12.Unexpected Consequences

12th of October, Saturday

Albus Dumbledore was old; he knew that.

But nothing made the weight of the years fall atop his shoulders like trouble. Young children often had a penchant for mischief and could be cruel, so very cruel, more than adults.

The wounds of his pupil’s war still festered so many years after and made him feel helpless.

Another notch on his ever-lengthening string of follies and failures.

‘They are nought but bugs under your feet! Crush them all!’

The whisper was ignored, and Albus warily looked at the Wand of Destiny. An incredibly deceiving name given by fools thinking they could master fate, the old warlock found calling it the Death Stick far more apt. Dark, long and delicate, there was a twisted elegance even in the small, gnarly knots along its length.

The wand had been silent for long, peaceful years, but it did not escape his attention that it irrationally increased his desire for violence and conflict. It was little trouble for someone with a well-organised mind to resist such baser impulses. Yet, when Dumbledore had been forced to take battle once more, the Death Stick’s influence had become even stronger, to the point that he could hear whispers in his mind.

The Elder Wand was very insidious; not only did it want to be used, but it relished in blood and carnage. How much had Gellert been influenced towards the end?

He shook his head, no, absolving him of guilt was folly; his old friend’s mind was no less sturdy than his own, and if he gave in to the temptation, it was because he wanted to. Worse, once you used it, you couldn’t bring yourself to truly put it away or destroy it, no. The moment the thought appeared in Dumbledore’s mind, his heart was filled with unwillingness.

Not that it stopped Albus; it had taken him many years, but he had steeled himself and tried, yet the Death Stick was indestructible…

At first, he simply thought that the three brothers were exceptional craftsmen and enchanters, yet as he aged, Albus realised such intricate, powerful, and indestructible work was beyond mortal means. Some days, he wondered what madness possessed the Peverell brothers to call upon the manifestation of Death of all things.

Ah, the folly of youth, thinking that simply having more power or boldness was the answer to all your woes…

He had fallen into a similar trap and paid a heavy price.

That muggle lord from a hundred and fifty years ago had the right of it – power corrupted. Even he was not arrogant enough to believe himself immune to such things. Albus Dumbledore was painfully aware of his own failings, and now, with the Elder Wand in hand for nearly half a century, he had grown even more cautious in exerting his power and influence than before.

Every act and every decision had consequences, often both good and bad and possibly catastrophic, yet even seers could not foresee everything, let alone him.

The polished oak door of his office swung open, tearing him away from his musings as Minerva strode in.

Her stride lacked its usual feline grace and purpose; there were deep bags under her eyes, the errant strands of grey in her hair seemed to have multiplied, and the usually pristine green robes were now crumpled instead.

“Lemon drop?” He offered.

The deputy headmistress simply grimaced at the bowl filled with muggle sweets. Ah, they all did.

“Must you punish Mr Longbottom so heavily, Albus?” Her voice was weary; the fiasco seemed to have taken as much toll on her as on him. “He’s such a promising boy. Restricting his wand access to lessons only at such an essential period would stunt the growth of his powers.”

Indeed it was – the period from eleven to seventeen was essential for the growth of a wizard’s magic.

“What use are promises and powers if misused so cruelly?” Dumbledore shook his head, and Minerva’s shoulders sagged. “His knockback jinx drew on his anger and resolve as it was. Miss Lestrange would have perished in that hallway if he were a tad more powerful. Besides, his free time shall be occupied with aiding Filch with the janitorial duties. Some honest hard work might just provide some introspection the boy sorely needs.”

“It was a legitimate wizarding duel. I doubt murder was his intent-“

“Mr Longbottom’s actions spoke loud and clear, and such acts have… consequences. It’s a lesson better learned sooner rather than later. I have no doubt Augusta shall let her grandson practice freely during the summer to remedy such deficiencies, but a humbling is still in order.” Still, it did restrict Neville Longbottom’s growth regardless; with drive and hard work, he could still become a powerful wizard, but his chances of being a powerhouse would be diminished.

The defiance in Minerva’s eyes was still strong, however.

“You know my qualms about letting Miss Lestrange attend Hogwarts. She already looks more powerful and dangerous than her parents were at her age, and restricting Neville’s growth might leave him vulnerable to retaliation.”

A weary sigh escaped him; the cycle of hatred could be neverending. Revenge was a dangerous, bloody endeavour that could destroy you far more than any foes could. Yet, for all his power, he could not truly halt the resurgence of this particular feud, only contain it.

“Juno Lestrange is not the one who has attacked her fellow student unprovoked here,” he reminded. “How would we be any better than the Death Eaters if we judge the girl by who her parents were?”

Still, he had warned Juno in person that any further escalation would be met with his greatest displeasure.

“It’s not even about her parents, Albus, and you know that,” Minerva rubbed her eyes tiredly. “Algie Longbottom resigned from the board of the governors this morning, and Reginald Carrow has taken his place. It has barely been a day, and the Black Lord is already throwing his weight around!”

“As he very well should-” A wave of his wand froze Phineas Black along with all the other enchanted portraits.

The least popular headmaster no doubt reported to his grandson, Arcturus. Perhaps keeping that painting permanently disabled would not hurt.

“Augusta Longbottom agreed to let go of that seat in exchange for keeping things from getting personal,” Dumbledore explained patiently.

Even the old battle-axe had some sense to avoid wrangling with a Black in a game of bloody subterfuge. House Black had dwindled, but they were not without means and connections – now, their feud would be limited to business and politics. There would be no assassinations and, most importantly, no fatal accidents or muggings that gave Lord Black his notorious reputation. Of course, nothing that could be traced to him legally; there was a reason the old stooge was so feared, and it was not his hefty web of connections or his mediocre prowess with a wand.

Still, that would undoubtedly make things ripple in unpredictable ways, especially with the elections for minister in the coming week.

“Isn’t it… dangerous to allow Arcturus to control half the school board? He can try to influence the school directly now!”

“Arcturus may try all he wants,” the headmaster languidly ran his hand through his white beard. “But I doubt he will – the man has never dared to challenge me directly, let alone when he’s busy feuding with the Longbottoms. Besides, it’s not like his influence over the board members is final. Nothing is absolute in politics, Minerva.”

The transfiguration mistress slowly adjusted her spectacles, and for a moment, Dumbledore couldn’t help but think she looked ten years older.

At least the Prophet’s attention had been deflected from the school spat, for good or bad; Arcturus and Augusta seemed to have no desire to air their own woes for everyone to see.

“All this trouble over a children’s duel?” A hint of frustration leaked through Minerva’s usually controlled tone. “Neville has done nothing wrong, and you know it – the school rules allow for wizarding duels, Albus.”

“But any such altercation must be nonlethal or supervised by the staff, not another first year,” he wryly reminded. “I am well aware some rules are paradoxical or contradict each other.”

Adding or removing rules was a slow, cumbersome process that took years and required not only the agreement of the whole staff but the board of governors, too…

“But-“

“I can not afford not to punish Neville, Minerva. In the end, what he did was with intent to harm a fellow student. If you must know, my punishment for the boy is for his own protection amongst everything else.”

Yet the transfiguration mistress was undaunted. “What, don’t tell me the Blacks would dare to declare a blood feud, Albus! Only that old stooge Arcturus is left aside from Juno, and they no longer have the numbers to make trouble!”

“The numbers had dwindled, true. But connections and wealth did not. Besides, Cassiopeia is still alive,” a grimace found its way to his face, and Minerva paled, “She might have disappeared after Grindelwald’s forces agreed to disband, but she would doubtlessly support her lordly cousin if needs must. House Black might be on its last leg, but a cornered rat is still dangerous, let alone a cornered wolf. Madness runs in their blood, and if Juno had perished, Arcturus would undoubtedly try his best to kill every single Longbottom and destroy them utterly and everything they hold dear, no matter the cost, Cassiopeia or not.”

Alas, Grindelwald’s left hand was someone who would give even him a pause at this age, with pure viciousness alone, if nothing else.

“I knew the Blacks were dangerous, but there is no way such behaviour can be allowed!” Minerva heaved heavily with outrage now. “How can you or the Wizengamot stand for such… audacity!”

“Even I am not all-powerful, no matter what people think.” Dumbledore gave her a sorrowful smile. “As for how? There’s a reason why Arcturus is one of the most dangerous men in Wizarding Britain, despite being a middling wizard and absent from politics for nearly twenty years. Even without their plentiful connections and wealth, the Blacks have blackmail, favours, loans, and contracts – underhanded, clandestine; there is no low they wouldn’t stoop to if truly provoked.”

“Surely you’re exaggerating?” She asked, aghast.

“Oh, not at all; they did this to the Sayres two centuries ago and the Greys shortly before you were born. The Blacks are very adept at covering their tracks, of course – nothing illegal is ever traced back to them, and the Prophet would never dare print anything about it lest they get in the crossfire. It’s a costly endeavour, for sure, as their targets do fight back, you know. It hurts House Black as much as it hurts their foes, but they can be viciously relentless until the bitter end. This is why people would rather make friends and connections with the Blacks instead of provoking them.”

Still, there was no need to mention that taking down House Sayre had reduced House Black to two brothers and a daughter, and uprooting the Greys crippled them politically for almost two decades.

Minerva lifted her spectacles and pinched the bridge of her nose in frustration.

“All of this… for a schoolyard spat?”

“Less, I’d wager. If my guess is correct, House Longbottom will have all their debts and loans called back immediately, the competition will undercut their businesses without regard for loss and profit, and any skeletons in their closets will be dug out. Nothing truly as bad as the loss of life.”

It wasn’t that bad. Not even half as bad as if Juno had perished. Arcturus was capable and willing to drag down many people on his way to hell. That’s not to speak of the Lestrange wealth and resources he had his hands on via Juno.

“Merlin,” she leaned on the chair as if all her strength had left her, but resolve crept into her eyes. “I don’t think I can handle such problems… I shall resign from my post as a deputy headmistress.”

The sudden proclamation caught him completely off-guard, and it took him a few seconds to gather his thoughts.

The deputy was traditionally the one nurtured and the successor of the headmaster, and it’s been over two decades since McGonagall had held this post. Dumbledore had always thought she would take up Hogwarts’ mantle after him.

He unwrapped a lemon drop and popped it in his mouth to cover his grimace. For a few moments, sour and sweet battled between his taste buds, bringing him a small measure of relief.

“May I inquire what brought this on?”

“I came here to escape the politics and underhanded ways of the Ministry, not deal with them even more, Albus. No, even without that, there’s not enough time and energy to spare to look after my lions,” she admitted, voice low and raw. “This whole trouble with Mr Longbottom could have been averted if I had more time to deal with the new students and sort out the problems. I can do away with the administrative duties and the such, but Gryffindor and teaching are all I have left now…”

The death of Minerva’s husband was a wound that seemed never to heal, he knew, making her throw herself head-first into her school duties. Yet Albus knew the feeling of being stretched thin all too well between multitudes of jobs. No matter how adaptable or capable one was, stress took its due sooner or later.

Besides, she did have a point – Hogwarts’ headmaster and deputy could rarely avoid politics for long.

And now it seemed that the troubling encounter between Mr Longbottom and Miss Lestrange and the heavy consequences had been the straw that broke the camel’s back.

“Very well,” he sighed. “Yet, I must ask you to remain at the post at least until the new year. Finding a replacement on such short notice would not be ideal.”

“Of course I shall, Albus,” she gave him a sorrowful nod. “I will go now, lest the Weasley twins think their detention with me is voided.”

Minerva then stood up and decisively left through the door. He closed his eyes and tiredly rubbed his brow; Dumbledore was no longer as spry and young as he once was, and Minerva’s resignation only made him feel exhausted.

His gaze moved to his polished desk, filled with scrolls and letters, the two topmost from Fudge and Macmillan requesting his endorsement about the upcoming election.

It was not new; every time the Wizengamot elected the Minister of Magic, the candidates wanted his assistance, but he was always reluctant to give it. He was very tempted to do so every time; his word was too powerful, and any aid could easily tilt the scales of victory.

Yet once he did so, could he truly stop dipping deeper and deeper into the echelons of power – both as a direct influence and a position?

Dumbledore… was not sure he had the control to resist.

Fawkes chose that moment to stir from his perch and trill softly, filling the room with soothing warmth.

“Thank you, old friend,” the headmaster nodded gratefully at his companion, who chirped softly.

Maybe Minerva had a good point.

It would not be remiss to focus on the more crucial matters. Politics and other troubles aside, the bait to draw out and confirm Voldemort’s survival could not be neglected, even if it was not fully prepared yet. And even without that, other issues at school now required his close attention.

Yet, it was not all bad – Quirrell had always been a promising young man, and his sabbatical had greatly benefited him. Although the headmaster couldn’t help but hold a grain of caution. He had a whole year to fully observe if the changes in the young teacher were all for the better. Worse, while Hogwarts was always in need of skilled teachers, the DADA curse made things thorny.

Perhaps it was time to abandon some of the empty honours and titles Dumbledore had taken for the sake of peace. The International Confederation of Wizards could make do with another Supreme Mugwump.

14th of October, Monday

The alarm rang its annoying tune, forcing Juno to reach out and turn it off.

Half her body was still stiff, the other half tender, although not as much as yesterday when Poppy had released her from the hospital wing. At least the dull headache was finally gone.

Juno hated it. She hated the feeling of agonising pain and helplessness as she lay on the hospital bed; she hated the feeling of defeat; she hated Longbottom; she hated her parents; she hated the Dark Lord, but most of all, she hated herself.

The lecture that her granduncle had given her was infuriatingly accurate – what Juno had done was so humiliatingly foolish that it made her want to bury herself under the covers and disappear forever. Worse, half the first years had seen it.

‘When dealing with someone stronger, you want to hit your targets at their weakest, when they are unprepared and least expect it. Angry wizards are predictable and have poorer aim; do not hesitate to infuriate your foe when you can.’

It was one thing for Aunt Cass to try to teach her and another to be on the receiving end of such tactics. This had been the most painful and humiliating lesson Juno had to date.

Her poised image of grace and competence was broken in the most painfully brutal way possible, along with her pride, and Juno had nobody to blame for it but herself. Worse, the consequences for the family would be hefty; knowing Lord Black, he would not hesitate to retaliate in a way that would hurt the Longbottoms as painfully as possible but would cost many galleons, favours and connections. All that influence was squandered because Juno was stupid.

At least she was still a first-year; if something like this had happened later on, Juno would not have been able to recover from the loss of prestige built up for years. Children’s follies were also easily forgiven and forgotten over time.

Cassiopeia had warned her that failure was an inevitable part of growing that no one could avoid but only learn from, but it tasted so bitter. Her grandaunt was right, as always. It was indeed a painful lesson that Juno would never forget.

With a sigh, she closed her eyes and tried to get rid of her anger and frustration. It took her more than usual, but Juno succeeded and started running her mental exercises. Occlumency was one of her stronger disciplines, but far from enough if a bumbling git like Longbottom could let her lose her control.

About half an hour later, her mind was pleasantly refreshed, and she opened her eyes once again and reached for the silver clock on the nightstand; it was five-thirty.

With a tired groan, she forced herself to get up, freshen, don her training robes, and get to the common room. For the first time, Juno got to see the room empty; only the soft crackling of the fireplace could be heard as two dim lights softly illuminated from above.

Hopefully, her knowledge was correct, and the plan would succeed.

Sure enough, Potter walked down from the boy’s dormitories, dressed in black cotton pants and a plain grey hoodie. As usual, the boy’s emotions were somehow muted, but she could still sense them after focusing, a sure sign of Occlumency.

Predictably, Potter halted as soon as he saw her.

“How may I help you, Lestrange?” His voice was even, but she could detect a hint of surprise and caution. “Is this about… Longbottom?”

Even more curiously, the tightly controlled tinge of animosity and distrust the Potter initially held for her was now replaced with regret… and something she couldn’t put her finger on.

Not that Potter was any less dangerous; his right hand twitched almost imperceptibly, but Juno had inferred he was ready to draw his wand immediately from his hidden wand holster. Morgana, he was a bit too twitchy, but perhaps with good reason.

She couldn’t help but feel flattered at the caution even though he won the spars in DADA.

“No,” Juno quickly shook her head. “He’s not worth my time, not truly.”

“Even after Friday?”

The suspicion was not unexpected.

“My dislike for Longbottom has greatly increased, believe me,” she hissed. “But, fighting and winning against some weakling like him brings me nothing, no matter how much I want to curse him. He’s not worth my time or effort.”

No, it was likely to drag her into more trouble instead, and Dumbledore was not a man to be openly provoked. The Longbottoms would pay in his stead, but Potter did not need to know that. That did not mean Juno would forget or forgive all the pain and humiliation – oh no, she would bid her time, and if the opportunity ever presented itself…

“It is true,” Harry sighed, running a hand through his messy hair. His feelings turned into a tangled mess she couldn’t even begin to decipher. “Wasting your time in school on some spat is childish. Although I didn’t expect such violence.”

Neither did Juno…

“Well, if nothing else, Friday did show me that my endurance is lacking. Do you mind if I join your morning runs?” She asked, hoping that none of her frustration leaked into her voice.

His guarded green eyes inspected her for a long, painful moment, then softened.

“Sure,” he readily agreed, making her blink in surprise. Just like that? But Juno was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. “Are you sure you should be running just yet, though? You just got out of the hospital last night.”

“I’ll take it easy,” Juno coughed, trying to cover her embarrassment as she remembered Madam Pomfrey’s advice not to strain herself in the next four days. “How would you know – I never heard about you being in the hospital wing?”

“…Let’s say I’ve been in an accident or two before.”

And just like that, they headed down towards the school grounds silently.

Oh, she could go and jog on her own, but this was the perfect opportunity to make a connection with the Boy-Who-Lived, something Juno never expected to consider before. That was why she was here and not in Durmstrang, trying to graduate as early as possible. Hogwarts presented many opportunities, especially to create her own network and a circle of friends and allies.

Unlike what she expected, Potter was not some useless muggle-raised fool or arrogant fame-monger with an overly big head. He was… talented. Very talented and even more hard-working, making Juno feel ashamed. Still, the Boy Who Lived did not grow arrogant with his success but remained quiet, observant, and mainly kept to himself. There was no lording over or bragging about his superior performance, but she found his humbleness strangely endearing.

Juno was used to being the best in everything; learning was easy, and magic was easier. It was a complete surprise to see someone outperform her, especially when she had mastered most of the material up to the second year before school began. Potter tried to hide it, but it showed anyway. He was very, very well-read, and magic seemed so… effortless for him. Their practice in DADA had only cemented that further in Juno’s mind – he was fast, almost tireless, and better than her! Not only that, but his success at silent casting had been unexpected.

Even her aunt told Juno that their practice for chantless magic would begin next summer at the earliest… yet here was Potter doing it without any guidance already!

Worse, the boy was about eleven months younger than her.

It was infuriating, eye-opening… and challenging in an exciting sort of way. Never before had Juno put in so much effort in her studies or magic, but it seemed that Potter trained more. Who got up every single day just after curfew ended to jog?!

Well, not for long!

She shivered as soon as they left the castle; it was cold and still dark outside, only the stars softly shining from above. The Scottish nights were more chilling than what Juno was used to, and white puffs of breath escaped her lips.

“How can you run in this gloom? What if you trip on some rock?

“I know the terrain by heart now,” he said. “And at the start, I used a wand-lighting charm.”

However, at the next moment, Potter spun rapidly, wand in hand, and a strong beam of light shone from the tip of his wand.

Merlin, her housemate, was quick, and Juno couldn’t help but notice that Potter was standing protectively before her.

Yet, her surprise only increased as she saw Hestia and Flora stand at the castle’s entrance.

“What are you two doing here?”

“Lord Black bid us to, ah, accompany you outside the school hours,” Flora grumbled, and her twin nodded sleepily, making the boy lower his wand.

Juno grimaced; it seemed her granduncle did not trust her to defend herself anymore. Not that she could blame him, but the feeling of disappointment was sour. At least Flora and Hestia were great to hang around with. Juno noticed they didn’t try to hide the fact; their loyalty seemed more to her than anything else. Suddenly, the cold outside didn’t bother her as much anymore.

“You two are welcome to join us in the run if you wish,” Harry offered with a slight grin.

Hestia looked at him as if he was raving mad, but Flora just tilted her head curiously.

“Aren’t you too young to be training for Quidditch?”

Potter’s face grew thoughtful for a moment.

“I’m not interested in flying or team tryouts,” he said. “According to some hit-wizard guide, physical conditioning helps with magic control. And I’ve found that having more stamina or agility never hurts.”

The pairs of mismatched eyes now shone with interest.

As Potter had noted, Juno couldn’t run much before her newly healed ankles started aching, but it was better than doing nothing. Not that Flora or Hestia lasted much longer than her. On the other hand, Potter was a monster – his run lasted over an hour.

Jogging had been tiring, but the warm shower afterwards was oddly satisfying.

As soon as she was fully recovered, Juno intended to use the Carrow twin’s presence to the fullest. While running with Potter was fine, training with him was not. Her pride demanded victory without getting trained by him. Flora and Hestia were quite good with their wands; fighting them would be good practice.

Juno dreaded her first meal in the Great Hall since the duel, but it seemed like she worried for nothing. While Brocklehurst now pretended Juno didn’t exist, Morag Macdougal had kept her spot for breakfast.

“Thank you,” Juno dipped her head with a grateful smile.

“How are you feeling?” The question came from Diana Taylor, Potter’s friend, but half of the table leaned in to hear her answer with interest.

“A bit tired and sore. According to Madame Pomfrey, it will be gone in two or three days.”

The food appeared, and nobody asked her any more questions, much to her relief. Talking about the last Friday was irritating.

Surprisingly, her humiliating defeat at the hands of Longbottom only made the Ravenclaws warm up to her – while the looks of sympathy or pity were irking her, it was something she could work with. Even the Hufflepuffs felt less wary of her…

The other unexpected yet welcome result was that Juno and Macdougal had found themselves joining Potter’s small group all of a sudden. The Boy Who Lived was almost a full head shorter than Juno but carried himself with a presence that somehow deterred the others. Which suited her just fine; while muggle-born, Taylor was skilled, polite, and wellbred, and Patil was no lesser but a pureblood.

The teachers were a little different; Snape was grouchy as usual, Binns was lulling, but Juno could feel a tinge of wariness as McGonagall looked at her, but her attitude was unchanged.

They finally met the Gryffindors in front of the DADA classroom. Longbottom… he wasn’t gloating like she imagined. No, he didn’t even try to approach or speak with her, although it could have been Potter’s presence that deterred him.

No, he radiated remorse; she could feel it even in the jumbled sea of emotion in the classroom. Was it because she ended up in the hospital wing? Or maybe because he failed to kill her?

It angered her, but it was not terrible; Juno would not have to deal with his bothersome obsession any further. That did not mean she would forget. If only the fool did not bother her in the first place. Still, the thought of him scrubbing bathrooms and hallways by hand for hours every evening did bring her a smidgeon of joy.

Professor Quirrell quickly entered and took the attendance. A capable yet dangerous man, Juno couldn’t feel any emotion from him, and the only other person fully in control of their mind she had met had been the headmaster…

With a wave of his wand, all the homework placed on the upper left of their desks flew and stacked itself before him.

“Today,” for a short moment, Quirrell’s eyes lingered on Longbottom, “we shall talk about ambushes, how to avoid and detect them, and the most efficient usage of counterspells and shields.”