Chapter 25
Despite everyone's dissatisfaction with Slytherin, and although Harry was quite downcast because he'd been prevented from catching the Snitch, a real feast was still thrown in the common room in the end. The main heroes of the day were Regulus and Alicia, who scored so many goals that even the unfairly caught Snitch couldn't secure Slytherin a victory. There were even people who personally approached Harry to comfort him, promising that in the next match they'd keep an eye on the opponents, and no one would stop him from seizing victory again. Overall, everyone was having fun, and at last, we broke out the stash of butterbeer we'd saved since Halloween.
At breakfast the next day, we noticed some changes at the Slytherin table. Malfoy, who had lost quite a bit of standing because of us, was sitting just as before, proud as a peacock showing off his tail, surrounded by the attention of his classmates. It seemed that the fact he'd managed to catch the Snitch, even if he'd simply taken advantage of the situation, gave his reputation a substantial boost and compensated for his previous failure. As for the faculty's reputation, as we expected, it didn't make much difference for Slytherin: all the other Houses were already more or less hostile toward them.
"I can't believe that slimy coward still dares to boast of such cheating!" Ron blurted. "I think he deserves another thrashing, you know, like the time you turned him into an icicle."
"As tempting as that sounds, he wasn't the one to blame for Harry getting attacked during the game. So just let it go," Regulus replied in a bored tone, as he speared a sausage on his fork.
"Besides, they might have problems because of the attack, and it's not worth it," Hermione added.
"We'll get them next time! I'll catch the Snitch so fast that no one will even have a chance to score a goal," Harry declared resolutely.
"A commendable eagerness, but it would be better to let our Chasers get a couple of goals at least. Don't forget, the Cup depends on total points, and because of yesterday's incidents we missed a chance to knock Slytherin out of the competition," Andromeda reminded him.
"Maybe we should talk to Wood about making Regulus a regular player instead of a sub, then?" Harry suggested.
"That wouldn't be really fair, Harry," we all shook our heads at once. "It'd be unfair to the other teams, and to ours too, since it would pretty much devalue everyone else's hard work, given our natural advantage."
"I see," Harry nodded at our reasoning. Then he said confidently, "But I'm sure Wood won't let Regulus go now."
Just as he finished, a familiar figure entered the Great Hall, scanned the room, and headed straight toward us.
"Speak of the devil," we sighed, plastering on a smile for Wood, the excited Gryffindor captain, who evidently had only just been released from the infirmary.
"Good morning, Wood."
"Regulus, you have to become a Chaser! I already spoke to Bell—she volunteered to give up her position for you," Wood cried, ignoring everyone else as he grabbed Regulus by the shoulders.
"Calm down, Wood, you know that wouldn't be fair to the others," Regulus said carefully, looking into the captain's blazing eyes.
"I don't care! We're going to win the Cup this year, that's all that matters!"
"Mr. Wood, kindly behave appropriately and let the boy go," came Professor McGonagall's stern voice nearby. Wood instantly released his grip and turned his focus to her.
"But, Professor, I just want him to be part of the team. We need him!"
"I want Gryffindor to win no less than you do, Mr. Wood. However, if a student wants to concentrate on their studies, you have no right to prevent him. Am I clear?" she glared at the older student.
"Yes, Professor," Wood muttered, before heading to the table.
"As for you, Mr. Black, firstly, I wanted to congratulate you on a simply outstanding performance in yesterday's match." The stern woman couldn't help smiling—a smile that mischievously crept onto her face—before she added, "Secondly, Headmaster Dumbledore asked me to tell you he'll be expecting you and your sister in his office at twelve."
"Thank you, Professor," we replied as she left.
"You even have lessons on weekends?" Ron was aghast.
"Why not? Private lessons from a wizard of Dumbledore's caliber are a rare opportunity—we're definitely not going to pass that up," we shrugged.
"If you're leaving at twelve, how about a chess match before that?" Ron suggested, already anticipating the game.
Why was he so eager? Well, the answer seems both simple and unexpected.
"Checkmate," Weasley announced proudly as he yet again won the game.
"I don't understand! I thought everything through several moves ahead, why can't I win?" Hermione asked, clutching her head.
We understood her perfectly: Ron Weasley's brain is something strange indeed. He may seem a lazy underachiever, but when you play chess with him, it feels like you're up against a grandmaster with no hope of victory.
"Honestly, Weasley, if you could just overcome your laziness, you'd outshine all your brothers combined," Andromeda commented, shaking her head at how smart he actually was. But his hang-ups and laziness just waste all that potential.
"I'm only better at chess…" the boy muttered glumly.
"All right, all right, do as you like," we cut him off before he could start listing his brothers' achievements. "We need to go meet with the Headmaster now."
"Good luck," Hermione wished us, before issuing another challenge to Ron. She still couldn't believe she couldn't beat someone she'd previously considered, at best, a bit slow on the uptake.
Watching her, it was easy to imagine that tomorrow she'd already be stalking around laden with chess books, determined to snatch a victory. If anyone had a competitive spirit, it was Hermione.
The Headmaster's office, as always, greeted us with the gentle hum of magical artifacts, the aroma of freshly brewed tea, and a tray of candied lemon slices.
"Good afternoon, Professor."
"A truly good one," Dumbledore nodded. "Sit down, I've already made you some tea."
"Thank you," we said, taking the seats offered. Where once we'd been wary of drinking tea with the Headmaster, by now it had become a custom.
"So, I think congratulations are in order for your excellent Quidditch debut, even if you still don't seem too eager to participate actively," Dumbledore said.
"When we recall Wood's practices, even in the rain, and how Harry looked after them, we lose all desire to get involved. Not to mention that the matches go ahead, rain or shine," we grimaced. "We'd rather practice dueling or read something interesting."
"Hmm, understandable," Dumbledore chuckled.
"It might not look like it, but I was a talented flier in my time too, yet I didn't join the team, for similar reasons," he said, sipping his tea and popping a lemon slice into his mouth.
"By the way, Professor, have you ever measured your magical reserves?" We brought up a subject that interested us. After all, if we were to compare the volume of our magic to anyone, it would only be to a colossus like Dumbledore—rightly considered if not the, then one of the, most powerful wizards in the world right now.
"Ah, I see—you've started studying rituals," the Headmaster nodded knowingly, and then, as if remembering something from long ago, he smiled and began:
"I remember, in my second year, I got interested in that ritual too, and I tested everyone I could reach," the old man chuckled. "I was very surprised to see how big the difference could be between wizards. Back then, I could only light 10 stones, while older students could already do 30, and my year-mates barely managed 4."
"That much difference?"
"Nothing surprising, child. From 11 to 17, a magic reserve starts to expand actively, which is why the school program is usually seven years, even though you technically can graduate after fifth year."
"So, what are your reserves now? Have you checked?"
"You're quite curious, aren't you?" Dumbledore smiled.
"Yeah, very!" We nodded vigorously.
"All right," the old man shook his head with a smile and got up from his chair, while portraits of former Headmasters grumbled that he was much too indulgent with us.
"In my times they'd have been whipped for such disrespect to the Headmaster," said the portrait of a black-haired man labeled Phineas Nigellus Black.
"Which is probably why you were the least popular Headmaster in Hogwarts history," we replied to our ancestor without hesitation.
"How dare you! If Walburga were alive, I'd personally see to it you were caned! Hmph!" Black started to fume, until his colleagues barged into his portrait and forcibly shut him up.
"Come here," said the Professor, not commenting on the spat. With a few swishes of his wand, he prepared a ritual circle—far faster and more advanced than the one that had taken us hours to make, judging by the greater number of stone slots.
"To be fair, why don't you go first and show me your result? Indulge an old man's curiosity," Dumbledore gestured invitingly to the circle.
"All right," we agreed, and Andromeda stepped into the circle, which immediately came alive.
"Sixty-six?" the old man whispered, stunned. He looked at us with a fleeting hint of wariness, before quickly regaining composure—unlike the portraits, who stared as if we were monsters.
"That's an astonishing result for your age," Dumbledore said slowly.
"Now it's your turn, right?" we watched him expectantly.
"Well, I don't make a habit of breaking my word," he said, stepping into the circle. The stones began lighting at a furious pace, finally stopping at one hundred fifty.
"One-fifty?" we said, a bit confused. "We thought you'd have even more."
"What do you know, foolish children! The old man's already a damn monster!" the portrait of Armando Dippet, a former Headmaster, blurted out.
"No need, Armando," Dumbledore calmed the portrait, then looked at us closely. "Let's get back to the tea before it gets cold."
"Yes, Professor," we said obediently, deciding we'd already pushed our luck enough.
The next few minutes passed in awkward silence. Dumbledore was lost in thought, and we felt too uncomfortable to start a conversation—at least until we remembered something important we'd meant to ask, but had kept forgetting.
"Professor."
"Yes?" The old man snapped out of his reverie and focused on us.
"Remember our prophecy?"
"Yes," Dumbledore immediately turned serious.
"We recently experienced something similar, but not about the future—about the past."
"What did you see?" The Headmaster leaned forward slightly, listening intently.
"We think we witnessed the details of the night Voldemort attacked the Potters." Hearing this, Dumbledore jumped up, startling us, so we grabbed our wands without thinking—but he simply strode over to the cabinet, which contained a Pensieve. Carefully, he lifted the artifact out and set it on his desk.
"Show me this memory. It's important," the old man ordered.
"Okay," we nodded, and Regulus pressed the tip of his wand to his right temple, concentrating on recalling every detail of what we'd seen. Then, withdrawing the wand, a glowing white strand appeared on the end, which Regulus dropped into the Pensieve.
The liquid inside started swirling, then showed an image: a black-robed figure approaching a house. Without hesitation, Dumbledore bent over the Pensieve and was immediately sucked inside, leaving us alone.
We spent the next few minutes standing undecided, torn between following him in or just waiting. Before we had made up our minds, the Headmaster came back out with a grim face.
"Just as I thought," he said, sinking into his chair in exhaustion.
"Professor?" we prompted, noticing he seemed lost in thought again.
"You already know what happened to Harry, don't you?" Dumbledore looked at us, his wrinkles seeming deeper, as though he'd aged decades.
We simply nodded.
"What do you think about it?"
"Only an idiot would purposely shatter their own soul," we answered with disdain, then remembered an idea Hermione had voiced.
"Professor, can we ask a question?"
"Of course," Dumbledore nodded. He seemed somewhat heartened by our answer, though clearly his mood was still far from cheerful.
"What if Voldemort made a phoenix into a Horcrux? Wouldn't that make him indestructible?"
"If he actually managed to make a phoenix a Horcrux, then there'd be nothing to worry about."
"Why?" we asked, curious.
"Because after death and rebirth, the phoenix would destroy the Horcrux by itself. And that's if he could even manage to subdue a phoenix and attempt such a thing—which is near impossible."
"Hm, that makes sense," we muttered, wondering why we hadn't thought of that outcome ourselves when Hermione suggested a Horcrux in a phoenix.
"…Vega, let's postpone the lesson—I need to think."
"All right," we nodded and headed for the exit.
***
As soon as the twins left the office, the voice of Armando Dippet rang out.
"They're dangerous, Albus, be careful."
"You're just jealous you never had such distinguished descendants," replied Phineas Black acidly, the same Phineas who had yelled about whipping said 'distinguished descendants' just minutes before. "Albus, don't forget where prejudice against that boy got you—don't make the same mistakes again."
"Don't worry, Phineas. If all it takes is for me to become a family to a couple of extraordinary children to guide them to the light, then that is what I will do."