To make it easier for Hogwarts students to return to school, the Ministry of Magic had specially opened a one-time Floo Network connection.
Mrs. Weasley had been poisoned and needed to remain in the hospital.
Today's farewell felt especially quiet and subdued.
Sirius had gone to the school ahead of time, Lupin had left as well, and only Mr. Weasley and Bill were there.
"Take care of yourselves, Harry—and you too, Ron."
Bill, ever the big brother, patted both of them on the shoulders.
Mr. Weasley was clearly sorrowful, yet he still forced himself to appear cheerful in front of the children.
"Ginny, I'm sorry…" Harry wanted to apologize to her—not just about the broomstick, but also about his own failure to live up to the role of the Chosen One.
"Mum will be fine," Ginny said. She was strong, firmly believing that her mother would pull through.
In truth, Harry had already done more than enough. If he hadn't controlled the broomstick to cut through the wild grass, they probably wouldn't have escaped at all.
Stepping into the emerald-green flames, Harry called out, "Hogwarts."
Casting one last glance at the now much emptier house, he was swallowed by the fire and vanished.
"Good evening, Potter."
Professor McGonagall set down her quill and stood up.
She watched Harry climb out of the fireplace, scattering a fair amount of ash across the carpet.
Professor McGonagall wasn't angry. Instead, she looked at him with a seriousness softened by kind concern.
"Good evening, Professor," Harry said, straightening his glasses, which had been magically repaired.
He smoothed down his hair as Ron and Ginny arrived shortly after.
Seeing Ginny's beautiful red hair now cut short, a trace of sympathy showed in Professor McGonagall's eyes.
"Good evening, Weasleys."
"Good evening, Professor," the siblings replied in unison.
The three of them left Professor McGonagall's office together and headed toward the Gryffindor Tower.
Because of what had happened to the Weasley family, the Weasley siblings drew extra attention the moment they returned to school.
Before night had fully fallen, Dean, having read the newspaper, ran over to ask Ginny, "Are you alright, Ginny?"
"I'm fine," Ginny said. Her short haircut drew plenty of attention as well.
They hadn't even reached the common room when many people gathered around to ask about the attack.
It left Ron feeling irritable. His mother was still lying in a hospital ward.
All the joy of Christmas had been replaced by sorrow.
"Worthless," Ron said as he stepped up to the Fat Lady and gave the password.
The Fat Lady gave him a sidelong look and said, "That's not correct."
Ron protested loudly, "What do you mean it's not?"
"The password has been changed. Please don't shout," the Fat Lady said.
"Harry! Ron! Ginny!"
Hermione ran toward them, pushing through the crowd, and wrapped Harry in a tight hug.
With a mix of relief and sadness in her voice, she said, "Thank goodness—you're all alright."
Ron gestured from the side to indicate that he was the one who'd actually been injured, and Ginny was pulled into a full embrace as well.
She was wearing a cloak, with a hat and gloves on. Her cheeks were flushed red, whether from running or from the cold wind.
"I got back two hours ago. I'm sorry, Harry—I only just found out what happened," Hermione said guiltily. "I didn't even write to you right away."
She'd been abroad and had never imagined that her friends were going through something so life-threatening.
Leading the three of them to the archway, she gave the new password. "Temperance."
The Fat Lady let out a belch and weakly revealed the passage behind her. Over Christmas, she'd drunk up five hundred years' worth of aged wine from the other portraits.
Once inside the common room, even more people came over to ask questions.
It made Ron feel miserable, though beyond curiosity, those students were genuinely concerned.
After sending their classmates away, the four of them sat down on the sofa.
Hermione handed Harry a rolled piece of parchment. It was a note Dumbledore had left for him.
Throughout the Christmas holiday, Dumbledore had stayed in that not-so-large office the entire time.
They talked about various things from Christmas, then the conversation naturally shifted to the attack.
The three of them had always talked about everything, and this time was no different.
Harry absentmindedly touched the outline of the golden locket beneath his sweater.
Ron said, "We almost died there. If we hadn't run into Luna…"
"Luna's Crumple-Horned Snorkack?" Hermione said in surprise. "I didn't know that little thing could carry people away."
"It's already a big one. It's like a small dog," Ron said, rubbing the half of his backside that had finally stopped swelling. "And it really likes poking people in the butt."
Even just hearing it described made Hermione cover her mouth and gasp.
They'd been incredibly lucky—whether it was Harry and Sirius going to the Burrow for the holidays on a whim, the fireworks being spotted by Luna, or that dog charging out of the sea of flames.
If even one variable had gone wrong, they wouldn't be sitting here together now.
The Ministry of Magic had come to the Weasley family five or six times, tirelessly questioning them about the attacker, confirming the culprit's identity and motive.
...
The next morning, the new term began.
A new notice had been posted on the common room notice board.
Students who were already seventeen, or who would turn seventeen by August thirty-first, could sign up for Apparition lessons taught by instructors sent by the Ministry of Magic.
The course would run for twelve weeks. Participants were required to sign their names beneath the notice and pay a tuition fee of twelve Galleons.
Harry and the others signed up as well, lining up to add their names.
That evening, ten minutes before eight, Harry straightened his clothes and knocked on the gatekeeper's door.
The door opened.
It was Dumbledore.
Seeing Harry, he didn't look the least bit surprised.
"Come in, Harry."
He stepped aside slightly, inviting Harry inside.
Harry walked in, and Dumbledore asked kindly, "You should have found that item under the cabinet, correct?"
"Yes, Professor." At that, Harry moved to take the item from around his neck, but Dumbledore stopped him.
"Keep it on, Harry. We need to go somewhere else."
Harry froze. Somewhere else?
Then he saw Dumbledore open the door again and politely walk next door, raising his hand to knock.
The familiar wooden door bore an eye-shaped symbol that glanced at the two of them.
The door opened.
…
The Constellation Society.
Stars glittered overhead, clouds shifting and changing shape.
This was Harry's first time stepping inside—and Dumbledore's as well.
Beautiful as the scene was, both of their gazes were drawn, almost unconsciously, to the person beside the round table.
John.
John lifted his eyes and casually swept a glance at Harry standing beside Dumbledore. One brow rose slightly. "You didn't tell me Harry would be coming too."
Dumbledore smiled kindly, his tone relaxed. "Harry is the one who discovered that item. Strictly speaking, he's its rightful owner."
John let out a soft scoff and glanced at Harry, who was still standing there. "Tea? Pumpkin juice?"
"I think the one from last time was quite good," Dumbledore answered for Harry, blinking. "Simple is best, isn't it?"
"Greedy," John remarked.
A small golden figure struggled to open the wine cabinet, grunting as it hauled out a bottle of golden, glowing liquor.
It was Harry's first time seeing such a drink. After he sat down, he watched as several golden figures worked together to pass the bottle to John.
With a snap of John's fingers, an exquisite, expensive-looking goblet appeared in front of Harry.
John uncorked the bottle. The wine was clearly poured in midair, yet it strangely appeared directly inside the goblet.
"Thank you," Dumbledore said calmly, lifting his glass and taking a sip before remarking, "It really is excellent."
"Let's get to business."
John shot a glance at the deliberately evasive Dumbledore, propping his chin up with one hand as he spoke lazily and without much interest. "You want to make a deal with me?"
"Then the price… what is it, Dumbledore?"
The scene felt oddly discordant.
A man well over a hundred years old, and a student still attending school.
Yet it was the student who clearly held the upper hand.
Dumbledore smiled and changed the subject. "I believe you could open a bottle for the buyer. It would show your respect."
John frowned slightly, raising an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"
There was no respect in his tone, but Dumbledore wasn't angered by it.
Still looking no different from the kindly old grandfather everyone saw outside, Dumbledore smiled gently. "Harry is the one who will be doing business with you."
Harry was stunned. Since when had he ever said he was here to make a deal?
Harry looked up at Dumbledore and saw, behind the half-moon spectacles, a gaze filled with trust.
"Oh?" John said with a hint of amusement. "Very well, then. Let Harry negotiate with me—but you'll have to put the stake on the table first. Whether it's a deal or a gamble, we need to see if the stake is even qualified to sit at the table."
At that, Dumbledore signaled for Harry to show the item.
Harry pulled the golden locket from beneath his clothes. The serpent-shaped marking upon it left no doubt as to the object's identity.
"I still underestimated fate," John said with a sigh. "You found this thing."
"Mundungus tried to steal it," Harry shook his head.
"Mundungus…" John murmured, the words carrying an unclear meaning, before saying, "Let's begin the trade."
John straightened from his previously languid posture. In an instant, an oppressive, aggressive presence bore down on Harry.
With a meaningful tone, he said, "Name your terms. Money? Fame? Status? Artifacts? Potions? Or perhaps… a chance to experience rejuvenation?"
That last line was directed at Dumbledore.
The foundations of the Second King allowed him to casually offer terms that ordinary people could never obtain in a lifetime.
As he looked at Harry, John unleashed the domineering aura of someone who stood at the top.
Hearing those words come from a student his own age, Harry couldn't even find a way to argue.
Because he knew, very clearly, that John wasn't exaggerating.
At this moment, the locket in his hand was like a wish-granting device.
The immense pressure bore down on him, making his breathing turn rapid. Dumbledore spoke softly, "Harry, just follow your heart."
Dumbledore's voice seemed to carry a kind of magic, and Harry's breathing gradually steadied.
He thought of Mrs. Weasley lying in her hospital bed, beyond even the healers' ability to save.
He made his decision.
~~~
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