52.Foiled Endeavours

1st of October 1993, Friday (21 days later)

Albus Dumbledore

Three weeks. It took him three weeks to get an actual lead and move in. His connections abroad were fewer compared to the British Isles, and across the world, they were spread thin. While his name carried weight and unlocked many doors, he was redirected towards bureaucrat after bureaucrat and official after official. It was a cumbersome process that reminded him that at least half of the Ministries across the continent and ICW were even more bloated and inefficient than the British Ministry of Magic.

Which was quite the feat, but Albus wasn’t surprised; bureaucrats seemed to love their dreadful procedures more than they cared about efficiency, regardless of where they were. He lost count of how many times the Death Stick demanded he ‘Eviscerate them all!‘ and Albus had to confess that he had been sorely tempted at least once.

This all had forced Albus on a merry adventure across the English Channel, but he had finally succeeded.

The Italian liaison office in the region the Muggles called Yugoslavia was a grey, squat building in that Muggle style they called ‘brutalist’. Like the name implied, it was a soulless thing, grim and harsh on the eyes, with a flat roof and windows that were slightly skewed on the side.

“Greetings, Master Dumbledore,” Marco Venturini greeted at the door. Master—a title Albus had not heard in a long time, given to him for his Mastery of Transfiguration. Over fifty years had passed since he was commonly referred to as such. Albus liked the sound of it, but not nearly as much as being called ‘Professor’. “A thousand apologies—Mugwump Giovanni said you’d be arriving next week. It’s hectic these days, so excuse me for the mess.”

His accent was quite heavy, but the man could still be understood. The Italian wizard was a plump, greying man who looked to be in his fifties but was in fact over eighty. Albus could have spoken to him in Italian, even in his regional dialect of Friuli. Still, since the man insisted on speaking in English, it would be rude to dismiss his efforts.

“It is of no matter, Mr Venturini. Circumstances have forced my hand,” Albus said as he followed the man through the dark hallways and into a messy office.

His mind drifted to his earlier encounters. Karkaroff had proved eager to avoid him, but Albus was not a man who could be easily avoided, even if Durmstrang’s defences were quite formidable. His persistence had paid off, for Albus got the confirmation he had been seeking. Karkaroff’s Dark Mark was thick, full of colour and magic, twitching and twisting.

Destroying the Horcruxes had not ended his wayward student for good. Voldemort was attempting to return once again.

“Coffee or tea, Master Dumbledore?” the Italian wizard asked as he sat behind his desk, and with a wave of his wand, sent the used glass cups and plates into an overfilled box with dirty utensils. Marco gave him an apologetic shrug as if saying, ‘what can you do‘.

“Tea,” he decided, eyeing the desk’s surface, plastered with butterbeer and chocolate stains.

“Any preference?”

“Surprise me,” Albus said, popping a lemon drop into his mouth.

The man quickly busied himself over an old magical stove, putting a kettle to boil on a low hum.

“You probably don’t remember me, Master Dumbledore.”

“But I do,” the old warlock countered. “Quite a bit younger and livelier, if covered in plenty of blood after you survived the Siege of Castel del Monte.”

“Slimmer too,” Marco laughed, patting his plump stomach. “Thankfully, those dark times are now behind us.”

“That they are,” Albus agreed. “That they are. But the current unrest worries me—hence why I’m here.”

“Bah, this too will blow over.” The plump wizard waved his hand. “There’s always some ambitious dark wizard, vampire, or werewolf to stir up some trouble from time to time. We’ve had four such men in the last half a century, but nobody nearly as dangerous or ambitious as Grindelwald.”

There was nobody like Gellert, Albus knew.

“Because the ICW is paranoid about those who might follow his path,” Albus offered tiredly. However, this meant that the ICW ignored everyone else, so long as the Statute of Secrecy was not threatened. “How is the situation here?”

“Quiet,” Marco said as he offered him a steaming cup of tea that smelled of lemon and mint. “There was a hunt for the Monster Hunter Petrov around these parts, but nobody found a trace, and everything went quiet last winter.”

Albus added a spoonful of dark honey and stirred before taking a small sip. It was bittersweet, more bitter than sweet, but not bad.

“I thought this region was in a state of perpetual conflict?”

For over three hundred years, various magical enclaves, clans, tribes, and families clashed for dominance over Dalmatia, Moesia, and Illyria, oftentimes with the backing or direct interference of others for its exclusive selection of magical herbs, many of which were used for drugs. Of course, Gellert’s rise had consolidated power in the region for a time, and after the war, the powerful factions on the continent had been too exhausted to fight.

That didn’t stop the locals from returning to their usual conflict, if at a far lesser scale. The very same conflict and division had prevented the rise of a proper magical government here, though every local faction had signed under the Statute of Secrecy and agreed to enforce it.

“It is,” Marco said. “But the Chinese have managed to cultivate their own Red Cloves and Drakoras Resin and supply them everywhere at far greater volume and a lower price, and the local factions have started looking for ways to unite in the face of poverty. Of course, the Muggle war brewing here has them ill at ease, too. Tensions are running high, and everyone is waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

“Any sign of the Azkaban escapees?”

“Nobody has seen or heard anything in the last month,” was the cool reply. “I suspect they have already moved somewhere else, and if they still linger here, they keep their head down. But it’s hard to tell with the Muggles killing each other and dropping their bombs all over the place. Missing folk and corpses are becoming commonplace. Some reported a wizard with a British accent over at Bogodol two weeks ago, but I’m not even sure if he’s a Muggle or a wizard.”

“Thank you, Mr Venturini. You have been most helpful.” Albus quickly drained the rest of his tea and stood up. “I would appreciate it if you kept my presence here a secret. This is, after all, a private affair.”

“It’s an honour, Master Dumbledore.”

Ten minutes later, Dumbledore took his old trusty Cleansweep, disillusioned both it and himself, and flew out, regretting that he had not contested the ban on flying carpets all those decades ago. The other method to travel around would be the Muggle methods, for apparition was useless unless you had visited the destination before.

Of course, scrying for his targets had not worked. Albus held no delusion that this would be an easy or a simple endeavour. After all, Voldemort’s inner circle were not his most trusted for nothing. Constant vigilance, as his friend would suggest.

6th of October 1993, Wednesday (5 days later)

A part of him had forgotten how hard it was to find wizards who didn’t wish to be found. In the cases where Divination did not work to scry their location, the most you could hope for was to either luck out and find clues visually or to sense the lingering magic of the spells they had cast. But Rookwood would have removed any Tracking Charms from their stolen wands, which would have made locating any of the escaped Death Eaters easier.

Usually, Albus would have to follow the trail of corpses, disappearances, or strange occurrences, but with the active Muggle conflict going on, there were too many of those to count. Corpses left to rot by the roadside, wrecked and abandoned villages, fleeing civilians—the situation here was dire, and not by the making of any wizard. Not as ugly as it had been during the Great Muggle Wars, of course.

No wonder the Death Eaters had chosen this place to hide. It was just too convenient, and the chaos and destruction meant that the local factions had hunkered down in their enclaves, avoiding contact with the Muggles beyond their duties to enforce the Statute.

Having Moody join him with his magical eye would have been ideal, but the Auror could not leave Britain because of his DMLE obligations. The other Order members were either similarly busy or not ready to take on such a dangerous mission and would be more of a burden than a boon if any fighting broke out.

It forced Albus to approach one of the local factions reluctantly, a pretentious group calling itself the Purple Heart League. They forced him to wait for half a day and then had the gall to decline the audience after doing so. It was when Dumbledore fell into an ambush on his way out that he realised the delay tactic.

He had fallen for the oldest trick in the book.

Albus could feel an Anti-Apparition Jinx snap in place around him. Another one settled from the ground below, and then a third, the sheer strength of its layers suggesting it was anchored by underground wards. His broom was vacuumed of its momentum, and he dropped out of the sky like a rock, a telltale sign the enchantments were being suppressed.

A flick of the Elder Wand killed the momentum of his descent, and he nimbly landed on the ground.

Albus Dumbledore calmly dismounted and took quick stock of his surroundings. It was a valley, surrounded by ravines, hills, and trees—the perfect place for an ambush.

A part of him was delighted that his target had come to him. The Purple Heart League was doubtlessly in cahoots with the Death Eaters, Albus realised.

‘Kill them! Eviscerate them all!’

For once, Dumbledore did not ignore the Death Stick as it thrummed in excitement. He had come here to kill, after all, for his past mistakes weighed heavily upon his shoulders. Today, he would bloody his hands so that others could live in peace.

“Fawkes,” he summoned, but the phoenix did not appear. They had found an enchantment against Fawkes’ ability to teleport, Albus realised.

The trap was tailored specifically for him.

“He is there!” someone roared in the distance in Croatian.

“Black sorcerer—kill him!”

This shout was closer, accompanied by the groaning of Muggle machinery.

Dread settled in his stomach. The Death Eaters were hiding behind the Muggles. Imperius and conquer, Moody had once described their strategies.

‘Break them!’

It was a clever scheme, Albus could admit, forcing him to either break the Statute or risk death or capture.

It might have worked on a lesser wizard. The Death Stick was already in motion; his skin and clothes turned inky black with a silvery sheen.

The Muggle guns roared, and bullets hailed down upon his person as muzzles flashed from the bushes above and around him. The ground around him exploded with gunfire, but the bullets painlessly bounced off his clothes and flesh as if they were made from rubber. Judging by the directions the attacks were coming from, he was surrounded by at least fifty men.

There were too many of them for the Death Eaters to control, which meant that only the commanders had fallen under the Imperius Curse.

They were trying to exploit his love for life and aversion to murder, Albus realised with a heavy heart. Subduing so many hiding Muggles without killing even a single one would be very challenging and time-consuming. Even his magic was not infinite and all-powerful, and he would grow tired in time.

‘Rip out their souls and grind their bones to dust!’

He could retreat, shatter all the spells and enchantments that trapped him here, but if Voldemort returned after his retreat, countless souls would perish.

Albus Dumbledore hardened his heart. He needed to make an example to show that such tactics would not work. He spun the Death Stick in the motions of a wide area charm that would disrupt the Muggle radios and break other electrical gadgets. Then, he attacked, magic pouring out in waves from the tip of his wand.

The surrounding stones and trees morphed into animated lions, which quickly pounced on the Muggle soldiery, and the valley was filled with roars and screams. To their credit, the Muggles were swift. They quickly grouped up, trying to kill the lions with their rifles, but bullets did nothing to halt stone and wood.

One after another, flocks of angry eagles were conjured from the tip of his wand, and soon his foes found themselves under attack from air and land.

“Crucio!”

Dumbledore spun, conjuring a piece of granite to block the red streak.

He had no time to look for the enemy, so he had to remain vigilant. They were dispelling his animations slowly but surely, he realised, while hiding somewhere out of sight.

A low hum filled the valley, and three helicopters appeared over the mountain crest, and another hail of bullets rained upon him.

With a scoff, Dumbledore stabbed his wand at the sky, and the Muggle machinery all turned to foam and rubber, crashing into the ground with a dull thud.

Three more curses, this time, silently flew at his back, but he merely raised a wall of stone. By the time he turned around, there was no wizard to be seen.

A few trucks rushed up the dirt road, but Dumbledore flicked his wand and struck with lightning. A truck exploded with a bang as the headmaster continued firing a barrage of hexes and jinxes. A mounted machine gun pointed at him from the next truck, only for its bullets to jam, blowing up in the face of the soldier behind it. Another curse, and the trucks’ tyres morphed into serpents who struck at the soldiers spilling out from the back of the truck.

Another spell, and the soldiers saw their handguns turn into honey badgers, clinging to their bodies and clawing at their faces.

The occasional curse kept coming at his back, forcing Dumbledore to erect a sturdy wall of stone around him. The Death Eaters were acting like gnats, refusing to show their faces. They were like mosquitoes buzzing at the back of his ear, ready to strike when his attention was divided. Albus couldn’t afford to ignore them either, for his iron skin transfiguration could stop bullets, but not spells.

Two tanks followed, and their cannons erupted with fire. Dumbledore merely swatted with his wand, vanishing the incoming projectiles. The Death Stick roared, and the tanks twisted and rippled, turning into angry elephants that trampled anything in sight.

With bullets rendered ineffective, Dumbledore’s wand blurred, and he continued transfiguring more and more rocks and trees into animated lions and snakes, and the occasional eagle. The Death Eaters stopped trying to strike him from behind and focused on cancelling the animation spells, but Albus was faster.

There were at least a handful of them, but he was a Master of Transfiguration.

It was a race of prowess and magic, and one Albus seemed to be winning.

He could feel the strain on his mind piling up as the Death Stick sang, eagerly spitting out one spell after another. Albus had to be careful to avoid the usage of lethal curses, lest the Hallow start melding with his intent and seep into his mind. But only a weakling needed dark magic to kill.

Within ten minutes, the valley grew silent, and nearly half of his magic was spent. Large-scale transfiguration at such a wide range was truly draining. The Death Eaters had hunkered down, waiting for the animations to fade, and the trees and rocks started crumbling down as the conjured eagles dissipated. Guilt and anger settled into his heart. His gaze fell on his Cleansweep, which had been turned into splinters by the Muggle gunfire. He needed to make this slaughter worthwhile.

“Come out!” Dumbledore’s voice echoed through the valley. “Or do you fear a tired old man?”

“You’ve grown ruthless, Dumbledore,” a hoarse voice carried in the wind. “Do you not care about these poor Muggles? Or your precious Statute of Secrecy?”

“The Statute cannot be broken if there are no witnesses,” he said coldly. “Regrettably, it has to come to this, but a Master of Transfiguration cannot be taken down by mere Muggles. And you lot are not worthy of it either, Travers.”

Ten curses streaked at his location, visibly from thin air. They had invisibility cloaks, Dumbledore realised, as he deftly deflected curses and avoided the rest. None of the magic here was lethal.

They wanted to take him alive.

The sheer gall and daring would have amused Albus if the circumstances were different. But the blood was fresh on his hands, and the anger was still burning hot in his chest.

“Iridescenda!”

A tidal wave of glitter erupted from his wand as Dumbledore spun around in every direction, and soon the surroundings looked like a shining rainbow.

He could count nine figures moving around, ajar with the surrounding hue. Dumbledore scoffed and stabbed the Death Stick, launching a fierce barrage of blasting curses. Three exploded into a rain of blood and bone, and the others quickly scrambled away.

“What the hell?! He’s not supposed to be so bloody brutal!”

“Old coot’s gone mad. RUN!”

Predictable cowards who only dared to bully the weak and flee from the strong.

Two more piercing curses found the fleeing Death Eaters, who frantically tried to shield or avoid, but Albus was faster, already rushing at them with a propulsion charm that had his old joints protest, but he would not falter. He managed to strike another with a powerful stunner just before he could disappear over the crest of the hill.

Albus took the man’s wand, wrenched away the Portkey watch on his sleeve, and wrapped him up in conjured chains from head to toe. Then, he looked at the wrecked valley as he stepped over the corpse of a mauled Muggle soldier.

His heart clenched. He hated this, but it was necessary.

Murmuring an incantation, the Death Stick sang with joy as it spewed forth a torrent of golden flame, scorching the surroundings, erasing the signs of battle and magic with cursed fire. Using Fiendfyre was heavy-handed, but it meant that scrutiny for this event would fall on the Purple Hearts League, which had foolishly decided to back a Dark Wizard. Alternatively, they could deflect the blame and pin it on the Death Eaters.

Either scenario was satisfactory. He ripped the mask off the captured Death Eater, revealing the gaunt face of Henry Rivers—a once promising young man who had joined Voldemort of his own volition. Sighing, he pooled his remaining magic and apparated into one of Gellert’s secret bunkers in the Alps, shattering the spells that blocked his escape earlier.

Then, he tapped the wand on the chained figure, awakening the man.

Albus pointed the Death Stick between the frightened green eyes.

“Legilimens!”

An hour later, Albus apparated back to the British Isles, leaving Henry Rivers in a random Muggle village, drooling on the ground with a shattered mind. It would be a mercy to kill him after his psyche had been broken, but Albus was tired of bloodshed. It was hypocritical of him to deny one final mercy to the man. But he was too disappointed, for he realised that he could not perceive Voldemort’s location.

His old student was hiding behind a Fidelius, and Albus had been outplayed yet again.

Even the identity of the Secret Keeper was unknown, for Henry had learned the secret from a piece of parchment given out by a veiled figure with a distorted voice.

“You look like shit,” Moody greeted him at the safehouse in Devon.

“I feel like it, too,” Albus said darkly. It was not just the mental strain of using large-scale transfiguration and controlling Fiendfyre, or the physical exhaustion. Death was never pleasant, no matter its form, and it took its toll upon your very soul.

“I take it you failed, then?”

“Yes,” he said. “A costly failure, but I did not return empty-handed. I have confirmed that the Dark Lord is beyond my reach—hiding behind a Fidelius.”

Thankfully, his friend did not ask for details, for Albus was not sure he could speak of the battle.

“So there’s nothing we can do to catch him quickly,” Alastor murmured, sighing. “I can resign from the DMLE and try to hunt the Secret Keeper down, but I would need a trace to go after first.”

“There’s no need,” Albus said, raising his hand. “Your presence might just scare them away if mine hasn’t already. If I were a betting man, the Secret Keeper is scuttled away in a far corner of the world, beyond our sight. We have been outplayed. As much as I wish it otherwise, Voldemort will return, and there’s nothing we can do to prevent it.”

“A pity. Then, we should focus on catching Bellatrix and her merry band of murderers and rooting out his supporters from Wizarding Britain, then.”

Albus spent an hour washing his hands afterwards, but no matter how much he scrubbed, they never felt clean enough.

‘At least the Death Eaters won’t dare to use such tactics again,’ he consoled himself. ‘Six murderers have died today, and they will never harm another innocent soul.’

He sat down in his office, feeling weary and old, and threw away the festive Death Stick, vibrating with excitement for more bloodshed and destruction, and instead started cleansing his mind. But the sights of mauled corpses and torn-off limbs did not leave him.

Logically, killing all the Muggle soldiers was necessary to prevent Voldemort’s subordinates from employing such vile tactics that played with the Statute of Secrecy. Or possibly put the whole Magical World at peril and kill tens of thousands down the line. It was the reason he had retaliated so viciously when previously he had aimed not to reap a single soul.

Yet the knowledge did not bring him peace, no matter how he tried to convince himself otherwise.

The tiny cracks across his soul would take time to heal, too.

?

“Capturing Dumbledore is impossible, my lord.” A shivering, cloaked figure knelt beneath the twisted visage of a baby. “He did not try to subdue them as you had foreseen, but started killing without hesitation or mercy. We’re simply not powerful enough to do anything to him once he stops holding back.”

“No more using filthy Muggles,” the twisted thing spoke, its voice cold and sibilant, but those who knew the Dark Lord could sense there was a newfound unease in him. “I shall regain my power in another way.”

A dozen more were here, silent and just as fearful. The truth was that the Dark Lord himself was alarmed by Dumbledore’s willingness to use wanton violence. The old man had grown ruthless, and for the first time in a while, Lord Voldemort was shocked. The explosive trick with the Philosopher’s Stone had been a painful lesson, but it seemed he could not prod Dumbledore so openly, for his former teacher had learned to swallow his scruples and wield his terrifying power to deal with him.

Voldemort chose to exercise caution and didn’t want to provoke the headmaster for the time being.

He glanced at his followers, all of them looking apprehensive. Did they fear the old fool now, more than they feared him?

“Crucio!”

Travers twisted and writhed on the ground, but the curse halted as Lord Voldemort felt the magic wreak destruction through his own unwieldy body. No, he needed to move with caution and cunning, gather his strength in the shadows and only deal with the meddling headmaster after he had restored his former power and then some.

Alas, his followers were too weak, unable even to draw a single drop of blood from Dumbledore, let alone capture him, rendering his planned ritual useless. Lord Voldemort could always use some other wizard who had opposed him, but using rabble was beneath his contempt, and the effects would be significantly lesser.

Lord Voldemort would never settle for being lesser.

“Augustus, begin the preparations.”

“It will be slower, my lord,” his loyal servant bowed. “Seven moon cycles and three days. Some of the ingredients on the list… might be challenging to procure even with Lucius’s help.”

“Then look harder.”

Lord Voldemort was so very tempted to use the Cruciatus again, but his fledgling form would break underneath the magic, so he was forced to swallow his anger instead. He missed the clarity he had taken from Rowena’s diadem, but this form was simply too poor to hold such spells.

9th of October 1993, Saturday (3 days later)

The Deputy Headmistress

“Thank you for joining me,” the headmaster greeted, as the rest of the staff sat around the table. “I must apologise for my previous absence. Urgent matters required my attention, but they have been… concluded. The rest of my time during the year shall be devoted to the school.”

There was a newfound coldness to Albus Dumbledore’s demeanour. His grandfatherly face was gone, replaced by something… harsher, and his eyes no longer twinkled but were filled with steel instead, and he stood straighter. For the first time in her life, Amelia Bones actually felt intimidated by the headmaster.

On his desk stood the latest edition of the Daily Prophet, opened on an article saying “DEATH EATERS STRIKE IN BOSNIA—OVER THREE HUNDRED MUGGLE SOLDIERS MISSING OR DEAD TO FIENDFYRE!”

“That’s good to know, headmaster,” she began. “Things in the castles have been going well. There’s a bit of tension between Montague and McLaggen over the coming Quidditch season, but nothing beyond the usual posturing from the rest of the students.”

Dumbledore blinked a few times. “The Weasley twins are… behaving?”

“They’ve been surprisingly quiet after the first week, Albus,” Minerva said. “But it is their O.W.L.s year, and they have taken a serious approach to their study. While surprising, it should be understandable.”

“How are the First Years settling in?”

“There have been no problems beyond the expected, headmaster,” Pomona reported. “Most of the troublemakers have turned a new leaf after a few detentions with Merula and Hagrid.”

“There are no excessive clashes over the Azkaban escapees?” Albus asked, stroking his beard.

“There can hardly be such, Albus,” Horace chortled. “I keep my Slytherins under control. The young Black witch is a model student and has glued herself to Potter’s side. We should be the ones grateful that the two of them prefer to study and have not followed in their parents’ footsteps; otherwise, our hair would have gone grey with worry by now.”

“Remus, how are the classes going?”

The new History teacher looked a tad haggard, but with no other sign of being affected by yesterday’s full moon.

“It’s well, headmaster. Everyone should be familiar with the Blood War by now, and I made further emphasis on the consequences and the many victims, whether Muggle or magical, that fell in the conflict,” Lupin said. “I observed them closely, too. Beyond a few older Slytherins, few feel remotely sympathetic to Voldemort’s followers and their cause.”

Many shuddered at the mention of the Dark Lord’s name, most visibly of all, Alfred Perrywinkle. Even Amelia did not dare speak it aloud, but Lupin was clearly one of Dumbledore’s men—if quite a capable teacher.

She did not approve of the presence of a werewolf in the school, but the Board of Governors had all agreed to his employment, and he had registered himself with the Ministry. It was a loophole, of course, but nobody thought to look at the werewolf register, and Remus Lupin merely vacated the school’s premises on the days of the full moon, nullifying the dangers to the students.

However, his presence here still posed a risk to the school’s good reputation. As much as Amelia loathed it, public image was important, doubly so for an institution like Hogwarts.

If the public caught wind of the werewolf’s employment in Hogwarts, Lupin would probably come under scrutiny and criticism and would have crowds of angry parents screaming for his removal at the first sign of a blemish on his record. Dumbledore and the Board of Governors would likely face backlash over it as well. People distrusted werewolves for a good reason—the uncontrollable beast on a full moon was considered a plague on the magical world.

Even the Wolfsbane Potion was not a reliable way to deal with the full moon transformation, for many werewolves could hardly afford the ingredients or the services of a Potions Master.

The meeting continued for another half an hour, going over trivialities and amenities, while Dumbledore slowly caught up to Hogwarts’ affairs.

“The Hogsmeade question remains,” Filius said towards the end, and even Horace perked up. “The students are eager for a visit, the Board of Governors and even some Wizengamot members keep pressuring us to open it up, and now that there’s an Auror patrol protecting the village—”

“It’s still too risky,” Pomona puffed, looking worried. “An Auror patrol can hardly defend against that madwoman if she decides to attack with her cronies!”

Hogsmeade visits were not merely a matter of allowing the students to visit the village. There were many other interests involved there. Amelia knew it was also an important opportunity to get the youth of Magical Britain invested in certain products and brands—her own family owned a small quill shop there, netting them a nifty profit.

The school received plenty of discounts and other benefits from the village and local businesses, in exchange for allowing students to visit and purchase their products. The most important discount was on the supplies Hogwarts could not cultivate or grow itself. Two years ago, the residents of Hogsmeade were clamouring to increase the number of visits for the students and even allow second-year students to go.

Many were not happy when the headmaster halted the visits after the Azkaban breakout, but the fear was understandable. Now that most of the escapees were either captured or dead, both the village and the students had grown eager for the Hogsmeade visits.

“I never thought I’d agree with the Board, but we cannot live in perpetual fear, cowed by not even two dozen crooks, Pomona,” Flitwick said, voice firm. “The students cannot be cooped up in the castle forever.”

“Well, nothing stops them from taking a walk around the grounds!”

“Enough.” Dumbledore’s voice cut through the budding argument, as both teachers quickly backed down. “Amelia, give us your thoughts on the matter.”

“Being cowed by the Death Eaters on the run is bad for the school’s reputation,” she conceded. “It even suggests we cannot defend our students, even though Hogsmeade has traditionally been considered a part of Hogwarts. It might force some parents to reconsider other options that allow greater freedom. Of course, the school’s reputation is not a good reason to put our students at risk.”

Amelia paused to order her thoughts further. “Nevertheless, such dangers can be minimised. The visit schedule can be selected at random, a day or two before, thus not providing an opportunity to those who wish to plot. Two visits before Christmas and three after, where the students can be accompanied by Merula and two members of the staff with sufficient skill to protect them.”

Merula nodded eagerly from the side. In the last half a year, the young witch had grown plenty under Amelia’s tutelage and could hold her own against most Auror trainees with a wand.

“Hmm, that is a sound solution,” the headmaster mused, peering at her from behind his glasses. “But supervising over three hundred students with only three staff members is insufficient.”

“Then, we should reduce the number of students allowed into Hogsmeade,” Amelia proposed. “Two boys and two girls from each house per year. It’s a privilege, so let those with the best grades claim the spots. Eighty students should be far more manageable for a few teachers and the Auror squad in the village. Perhaps the final visit can be open for all students, to satisfy the Board.”

“And that would make some more eager to study because there’s a tangible reward for those who succeed beyond House Points,” Minerva murmured. “A marvellous idea.”

“Let us try it out until Christmas, then,” Dumbledore agreed. “If it works well enough, it can be implemented and further adjusted if the need arises. On a final note, how are Mr Potter and Miss Black handling their advanced materials?”

“As well as ever,” Minerva was the one to respond, her lips thinning at the mention of Bellatrix’s daughter, as usual. “Miss Black is talented, but her theoretical knowledge and power have finally begun to lag behind, yet not to the point where she struggles compared to the other Sixth Years. As for young Harry, I’m still unsure where his limits lie. He’s nearly a year younger than Miss Black, but significantly more powerful, and can do advanced N.E.W.T. transfigurations with practised ease.”

“Alas, alas,” Horace lamented. “The two of them have a deft hand for Potions, but have refused to sign up. I have found such great students, only to see them slip through my fingers. What a grievous loss!”

“I’m already considering offering Mr Potter an apprenticeship,” Flitwick said, face beaming with pride as if Potter’s achievements were all his doing.

Amelia wondered how much more dangerous the Boy Who Lived had grown. It felt like a decade had passed since that young first-year boy had slain two trolls with such decisive ruthlessness. Alas, only two years had passed, and nobody knew how dangerous the young Potter had grown, for the boy preferred to keep to himself and his friends.

The staff meeting soon ended, and Amelia returned to her office after denying yet another dinner invitation from Horace. She still did not regret taking the job of deputy headmistress. Working with children could be frustrating, but she wouldn’t trade it for the world. There was a special kind of joy in watching young wizards and witches grow and learn, even if Amelia was not the one teaching them.

On the way back, she was met with a commotion on the fourth floor, as Peeves was pelting dung bombs over her niece and Hannah Abbot, who mostly managed to fend them away with two shields. Amelia’s wand shot a zap of lightning, shocking the poltergeist.

“Big Bonsie is here!” Peeves shrieked, his smoking form fleeing through the walls.

With a flick of her wand, the nearby window slid open. “Evanesco. Ventus!”

The dung bombs disappeared, and the strong gust of wind flushed the lingering stench out.

“Thank you, Professor Bones,” Hannah said, her face colouring adorably, while her niece nodded gratefully from the side.

“Think nothing of it. Go on, now,” Amelia said, giving the two a slight smile as she pulled the window close. Then, she turned around to leave, but halted. “Wait.”

The two girls paused, looking at her with a hint of nervousness.

There were no classes today, and this was not the way to the library or the Hufflepuff common room. And Hufflepuffs loved to hang out in their common room, rarely venturing beyond the first or the second floor unless it was for classes. The gobstones club was on the second floor, too, yet Susan and her friend were on the fourth floor.

Were the two of them up to mischief? Had her niece ended up in trouble?

“Where are the two of you going?” Amelia asked sternly.

“Err–”

“We’re going to a study group, Aunt Amelia,” Susan said lightly. “To study with some friends.”

“Interesting,” she said. “This is the first time I’ve heard about a study group from you. Back in my day, the Hufflepuff study groups were enough.”

“How do you know it’s not a Hufflepuff study group?” Hannah said with a pout.

“On the fourth floor? I think not.” Amelia’s lips thinned as did her patience. “Don’t play coy with me and spill.”

“It’s a new one—we got an invitation from a few Ravenclaws.”

Her niece had not lied, Amelia decided. She had not told the whole truth, either. But the seed of doubt was planted, and now she had found herself curious both as Susan’s aunt and as the Deputy Headmistress.

“I hope you don’t mind me coming along, then.”

“How can we study with the deputy headmistress hovering over our heads?” her niece asked slyly. “You can come, Aunt, but you’ll probably scare half of them to death!”

Amelia would have been convinced if not for the flash of panic that passed through Hannah’s face.

“Don’t worry, Susan. I’m just going to take a look and leave,” Amelia promised softly. “Now, lead the way.”

It seemed her words did not assuage Susan and Hannah’s doubts, as they shared a worried glance before wordlessly leading her up to the abandoned wing on the fifth floor.

The two girls were stiff all the way, only increasing her suspicion. But Amelia remained silent, resolved not to judge until she saw for herself.

“Professor Bones?” It was Potter who greeted her at the door, his brow creased.

Finally getting a look at the boy up close, Amelia did not know whether to be impressed or terrified—Harry Potter’s eyes possessed the same sharpness she had seen in the mirror every evening or in veteran Aurors. A sharpness that had no place in the eyes of a thirteen-year-old student. He had indeed grown powerful, and even his body was no less trained. The student robes could hide much, but Amelia had seen enough men to know how those lean with muscle looked.

“Mr Potter,” she greeted. “I hope you do not mind if I… observe your study group.”

“Not at all. Please come in,” he said politely, opening the door, not even hesitating for a moment.

Amelia saw two more Hufflepuffs, including Head Girl Tonks, here. Then, there were five Gryffindors, seven Ravenclaws, counting Potter and Black. The most surprising were the six Slytherins, including Malfoy, the Greengrass and the Carrow Twins. Even Selwyn’s eldest daughter was here. And those overproud purebloods did not seem to mind the presence of a Muggle-born like Diana Taylor. And neither Greengrass nor Malfoy seemed to be at each other’s throats as she expected.

Lovegood, Goldstein, MacDougal, Diggory, Bones, Abbot, and Patil constituted a group that would be quite influential in the future. However, even the three Weasleys had significant potential, and Harry Potter’s Muggle-born friend was talented and hardworking.

‘This is not a study group,’ Amelia realised. ‘Or at least not only a study group.’ This was a gathering of talent and influence. It couldn’t have been Potter’s plan. He was dangerous, yes, but didn’t seem to possess the cunning or the political acumen required to pull this off.

When she saw Black standing on the teaching podium beside him, the two of them looking like a younger version of how she had imagined Morgana and Merlin, it all clicked together. The two biggest talents in Hogwarts had decided to expand their power and influence. Amelia wouldn’t care if this did not involve her niece.

“Don’t let my presence stop you,” she said, realising that all of the students here were looking at her warily. Even Susan. It seemed that Potter and Black had sunk their fangs into them all already.

Once Amelia moved to the very back of the classroom, the study group finally began.

“Today,” Potter was the one to begin. “We’ll continue with silent casting. Those who already know it, move to Juno for the transfiguration challenge.”

Amelia watched Potter move around the younger years, explaining and encouraging them as they waved around their wands, casting charms of their choice at the wall. Juno, the Selwyn girl, Tonks, and the Carrows were in the corner and were duelling with animated beasts the size of a cat.

To her surprise, Susan managed a silent Jelly-Legs Jinx once but struggled to repeat the feat, while Diggory and the Weasley twins managed three or four silent charms and hexes, if not reliably. No wonder the Weasley twins were behaving, Amelia realised.

“Alright,” Harry said after half an hour. “Enough for now. Does anyone have any specific problems in classes?”

“We’ve already gone over it all,” Astoria Greengrass said breathlessly, looking exhausted from the earlier practice, yet her eyes were the brightest Amelia had seen. “Can you teach us something cool?”

“All magic is cool,” Harry replied dryly. “You have yet to appreciate it. And you are too young for the more powerful magic.”

Astoria’s shoulders sagged.

“Do you think it’s impossible for me, then?” she asked in a small voice, looking at her feet.

“Everything is possible,” Potter said, giving her an encouraging smile. “Once you master a spell and push what it can do beyond the limit, you gain an understanding of magic that no amount of reading can give you.”

As Deputy Headmistress, Amelia should have forced the study group to register as a club per regulations, since it had more than ten students. But she suspected neither Black nor Potter would want to allow anyone into their group freely, as non-competitive clubs had to, judging by the secrecy surrounding this meeting. If Amelia did this, they would probably abandon the whole endeavour.

Worse, Susan would be blamed for it because Amelia had forced her niece to lead her here. Then, there would be the politics involved—the bonds were already made, and her niece would definitely get ostracised and even get into trouble down the line. As Deputy Headmistress, Amelia was duty-bound to disband the group or register it as a club. But then, she would have no idea what the power couple would be up to.

When the meeting ended after an hour and a half, she realised that the other teachers had failed to grasp how absurdly talented Potter and Black were. Bellatrix’s daughter could be easily third amongst the sixth years, even though she was just fourteen. Her sheer talent and diligence were undeniable. But the true monster here was Potter—he was a cut above any student in the whole school.

Potter could start teaching Defence or Charms class right now, and he would be better than most teachers. He could enter the Auror trainee course and probably finish it in a handful of months.

Sighing, Amelia approached Potter and Black as the other students cautiously streamed out of the room, throwing her curious glances.

The little Morgana and Merlin were the crux of the issue here, but they were both orphans, she realised. Neither Black nor Potter knew a parent’s love, and it showed. Any traces of childishness and naivety were absent from their faces, unlike their peers. Even if put between the seventh-year students preparing for N.E.W.T.s, the two of them would still look more stern and serious.

A dangerous combination when paired with such talent and ambition. It would be easy for them to slide down a dangerous path. But despite their seriousness, Potter was thirteen, and Black was barely fourteen. They were still children—adorable and charming children—and she felt very tempted to reach out and pinch their cheeks.

“I am joining this study group,” she announced, her tone brooking no disagreement. Amelia almost chuckled as the words finally managed to break Potter and Black’s composure, and the pair blinked in confusion. “As its faculty advisor.”