rare item, crafted by the great Edgar Stroulger himself! Normally twenty Galleons, but for you, my discerning young wizard, I’ll make it fifteen.”
“Fifteen Galleons?!”
Ron exclaimed, clutching his coin pouch.
“That’s too much! I want to buy a gift for my friend, but I can’t pay that! I only have eight!”
“What about twelve, young master? A fair deal, no?”
“Maybe ten…”
Ron muttered, looking around until he spotted his older brother.
“Bill! Can you help me get a present for Harry?”
Bill approached, frowning at the stall and its wares.
“What is it you’re buying, Ron?”
“This Sneakoscope! It’ll be perfect to help Harry fend off the next DADA teacher who tries to kill him.”
The vendor visibly tensed under Bill’s sharp gaze, sweat beading at his temple.
“Ron, a Sneakoscope costs no more than one Galleon,”
Bill said, fishing a coin from his own pouch and paying the man.
The device immediately stopped spinning, flashing, and whistling as Bill took it in hand.
“This is cheap junk for tourists. How much were you trying to charge my brother?”
The vendor stammered, breaking into rapid Arabic. Bill replied in kind, his tone clipped and heated.
“Go inside, Ron, it’s almost dinner time,”
Bill said, handing over the Sneakoscope before resuming the argument.
The moment Ron took hold of it, the little glass orb sprang back to life, flashing and spinning wildly. And, looking between the vendor and his brother, Ron didn’t need much imagination to guess why the Sneakoscope was reacting.
“Come on, Scabbers! I bet tonight they’ll serve that dish from our first day here!”
Ron said, slipping his rat back into his pocket and hurrying toward the hotel, eager to drop off his things before dinner.
Far away, in a secluded estate on the outskirts of Wiltshire, Theodore Nott slowly turned a small crystal orb over his grandfather’s worktable. Inside, golden particles swirled like living dust.
“It’s oscillating again,” he murmured, studying the line of ancient runes glowing faintly around its base. “I thought it was unstable because of the lunar alignment, but this... this isn’t just stellar magic.”
Lysander Nott, standing by the tall window, turned towards his grandson. The man looked as if he’d been carved from stone, tall, thin, and carrying the same calm yet piercing gaze as his son, Edmund, who sat nearby, poring over a stack of faded notes.
“Not lunar,” Lysander replied thoughtfully. “Ancestral.”
Theo lifted his eyes.
“Is that why my inheritance awakened early?” he asked, recalling the first time he had accessed the family grimoires.
His father gave a slow nod.
“The instruments began recording fluctuations on the same day.”
He placed a parchment on the table, its surface filled with silver-inked sigils that shimmered faintly.
“Echoes of old magic, Theodore,” Lysander continued. “Of a kind that shouldn’t exist anymore. The abandonment of ancient magics, traditions, family rituals, all of it has been leading to the death of Magic as we know it. That’s why the rate of Squib births has risen so sharply.”
Silence spread across the study, broken only by the soft hum of enchanted artefacts. The walls were lined with shelves of bottles, crystals, and books that seemed to breathe as one passed by.
“Then it’s true, what the Flamels mentioned at the last conference?” the boy asked hesitantly. “That the Veil between worlds has grown... thinner?”
Edmund glanced up, a spark of intrigue in his eyes.
“The Veil always responds to blood and intent. If something is stirring, it isn’t the Veil itself, it’s someone.”
Theo swallowed hard.
“Someone powerful enough to touch ancient magic.”
“Or two someones,” his father corrected, snapping his fingers.
The orb split cleanly in two. The golden particles floated between them, forming the faint outline of a double serpent, two heads entwined, moving in perfect synchrony, before dissipating into the air.
Theo stared, unable to look away.
“Twins...” he whispered.
Lysander’s lips curved into a faint, knowing smile.
“The oldest symbol of perfect magical unity. Two halves of the same power. When one awakens, the other always responds.”
The orb dimmed, leaving only the soft pulse of runes glowing like a slumbering heart.
“Tell Eyris to reinforce the wards for the next cycle,” Lysander ordered, sealing the artefact once more. “I don’t want that kind of energy reaching our students. Not yet.”
Theo hesitated before asking,
“Do you think it’s dangerous, Grandfather?”
“All forgotten magic is dangerous, Theodore,” the old man said quietly. “Especially when it remembers that it exists.”
After his grandfather left the study and his father returned to his research, Theo remained where he was, staring at the desk, thinking about the extinguished orb. The runes carved along the room’s edges seemed to pulse faintly again, but he ignored them. He was tired of riddles he couldn’t solve.
Taking advantage of being home instead of at Emrys, Theo climbed the stairs to his room. The corridors of Nott Manor were unnervingly quiet, the kind of silence that carried echoes. Sometimes the portraits of his ancestors would comment on his studies, share fragments of forgotten lore, or remind him of the “duties” and “responsibilities” of a Nott.
In his room, a grey owl was waiting on the window ledge.
“Finally!” he muttered, opening the window to let in the cool night air.
He untied the letters she carried. One, written in blue ink and sealed with the Malfoy crest; another, equally elegant, from Blaise Zabini; and the third, on slightly humbler parchment and in hurried handwriting, unmistakably from Pansy Parkinson. Theo smiled at the sight of his friends’ correspondence.
The first letter he opened was Draco’s.
“Theo,
My summer has been... productive, thank you for asking. My studies regarding my Inheritance have deepened, you know how life is for a Malfoy, and what is expected of us. The same kind of mantle rests upon the shoulders of a Nott.
However, I’ve been learning more about the Wizengamot. Father says I’ve been progressing at an impressive rate and that, with the right instruction, I may one day bring about the necessary change.
Since your family is so fixated on research, perhaps you have some insight into why my magic has been growing stronger, and less stable. My next magical maturation shouldn’t occur until June. Has something happened that I ought to keep my eyes and senses open for?
I trust this letter finds you in good health.
D.M.”
If there was one thing every pure-blood heir was taught, it was how to read between the lines. Theo understood immediately, Draco’s research into his Veela inheritance was progressing faster than expected, and his magic was reacting far more strongly than it should for his age. Theo would look into it, but he already suspected the cause.
He opened Blaise’s letter next.
“Theo,
The elves are on the verge of collapse. Mother’s decided to throw a party in honour of her own elegance. Naturally, the mansion will be overflowing with dignitaries and desperate souls hoping to mingle with my mother, or my aunt.
Who in Merlin’s name would willingly get involved with either the Italian Minister for Magic or her sister, otherwise known as the Black Widow?
Seven husbands, Theo! Seven. And no one finds that suspicious?
I need an excuse to escape, something involving ancient runes, a magical instability spreading through the African continent, or perhaps a vortex opening in the Asian skies that you simply must study, but can’t possibly investigate alone without your good old friend Blaise.
Can you help me out?
B.”
Finally, he opened Pansy’s letter. He could already guess it would be full of gossip, but useful gossip, at least.
“Theo,
How are you? Can you believe it’s only been three weeks since the holidays began? It feels like a lifetime ago that the school was under attack! Hogwarts is so unsafe. Honestly, I don’t understand how my parents still let me study there. There’s always Beauxbatons, of course.
My cousin mentioned seeing me next year, he might be referring to the Quidditch World Cup. Father’s determined to buy a private box for the entire family. But he could just as well mean a transfer to France. I think the transfer deadline’s already passed, though, so I’ll likely be stuck doing my third year at Hogwarts.
Anyway, I overheard one of Potter’s admirers saying he was petrified after seeing two enormous yellow eyes. I believe it’s the same creature that killed Myrtle. She once told me how she died: looked at something, then dropped dead. Could the Monster of Slytherin be some beast that kills with a glance? But then why didn’t anyone actually die?
They say the Weasley girl was responsible for the attacks. Can you believe it? A Weasley targeting muggleborns?! And instead of being punished, she’s in Egypt right now! Blaise saw her family taking an international Portkey. Honestly, what a state our Ministry and our school are in.
My brother has been deepening his studies, and I’ve shared both my opinions and your sharp observations. Our Traditionalist Party must remain united. But Rowan insists we stay discreet and that change is coming. That led to an absurd argument in the greenhouse, the glass walls even trembled a little. I think he’s still adjusting after the full maturation of his magic. Is that normal? His birthday was in March and it’s July now! Surely his body should have adjusted to being a fully, grown wizard by this point.
Don’t take too long to reply, Theo. You spend ages buried in your research and sometimes forget to write back. I’ll be waiting for your letter!
With affection,
Pansy.”
Theo read the letter three more times. You could always count on Pansy to be the most expressive of the group. She wouldn’t last a minute in silence if she hadn’t mastered the Parkinson Family Mask.
Still, her letter contained valuable insights, including proof that even those without a Creature Inheritance were beginning to feel the world’s magical shifts.
There was much to research before replying, as each friend had given him something distinct and essential for his studies.
But first, he needed to speak to his grandfather, one of Hogwarts’ Governors, about how a basilisk had been roaming the castle for nearly a year without anyone doing a thing. Because that’s what the Monster of Slytherin was, without a doubt: a Basilisk.
The silence in that unknown place pulsed.
It wasn’t the ordinary silence of ruins or death, it was the kind of silence that breathes.
The old runes carved into the stone began to glow, one by one, as if awakening from a deep slumber. The cell, frozen in time, seemed to expand and contract, responding to something distant.
He lifted his head, eyes lost in some invisible point.
He felt his magical core throb, like a heart, but it wasn’t his. It was hers.
Two echoes in unison, two ancient presences brushing against each other somewhere beyond his reach.
For a fleeting instant, the forgotten name in his mind tried to surface, but Dumbledore’s spell crushed it once more.
And the silence returned.
But the world had breathed.
“And do you really think it’s necessary?” Fudge, the Minister for Magic, asked one of his advisors.
“Absolutely, Minister! Twelve years since the fall of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. A visit of ‘inspection’ to Azkaban, a chat with the prisoners, being seen ensuring that Evil will not return... it will do wonders for your image and your re-election in two years.”
Deciding, Fudge turned to his Senior Undersecretary, tasked with ensuring the Ministry ran precisely as he wished, and gave the order:
“Then schedule my visit for three days from now, Friday. Organise my schedule, move non-urgent meetings to next week, and bring forward the most important to tomorrow or Thursday.”
On Friday, the Minister strode through the cold corridors of Azkaban, the sound of the sea mingling with the rustle of robes of those accompanying him: reporters aiming to capture a photo or pen an article on how the Minister cared for public safety. One of his Aurors, Quim Shacklebolt, had conjured a Patronus that circled around the two of them.
“Twelve years…” Fudge said to a reporter. “That they’ve been here. Of course, it’s nothing to us in our long wizarding lives, but a necessary evil, keeping these people, followers of the worst Dark Wizard to ever set foot on the British Isles in the latter half of the century. Reliving their worst fears, their greatest sins… a small price compared to the harm they inflicted on our society.”
The air grew heavier, and even Shacklebolt’s Patronus faltered as they entered the maximum-security wing. Almost as if reacting to Fudge’s words, a maniacal laugh echoed: Bellatrix Lestrange.
“Little Fudge is Minister?” Her laughter rose. “The world’s gone madder than I thought if you were elected, little letter-boy!” She rattled the bars of her cell.
“Did you hear that, Rod?!” she shouted at her husband in the next cell. “The messenger from your Department is the new Minister for Magic!”
The visitors glanced at each other. Many had forgotten that several prisoners had once been Ministry employees themselves.
“If they imprison innocents, dear, they can elect incompetents,” came Rodolphus Lestrange’s reply, followed by laughter from both his wife and brother.
Fudge quickened his pace, urging his entourage to follow. A few cells down, he spotted Sirius Black leaning against his cell, gazing calmly outward.
“Apologies for my cousin, Minister. I don’t think her stay here has contributed much to her sanity.”
“You seem… well.”
“Don’t worry, Minister. There’s little to be done here, and I certainly won’t scream and damage my vocal cords.”
“And what do you have to say about your… stay, as you put it, Mr Black?”
Sirius shrugged, though the absence of his title clearly irked him.
“Just waiting to serve my sentence.”
Fudge was taken aback. Here was a man who had spent the past twelve years in a cell, surrounded by Dementors, and yet maintained his sanity.
“Finished with your paper, Minister?” Sirius asked, pointing to the edition tucked under Cornelius’ arm. “This place is entirely boring, and I miss the crosswords.”
Seeing no harm, Fudge handed over the paper. Sirius glanced through it, and they exchanged no more words. He retreated to the back of his cell, while the Minister continued down Azkaban’s corridors.
“Next time you call me mad, cousin…”
“Don’t worry, Bella. I’ve said nothing the world doesn’t already think.”
“And now?” asked Rabastan from his cell, staring at his hand.
“Now…” Sirius said, opening the paper and falling silent longer than intended. The smiling faces of the Weasleys beneath the headline announcing the Annual Lottery prize seemed innocent, until the presence of a certain rat drew his attention.
“…Now?” pressed Rodolphus, awaiting an answer.
“We’re moving up our plans. That blasted Wormtail survived.”
“What?” the other three demanded, forgetting to lower their voices.
“I only wanted the paper to check the date and state of our country with a fool like Fudge as Minister. I did not expect to see Wormtail in his Animagus form on a Hogwarts student’s shoulder.”
“Sirius…” gasped Bellatrix. “He has access to Hadrian and Hania!”
“Tonight. We leave this hole and reaffirm what a mistake it is to go against the Blacks and their allies, cousin.”
“I only managed to get one wand, Sirius,” Rabastan noted.
“It’ll do.”
In the dead of night, Sirius took his Animagus form. Starved for proper food, he slipped through the bars of his cell. One passing Dementor bent down, stroking the dog’s fur. Padfoot waited patiently until the creature departed, then trotted to Rabastan’s cell, retrieving the wand his cousin had managed to acquire from one of the wizards visiting that day.
With the wand clenched between his teeth, Sirius raced to the Guard’s storage area, knowing it held their belongings. Carefully, he reverted to human form, preparing to perform magic. As a Black, Lord Black no less, he could channel magic without a wand to some degree, which had kept him active and relatively healthy. Thus, he was the perfect candidate to reclaim their items.
A quick Disillusionment Charm allowed him to approach the door and disable its wards. Another forgotten fact over the years: Sirius was a trained Auror who knew Azkaban’s security protocol. Magic seemed to hum through the prison stones, recognizing and approving his actions.
Entering the archive and quietly recovering their items was effortless. Disabling tracking spells on the wands of himself and the three Lestranges was even faster. He hid in a forgotten corner, swapped out his striped prison robes for those he had worn when first imprisoned, and secured his wand on the arm holster. The stolen wand was cleansed of all spells and stashed in his pocket, to be discarded safely later.
He reverted to dog form, returning to where his family awaited. Handing back each person’s belongings and freeing them was swift. They still used the same spell to lock and unlock the cell doors.
Once outside, they cast illusions inside the cells, making it appear they remained within. Not perfect, but convincing enough for a time. With only six human guards patrolling Azkaban and most avoiding the upper levels, Sirius led them safely to the security breach he had discovered in Animagus form, after getting rid of several blocks in his core, and which he was keeping in mind for their eventual escape a gap through which they could apparate away.
Pausing for a final glance at the cold corridors, the four faced each other.
“And now,” said Rodolphus, the eldest, “we go home.”
Notes:
Once again, things are getting out of hand.
Pansy showing up and sending the biggest letter of the group, and Sirius running away WITH A BUNCH OF PEOPLE (3).
I hope you enjoyed the chapter.
I know I did.
It's shorter than usual, but it's perfect for what I need.
We have to get things moving and get to Hogwarts soon, I think.
or not! Who knows what these crazy characters will want to do.
Chapter 6: The Whisper of Lady Magic
Summary:
Record No. 07.4.12 - Wizengamot
Subject: Extraordinary Session convened by Chief Warlock Albus Dumbledore.
Date: July,24th 1993.
Location: Wizengamot's Chamber, Level 9, Ministry of Magic.
Attendees: Members of the CouncilOfficial Summary:
.
.
.
.Chaos.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Home was far too grand a word for that supposedly uninhabited place. The ancient mansion, built of heavy, weathered stone and lost among abandoned vineyards on the border of Burgundy, exuded contained magic, and the crest engraved above the fireplace gleamed with a strange intensity, as if awakening after years of silence.
The wind swept over the stones, carrying a whisper that made Regulus open his eyes. He remained motionless for long seconds, trying to decipher what had pulled him from the stupor in which he had been trapped. The family magic seemed to pulse through his veins, renewed. The morning air was growing colder, damper, and for a fleeting moment, he felt transported to another place, one he had never been, but had always heard of: Azkaban.
He raised his hand to eye level, gazing at the ring, a family heirloom worn by every member, one that connected them all...if the wearer knew how to use it and allowed the magic to bind them. Only Black family members of true blood and name permitted this, because they understood the importance of caring for the family. The black stone, together with the crest, responded. A spark ran across its glossy surface. And Regulus felt two streams of familiar magic: Libertas. Free. Sirius and Bellatrix.
Regulus rose from his bed, unsteady. His memories of his brother and cousin were fragmented after so long imprisoned beneath the artificial lake, and after being rescued.
No. There had been no lake. Kreacher had rescued him from something else.
Memories of care and affection mingled with fragments of guilt and war. It was exceedingly difficult to separate truth from manipulation.
The House murmured around him, whispering names that history had tried to erase.
He knew what it meant.
They were growing strong. They would break free. And with them, an entire population that had been manipulated and forced to fight for a reality that had never existed.
The morning sky was dense, streaked with lightning. Waves battered the rocks of an uninhabited cove, and an ancient black-stone estate rose above the cliff, as if watching the sea.
The first figure to reach the gates was a dog, thin, drenched, with eyes that still did not know what freedom meant. The second step was human, panting, soaked by the same rain.
Sirius Black drew a deep breath.
The salty breeze smelled of home and of memories he did not wish to revisit.
Behind him, three figures emerged. Bellatrix, pale and stained with dried blood, yet smiling as if she had just been born. Rodolphus, silent, with a feverish, unsteady gaze. Rabastan, animated, as though this were nothing more than a family outing, not a flight from Azkaban.
The House hesitated. The runes on the gate gleamed in response, recognising the blood requesting access, even if the magic was confused after all the measures they had taken to avoid detection.
“Are you certain it’s safe?” murmured Rodolphus, glancing around.
“Nothing of the Blacks is safe...” replied Sirius, not looking back. “But it’s mine. I hope it’s mine...”
Bellatrix let out a short laugh, somewhere between delight and madness.
“Ours, dear cousin. Our blood, our curses. Our insanity.”
The gate groaned, opening of its own accord. The House answered with a deep crack, almost a sigh.
And as they crossed the threshold, the candles inside the mansion lit one by one, as though the very structure recognised them.
Sirius lifted his eyes to the crest above the entrance.
The same crest that, hundreds of kilometres away, Regulus was touching.
The same one that was now beginning to awaken.
Sirius advanced down the main hall, his footsteps echoing against the stone floor. Bellatrix followed close behind, fingers brushing the walls, tracing the ancient grooves, the runes almost worn away by time.
“It still smells of the sea in here,” Sirius remarked, as if speaking to himself, though Bellatrix heard.
“It always has,” she replied, without looking at him. “But you only notice because you are savouring freedom.”
Rabastan inspected a side door, turning the handle cautiously.
“Any traps in the house?” he asked, with no hope for normalcy.
“Only our family,” said Bellatrix, chuckling softly, as a tapestry seemed to lift slightly, as if breathing.
Sirius stopped before a fireplace covered in ash and dust. He nodded to Bellatrix.
“Who used this? I can’t remember, it’s all so confused in my mind.”
“Everyone,” she replied. “And no one. The House’s magic does not discriminate. It recognises blood.”
They moved on to the library, tall shelves lined with dusty books. Sirius picked up a volume, feeling it vibrate in his hands.
“The House... knows we’re here.”
“It feels our presence,” Bellatrix corrected. “Our blood. But it also tests us. Not out of malice, merely custom.”
Rodolphus huffed and leaned against a shelf.
“Tests, eh? I just feel like I need to clear all this dust.”
Bellatrix smiled faintly, but her eyes remained on the dark corridors.
“Look around, Sirius. Every corridor, every wall, every rune… It all tells our story. And if we pay attention, we can hear what the House wants to tell us. It has always been this way with the Blacks; we connect with the family’s magic. Especially you, because you are Lord Black.”
Sirius drew a deep breath and felt the connection. Not only with the mansion, but with Bellatrix, Rodolphus, Rabastan, and all the Blacks who had walked these halls before them, and all those who still lived.
“Then we shall listen.” he said. “The House is alive. And so are we. And more alive than anyone expected any of us to be.”
They walked together through the main hall, each absorbing the ancestral presence of the House. There was no rush, no urgency: only recognition.
And, without noticing, Bellatrix touched an ancient crest on a side wall. A spark ran across the relief, and Sirius sensed a strange vibration, almost as if the House were smiling at them.
“Is it laughing at us?” he murmured, half incredulous.
“Perhaps.” she replied, leaning in to whisper. “Or perhaps it is pleased that we are finally home.”
A sharp “POP” interrupted their conversation. Several house-elves appeared before Sirius, all wearing uniforms bearing the family crest, seeming to awaken from a long sleep. The stasis charm cast upon the elves’ nest, to keep them asleep until the return of the Lord Black, had been undone. Finally, the Blacks were awakening.
The sound of crystal goblets echoed through the dining room. Narcissa, measured and composed, brought a piece of meat to her lips while observing her husband reviewing a newly arrived correspondence, and Draco gave his full attention to his father, his lunch forgotten. Lucius’s hands were steady, but his eyes restless.
“Something happened at the Ministry?” she finally asked, eyeing the envelope’s seal. Her voice was delicate, yet firm.
“Apparently so. Our most excellent Minister decided to visit Azkaban. The visit took place yesterday. We should read the news in The Daily Prophet in the morning. But Dumbledore is pushing for a more thorough inspection of the high-risk prisoners. He is trying to insinuate that there has been a breakout.”
Narcissa calmly set her goblet down on the table.
“He is implying that our maximum-security prison has holes that could allow a prison break?”
Lucius regarded her for a moment, considering what he could or could not say.
“He is implying that our family escaped.”
“Bella?”
“Sirius.”
“The only person we know to have been imprisoned illegally?”
“He wants to cover up post-war corruption.”
“But why now? What could have happened to make him remind everyone of the infamous Blacks? It’s not possible that he expects people to talk about Siri and not mention my sister; or even me. What is Dumbledore planning now?”
“I don’t know, but the Minister requested a Wizengamot session to decide whether a roll-call of prisoners or a general inspection is necessary. The atmosphere… is tense.”
Draco made a small sound, reminding his parents of his presence.
“I suppose this is the sort of meeting I cannot attend or follow.”
Lucius gave a brief nod.
“Indeed. This is the sort of meeting where unpredictable decisions are made, moving pieces on the board. We do not yet know the headmaster’s plans, but something is happening, and we do not know who is manoeuvring.”
Without another word, Lucius rose and left the house.
“Finish your lunch, dear. And take the afternoon off. Whatever is happening will command our attention until your father returns from that session to inform us.”
They ate in silence until Draco mustered the courage to speak to his mother.
“Last night… I felt something different in my magic.”
“What do you mean?”
“In the family magic… Black. Could it be true? Has Sirius Black escaped?”
Narcissa flinched, pausing to examine her own connection to the family.
“I do not know, Draco. Something is happening. I am feeling Sirius, but I have always felt him. And Bella, Rodolphus… but I am feeling someone else. Someone I should not be sensing.”
“What does it mean?”
“That whatever is happening… is not Dumbledore’s doing. And our family will remind everyone that Toujours Pur does not mean only purity of blood, but of magic.”
Narcissa smiled faintly, looking at the Malfoy family crest. The inscription Sanctimonia Vincent Semper also carried a meaning that had been distorted by the belief in blood purity: “Purity will always prevail.” The purity of magic, practiced by those who trust and believe in what they are doing, without resorting to other means to twist their ability.
After all… being pure-blood meant “those who purify their magic and dedicate it to Lady Magic.”
“Go, Draco, write to your friends, distract yourself. I need to occupy my mind and begin preparations for Lughnasadh.”
“May I help? I can prepare the plants for the table arrangement.”
Mrs Malfoy smiled at her heir, nodding. He understood the importance of honouring the Old Ways.
The political game was only beginning, and this time, perhaps the Blacks had returned to the board.
The heavy doors opened with a deep metallic groan. The circular chamber of the Wizengamot was lit only by torches affixed to the columns around the room, their flames causing the gilded Ministry symbol embedded in the dark stone floor to gleam as the firelight flickered. Lucius, seated with the Conservative party, studied the Latin inscription surrounding it: “Ignorantia juris neminem excusat” - Ignorance of the law excuses no one. The runes embedded in the ceiling seemed to move across the stone as if the material were liquid, yet this was part of the magic and power contained in the air.
The Wizengamot’s structure was clear: three distinct parties: Liberals, Progressives, and Conservatives, all wearing plum-coloured robes with the silver W embroidered on the right chest, while the left displayed magically the crest of their house or the one they represented as proxy. Each Lord or Lady possessed a number of votes according to their family’s ranking. The Most Ancient and Noble House of Malfoy held a weight of five votes, and the Conservatives dominated the majority of the chamber. However, since Dumbledore had been elected Chief Warlock, they had struggled to pass most of their legislative proposals.
And there he stood, at the centre of the semicircle, the place of prominence for the highest authority, observing the other witches and wizards seated in their chairs: Albus Dumbledore, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards. At his side, in a less ostentatious seat, sat the Minister of Magic with his aides, and in a corner, almost hidden, Goldstein sat at a desk piled with parchments, quills, and inkwells; he was the clerk.
As soon as the doors closed and the magic sealed the chamber, securing all present, Dumbledore, with his serene gaze and faint glimmer, took the gavel and began the session.
“I hereby open this extraordinary session of the Wizengamot to discuss the matter of national security,” he began, his voice firm. “Let all presences be recorded by the magic of this chamber, and all votes accounted for by Lady Magic. May our actions reflect our hearts, and may our magic guide us towards the Greater Good.”
As he concluded the enchantment, Lucius once again noticed the subtle distortion of the words to invoke the chamber’s magic. But no one intervened.
“It is with regret that I must inform you that there was a breakout in Azkaban yesterday afternoon,” Dumbledore continued, once the introductory rites were completed. “Sirius Black has escaped from Azkaban.”
A murmur swept through the chamber. Parchments were raised; Lords and Ladies prepared to note or ascertain what was happening.
The Minister of Magic cleared his throat before standing.
“I fear, Chief Warlock, that your information is incorrect. I was personally at Azkaban yesterday. I spoke with Black and other prisoners. Auror Scrimgeour conducted the night count as always, and all records indicate normality.” Cornelius then gestured to the reports before him, sending them magically to each wizard present. “No alarms were triggered. No warnings issued.”
“It was a subtle spell, Cornelius,” Dumbledore replied calmly, as one reciting a proven truth. “The structure of Azkaban is ancient; its wards require reinforcement. Black used his cunning to find a flaw in our defences.”
Lucius leaned forward slightly, his chair illuminating softly, signalling his right to speak.
“You mean to say, Chief Warlock, that the Minister” he made a point of stressing Fudge’s title, which Dumbledore conveniently omitted “visited a high-security prisoner minutes before he escaped from a prison that has never recorded a breakout before, despite numerous attempts? A prisoner without wand or allies?” His tone was soft, yet cutting. “And that no one noticed, except yourself?”
A murmur ran through the steps. The Progressives exchanged uneasy glances; the Liberals attempted to suppress expressions of derision while looking at Lucius. Dumbledore held Lucius’s gaze, his expression benevolent.
“Sirius Black’s magic has always been unstable. His mind is a labyrinth. It is possible that something drew him out.”
Lucius raised an eyebrow.
“And if I may… how do you know the workings of Sirius Black’s mind?”
The air seemed to vibrate as the Conservatives realised the implication; some quills trembled in their holders, as if a magical current had swept through the chamber.
The Minister rose again.
“Auror Scrimgeour is present, ready to give his verbal report, once more.” His tone was clear; Dumbledore had already heard the report but still questioned its veracity.
“Cornelius, I do not think that…”
Augusta Longbottom did not wait for the chamber to acknowledge her intention to speak. She said:
“Let the others work, Albus. I wish to hear what Auror Scrimgeour has to say.”
“The chamber recognises Auror Scrimgeour,” he said reluctantly.
“Esteemed Ladies and Lords of the Wizengamot, yesterday, after the Minister’s visit, our team of Aurors conducted a full sweep of the prison to ensure that no one took advantage of the guards’ distraction,” he began. “The Dementors were well contained and exhibited no unusual behaviour. The prisoner in question, Sirius Black, returned this morning the newspaper he borrowed from the Minister, with the crossword correctly completed; which, as we know, is magically recorded and linked to the magical core, leaving the signature of the responder. The prisoner count shows no alteration in our numbers.” He emphasised once more, “The only change appears to be traces of a potion spilled in cell 76B, but prisoner number 399, the last resident of that cell, died eleven years ago. We are investigating which potion it was and when it was used. The cell in question is not the Black prisoner’s cell.”
Having concluded his report, Scrimgeour returned to his corner, knowing he could not leave the chamber until the session was suspended or adjourned.
“With all due respect, Chief Warlock,” the Minister continued, “there is no concrete evidence of the alleged escape. Sirius Black is where he should be: in his cell.”
Dumbledore drew a deep breath, almost exasperated. What had prevented Sirius from fleeing after seeing Pettigrew in the newspaper? He had been so meticulous with the magic applied to Cornelius, one of his finest works.
“The evidence you seek lies beyond human eyes, Cornelius. I felt the imbalance in Azkaban’s magic.”
“So, Chief Warlock, you rely on emotions rather than facts,” interrupted Amelia Bones. “And you have illegally connected with Azkaban’s wards if you believe you can sense such an alteration in the prison’s magic, which I doubt, and hope you did not. The Wizengamot works with proof, not with personal magical impressions and feelings.”
The murmur grew. The floor trembled. And at the centre of the chamber, the Ministry’s gilded symbol shone with intensity. The letters of the motto vibrated, emitting a light that connected with the runes on the ceiling, which began to spin faster.
Dumbledore’s gavel glowed upon the table, and the silver emblem of his high office, on his seat, vanished.
A cold wind swept through the room. And a female voice, neutral, with no origin or direction, whispered with the clarity of a decree.
“He who speaks for others has lost the right to name and vote. Let the magic of their actions be judged by the truth of their heart. So mote be it.”
The echo of Lady Magic’s voice dissolved into the air, leaving only the sound of the torch flames. The runes on the ceiling reorganised, and the title of Chief Warlock became vacant. The gavel appeared before the Minister of Magic, who watched, open-mouthed, as Dumbledore’s robes lost the standard plum tone of the Wizengamot and returned to their original colours from before he entered the chamber.
Dumbledore had just lost not only his title, but also the right to represent any of the Houses he had previously been proxy for.
Cornelius stood, pale.
“By manifestation of Lady Magic, the title of Chief Warlock is suspended until new elections are called or an appointment by acclamation is made. So mote be it.”
The murmur transformed into absolute silence.
Lucius Malfoy fixed his gaze on the centre of the hall, where traces of raw magic could still be felt. Lady Magic, the greatest natural force of magic, had responded to the imbalance. And if she had spoken and deposed Dumbledore, the truth was no longer his.
Lord Malfoy leaned back in his chair, expression neutral, calculating this new reality. Somehow, the board had new pieces. The game had restarted. And the Ancient Houses, which Dumbledore had spent decades weakening, were strengthening once more. The scales were beginning to tip towards balance.
“In the absence of proof of escape by prisoner 396, known as Sirius Black, I declare this extraordinary session of the Wizengamot closed. I recommend that you retain in your memories what we have witnessed today, as a reminder that Lady Magic accompanies us in our actions. Let each Party convene to select a representative for the office of Chief Warlock and submit to the Minister’s Office within six days so that an election may be called. In the event that two parties submit the same name, appointment by acclamation will be declared, and the new Chief Warlock or Witch will assume their post.” Fudge concluded, striking the gavel and releasing everyone from the magic sealing the chamber.
Lucius rose swiftly and departed, barely noticing the time as his robes returned to their normal hue, signalling the session’s end and his freedom to leave. The sound left behind was muffled, as if the air itself had swallowed the final murmur. The well-lit corridor contrasted with the darkness of the chamber, and the sound of footsteps echoed between the walls until the lifts.
He walked slowly, his black cloak trailing lightly along the floor. The protective runes on the walls still pulsed with residual light. The reminder of Lady Magic’s presence would linger for days, and she would likely keep watch over the appointment of the new leader of the Wizengamot.
Lucius was pragmatic; he did not believe in coincidences.
“Lord Malfoy.” Amelia Bones’ voice reached him before he turned the corner. She approached, calm in tone, sharp-eyed. “I imagine you have a clear opinion about what just occurred.”
Lucius regarded her, impassive.
“Only that magic itself seems weary of being manipulated by certain leaderships.”
She lifted her chin.
“I need seriousness, Malfoy. You know as well as I do what this means. A direct manifestation of Lady Magic… This has not happened in over two centuries.”
Lucius maintained his cold tone, but a sardonic smile slowly appeared on his face.
“And, curiously, immediately after the Chief Warlock falsely accused a breakout from a high-security prison and refused to accept what was shown to him.”
“So you believe he lied?”
“I believe the Hogwarts Headmaster has the terrible habit of moving pieces before announcing his game, and that this time, someone moved the pieces before him. Perhaps now, with less power, people will begin to notice what they are abandoning by following his words blindly.”
A third figure approached: Lady Selwyn of the Progressive party, a tall witch with dark skin and her hair tightly coiled into a bun. She walked with the composure of one who had heard more than she should.
“He did not lie, but he did not tell the whole truth either.”
Lucius raised an eyebrow.
“You’re implying that Dumbledore spoke the truth, even after sensing Lady Magic’s presence. Or did you turn your back on all Old Ways, as the Liberals insist, and thus failed to perceive Her power?”
“I felt it, and I remembered. I remembered what it is to follow the Olde Ways. But that is not what I meant. I believe he attempted to allow the escape so he could denounce it and gain some power from the resulting chaos.”
“But Lady Magic does not allow Herself to be manipulated,” Amelia interjected.
“Exactly.”
“If this is true,” Bones continued, “it must be investigated. Discreetly. The Ministry cannot appear divided, not now.”
“Divided? Madame Bones, the Ministry has always been divided,” Lucius corrected. “The difference is that now, someone has decided to act. And for Her to act, only terror and misery awaited us ahead. I know. I share in Her observances at every festival.”
Silence fell among the three. The distant crackle of torches sounded like breathing. Amelia lowered her tone.
“Do you believe the manifestation was a warning?”
Lucius averted his gaze, watching the lifts in the distance, the Ministry symbol above them. The entire building seemed to be breathing.
“Not a warning. A sentence.”
“And do you think it was just?”
“Lady Magic is always just,” Lucius replied without hesitation. “She protects not the arrogant, but the balance of magic.”
He moved away, his footsteps echoing towards the lifts. Before stepping into one and disappearing, ending the conversation, he added:
“The question we must ask is not ‘who escaped’ or ‘if anyone escaped’, but ‘who was freed’ and ‘why’.”
Amelia and Daphne Selwyn remained still for a moment, absorbing the implications of Malfoy’s words.
The torch flames flickered, and for a brief second, the Ministry’s crest seemed to gleam in shades of black, emerald green, and silver: the colours of House Black.
Minister of Magic’s Office
The doors closed with a sharp click. The muffled noise of the corridor vanished, and a dense silence settled in, heavy as lead.
Cornelius Fudge paced back and forth in front of the ornate desk, his face flushed and his grey hair more dishevelled than usual, a sure sign that he had run his hands through it multiple times since the end of the Wizengamot session. Quite the delightful weekend he was having!
The heavy oak desk was covered with scrolls piled up to be opened on Monday. At the top, a few were sealed with the golden wax seal of the Wizengamot, and others bore Gringotts’ black seal, which he was frankly avoiding, not wanting to see the new problems piling up.
“A complete disaster!” he muttered to himself, ignoring his assistants, Michael Goldstein and Elias Corner. “An absolute, utter disaster, that’s what it is!”
“With all due respect, Minister,” Elias began, voice measured, “the manifestation of Lady Magic was public and recorded by the runes. Everyone knows Dumbledore has even lost the right to be a proxy for a family in the Wizengamot.”
Fudge turned abruptly, eyes wide and breath quickened.
“And you think I don’t know that? I know what it means for the Chief Warlock to be deposed by magic itself! Have you considered all the confusion and distrust this will generate?”
“The press will demand an official statement, sir,” Michael commented.
Once again, Fudge ran his hands through his hair; his despair mounting by the second.
“A statement? And what do I say? That a closed session of the Wizengamot was the stage for divine judgement, and Lady Magic decided to reject the very person who is our greatest symbol of righteousness and stability?”
Elias cleared his throat nervously.
“Perhaps… if you lean on the Conservatives. They are the most vocal regarding the Old Ways and how we should honour Lady Magic.”
The Minister paused, turning slowly to regard his two assistants.
“The Conservatives?”
“Yes, sir,” Elias maintained a neutral tone. “Lord Malfoy has always been influential, and the Conservatives hold the majority of votes. Without the power Dumbledore carried and after today’s events… he may be exactly who we need. The Liberals are in shock, with no leadership present in the chamber. The Progressives will scrutinise and question everything. But the Conservatives… they’re comfortable. They can turn everything to their advantage, and they know how to maintain appearances.”
Fudge hesitated, staring blankly at the bookcase covering one of his walls.
“Malfoy… he’s always been dangerous.”
Goldstein remarked:
“But useful, depending on what you offer. The ends justify the means, sir.”
The Minister lifted his head, and for a moment, a flash of cunning lit his eyes.
“He values power and prestige, and the Ministry still possesses both. If I play my cards well… we can maintain ministerial stability and keep my standing with the general public.”
He strode to the enchanted window, depicting the storm gathering in the distance.
“Invite Lucius Malfoy to a meeting with me at the first hour on Monday. Tell him his presence is absolutely essential. And… send an owl to the Daily Prophet, to be published tomorrow alongside Sunday’s edition.”
“And what should we say?”
“That the Ministry is in harmony with the will of Lady Magic.”
The two assistants exchanged uneasy glances as Fudge finally sat down, exhausted, surveying the contents of his desk and debating whether to attempt any work this Saturday afternoon or allow himself a rest. He knew, of course, that the work would only pile up on Monday.
So he reached for the scroll sent by Gringotts. Always best to see what the Goblins wanted before anything else.
And it was a good thing he made that decision, upon reading the letter they had sent.
Sunday Edition – Daily Prophet
SAFETY FIRST: MINISTER FUDGE VISITS AZKABAN
By Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent
Azkaban, North Sea.
In an unprecedented visit, the Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge, conducted a personal inspection of the fortress of Azkaban, accompanied by his ministerial team and specialised Aurors. The purpose of the visit was to ensure the Ministry’s control over Azkaban’s Dementors and its prisoners, assessing the need to reinforce the prison’s security and guarantee that the needs of the stationed Aurors are met, as they are responsible for protecting our wizarding population.
I must say, dear readers, you know how I love to report the truth as it must be told, and nothing escapes my eyes. And what I saw was pure order. We always hear tales of prisoners going mad and becoming increasingly unstable; yet even Bellatrix Lestrange (for details on her imprisonment and sentencing, see page 5) appeared sufficiently lucid to recognise our esteemed Minister and recall his tireless work in our government.
“Keeping these individuals confined is essential to protecting the wizarding society, especially after the misfortunes that occurred in the war against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named,” declared Fudge as he inspected the facilities. My greatest surprise was finding the infamous convict 396, Sirius Black, imprisoned under suspicion of handing the Potters over to the Dark Lord, greeting the delegation with apparent calm and cooperation. (For transcripts of his imprisonment report, see page 3.) He even requested the opportunity to complete the crossword from the edition of this illustrious newspaper that the Minister carried with him. Records from the Daily Prophet’s editorial office indicate that Black completed the crossword on the same day, and the newspaper was returned the following day to Auror Scrimgeour.
According to behind-the-scenes reports, the prisoners’ behaviour was deemed appropriate and controlled, ensuring the integrity of the security procedures. Goblins have been contracted to reinforce the protective enchantments cast on the building next week, a service necessary every ten years.
At the end of the visit, the Minister escorted us to Azkaban’s receiving hall, the only point in the entire building where Apparition and Disapparition, or portal key use, is possible. This was the sole moment when Auror Shacklebolt’s Patronus ceased to circulate around the delegation and took up guard at the door. Our wands were inspected and returned to those who had them; we were firmly encouraged to leave our wands in a Ministry secure deposit, the only location from which we could Apparate from the hall, further reinforcing protection against any eventuality and ensuring the visit proceeded without incident.
I conclude, my dear compatriots, by praising the service and dedication not only of our Minister but of all who form his government, in ensuring that our security is always the foremost priority. Far more than speeches about difficult times, caution for an uncertain future, or placing trust in a thirteen-year-old child who simply wishes to live their life according to the reality presented to them.
AN IMAGE OF CONTROL
By Ernest Travers, Political Correspondent
Confidential Ministry sources have revealed that the visit was not merely symbolic but also administrative in nature, demonstrating that the Ministry maintains complete oversight over the high-security fortress. Fudge’s actions not only bolster his image with the public as a representative committed to order, but have also sparked debate among the parties of our Wizengamot. While the Conservatives view the action as evidence of firm and attentive leadership, the Liberals have questioned the efficacy and the costs involved in ensuring the security of the entire delegation.
We must await further information to be released by the Wizengamot, including details of the financial report of this latest ministerial undertaking. However, it may take some time for these records to become public, as on Saturday afternoon, in an Extraordinary Session, Albus Dumbledore lost his position as Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot and has been suspended from representing any House before the Wizengamot.
This decision follows questions regarding Dumbledore’s authority to represent certain Houses while exercising the power of Chief Warlock, reaffirming the power and integrity of our magical government system and maintaining its impartiality in the face of attempts at political influence.
Notes:
Well, look at that: characters who weren’t supposed to appear yet, and events meant for the future happening ahead of schedule.
I must confess, I absolutely loved writing the Daily Prophet articles.
I can hardly wait for your feedback!
If you spot any mistakes, please let me know.
It really is confusing switching back and forth between Portuguese and English…
I believe the bulk of the worldbuilding is finally done, and now the story will flow much more quickly!
Chapter 7: The Thread of (dis)Control
Summary:
Between control and chaos, there's a thread...
and it's usually some idiot pulling from the wrong end.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Political influence...that’s something Remus Lupin had always tried to avoid yet never managed to escape. After all, most of the prejudice he suffered stemmed precisely from politics. It was, in fact, because his father had tried to change things with his fiery speeches about the dangers of creatures in society that Remus himself had become a victim of one of those very creatures. A cruel irony and a constant reminder that, despite common belief, werewolves did have control over what they did during the full moon. Remus simply didn’t yet know how to reach that level.
Having been bitten so young, he had never thought he’d be allowed to study at Hogwarts. When the letter arrived, he was certain either no one knew he’d become a horrid creature or that some dreadful mistake had been made. The only thing he was sure of was that it couldn’t possibly be real. Werewolves had no right to study magic or spellwork.
Then he’d had the honour of meeting Professor Dumbledore, who had come to his house in person to ensure that there had been no mistake, and to assure him that Hogwarts would indeed be a safe home where he could flourish as the wizard he undoubtedly was. And no one needed to know the reason for his absences. The best-kept secret in Hogwarts.
And, as with every Hogwarts secret, it didn’t take long before his roommates grew suspicious. It wasn’t long at all before James, Sirius, and Peter knew everything. Lily, Marlene, and Dorcas found out shortly after. Life at Hogwarts had been good — at least, from what he could remember, because so many transformations could play tricks on anyone’s mind. Especially after losing his pack, one by one. Losing the cub… the cubs?
No. Just one.
Just one?
Just.
He needed a job urgently; things were becoming precarious, and soon Moony would be the only one of the two still eating. Or he might end up going after Harry. He couldn’t. That would put him in danger.
But what else could explain the confusion in his mind now, if not the absence of any link to his pack? To the magical world? What was the point of being a Master in so many fields if he couldn’t practise his profession anywhere in the United Kingdom?
It was a grey afternoon when Remus noticed the ordinary brown owl flying towards the small cottage on the outskirts of the town where he’d been living for the past few months. (He never stayed long in one place. He preferred not to risk being found by any kind of authority, Muggle or magical.) But… if he’d been avoiding being found, how had a Hogwarts owl managed to track him down? He wondered that as he untied the parchment from the bird’s leg. All his worries, however, vanished the moment he saw it was a letter from Dumbledore.
“My dear Remus,
I hope this letter finds you in good health. I know how difficult it can be to find calm as certain periods approach.
If possible, I would like you to come to the school tomorrow. I have both an offer and a request to make of you, and I know that, at this moment, you are the only person I can rely on.
We need to talk, Remus. Harry needs your protection.
With my warmest regards,
Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore”
The headmaster’s thin, elongated handwriting flowed across the parchment so gracefully it almost seemed enchanted. Remus had to read the letter three times to understand it was, in essence, an immediate summons.
Something had happened to Harry, and he needed to be protected at all costs. It was likely a long-term protection, since Dumbledore required his presence at Hogwarts to discuss it. What could have happened?
This was one of those moments when Remus bitterly regretted not keeping, by any possible means, a subscription to The Daily Prophet, but he had known, ever since Hadri… Harry. Ever since Harry was born, that the paper wasn’t to be trusted. There had been a war going on, and nothing was ever reported!
Remus folded the parchment and slipped it into his coat pocket. He looked around and began packing his few belongings. He had a clear feeling he wouldn’t be returning to that place after his meeting with Dumbledore. He just had to wait for the day to end and then he could find out what had happened to Moony’s cub. His cub. Remus’s cub.
If there was one thing Remus Lupin was certain of in life, it was the constancy of the Headmaster’s office at Hogwarts. It was exactly as he remembered from his teenage years: filled with trinkets and silver curios scattered across tables and shelves; portraits of former headmasters dozing in their frames; and Fawkes on his perch, overseeing the room and occasionally releasing a few notes of song.
At the same time, it was entirely different. The small table beside the door was slightly out of place, the Sorting Hat looked more worn, and one of the objects that used to spin endlessly upon itself seemed… quiet?
Dumbledore, seated behind his desk, wore the same familiar smile, eyes twinkling with…
.
.
.
Trust.
Whenever the Full Moon drew near, Moony’s emotions seemed to surface more easily. It was always hard to tell where Remus ended and Moony began. But Remus trusted the Headmaster. He gave us safety, Moony.
“Remus! How wonderful that you managed to come, even with my letter being rather unclear! Sit down, sit down. Severus will be joining us shortly for the meeting.” Dumbledore reached for a jar beside him and offered it across the desk. “Lemon drop?”
Remus considered accepting; he even raised his hand but Moony gave a low growl somewhere deep in his mind.
“I’d better not, Albus. With the Moon so close, Moony doesn’t much like me eating sweets.”
Yes. A stray thought flickered through his mind. Don’t give too much away to the old man.
Moony really could be insufferable when he wanted to be. And don’t look him in the eye!
They didn’t have time to fall into awkward silence, for Snape soon entered and sat in the armchair beside Remus, without so much as a second glance. If he knew why Lupin was there, he gave no sign of it.
“Good afternoon, Headmaster,” Snape began, his tone laced with disdain. “To what do I owe the… pleasure of being summoned here in the middle of my holidays, when I clearly have far better things to do than meet with… school acquaintances?”
Brilliant. Severus is still the same charming man as ever, Remus thought drily.
“I’d like to know as well, Albus,” Remus said. “You mentioned it had to do with Harry’s safety and that I was to protect him.”
That seemed to catch Severus’s attention.
“Protect Potter?” he asked with sharp irony. “From what, his enormous ego and constant need to be the centre of attention?”
“Now, now, let’s calm down,” Dumbledore intervened, clearly eager to avoid the hours-long argument that could follow. “It is of great importance that you both be in harmony for the news I must share. Remus, I need you to take the post of Defence Against the Dark Arts this year and to keep a very close eye on young Harry.”
“WHAT?” the other two exclaimed, each in very different tones of shock.
“You want to place a werewolf in charge of teaching students?” Snape demanded, practically spitting the words. “Have you no concern for the safety of this school’s population? What’s next? Dementors in the Library to assist Madam Pince?”
“Severus, you and I both know that, with the correct potion, Remus can teach safely,” Dumbledore replied calmly. “You yourself improved certain aspects of the potion to make it more effective.”
“The Wolfsbane Potion?” Remus asked, hearing for the first time that it had been improved. “Severus?”
Snape’s left eye twitched. He knew he’d have a migraine the moment he got home (and back to the children). That Dumbledore still didn’t realise he was no longer the guardian of Hadrian and Hania defied all logic.
“You want me to brew, in addition to all the potions I already provide for this school’s infirmary,” Severus clarified, “one of the most delicate concoctions we have — the only thing guaranteeing our safety during the full moon — while Lupin teaches Defence Against the Dark Arts. Why do you want him here, Headmaster?”
Dumbledore sighed, appearing weary and troubled. Yet his eyes still gleamed, and Severus knew whatever was coming would not be pleasant and that he’d likely have to act as if he were still under a spell. Especially given the compulsion charms Dumbledore kept trying to cast on him, charms that were thankfully neutralised only because the Lord’s ring shielded him.
“I can tell you with certainty,” Dumbledore said gravely, “that Sirius Black escaped from Azkaban last Friday.”
Remus choked on air. His heart pounded. His mind raced: Traitor. Protect Harry. Hide. Attack. But Moony began to howl in his head, repeating only: Mate. Freedom. Pack. Cubs. Protect.
“And I’m certain he will try to come to Hogwarts, for Harry,” Dumbledore continued. “We must protect the boy, ensure nothing happens to him, and deliver Black to the Ministry to guarantee the safety of the wizarding community.”
“I accept,” Remus said quickly. “I accept the post, if it’s all right with Severus to brew the potion. I need to protect Harry. I can’t fail him again. I failed Lily and James. But now... now it will be different. Si...Black won’t come near Harry.”
Snape fixed Dumbledore with a long, unreadable stare. He didn’t meet the old man’s eyes — he knew better — but he needed to understand what was running through that manipulative mind.
“With all due respect, Headmaster,” he said, voice taut, “I’ll brew the potion for Lupin. But I don’t believe for a second that Sirius Black escaped from prison. He deserves to rot there simply for being who he is.”
Severus noticed the faint tremor in Remus’s shoulders, a sure sign that the creature was close to the surface. Good. He needed that part of Lupin.
“After all, Headmaster, wasn’t it for trying to sustain that very lie before the Wizengamot that Lady Magic saw fit to strip you of your duties? You lost your post and your right to represent any family.”
That made Remus turn sharply towards him, startled, while Dumbledore’s expression of displeasure could only mean danger if one read it correctly.
“What do you think will happen to our government without you there to keep things in order, to make sure everything happens ‘for the Greater Good’? Have you forgotten caution when dealing with the other side, Albus?”
If Dumbledore’s faintly satisfied look and triumphant smile meant anything, it was that he believed Snape still belonged to him.
And in truth, he did. Severus Snape would always be Dumbledore’s man.
The problem was that the man sitting there wasn’t Severus Snape anymore. He was Severus Potter-Prince. And that man was ready to protect his children from any manipulative old wizard.
“I need your trust on this, Severus. You must believe me when I tell you what I know.”
“And you forget, Headmaster, that I trust no one. Trust is the first step towards death. But I’ll brew Lupin’s potion and make sure personally that he takes it. That’s the only way this school will have any level of safety this year, since that doesn’t appear to be your focus lately in the past couple years.”
“What’s happened these past two years?” Remus asked.
“Merely a school of magic being a school of magic,” Dumbledore deflected smoothly. “So, may I count on you, Remus? I have a copy of your contract right here, should you wish to sign it now. I’ll need your reading list and lesson plan by the end of the week. Best to finish everything before the next full moon on Monday.”
Remus reached for the contract, but Snape was faster. He snatched the parchment from the table and rolled it up tightly.
“I’ll read this first,” Snape said coolly, “to make sure it details the potion’s provision and obligation properly. If I’m to sacrifice my rest hours brewing a potion on the school’s behalf, I’ll ensure it’s written down so the blame doesn’t fall on me later.”
Dumbledore silently thanked himself for having been meticulous enough to make his spells person-specific. Only that ensured Severus could touch the parchment without feeling the layers of enchantment woven into it.
“Of course, of course,” Dumbledore replied smoothly. “Once everything’s in order, Remus, just sign. If anything needs adjusting, let me know and we’ll work together on the best outcome. But please, don’t wait for the signature to begin preparing for your lessons term starts in just over a month.”
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, Headmaster,” Snape said coldly, standing, “I’d like a private word with Lupin to make sure I have all the information about his transformations. I’ll need to adjust the potion’s ingredients accordingly. Come along, Lupin. I’ve other matters to attend to and can’t spend all day at your disposal.”
Without waiting for a response, Severus swept from the office, clutching Remus’s employment contract, exuding irritation and discomfort from every pore which pleased Dumbledore greatly. An overworked, angry Severus had little time to strengthen his defences, giving Albus the perfect chance to pry deeper into the man’s mind. Perhaps even gain access to one of the vaults he controlled.
Remus didn’t linger either. He bade Dumbledore a quick farewell and hurried after the Potions Master. A mistake Dumbledore would soon need to correct. He’d let Remus go too long without reinforcing the spells. The likelihood of the Wolf strengthening, of breaking free, was dangerously high.
But not yet.
And if Albus had anything to say about it, not ever.
After all, he was the only one who knew that by adding certain ingredients to the Wolfsbane Potion, not only could one provoke the Wolf but strip away whatever control the man still held over the beast.
Yes, Dumbledore knew exactly how to control Lupin.
And he intended to stay in control.
The empty castle felt both familiar and strange at once. Remus listened to the sound of Severus’s footsteps fading away and hurried to catch up with him. The Potions Master’s posture was rigid, his back straight, and he radiated… anger. Remus shook his head. This wasn’t the time to analyse his former classmate; he needed to finalise the details of the contract and start outlining his lesson plans. He was going to teach!
“The Headmaster was… generous,” he remarked as he reached the other man.
Severus paused briefly to study Remus. He didn’t possess the so-called “Sage’s Sight” that allowed Curse Breakers to see magical auras, but he knew something was wrong with Lupin’s. It was distorted, unstable, confused. And for him to sense it so clearly meant there was something powerful within the man, and it was about to break.
“Generous?” Severus gave a bitter laugh, raising an eyebrow. His voice dripped with venom as he continued, “He puts a new collar on you, made of a better material, perhaps, and you call that generosity?”
Remus took a deep breath. He knew Severus could easily be setting a trap. He doubted the man had ever moved past the bitterness of their youth. Bullying, that was what they’d done, even if the word was new. The actions were old. He couldn’t blame Snape for the anger he still held towards him and his friends. His pack.
“Merlin knows I don’t have the luxury of refusing work, Snape. Especially one that provides food, shelter, and stability. Even if only for a year.”
Severus narrowed his eyes at the way his surname was spoken. He didn’t need to be a genius to realise that Remus, too, was under some form of enchantment, just like half the wizarding population of Britain, it seemed, but to perceive that it made Lupin believe in some deep animosity between them… that stung more than he cared to admit.
“All that, for a year, in exchange for your unshakable loyalty, just like a dog.”
Remus growled. Apparently, Moony did not appreciate the phrasing.
“I didn’t ask for any of this.”
“Did you need to?” Severus retorted, sweeping into his office and motioning Remus to follow before locking the door. Before the werewolf could respond, he cast a series of spells across the room to ensure privacy and prevent anyone from eavesdropping. “Albus likes to keep his toys running in perfect order to do as he wishes. We’ll continue this conversation at my home, where I know we’ll be safe.”
He opened the Floo Network for Remus, who soon found himself standing inside a potion laboratory, waiting for Snape to release the household protection wards. It didn’t take long. Severus stepped through the door moments later, and Remus felt the instant the spells allowed him to move freely again.
“You have access only to my laboratory, and you do not know my home address, so don’t think you’ll be able to surprise me,” Severus warned though the unspoken ‘or spy on me’ lingered in the air. “And your access is limited to the office area, to ensure you don’t interfere with any of the potions I’m brewing, whether through your magic, or by providing an ingredient… involuntarily.”
“How do you mean?”
“Your fur,” Severus sighed in exasperation. “Werewolf fur, or human hair of a werewolf, is a rare ingredient. But it affects the outcome of most potions.”
“That’s why…?”
“Yes. That’s why you always had only acceptable results in Potions, despite your intelligence. You may have sabotaged yourself without knowing.”
Remus tried to focus on Severus’s words, he really did, but something was distracting him. A faint scent in the air. It was soft, childlike, a scent that spoke of home, comfort, and family. Moony, in his mind, grew restless. The day was growing more confusing by the minute.
“Let’s get to what really matters: your enslavement.”
“My...? You don’t understand, Severus.”
Potter-Prince kept his expression neutral, though his stomach twisted. He understood better than Lupin could imagine.
“I understand that you’re about to accept an offer that benefits only one person and it isn’t Harry.” He placed the contract on the desk, his voice low and sharp. “And that Dumbledore won’t allow you to maintain control of your own doses, stripping you of any independence you might still have.”
Remus gave a short, dry laugh.
“He’s looked after me since I was a child. He’s given me opportunities.”
The laughter stopped abruptly, as though Moony’s claws were tightening around his throat to keep the words from escaping. He brought a hand to his temple, feeling the onset of a headache. Severus observed in silence.
“Since you were a child… and how many times has he demanded your sacrifice, your obedience, your compliance? That’s what’s written into this contract, laced with compulsion charms. You are not to touch it until the goblins have stripped away every residual spell, leaving only a standard magical contract. Then you’ll sign it at Gringotts, and the goblins will ensure it meets Hogwarts’ legal standards.”
“Severus…”
“My office is warded with a secrecy charm, which means you won’t be able to relay any of this to Dumbledore. I’m trusting that Moony can still protect your mind so he can’t extract information through Legilimency.” His tone was precise, commanding, leaving no room for argument.
“He won’t get into our mind.” Moony growled.
“Good. Thank you, Moony. And Remus… if Moony is this close to the surface, it means the spells cast on you are wearing thin. He’ll reapply the compulsions sooner or later. You need to go to Gringotts and request a diagnostic to find out what’s been done to you and to Moony all these years.”
The air grew heavy, and for a brief moment, Remus’s eyes flickered. Beneath the haze clouding them, Severus glimpsed his friend the Remus who had stood beside him at his wedding to James, the man he’d known at the end of their school days, who had fought for justice and smiled at the children.
But the moment faded.
“I… need to arrange my quarters and start preparing my lessons,” Remus said, turning towards the fireplace, his voice calm, almost empty. “Dumbledore expects my plans by the end of the week.”
Severus realised, then, that the man was bound by a spell designed to erase certain thoughts making it almost impossible to ensure he’d go to Gringotts.
“Yes…” he continued vaguely, in a distant, dreamy tone. “I’ll await your owl, Severus, with the date so I can come and sign the contract after you’ve reviewed the dosage issue. I must go now. Thank you for your help.”
Severus let him leave. Only after the green flames of the Floo faded and he was once again alone in his laboratory did he allow himself to breathe deeply. The enchantments on Lupin were stronger than he had feared. He would have to help his friend in whatever way he could and that would start with the damned contract lying on his desk.
He stepped towards the fireplace and activated the Floo once more.
“Gringotts.”
The private dining room of Potter Manor could not have gathered a more unlikely company. The old clock struck precisely seven as they sat down to dinner, the clinking of cutlery blending with the gentle crackle of the fire in the hearth. Severus adjusted the cuffs of his dark robes, his eyes fixed upon the teenagers at the table.
Harry and Hermione.
Hadrian and Hania.
Reality and illusion, so easily intertwined within his mind.
Thirteen years.
Thirteen years of lies, now slowly unraveling, and he needed every ally he could find. All of it, to protect his children.
Lucius and Narcissa, seated to his right, were still in shock, though one would never know unless they could read the minute shifts in their expressions. The Notts, all three of them, bore the same characteristic glimmer of curiosity in their eyes, eager to piece together the truth of this new reality, as though the revelation of the bond between Hadrian and Hania might explain some long-studied mystery. Which, given the Notts, Severus thought, was precisely what must be happening.
Draco, who appeared bored, was in fact barely containing his fury. Severus knew his godson well enough to recognise when an explosion was imminent. And, of course, the Greengrasses were there to maintain the civility of the evening and ensure the conversation flowed, pleasantly, if superficially.
The twins themselves were positively gleeful at celebrating their birthday, even if surrounded by the house of their supposed rivals. Especially with so many dishes before them to taste.
At last, Narcissa broke her own silence and cut to the heart of the matter.
“It is admirable, what you’re doing, Sev, particularly under the very nose of the Headmaster. But I still don’t understand how you came to be responsible for both of them, and why no one knows they’re twins.”
The room fell still, every gaze fixed on Severus.
“A powerful spell of memory alteration was cast across the entire Isle,” he began. “The reality you know is not the one that truly occurred. You’ve all forgotten crucial events not only of your own lives, but of those around you. For instance... we are not Death Eaters. Lord Voldemort does not exist. Tom Riddle was the leader of the Conservative Party, our political leader.” He drew a steady breath. “He and his wife, Lily Riddle, had twins: Hadrian and Hania. I am Hadrian’s godfather; my husband, James Potter, is Hania’s godfather.”
The shock rippled through the families, cracking their polite façades into open disbelief.
“When the altered reality took hold,” Severus continued, “James was forced to believe that he and Lily were married, and he adopted Hadrian by blood, renaming him Harry Potter.” His gaze softened as he looked at the two adolescents, unmistakable pride shining in his eyes. “By blood, Hadrian is my son, and by magic, Hania is my daughter.”
“And who cast such a forbidden spell?” asked Lysander Nott, seeking confirmation for what he already suspected.
“Who else but Dumbledore?” Hadrian retorted sharply. The proud look Severus gave him only bolstered his confidence. “He enchanted everyone, destroyed half the population’s lives, and has my three parents locked up somewhere.”
“What? Three parents imprisoned?” Lucius nearly rose to his feet, the ground seeming to tremble faintly. Narcissa merely placed a hand upon her husband’s arm, and he gradually calmed.
Hadrian only shrugged. “According to Gringotts, Tom, Lily, and James are alive, just incapacitated. Malfoy, could you pass me the potato salad?”
The entire table fell silent, all eyes on the boy, who in turn stared expectantly at Draco until the dish was handed over.
“But let’s not discuss that over dinner,” Diana Greengrass interjected, intent on restoring stability to the gathering.
Narcissa’s eyes narrowed slightly as she regarded the twins. “And tell me, dear Severus, who is overseeing their training?”
“I am, of course.”
“Even etiquette?” Her tone was smooth, but laced with knowing amusement. Ahe was well aware that her friend had neglected that particular subject.
“No,” he admitted, resigned. “I’ve been rather occupied with magic and culture.”
“Excellent!” she declared, satisfied. “Then, starting tomorrow, I shall come in the mornings to instruct them in etiquette and proper deportment.”
Hania’s expression of horror was enough to make Theo snort with laughter.
“You know,” he began, “that’s the sort of thing you can’t learn from books, Granger. All of us heirs had to endure Lady Malfoy’s lessons.”
“And since we’re to treat you properly,” Draco added, glancing sideways at Theo, “how exactly should we address you?” He had caught the grimace Hania made at the mention of her former surname.
“For now,” Severus explained, “Dumbledore doesn’t yet know he’s lost whatever control he once had and we’d rather keep it that way. They’re wearing amulets enchanted by goblins to maintain their previous appearance, and the school records still list them as Harry and Hermione. The goblins are working to ensure the true names will be properly reflected when the time comes, but until the full truth is revealed to us and to the world they will continue to be known publicly as Harry and Hermione.”
“But within the comfort of our home, among friends,” Hania added softly, “please call us by the names our true parents gave us.”
“You know, Hania,” said Daphne Greengrass warmly, “it’ll be a pleasure to be your friend.”
“And are you learning anything about politics, Hadrian?” Draco asked, leaning forward slightly. “Because I refuse to associate with an heir who doesn’t understand at least the basics of policy and how to manage his votes in the Wizengamot especially after everything that’s happened.”
Severus barely managed to contain a chuckle. Trust Draco to keep his sense of pomp, even now.
“I’m teaching them, Draco. Both their Houses will be well protected.”
Gradually, the conversation drifted to safer topics: the coming school year, speculations about who the new Defence professor might be, and what inevitable misfortune would drive them away by year’s end. Astoria listened intently, eager for her first year in September.
Honouring the twins’ wishes, there was no singing or grand display when the cake appeared, yet the dessert itself was exquisite, and the guests were touched by the evident care the House-Elves had taken for Hadrian and Hania’s celebration.
Watching the smiles around the table, the warmth, the affection, the very air alive with magic, Severus sent a flicker of that peace through his bond with James, receiving in return a pulse of curiosity and love.
He would care for them. He would protect them all.
And Albus Dumbledore would soon learn that one did not meddle with his family.
Notes:
I’ve already accepted that I’ve completely lost control of whatever I’d originally planned.
But honestly, I’m loving the direction these characters are taking me!
What did you think of this chapter?
Leave your comments
they keep me more and more motivated.
Any theories or thoughts???
Chapter 8: The Refined Art of Pretending Everything Is Fine
Summary:
No characters were physically harmed in the writing of this chapter.
Mentally, emotionally, and spiritually, however… well, I can’t make any promises there.Just sit back and enjoy.
Notes:
Two chapters in two days?
I can’t believe it either!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Family. A word that rang sharp in Tom’s mind. An ancient sound, meant to be sweet, now tasting of rust, the tang of iron spreading across his tongue. The walls breathed with him. Every stone pulsed, as though the heart of that prison beat in time with his own.
It was an old heart. Tired, cruel.
And still, he knew it.
Because that prison was his. The one he had wanted. And Tom could not escape it, no matter how fiercely he tried, no matter what magic he pushed against the chains. Now and then, flickers of images reached him, a pale boy, thin, far too small for his age, with green eyes of… of… what was her name? He knew there should be a name there, a memory, a woman… and the emptiness burned where that name ought to lie.
He knew she mattered.
She was part of why he was trapped here.
Here?
Where was here?
And in those rare moments when his mind fell quiet enough, he felt it: the faint pulse of two magics. Always two. One quick, restless; the other steady, measured; as though the pair were halves of a single whole. It was no trick of his imagination.
And the Whisper always returned.
“Control yourself, Tom. You must control what you feel. Anger makes you weak!”
The voice seeped from the stones, from the ceiling, from the door, and sometimes, from his own blood, which dripped now and then. From a wound that appeared whenever he woke and vanished when he slept.
He tried to ignore it, but every time he closed his eyes, he saw it: the blur of a silver beard, half-moon spectacles, eyes shining far too brightly.
False shine.
The shine of a prison.
Merlin, how Tom hated that shine... and the memory that clung to it: a name that was not his, a face that was not his, a past he had never lived, a story someone else had rewritten.
And like a fever-dream shifting, he felt the air change.
The chains of his mental prison hung looser, just slightly, just enough. And quietly, almost imperceptibly, he felt it. Love. Safety. Trust. Two hearts beating alongside the two magics he sensed.
“Family…” he whispered.
And this time, the word came with a shiver of understanding.
For a moment, the air smelled of summer.
The ground beneath his feet burned with sunlight remembered.
And for a single heartbeat, the heart of Tom Riddle, the true one, the forgotten one, beat in perfect synchrony with two others, far, far away.
And Dumbledore’s voice…
fell silent.
The Diagon Alley thrummed with life — a whirl of voices, footsteps and magic. Sunlight glinted off the shop windows, and the pavement seemed to vibrate under the weight of cauldrons, cages and the constant flow of witches and wizards passing by.
“You don’t need to switch subjects, Harry,” said Hermione — because they were in public — adjusting the load of books in her arms as they moved between the shelves of Flourish and Blotts. “Divination can be… relaxing?”
“Relaxing is a generous word,” he replied, sidestepping a witch trying to keep a book from biting her fingers, while the shopkeeper looked ready to cry every time a Hogwarts student asked for a copy of The Monster Book of Monsters.
His own was safely buckled shut at home, in the bottom of his trunk: Hagrid’s birthday present. Hermione still needed to buy hers.
“Daphne said the greatest challenge in that subject is not snoring loudly. I think most Slytherins don’t take Divination.”
Hermione raised an eyebrow.
“You’re spending too much time with her.”
“She only explained the statistics between Divination and Arithmancy, and which courses give better chances.”
“Of course. Statistics. From a Slytherin with a taste for auguries.”
“What’s an augury?” asked Ron Weasley, suddenly appearing in front of them, emerging between shelves with messy hair and a crumpled parchment sticking out of his pocket: the school supply list.
“She’s our new friend! You’re the one who started the friendship and now you’re jealous!”
Hermione smiled and shook her head. She turned to the redhead.
“Nice to see you too, Ronald. And ‘augury’ literally means predicting or foretelling the future.”
“And why are you talking about that?”
“Because Harry decided not to take the subject. He even sent a letter to McGonagall. He switched Divination for Ancient Runes and Arithmancy. He was convinced by someone.”
“Convinced?” Ron looked scandalised. “Harry!!! How could you let Hermione convince you?! Divination is the easiest O we could get!!”
“It wasn’t me who convinced him…” Hermione said, lifting her chin.
“Oh!” Harry finally understood. “You’re upset because you couldn’t convince me, but Daphne could!”
“Daphne?”
“Greengrass.”
“And since when are we friends with Daphne Greengrass?” Ron asked.
“Since the end of July?”
“Beginning of August, actually. When she started visiting more often.”
Ron narrowed his eyes. The conversation made little sense, but he knew they’d explain properly later.
“So she’s been coming to the Alley frequently?”
“What? What do you mean?”
“Well, Dumbledore told my mum you were staying here for a few days. Something to do with a magical explosion at your aunt and uncle’s house?”
Harry’s laugh died in his throat. Hermione snapped her head up, staring at Ron, startled.
“What happened?”
“I think our last stop today will be Gringotts, Harry,” Hermione said, confused. “Because something clearly happened and you weren’t told.”
“Right. Settled,” Ron cut in. “Now, the question: Slytherins?”
Harry laughed as he finished paying for his books and his sister’s.
“Yes, Ron. We’re friends with Slytherins now.”
Ron simply accepted his fate.
“Fine. As long as among those Slytherins there’s no Malfoy or Zabini.”
Hermione stopped walking, they were at the bookshop door.
“Why Zabini?”
“Well… his aunt is the Black Widow, isn’t she? Everyone knows that.”
“Obviously not everyone, since I didn’t know that.”
Before the debate could go any further, a familiar bang made the Flourish window tremble. Fred and George materialised from the smoke of a small controlled accident or something that at least looked controlled.
“What did you two do now?” asked Hermione, wondering if it was worth putting her packages down just to argue with the Weasley Twins.
“Our new invention simply fell out of our pocket,” George said innocently.
“You know, Temporal Confusion Poppers. Make you forget what you were saying for three seconds,” said Fred, enthusiastic.
“Or five… depending on the dose.”
“And who was inside the smoke?” Hermione’s patience was heroic.
“You know, I forgot!” they said together.
“That’s… dangerous.”
“That’s innovative,” Fred corrected. “The future of magical business, my dear.”
“The future of a collective detention, that’s what,” Percy muttered, appearing behind them, visibly dusted with smoke.
“You know what? I don’t want to be involved when an Auror shows up to ask who caused chaos in Diagon Alley. Come on, Harry, Ron. I want to buy an animal before we go to Gringotts.”
Fred and George exchanged glances.
“You know, Hermione…” George began, taking the packages from her arms.
“I think we should accompany you to the Magical Menagerie and then to the bank. One never knows what might happen to three poor third-years in today’s dangerous streets.”
“You can’t do magic, and you’re going into your O.W.L. year, which means you’re not so different from us,” she replied.
They kept bickering as they walked down the street. It was in this comfortable chaos that three figures drew their attention, walking up the same path. Three distinct, elegant silhouettes: Draco Malfoy, Theodore Nott and Blaise Zabini.
Draco walked as though the ground itself recognised him as royalty; Nott read a dark-blue-covered book, entirely absorbed in it, following his friends instinctively; Blaise looked relaxed, hands in his pockets, surveying the world around him as if he found everything tediously predictable and beneath him.
Ron paled.
“Speak of the devil and he shall appear! What are they doing here?!?”
“What else would Hogwarts students be doing in the commercial district two weeks before the summer end, Ronald?” Hermione asked, rolling her eyes.
“What d’you reckon they’re buying?” Fred muttered, peering with all the lack of subtlety he possessed. “Expensive perfumes? Robes threaded with gold? Extra Pride?”
George grinned.
“Maybe they’re buying something we already have: dignity. Shame it’s in short supply for them.”
“No… definitely extra storage for their overinflated egos.”
Draco heard. Of course he heard. And when he turned his head, his smile had the cutting politeness of someone who knows the exact word that wins the argument.
“Elegance, actually. Not exactly your field, I suppose. But keep practising, Weasleys. Even miracles need a starting point.”
Fred arched an eyebrow, a smile tugging at his mouth.
“Well now! A miracle, is it? Then we’ve got a chance, George!”
“Absolutely!” George replied, pretending to think. “Seems we Weasleys have a bit of luck with miracles. Especially if we get some private tutoring on that… what’s it called?”
“Elegance, brother. E-L-E-G-A-N-C-E.”
The tiny, barely-there smile Draco let slip was real enough for the Gryffindors to notice he found the exchange amusing.
“I imagine it comes at quite a price,” he said lightly.
“Oh! But we pay with Style,” Fred replied, winking. “Not quite ‘Elegance’, but it’s something money can’t buy.”
Theo, without lifting his eyes from the book, murmured:
“And not something one always wants to buy.”
Blaise let out a quiet laugh, and the group continued onward, leaving behind a pleasantly stunned silence, a prelude to an improbable friendship.
“What was that?!” Ron asked once they were far enough not to be overheard. “The Slytherins were… nice?!”
“Don’t look at us, Ronykins. We’re as shocked as you,” George replied.
“But I think our dear Harry and Hermione have an answer. Wasn’t it them who said they’re friends with some Slytherins?”
Hermione only shrugged, stepping into the Magical Menagerie. Ron, right behind her, shook his head furiously, refusing to continue any conversation involving Draco Malfoy or Slytherins in general — only to be attacked by a puff of orange fur.
Scabbers, who had been sleeping peacefully in his pocket, woke with a start and scrambled desperately for safety. The shopkeeper rushed over, apologising profusely as she retrieved the animal.
Minutes later, the teenagers emerged from the shop, Hermione carrying the ball of fur, now christened Crookshanks, and Ron holding a tonic for Rats, a peace offering for the attempted murder committed by the half-Kneazle cat.
“For safety, I’ll leave Scabbers with my mum at the Leaky Cauldron and meet you at Gringotts in five minutes.”
Without a word, Fred handed Hermione her packages back and took Scabbers from Ron.
“And now, we part ways…” George began.
“…We know how painful separation can be…” Fred continued, wiping imaginary tears.
“…But we must go.”
“Friends to find…”
“…Brothers to prank…”
“Oh, please,” Harry interrupted, laughing. “Just go! We’ll be perfectly fine and much safer without you two around.”
“Harry! You wound us! Everything we do is out of love!”
“You love the chance to use us as your alibi, that’s what. Go before I tell Ginny what you did to her trunk.” Harry shoved them in a random direction, still laughing.
“See you later, children.”
And Fred and George left laughing, while the trio headed towards the great white building that was Gringotts.
The sound of the quill scratching against the parchment felt wrong. Too heavy, as if each word had to be pushed out of his mind instead of written. Dudley sighed, his fingers stained with ink. That was one of the things he’d had to learn in the last month: to write with quill, ink, and parchment. So different from the ease of a sheet of paper and a ballpoint pen.
He didn’t know who he was writing to. Maybe to himself, or to someone who would never answer. The image of his cousin drifted through his mind. So much to say, so many apologies to make.
“I don’t think I like silence.”
He stopped. Read the sentence he had just written and let out a short, nervous laugh. Of course he didn’t like silence. He’d spent his entire life surrounded by voices, television, complaints, the continuous hum of electricity.
The place he was in was impossible to describe. It had no windows, yet received natural light; no door, yet someone occasionally appeared to examine or educate him; no visible ventilation, yet the air was as fresh as an open field.
The goblins called the place the Hall of Roots, one of the oldest Chambers of Gringotts. There, the air tasted of soil and metal, the walls pulsed with the runes carved into their surface, ancient enough that Dudley felt his entire body vibrate when he took a deep breath.
It was his magical core he was feeling or at least, that’s what the elderly goblin responsible for him, Bogrod, had said. And he had also remarked, in his gravelly and impatient voice, that “the core must learn to sustain itself, child. Your magic has been trapped inside you for many years. It needs to remember how to come out.”
Dudley didn’t know how to do that. That was why he was there. The goblins, who had rescued him from the reality of the upbringing his parents had given him, had been emphatic about the importance of caring for and respecting his own body and magic. That was how he learned what an Obscurial was. And that he had almost become one. But something inside him knew how to release and exercise that magic.
Sometimes, while asleep, he dreamed of waves of energy leaving his body, threads of light rising through his veins like roots searching for air. On those days, he woke up stronger, more alive, with a clearer mind. Other times, he remembered the day everything exploded, the floor shaking, the kitchen filling with light, his mother screaming his name and… nothing.
He didn’t know what had happened to his house. He had woken up in the bed he was currently lying in, with a goblin healer checking his physical and magical condition.
“You were lucky. Very lucky. A few more months and, when you turned fourteen, the age of the second magical maturation, you would have blown up your entire neighbourhood without even realizing it.” had been the first thing he heard.
“Where is my mother? Petunia Dursley?” he asked weakly. He didn’t remember how he had ended up there, but then he noticed the wizard beside him, Smethwyck, and remembered one detail: he was a wizard. And his mother had blocked his magic. The taste of maternal betrayal was bitter, but he still loved her; she had always cared for and protected him from any danger.
“Except from herself.” he thought bitterly.
Soon he was informed that his mother and father were imprisoned somewhere within the Nation. They would face Goblin Justice, whatever that meant. He only knew goblins did not forgive people who abused children. And that was what his parents had done. To him and to Harry.
He saw his cousin in his dreams, too.
Not the skinny boy who had lived in the cupboard under the stairs, but a figure with black wings, that he knew was him, looking at him with something that wasn’t anger or pity… something closer to recognition.
Dudley blinked, pushing the memory away and looking at the parchment before him. The ink had already dried, and the words seemed to follow him like a provocation.
“You need to learn magic.” Smethwyck said during one of his visits. “Your core isn’t stable enough for us to send you to Hogwarts safely. And there’s little time left before the school year begins. So we are going to teach you what you need to learn for a year, and you may finish your studies at Hogwarts starting next year.”
Dudley remained silent for a long time, watching the wizard walk away and vanish through the ‘non-door.’
The promise of Hogwarts sounded distant, like the echo of a life that didn’t belong to him. The school’s name brought back memories of his mother sneering when speaking of ‘the school that stole Lily' and his fear when Harry began attending it. He still remembered the pig’s tail that had been conjured onto him.
He looked at his hands, ink-stained fingers trembling slightly. Magic danced beneath his skin, alive, untamed. Like a wild animal, calm one moment and then, at the slightest provocation, trying to escape. A force pulsing in waves, burning and healing at the same time.
The Hall of Roots reacted to his emotions at times. Bogrod had commented that Gringotts was alive, like most magical constructions, but the Chambers of Gringotts were more than that. They listened, felt, judged, and protected. They only sheltered those whom magic itself deemed worthy of restoration.
Dudley often wondered whether he was worthy.
He remembered chasing and hitting Harry, the moments when his cousin performed accidental magic and was punished for it. But he also remembered the moments when he himself had magical surges, and everyone around him blamed Harry.
In those moments, the ground trembled softly, the runes glowed, and a distant, deep humming, like something rising from the heart of the Bank, could be felt in Dudley’s chest. As if the Magic of the Nation were singing to soothe him.
“Control, child, is not achieved in one day.” Bogrod said once, after seeing the fear in the boy’s eyes when the Chamber reacted so strongly to his emotions. “Magic does not want to destroy you. It wants to recognize you. Breathe deeply.”
“I don’t want to hurt anyone. Not ever again.”
“And you won’t.” the goblin replied simply. “Magic is not what we do with it, boy. It is what we are. It is in our blood, in our tears, in our laughter, in our breath. You were denied yourself. You must learn to listen to yourself. That is why we gave you quill, ink, and parchment. Now close your eyes.”
Dudley obeyed, though hesitantly.
“Listen to the sound of the earth.” the goblin’s voice rumbled like distant stones rolling. “Feel your blood beneath your skin, your heartbeat in your ears. And find, within yourself, the point where everything meets.”
For an instant, there was only silence.
Then… the sensation came. Something ancient and deep. Dudley couldn’t explain what he was seeing; he only perceived that it was fractured, wounded beyond imagination yet still pulsing. He raised a hand, wanting to touch that energy, but his body didn’t respond. Even so, the magic reacted, pulsing with joy and seeming to heal slightly. A steady stream of magic, slightly different in colour from his own grey magic, was feeding the Core.
When Dudley opened his eyes, the air felt colder.
“What was that?” he asked, worried.
Bogrod studied him in silence, eyes narrowed with curiosity.
“Your magical core. You saw a representation of the state of your own magic.”
“So injured, so… damaged.”
“That happens when someone blocks magic. Especially a magical block placed on someone from a magical family. You lost access to your family’s magic and now that connection is being restored.”
“Was that the steady stream I saw? The one with the slightly different colour?”
The goblin didn’t answer immediately. He walked to one of the walls, running his palm over the runes.
“Blood answers to blood. Even the oldest magical blocks cannot prevent that forever.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means your family recognizes you as one of its own, Dudley Dursley. And you will honour your family and its tradition. You will respect the honour of carrying magic, a privilege your mother was denied. You will learn what it is to be a wizard. And Gringotts will teach you.”
The light was wrong again. But for the first time, Lily felt she was more in control, and the magic was not coming from her. The sky shifted in impossible shades: blue streaked with gold, grey tinged with lilac and the wind carried scents the garden had never known. The fragrance of flowers mingled with the smell of metal, with smoke, with the faint trace of ancient earth. There was life there. Life rebelling against the control Dumbledore constantly tried to claim.
Something pulsed beneath the ground.
She crouched, touching the grass.
The earth vibrated, warm, alive, uneven, like the heartbeat of something waking after a long sleep.
The flowers around her reacted, all blooming at once, releasing sparks of colour that spiralled upwards and, with them, fragments of memory: two children’s laughs overlapping, the echo of tiny footsteps, a small voice saying “Mummy”.
The sound nearly knocked her over. Tears burned Lily’s eyes.
“Hania… Hadrian…” she whispered, and the Garden breathed with her.
The waters in the lake by her side stirred, forming brief reflections of the memories she had touched. Her children were alive, and that was what mattered most.
Then she felt, more than she saw, the Other Lily signalling that he was approaching.
Lily sensed the presence drawing nearer, and so she prepared herself: she let the light dim, the grass fall still, the vibrant green fade away. She knelt, feigning weakness and compliance, all while feeling a slight pressure, almost gentle yet insistent, like long, cold fingers pushing against a door that ought to have been locked, but which had been left open for him.
The scent of lemon and parchment spread through the air as the mental touch reached her, distant and methodical. There was no emotion in it.
Lily could not see his face, but she could feel the smile he must have been wearing as the weight of his magic unfurled like mist, searching for cracks in her mind, signs of resistance or defiance.
And she did not resist. Not now.
She allowed him to believe in her obedience, to think she had not sensed his presence standing guard within her.
Then, a green spark crossed the sky for the briefest moment. His presence faltered, just for a second. Lily forced herself not to react to what had happened. He did not know what it meant and she could not allow herself to think or remember.
And when Dumbledore finally withdrew, without probing any deeper, the Other Lily allowed herself to reappear.
“Was that…?” she asked, afraid to hope.
“Our mate.” Lily replied firmly, as colour began returning to the Garden, the soft shade of sunset taking over the sky. “Tom is growing stronger.”
Lily allowed herself a true smile. Her family would strike back at everything Dumbledore had made them endure. Now, more certain than ever, she would do the impossible to strengthen herself and finally, awaken.
Notes:
We’ve reached 1,800 hits!!!
Thank you so much to everyone who’s been reading!
Don’t forget to leave your comments and theories!
I hope to have a new chapter for you next week.
Chapter 9: Yes, That Happened Too
Summary:
One month has passed, but the chaos remains perfectly punctual: some awaken, others scheme, Gringotts is having fun, and Hogwarts has decided to have… opinions.
In the end, it’s just another perfectly ordinary day in the life of someone who has long given up pretending they live a normal story
Notes:
ANOTHER CHAPTER?
Yes. Another chapter.
Am I surprised?
I am.
Do I guarantee the next one will be out in 2–3 days?
Absolutely not.
Just enjoy the fact that the Muse decided to visit me. That’s it.Ps.: Every now and then the twins' names will appear as Harry and Hermione, and other times as Hadrian and Hania.
It depends on whether the person they’re talking to already knows the truth.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Waking to the new reality of imprisonment was a shock to James. Now, almost a month after he had finally awoken for the first time in years, he understood that waking was far more than simply opening his eyes; it was reclaiming the control he knew had always been his, but which Dumbledore’s illusion had tried to erase.
After the old Headmaster left, following yet another session of “reinforcement” magic on him and Lily, James allowed himself to rise from the bed and sit on the floor, legs crossed. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He needed to ensure that no spell had taken effect and that his mind was still secure within the Laboratory. He could sense Severus’s gentle presence, silent, invisible to any other mind, yet there like a thread binding him to the true reality. His mate, his husband, was protecting him from afar, sending sensations of love, affection and safety. The distance made it difficult to send words or fully formed thoughts, so they had resorted to sensations after James had magically exhausted himself just to push Severus’s name across the link.
Since waking, his meals had been delivered to his room, because Dumbledore was so terribly benevolent in placing them in bedrooms rather than cells. He had eaten with suspicion at first, but knowing that now he was no longer in a trance, he needed food to sustain his body. And exercise, to coax his muscles back into proper function and prevent atrophy. After two days with no adverse effects, only strengthening and gradually regaining control of his life, he finally trusted that the third person there with them was not an enemy but someone willing to help him. All that remained was to discover how he was meant to leave his room and explore the place.
James stood, stretching his arms and feeling the freshly recovered energy pounding in his blood. The warmth of resolve replaced the chill of uncertainty. It was time to move. He needed to get out of here, free Lily, and discover who their ally was. After that, he had to return home and deal with Albus Dumbledore and his infuriating obsession with controlling every detail of society and magic.
And it seemed their ally was aware of his intentions. Because the moment James approached the door, it opened silently, an invitation to step through. So he did. At the door of the room next to his, he could feel Lily’s presence, but the door was unmistakably locked. Right then. He was meant to go and meet whoever the third wizard was.
James followed the richly decorated corridors, the place clearly a castle with temperature-control spells woven through it, keeping the interior comfortable regardless of the weather outside. Slowly, he climbed the stairs of the highest tower, sensing that the wizard was at the top. The torches along the way flickered like a beckoning promise of comfort and safety waiting for him above. At the top of the stairs stood a single door, metal, heavy, waiting for him. Hearing the scrape of metal against stone, James pushed it open slowly, unsure of what awaited him inside.
It was practically an open-plan flat. Rugs covered the floor, and different pieces of furniture separated each space. And seated in what appeared to be the study area was a man, visibly elderly, with a neat white beard, hair just as white and cut short. A pair of spectacles rested on his face, and blue eyes watched James with a clear glint of amusement.
“Welcome, James Potter,” he began, his voice soft and charming, “to the prison of Nurmengard.”
The Manor was murmuring again. Regulus eyed the library walls while listening, in the background, to the sound of the stones adjusting themselves to the weather. His head, as always, ached whenever he focused too closely on what was happening around him. Kreacher, at his side, was doing everything in his power to make him eat.
“Master Regulus must eat. Hot food restores magic and removes unpleasant spells from master’s head.” he said with the cadence of someone who had had this same argument every day for the past thirty days. “Strong body helps broken mind repair itself.”
Regulus drew a deep breath, taking in the scent of the simple soup. It was comforting, familiar.
Family.
“Kreacher… has it been a month…?”
“Yes, Master. One month since Young Master truly awoke, and since Master Heir and Miss Bella escaped the damned prison.”
Regulus tried to organise the weeks in his mind. He failed. Some memories were sharp: Kreacher holding his hand while he convulsed; the ring on his finger burning, reacting to Family. Others were muddled, as if they were not truly his: a vast cavern with a lake and an island in the centre; an army of Inferi dragging him down into the water; water, endless water filling his lungs.
He massaged his temples, trying to piece together the puzzle that was his mind.
“I feel the House is different, Kreacher. What is happening beyond these walls?”
“Kreacher only goes where he is permitted, Young Master. I have not yet been summoned by Master Heir. Kreacher is only caring for Young Master and for Madame’s house.”
“My mother…?”
“Eight years, Young Master, since she departed. She and Master Lord knew Young Master lived, and that Master Heir had been unjustly imprisoned, but they lacked the strength to fight Cruel White Wizard.”
“And my father…?”
“Officially… fourteen years. But Master Lord hid himself, planning something, until the beginning of last month. Master Lord Orion boarded the Boat a month and a half ago and left orders for Kreacher to care for Masters Sirius and Regulus.”
Regulus inhaled sharply, the image of the Boatman rising unbidden, and with it the sight of his father stepping aboard towards the afterlife. He raised three fingers to the centre of his forehead in a gesture of respect for the dead.
“The family is…”
“Weak, Master. Kreacher feels the family’s magic weakened. Many Masters bewitched, not performing old rituals to strengthen the bond with magic.”
“We will respond. Kreacher, we will restore the strength of the Black family’s magic.”
“Miss Cissa keeps our strength, alone, with Young Master Draco. She is the only one who still observes the Traditions. But most of the magic flows to the Malfoy Family.”
“And Dromeda?”
“Miss Andy no longer practises the old magic nor feeds magic to Kreacher. Cruel White Wizard bewitched her and the family when Miss Dora was born with the Gift.”
“But that… that only damages the Gift!” Regulus protested, indignation sharp in his voice.
“Miss Dora now hates the name and the Black family, cannot hold a transformation for long, and became terribly clumsy, for she lost control of her body’s balance.”
“Everything is a mess, Kreacher. We need to put it all right.”
“Kreacher wants the Family strong.”
“And you shall serve a Black Family stronger than ever before.”
Regulus felt the weight of the words as they left his mouth. A deep echo, an ancient summons. Memories surged and dissolved like ink in water. He saw his brother, smiling, standing beside others. Living happily among friends and family.
“Kreacher.”
“Yes, Young Master.”
“Go to Sirius. He is the one with the most power among the Blacks to begin taking control. Find him. And tell him I am alive.”
“Kreacher lives to serve the Black Family.”
The coastal wind lashed against the old windows, but this time, the House did not tremble. It was awake, alert, and clearly irritated for having been left in silence for so long. Every so often it extinguished a candle or the hearth in whichever room they occupied, locked a door, prevented someone from entering—or leaving—a space. It was temperamental.
Bellatrix found this hilarious; Sirius, not so much.
In the main hall, where the tapestries swayed without wind, Sirius Black stood before a dark wooden table, parchment, maps and a half-emptied bottle of Firewhisky spread across it. He already seemed stronger than a month before; the House-elves had devoted themselves entirely to feeding and caring for the health of their new residents. Sirius was still thin, still bore deep shadows beneath his eyes, but his gaze was steadier now and his aura clearer.
Bellatrix lay on her stomach across the sofa, twirling a dagger between her fingers as though it were a toy. One of the elves had asked whether she wished him to remove the dried blood from the blade. She had replied, cheerfully, that she would be delighted… blood, after all, could end up rusting the steel.
“Rodolphus, dear, take your nose out of that book on Runes for a moment. You’ll end up inhaling Rune Dust.” she said with a sarcastic laugh.
“Firstly, Rune Dust doesn’t exist; secondly, the books in the Black Library are always volumes long lost to history, and I refuse to let such an opportunity slip by.”
“You’ll end up high on shelf-dust.” Bellatrix remarked with a dangerous grin. “Don’t forget the Black Madness is far more than just a mask.”
Rabastan laughed so loudly that one of the tapestries shuddered, offended.
Sirius sighed, rubbing his forehead.
“I swear by Merlin, sometimes I think returning to Azkaban would be more productive.”
“Ah! But there you wouldn’t have the pleasure of seeing me at my very best.” Bellatrix said, turning her face towards him, eyes shining with pure amusement.
“Unfortunately, I can. You tortured the Longbottoms whilst I was being arrested and going through my first round of Dementor torture. My magic allowed me into your mind to protect myself from the Dementors. Why Black Magic thought I would be safer and saner inside your mind rather than my own is a marvellous question. I still see the Longbottoms every time I think of the beginning of my imprisonment. Congratulations, Bella, if anyone else had access to your mind at the time, you traumatised an entire generation of that family.”
Bellatrix gave a pleased smile.
“He killed my son. I was merciful. I could have used any spell my father-in-law taught me.”
Rabastan nodded gravely while Rodolphus murmured,
“Father has a talent for torture.”
“Good to know at least the three of you still carry the family spirit.” Sirius said, shaking his head.
“Of course we do!” Bellatrix answered, stretching her hand towards him. “And so do you. Don’t bother denying it. As Black as I am.”
He drew a long breath.
“If the Dementors did anything positive to me, it was stripping away most of the manipulations and blocks that that Old Bast…” he choked, the memory scrambling, “that OLD HEADMASTER cast on me.”
Bellatrix rose slowly.
“How is the Family magic treating you? It cannot have been easy to receive the title of Lord Black whilst still imprisoned.”
Sirius looked to the Family Crest above the fireplace.
“It only proves what we already know: that my accusation and imprisonment were falsified.” He turned to Rodolphus. “And considering you can still feel the Heir magic, it means something in your trial needs investigation…and that old Radolphus is still alive and well.”
His cousin placed a hand on his chest.
“It also proves uncle Orion died only a month and a half ago, not when we believed. What are you feeling, cousin?”
“Something has been prodding at me for days. Family Magic. Irritated, demanding attention.”
“Then give it attention. Magic recognises its Lord. And for the Blacks, that is you, my Lord.”
“Please be quiet for five minutes.” Sirius pleaded, exasperated. “You seem incapable of taking anything seriously. We have plans to make.”
Rodolphus clapped his hands, excited.
“Excellent! We need to ruin the Ministry, kick Dumbledore’s arse, and if any Auror shows up… we've got our entertainment sorted.”
Sirius stared at Rabastan for a full minute.
“Where were you working when you were arrested?”
“I was beginning my apprenticeship with the Unspeakables. Why?”
Sirius thought for a moment longer.
“If I didn’t lose my Heir status, then Lordship afterwards, and Rodolphus didn’t lose his either… what guarantees the Ministry remembered to remove us from the payroll? I was an Auror, Rod was in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, and you were in the Department of Mysteries… That’s a great many wages being deposited into someone’s account over the past twelve years. Do you think Gringotts is pleased about the diversion of funds?”
“You’re thinking of getting the goblins as allies?” Rabastan asked, shocked.
“We need allies and resources. We must understand what’s happened to Magic itself. I can feel the family members. I feel Bella and Rod clearly, Cissa, Lucius and their boy. I can barely feel Andy and the daughter… the connection to them is distorted, denied. And there are three more people I’m sensing, and I’m not certain I trust it.”
“Who?” Bella asked, pacing, confused, for she felt the same people but with lesser intensity not being the family’s leader.
“It makes no sense… I feel Severus Snape… James Potter… and Regulus.
Bellatrix froze. The room grew unbearably silent as she stared at her cousin.
“Sirius… James and Regulus are dead. And it makes no sense you feeling Severus.”
“I KNOW! Do you think I’m unaware? But the magic is sensing them, and it is showing them to me.”
“What do you mean?!”
Sirius touched the crest; a spark travelled across the metal’s surface.
“It’s strengthening itself slowly, but each day their presence grows more defined, stronger, more alive. Something is happening and that’s why we need to capture the rat. He will know what occurred on that night in October of ’81.”
At that moment, a loud POP echoed across the room and Kreacher appeared, eyes heavy and fixed anxiously on the four occupants.
“Master Heir!” he bowed, startling Sirius. Two images of Kreacher flickered in his mind: one, the elf caring and assisting his mother in raising him and his brother, gentle; the other, the elf as a foul creature who insulted him daily, making him loathe the family more and more. “Master Heir, Kreacher must speak to Master. You must bring Young Master home and help Kreacher restore his health.”
“What?”
“Young Master awoke after so long being controlled by Cruel White Wizard, and now needs help to recover. Young Master sent Kreacher to tell Master Heir that he is alive. Master Heir must go fetch Young Master!”
“I don’t understand anything.” Rodolphus whispered, staring, stunned, at the House-elf.
“Regulus was being controlled by Dumbledore. He freed himself from the spells and needs help to recover. He sent Kreacher to fetch Sirius.” Bella translated, equally shocked.
The elf lifted his face, looking at Bellatrix with pride.
“Exactly, Miss Bella.”
Sirius grew in silence, literally. His aura expanded, powerful, ancient… violent.
Bellatrix smiled.
Rodolphus grinned manically.
Rabastan applauded.
Sirius spoke, voice hoarse, emotional, and frighteningly determined:
“Then, Kreacher, take me to my brother. We are bringing him home.”
The main atrium of Gringotts always carried the strong, metallic scent of magic. Tiny sparks crackled in the air near the massive chandelier on the ceiling, reflecting the lights from the precious stones embedded in the mosaic of the dome above.
Harry and Hermione felt a faint pressure behind their sternum, a gentle pull guiding them toward the interior of the Bank. The goblins at the entrance greeted them curtly as they crossed the doors.
“All of this,” Ron began, “because you weren’t home when everything blew up? Where were you, and how did Dumbledore even know?”
“Those are excellent questions, Ron.”
“I didn’t know Muggles had things that were… that dangerous.”
“They’re much more dangerous than you think,” Hermione retorted. “They have bombs capable of wiping out entire cities. London was bombed multiple times during the Second World War; and two Japanese cities, Hiroshima and Nagasaki, were used by the Americans as an example of their atomic destructive power.”
“But it wasn’t the Muggles,” Harry cut in, knowing how his sister could get carried away with explanations. “It was magic, and I’d like to know the outcome.”
Nangok, sensing the presence of his clients as soon as they entered the Bank, walked over to where they’d stopped to talk.
“May your vaults never empty, Master Nangok.”
“And may your gold overflow, Mr… Potter,” the goblin replied, casting a sideways glance at the redhead with him. “What can Gringotts do for you today?” he asked, hurriedly guiding the three teenagers into a warded room.
“When you retrieved my belongings from my aunt’s house, everything was supposedly delivered to my guardian, and then you never said anything else. But I’ve just been told there was an explosion at the house and Dumbledore believes I’m staying at the Leaky Cauldron?!”
“Ah, yes! We thought Mr. Prince had informed you. We arrived in time to recover your items and to release the block that had been placed on your cousin. Our team managed to record every rune cast on the residence and identify the protection spell used on the house. However, once Mr. Dursley’s magic was released… the magic reacted aggressively, destroying the premises. The house was… shattered,” Nangok said with a mischievous smile. “Unfortunately.”
“What a pity,” Harry said sarcastically. “And Dumbledore?”
“Your neighbor, the Squib Figg, has been paid by Dumbledore to keep an eye on you. She informed him of the accident immediately.”
“Paid by Dumbledore or by me?”
“By you.” Nangok bared his teeth, irritated. “So we created an illusion that you’d run away from your relatives’ home days earlier and were staying at the Leaky Cauldron. He believed it completely… especially after casting a charm on the door of ‘your room’ to ensure you give up coming to Gringotts every time you touch the doorknob. Tom keeps forgetting to come ask us to remove that spell.”
“And the Dursleys?”
“Petunia and Vernon Dursley are in our… facilities. Awaiting trial for everything we managed to gather on them,” Nangok continued. “We believe they will receive a punishment appropriate to everything they caused and that we can prove.” He pushed a folder toward Hermione.
“They are being formally charged with fraud; embezzling money from the Potter vault; physical, psychological, and emotional child abuse; attempted magical suppression; slavery…”
Ron’s eyes widened.
“That’s a lot… even for Muggle standards.”
Harry kept his eyes fixed on the table.
“And Dudley?”
Hermione felt the pull again, stronger this time.
“He is safe, with us. He needs to learn how to function with uncontrolled magic. He was very close to becoming an Obscurial.”
All three teenagers froze, understanding the severity.
“We are educating him in control, magic, and the wizarding world. We will also teach him the Hogwarts curriculum until we deem him prepared to face the magical world.”
“Was this discussed with my… guardian?”
“No. Dudley Dursley, like you, was an abused child in the environment he grew up in. We do not let children, especially magical children, suffer. As you well know.”
Harry looked away. He couldn’t believe Dudley of all people would receive privileged treatment from the goblins.
“But you don’t do anything for free,” Hermione interjected. “Where will the payment come from?”
“Your vaults are safe, young lady.” Nangok gave a predatory smile. “The boy’s parents will live and work long enough in the Mines to pay for all his treatment and education.”
Ron glanced at his friends, realizing the goblin knew what they’d been hiding.
“Hermione doesn’t have a vault here. Why would she be responsible for paying for Harry’s cousin?”
“Do not inquire about the finances of other wizards inside Gringotts, Mr. Weasley, or we may consider it an attempted thief.” Nangok snapped immediately.
Harry and Hermione exchanged looks.
“Well,” she reasoned, “if some Slytherins know, it’s only fair Ron knows too.”
Harry nodded.
“Ron… did you know I have a twin sister and an adoptive father?”
September 1st – King’s Cross
The morning fog wrapped around the platform like a thick veil, and Hadrian felt his stomach tighten as he crossed the barrier to Platform 9¾ with Hania. It wasn’t anxiety… it was… anticipation. As if something distant and ancient were waiting for them. Severus, just behind them and under a Notice-Me-Not Charm, watched the surroundings carefully, ensuring the children were safe.
“Have a safe trip,” he said, fixing both of them with a stern look. “You know my office and my quarters will always be open to you. Tomorrow night I want both of you there so we can look at your class schedules and align them with our extracurricular lessons.”
“Yes, sir,” they said in unison, barely holding back smiles.
“I’m speaking now as your legal guardian.”
“And adoptive father, according to Hadrian,” Hania cut in, laughing.
“And adoptive father,” he repeated, rolling his eyes affectionately. “I don’t want to hear about either of you: 1 - wandering the school after curfew; 2 - doing things you shouldn’t; 3 - getting detention; 4 - getting low marks. If you’re caught doing any of these, you’ll have detention with the Potions professor. You may be Gryffindors, but you are Slytherins. Honor the Family and be careful.”
“But that’s unfair! Every year someone wants my head, it’s not my fault!”
“And we already know what Dumbledore’s script will be this year. So, until I manage to free your uncle Remus, pretend you don’t know anything. And don’t forget…”
“…We’re Harry Potter and Hermione Granger,” Hania finished again, already expecting him to repeat it for the twentieth time.
“Exactly. Enough people know the truth for now. We need caution before the Headmaster starts suspecting anything.”
“All right, we’ll be careful.”
“And for everything that is sacred, don’t be dunderheaded enough to remove your family rings. That’s the protection ensuring that none of the spells Dumbledore casts will affect you.”
The Hogwarts Express whistled, drawing their attention back to the platform, which was growing more and more crowded. The Malfoys and Notts stood nearby, saying goodbye to their heirs, though it was clear they were also positioning themselves as a shield in case anyone tried to look for Harry or Hermione without noticing who was accompanying them. There were limits to what Severus’s Notice-Me-Not could hide.
“Now go, and be responsible students. Minerva knows I’m acting as your Guardian and that she should come to me if you get into trouble.” Severus pulled both teenagers into a hug, kissing the top of each of their heads. “See you tonight.”
Then he stepped back and, with one last look at them, Disapparated.
“He’s not going to forget that I tried to take all third-year electives, is he?”
“Not anytime soon,” Hadrian shrugged. “At least he convinced you not to take Divination or Muggle Studies.”
“And you’re never going to let me forget that,” she huffed, dragging her trunk onto the train in search of an empty compartment.
Soon the two of them, Ron, and Ginny were seated together, talking animatedly about the upcoming year. The youngest Weasley spoke about the treatment she was undergoing with the Mind Healer to understand what she had gone through the previous year.
“But she seems confused by some of the mental traits I showed,” she said. “Something about the timeline not making sense with the blackouts. Mum is trying to convince Professor Dumbledore to let me leave on weekends to continue treatment, but so far…”
“They don’t want to draw attention back to the attacks,” Ron said sharply. “So he said that if Ginny keeps leaving, people will suspect she was the one who opened the Chamber.”
“She was the worst victim! Everyone knows she was taken into the Chamber! It makes perfect sense for her to be in treatment!” Hermione protested indignantly.
“Anyone with two brain cells knows that, but we’re having trouble convincing the Headmaster,” Ron added irritably.
As the train began to move, Harry and Hermione felt again the same sensation they’d had in Gringotts two weeks earlier. Family Magic, Severus had called it. But stronger. They could feel the train and all the students inside it.
The magic of the Express ran through the metal tracks like a living serpent, and something much greater flowed beneath them. And as the train advanced, the flow of magic grew stronger, more solid, leaving the twin siblings enthralled.
The trip passed peacefully, with no surprise visits or anything that might raise suspicion from the unaware. When Blaise walked by the door, he cast them an analytical look and gave a slight nod of acknowledgment.
The Weasley twins burst in mid-trip, right after the sweets trolley arrived, offering suspicious candies before settling in to tell them about the trip to Egypt, and how they were hiding because they had enchanted Percy’s socks to recite the alphabet backwards with every step he took.
As they neared their final destination, Hermione frowned and looked at Harry.
“Did you feel that?” she asked through their twin bond.
“Yeah… What do you think it is?”
“The castle’s magic… It’s calling us… recognizing us.”
“Great. One more thing to worry about as Heirs of Hogwarts.” he thought back sarcastically.
It felt like a heavy door unlocking after years shut, letting air - magic, thick and potent - hit them full force. A welcome home.
When the train finally slowed and the Hogwarts platform in Hogsmeade appeared bathed in faint evening light, Hermione exhaled as if she had been holding her breath.
The castle, in the distance, pulsed.
Not with light.
With magic.
With life.
With awareness.
They stepped off the train with the other students, the sensation intensifying the moment their feet touched the platform. Hogwarts’s magic wrapped around them like a warm, ancient… maternal hug.
“She recognizes us…” Harry murmured, spellbound.
Hermione lightly squeezed his arm.
“The question is… what does she remember that we don’t know?”
Together, they walked toward the carriages that moved on their own, though they could sense some invisible creature pulling them.
“Ready, ’Mione?” Harry asked, offering his hand.
“Ready, Harry,” she answered, smiling, excited for the new year.
Notes:
I am LOVING how everything keeps falling into place and being revealed.
And Severus?!?
Peak DAD.
I don’t even want to imagine what they’re going to get up to next.
Next chapter???
Hogwarts, finally.
I think lol
Comment, everyone... it was a comment that pushed me to update faster!!
And hitting 2000 hits!!!! I’m amazed!
Chapter 10: Are we starting? Seriously?
Summary:
Hogwarts opens its doors and immediately regrets it. The Sorting Hat sings far too much, Dumbledore speaks far too little (or worse: far too much), and the staff is already considering requesting early leave.
Notes:
A small reminder that Hadrian and Hania will still be referred to as Harry and Hermione whenever they are among people who do not know the truth.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The new school year, for the twins, began the moment they boarded the carriages. The path the carriage followed seemed to hum as it advanced towards the castle, as though it, too, were finally waking from a deep slumber. Harry and Hermione exchanged a look, both silently wondering whether the other was sensing the same things, yet neither dared say a word with Neville Longbottom beside them.
“The Castle is… cheerful.” Neville remarked, amazed.
“The Castle?” Ron snorted from his seat. “You’ve got sensitivity to sentient buildings now, have you, Neville?”
“Not buildings, but magical plants. My family has an affinity with them.” he explained, clearly uncomfortable with the subject.
“And the plants are saying the Castle is cheerful…” Ron continued, oblivious to the discomfort. “Brilliant! Now I’ve got to worry about a Castle and gossiping plants.”
“It’s not as though you’re always doing something wrong, Ron. Or have you been causing trouble and not told us?” Harry teased, hoping to distract his friend.
“Me?!” Ron shot back, grinning. “I’d never think of causing trouble! Not without my best mate at my side. He’s got the best luck for that sort of adventure.”
“It’s called the Potter Luck.” Harry said, shrugging. “Comes with the blood and the name.”
The other two boys laughed, and Hermione gave her brother a fond smile, understanding not only what he’d said, but also what he hadn’t.
Slowly, the path unfurled before them, and when the towers finally rose behind the trees, with the lilac end-of-summer sky painting the top of the Castle, Harry and Hermione felt a sharp, undeniable sensation: the Castle wasn’t merely cheerful because it recognised them and their link to the Founders, it was also celebrating their freedom. As the carriage crossed the gates, the winged boars fluttered their wings lightly, as if stretching after a long rest.
Passing through the line of protective wards, the twins connected to them instantly. Both shivered faintly as they suddenly felt every creature inside the Castle and within the edges of the Forbidden Forest. They would later learn that, with enough focus, they could identify who each person was.
“He knew our father had been here with Quirrell!” Harry told Hermione through their twin-bond, shocked and simmering with anger. Each new manipulation from Dumbledore only sharpened his hunger…for vengeance, for clues about their three parents.
“Or… he might not know exactly that. It might just be part of us being Heirs.” Hermione countered. “Have you noticed the state of these wards? They’re so weak… feels like they’ll collapse any moment.”
The carriage halted before the great entrance doors, and the torches beside them seemed to flare a little brighter, warming the threshold as they welcomed students arriving for the new school year.
“Know what I think?” Fred said, appearing beside them out of nowhere.
“What?” Ginny asked, accompanied by a blonde Ravenclaw girl, apparently her age, with a permanent expression of wonder in her pale blue—almost grey—eyes.
“That Hogwarts is happier this year. Which means…”
“…She’ll help us even more with our… experiments.”
“You two are lucky the Castle likes you and doesn’t mind what you do to her walls.” Percy retorted, appearing behind them. “But go in and take your seats before you make more trouble. At this rate you’ll end up conjuring a swamp in the middle of the corridor.”
“You know what, Perce?”
“That’s an excellent idea!” George finished.
The Gryffindors hurried to their table, eager to escape a lecture Percy was undoubtedly ready to unleash. Nobody wanted a “Percy Moment” before the Opening Feast.
Slowly, the tables filled. The hum of lively conversations and cheerful greetings wrapped the Great Hall in the familiar comfort of the year’s beginning.
Hermione glanced quickly at the long staff table, filled with adults observing the students. She caught Severus’s eye, and he discreetly shifted his gaze to the side, indicating who Remus Lupin was.
Harry, meanwhile, casually propped his elbows on the table and carefully avoided Dumbledore’s stare. A stare that was determined, almost desperate, to catch the boy’s eyes and sift through his thoughts. No doubt the old wizard was eager to uncover what Harry had done in Diagon Alley, the place he assumed the boy had spent half his summer.
The chatter lessened as Professor McGonagall entered, leading the first-years towards the high stool and the Sorting Hat. Everyone watched that moment with the same awe that came every year, no matter how many times they saw it (and in Harry and Ron’s case, this was their second Sorting). When silence finally settled over the Great Hall, the Hat began to sing.
Oh Hogwarts, ancient Hogwarts, awaken once again,
Your towers stand attentive, magic whispering through the grain.
For centuries I’ve sung, warned, and told what came before,
But even stone now murmurs softly: “Something walks once more.”
Four founders once united, four ideals side by side,
Four Houses built from visions that time could never hide.
Yet even what is ancient may shift from what it was,
For Hogwarts knows the turning age and answers just because.
Gryffindor for the valiant, who stand tall and never flee,
Where courage is the doorway, and triumph comes from bravery.
Slytherin for the cunning, who look beyond the veil,
Who know that ambition isn’t sin, but part of every tale.
Ravenclaw shelters the wise, the seekers of the true,
Who find in every question a spark to shape the new.
Hufflepuff for the loyal, the patient and the fair,
Who prove with steady kindness the strength of those who care.
But hush, my little students—feel the trembling of this floor…
Faltering spells lie hidden, and old secrets ask for more.
The castle stirs around us; in my seams I feel the thread,
For I see beyond the seeing, with a timeless, knowing head.
So come now, young witches, young wizards, do not fear,
For Hogwarts hums with power, ready for a brighter year.
Sit before me, let me judge where your truest self may be…
And may your House then show you all that you’re destined to see.
They all clapped, as always, trying to decipher what the Hat had meant.
Professor McGonagall promptly unrolled the long parchment and began the classic ritual of the Sorting Ceremony. Names were called one by one, the Hat sang out the chosen House, delivering its verdict, and the respective tables applauded whenever a new addition was gained.
“Meadowes, Silas.”
A small, brown-haired boy climbed onto the stool, trembling so much the Hat slipped slightly sideways over his head.
“Hufflepuff!” the Hat announced at once, in such a gentle tone it felt almost like a hug. The yellow-and-black table erupted in applause and whistles.
A Slytherin and a Gryffindor were sorted next.
“Stirling, Elara.” McGonagall called.
A girl with thick braids stepped forward with a rigid posture. She held such firm control over her body that Ron leaned towards Seamus with a grin and muttered:
“Two Chocolate Frogs she’s going to Slytherin.”
Seamus smirked.
“Deal. You can bet she’ll end up in Ravenclaw!”
She came close to being a Hatstall — the Hat took a long, silent moment examining her before finally…
“Ravenclaw!”
“Pay up, Weasley!” Seamus’s voice practically carried over the Ravenclaws’ cheers as they welcomed their new House-mate.
After her, the choices became more straightforward and swift, for which everyone was silently grateful, hunger was beginning to win, and they could hardly wait for the feast.
“Vance, Caspian.”
A tiny red-haired boy, wearing an expression somewhere between panic and nausea, approached the stool. He sat so tense the Hat looked like a statue while probing the child’s mind. At last, the Hat let out a small sigh before declaring:
“Gryffindor!”
Harry and Hermione exchanged a glance, suspicious of the Hat’s hesitation, though they clapped along for their new House-mate.
The final two students — a Hufflepuff and a Slytherin — were announced and sorted. And soon the entire Hall was buzzing with anticipation for the delicious feast awaiting them. Eyes turned to Dumbledore, waiting for him to rise, which he soon did.
Dumbledore stood with his gentle gaze and serene smile. He opened his arms as though embracing the whole Hall. Slowly, a wave of calm and warmth spread across the students.
“Welcome, students, to Hogwarts. We have much to discuss after such an eventful summer for many of you, I imagine. We shall do so with full stomachs and peaceful hearts. Now… let the feast begin.”
As he finished speaking, food appeared magically across every table, and at once everyone began to eat with enthusiasm, sharing stories of their holidays and asking after their friends’.
“I love Mum’s cooking, but Hogwarts food…” Ron began. “It has its own charms.”
Once again Harry and Hermione exchanged looks, silently confirming they had both felt the waves of manipulation radiating from Dumbledore. They wanted to talk more about it, but now was not the right moment.
“Anyone would think, Ron, that you starve at home.” Dean teased. “And we all know that’s not true.”
“I’m just appreciating a good meal. You’ve no idea what I went through with those two” he pointed his fork at Fred and George “on our trip. Honestly, I think they slipped things into my food too, not just Bill’s.”
“Us?!” they chorused, before George continued “We are innocent of any food-related crimes!”
“With you.”
“Because we know that if we tamper with your food…”
“…the end result wouldn’t be pleasant for anyone present.” they finished, laughing.
“You didn’t mess with his food, did you, Fred?” Harry intervened, looking at the twin. “So what did you actually do to Ron?”
“Oh, sweet, dear Harrykins. If we told you…”
“…it would spoil all the fun.”
Hermione chuckled lightly.
“Just make sure we don’t lose points. Despite the annual injustice, it’s still nice to win the House Cup at the end of the year.”
“As if…” George scoffed.
“We only need to wait for the adventure Harry is bound to stir up at the end of the year and secure another million points for Gryffindor.!
“After he loses them all first because he blinked wrong and everyone got terrified.”
Harry only lowered his head against the table and asked:
“What was the need to bring that up? Everyone knows it was wrong and unfair.”
“Oh, Harry…” Seamus said sympathetically. “Fair and loyal are the Hufflepuffs…”
“Yeah! Our ‘triumph comes from bravery’!” Dean laughed.
“Not at all. We win by training every day and beating everyone at Quidditch.” Oliver Wood interrupted, seated further down with the other seventh-years, Percy included. “Which is why, Potter, I hope you made good use of your summer. I don’t want us losing the Quidditch Cup because you’re rusty. We’re the best team, we’ve got the best Seeker. It makes no sense that—”
He couldn’t finish. Angelina Johnson shoved a chicken drumstick into his mouth.
“There you go, Captain. Eat properly so you’ve got the strength to guard the hoops.” she said, clapping him on the shoulders as he choked.
With side conversations buzzing, dinner carried on until at last the plates stood empty once more. The pleasant heaviness of full stomachs settled over the Hall, sleep began to creep in and once again, Dumbledore rose.
Silence fell heavily, like a curtain. Everyone turned to look at the Headmaster.
“Now then… We’ve caught up on the news, we’ve eaten well…” his voice carried that familiar blend of the gentle sweetness of a beloved grandfather and the warning tone of someone who genuinely cared for every student. “It is so good to see new and eager faces, ready to learn from our dear professors. Even better to see our returning students…taller, older and, I hope, more responsible.” He looked briefly at the Weasley twins, earning a few laughs from the students.
Hermione was not one of them.
Dumbledore continued:
“As we know, our dear Professor Lockhart encountered some… difficulties at the end of last school year, and therefore, we have a new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor. Professor Remus J. Lupin.” He gestured with a small flourish to the man seated beside Snape. Remus rose slightly and received a few polite claps from students who eyed his worn robes with suspicion.
“Last night was a Full Moon, right?” Harry asked his sister.
“It was. It must still be hard for him. Sev gave him the first dose of the potion, but it takes time to clear the system, from what I’ve read.” she replied quickly.
“And after years of dedication, Professor Kettlebrun, from Care of Magical Creatures, decided to retire at the end of last year in order to enjoy more time with his remaining limbs. His position will be taken by none other than Rubeus Hagrid, who has agreed to assume the role alongside his gamekeeping duties.” This announcement was far better received, as Hagrid was loudly cheered by Gryffindor.
Dumbledore went on:
“As usual, I must remind you that Mr Filch’s list of banned items has now reached 398 items and may be found on the noticeboard beside his office, as well as in each common room. Make sure you are not caught with any of them. And I must once again mention that the Forbidden Forest, as the name makes abundantly clear, is forbidden.” His eyes swept over the students, lingering on Harry for two seconds longer before shifting to the Weasleys. “And certain… mischief… should be set aside for the safety of the student body.”
George and Fred adopted expressions of innocence so exaggerated that any sensible professor would be instantly suspicious. Percy rolled his eyes before leaning over the students and giving his brothers a light smack on the back of their heads.
Then, after a deep breath, the Headmaster continued.
“Lastly… I must ask you all to stay alert. There is… unsettling information… that the Ministry has denied as truth. But I know, without a doubt, that Sirius Black has escaped from Azkaban.”
Immediately, the students broke into urgent whispers, panic rising in the voices of those who had grown up hearing the name Black. Dumbledore raised his voice only slightly, enough to restore the previous silence.
“As I said, the authorities have denied the reason, yet I ask that you listen to me: do not remain alone. Do not wander the corridors at night, and if you notice anything suspicious, report it to your Head of House until Black is recaptured.” Then, with a long sigh, he gave a wide smile. “But do not allow this news to spoil your evening or your studies. Let us all go to our beds and prepare for the new year.”
With his final words, the students rose and began heading towards their common rooms, exchanging their impressions of the speech.
“Sirius Black? But… what did he do?” a Muggle-born asked.
“Escaping Azkaban is impossible! If he really did it, he’s the first ever.” another commented.
“But the Ministry didn’t say anything. Why is Dumbledore talking about this?”
“I doubt it’s true! Did you read how calm the Minister’s visit was?” Seamus said to Dean.
“I bet that’s why he lost his position as Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. The Ministry wanting to shut him up.”
Hearing the students, Harry felt his stomach twist not with fear, but with irritation. Dumbledore cultivated fear the same way Neville cared for his plants: with cadence, rhythm… And with just a few sentences, the entire mood of the students had changed. Even the Castle itself felt angry, as if a shadow had settled over everyone.
When they reached the common room, it was bright, comfortable and noisy.
“But seriously…” Seamus continued, having kept the topic alive the entire way up the tower. “Why is he insisting on this Black story?”
“Maybe… because he’s lost control and is trying to control the narrative.” Fred murmured.
“Or he wants to invent something to stay relevant.” George added.
Percy cleared his throat loudly.
“Don’t start. The Headmaster is merely being cautious. And we would do well to listen to what he has to say.”
“Of course, Perce…” George replied, patting his brother’s shoulder. “You always defend the elders.”
“Especially the ones who make long speeches and have positions of power.”
Everyone nearby laughed, the tension of the evening finally easing out of their bodies. Even Hermione could be seen laughing softly.
“I’m going to put Scabbers back in his cage,” Ron said, pulling the rat from his pocket. “he’s been trembling since the end of the feast. I think the tonic will help him sleep better.”
Percy watched his younger brother climb the stairs.
“We need to prepare him for the End of Scabbers.” he told the twins. “Twelve years is a very long life for a rat, and his health has been declining. He’ll be really upset when Scabbers dies.”
Harry let his attention drift away from the Weasleys’ conversation. The flow of students through the portrait hole was finally slowing down, and the common room was warmer and more inviting. The Castle’s Magic pulsed softly, content. Now and then it seemed to try to draw the twins’ attention, but both Harry and Hermione simply wanted to let themselves feel connected to that stream of pure magic and satisfaction.
The Great Hall emptied slowly, echoes of suspended conversations trailing behind each group, somewhere between nervousness and expectation, as the students made their way towards their dormitories. The enchanted ceiling flickered with heavy clouds that did not belong to the sky outside. Shadows of another origin, as though the Castle’s ancient magic itself were restless.
At last, the teachers began to move.
Minerva McGonagall rose with the upright posture of someone long-disciplined to maintain control.
“Albus…” she began, her tone rigid.
Dumbledore smiled faintly, as if still savouring the feeling of power he held whenever hundreds of students listened to him in absolute silence. He looked far too pleased. Remus cleared his throat discreetly, uneasy with the atmosphere. The full moon had left his skin sensitive, his muscles tired and his patience short. Even so, his eyes followed Snape and McGonagall attentively, knowing their conversation would not be about trivialities.
“Even after our discussion before the students arrived, you still thought it necessary to announce Sirius Black’s escape in that manner? Without offering any concrete evidence?”
Dumbledore merely tilted his head, as if the question were irrelevant.
“Minerva, my dear, I’ve told you before. Information is protection.”
“Or a weapon.” Severus retorted, folding his arms darkly.
Dumbledore cast him a slow, deliberate look, almost… evaluative. Severus held his gaze, but his fingers curled into a fist atop the table, ensuring that his mental shields remained strong and airtight. He had begun to notice that Dumbledore’s behaviour was growing bolder, more incisive, perhaps even more impatient. And a wild creature with erratic behaviour was, undeniably, a source of concern.
“The announcement was premature.” McGonagall continued. “The students were terrified; many of them scarcely know who Black is beyond distorted rumours.”
“Rumours encouraged by the Ministry.” Dumbledore cut in, still wearing that affable smile that never quite reached his eyes. “When they fail to protect, someone must take responsibility.”
Severus let out a restrained laugh.
“And conveniently, that someone is you.”
“I am merely the voice of experience. I have lived through things few today have endured. If I can share my knowledge, nothing will stop me.”
“Albus… you must be cautious! Don’t turn this into…” Minerva began, but before she could finish, Dumbledore stood.
“We all have important roles to play this year.”
He glanced, calculatingly, at Remus and Snape.
“That includes the two of you. I trust I can count on… absolute discretion and cooperation.”
Severus’s response came firm and cold:
“You will have from me exactly what you have earned.”
Remus, gentler but equally resolute, merely inclined his head without promising anything. McGonagall, however, fixed her gaze on Dumbledore with silent intensity.
“If anything happens to my students because of that premature warning…”
She did not finish the sentence. She did not need to. The threat hung in the air, clear and almost tangible.
Dumbledore smiled, satisfied.
“Minerva… nothing will happen unless it needs to happen.”
And that was, for everyone present, the most alarming statement of the night.
Without waiting for a reply, Dumbledore turned to leave. His robes swept across the floor like thick mist, and for a moment, the shadows of the Hall seemed to follow his movement, as though drawn to his presence.
“Minerva.” called Filius Flitwick, watching in the same direction. “Do you also think the Headmaster seemed… agitated… by the news of Sirius Black’s escape?”
“‘Agitated’ isn’t the word.” Pomona Sprout interjected, glancing at the ceiling. “He was pleased.”
Minerva did not respond. Not because she disagreed, but because she did not dare voice the feeling that had followed her ever since she received news of Remus Lupin’s appointment: Dumbledore held far too much control.
“This is not the sort of subject we should be discussing in such an open space.” Severus hissed, cutting off any reply as he strode past them. “Let’s go to the staff room, before the Headmaster decides the Castle’s security is compromised and we ought to summon Dementors for reinforcement.”
That “before he decides” carried far more weight than anyone was willing to admit aloud.
The Heads of Houses reached the plain wooden door without further debate. Minerva opened it with a soft click, revealing the warm room within, still empty, the fireplace crackling softly and the faint scent of herbs lingering in the air.
Severus stood with his back to them, several parchments in hand as he examined other documents left on the table. He was visibly tense, attempting to determine the best way to explain himself.
“Don’t tell me you’re thinking of reorganising your timetable… again.” Pomona commented, taking a seat.
“No.” He did not lift his eyes as he spoke. “Firstly, we scarcely have time to breathe between lessons, and secondly, changing one class affects every other teacher—even those in seventh year and in the Special Subjects.”
“Then what are you doing?” Minerva narrowed her eyes, wondering what this might have to do with Albus.
“I’m confirming how many Muggle-born students have returned this year, and whether we’ll need to keep particular attention and care on them.”
Filius frowned.
“Is there a problem?”
Severus simply handed him the copy of the document issued by Gringotts, confirming he had been made the Legal and Magical Guardian of Harry Potter and Hermione Granger. Flitwick, having goblin blood, could immediately sense the authenticity of the document.
“You’re Potter’ and Granger’s Guardian?” he asked, astonished.
“Yes! I would very much like more information on that. I only received your notice saying I should consult you on anything regarding them, but you didn’t explain anything,” Minerva pressed, while Sprout read through the papers as well.
“There isn’t much I can reveal. Too much is happening, and the goblins are deeply involved. But… early in the summer, the Bank granted me Guardianship of both after certain troubling circumstances were discovered in their Muggle homes, and it was deemed safer to remove them before a tragedy could occur. I was summoned because the goblins know the care I take with Slytherin students who have no voice to protect themselves.”
He drew a breath, thinking of his dearest friend.
“And because Lily thought it would be important for me to be a second godfather to Harry Potter.”
Both women choked faintly on the news, unsure how to process the information. The temperature in the room seemed to drop. McGonagall gripped the back of a chair, her mind tripping over old memories that suddenly seemed muddled.
“But… Dumbledore always said he was Harry’s Magical Guardian.” Pomona whispered shakily.
Severus sighed, knowing he was pulling back the veil that had long covered his colleagues’ eyes.
“Officially, he never was. But due to incorrectly filed records, he appeared to be… for both Harry and Hermione. And no one ever questioned what he said. Because he has enough political power to control the narrative, and enough magic to ensure things are done his way.”
The tension in the room only grew as each of them reconsidered every past interaction they'd had with him and with other students.
“We need to prepare to protect the students.” Minerva said suddenly.
“You don’t mean, protect them from Sirius…?”
“No. From the Headmaster himself. He was far too pleased not to be planning something.”
“And considering he’s insisting that Harry’s godfather has escaped, we know it involves the poor boy.”
“And Lupin.” Severus added. “He is involving Lupin as well. And if we’re not careful, we’ll have an uncontrolled werewolf trapped inside a Castle full of children.”
“What is Albus trying to achieve? What’s his plan?”
Severus let out a scoffing laugh, watching Minerva pace from one side of the room to the other.
“Isn’t it obvious? He wants the Greater Good.”
Notes:
2,800 hits!!!
Will we reach 3k before December arrives???This chapter is another preparatory one for what’s to come. It took a little longer because I was working on a new class schedule, and wow!! I’ve got some news about the subjects, but I’ll keep quiet so I don’t spoil the surprise for the future of this fic.
Remember to leave a comment! Comments always motivate a writer!
Chapter 11: The Greater Good™ Strikes Again
Summary:
On the first day of term, Hogwarts promptly realises that nothing brings students and staff together quite as efficiently as… complaining about Dumbledore. Between a foul-mouthed Jarvey hurling insults, heirs receiving rather suspicious letters, and Heads of House quietly reconsidering their life choices, the Greater Good™ makes a timely appearance just to remind everyone that “stability” is a laughably optimistic myth.
Notes:
A small reminder that Hadrian and Hania will still be referred to as Harry and Hermione whenever they’re among people who don’t know the truth.
Also, keep in mind that the class schedule has been completely altered compared to Canon, so don’t expect things to follow the books.
Also...usually italics in full conversation between H/H means that they are usin their bond.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“The Greater Good…” Gellert Grindelwald was saying, the words echoing through the walls of Nurmengard as though they were an ancient sentence, repeated so many times it had long since lost any trace of virtue. He raised his gaze, the shadow of a smile crossing his time-worn face. James was getting used to having tea and chatting with the old and infamous Dark Lord. “It was always about the ‘Greater Good’ for dear old Albus.”
James inhaled slowly. Even though he had managed to identify the manipulation in time and preserve his sanity, there were still moments when his true memories and the false ones tangled in his mind.
“How is it possible no one’s noticed they’re living a lie? How can people believe I’m dead? That Lily… is dead? That our marriage existed? Merlin! I’m married to another man!”
“Ah! But that has a very simple answer. Victory… is always written by the victors. And that is what he has been doing since 1945… winning.”
“My mate is looking after my… son. I know Lily and I did nothing, I know I didn’t betray my vows or the soul-bond I share with Severus. But knowing I blood-adopted a child without Sev’s agreement… that must be painful for him. And… Hadrian has a twin sister. They have the magical connection of twins. It makes her just as much a Potter as he is.”
“Your mate is handling everything, James. Unlike mine,” Gellert retorted acidly. “Who is responsible for all this mess.”
James choked. It was the first time, since they had begun meeting daily, that Grindelwald revealed something about himself rather than simply helping James strengthen his mind and Occlumency shields.
“Your mate is…?”
“Who else, if not Albus himself? It was the only way he could have defeated me so easily. He abused our bond to ensure I was subdued. Projected conflicting thoughts to force me to react differently to his spells. And in the end… he took my wand and locked me in here. Exterminated all our allies, so no one would ever know that my so-called ‘Reign of Terror’ was, in truth… ours.”
James swallowed hard.
“That was before I was even born.”
“Understand this: it was never about you. It was always about him. The Greater Good, but never for the world… always for himself.”
“Is that why this place is so…”
“Comfortable?” Grindelwald laughed with scorn. “By Morgana, Albus ‘couldn’t live with himself’ if his destined mate wasn’t surrounded by comfort and every desire fulfilled. Except, of course, the desire for freedom.”
“And the bond?!”
“I block it. Constantly. Decades of practice ensuring the only thing my destined mate ever feels from me is hatred and disgust, and the certainty that our bloodline, Grindelwald–Dumbledore, will die with me. I refuse to step into the Boat to the next world before that damned manipulator.”
“Dumbledore does not understand… mercy.”
“He keeps us imprisoned, James, to maintain control of his narrative. And you and Lily are only alive because you still possess something he hasn’t managed to take. Be it access to vaults, political influence, or something hidden in your blood. Albus wants something.”
“And how hasn’t he taken it yet?”
“Because he has no time. He gained too much power far too quickly. There are too many eyes on him now, and he can’t disappear from public view long enough to break you.”
Gellert stood and walked to the table, where a fresh edition of The Daily Prophet awaited them, delivered that morning.
“The school year has begun, so he has even less time now, even after losing the position of Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. But from what I see… he’ll be losing something else soon. Which is why… we must act quickly to free Lily Riddle from her prison and get you out of here.”
On the table, the headline of the day seemed to gleam in oversized letters, a provocation to all.
DUMBLEDORE SPREADS PANIC WITHOUT EVIDENCE. MINISTRY GUARANTEES COMPLETE SAFETY.
Breakfast in the Great Hall had promised to be calm and comfortable on that Thursday morning.
The students’ first day of lessons began with a radiant sky and a pleasant breeze drifting in through the open doors. At least, until the owl post arrived and with it, the newest edition of The Daily Prophet.
Many students had written to their parents the night before, and it was no surprise to anyone that at least one parent had contacted Rita Skeeter, allowing her to publish something so quickly. Hermione spread her paper open over her food at once, catching Harry’s and Ron’s attention. The three of them leaned in, heads together, to read the article.
DUMBLEDORE CREATES PANIC WITHOUT EVIDENCE. MINISTRY GUARANTEES COMPLETE SAFETY.
By Rita Skeeter, the quill nobody can silence
Hogwarts — The school year has begun. Yesterday, hundreds of parents waved goodbye to their children on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, returning home expecting that it would take at least a few days before receiving any letters about classes and how things were going.
But instead, many received owls late at night — and, shocked, correctly assumed that the information their children had sent ought to be shared with the British wizarding community. Naturally, they contacted this reporter, knowing the dedication I have to ensuring my readers always receive the very best information.
My dear readers, I write these lines mere minutes before my deadline, so that everyone may read what I spent the entire night trying to uncover, after the owls and Floo calls I received.
Last night, during the traditional opening feast, the Headmaster, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Order of Merlin First Class, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, shocked students and staff by announcing that Sirius Orion Black, imprisoned under the suspicion of betraying the Potters to the Dark Lord (important to note that, even after weeks of searching, I have still been unable to locate transcripts of his trial. One must ask: what was Black convicted of?), had escaped from Azkaban.
However, our Ministry of Magic reaffirms that Black remains imprisoned under strict supervision and that nothing whatsoever has changed. Internal sources in Azkaban confirm that no alarm was triggered. The last time that happened was roughly a decade ago, and that “no cells are empty.”
But if that is true…
Why would the Headmaster of the most prestigious educational institution in our country make such a claim?
Security experts consulted by this reporter say that for any prisoner to escape without Azkaban itself noticing, it would require extraordinarily advanced magic or internal cooperation.
The Ministry, irritated, issued an official statement at dawn:
“Sirius Black is securely contained. The Ministry regrets any panic caused by unverified information. We reaffirm to the public that there is nothing to fear, and remind everyone that Mr. Dumbledore no longer serves on the Wizengamot, by order of the Lady Magic Herself, after attempting to force us to acknowledge this alleged escape.”
Therefore, the question remains:
Why would Albus Dumbledore choose to spread fear among children on the very first night of the school year?
Some will say the Headmaster is overwhelmed, collecting too many titles and responsibilities.
Others whisper that his recent loss in the Wizengamot has left him unstable, and now he attempts to regain influence through the oldest method of all: public panic.
Meanwhile, the Ministry, firm, transparent, and aligned with Lady Magic’s will, remains categorical: there was no escape, there is no danger, and there is no justification for premature alarm.
Parents interviewed by this reporter expressed confusion and irritation.
“If the Ministry says there was no escape, I believe the Ministry,” stated the mother of a second-year Slytherin girl. “But why would the Headmaster say something like that without certainty? It only frightens the children.”
And that, dear readers, may be the most alarming question of all.
Because if there was no escape…
If there is no danger…
If everything is under control…
Why is Dumbledore acting as though the wizarding world is on the brink of chaos?
Hogwarts did not respond to any attempts at contact before this edition closed.
Dumbledore, as always, remains unavailable, though, curiously, very available for delivering dramatic speeches to hundreds of vulnerable students.
Until the truth comes out, the public must rely on the only institution that has presented facts, documents, and stability: the Ministry of Magic.
And this newspaper promises to keep investigating the abrupt, contradictory and, perhaps, dangerously irresponsible declarations of the Hogwarts Headmaster.
Because when the safety of our children is at stake… there is no room for one man’s guesswork.
A strange silence hung over the Gryffindor table when the reading ended. Not a normal silence, but tense, electric, as though everyone were caught between shock and the desperate urge to comment.
Ron, inevitably, broke it.
“Mate…” he blinked at the newspaper, as though expecting it to burst into flames. “Rita didn’t even need to go to bed to wake up choosing violence.”
Hermione snorted, folding the paper.
“She always chooses violence, Ronald. I’m surprised that this time, apparently, she actually did real journalism!”
Harry said nothing. His anger toward the Headmaster would have been painfully obvious if he dared utter a sound, and Severus’s warning, that they needed to be careful of Dumbledore, was still fresh in his mind.
At the Ravenclaw table, Cho Chang, the Seeker of their Quidditch team, and three classmates whispered intensely, pointing at parts of the article as if it were academic material.
In Slytherin, Draco Malfoy read the paper calmly, not allowing a single thought to slip across his expression. In his mind, he was already planning the letter he would send to his father requesting more details even though he already knew quite a lot. Perhaps Severus, his godfather, could offer additional insight.
Beside him, Blaise, ever elegant, smiled in a way that made it perfectly clear how much he was enjoying the chaos, quietly satisfied that his owl had reached his mother swiftly, and imagining the network of parents she must have contacted afterwards.
Hufflepuff, meanwhile, was torn between genuine worry and pure irritation mainly because the word “panic” had appeared three separate times.
And then…
Something in the atmosphere changed.
Several students lifted their heads at the same time, reacting to something at the staff table, a growing, tangible discomfort in the air.
Professor McGonagall, her mouth so tight it nearly vanished, read the headline for the fourth time. Her expression was the perfect portrait of someone torn between biting a hole through the table or marching straight to the Headmaster’s office.
Flitwick muttered irritably under his breath:
“That’s what happens when one uses the Great Hall to give unverified information to children…”
Pomona Sprout trembled with indignation, sniffing like someone moments away from giving detention to both the newspaper and the Headmaster. Simultaneously.
And Snape…
Severus folded the paper slowly, each movement precise, elegant and furious. The entire room seemed to chill slightly as he inhaled deeply, another adult visibly fighting the urge to storm the Headmaster’s tower. Or poison someone. Preferably poison the Headmaster.
But the detail that drew the most attention, the one that made even Fred and George exchange glances, was the empty chair at the centre of the High Table.
Dumbledore was absent from breakfast.
How convenient.
McGonagall was the first to stand. She straightened her hat and cleared her throat.
“Do not let The Daily Prophet affect your day. The first lesson will begin shortly, and we do not want to start the year with delays.”
Then she and the other Heads of House began distributing schedules to each student.
Harry sighed as he received his.
“Brilliant. Thursday morning is independent study. This year is going to be a nightmare.”
Fred grinned, George mirroring him.
“Oh, Potter…”
“…That’s music to our ears.”
Before they could elaborate, Remus passed the Gryffindor table with a crumpled copy of the Prophet in his hand. He looked visibly shaken, not devastated, but marked by a mixture of exhaustion and hurt. He approached Minerva slowly.
“Did you read it?” he asked quietly. Harry, Hermione and Ron could hear because they were closest.
Minerva nodded reluctantly.
“Minnie…” the fine lines around Minerva’s eyes softened at the old nickname he and his friends had used as students. “Is it true? About Sirius’s trial?”
Minerva hesitated. Only for a second but anyone paying attention noticed the doubt.
Snape approached silently, like a shadow.
“Apparently, yes. It was a chaotic period after… that night.” She cleared her throat, her voice wavering. “There isn’t much clarity about… anything. And not having the Wizengamot transcripts is extremely serious. Dumbledore has been irresponsible not only with last night’s announcement, but with everything he has done these past few years.”
Remus nodded faintly.
He didn’t need to say he was worried, it was obvious.
He also didn’t say that he believed Sirius was innocent but his eyes, for the first time, held a clarity they rarely possessed.
Before he could step away, Snape muttered something too quietly for the students (who were obviously eavesdropping) to hear.
This, naturally, sparked a heated argument between Snape and McGonagall about responsibility, the school’s reputation, and terrified children.
The words “irresponsible” and “manipulative” were definitely heard.
Even Flitwick, passing by to hand out Ravenclaw timetables, raised his voice.
And for the first time since arriving for the new school year, the students felt a deeply uncomfortable realisation settle over them:
Something was truly, undeniably wrong.
And Rita Skeeter’s article, Lady Magic protect her, had merely been the match dropped into a room full of gunpowder.
For the first time, the Gryffindor third years had a free period in the middle of their class timetable, and while laughter and noise were expected, they had been instructed by McGonagall at the end of the previous year that any free period during the school day meant individual study in a specific room in the Library. This room was separated by House, and all students with a free period were required to go there and bring their study materials.
The ten Gryffindors present were surprised to finally see the Individual Study Room. Next to the door hung a board with the rules, and Hermione was already there, reading every possible detail.
“Why is it only available from third year onward?” she muttered, scanning each line.
“Probably because we’ve got more subjects to study now and need more focus,” Parvati replied, stepping up beside her and reading along. She pointed to a line.
“But even so, it says group study should still be done in the main library area. And if you’re studying with students from another House.”
Harry chose to ignore the two of them and sat at a round table beside Lily Moon, who was rereading the newspaper for the fifth time.
“If it says here that he didn’t escape,” Lily Moon said aloud, “why is Dumbledore claiming the opposite?”
“Probably so he doesn’t have to answer other questions.” Isobel MacDougal replied, pulling out her summer homework to review it and make sure everything was correct.
“Because if Lady Magic interfered and removed him from the Supreme Court, it means he did something very serious, or several small things.”
“Hermione.” Lavender called. “What did you put for question twelve in Potions, the one about which plants from the Solanaceae family are appropriate ingredients for potions?”
“Belladonna and mandrakes are on the list,” Harry answered absent-mindedly, grabbing his Care of Magical Creatures book and trying to figure out how to open it properly.
Everyone went silent, staring at him.
He looked up at his classmates.
“What?”
“Since when can you answer a Potions question?” Neville asked, stunned. “You’re worse than I am! And I’m only slightly better because I understand plants! And you just answered, partially, fine, but you just gave an answer about plants in potions!”
“Calm down, Neville. The world’s not ending because of that,” Dean laughed, giving him a consoling pat on the back.
With Hermione’s watchful gaze upon them, they finally began studying, each one focusing on a different subject, either reviewing forgotten material or preparing for their afternoon classes.
When the lunch bell rang, the students dragged themselves towards the Great Hall as though they had spent the entire morning duelling rather than pretending they had been studying (except for the sixth years. they actually had been in Defence Dueling).
Even after a full morning, the air was still heavy. Not nearly as heavy as McGonagall’s irritated glare as she handed yet another timetable to Neville when he hurried after her at the staff table.
“Mr Longbottom, please try not to lose this timetable before the end of the week.”
“I’ll be more careful, Professor, I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“Longbottom, you have lost your toad three times since you boarded the train yesterday.”
“That’s just Trevor’s free nature, Professor.” Neville gave her a cheerful grin before running back to his seat.
Flitwick, meanwhile, was speaking quietly with a few of the teachers, clearly uncomfortable. Sprout alternated between worry and indignation. Snape still looked… furious. Not with the students. With the entire situation.
And Dumbledore, of course, remained conveniently absent.
Harry, Hermione and Ron sat halfway down the Gryffindor table. Lunch appeared seconds later: meat pies, salads, and pumpkin juice, but no one seemed particularly hungry.
“At least we’ve got Hagrid after lunch.” Hermione said, attempting to sound cheerful. “Followed by Transfiguration.”
“And I’ve still got Divination afterwards.” Ron groaned. “I should’ve done what Harry did and switched subjects.”
“What do you reckon Professor Lupin’s lessons will be like?” Lee Jordan asked, sitting down near them. “Fifth-year DADA isn’t until next week.”
“We had him this morning,” Ginny said as she arrived with Colin Creevey, looking for a place to sit.
“I thought he was really nice,” Colin replied simply, shrugging. “You can tell he knows what he’s talking about, unlike Professor Lockhart. And he’s calmer.”
“No need to talk about him.” Ginny finished, eating enthusiastically. “It’s just a shame all our lessons today are with Slytherin.”
“Did anyone have the pleasure of a class with Snape and his delightful mood?” Seamus asked sarcastically.
Katie Bell’s grimace was answer enough.
“He nearly deducted fifty points from someone because she said the Headmaster’s name too loudly.”
“But that’s normal for him,” Fred argued, not understanding the issue.
“It was Veronica Mulciber. From Slytherin.”
Silence fell over the group, several heads turning to stare at the Potions Master.
“Sev is really angry” Hermione noted in their twin bond.
“Do you think this affects our plans, or gives Dumbledore a chance to find out more about us?”
“We’ll make sure tonight, when we visit him.”
“We need to focus!” Hermione said aloud, drawing the attention of the students nearby.
“Our first lesson with Hagrid is in a bit. We need to make sure he feels confident and that his first day teaching goes brilliantly.”
But even the prospect of a class with Hagrid couldn’t fully dispel the tension. Not entirely. The entire Hall seemed to be operating on two simultaneous layers: ordinary school routine on the surface… and a silent political earthquake rumbling underneath.
And for the first time, more students than just the Slytherins found themselves wondering: If Hogwarts couldn’t trust its own Headmaster… whom could it trust?
A massive shadow swept across the Great Hall.
A huge and majestic eagle owl, wings spanning perfectly, posture aristocratic, descended like a blade onto the Slytherin table, landing in front of Draco and extending its leg.
The noise in the Hall didn’t stop entirely, but it dimmed, as though everyone felt the shift in the air. Draco froze. If his father was sending anything in the middle of the day, it was urgent and important.
He quickly untied the emerald-green velvet ribbon holding the letter closed and unfolded it to read whatever his father had to say.
For a single second, Draco went even paler, if such a thing were possible. Then he turned grey. The air in the Hall suddenly felt still.
At the Gryffindor table, Harry felt something snap inside his chest. A dry crack, almost audible, but coming from within like his instincts yanking on an emergency brake. His whole body reacted before his mind, a visceral warning, hot and uncomfortable. He didn’t know what it was; he only knew it was wrong. Very wrong.
He had to clench his fist under the table to stop himself from standing up and wandering aimlessly across the Hall.
Draco folded the letter hastily, nearly tearing it, and tucked it inside his robes, into a pickpocket-proof pocket. A letter from his father was the sort of missive that should never fall into the wrong hands, even if decoded.
Theo watched him with one eyebrow raised, while Blaise tilted his head, observing closely.
“Any chance you’ve inherited your mother’s family metamorphmagus talent?” he asked lightly, teasing. “Because you look quite charming in grey, but you could try changing to another colour.”
“Blaise,” Draco took a deep breath and stared at his friend. “I wish for you to remain silent for five minutes.”
Blaise simply crossed his arms, offended.
Draco lifted his chin and returned to what he had been doing, his Mask falling neatly back into place.
Harry couldn’t look away. The Slytherins were far too interesting today.
Then Dumbledore walked in, smiling as if the world were perfectly in order.
Brilliant smile.
Eyes twinkling.
The posture of a man who looked ready to start reciting poetry that no one had requested.
The entire staff table froze.
McGonagall looked ready to launch into some speech about courage and virtue. Sprout muttered something that sounded like an ancient swear word. Flitwick raised his hands as though preparing to duel. In Muggle style. And Snape… Snape simply turned his face away, inhaling deeply, clearly choosing between leaving the room or committing murder.
Dumbledore raised his hands, asking for silence.
“My dear students…” he said, far too jovially.
“This morning some… baseless rumours were circulated. The Prophet, unfortunately, is spreading political propaganda aimed at…”
Hermione, feeling the subtle flow of magic, was tense, holding herself back from reacting to the compulsion spell and…
“Is that a memory-altering charm?” Harry asked, receiving the same warnings from the Castle.
Hermione didn’t answer. Instead, she sent to the Castle her desire to protect everyone in the Great Hall from the Headmaster’s spells. Protection and emotional magic were subtle enough to go unnoticed by most.
It was enough for Minerva to slam her hand on the table.
The table shook.
“Excuse me, Headmaster,” she said, with false politeness and venom dripping from her voice.
“The entire school witnessed your speech yesterday. Please do not treat our students as fools.”
Flitwick, flushed with irritation, rose in his chair after sending Hermione a discreet look of approval.
“Rumours, Professor Dumbledore, that exist only because you yourself created them!”
Sprout folded her arms, staring at Dumbledore as though he were a weed that needed to be pulled out by the root.
Snape merely laughed. A short, dark, poisonous sound.
“Indeed, Headmaster… If anyone is creating panic without cause, it is not the Prophet.”
The Hall erupted into whispers.
For a moment, Dumbledore seemed to falter. But he quickly resumed smiling.
“You must trust…”
“Trust is built on transparency,” McGonagall cut in.
“Something which is sorely lacking here.”
Students exchanged stunned looks. It was the first time they had ever seen the teachers not merely disagreeing with the Headmaster but confronting him in public.
Harry tried to breathe deeply. The air felt heavy. His skin itched with warning. His heart beat in an odd rhythm, as though trying to catch something he couldn’t understand.
The tension rose.
Higher.
Higher.
Until the Great Hall clock struck the hour.
The Castle’s magic vibrated in response, marking the end of lunch. Conversations stopped abruptly, as though someone had cast Silencio across the room. McGonagall inhaled sharply.
“Your next lesson begins in five minutes,” she announced, attempting to regain composure. “Do not be late.”
All the students rushed to their feet, eager to avoid being caught in the middle of this confrontation.
“Bloody hell…” George Weasley’s voice could be heard clearly. “And it’s not even the end of the first day!”
Slowly, the third-year Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs made their way to Hagrid’s hut. The walk was marked by the same tense atmosphere that hovered over both groups. After the lunch-time chaos, no one was exactly ready for Care of Magical Creatures let alone for a book that tried to take off any limb that dared come too close to its cover.
Hagrid, however, stood outside waiting for them, beaming, holding a thick sack that shook with enough force to make his arm jerk. In fact, he had the kind of happiness the trio recognised instantly as one thing only: trouble.
“Good mornin’, third-years, an’ welcome ter Care o’ Magical Creatures! Come on, come on. Now… anyone know why studyin’ creatures is important? What’s it gonna change in yer education?”
Several students answered at once.
“So we don’t get eaten!”
“To learn how to look after them!”
“To pass our O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s!”
“To understand natural magic!”
Hagrid laughed at each answer, until Hermione huffed and raised her hand.
“Well, Hagrid, creatures are a fundamental part of the magical ecosystem. Understanding how they live, think, and interact with magic helps prevent accidents, protects endangered species, and even allows us to better understand magic itself. Many of them influence rituals, potions, artefacts, and even the wands we use. So, quite often, we need to study creatures to develop properly in whatever profession we choose.”
“That’s righ’, Hermione. Ten points ter Gryffindor!” he said with a deep laugh. “So, today, class, I thought we’d start with summat magnificent! But Professor McGonagall said ter start small… so plans changed. Today’s creature’s easy, fun, small, an’ clever as anything!” he announced, patting the sack… which smacked him back. “We’re talkin’ about the Jarvey!”
The sack swore.
“Let me out, you walking wardrobe!”
The students stepped back. Harry frowned at the sack. The feeling from earlier was still there, but softer now, more manageable. He could focus on the lesson without the urge to bolt.
Well… the urge might come back, depending on what came out of that sack.
Hermione watched with assessing eyes, and Ron muttered,
“If that thing bites like the book, I’m running.”
Hagrid opened the sack.
Five Jarveys shot out like springs, sprinting around the paddock, climbing stumps, sniffing students, and observing everyone as if they were professional critics of human nature. Hagrid spread his arms, proud.
“The Jarvey is a distant relative o’ the weasel, so they look a bit similar. Yeh can tell ’em apart because the Jarvey’s much bigger, much faster, and…”
One Jarvey dashed between the students’ legs, shouting at Justin Finch-Fletchley.
“Take off that stupid hat, scarecrow!”
Hagrid sighed happily. “Much more talkative.”
Hermione raised her hand, ready to ask a question, but the Jarvey answered before Hagrid could call on her.
“Obviously we talk. Surprised, are you? Five points to Ravenclaw for not bein’ here.”
The students laughed nervously.
Hagrid went on,
“They tend ter swear, but they don’ mean no harm. Jus’ how they speak. Sharp as knives, they are. Some can even do proper jobs: gettin’ rid o’ gnomes, helpin’ with searches; an’ they feel emotions real quick.”
Harry swallowed.
A Jarvey was already eyeing him, sniffing the air around him.
“This one here’s about to bite someone!”
“I’m not bitin’ anyone!” it protested.
“Yet!” came the reply before the creature ran off to bother another student.
Hagrid continued explaining.
“Open yer books ter page forty-eight! Lovely illustration there o’ Jarvey vocalisations an’ how ter improve their vocabulary!”
Silence fell so fast that even the animals stopped to watch. Then dozens of voices erupted, all meaning the same thing:
“We can’t open the book!”
Students held up their books like bombs about to explode: tied with ropes, belts, fabric strips. Neville tried to open his, but the book took his hand hostage.
“It’s trying to eat me! HAGRID!”
“Ah, yeh’ve got stroke the spine!” Hagrid hurried over, prising the book off him the way one would rescue a cat tangled in a carpet.
“No one told us that when we bought them,” Ron complained, as his book tried to devour his entire bag.
“I DID tell yeh! It’s in the instructions, big letters: ‘Stroke the spine before openin’!” Hagrid said, offended.
Hermione wrestled with her own book, which thrashed like a demonic chihuahua.
“I did read that, Hagrid! But when I tried to stroke the spine it tried to rip off my finger!”
“Ah, yeh jus’ need the right touch.” Hagrid said, taking her book and stroking the spine with long, firm motions. The book purred. Actually purred. Then opened sweetly.
“See? Easy as pie!”
Hermione took it back with the expression of someone personally offended.
The class tried to mimic him with far less success.
Covers snapping.
Shouts.
Swearing (from both sides).
Zacharias Smith received a “You walking turnip!” from a passing Jarvey.
In the middle of the chaos, the Jarvey who seemed most attentive climbed a stump and began narrating the lesson like a sports commentator:
“Look there! Blonde girl with light fingers… she’s got it open! YES! Now the ginger lad…oh, he’s lost his fingers! Nearly! Try again, boy!”
Ron, who nearly had lost his fingers, replied,
“Shut up!”
“Polite one, I like him,” the Jarvey said, clicking his tongue.
Hagrid ignored half the chaos and continued,
“Now that yeh have opened yer books…”
“I HAVEN’T, Hagrid!” Hannah Abbott cried, as her book barked at her.
“Now that most o’ yeh have opened yer books, yeh can read about vocal styles. Jarveys pick up swearin’ real fast, but yeh can also train ’em for proper messages: warnin’ about intruders, guidin’ folks in forests…”
Hermione nodded, fascinated.
“They’re really very intelligent. Can they interpret emotions?”
The Jarvey on the stump replied,
“Better than you lot, mini-humans.” It pointed its snout at Harry. “That one’s actin’ like he’s got a broomstick shoved up his…”
“Yes, they can, Hermione!” Hagrid cut in loudly, trying to grab it by the tail. “Right, everyone: observe the Jarveys an’ take notes on the different ways they talk. Off yeh go!”
Hagrid set them to observe Jarvey behaviour and note different vocalisations. The creatures, of course, did not cooperate.
“Oi, plaits girl! What’re yeh starin’ at? Never seen anyone this handsome?” one said to Susan Bones.
“Mind yer step, big man, or you’ll make a pancake out o’ someone short!” another called as Hagrid moved around the groups of seated students.
“Ugly book! Stupid book! Smelly book!” another shouted, hitting Dean’s pages.
“Make sure yeh write down all my good qualities: meaning all of ’em,” another told Hermione, leaning over her parchment.
The last one, the commentator, dodged Hagrid’s attempts to catch him while narrating each move.
“Come ’ere… OI… come back ’ere, yeh little…!”
Half the class laughed, the other half tried to understand what on earth was happening.
By the end of the lesson, Hagrid managed to gather the creatures with great effort and many creative insults directed at his beard. “Tha’s enough outta you lot—back in the sack—watch the beard! OI! No bitin’!” When the bell rang, announcing the end of the period, the class was sweaty, exhausted, and still laughing.
They packed their things and headed back to the castle, buzzing about the fun and chaotic lesson. Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchanged satisfied looks: Hagrid’s first lesson with them had been a complete success (and an education in new swearwords).
As the two Houses parted upon reaching the Central Courtyard, the Gryffindors remained on the ground floor, heading towards classroom 1B for Transfiguration, while the Hufflepuffs climbed the stairs on their way to the Library.
They soon found the Ravenclaws, who were also waiting to be admitted. Professor McGonagall opened her door in complete silence, and each student took their seat, still murmuring lightly about Hagrid’s lesson. Once the door closed, however, stillness fell upon the room. The atmosphere felt almost ceremonial. The Ravenclaws already had quills and parchment at the ready, books open, wands placed neatly beside them.
McGonagall crossed the room, robes immaculate, expression severe, and a sharp, calculating glint in her eyes as though she were deciding, at that very moment, what sort of year she would have with this class.
“Good afternoon. Books open to page twenty-five. Today we shall cover the theoretical portion so that, on Tuesday, we may apply the spells you will learn today. We shall now begin Functional Transfiguration.”
Her gaze swept the classroom in one precise movement.
“Unlike decorative transformations, in which you learnt to turn small objects into other small objects, Functional Transfiguration requires that the resulting item be usable. Therefore, intention, control, and a clear sense of purpose are essential. Proper visualisation of the object is paramount.”
With a small gesture, a porcelain teapot appeared upon her desk.
“You will not merely learn to alter the shape…”
She touched the teapot with her wand; it twisted, shrank, stretched, and settled into a wide cup with a reinforced handle.
“…but to ensure stability, durability, and structural coherence.”
The cup rested at the centre of the desk with a soft thud.
The students watched, enthralled.
“Professor?” Padma Patil raised her hand. “Is it necessary for the objects to have some sort of connection? Like a teapot turning into a cup?”
“Five points to Ravenclaw, Miss Patil. Yes. A connection is required. Next lesson, you will begin with an item similar to the one you intend to transfigure. With practice, you will begin to recognise connections between items that appear entirely unrelated eventually enabling you to transfigure a rock, for instance, into an umbrella.”
“Miss Granger.”
“So… this magic is different from Conjuration, but mastering it will help us when we get to that level?” Hermione asked, having raised her hand after reading ahead in the chapter.
“Five points to Gryffindor. Very well observed, Miss Granger. Everything you learn now forms the foundation for the next level, for the next type of magic. Mastering Functional Transfiguration is therefore crucial.”
The students continued reading while McGonagall occasionally added a detail or demonstrated the conceptual connection between pairs of objects.
Shortly before the end of the lesson, she called their attention.
“For next lesson, you will be required to transform a cardboard box into a set of drawers. I want two foots of parchment explaining visualisation, the connection between the two items, the shape-stabilising charm, its importance, and two additional spells relevant to this specific transfiguration. And I do not want an inch more.”
She finished this with a pointed look at Hermione, who attempted her best expression of innocent confusion.
Then McGonagall lifted a cardboard box for all to see.
“The final intention is for your box to look like this.”
With a smooth flick of her wand, the box lengthened, reinforced its frame, and glided across the desk, opening itself to reveal small, perfectly aligned inner drawers.
The whole room breathed an “oooh”.
“And before you all leave, Gryffindors, do not forget to hand me your Hogsmeade permission forms, duly signed by your Guardians, at our next lesson. I shall see you all on Tuesday.”
The students began gathering their belongings.
“And…” she continued, just as everyone stood to head to their next class, “…for those taking Divination… do bear in mind that it is a most… subjective art, and that our professor possesses her own eccentricities and particular methods of initiating a new class. Keep that in mind, for those enrolled in Divination.”
The group left, confused, splitting into smaller clusters, some Ravenclaws heading to Muggle Studies, others towards the Library.
Harry, Hermione and Lily Moon, the only Gryffindors not taking Divination next period, bid farewell to the rest of their House and followed Padma, Sue Li, Lisa Turpin and Terry Boot to the Library, all deciding (Harry protesting heavily) to begin McGonagall’s assignment since they had free time until dinner.
“Don’t forget we still have to go to Severus’s quarters after dinner” Hermione reminded him.
“And I’d just forgotten…” Harry muttered, shoulders dropping.
The seven students sat quietly at a large round table in the centre of the Library, already filled with others deeply absorbed in their studies. Each pulled out their roll of parchment and, slowly, began their work.
The Great Hall buzzed with the comforting noise of cutlery, overlapping conversations and exhausted students sharing their first impressions of the new school year. The events of the morning and lunchtime were, apparently, already forgotten as everyone ate and laughed with their friends. The candles floated lazily overhead, as if they too were tired.
Harry and Hermione had just served themselves when, out of nowhere, Ron dropped onto the bench between them with such force that Harry’s pumpkin juice sloshed dangerously in his cup.
“She’s completely mad!” Ron declared before even serving himself, flinging his bag onto the floor with a thud. “Completely. Now I understand McGonagall’s warning.”
Hermione raised an eyebrow as she adjusted her plate.
“What happened in Divination?”
Ron opened his eyes wide, scandalised.
“Hermione, she predicted Harry’s death in my tea leaves!”
Harry blinked.
“What? But she doesn’t even know me…”
“EXACTLY!” Ron exclaimed, pointing dramatically at Harry as if he had just proven his point beyond question. “You weren’t even there and she still managed to predict you were going to die! ‘I see shadows and a tragic fate for your oldest companion.’ You are my oldest companion!! ‘An imminent loss, my poor red-haired boy…’”
Hermione choked mid-laugh.
“‘My poor red-haired boy’? She really said that?”
“She did!” Ron replied, still indignant. “I just wanted to learn how to read tea leaves and she’s already killing off my friends!”
“Well, at least she’s warned you far enough in advance for you to prepare your mourning robes and gather the materials for the passing ritual.” Harry said, shrugging with a small laugh tugging at his lips.
“And you’re still joking about it!” Ron complained, voice going shrill.
“I have to, after Hermione made me study and start my homework.”
“You two started the homework without me?? I want to die!!”
“Oi!” Harry smacked him lightly on the head. “I get to go first! Get in line and trust your Divination professor. And if I really die, please bury me with Hagrid’s book. That thing looks like it wants to eat everything it sees anyway…”
Most of the Gryffindors around them laughed, realising Harry wasn’t the least bit bothered by the professor’s prediction. The atmosphere at Hogwarts was, at last, one of peace, calm and quiet.
Notes:
Don’t ask questions I don’t have answers for.
Not even I know how I managed to write 6k+ words in a single day (I may or may not have neglected work a tiny bit, but no one asked anything).
Must’ve been the 3k hits!!I genuinely spent five days building the full timetable for EVERY year of EVERY House.
So now that it’s finally done, I fully intend to make the most of it.But what did you think of this chapter??
Chapter 12: Azkaban Sends Kisses (and Ravens)
Summary:
A second day of lessons, and some unlikely balances begin to take shape some within the classroom, others emerging from far darker places. Amid temperamental potions, fears carefully concealed, and unexpected messages, Hogwarts learns that peace shows up only when it pleases… and vanishes the moment the raven arrives.
Notes:
A small reminder that Hadrian and Hania will still be referred to as Harry and Hermione whenever they’re among people who don’t know the truth.
Also, keep in mind that the class schedule has been completely altered compared to Canon, so don’t expect things to follow the books.
Also...usually italics in full conversation between H/H means that they are usin their bond.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Quiet. A word that rarely applies to the corridors of Hogwarts, yet oddly enough it perfectly described Severus Potter-Prince’s quarters that night. The silence was warm, domestic… and precisely because of that, it was slightly unsettling for Severus himself, who was still getting used to being a Guardian… a father.
Hadrian was sprawled on the sofa, face buried in a dark-green cushion, his hair in complete rebellion against the laws of physics, a trait he had very clearly inherited through his blood adoption by James. Hania, meanwhile, sat cross-legged in an armchair, reading a book she had “found lying around” the room (Severus’s not-so-subtle attempt at sparking her curiosity). And Severus pretended to be marking summer homework, though he had actually been scratching the same corner of the same piece of parchment for five minutes straight.
They were… talking. About their day, about classes. About absolutely nothing and, at the same time, everything that mattered. They were being a family.
“Hagrid’s lesson was brilliant,” Hadrian remarked. “Even with the insults from those little furry beasts. I learnt some new swear words…”
“Which I sincerely hope you will not be using, Hadrian,” Severus replied. “Jarveys are highly intelligent creatures. And I believe that if Hagrid’s lessons continue on a positive track, he’ll be able to show your class some rather more impressive animals.”
“How so?” Hania asked, raising her eyes over the top of her book.
“Hagrid possesses a rather extensive collection of creatures, ranging from Class X all the way up to the highest classification the Ministry grants.”
“Acromantula, for example, is XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX,” Hadrian chipped in, snickering. “Only Hagrid would think befriending them and keeping a nest of Acromantulas in the Forbidden Forest is perfectly fine.”
“I am choosing not to ask how you know that, mostly because I have a feeling I will become extremely angry and develop a sudden urge to hex both the Headmaster and Hagrid.” Severus muttered. He was not prepared for parenthood to feel quite this… alarming.
Hadrian only shrugged, still laughing.
“Look on the bright side, dad, Ron and I are still alive.”
Severus shook his head. Hadrian had spent the last three days insisting on calling him dad at the most inconvenient moments and what worried him most was that he was beginning to like it.
“Speaking of magical creatures… we need to discuss your studies,” Severus said.
“Yes, yes…” Hania mumbled, waving him off and returning to her reading.
“Teenagers…” Severus sighed internally, pinching the bridge of his nose.
‘Adorable, aren’t they?’ James murmured through their bond. It happened rarely, but Severus cherished every moment he could still hear his mate’s voice.
‘You do realise this is partly your fault.’ Severus teased back, receiving only waves of affection and warmth in return.
“Right,” Hadrian said, glancing sideways at his sister. “We spent the whole last month reading about Veela and the kinds of magic we can do. And about the importance of understanding that we are Dark Veela.”
“Exactly. I’m not going to repeat everything we’ve already discussed, but…”
He was cut off by Hania slamming her book shut.
“You’re finally going to explain about mates, then?”
He inhaled deeply. Once. Twice.
“That topic will come in due course. First you must understand yourselves before you…”
“Yeah… that’s not going to work,” she interrupted again.
She’s just a teenager. Just a teenager.
Severus leaned back in his chair.
“A mate is a soul-bond,” he began. “It is someone who complements you, strengthens you and helps you become your best self.” He brushed a hand lightly across his chest. “Someone with creature blood may bond with another descendant of a magical creature… or with a fully human partner. And, as in the case of James and me, two completely human wizards may also be soul-bound.”
“Being bonded means always being connected though not like magical twins, such as you both and the Weasleys. That connection is… far less precise. We share sensations, emotions and, on occasion, thoughts. Distance affects things… our health, danger… even whether the other is somewhere protected. It’s why I cannot locate James.”
Hadrian and Hania both straightened, giving him their full attention now.
“We’ve spoken about your magical maturation,” Severus continued. “It happens first when you’re seven; again at eleven, which is why that is Hogwarts’ starting age; then at fourteen, when you gain your final surge of power and physical growth; and lastly at seventeen, when you reach full magical adulthood. After that, you continue to improve through study and practice, but never again with the dramatic impact of a maturation surge.”
“At fourteen, your body begins to recognise — truly recognise — your mate. The living being to whom your magic sings. That is why your test in Gringotts listed your partners as blocked. They exist… but your magic is not yet ready to acknowledge them. When it is ready, your bodies will know.”
“For creature-born witches and wizards, the signs are different for each lineage. Which is exactly why you must first understand your own magic. How will you recognise the signs next year if you still don’t know what normal feels like for you?”
Hania flushed, clearly realising Severus had been trying to make her see this from the beginning.
“Sorry… I only…”
“I know, Hania.” Severus softened his voice. “And I am not angry. I simply want you to trust the pace I am setting. I need to research much of this myself. I do not have creature blood and this knowledge should have come from your father. Tom, being a member of a Dark Veela Clan, which is extraordinarily rare, likely prepared everything for your upbringing, just as Lucius…”
He stopped, completely frozen, staring into the fireplace as though only just realising something painfully obvious.
“Sev…?”
“Dad…?”
“What would you think,” he began slowly, recovering from the shock, “about inviting Draco to join your lessons? He is Veela as well. He can explain what I cannot.”
And he’ll know how to contact a Clan… the thought slipped in like a cold draft.
“Well…” Hadrian shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t know…”
“I think that’s a brilliant idea!” Hania beamed. Draco was someone she could bombard with questions until she finally understood every aspect of her creature blood. Her mind was already sorting her doubts in order of most urgent.
And then, in the middle of that small moment of quiet discovery, belonging, and the simple comfort of family, a hard sound struck the window.
Not the gentle tap of an owl.
A metallic knock. Sharp. Rhythmic.
As though the night itself had arrived to deliver a verdict.
Severus stood at once and opened the enchanted window that allowed post owls into the lower floors of the dungeons. Hadrian and Hania exchanged a look. The air itself seemed to grow colder.
A large raven, its feathers blacker than the deepest night, slipped soundlessly into the room. Its wings beat the air without making so much as a whisper. Severus visibly paled. The raven landed on his shoulder and lifted one leg, revealing a black envelope tied to it.
His hands shook as he removed the missive. The bird departed instantly, leaving behind the icy dread it carried with it.
The envelope was as dark as funeral cloth. The wax seal, crimson as fresh blood, bore a raven with outstretched wings gripping a heavy chain.
Severus broke the seal.
Hania and Hadrian watched him, breaths held.
And he read:
“Professor Severus Snape,
By order of the Azkaban Penitentiary Administration, and in light of new developments discovered within this respected institution, it has come to our attention that you are presently serving as the Legal and Magical Guardian of the minor wizard Harry James Potter.
Due to the recent dissemination of imprecise information to the press, which has questioned the integrity of our institution, it is our responsibility to inform the victim of Prisoner 396, therefore known as Sirius Black, of the results of our internal investigations.
You are required to attend the Ministry of Magic, Department of Magical Law Enforcement - Azkaban Division, within two days for a meeting with the Director.
We remind you that our Department operates on a continuous emergency schedule, and may therefore receive you following the conclusion of your teaching duties at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for the day.
Your cooperation is essential in maintaining the proper functioning of our institutions.
Morwenna Thorne
Director of Azkaban
Order of Merlin, Second Class
Ministry of Magic”
“No warm regards. No ‘please’.” Hadrian muttered, reading over Severus’s shoulder.
“Morwenna Thorne does not run our prison for her charming personality,” Severus replied tightly. “And if she is contacting me specifically because I am your Guardian… something is happening at the Ministry. She is… dangerous.”
“All of this because of Sirius?”
“All of this because of Dumbledore.”
Hania sank slowly back into her seat.
“So… does this change our Saturday?”
“No.” The reply came instantly. Solid. Unshakable.
“Nothing changes our Saturday.”
He looked at them, truly looked.
“You two come first. Always. She gave me ‘two days’ and the freedom to choose the hour. I will go on Saturday… after we finish everything I have planned for us.”
The twins shared small, sincere smiles.
And for the very first time since they learned the full truth, they trusted Severus completely.
No reservations.
No hesitation.
They trusted their… father.
The Slytherin Common Room was very much alive. Every student had claimed a space: seated in groups, talking, swapping impressions about the day, and especially discussing the article in the Daily Prophet and Dumbledore’s reaction to it. Torches cast warped reflections on the damp stone walls, and the Black Lake projected shifting greenish shadows that made it seem as though its deep-dwelling creatures were observing the students, a theory one should never highlight too loudly. The Giant Squid loved surprising the windows at least once during the first week of term.
Draco and the other third-years occupied a corner of the room, spread across a large leather sofa and two armchairs. Their posture was impeccable: the picture of poise and control; but anyone paying attention would have noticed the Heir Malfoy’s fingers tapping against the armrest, Theodore pretending to read the same page for five minutes straight, and Pansy Parkinson sitting suspiciously silent, which was an alarming rarity.
Daphne was on the floor, leaning against the sofa, reading the newspaper for the seventh time. Blaise watched the ceiling as though calculating how many idiots would die young if they believed anything Dumbledore said.
“So…” Gregory began, impatient as always. “What did your father say, Draco?”
“My father… is irritated. And overworked,” came the answer.
He knew Father had far more to say but Hogwarts was never safe. Not under Dumbledore’s domain. Even so, Lucius had managed to fit warnings between the lines. Draco slowly retrieved the letter from his pocket, and his friends leaned over to read it over his shoulder.
“Dragon,
I received your letter about your arrival at Hogwarts with pride, though my heart was troubled by a correspondence so early in the term. You did the right thing informing me of your journey, but do not allow it to disrupt your day. I am taking the necessary measures to address your concerns.
Your mother has sensed that you have not been performing your daily meditation. Do not forget, my son, that it is necessary to strengthen your magic and maintain your core disciplined, or you will lose the chance to notice when your galaxy gains new stars. Any variation you may feel, no matter how intense, should not alarm you, simply remember that some constellations burn five times brighter before they settle.
My duties have multiplied in recent days. I fear my schedule will be full between London, Scotland, and France next week. There is also the possibility I will need to go to the North Sea in the coming days. Much is being spoken and little has been done.
Remember, dear Dragon, keep your mind always pure before your meditation. For you shall accomplish all your goals, always.
With pride,
Your Father”
“Only Lucius Malfoy could write absolutely nothing and still say everything we need to know,” Theo commented, dropping back into his seat.
“And you understood that?!” Millicent demanded. “Because all I got was: meditate to strengthen your mask.”
“That is not what he said,” Blaise snorted.
Daphne, the slowest reader, finally finished and slipped back to her former place. Tracey looked at her for a second and smiled:
“Alright, Princess, what should we be worried about?”
Everyone turned to Greengrass, the silence absolute.
“Lord Malfoy holds many duties and many positions. Speaking openly here risks more people’s safety than we’d like, and certain things, the walls will happily report back to the Headmaster.”
Blaise stopped smiling. He sat beside her and in a voice so low that no one else could hear, asked:
“Does this have to do with Hadrian and Hania?”
“Blaise, I very much wish to be able to talk about this letter for five minutes without anyone who doesn’t know about the twins overhearing us.”
He raised a brow — just another normal day for him — and something he could easily do. A simple snap of his fingers.
“There. And thank you for being extremely specific. That helps a lot.”
Draco felt the protective magic wash over him like warm silk, but for a Veela, it was more than that.
Magic brushed his skin with an electric hum, as though every invisible feather of his inner wings stood upright. His Veela core reacted instinctively, recognising Blaise’s magic: stable, ancient, dangerous… but curiously comforting.
Only then, with that shiver of warning and affection along his spine, did Draco understand they had total privacy.
“Well…” Pansy said, rubbing her arms. “Isn’t it lovely that we can always rely on Blaise to run a magical scanner over us all.”
But Draco knew they didn’t have much time so he spoke about the contents of the letter. Or rather… spat them out at such a speed he completely lost his Malfoy elegance.
“My father will be in a meeting with the Hogwarts Governors, with the Wizengamot, he’s been summoned to visit Azkaban, and the Queen has called him for some emergency.”
“Draco, darling, next time give us a warning before you spit out information like that. I nearly lost my lipstick from the shock.”
“And who are the five people your mother has been sensing in the family magic?” Theo asked, genuinely interested.
“I don’t know. But I need to focus more on my Black magic if I want to sense them too.”
Their eyes widened.
“And I think there’s something about Hadrian and Hania at the end as well. About not forgetting they’re our allies and helping to protect them.”
“Your father continues being deliberately cryptic, but you’ve truly outdone him today,” Pansy laughed, feeling Blaise’s magic fade and their conversation released.
“You know…” Vincent said, having been chatting to Ophelia. “I really hate when you lot do that. You blink and voilà, entire secret meeting finished, and we don’t even know what language it was spoken in.”
Draco, Theo, Blaise, Pansy and Daphne exchanged relieved looks: if their friends hadn’t heard a word… then Dumbledore certainly hadn’t either.
Friday dawned promisingly for most students except for the Gryffindor and Slytherin third-years: they would have every single class together that day. Starting with Defence Against the Dark Arts.
The classroom door swung open on its own the moment the clock struck the start of the first lesson. Students filed in slowly, still sleepy but alert. Rumours about the new professor had already begun to spread through the school after the first day back.
The room felt wider, with none of the decorations Lockhart had hung the previous year (and by decorations, one means posters and mirrors). It also lacked the heavy, garlic-laden atmosphere of Professor Quirrell’s tenure. In fact, it offered a sense of calm, the scent of tea and old books lingering in the air. Rows of chairs neatly faced the blackboard, and in the corner of the room, at the front, stood an old wardrobe: locked, yet gently trembling, silently.
Professor Lupin was standing at the front, in patched robes, light-brown hair already streaked with grey, and warm, welcoming eyes. On the desk beside him sat a large glass jar full of what could only be chocolate, a lot of chocolate. He turned to the board and wrote his name: Remus John Lupin, the handwriting simple, rounded, practical.
“Good morning, third year! I’m Professor Lupin. Let’s all sit down and begin. I hope we’ll have a productive morning.” he started, ignoring the wardrobe entirely, though it gave a stronger shake the moment he spoke. “I know your experience in this subject has been… less than ideal. I went through something similar when I was a student here at Hogwarts…”
“Well, I don’t suppose you had a fraud for a teacher, eh?” Seamus snorted.
Professor Lupin gave a mild smile.
“No, I don’t believe I had the… pleasure of being taught by Lockhart. But he did arrive at Hogwarts when I was in my fifth year, so…” He didn’t need to finish the sentence. “Before we continue, I’d like to learn your names, so I’ll take a quick roll call and then we can begin our school year.”
Lupin quickly picked up the list and called each student, taking time to look at every face, noting not only House, but — discreetly — each one’s scent.
“With that out of the way… You’ve supposedly been learning a great deal about defensive magic these past years, so today we’re beginning with creatures and how to defend yourselves against them. I hope to introduce you to a variety of magical beings and teach you the protective spells needed so that, should you encounter any of them anywhere, you’ll be able to defend yourselves long enough for help to arrive or escape to somewhere safe.”
The room was silent: not a heavy silence, but one buzzing with anticipation.
“Professor,” Hermione called, hand raised. “Does what we’re learning today have anything to do with the wardrobe?”
“That’s correct, Miss Granger,” Remus agreed, smiling.
Cub. Moony growled at the back of his mind.
“Today’s topic is Boggarts.” He gave a small shake of his head, forcing himself back to focus.
A wave of murmurs swept the room.
“Can anyone tell me what a Boggart is?”
Several hands shot up.
“It’s a non-being that takes the shape of whatever a person fears most.”
“Thank you, Miss Granger. Ten points to Gryffindor. And what did Miss Granger mean by ‘non-being’? Mr Nott?”
“That it doesn’t have a form of its own. No one knows what it really looks like, it automatically becomes the biggest fear of the first person it sees.”
“Exactly! Ten points to Slytherin! Boggarts hide in dark, enclosed spaces: that wardrobe, for instance. They try to attract attention so someone comes to investigate, and then they feed on that person’s fear.”
“Wouldn’t that be Dementors that feed on fear?” Ron asked, hand half-raised.
“No, Mr Weasley. A very common mistake, though. Dementors feed on happiness and bring the feeling of fear. Boggarts cause fear in order to feed on it.”
Harry couldn’t help noticing the speed with which Hermione scribbled down every word: droplets of ink practically flying every time she dipped her quill.
“The best weapon against a Boggart is laughter.” Lupin chuckled when several students frowned. “A Boggart has no idea what to do when you aren’t afraid of it, especially when you laugh at it. And what would be, in your opinion, the best way to face a Boggart?”
“With more than one person,” Lily Moon suggested. “Then it won’t know which form to take.”
“Yes, Miss Moon! Ten points to Gryffindor! And that is why, students, a Boggart is dangerous and must be handled with caution. A Boggart won’t attack you with strength, but it creates vulnerability.”
The Slytherins straightened in their seats; the Gryffindors grew more attentive. Fear was a vulnerability in their world, it revealed far more than a fleeting feeling. Fear exposed what drove you, what they valued above all else. And nobody wanted to be analysed by their classmates.
“You will each face the Boggart inside that wardrobe. But…” Lupin raised a finger as uneasy murmurs spread across the room. “With privacy.”
With a smooth flick of his wand, he traced a large circle on the floor. Magic shimmered silver-bright as an invisible aura rose and solidified — clear as glass.
“This is a barrier. It will prevent anyone outside from seeing or hearing what happens in here. Just the student and me.” He gave a gentle smile.
“Excuse me, Professor…” Hermione asked, hand in the air, eyes shining. “How did you cast that?”
Lupin very clearly blushed.
“It’s a variation of a Druidic privacy rune circle,” he said with a small, bittersweet smile. “An old friend taught me years ago… And I believe you deserve privacy. Fear is intimate. I won’t let it become school gossip.”
The students stared, astonished. They felt… respected.
“To face a Boggart, we use the spell Riddikulus. Intention matters just as much as the execution.” He lifted his wand. “Simple movement: a light sweep upwards… and a final twist.”
He repeated it slower.
The class followed, practicing with their own wands. Remus moved between them, correcting a flick here, a twist there. When satisfied, he returned to the front.
“The secret lies in two things: humour and firmness. You must force your fear to look ridiculous. Now… take a moment and think about your fear. And as you think of it, imagine what would make it funny. For example: your fear is a giant silver ball? Picture it turning into a balloon, deflating and zooming about the place making a silly noise.”
Soft giggles filled the room as they pictured it.
“Did he just admit he’s afraid of the full moon?” Harry whispered through their bond.
“Well. Sev always said the Marauders were too obvious for their own good.” Hermione shrugged.
“Trust Uncle Remus to reveal he’s a werewolf in the most discreet yet blatant way possible.”
For the next ten minutes, they each reflected, choosing their greatest fear and how to outwit it. When time was up, Remus gathered the class’s attention.
“I’ll be right beside each of you, in case anything unexpected happens. But you can do this. Trust yourselves.” He scanned the list. “We’ll start with… Neville Longbottom.”
Neville rose on trembling legs, making his way to the barrier, which glowed as he passed through, then turned opaque. No one outside could see a thing. Not even a shadow.
Only minutes passed before Neville emerged again, still shaking, a sheen of sweat on his brow, but a small, proud smile on his lips.
“Very well done, Mr Longbottom. Now… Mr Goyle. Let’s see if your aim with a Boggart is as impressive as it was when you threw that crumpled parchment ball at Mr Thomas earlier.”
A chorus of surprised gasps. Lupin sighed.
“The barrier only hides what happens inside it. I can still see everything out here. Mr Goyle? Come along.”
The rhythm repeated:
Barrier closed.
Fear revealed.
Spell cast.
Barrier opened.
But it soon became clear the whole class wouldn’t finish by the end of the period, some students took much longer, and once or twice, Remus had to step fully in when a student froze or fled in tears. Yet nobody complained. The lesson was exhilarating.
“Well then…” Remus began, dissolving both circle and barrier. “For next lesson, I’d like you to read the chapter on Boggarts in your textbook and write sixteen inches on their known characteristics and other means of defence aside from Riddikulus.”
The bell rang right on cue.
“And remember: Defence isn’t reckless bravery. It’s study, concentration, and preparation. Fear isn’t weakness; it’s information. Use it to learn yourselves. My door is always open if you’d like to discuss your fears further. Enjoy your lunch.”
The students rose, drifting out of the room as though spellbound. They didn’t even make it ten steps before animated chatter broke loose, delight over the lesson, even from those who hadn’t faced the Boggart yet.
And, for the first time, Hogwarts witnessed a mixed, united crowd of Gryffindor and Slytherin students walking together discussing, laughing, comparing notes. Hermione Granger and Theodore Nott led the group, exchanging references from entirely different books; Neville Longbottom, Lavender Brown and Ophelia Rosier shared experiences without ever naming the Boggart’s shape; while Harry Potter and Daphne Greengrass, lagging behind, complained quietly about not being chosen.
Upon reaching the Great Hall, the group split wordlessly — no goodbyes, no awkwardness. Just parting ways to their respective tables, helping themselves to lunch.
Meanwhile, the rest of the students stared… utterly stunned.
The dungeons were colder than usual when the students filed in. The space carried that unmistakable scent of damp stone, crushed herbs, smoke and scorched metal, as though the very air were a potion brewing around them.
For Harry and Hermione, it was slowly beginning to smell… like home.
They drew steady breaths. They knew they wouldn’t have the father they lived with teaching this lesson, but Snape, the Dungeons’ Bat. Masks on. Faces neutral. Nothing to reveal.
Everyone took their seats. Slytherins were quieter and far more orderly than the Gryffindors, this was not a class where distractions were forgiven.
Snape emerged from his private office without a sound. His black robes gave the impression of a shadow taking shape, his presence trailing behind him like a cold breeze of authority.
Neville let out a fearful whimper, going a shade paler.
“Silence.”
Just that single word wiped out the faintest noise. Every student froze.
He surveyed the room, a sharp, measuring gaze that weighed intention, posture… even breathing. He paused for half a heartbeat on Harry and Hermione, a clear warning in his eyes.
“After the… delightful spectacle this class offered us this morning, I had the dubious pleasure of speaking with Professor Lupin over lunch. I have been informed of what you covered in his class.” His expression twisted slightly in distaste. “Today you will be brewing a Revitalising Draught. It is simple and yet, when made carelessly, the result is… humiliating.”
As he spoke, he prowled between tables, dread clinging to every footstep.
“Who can tell me the consequences of a poorly-brewed Revitalising Draught?”
Almost every Slytherin hand shot up. And Hermione’s.
“No one from Gryffindor?” Snape drawled. “A pity… Mr Nott.”
“A faulty draught can cause disorientation, loss of consciousness or convulsions.”
“Thank you, Mr Nott. Twenty points to Slytherin.”
Pansy arched a smug eyebrow while Hermione lowered her hand, back straight, eyes fixed on the board.
Harry exhaled quietly. Ron nudged Hermione’s elbow in sympathy.
“And since convulsions are a clear sign of chronic incompetence and you all seem so terribly fond of each other this year, I shall be assigning your brewing partners.” Snape paused, daring anyone to object. “Granger. Malfoy. Front table.”
Hermione rose immediately, taking her seat beside Draco. They exchanged the smallest, most professional nods.
“Potter with Zabini,” Snape continued, not even glancing up.
Blaise tipped his head politely towards Harry, amusement flickering in his eyes. Harry rolled his own eyes back, a tiny smile tugging at his lips.
Once every pair was settled, a flick of Snape’s wand made the recipe appear across the board in crisp silver script.
“Follow the instructions precisely. They exist to prevent you from causing even more chaos than you manage in your natural state.” He stalked past Ron. “And for the last time: do not confuse fresh petals with dried ones. We do not need the classroom combusting simply because you cannot tell the difference after two years of instruction.”
Harry quickly grabbed his parchment, copying every instruction before steam could blur the writing.
The classroom filled with the soft rhythm of knives tapping chopping boards, fires crackling beneath cauldrons, vapours beginning to curl upward. Quiet murmurs traded steps of the recipe.
“Look at you, Harry: actually taking notes before brewing,” Blaise chuckled under his breath.
“Oh, shut up,” Harry replied without venom. “If I hand in anything less than perfection, he’ll have a fit.”
“No one forced you to be his son willingly.”
Harry snorted, carefully slicing the magical ginseng into perfect even pieces.
At the front, Hermione and Draco were… seamless. Malfoy’s movements were smooth as he shaved the valerian roots; Hermione controlled the flame with immaculate precision. In Severus’s eyes that was the ideal form of potion-making.
Snape halted behind Ron.
“Weasley… if you continue dicing like that…” He pointed at the uneven chunks. “...you will produce a concoction with the texture of troll vomit. Try less brute force and more brain.”
Ron flushed so red his freckles nearly vanished while Pansy covered her laugh behind her hand.
Snape pivoted toward Neville and Theo.
“Longbottom! Do not allow Mr Nott to complete every step for you. Contribute. In some fashion.” A slight tilt of his head. “Though perhaps… it would be safer.”
Crabbe and Goyle choked on their laughter while Seamus and Parvati attempted to look innocent.
And then the critical moment arrived: the addition of the fire-flower petal.
“Pay close attention,” Snape was saying. “Only add the petal once the billywig wing has completely dissolved and the potion emits a perfect turquoise glow.”
Ron raised his hand.
Snape sighed with well-practised exasperation.
“Yes, Weasley?”
“But, Professor… how do we know if it’s ‘perfectly turquoise’?”
“Perhaps by using the eyes that came free of charge in your skull.”
Pansy couldn’t hold it and laughed openly.
At the front table, Hermione inspected the cauldron and signalled for Draco to wait another three seconds. Draco obeyed, which, in itself, would have drawn the curiosity of any attentive observer.
By the end of the lesson, the room smelled of mint, hot fumes and a faint citrus note. The shimmering amber-gold smoke rising from most cauldrons filled the air, and Snape had to cast a slight charm so the students could actually see him.
“Now, assuming you are not empty-brained dunderheads who can follow an instruction correctly, bottle your solution, place a label with your names on it and leave it on my desk. After that, you may discard the leftover potion and pack up your equipment.”
He observed every small vial as the students handed them over, making subtle remarks about the results he could discern.
“Obviously we had more satisfactory outcomes today than usual, due to the… balanced partnerships I chose. However, do not depend on your tablemate to brew a potion that any second-year student should be capable of producing.” He lifted one of the bottles, Dean Thomas and Tracey Davis’ names written on the label. “Next lesson, I expect twenty four inches of parchment detailing the effects of the Revitalising Draught, and the most common mistakes students make and their consequences. For example: stirring too much after the concentrated mint essence has been added.”
When the bell rang, signalling the end of the lesson, everyone rose at once and filed out in silence while Snape retreated back to his private office.
“Probably getting ready to terrorise the seventh-years.”
“Hadrian! He has to give the graduating class a proper farewell!”
“Naaaah. He just wants to scare the others. It’s part of his charm.”
Hermione shook her head slightly as the class prepared to head to the library to study during their free period before History of Magic.
Dinner, that evening, was quiet and free of any major events. Hogwarts seemed to settle beneath the drop in temperature and the distant hum of the rain now beginning to pour. Hadrian and Hania were seated in a corner of the Common Room, watching their housemates chatting and Crookshanks attempting to climb the staircase to the boys’ dormitory only to be stopped every time by a laughing student or two. Hadrian could sense a faint fear coming from upstairs, but with the constant background noise of the House, he couldn’t focus enough to pinpoint the source.
A soft cloak of contentment seemed to fall over the Castle, and He made certain His Heirs knew of His happiness, constantly calling their attention to one detail or another that He was proudly keeping to Himself. The school was beginning to have something it hadn’t felt in decades… Balance. Weak, fragile, and likely not to last long, but by Merlin, it would try its hardest to hold.
Notes:
Did we really hit 3,700 hits? Is that right?!
WOW.And I absolutely did not expect to spend that much time describing classes.
I SWEAR this is not going to happen in every single lesson, only in the really important moments.
I just needed to start mixing the students a bit.Also, I now have a Tumblr specifically for this profile and focused on this story.
You can send me messages at: mistyynyn.tumblr.com
Chapter 13: The Wizengamot Appreciates the Effort…
Summary:
In which Azkaban remains a damp and miserable hellhole, the Ministry once again proves that institutional stupidity is contagious, Severus keeps his undefeated streak in Silent Disdain, and Lucius discovers with profound resignation that he is still the only sensible creature within fifty kilometres.
Notes:
A small reminder that Hadrian and Hania will still be referred to as Harry and Hermione whenever they’re among people who don’t know the truth.
Also, keep in mind that the class schedule has been completely altered compared to Canon, so don’t expect things to follow the books.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Hold the room sealed, that had been Severus’s one condition when the children arrived on that Saturday morning. Not out of fear of being overheard; the wards woven into the walls of his private quarters were more than enough to fend off the strongest eavesdropping charms. No. It was because what they were about to discuss no longer belonged to any school curriculum. It was politics, heritage, culture, the kind of truth that could rattle the very foundations of the Castle if it reached the wrong ears.
Draco sat with the impeccable posture of someone raised to appear entirely at ease in any circumstance; doubt, confusion, or surprise were luxuries he was not permitted to display. Hadrian and Hania, seated on the sofa opposite his armchair, remained silent and attentive. The fire in the hearth cast flickering shadows across their young faces.
“You know, my mother will be delighted to hear you’ve managed to retain something from those etiquette lessons she forced upon you last month.” Draco remarked conversationally, having observed the twins’ composed manners. He then added, with a dry chuckle, “My father, however, will be mortified to learn you remember absolutely nothing about politics…”
“What do you mean, nothing?” Hania demanded, folding her arms, petulant.
“How many seats do you hold in the Wizengamot? How many votes?” he pressed, narrowing his eyes and leaning forward. “And despite that, you’ve not even named a proxy!”
Hadrian shrugged.
“Your father is still sorting out a viable shortlist for us, and the goblins are gathering every piece of legislation that involves our Families. The list is… extensive, Draco.”
Severus cleared his throat.
“I did not call you here to discuss politics, Draco. I am teaching my children in the best way our… situation allows.”
Hania’s lips curled into a satisfied smile at being called his child. Draco merely raised an eyebrow before leaning back, gaze returning to Severus.
“No? Since you said nothing except that this involved my upbringing, Uncle Sev, I naturally assumed that was the topic. There’s hardly any other reason to bring up my upbringing.”
‘Lucius must work harder on Draco’s subtlety.’ Severus thought with a long-suffering sigh.
‘The tap-dancing of a fully grown hippogriff would be subtler.’ James’s voice chimed in his mind.
‘Why do you only appear when I’m with the children?’
‘You’re more… relaxed, then. It’s when I can…’ The voice abruptly cut off. Likely it had brushed upon the subject of where it was trapped, and frustration was all Severus felt from the connection thereafter.
“There is another reason, as you well know. And that is precisely why you are here.” Severus’s tone allowed no further diversion. “Hania and Hadrian require guidance in a very specific branch of magic that I neither know nor command. But your family knows it intimately.”
Draco turned his attention back to the twins, studying them with new scrutiny. His gaze lingered on Hadrian a fraction too long, a fragrant breeze stirred the room, and the fire snapped higher, its warmth intensifying.
“What are you?” he asked at last, as though waking from a trance.
“Dark Veela,” Hania answered promptly. “Or at least that’s what the test said. And we haven’t managed to uncover much else. The books our… father found were absurdly vague on this subject.”
Wonderful. Now Hania called him father too. Severus ignored the sudden skip in his heartbeat and the surge of joy rolling through both him and James, that insufferable stalker who observed everything and contributed nothing useful.
Draco drew in a sharp breath, stunned.
“Dark Veela are… exceptionally rare. Families belonging to the Dark Clans are protected and hidden by the Queen herself.” His gaze flicked from Severus to Hania. “That must be why she summoned my father! You informed the Council!”
“Not yet. I… am still determining how best to proceed. I hoped to speak with your father first.”
“Well, if you didn’t tell him, someone has. He’s been summoned to the Veela Court by the Queen personally.”
“I don’t see why the goblins wouldn’t have handled it.” Hadrian muttered with a shrug. “They have our test results, don’t they? And the goblin in charge of our vault is close to the King, they were always in meetings whenever we went to the Bank during the holidays.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Severus cut in before they could stray further. “What matters is that you must begin to understand and develop your magic. Draco can begin assisting with that while I attempt to speak with Lucius about notifying the Clan Council and the Veela Queen.”
“What do you know about your creature side?” Draco asked with a resigned sigh, while Severus moved to his desk, preparing to write.
“Nothing. Assume we know absolutely nothing,” Hania replied flatly.
Draco let out a soft laugh.
“The Veela are creatures with magic, intelligence, and power. A lot of power. Having Veela blood means we are partially more powerful than an average wizard, if we dedicate ourselves to practicing and understanding our magic.”
“Every Veela is part of a Clan, but that doesn’t mean that, just because we are part of the same family, my father and I belong to the same Clan, though we are the same kind of Veela. We are Light Veela, and while my father belongs to the Sylvanor Clan, I will be part of the Aérion Clan when I come of age. Until then, I am under Sylvanor’s responsibility.”
Slowly, Draco relaxed into the armchair, getting more comfortable and letting his mask fade away, his face taking on an expression of excitement and anticipation.
“Each Clan has its own characteristics, its own purpose. But all Veela have very specific physical traits and… magical details. For example… Every Light Veela, like me, is blonde, very blonde. While Dark Veela has hair black as the night, like yours, or at least… like Hadrian’s.” He glanced at Hania, questioningly.
“Oh! We’re wearing our goblin glamoured bracelets.” she explained, lifting her arm before removing the bracelet.
And for the first time, Draco was able to see the true forms of the Riddle Twins.
Hania Riddle was as pale as Draco. Her black hair was thick and voluminous, with loose curls falling to the middle of her back, catching reddish highlights depending on how the light hit. Her cheekbones were high, sculpted, aristocratic, an image every pure-blood girl aspired to and struggled desperately to maintain, her skin smooth and unmarked. Her eyes, her most striking feature, were just as green as Hadrian’s, but flecked with patches of blue—blue as the clearest lake.
Hadrian was not that different from Harry Potter, likely due to the blood adoption from James Potter, but his hair was darker, still wildly messy yet a bit longer, the natural volume unmistakable. The skin that once bore the warm tone of the Potters’ Indian heritage was now like his sister’s: pale, porcelain, flawless. And unlike Hania, the faint, discreet flecks in his emerald-green eyes were crimson—deep, burning red.
Hadrian was beautiful, and Draco couldn’t suppress the soft shiver that ran through him as he took the boy in.
“And the eyes…” Draco continued, drawing a deep breath as he tried to keep track of his own explanation. “They represent the type of magic you connect with. Each Veela has one type of magic, one element they are most aligned with. But all of us have natural Allure magic. We cause people of the gender we’re attracted to, or who are attracted to our gender, to feel drawn to us. But the Allure doesn’t work on other Veela. I am a Veela with an affinity for the wind.”
The twins understood what hadn’t been spoken aloud: Draco was allowing them to share about their own elements.
“I have an affinity with water, according to my test.” Hania said softly, her eyes sparkling at the mention of her element.
“And mine is fire.” Hadrian added, staring curiously at Draco, his head tilted just slightly to the side.
The blond nodded.
“Both transformation elements, opposites, yet complementary.” Then he smiled, and the warm summer breeze returned to the private chambers deep within the Hogwarts dungeons. “It suits you two: twins with opposite powers, bringing balance.”
Maintaining composure was practically a sport for Severus, as he quietly observed Draco’s explanation unfold. But living with two teenagers who radiated magic, power, and chaos required a different kind of discipline entirely. Still, there was something about the twins that softened his sharpest edges, even when he didn’t want to admit it. After all, wasn’t yesterday’s potion lesson proof enough that he was… mellowing?
If he let them, the three would spend the entire Saturday morning talking. Draco seemed full of questions, yet also full of answers and instructions for other topics. But morning slipped by fast, and lunch time approached. Severus alone noticed the hour, the children too absorbed in their conversation to care.
With a quiet sigh, one of those he had begun to produce whenever he remembered he was a Potions Master, a Head of House, and a father responsible for two teenagers with absolutely no instinct for self-preservation, he tapped his quill lightly against the wooden table. The soft, dry, rhythmic sound captured their attention.
“As interesting as it is to learn about every other Clan in existence and the structure of the Clan Council, you need to eat.” His gaze settled firmly on all three. “Starting next Saturday, we will begin practicing each of your elemental magics. By next week, I expect to know the best location for that. And Draco, feel free to join us. Lucius will be pleased to know you’re continuing to develop your magic during the school year in a broader and controlled manner.”
“Can we come back after lunch?” Hania asked hopefully, her gaze sliding back to the bookshelf crammed with books.
Hadrian looked at her, scandalized.
“Ron and I were kind of planning to go flying this afternoon.” he replied quickly.
“Of course you can come back, Hania. This is an extension of our home, so even if I am not here, my door will always open for my family.” Severus answered promptly, before the siblings began the argument he knew Hadrian would provoke.
“Thank you! Then I’ll come back.”
“And I’m going flying.”
“So go fly. I’ll come back alone. We weren’t born glued together, just on the same day, and from the same womb, and from the same parents.”
Hadrian shrugged, standing to leave, slipping the goblin bracelet back onto his wrist.
“I’m still the oldest.”
“By 27 minutes!” she shot back, following her brother.
“And for 27 minutes, I existed in this world without you. The best 27 minutes of my life…” he sighed dramatically, clearly holding back laughter. “Bye, Draco. If you want, you can come flying later with me and Ron. It’ll be fun watching him get annoyed. Bye, Dad.”
“HARRY JAMES POTTER!” they heard Hania—now Hermione—yelling as the door shut behind them.
“Doesn’t she know he only does that to annoy her?”
“She knows. And that’s exactly why she reacts that way. They missed their sibling bond their entire lives. Now they’re enjoying it.”
Silence settled as the sounds of conversation outside faded, the twins walking farther down the corridor. Draco also stood and slowly approached the door. He looked at Severus for a moment.
“They really like you, you know? You’re a family.”
Severus choked faintly at his godson’s words.
“Go have lunch. Enjoy the rest of your Saturday before I decide it’s a brilliant idea to have you catalog the dried herbs in my inventory.”
Draco laughed and disappeared into the corridor.
Silence returned to the chambers, bringing with it the weight of responsibilities Severus tried, futilely, to postpone. He drew a deep breath, adjusted the layers of his robes, and summoned his determination as though it were another potion ingredient. The silence wasn’t comforting… it pressed down heavily, full of thoughts too sharp to voice.
He stayed still for long moments. Then, with a nearly invisible gesture, he slipped a hand into his inner pocket and touched the parchment he had been ignoring for two days. A summons from Azkaban should never be refused and Director Thorne was a force of nature who did not tolerate evasion. He knew he could no longer delay, not now that Dumbledore’s meticulously calculated plans seemed to finally show cracks.
But first… he had to eat. He doubted he would get another chance later. He inhaled deeply, his expression hardening as he donned once more the persona of the Potions Master: precise, cold, impenetrable. With a few long strides, he left his chambers behind.
Severus moved through the stone corridors as if each step pushed through different layers of himself. On the surface, the Potions Master walked with that same icy precision that terrified students. But inside, he was a guardian, a father, sorting through the emotional chaos the twins always left in their wake. And, deeper still, in a quieter place, Severus Potter-Prince breathed with effort, preparing to face something that could drastically shift the fragile dynamic they were so carefully building.
He ate in silence, keeping his expression stern and allowing no one to spark conversation and delay him further. Remus even tried to signal something to him, but in his current state, Snape unapologetically ignored him. Once he swallowed his last bite, his eyes scanned the Great Hall, searching discreetly for his children. Hadrian and Hania sat with Weasley, chatting cheerfully, while Draco, seated near the end of the Slytherin table, held court with all the third-years around him, clearly dominating the discussion.
With a resigned sigh, knowing his good mood for Saturday had officially ended, he stood and headed toward the school’s entrance. He needed to cross the gates to Apparate to the Ministry of Magic.
Arriving at the Ministry was the practical, quick part. The Atrium was busy for a Saturday afternoon, people coming and going, fulfilling their shifts and clearly complaining about one colleague or another. When Severus reached the attendant who inspected his wand and handed him his identification badge, he realized that, indeed, he would remain there until early evening.
Upon reaching the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, he was immediately directed to the floor that dealt with Azkaban. Thorne was waiting for him at the door of her office.
Morwenna Thorne had never been a woman who needed introductions. Tall, powerful without effort, with short blond hair and cold, sharp blue eyes that seemed to assess everyone as though she could pierce through every layer of protection one might put up. Her attire was the same uniform worn by the Aurors responsible for the prison, but adorned with silver details at the chest and shoulders, showing her superior rank. Nothing about it was decorative. She did not offer her hand, nor even a smile, only tilted her head slightly, the minimal acknowledgment she would ever grant another.
“Master Snape, I hope you have had lunch. We have much to discuss, and I do not believe we will have time for frivolities.”
Severus merely nodded, following her into the office.
Just like Thorne herself, the room was practical: covered with the same black stone that coated Azkaban’s walls, and with a perpetual cold that not even the strongest Warming Charms could keep at bay. It was like stepping into the prison, only without the presence of Dementors to complete the experience. She gestured to a chair in front of her desk, and Severus promptly sat.
“We are facing several issues, Professor Snape.” she began, gathering various documents spread across the table and seeming to search for the most recent one. “Dumbledore forcing the Ministry’s hand, and Azkaban’s, has generated doubts and questioning. Questioning the integrity of my prison is not something easily tolerated, as it opens the way for investigations, and I do not accept the possibility that my Azkaban may be seen as corrupt.”
“I am not overly fond of the Headmaster. And the fact that he has lost his position in the Wizengamot for trying to manipulate everyone was always bound to happen eventually. But his certainty that Sirius Black had escaped created doubts strong enough that I was forced to personally investigate everything. And I did not like what I found.”
Severus raised an eyebrow.
“I imagine, then, that Black has indeed escaped and that is why you summoned me here, as guardian of Heir Potter.”
“Sirius Black was not in the cell assigned to him. In fact, he is nowhere in Azkaban. We discovered this after removing a powerful glamour placed upon the cell, making the illusion to interact with the Aurors. None of our alarms sounded at any point.”
“I was under the impression that Azkaban’s alarms were connected to each prisoner’s magical core.”
“And they are. Many alarms and protections are linked to both core and magical signature. Which led to the first question: How did Dumbledore know that Black was no longer in Azkaban? We are still investigating that information. But the main matter, the one you must be aware of and take proper precautions regarding, is this:”
She pushed a file across the desk. Severus took it, eyeing it for a moment before opening it.
“This, Master Snape, is the official record of Sirius Black’s trial.”
Severus read.
Stopped.
Reread.
“This is absurdly incomplete. There’s no transcript, no signatures from the entire Wizengamot. No list of witnesses or their testimonies. There’s not even the defense’s statement.”
Thorne crossed her arms as she leaned back in her chair.
“The only true elements in this document are the signatures of three people: the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and the Minister for Magic. Albus Dumbledore, Bartemius Crouch, and Milicent Bagnold.”
“And if his imprisonment was not carried out properly… If he was never tried…” Severus began.
“It means he was never truly connected to Azkaban’s alarm system before being placed in our cells. And if he was never convicted, he cannot have escaped — he merely removed himself voluntarily from a place where he should not have been in the first place. However, since he is supposedly a follower of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, young Potter may be at risk,making it necessary for me to relay this information to you.”
Severus crossed his arms and analyzed Director Thorne carefully, weighing what information he could give this unlikely ally.
“And the information about Black not being in Azkaban, will it become public?”
“And allow Dumbledore to manipulate public opinion? He deserves to pay for twisting the system for years while no one questioned him.”
“Sirius Black was never the Potters’ Secret Keeper,” Snape said abruptly. “James chose Peter Pettigrew. And Dumbledore was the one who cast the Fidelius Charm. So he has always known it wasn’t Sirius who betrayed the family.”
For the first, and probably last, time, Severus had the privilege of seeing Thorne shocked.
“That… changes everything.”
“This was stated in James and Lily’s wills, which were still sealed. The goblins allowed only Harry access to them. They are still auditing all accounts and vaults he has rights to.” Snape then took a steadying breath, preparing to hammer yet another nail into the coffin that was Dumbledore’s public image. “And if it was like this with Sirius, the Black Heir, and now likely Lord Black, what can be said of other prisoners taken at the end of the war?”
Thorne glanced at the other documents on her desk.
“Indeed, the imprisonment of the Lestranges and of Crouch were equally irregular, as well as a few others. As far as we know, your own trial and Karkaroff’s were among the very few to properly follow the legal system.”
“And that only happened because the Headmaster had a vested interest in keeping me free.”
“Which is?”
“My complete loyalty to him. Full control. Thus, he could take from me the authority over what is rightfully mine.”
Thorne narrowed her eyes, trying to read between the lines and not liking the picture taking shape in her mind.
A knock at the door pulled her attention away. She looked at the clock and was startled to see that the afternoon was already half gone.
“I hope you won’t mind, Master Snape,” she began, standing and walking to the door, opening it. “but I have invited Lord Malfoy to join the remainder of our discussion. I fear we have only reached the tip of the iceberg concerning Albus Dumbledore’s machinations in the post-war period.”
Lucius entered the room, his mask perfectly in place, no hint of surprise at seeing Severus made it to his face.
“Director Thorne. Master Snape.”
“Come in, Lord Malfoy, and take a seat. That way we can quickly move on to the matter before we depart for Azkaban.”
If Severus was surprised about going to Azkaban, he did not show it. He only wished he had brought a heavier cloak.
Exhaustion was a word that perfectly defined Lucius’s state of mind that Saturday. All the chaos Dumbledore had unleashed with his speech earlier in the week had only been the beginning of what promised to become a colossal headache. The Ministry, Azkaban, the Wizengamot… everyone wanted someone’s head, and they expected him to find that head for them. Being one of the finest solicitors in the Isles had its upsides and downsides. One unfortunate consequence was that, despite not being the Crown’s Prosecutor – Wizarding Division, the Ministry still expected him to conduct most of the case research, since the current holder of that office was doing an abysmal job and only making the Wizengamot’s work harder (in which he, Lucius, served as a Lord).
Arriving at Director Thorne’s office and finding Severus there would not have been a surprise if he had taken a moment to analyse the situation beforehand, he should have predicted and suspected as much. The important thing now, however, was understanding what had truly happened to his family. And if he discovered more than one head to pursue (preferably with some Ministry heads among them), he would take great pleasure in reminding everyone exactly why he was such an exceptional barrister.
Thorne methodically handed Lucius several documents, far more than she had shown Snape.
“Master Snape was summoned here in his capacity as Legal Guardian to the Heir Potter, Lord Malfoy. And I believe the information regarding the change of Guardian should remain confidential, since Master Snape has kept it so for over a month and Headmaster Dumbledore, apparently, has not been informed.”
“I am aware of the matter, Director. Severus is a close friend and sought my advice before assuming guardianship of the boy, considering my own son is of the same age. But, as you said, we are attempting to maintain discretion in order to avoid further interference from those with no rights over him.”
“Excellent. That saves us time. These documents, Lord Malfoy, concern the discrepancies I found in trials and prisoner records. You will understand more once we reach Azkaban. Please, follow me.”
She took the lead, striding toward another room marked only by its black, heavy, iron door, which emanated all the dread of the prison itself. The Official Portal of Law Enforcement, as it was known internally among the Aurors, was the Ministry’s quick and secure entrance to Azkaban — reserved exclusively for the highest ranks, or for prisoners deemed at extreme risk of escape.
Before crossing the Portal, Thorne handed each of them a bracelet.
“Put these on. They provide moderate protection against Dementors, so I won’t need to conjure a Patronus and sustain it for the entirety of the visit. They also contain warming charms and runes, so you can move through my walls with a reasonable degree of comfort.”
When neither man moved to put the item on, she immediately recognised the distrust. She took the bracelets back, slipped one onto her own wrist, and stood silently for two full minutes under their scrutiny before removing it and returning both.
In all his political, legal, and public life, Lucius had used this entrance only once before: to assess the mental state of his sister-in-law and brother-in-law ten years ago, two years after their imprisonment. One must ensure the integrity of a Black mind… or attempt to.
“Before we go in, a reminder: your wands are to remain holstered at your arms at all times, and should we pass anywhere near a cell, you are not to interact with any inmate directly.”
No further warnings were necessary. This was not a stroll in the park, but a visit to the most dreadful wizarding prison in existence, without the glamour and pomp that had accompanied Minister Fudge’s visit in early July.
The administrative room they arrived in still held a hint of the warmth and humanity of the Ministry, with a sofa on one side, facing the fireplace. A long table with several chairs, where two Aurors sat, chatting briefly as they ate, and the walls contained several doors.
Ignoring her subordinates, who quickly stood the moment she appeared, Director Thorne led her guests to the simplest and most discreet of the doors.
“Every three months this door, which leads into Azkaban, changes position. At the moment, we will be entering through the southern sector, lower levels. Prisoners serving short sentences, or those awaiting trial, are housed there. The Dementors do not patrol this area as frequently as they do the upper levels.”
Occasionally, they heard a shout, a claim of injustice. Those who recognised Lucius begged for help, mercy, or simply insulted him for remembering his presence at their trials.
When they reached the upper levels of the northern side, their footsteps echoed more clearly. From the cells, only moans could be heard, or complete silence. This was the maximum-security wing, with a Dementor always patrolling the corridors, and occasionally two of them. The sound of the sea crashing against the rocks outside seemed to reverberate through the environment, increasing the cold that threatened to seep into their bones. The strongest feeling one could have there was utter hopelessness.
The highest corridor, which kept the most infamous inmates, was devoid of patrol.
“Is this common?” Snape asked, suspiciously scanning the surroundings.
“No. And that was the first sign something was wrong. This way.”
The cell she brought them to was occupied. Sirius Black sat cross-legged on his mattress, staring at the wall, clearly bored.
“Black?”
“Oh! Severus!!” exclaimed Sirius as he stood. “Welcome, welcome! I’m afraid I’ve nothing to offer you, nor can I even invite you in. A shame…!”
The Potions Master turned to Director Thorne.
“I thought you had said there was an illusion here.”
“And there is one. Executed by Lord Black.”
“Oh, Sev. Ignore this illustrious lady.” Sirius chuckled. “We’ve far more important matters to discuss. After all… have you finally learned to wash your hair?”
Severus was growing irritated with this illusion of his friend, until he noticed… he wasn’t using the hateful nickname from when they were not yet friends. He used his name. Sirius had broken free from the compulsion spells.
“I imagine, Sirius, that you cannot tell me where you are.”
“Ah… but I am clearly in Azkaban!”
“Not in body, soul, and spirit.” Severus countered, knowing how Sirius enjoyed speaking in riddles.
“But I am here in magic! No one can deny I am here, waiting to serve my sentence.”
“No… I cannot deny that. You’ve waited far too long.”
“The rat is home, you know?” Sirius said, examining his nails. “Safe. And the star did not like that one bit, and has returned to its constellation.”
“And can you speak to the star?”
“When the time comes.”
“Then tell them the stag lives, and that the wolf is to be freed.”
Sirius’s dangerous grin spread.
“And you?”
“My shackles were removed by the goblins.”
“And the Arcane-Fool?”
Severus couldn’t hold back a quiet laugh, responding with a smile of his own.
“We’re trimming his long beard, one inch at a time.”
“Excellent!” Sirius then looked at the Director. “I believe, Madame Thorne, that if you attempt to open my cell at any moment, my magic will simply unravel. So, I suggest you finish your investigations before taking any… hasty decisions.”
“I do not take orders from you, Black. We’ve discussed this.”
“But you do accept suggestions. Or my dear friend Severus and my cousin Lucius wouldn’t be here.”
With that, he sat back down and proceeded to ignore them completely.
Thorne turned to the two men.
“This is what I’ve been dealing with for a month. He won’t say anything clearly and insisted I summon you both.”
!And why did you use the fact that I’m Harry’s Guardian?” Snape asked.
“What other way could I get you to leave the Castle?” She didn’t wait for a reply, already moving towards other cells. “This cell has been empty for years. It belonged to Bartemius Crouch Junior. But we detected traces of spilled potion, and its magical signature dates to a few days before the supposed death of the inmate.”
“Supposed death of Barty?” Severus questioned. “I read the obituary. Sudden illness, weak resistance to Dementors.”
“His conviction is another irregular one.” she began.
“He was tried and condemned with Bella, Rod and Bast.” Lucius completed. “None of them received a proper trial or individual right of defence. They were treated as one single person, receiving the same sentence.”
“Exactly. But the potion spilled, previously undetectable, has magical traces showing it was brewed by Bartemius Crouch Senior. And it was Polyjuice.”
The night was already far advanced when Dumbledore, who had been pacing back and forth in his office, finally felt the shift in the Castle’s wards and was able to identify that Snape had returned. The wizard had left right after lunch, Apparated to Merlin-knows-where, and spent the entire afternoon and most of the night away. That was unacceptable. He needed to inform him where he was going at every moment.
Dumbledore allowed himself to sit in the armchair by the fireplace.
Too much was happening at once, and he wasn’t sure he liked the direction things were taking. The Prophet should not, under any circumstances, publish such negative articles about him. He controlled 25% of the newspaper’s shares, which he had acquired through loopholes and… shortcuts. And his percentage was larger than the Malfoy Family’s 17%, currently controlled by Narcissa, ever since Xenophilius gave up his share to create The Quibbler with Pandora Lovegood. And much more than the Ministry’s 10%.
His fingernails lightly pierced the upholstery of the armchair as he stopped to analyze the facts.
So it was impossible for any negative article about him to be published without his approval. Occasionally, one negative piece or another needed to be written, only then could he ensure that the population would support him, lamenting the injustice committed against his name. But this? This was too much. Something must have happened to his… representative at The Daily Prophet. The only person who knew that the one behind Aurora Division was Dumbledore.
The next morning, he would have to find a way to speak with the “CEO” of Aurora – Public Works and Benevolent Division to understand what had happened.
And Albus needed to investigate more deeply what had happened with Sirius. Why hadn’t he escaped? He was certain the spells placed in the cell guaranteed complete control over the occupant. And the spells he cast there had not been undone or altered. He could still feel them, if he focused long enough. And he could sense Sirius’s signature, pulsing, alive. Trapped.
But something was wrong.
Nothing could go wrong. Not now. He would not allow it.
Young Potter was in his place, in his dormitory, alongside his friends and his spy. Wormtail had said, on the first day of classes, that the boy seemed closer to Granger. And Dumbledore could not allow them to study and research too much. They could not discover their connection. That was why he insisted that Wormtail begin provoking the girl’s kneazle. If he managed to generate enough tension among the trio, Harry would have to choose between her and Weasley. And he would always choose Weasley. Far too loyal to his friends, the boy. A surprise that he had not been sorted into Hufflepuff.
He had Hogwarts in his hands, still held a large part of the Ministry, even after losing his position as Chief Warlock, and most importantly, he had more than half of Wizarding Britain supporting him. Nothing could alter the course of the events he had planned so many years ago.
Albus was preparing to end the night, extinguish the lights and head to bed, when a sharp whistle tore through the silence. One of his instruments caught his attention. It shone, pulsing, bright red.
Dumbledore turned slowly, narrowing his eyes. It was not a common alarm, but an alarm for access to… confidential information. He had designed that alarm a long time ago and connected it to only a few departments at the Ministry, those he preferred no one accessed, if he could prevent it.
He approached the instrument and raised his hand, activating the tracker with a wave of magic. And the name of the department appeared in his mind:
THE WIZENGAMOT.
At 11:07 p.m. on a Saturday.
Dumbledore went completely still.
For a single moment, just one, the spells in the office flickered, and the former headmasters drew a deep breath.
And he knew, with absolute certainty, that someone had just touched something that should never be touched.
Why couldn’t his pawns follow the move he had so carefully planned?!
Dumbledore did not retire to his chambers that night. He spent the entire early morning hunched over parchments and examining books, searching for information, for where things had begun to go wrong.
Without anyone noticing, the painting above Professor Dippet was no longer completely frozen. Its four occupants managed, for the first time in decades, to move across the canvas.
And that…changed everything.
Notes:
Did we really hit 4190 hits? Is that right?!
WOW.I keep trying to make the days flow more smoothly, but everything just keeps piling up!!!
Utter despair!Also, I now have a Tumblr specifically for this profile and focused on this story.
You can send me messages at: mistyynyn.tumblr.com
Chapter 14: Banisters: Nargles’ Favourite Dessert
Summary:
The Wizengamot agrees.
Which, according to reliable studies, is never a good sign.
Some institutions continue to function despite everything.
Others discover they are no longer indispensable.
This summary has been approved by the Nargles.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“Everything change… and that’s the difference between control and chaos,” Dumbledore was saying to Fawkes, “and also is always being prepared for every possible outcome, my dear companion.”
The silver object was still pulsing with that irritating red light. It was 5:17 a.m., the glow reflecting directly against the dark circles beneath his eyes. He had not slept. He could not. Each magical pulse felt like a subtle pressure against his chest, a constant reminder that people were acting without his authorisation. Even inside his Castle.
And he always knew when something went wrong at Hogwarts. At that moment, the Castle was… restless.
Dumbledore braced his hands against the desk, his knuckles white, eyes fixed on the parchment before him as he mentally traced yet another line of the plan. He needed to visit the Wards’ Chamber, where the Stone that fed, sustained, and stored all information about the spells protecting the school was kept. He had to ensure that no one else had accessed it recently even though only three people knew its precise location: the Headmaster, the Deputy Headmistress, and the Chair of the Hogwarts Board of Governors.
And the goblins — wretched creatures who interfered far too much in his life.
But the goblins had not inspected the Stone in many, many years. Otherwise, they would have discovered the improvements he had made.
A muscle in Dumbledore’s jaw twitched.
Where had things begun to go wrong?
Was it Lady Magic’s interference? His stomach churned at the mere thought of that divine figure and her actions.
That accursed decree stripping him of his position as Chief Warlock, that was where his political reach had begun to falter. An interference he could not nullify, only work around. His Liberals continued to refuse to put forward a name, always arguing for Albus’s importance and insisting his opinion be heard before any decision was made. Lord Abbott, however, remained unmoved.
Without a Liberal candidate… the elections were paralysed.
And the longer they remained so, the greater Dumbledore’s opportunity to recalibrate the extent of his power.
“Excellent timing…” he thought sourly.
Gellert had used to call him an obsessive perfectionist. A memory that still burned, even buried beneath layers of reason.
“Your downfall, Albus, will be underestimating the inevitable.” Gellert had said, on the rare occasions when he allowed a thought to cross the bond they once shared.
And it was because of such thoughts that Albus had made the hard decision to turn in his mate and assume sole leadership in pursuit of the Greater Good.
Gellert had still been… soft.
Albus Dumbledore did not underestimate the inevitable.
He prepared for it and for every possible variation.
If someone was accessing Wizengamot records in the early hours of the morning, it meant his time was limited. First, he needed to discover who had gained access and to what. Then he would have to contact Barty Crouch, who shared both Albus’s interest in keeping certain matters hidden and the responsibility of ensuring the Progressive faction remained aligned with Liberal thinking.
These small fractures in his plans needed to be corrected with precision. He needed to act. Subtly.
So subtly that no one would ever connect those actions back to him.
Crouch would also need to investigate Azkaban. Understand what had happened with Sirius and bring the information directly to him. Perhaps even place a compulsion upon Black, encourage an escape.
Later that day, Dumbledore would meet with Ambrose Carroway. They would have a long discussion about what he had not done with The Daily Prophet and assess which alternative measures would be required should the paper prove to be slipping beyond his control.
Dumbledore narrowed his eyes.
He felt it then, like a fine needle pressed against the back of his neck, the echo of the Castle’s ancient magic… moving. Without his permission. A disturbance that had persisted for three days now.
He drew in a deep breath, like a man accepting a challenge.
“Very well, then,” he said, with the false calm only truly dangerous people could master. “If they wish to play, we shall play. But on my terms.”
He glanced at the clock.
Seven o’clock was an appropriate hour to speak with Bartemius.
He took the Floo Powder and cast it into the fireplace.
And thus began another Sunday: the kind of day on which Albus Dumbledore shaped the world to his liking.
The great difficulty of hiding large public buildings within a millennia-old city like London is that there is very little room to go anywhere. The Ministry of Magic being located underground was precisely a consequence of that. Which is why the Wizengamot occupied the tenth floor within the Ministry itself. It was far easier to excavate further where Muggles were known not to tread than to seek out a new building and weave upon it all the necessary protective enchantments, secret entrances, and discreet access points.
And it was towards the meeting chamber of the Progressive Party wing that Lord Greengrass was heading on that dreadful Sunday morning.
Since Dumbledore’s removal from office over a month ago, they had been unable to reach any decision regarding a candidate. Every single time, Lord Crouch interfered either by presenting alternative names or by offering arguments persuasive enough to sway the others. Holding yet another meeting destined to be unproductive was becoming exhausting.
He reached the room and braced himself for yet another long, shouting-filled morning. On a Sunday, no less.
However, when Lord Greengrass entered the Progressive Party’s meeting chamber, all that greeted him was silence.
Far too much silence for a group that existed solely because it constantly argued with itself.
The long oval table was almost completely occupied. The only empty seats belonged to the Founders of Hogwarts, Ravenclaw and Gryffindor, and to Bartemius Crouch. Ironically, the very person who caused the most disruption to the process was the sole absentee. Greengrass felt confident that they would finally leave this meeting with a resolution.
Lady Selwyn was the first to speak once he sat down.
“We need not wait for Crouch.” she said, adjusting the silver brooch at her collar. “When I attempted to summon him for this meeting, his house-elf informed me that he was extremely busy. From her tone, it was obvious there is only one name for the person he was speaking with: Dumbledore.”
A murmur of discontent rippled across the table. Madam Longbottom snorted.
“Albus is desperate to keep the elections stalled for as long as possible,” she remarked.
“And to find a way to maintain control over the seats he has lost.” Madam Bones added, tapping her quill against her parchment. She was always taking notes during meetings so she could later explain everything to Susan. “And with Lady Magic’s decision, a significant number of votes are now dormant. Who will represent the School’s rights now that the Headmaster has lost that honour?”
“And that is precisely why we must decide on our name today.” Shacklebolt said, rubbing his face in frustration. “The Conservatives already have a candidate, but they refuse to reveal the name until the other parties reach a consensus. The Liberals have stalled this election for far too long. If we do not decide today, we remain hostages to Dumbledore.”
“We need someone respectable.” Lord Ollivander commented. He could hardly wait for the day his son finished his apprenticeship as a wandmaker so that he could begin learning how to fulfil the role of Lord Ollivander properly, allowing Lord Ollivander himself to rejoin his father in managing the family business and leave the Wizengamot and its endless problems to the younger generation, though he was not nearly as old as his father had been when he took up the mantle. “Someone the Liberals can tolerate and whom the Conservatives do not despise, or at the very least, respect.”
“Someone who is not a Liberal pawn.” Lord Dagworth-Granger added. Still learning the finer points of politics, his father had only acquired the title of Lord a few decades prior, and he himself had inherited the seat just five years ago. This was the first time he truly felt his title and position might make a difference, and he was eager for the outcome.
“Someone the undecided will not immediately veto,” Monsieur Lovegood concluded.
Greengrass smiled faintly, far too calm.
“You do realise you are describing only one person in our Party.”
Madam Bones nodded slowly, turning her gaze toward the individual in question.
“I would not be surprised if the Conservatives put forward Lord Malfoy as their representative,” Lord Gamp remarked. “Of all the names in their Party, he is the least problematic, not imprisoned, not dormant. Is our candidate strong enough to secure votes from the more neutral Conservatives?”
“Well, young Malfoy possesses a natural talent for leadership.” Slughorn said with a smile, recalling his former student. “I myself introduced him to several excellent contacts in Magical Law. I believe that is where his interest in founding his own legal practice originated.”
He noticed then that all eyes had turned towards him.
“Why are you all making those faces? Oh, heavens… that is not what you mean, is it?”
Horace Slughorn swallowed hard, producing a handkerchief and dabbing at the sweat forming on his brow.
“You are not speaking of me, surely? I am merely a retired Potions Professor! I have no… hm… inclination for political confrontation.”
Lady Selwyn smiled… a predatory smile.
“Precisely why, Horace. You are the only person here who does not provoke immediate hatred from any of the Parties. Many of us were taught by you. You have the respect of the majority.”
Madam Longbottom nodded thoughtfully.
“And prestige. Reputation. A vast network of contacts.”
“And public support.” Lovegood added cheerfully. “That always helps.”
The sweat on Slughorn’s face increased steadily, as did his expression of mounting dread.
“I… well… I suppose I could consider…”
“This is not about considering,” Madam Bones cut in. “We need you, Horace.”
“Why not Lord Greengrass? He is well respected.”
“Because I, Professor, was a Slytherin and remain close friends with most of my former classmates, particularly those seated within the Conservative Party. The Liberals would obstruct me at every turn. You, however, are different.”
“Your Party will stand with you at every moment, Horace,” Selwyn added.
The Professor closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, there was heaviness there but also a spark of pride.
Slughorn was still Slughorn, after all. Even if he preferred influence through connections rather than standing at the forefront himself.
He straightened his emerald waistcoat, dabbed his face one last time, took a deep breath, and said:
“If it is for the good of… our world’s stability… and provided Lord Greengrass stands beside me as my right hand… I accept the nomination as the Progressive Party’s candidate for the position of Chief Warlock.”
“All in favour of submitting Horace Slughorn’s name as our candidate, please raise your wands.” Lady Selwyn began, as Party Leader.
All ten witches and wizards present raised their wands. A pulse of light shimmered through the room.
“Let the chamber record the absence of three families: Crouch is absent despite official summons, and Gryffindor and Ravenclaw remain dormant pending the appointment of new representatives.”
A second glow followed the first.
“And let Horace Slughorn’s name be forwarded to the Minister’s records as the Progressive Party’s candidate for Chief Warlock. So mote it be.”
“So mote it be,” they all echoed in unison.
A third and final glow, stronger, warmer, definitive, filled the room.
“And with that, we conclude our meeting and our debates regarding the Chief Warlock,” Lady Selwyn declared.
The members rose slowly, one by one, approaching Slughorn to congratulate him on assuming the responsibility.
“Easy… easy… you are behaving as though I have already won.”
“Do not doubt your capabilities, Horace.” Greengrass said. “When your name is announced by the Minister, regardless of the Conservative candidate, a portion of them will vote for you, recognising how beneficial this will be. And now, if you will excuse me, I intend to enjoy the remainder of my Sunday with my wife before chaos ensues when the Minister announces that we have two names and imposes a deadline for the Liberals, or else the election proceeds without them.”
Many floors above them, an official document had just landed upon the Minister’s desk.
The aide responsible for managing weekend paperwork gave it a quick glance, intending to file it appropriately for review the following day but this was far too important to leave until tomorrow.
He stood, knowing he would have to summon Fudge immediately.
Things were progressing in a most… admirable manner.
Official Summons – Wizengamot
By order of the Office of the Minister for Magic, all Lords, Ladies, Madams and Messieurs holding active seats in the Wizengamot are hereby summoned to the Extraordinary Session for the Election of the Chief Warlock, to be held on the date and time specified below.
The session shall take place regardless of the complete nomination of candidates by all parties. Dormant seats or parties without a registered candidate shall have their absence duly recorded in the official minutes.
Attendance is mandatory. The Election shall be decided by an absolute majority of the votes present. Failure to attend shall be interpreted in accordance with the provisions of the current standing regulations.
So published and so ordered.
Cornelius Oswald Fudge
Minister for Magic
Order of Merlin, First Class
SLUGHORN ELECTED CHIEF WARLOCK IN EXTRAORDINARY SESSION
By Ernest Travers, Political Correspondent
In a rare and profoundly significant turn of events in the recent history of the Wizengamot, Horace Eugene Flaccus Slughorn was declared Chief Warlock by acclamation, after his name was simultaneously put forward by both the Progressive and Conservative parties, while the Liberal Party had yet to nominate any candidate for the position.
The Extraordinary Session, convened by the Office of the Minister for Magic, brought together all active seats of the Court yesterday morning, under an atmosphere of expectation that quickly dissolved in the face of the unexpected consensus. As provided for in the standing regulations, the convergence of nominations rendered a formal vote unnecessary.
Sources present described the moment as “restrained, yet decisive.”
Slughorn, known for his long academic career, discreet political presence, and ability to navigate between differing ideological currents, assumes office at a particularly delicate moment for the institutional balance of the wizarding world.
Early appointments surprise
Only hours after the announcement, the new Chief Warlock confirmed his first two advisers:
Lord Alaric Greengrass, Unspeakable of the Department of Mysteries, a figure respected for his technical approach and strategic neutrality;
Lord Alastair Travers, Architect, a veteran Conservative representative of the Wizengamot.
The choices were widely interpreted as a clear gesture toward balance between distinct forces and, for some analysts, as a sign that Slughorn intends to govern with calculated caution, avoiding excessive concentrations of power.
Notably absent from the announced names was Lucius Malfoy. Widely considered a potential contender for the position of Chief Warlock, Malfoy was not included among the advisers either, a decision that, according to sources close to the Conservative faction, was made “by mutual agreement within the Party.”
By the time this edition went to press, the Chief Warlock had not announced whether he intends to include representatives of the Liberal Party in his advisory circle, nor whether additional names will be revealed in the coming days.
Strategic silence
When approached by this correspondent, Slughorn limited himself to stating that “the moment demands deliberation, not haste.”
Meanwhile, the corridors of the Wizengamot are abuzz with speculation about the political ramifications of the acclamation and about who, in truth, emerges strengthened from this unexpected consensus.
SLUGHORN ELECTED BY ACCLAMATION — CRUMPLE-HORNED SNORKACKS CONFIRM: “THIS NEVER HAPPENS WITHOUT A REASON”
By Xenophilius Lovegood, Editor-in-Chief
The Wizengamot awoke yesterday to a most unusual phenomenon: spontaneous political consensus. Experts in Improbable Creatures affirm that such events tend to occur only during magical eclipses or when something far greater is shifting beneath the surface.
According to the Nargles, acclamation is an unmistakable sign that something ancient has been unlocked. They began gnawing on the Wizengamot’s railings at precisely 8:12 a.m., which, as everyone knows, clearly indicates that upheavals should be expected by all those inattentive to their duties. Curiously, this was the exact moment the Extraordinary Session commenced.
Horace Slughorn was declared Chief Warlock by acclamation after both the Progressive and Conservative parties put forward the very same name. An occurrence which, according to studies conducted by this newspaper, happens with roughly the same frequency as a Troll filling out forms correctly.
“When two groups that disagree on everything suddenly agree on something, it is usually not about the something but about what comes after,” explained a Crumple-Horned Snorkack consulted during a lucid dream.
The new Chief Warlock’s first appointments also drew attention. Lord Greengrass, known for never raising his voice, not even when he should, and Lord Alastair Travers, an architect responsible for structures that observe you back, were announced as immediate advisers.
Notably absent was Lucius Malfoy, a figure often associated with complex political games. His exclusion caused three Nargles to faint with laughter and another to spell the word “planned” using biscuit crumbs.
This newspaper reminds its readers that acclamations frequently precede great changes, magical displacements, and, on occasion, the collapse of structures once believed far too solid to fall.
Vigilance is advised.
And enchanted reading glasses.
The sound of the parchment being unfolded was excessively loud in the Headmaster’s office at Hogwarts. That Thursday’s article in The Daily Prophet had everything it needed to irritate him more than he had thought possible over the past few weeks. Even the ink on the paper seemed laden with arrogance and political manipulation.
He read the article.
Once.
Then again, more slowly.
The name Horace Slughorn seemed to gleam more brightly than it should have on the parchment, as if magic itself were pleased with the outcome. The word ‘acclamation’ echoed unpleasantly in his mind.
“…elected by acclamation…” he murmured, without emotion. “Not even I was elected that way.”
Fawkes tilted his head on his perch, his feathers ruffling slightly.
“In other words…” Dumbledore continued, folding the paper with care, “it was an excessively coordinated move.”
He reached out and picked up the other periodical that caused him a sharp pang of irritation simply at the thought of reading it.
The Quibbler.
Dumbledore sighed through his nose, that controlled sigh of someone who had long learned that ignoring Xenophilius Lovegood was never a sensible option. After all… Xenophilius had been a Malfoy by birth. Taking his wife’s name had not changed his strategic nature or his political upbringing.
He read.
And for the first time that morning, something resembling genuine irritation crossed his face. His desk trembled slightly; his teacup exploded, what remained of the drink splashing across the stack of parchments it had been resting on. Phineas Black let out a delighted bark of laughter at the Headmaster’s loss of control.
“Nargles…” Dumbledore said disdainfully.
But his fingers tightened on the paper for a second longer than necessary when he reread the line about ‘something ancient being unlocked.’
Far too much of a coincidence.
He stood and, with a quick gesture, cleaned the mess from the parchments before the ink could stain or ruin everything written there. He walked slowly toward the tall window, pensive as he observed the still-grey morning sky. The Castle was quiet… too quiet. The same unease that had followed him for days, along with the faint pressure at the nape of his neck, vibrated beneath his feet, like a held breath.
“Progressives and Conservatives… united.”
That was not merely unlikely.
It was so unlikely that it felt deliberate.
Lucius Malfoy left out while Greengrass and Travers stood beside Slughorn?
Dumbledore smiled, a thin smile, utterly devoid of warmth.
“Clever, Lucius.” he conceded to the empty room. “Extremely clever.”
He returned to the desk, his gaze passing over the silver object that had been pulsing and warning him for days. The red light now seemed more unstable, laden with dozens of meanings Dumbledore was not yet prepared to analyze.
“What Lucius did, my dear,” Dumbledore said, moving toward the phoenix, “is actually quite simple. He bet on the name the Progressives would choose, and thus… he controls everyone. But control is not about moving others, it is about allowing movement… so long as it remains predictable.”
But nothing about this had been predictable.
Not the consensus.
And certainly not Slughorn’s name.
Much less the speed with which everything had unfolded.
How had the Progressives convened, and how had Crouch allowed Slughorn’s name to be approved without informing him? Was Barty becoming yet another person acting without his knowledge? Had he forgotten just how much information Dumbledore possessed about who was living in his house?
“Very well,” he decided, straightening. “If the game has changed boards, then it is time to see who has been moving pieces that should not even exist.”
Albus picked up his traveling cloak, casting it over his shoulders as he moved toward the hearth. The fireplace crackled as he threw in the Floo Powder.
Before stepping in, however, he paused.
He felt it again: that delicate pressure at the back of his neck.
He looked toward the portrait he usually avoided, careful not to reveal its existence to the other enchanted frames. For a moment, it seemed slightly off-kilter, but they remained exactly as they had been when he froze them and hid them from public view. He turned his attention back to the stone walls, brushing his hand lightly over the surface, almost like a gentle caress.
“Enjoy the enthusiasm, my dear.” he murmured to the Castle. “It rarely lasts.”
And then he vanished into the green flames, bound for the Aurora Division, while Hogwarts itself seemed to remember that not all control endures forever.
Slowly, the other Headmasters turned their attention to the same place.
“And now?” one of the portraits asked.
“Now…” the red-haired man began, tapping the tip of his sword against the floor of the frame. The entire Castle vibrated.
“…we plan,” completed the other, with his long, thin beard and green robes.
A cool breeze swept through the room; Fawkes sang, joyful; the Sorting Hat shifted in its corner on the shelf, as if stretching. It looked slightly less patched, a little more alive.
Ambrose Lucian Carroway hated surprises.
That was precisely why the Aurora Division worked.
The building, invisible to Muggles and seemingly irrelevant at first glance to witches and wizards, had been designed to look temporary. Nothing about it suggested permanence: corridors that were too bright, surfaces too polished, windows that reflected the sky with an almost offensively calm serenity.
Ambrose liked that.
Permanence bred attachment. Attachment bred mistakes.
He was in his office when the morning edition arrived.
Not through the door.
Through the desk.
The Daily Prophet landed already open, folded with surgical precision, exactly in the space between two magical urban expansion projects (one of them signed by Alastair Travers). Ambrose did not need to touch the paper to know its contents.
Slughorn.
Chief Warlock.
By acclamation.
He closed his eyes for half a second.
The documentation he had received from the goblins weeks earlier was still etched into his memory, a clearer warning than any Lumos charm.
He knew power was slowly changing hands, and that included, obviously, his beloved Aurora Division, which, despite covering certain… actions of Albus Dumbledore, was still an institution he, Ambrose, had worked tirelessly to grow, strengthen, and secure a positive standing with the general population. One that also helped distance his name, and his branch of the family, from the main line of which they had unfortunately been part until his grandfather changed political alignment.
He thanked Lady Magic every day for being a Carroway, not a Carrow.
(Even if that meant not holding a seat in the Wizengamot. They would raise the family name to the status of Noble and Ancient eventually. Or the name Carrow could… go dormant… and they would take its place. Whichever happened first.)
His plans when he founded the institution had been ambitious, but he lacked the funds and connections to reach the scale required. That was when Albus Dumbledore had presented a proposal: to act as a silent benefactor, helping him achieve greatness and demonstrate the reach Aurora could attain. His only requirement had been naming the institution Aurora – Public Works and Benevolent Division, or, as it came to be known: the Aurora Division. He had even transferred shares of The Daily Prophet into Aurora’s control.
“Don’t be an idiot, you’re his scapegoat. That’s all you are!”
He could still hear his cousin’s voice, distant in his mind.
They might have changed political alignment, distanced themselves by changing their name… but they were still related. Still family. Still a contact he could use to reach the Conservatives.
Ambrose examined the Prophet article again.
An article he had not approved.
Again.
“Interesting.” he murmured.
The word carried no surprise. Not now, not as he reevaluated everything he had gathered over the past few weeks.
Ambrose had anticipated a clash. A stalemate. Perhaps weeks of public attrition while the Liberals attempted to resurrect Dumbledore’s authority through indirect means. Acclamation had not been part of the projections.
Two names leapt from the page: Greengrass and Travers.
Two Slytherins he knew well.
Ambrose allowed himself a short, controlled smile.
“So that’s how you decided.”
The Aurora Division was not merely an institution. It was a worldview. A filter. A place where political decisions became structures, contracts, cities that functioned because someone had decided what should or should not remain standing.
Aurora built the future. That's their motto.
And it had not been part of this decision.
His door opened carefully.
“Mr. Carroway,” the secretary said, immaculate as ever. “Headmaster Dumbledore is in reception. He has requested an ‘informal conversation.’”
Ambrose raised his gaze slowly.
Informal.
In Albus Dumbledore’s dictionary, that meant he was there to demand interference or question decisions.
Ambrose glanced at the newspaper. He knew exactly what the topic would be.
He looked back at the Prophet, then at the copy of The Quibbler that someone, almost certainly on purpose, had placed just beneath it. The headline screamed in absurd lettering.
“Tell him I’m available,” Ambrose said calmly. “Bring us the strongest tea we have. I’m certain the subject won’t be… pleasant.”
The secretary nodded and left.
Ambrose leaned back in his chair, laced his fingers together, and finally admitted to himself:
The world had kept turning while Dumbledore tried to hold it still. Slughorn’s election would not be a problem, especially not for him or Aurora’s construction projects. On the contrary, it had the potential to be an immense advantage.
The real problem was that someone had managed to move everything quietly, without it leaking, without asking for… permission.
And that…
That changed the entire project.
The door did not announce its opening.
It simply… gave way.
There was no crack, no theatrical flash that usually accompanied Dumbledore. Only the uncomfortable sensation that the room had accepted a presence that dominated it in several ways even if it did not do so willingly.
Ambrose did not lift his gaze at once. His eyes remained fixed on The Quibbler. He was now reading a lengthy article by Lovegood, in which the author differentiated the horn of an Erumpent from that of a Crumple-Horned Snorkack, identifying similarities and differences with photographs, charts, and meticulous detail.
He had known that pressure in the air since youth, an ancient magic, trained to resemble kindness, but one that demanded attention. Like a hand settling on your shoulder before you had decided whether you wanted company.
“Ambrose, my boy,” the voice came calmly, almost cordial. Almost. “I see you’re already aware of today’s news.”
Only then did Ambrose look up. He adjusted himself in his chair, straightening his waistcoat with a slow, deliberate motion, and finally met Albus Dumbledore’s gaze.
The Headmaster of Hogwarts looked exactly as he always did: immaculate beard, eyes far too attentive, the smile of someone who genuinely believed he was doing what was best so long as he was the one deciding what ‘best’ meant.
“Headmaster.” Ambrose replied, without inclining his head. “I imagine you’re not here to comment on Hogsmeade’s urban architecture or any renovation projects for the village or the surrounding valley.”
Dumbledore smiled, as though the provocation had been gentle.
“The Aurora Division has always been… a project that deeply interested me. You know that.”
Ambrose held his gaze, refusing to yield.
“However,” Dumbledore continued, “I find it curious that with all the control Aurora possesses, you lost control of The Daily Prophet. Or did you approve this article, and so many others, and simply forgot to inform me?”
A thin silence settled in the room.
Not hostile. Not yet.
“Things moved quickly.” Ambrose said, rising to his feet. Dumbledore was already walking through the room as if he knew it intimately. His fingers passed within inches of a floating model of London, dotted with magical expansion zones. “Sometimes, Headmaster Dumbledore, stability requires immediate decisions.”
“No.” Albus corrected, as though speaking to an insolent student. “Stability requires predictability. And someone chose to abandon that.”
Dumbledore’s blue eyes sharpened for a brief moment.
“I don’t care about Slughorn being the safe choice for my position. What concerns me is that I, who own The Daily Prophet, learned of this information at the same time as the public, through my own newspaper.”
“Slughorn, Albus, is a consensual choice.” Ambrose replied, circling the desk until he stood directly opposite the Headmaster. “Which is very different. You taught me that. Consensus does not arise by chance. It is… constructed.”
For a single moment, just one, Ambrose had the impression that Dumbledore was looking at him as though recalculating something.
“I see you remain as perceptive as ever.” Dumbledore said at last. “And that is precisely why I am here.”
Ambrose did not respond immediately.
He already knew.
Dumbledore was not there to reprimand him. Nor to ask for favors.
He was there because he had realized that the Aurora Division still stood… without needing him. Without his approval.
And that, far more than any election, was the real problem.
Ambrose turned to sit back down in his chair, hearing the faint whisper of Dumbledore’s robes behind him. He closed his eyes for a brief second, thinking.
When he opened his eyes again, Ambrose startled.
He was seated face to face with a goblin, inside Gringotts. He had no memory of arriving there. The calendar on the desk read: Tuesday, 14 September 1993.
The goblin was saying something, but Ambrose was still far too disoriented to understand what was happening. He needed to inform Professor Dumbledore of something. He didn’t know what. He only knew he felt an overwhelming need to tell him everything he was thinking and an intense guilt for not having already begun writing a letter or gone to a fireplace to make a Floo call.
A sharp rap of a hand against the desk snapped his attention back.
“Insolent child! I warned you this would happen! Third cleansing in a month? The second in less than two weeks? You will not leave this office unless you accept a goblin-forged iron ring or transfer the controlling rights of your vaults and your institution to someone more reliable. Fortunately for us, Gringotts requires continuous tracking for institutions suffering recurrent external interference.”
“What happened?” Ambrose asked.
“What do you think?” the goblin snapped, baring his teeth in irritation. “Albus. Bloody. Dumbledore.”
Notes:
This chapter was written without my approval.
My brain showed up, kicked my consciousness, and said: “I’m out.”Are a lot of things different from what I originally planned?
Yes.
Did the characters completely derail the plan?
Absolutely.
Is it better this way?Only you can tell me.
And now I have a Tumblr specifically for this profile and focused on this story.
You can send me messages at mistyynyn.tumblr.com
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MistyYnyn on Chapter 11 Thu 04 Dec 2025 11:03AM UTC
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