26.Of Shattered Delusions

7th of June 1992 Sunday

Lucius Malfoy returned home feeling drained. It was just early morning, but wrangling with Albus Dumbledore on the back foot was never easy.

His wife was awaiting him in the parlour, garbed in an elegant black velvet dress slashed with silver that brought out her ample chest. The table behind her had a hearty breakfast that made his mouth water.

“How is it?” Narcissa asked, impassive, her eyes sliding over to his left sleeve.

Lucius rubbed his robed forearm, where the Dark Mark was once more inactive. It was so faint that you would struggle to see it unless you knew it was there.

“Faded, and the pain is already gone, just as Healer Halyn predicted,” he grunted as he shook his wrist. His hand was still stiff from Friday’s bout of agonising pain, even two days later.

His wife sniffed imperiously.

“If only you had worked with him in the shadows, like I had told you, you would be free of his influence by now.”

It was an old argument Lucius had grown sick of. Narcissa was not happy with his direct involvement with the Dark Lord. Her concerns, however, stemmed from purely selfish reasons, not from some sympathy for her lessers. The daughter of House Black was too proud to dirty her hands with blood because fighting was below her, not because of a lack of skill.

Over a decade later, Lucius started subtly agreeing with some of her points, even if he would not voice it out loud.

“Yet,” his voice thickened with satisfaction, “my involvement with the Dark Lord’s forces allowed me to rise far quicker once he was gone.”

Despite the political opportunity they presented, wanton destruction, war, and petty fighting were bad for business. Besides, Lucius did not miss the bowing, grovelling, or torture he had to endure, even as a supposedly lauded Inner Circle member of the Death Eaters. Just the memory of enduring a Cruciatus after a bad fuckup sent shivers down his spine to this day.

Narcissa scoffed, her eyes full of scorn, before turning impassive.

“It seems the Dark Lord’s boast of besting death was not as empty as once thought. Nott certainly thought so when he visited last week.”

“What of it? He was thwarted,” Lucius wiped the sweat from his brow. He would never admit it openly, but the return of the Dark Lord scared him, especially since the current state of affairs was far better for House Malfoy than before. The other free Death Eaters were no different–they would all give lip service to the cause but do nothing further. All the fanatically loyal Death Eaters were either dead or in Azkaban.

The knowledge that the Dark Lord could return made him indecisive like never before. Lucius had two options.

Look for the Dark Lord and aid him. Or forget the whole thing, claim ignorance, and hope Voldemort would stay dead for good and his attempts to return would be thwarted again and again.

Narcissa had reached a similar conclusion.

“By now, any lackwit would know the Dark Lord was involved with the Wiltshire Warlock,” she pointed out. “Surely you realise he operated close to our manor just to make trouble for you?”

“I know,” Lucius slumped on his chair. Many failed to realise that Lord Voldemort could indeed be a petty man when he wanted to be. “But whatever he wanted to do… failed, for better or worse.”

“Definitely for better,” Narcissa smiled coldly. “Enough of that old woe. So, how did the meeting go? Has the Board of Governors been dissolved?”

Lucius was caught flat-footed by the drastic change of tone. His wife seemed unwilling to fight over that bone for the hundredth time and changed the topic, if not before having the last word.

“No,” he exhaled slowly, pushing down his frustration and sitting down to attack the scrumptious meal. “Dumbledore decided to keep the Board and use the backlash to get us all firmly under his boot.”

As per the custom, all the dishes were untouched, and his wife was waiting for him to begin. No matter their quarrels, Narcissa observed propriety, and he loved her for it.

His thoughts drifted like the food in his mouth.

After Grigori Petrov’s brutal murder of Quirinus Quirrell and the surprise attack on Professor McGonagall, the DMLE and the Prophet had a field day with the Board of Governors. The same board where Lucius had become a chairman just last year.

Alas, the attack caught all its members flatfooted while Dumbledore moved at a lightning pace. The powerful headmaster resigned from the position of Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot the same day, saying that Hogwarts and the students, the future of Wizarding Britain, were his utmost priority.

It was a blatantly astute political move, but the masses lapped it up, especially since Dumbledore had been busy in an overly lengthy Mot meeting in the Ministry. Naturally, all the fault and public scrutiny fell onto the Board, who had hired the new caretaker behind the headmaster’s back, and for a hefty sum that would make most green with envy. What was now the second fatal attack in one year did not mean well for the Board’s publicity.

It pained and angered Lucius in equal measure. Especially since he was certain that the artefact Dumbledore had placed in the school was bait. Nobody knew why, and neither the DMLE nor the Daily Prophet seemed interested in finding out. They all bloody took the headmaster’s word for it.

But why else restrict the third-floor west-wing corridor by announcement at the beginning of the school year?

Why else would Quirrell and Petrov fight so brutally?

DMLE investigation only yielded a few game-like challenges that studious or cunning First-Year students could solve and absolutely nothing that would incriminate Dumbledore. But Lucius knew better.

“I thought Dumbledore had gone soft decades ago,” Narcissa frowned as she grabbed a serving of bacon. “My father always said the old headmaster is a man who disdained murder and avoided violence. He rarely pushed back anything for over a decade, even in the Ministry. He was always content to let things develop independently, if with a slight nudge. It is strange to see him proactive.”

Lucius took a sip from his cup of tea and let the rich yet soothing flavour linger on his tongue before gulping it down.

“One would certainly think so,” he murmured. “But he is not as affable as he would have many believe. The games the old warlock plays are far deeper and more insidious than mere politics.”

“I find it difficult to believe,” Narcissa said, still looking unconvinced. “Why else resign from his post at the Ministry?”

He scoffed.

“It is false humility. Yes, his influence is diminished, but Dumbledore never needed to be in some ceremonial position. The new Chief Warlock, Archibald Fortescue, is his man through and through, and nearly half of the Lords of the Mot would be inclined to listen to the headmaster in private.”

Archibald, a taciturn and pensive man, was the famous ice cream maker’s oldest uncle. He was also a long-standing Wizengamot member and an accomplished master herbologist.

“I can see it,” his wife deflated. “What does he want from the Board now?”

Lucius swallowed the sausage with a heavy frown.

“Full support in every decision he takes and a tripled budget for school necessities.”

Narcissa paused, “It doesn’t sound so bad. Perhaps some new flying brooms. Can you imagine they still use the same brooms for Flying lessons we did?”

“Indeed,” he gritted his teeth. “But it is a setback. While money can be made again, it would take years to pry the Board from Dumbledore’s grasp, even as its director.”

Every setback rankled Lucius greatly, and this year was filled with them. He was always patient, and that patience led to House Malfoy becoming thrice as rich and thrice as influential compared to fifteen years prior.

The Hallow’s Eve troll attack was the perfect moment to limit the headmaster’s influence and prestige, and Lucius was far from the only one to jump at the chance. And the scheming old powerhouse had seemingly bowed his head down while taking two steps back.

But now, nearly nine months later, Lucius could see how it all played out. Back then, it looked foolish and nonsensical, as Dumbledore often seemed. But now? Now, he could say it for certain: Dumbledore was cutting loose ends like the ICW and consolidating his most important place of power–Hogwarts.

“Perhaps we should transfer Draco to Durmstrang?” Narcissa asked.

Lucius almost choked on his tea.

“Why? You were the one who insisted he had to be closer here in Hogwarts.”

His wife looked like she sucked on a lemon.

“Indeed,” her voice hardened. “But I thought Hogwarts was safe. Two attacks in a single year, Lucius.”

“No student was ever harmed,” he pointed out drily. “Dumbledore might be a scheming old coot, but he loves his castle and the students.”

“What of the Diggory boy?” Narcissa raised her eyebrow. “He was battered by one of the trolls on Samhain.”

Lucius scoffed.

“Foolish child trying to play a hero,” he waved her concerns away. “And Pomfrey fixed him as good as new by the next morning. If Draco moves Durmstrang now, he would have difficulty establishing himself as a new second-year. Yes, they instruct students in the Dark Arts, but none of their teachers could rival the late Quirrell in teaching ability, and Karkaroff can barely run a school.”

“I suppose,” his wife conceded with a sigh. “I just don’t like it.”

Lucius’ lips curled with disdain.

“Neither do I, but needs must.” If push came to shove, he and Narcissa could teach Draco all he needed to know about the Dark Arts. Besides, Hogwarts and Durmstrang were the best schools in Europe–every other was inferior. Beuxbatons came close, but they were too French for his taste. Allowing mudbloods and half-breeds openly and in large quantities was even worse.

The breakfast continued in quiet when Dobby appeared with a loud pop.

“Master, morning paper,” the annoying house elf left a crumpled roll on the table.

While a decent cook, Lucius suspected Dobby pretended to be clumsy to irritate him. Even now, covered in dirty bandages, he looked shabby with scratches over his ears, as if he had wrestled with the delivery owl. All those wounds were from the sloppy cleaning up of the myriad of broken glassware from Friday.

“Do not bring my mail like some rag. Ten minutes of punishment, Dobby,” he hissed, and the elf popped away to fulfil his order.

Narcissa wiped her crimson lips with a napkin and clapped with her hands; all the empty dishes popped away into the kitchen.

“If you’re so unhappy with this elf, just sell or slay him and buy another,” she proposed in a droll tone.

Lucius scowled. “All house elves had quirks of their own, and a new one could very well be worse.”

“Keep replacing them until you find one to your liking, Lucius. It’s not like we lack for gold.”

Shrugging noncommittally, Lucius opened the paper and groaned.

WILTSHIRE EXPLOSION INVITES ICW’S INVOLVEMENT.

The proud yet weathered face of Lucas Silvano, the new Supreme Mugwump and the ambitious Castelobruxo’s headmaster, greeted him on the first page.

“What is it?” His wife asked impatiently.

“ICW and MACUSA have sent Obliviators, hit wizards, and investigators here this morning,” he scowled. “The Wiltshire Explosion nearby that levelled a whole city block of Salisbury has them all fretting over like little children.”

The thing was doubtlessly magical in origin–two days prior, everyone felt the searing wave of magic in the British Isles. The fact that it coincided with the fading of Dark Mark accompanied by a bout of excruciating pain was even more suspicious.

Worse, the explosion was just twenty miles from Malfoy Manor, and it had shattered half their glassware while Lucius had writhed in bed from agony.

The whole Ministry almost moved on war footing to deal with the aftermath.

“And what of the muggles?” Narcissa looked worried. “I heard plenty of their ele-ktro-niks are broken, and the damage and effects were too big to be hidden with some memory charms.”

Alas, his wife was right to be worried. Everyone was troubled, even Lucius, despite not showing it. The incident had almost torn away the Statute of Secrecy, and even Dumbledore had to get involved in weaving an enormous enchantment spell to divert the muggles’ attention away to more mundane… explanations.

“The muggles were quick to pin the blame on… what was it called again?” He groaned with annoyance as he inspected the article; why did those foolish muggles keep changing the names of their countries? “U-S-S-R.”

“So long as the Statute is not broken,” she sighed, her eyes filled with relief.

“Indeed,” Lucius agreed. “Regardless, this seems to be dealt with, though we must prepare for more surprise DMLE inspections.”

Narcissa smiled gracefully, but her beautiful grey eyes were so flinty that they sent chills down his back.

“Yet they can only inspect the grounds, not the Manor, without a Wizengamot order,” she reminded thinly.

His wife loved her garden and peaceful afternoon tea. To have the Auror shuffling around her precious flowers and rose bushes while raising a commotion had only earned her ire. Lucius did not doubt half of them were now cursed, and any Aurors poking their nose there again would doubtlessly be met with a most unpleasant experience.

“Good,” he smiled. At least if his conjectures were correct, the Wiltshire Warlock, or whatever the Dark Lord had been attempting, would no longer be an issue.

“We must get ready soon,” Narcissa reminded, face completely expressionless as she glanced at her emerald-encrusted golden pocket watch. “We must arrive at least half an hour earlier for the funeral if we are to take control of my niece.”

“You never know what instructions that old bastard Arcturus left to his solicitor,” Lucius reminded.

His wife quirked a delicate eyebrow. “You speak as if you don’t want your grandchild to control Houses Lestrange and Black.”

A scorned daughter was a terrible thing. While Lucius was arranged to marry Andromeda, his relationship with Narcissa turned into a great boon instead. He gave her as much luxury as her heart craved, along with respect, acceptance, and a son, and received her full support.

Many would dismiss witches as nothing more than trophies to be had, but they were wrong. His wife’s ambition was just as strong as his, if more insidious.

It had been her idea to try to grab Juno’s guardianship and wed the overproud girl to Draco. Narcissa was the girl’s aunt, and the only other close relative alive was the drunken Druella, who would be easy to coerce or even do away with, for his wife held only loathing for her distant mother.

While Draco and Juno were first cousins, there was no danger of following in the footsteps of the Gaunts. The previous four generations of Black and Malfoy had no close blood relations, even if wizards did not need to worry about inbreeding as much as lesser primates. Lucius was quick to agree to the plan, for it would triple his influence, wealth, and power.

Besides, having the overproud Blacks be subsided into the Malfoy family name made his blood and magic sing with joy; Lucius would have the last laugh against that old controlling bastard Arcturus.

“Did you have to behead Lynny?” Juno asked, face impassive.

“It’s a long-standing Black tradition for the personal elf to follow their master in death,” the old witch pointed out. “Lynny was a good elf and would have seen it as a dishonour if I did not continue it.”

“I could have used another servant,” the girl’s tone was heavy with disapproval. “Loyal and trained house elves are invaluable.”

Cassiopeia clicked her tongue.

“Well, you set the rules in House Black now, girl. Do what you will.”

With a sigh, she turned to her new charge.

Hogwarts had been good to Juno Bellatrix Lestrange. She had gained another inch in height, her face had gone sharper, she had lost almost all her baby fat, and the youthful naïveté that all children possessed had almost melted away. Yet the pride in her posture seemed to be replaced by defiance if she was about to face an invisible foe.

Of course, those were only the visible changes to the new head of House Black. Cassiopeia, however, could feel the magic thrum underneath the girl’s skin with promise. By Morgana, she couldn’t wait to see how far her grandniece had grown.

Yet, it was not time for such frivolities. Tradition had to be observed, and the girl was soon to be renamed Juno Bellatrix Black and to discard her Lestrange name as the next head of House Black, as per Arcturus’ final wishes.

The young Black heiress looked almost happy, as if she was going on a picnic instead of attending her granduncle’s funeral. Of course, Arcturus managed to provoke yet another heir, and nobody was left to mourn him. Even Cassiopeia didn’t shed a single tear for her crotchety bastard of a cousin.

“Are you sure we’ll encounter trouble?” Juno asked. As soon as the last exam had ended, she had been pulled out of Hogwarts to prepare for the funeral.

“Either Longbottom or that cretin Malfoy might try something,” Cassiopeia warned. Truthfully, she had no idea of the situation in Wizarding Britain, but those were Arcturus’ thoughts before he croaked.

Alas, Cassie wasn’t terrible in politics when she cared to apply herself, but it was far from her strongest suit.

“Uncle Lucius?” Juno frowned. “He has always been kind to me.”

“A Malfoy never does anything without reason,” Cassiopeia shrugged as she donned her heavy dragonhide robes. “Besides, Narcissa still harbours a grudge about being foisted off to Lucius with no warning once Andromeda eloped. Gods, your aunt has a petty streak a mile wide, even if she hides it under that beautiful face of hers.”

“Is this why you look like you’re going off to war?” Her charge critically inspected her. “Thick dragonhide robes and an enchanted Acromantula silk gown underneath in the middle of a summer.”

Cassiopeia smiled.

“It never hurts to be ready for a fight. Especially now.”

Juno wisely nodded and grabbed a smaller set of dragonhide robes.

“Can’t this feud with Longbottom be halted?” She asked quietly. “I don’t want to look over my shoulder for that moron Neville or his ilk until I go grey.”

“I can start assassinating them,” Cassiopeia proposed. “In a year, I believe I can get rid of all those oafs.”

Juno’s face grew pensive for a heartbeat, and then she shook her head.

“Too risky, and it would bring suspicion onto us. We have the most reason to do away with House Longbottom.”

At this moment, Cassiopeia realised that Arcturus had been a fool to ever consider Sirius Black as his heir. This girl was brighter, bolder, and far more ruthless than that imbecilic man-boy could ever be. Also, she did not seem to be hung up on her pride anymore–for good or bad, the mishap with Longbottom had tempered her far more than any lessons or words of caution could.

Cassiopeia smiled, “That is true, but I know how to leave no trace or make it look like an accident.”

“Too much suspicion,” Juno said after a thoughtful pause. “The DMLE and the Ministry look like a hornet’s nest. That explosion in Wiltshire and the ICW intervention would have everyone looking for foul play for some time. Better not make any moves or bury the hatchet.”

Of course, a DMLE spokesperson had claimed through the Daily Prophet that the explosion had been connected to the dark mage that had eluded them for nearly a year. Naturally, nothing had been confirmed, for the investigations were still ongoing.

“As you say, niece,” Cassiopeia shrugged. “As I said to Arcturus, I’m here to support you, not tell you what to do.”

“Very well. Do you know what exactly could cause such an explosion?” Her voice was dripping with curiosity. “The DMLE and the Ministry claimed it was a result of that dark wizard’s failed ritual. Yet none of the books in the Black Library indicates things of such magnitude could be done. My friend claimed only muggle bombs could do such devastation. Could some unknown dark wizard ever do such a thing?”

Juno Lestrange’s eyes were like two cold blue stars, shining with undisguised ambition and curiosity.

“It’s not impossible,” Cassiopeia hummed. “Albus Dumbledore and Gellert Grindelwald could certainly do it without much effort. Voldemort, too, if he were alive. A powerful alchemist like Nicolas Flamel should be able to replicate such a powerful explosion with some planning. If that old Indian warlock Jayant Mishra hasn’t croaked at three hundred, he could probably pull it off. And that Nur fellow from Egypt, too, if he ever cared to move from the City of the Dead.”

“Who are these… Nur and Jayant?” Juno inquired with a scrunched-up brow. “This is the first time I’ve heard of them.”

“Embers of the first cradles of magic,” Cassiopeia explained. “As you know, the first wizards and witches to break away from baser forms of spellcasting like shamanism, divination, and druidism and delve deeper into rituals, foci, blood, alchemy, potions, and even herbology, hailed from ancient China, India, and Egypt.”

She hastily laced her black dragonhide boots before continuing, “The accumulation of some lineages there is unbroken, and they sometimes produced titans comparable to Dumbledore. Yet all three cradles have kept to themselves for over seven hundred years, so their existence is almost forgotten, especially with the rise of the new schools like Hogwarts, Uagadou, Mahoutokoro, Beauxbatons and the rest.”

India, China, and Egypt held unbroken legacies for millenia, and monsters dwelled there if you dug deep enough. While their days of greatness had dwindled, none of the cradles of magic had been truly destroyed despite falling into obscurity. Their after-effects still echoed in all corners of the world, after all.

While neither the sun-mages like Nur nor mantriks like Jayant Mishra could truly defeat Gellert or Dumbledore, they were considered mountain summits unscalable for everyone else, even if they had hidden for nearly a century. Gellert had slain three titans during the Great War–Tian Wuji of China, Rasputin the Red of Russia, and Richard Johnson of MACUSA.

“Why has nobody achieved such feats before, then?” Juno asked, her eyes full of questions. “If there are so many powerful wizards-“

“Most of these feats are rarely out for the world to see, and nobody wants to break the Statute,” Cassiopeia interrupted. “Even if they were more common, you rarely find wizards looking for wanton destruction. We are much more cultured than the muggles, my dear. Now, enough dawdling. I’ll answer your queries later. Let’s go, or we’ll be late for the funeral. Give me your wand.”

The girl hesitantly handed over her wand holster, and Cassiopeia took out the Hawthorn wand, channelled enough magic to shatter that flimsy Trace, and returned it.

“What did you do?” Juno’s face had turned completely impassive, and even she struggled to read the girl. Ah, such good progress in Occlumency already.

“I removed that pesky tracking charm the Ministry loves doing,” Cassiopeia scoffed. “Such things are for muggle-borns.”

The original Trace had been placed on the student’s body, almost causing a rebellion two hundred years prior. Some petty witch from the Improper Use of Magic Office had used it to track and curse a Nott child over a feud with his mother.

The Wizengamot had been outraged, and ever since, the Trace had been applied only to wands. Such a spell was easy enough to break–an adult wizard or witch with enough skill and knowledge could easily dispel it, and most wands were already resistant to any such enchantments or external charms. The ministry had ways of tracking magic in muggle cities anyway; they never needed the trace except as a control method.

“Right,” Juno tilted her head suspiciously but reached out with her hand. “Let’s go.”

Cassiopeia grabbed her grandniece and twisted.

The landing was smooth, especially for Juno, who twirled gracefully despite her slightly pale face. However, the latter could have been due to the dreary surroundings.

Funerals for House Black were short and private affairs that did not require a silly priest or old warlock to officiate. Cassiopeia had seen some dreadfully boring funerals stretch on for hours and hours, but thankfully, this wouldn’t be such an event.

The Black Graveyard was one of the grimmest places next to Azkaban. It was unplottable and inaccessible without prior invitation, and some distant ancestor had charmed the surrounding sky never to be sunny.

Two grotesque moss-covered gargoyles crowned the arched gate, and a drunken Druella was already waiting there.

“‘Bout time you show up, girl,” she slurred. “Narcissa and Lucius already went in.”

“Why are you not waiting with them?” Juno tilted her head, though her nose wrinkled at the stench. Druella’s locks had gone entirely grey despite being nearly two decades younger than Cassiopeia, and her eyes were bloodshot and glassy. Even now, the acrid stench of puke and firewhisky waffled over.

“‘Cissy didn’t want to give me more,” Druella moaned drunkenly. “I need more gold for whiskey, Juno.”

“Grandmother,” Juno’s eyes grew icy. “Why would I give you anything?”

“I’m your grandmother and guardian, girl,” Druella Rosier puffed with a burp and took a threatening step forward. “You’ll do as I say!”

Gods, the foolish bint was too drunk even to see properly. A Rosier trying to control House Black?!

Yet before Cassiopeia could even move, Juno flicked her wand, and a jet of red light collided with the greying woman.

Druella Rosier fell onto the ground, as still as a statue, aside from her angry, bloodshot eyes glaring furiously.

“A silent full-body bind,” Cassiopeia whistled with appreciation. Had the Hogwarts standards risen so much since she last visited? Or was her grandniece even more talented than she first suspected?

“Listen well, grandmother,” the words were uttered with loathing as Juno crouched next to the fallen woman. “You won’t receive even a knut more from House Black for your proclivities. The next time you show your drunk face before me will be the last time we see each other.”

With that, she stood up and decisively pushed the gate open without sparing her bound grandmother a glance.

“Cold,” Cassiopeia noted as she trailed after the girl. “She’s your flesh and blood.”

“Does it matter when she never cared about such things?” Juno scoffed. “Wally, my elf, raised me far more than Druella did. For my grandmother, wedding into House Black has always been about prestige and later… drinking. That woman does not even respect herself, let alone others.”

There was probably a grain of truth there. Cassiopeia knew all of Druella’s daughters hated their mother, if for various reasons. Besides, Arcturus was good at digging up the dark and ugly side of wizards and witches, and he most certainly taught Juno all about it.

They continued through the wilted yew trees–the magic that kept the place dark and cloudless, even in the summer heat, ate away at the vegetation, and all of it was dead, including the yew and ash trees. It could have been one of the many curses or dark enchantments woven into the place, but Cassiopeia could never say for certain.

Arcturus did not have a classical wooden coffin because Dragon Pox did not allow such a thing. Burning his corpse was too dangerous, as fire, ash, and smoke spread that nasty disease further, for it was fiery in origin. Instead, his half-purple, half-green body was sealed in a translucent sarcophagus of cursed ice, which would eventually destroy any lingering disease before melting in a few decades.

Of course, Lucius and Narcissa, looking stiffly at her, waited by the frosty coffin. Cassiopeia, Juno, and Narcissa were the last three living members of House Black–aside from Draco, who was still at school, and those who had been disowned.

Arcturus had no living friends left that he could invite–the only person who ever tolerated his crotchety ways was Charlus Potter, who had died fifteen years prior.

“Grandaunt, Niece,” the blonde witch’s voice was slightly strangled as she dared not meet her eyes. “Where is your grandmother?”

Not mother or Druella but your grandmother–it seemed that Cygnus’ wife had offended all her daughters, as Arcturus had said once.

“Sobering up at the entrance,” Juno smiled coldly, though her tone held a sliver of suspicion Cassiopeia only caught because she knew the girl.

“It would certainly do her some good,” Narcissa hummed with approval, though her gaze was heavy with caution as she inspected Cassiopeia’s dragonhide robes. “Aunt Cass, I did not expect to see you here…”

“Ah, what can I say,” the old witch scratched her chin thoughtfully. “Old Archie was a right bastard, and I should at least dance on his fresh grave once. Besides, he did ask me to be Juno’s guardian, and I have to accompany her now.”

The old witch cackled as she saw Narcissa’s face twist up like she had swallowed a whole lemon.

12th of June, Friday 1992

“If I ever lay me hands on him!”

Hagrid had been inconsolable about Fluffy’s ignoble death at the hands of the Bulgarian monster hunter. Even over ten days later, his eyes were angry and rimmed with red.

Angry Hagrid had been a scary sight, and Harry had no doubt that if Grigori Petrov met the keeper of keys again, the gentle half-giant wouldn’t be gentle anymore. Still, Harry and the others had visited him often, mostly to keep his mind off the death of Fluffy.

Many students were scared and furious at Quirrell’s death, especially after it became known that the monster hunter had also managed to attack Professor McGonagall before slipping away.

Dumbledore had taken up the Transfiguration exams while the Gryffindor House head recuperated. A week later, she finally left the Hospital Wing with her usual stern face and slightly greyer hair.

Three days after Petrov’s attack, a handful of parents showed up at Hogwarts to withdraw their children from the school, but after a short talk with Dumbledore, only a single woman did so, while the rest returned home.

A day after the last exam had finished, Juno was spirited away to attend her granduncle’s funeral and wouldn’t return to Hogwarts until the new school year.

The castle was still abuzz; the Daily Prophet kept spewing worrisome news after that Wiltshire Explosion, ICW, warlocks, dark mages, Obliviators, DMLE, and Ministry reassurances, but the students slowly settled down as always.

Yes, Quirrell had died, but they did not see the blood-soaked corpse nor the devastation and had only heard about it, so the novelty wore off quickly.

For once, Harry Potter was not at the centre of things. No whispers followed in his wake, nor were any fingers pointed at him. He was just a bright first-year student in Ravenclaw. He was not in the Hospital Wing at the end of the year for the first time, nor did anyone consider him a troublemaker.

His wish to have a peaceful year at Hogwarts had come true. If he had ignored the trolls on All Hallow’s Eve, from the start until the end, there would not have been a single ounce of danger to his person, probably because he had kept his nose out of it.

Voldemort’s plans had been thwarted without his hot-headed foolishness or stupidly dangerous adventure.

It was everything Harry thought he wanted.

Yet, why did he not feel happy?

His heart was filled with unwillingness. Occlumency exercises were good for self-reflection, at least for your feelings. There was a sliver of anger, some guilt, and a whole river of disappointment churning inside his mind.

Harry Potter was disappointed with himself.

Objectively, he knew there was little he could do as a first-year aside from relying on sheer dumb luck. But the problem with luck was that it ran out sooner or later, and Harry didn’t feel particularly lucky right now.

Having things happen without his knowledge, without him trying to do something, anything frustrated him deeply. Yet there was nowhere he could vent his frustrations, for even Juno was away, and he couldn’t duel until he was too tired to lift his finger.

Worse, Quirrell had been easily the best teacher he had ever had, above what Lupin or Barty Crouch Jr did. Harry Potter had learned far more about Defence in a single year under Quirrell than in three in his previous life.

Then, the chilling realisation slowly but surely set in.

Harry Potter hated being ordinary. Ordinary meant weak and fragile; you had to endure whatever the strong desired. The struggles in his last life showed it clearly.

Sure, he hated the glory, fame, and all the whispers and attention, but ordinary wizards and witches could only stand, watch, and do nothing while things happened.

He hated when things blindsided him, and most importantly, he hated the feeling of weakness and powerlessness. It rankled at his very being.

But this time, Harry was alone. His short talk with Dumbledore only reinforced his mistrust towards the man, and he had even let slip a few things by mistake. Yes, Albus Dumbledore was Tom Riddle’s enemy, but that did not mean he would be Harry Potter’s ally.

Any budding trust towards this headmaster had been squandered with a simple answer, and he couldn’t trust this Albus Dumbledore any more than he could trust the previous one.

What had the headmaster been thinking to make a trap for the Dark Lord in the school?

Two people dead… and for what? To confirm that Tom Riddle has not yet fully perished?

For now, Voldemort might have been content to let him be, but Harry knew the Dark Lord would not forget, nor would he forgive. After facing Tom Riddle half a dozen times, he knew him all too well.

A lone baby vanquishing him on the fateful Hallow’s Eve would forever be a blemish on the Dark Lord’s name. Such a humiliation for Voldemort could only be washed off with Harry’s death.

The only way to escape that fate was not to run. He had considered it a few times, but Harry had no desire to live in fear or look behind his shoulder for the rest of his life.

No.

He had to destroy the Dark Lord somehow before he returned. Or Harry had to become strong enough to fight him—strong enough to fight Lord Voldemort or Albus Dumbledore. Before Harry knew Voldemort had to be defeated, he had hoped such a feat could be accomplished with a sliver of luck and plenty of planning.

Yet the Room of Requirement still eluded him. Without it, he could never get a hold of the diadem. Sheer dumb luck wasn’t enough. He would keep trying, but a feeling deep down inside told him it would be in vain.

Once the realisation sunk in, a burning desire churned in his gut. Yes, Harry wanted to be strong and skilled before, but it wasn’t enough. Now, it seemed too meagre, too pitiful. Voldemort would not fall to a strong and skilled wizard. Harry Potter did not want to be a weak nobody to be pushed around.

No, he wanted to be great, powerful enough not to fear, not to be another piece of some chessboard or forced to hide as a rat.

Powerful enough to face Voldemort without relying on trickery or some fleeting luck.

The fame and the attention… he could accept them if they were for something he had done. He couldn’t lie to himself after his successful stint as a Seeker, during which he did not shy away from the crowd’s adoration or when the whole stadium erupted in cheers when he caught the snitch.

Stronger. He needed to be stronger and better. His progress was good for a student, but it was not enough. Catching up to five decades of Voldemort’s or a century of Dumbledore’s experience would not be easy.

Time flew, and the end-of-year feast arrived as Harry dove back into training with greater fervour than before. When his body gave out, and his magic ran low, he perused through the library for more knowledge. The Great Hall was full, and a huge dark blue banner showing the bronze eagle of Ravenclaw stood behind the high table. It was flanked by more mourning black banners in memory of Professor Quirrell.

“Another year gone!” Dumbledore’s solemn voice echoed, bereft of his usual cheer, but it broke Harry from his stupor. “It was certainly a trying one. We lost a great teacher this month. A minute of silence for the late Quirinus Quirrell, one of the best Defence Against the Dark Arts teachers this fine institution has had the pleasure of having in quite some time…”

The last words were rather stiff, though Harry could have imagined things. He could see Trelawny struggling not to bawl her eyes out on the staff table while clutching her stomach. A few students outright sobbed; Quirrell was an easy favourite of many students and never turned away anyone asking for assistance.

“But loss would not break us,” the headmaster continued after the lengthy pause. “Let it be a lesson that evil exists inside and outside these hallowed walls. Magic is a great force, but while it could be used for good deeds, it can also be twisted for vile purposes.”

“Damn,” Marcus Belby groaned quietly, two seats from Harry. “He has never been so serious before.”

“Shush,” Penelope Clearwater hissed from further down the table

“Now, enough of this dreadfulness. As I understand it, a House Cup needs to be awarded, and the points stand thus: Gryffindor is in fourth place with seventy-two points.”

The lions were all grimacing, but their gazes were mainly directed at the Weasley Twins, Neville, and Ron…

“Third place is Slytherin with a hundred seventy-three points. Second is Hufflepuff with four hundred, and first–Ravenclaw with the almost unprecedented eight hundred twenty-nine!”

A storm of cheers and stamping erupted as everyone around Harry began toasting and yelling in joy. Many were patting his shoulder as one of the main contributors to the insane point advantage. Juno would have surely received a similar treatment if she had been here.

Yet Harry didn’t feel particularly happy, unlike when his house had won the House Cup the first time around. All the Ravenclaws were so proud, yet it felt meaningless now.

Even Hufflepuff and Gryffindor were grudgingly cheering the broken Slytherin victory streak.

Sprout, Slughorn, and McGonagall were shaking Flitwick’s hand, who looked so joyful he would fly away.

“You don’t seem very happy,” Diana noted from his left.

“Yeah, well…” he weakly trailed off. “I wished the year didn’t end so–”

He struggled to find the right word, but it evaded his tongue.

“Tragically? It could have been worse, you know, but none of the students was attacked. I bet Petrov will be caught sooner or later with that bounty on his head. Justice will be served.”

“I sure hope so,” Harry muttered, though he didn’t share his friend’s optimism. The Ministry sucked at catching criminals and judging by the comments of the older years, the ICW was no better.

“We’re just children. It’s not our job to fight dark wizards,” Diana kept talking to assuage him, and it only made Harry feel worse.

Yeah, it wasn’t his job to do it. But who would? Dumbledore? The ministry? He knew how those things ended.

While powerful, Harry knew all too well that the headmaster was as fallible as the rest of them; otherwise, Filch and Quirrell wouldn’t have died this year.

His eyes settled at his palms. They were small, pale, and childish but calloused.

The truth was that Harry couldn’t close his eyes and pretend everything was fine.

Could he do it? Could he become strong quickly enough to hunt down the Horcruxes, or should that fail, defeat the Dark Lord?

Harry clenched his fingers into fists. He was certainly not going to give up. Not now, not ever.

This year had been bad… but the next one would be better. He would make sure of it.

“You should try this Lancashire hotpot,” Diana elbowed him, motioning to the table with hearty food. “Stop being gloomy and eat.”

He had no appetite, but meals were not something he could afford to skip. Hardwin’s Hitwizard Guide claimed that lacking nutrition could negatively affect the growth of his magic, and he needed every advantage he could get, no matter how small.

With a frown, he grabbed a serving of the hotpot and shoved a spoon in his mouth. It tasted like ash on his tongue, just like the pumpkin juice, but he kept eating and drinking anyway.