The End of Politics, the Start of War
This chapter marks the end of the second season.
It really was short, wasn't it? But to be honest, it ended up being a bit too political for my taste.
The next season will be different: there will be more spy battles, a race to find the fragments still scattered around the world, and plenty more fights.
Alright. By the way, it will also be the final season. And in it, the students of our dear Professor Einar will have a much bigger role. So be ready.
Oh, and as always, there will be a couple of filler chapters before everything kicks off, so don't get too annoyed.
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"We already have another teacher. It's barely been a month since Professor Einar left. I don't think anyone can fill his place," remarked a Gryffindor student with a hint of annoyance in his voice.
"Better that than having Snape teaching Defense, I suppose," replied another, while several nodded quickly—especially the Gryffindors, who were always the ones losing the most points in his classes.
As they walked down the stone corridor, some of them slowed to a stop, drawn by a curious scene. A very small girl was taking tiny steps forward, her wand held aloft, following a glowing trail on the floor. Every few seconds, she would wave her wand in deep concentration, making the luminous path reappear exactly where she had erased it moments before. Then she'd walk three more steps, stop, and repeat the process with the seriousness of an Auror investigating a crime scene.
"Hey… don't you think she's way too young to be at Hogwarts?" Lee Jordan murmured, leaning a little closer to Angelina Johnson, who was also watching the girl in bewilderment.
"Maybe she's a first-year… though she looks even younger," Angelina replied, frowning as the girl, sensing their stares, slowly lifted her head and looked back at them expectantly.
"Mmm? Do you want to fight?" she suddenly asked, raising her tiny fists with a smile full of excitement.
"Uh… no," they all answered in unison, a little thrown off by her attitude.
"Ah, really? What a shame," sighed the little girl before pointing her wand back at the floor and resuming her strange tracking.
The students exchanged even more confused glances, all silently agreeing they had no idea what was going on.
They continued on toward the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. But just as they turned the corner, a tall young man appeared out of nowhere. He was so broad-shouldered that, for a moment, they thought he must be some veteran Quidditch player pretending to be a student. His uniform clung tight across his chest and arms, which looked capable of snapping a broomstick in two. And yet, his face still had a youthful calm that clashed with his imposing build.
"Hey," he said, fixing them with a serious look that made everyone freeze, holding their breath under the impression he might be dangerous.
"Have you seen a man who looks like a giant?" he asked suddenly, his voice firm.
"Do you mean Professor Hagrid?" a Hufflepuff student replied cautiously.
"I think so," the boy nodded.
"He should be teaching outside, by the forest," Katie Bell piped up quickly from behind Angelina.
"I see. I'll go ask him if he wants to have a duel," he said matter-of-factly, giving them a polite nod before walking away in total calm.
The group stood rooted to the spot until Lee finally broke the silence in a whisper:
"Why does everyone around here seem like they want to fight?"
No one had an answer to that, so they hurried on toward the classroom.
But just as they reached the door, two young people came out. None of them looked familiar. One was a blonde girl, about thirteen, her bright eyes and mischievous smile making her look like she had never once been intimidated by anything. Beside her walked a boy with black hair and a composed bearing, his back straight as if held by invisible strings. His black gloves were embossed with subtle rune-like patterns, and though his gaze was calm, there was something in it that made anyone feel unsettled if they held it too long.
"You know," the girl said, her voice laced with playful excitement, "I found a really beautiful woman in the library. Looks like Father lent her one of his masks. What do you say? Want to go investigate with me?"
"I'm not interested," he replied evenly, his expression unchanged.
"Come on… maybe my prayers were finally answered while we were away," she pressed, grabbing his arm and pulling him down the corridor. The boy cast a tired look at the floor as he let himself be dragged along.
"Why do they look like students we've never seen before?" Alicia Spinnet whispered, while the others only shrugged, just as puzzled.
At last, when they finally worked up the nerve to step inside the classroom, the first ones through the door stopped dead in their tracks, blocking everyone behind them.
"What is it?" asked a Ravenclaw student, peeking over their shoulders. The moment he caught sight of what was inside, his face froze somewhere between astonishment and relief.
Soon everyone was pushing to see, until the hallway was finally clear.
There was Einar, sitting with the unshakable composure of someone who ruled his own domain. His hands rested calmly on the desk as he paged through a thick, leather-bound book. It was as though nothing in the world could ever surprise him.
At the front of the class, Fred and George Weasley were already seated, grinning mischievously as they watched their classmates' reactions.
"Sit down at once so we can begin," Einar said, his voice deep and severe, his cold blue eyes lifting with a glacial glint.
"Yes!" they all chorused almost in unison, rushing to their seats.
Some couldn't help the smiles spreading across their faces at seeing him back. Others were so full of questions they could hardly sit still.
"Professor… how did you come back? Weren't they looking for you?" Lee Jordan finally dared to ask, raising his hand hesitantly.
"Yes. But not anymore," Einar answered calmly. "You'll find out more in the papers later. For now, it's time for class. I want to see what you were taught while I was away."
A hush of anticipation settled over the room as, one by one, the students began explaining everything they'd learned up until that day.
…
Meanwhile, Harry was having a meeting with the Headmaster. Face to face.
They both sat across from each other in the solemn silence of the office. The tall windows let in the grayish afternoon light, filtering over the countless shelves crammed with magical instruments and the portraits of former headmasters, all pretending not to be listening.
Dumbledore regarded him with such absolute calm it seemed unbreakable.
"Why aren't you as angry with me as you should be? If you're going to attack me, as I know you're close to doing, I would have preferred to feel I had fully earned it," Dumbledore finally said. His voice was so serene it clashed with the harshness of his words. His blue eyes, bright and almost painfully clear, locked onto Harry's with the same intensity he had once used for Legilimency. But this time, Harry didn't look away. He had nothing to hide.
"For two reasons," Harry began, his voice deep but steady. "The first is that I couldn't beat you if I tried. That day… when I watched you fight Voldemort, I truly understood the difference between you and everyone else. I could see how you held back. How, for a moment, you could have killed him if you'd wanted to."
The shadows in the office seemed to draw closer, as if those words had stirred echoes that preferred to stay asleep.
"And the second," Harry went on, "is that I've learned to think before I act. And I think that right now, you're already suffering enough."
For a moment, Dumbledore's expression shifted to something almost like surprise. His features, lined with age and guilt, cracked just a little before settling back into the cold composure that had become his refuge.
His hand brushed the smooth stone of the Pensieve. Between them lay something deeper than resentment.
"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches… born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies… and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not… and either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives…," Dumbledore recited, his voice barely louder than a whisper. Every word seemed to hum in the air, heavy with magic.
"That is the prophecy," he continued, finally lifting his gaze to meet Harry's. "That day, I was the first to hear it. But one of Tom's spies was standing behind the door. You should know your parents weren't the only ones who fit that description. The Longbottoms also defied Voldemort three times… and their son… Neville… he could have been the Chosen One, too."
For a moment, Dumbledore looked more exhausted than Harry had ever seen him. His eyes drifted to the portrait of Phineas Nigellus, who pretended to be asleep, though the irony on his face betrayed his interest.
"But Voldemort chose you. Perhaps because he felt you were more like him than he'd ever admit. A half-blood, as the purists say so arrogantly. In truth," he continued with a weary sigh, "I had planned to refuse to make you a prefect. I thought you already carried too many burdens. But… from the beginning to the end, you have done good work. And for that… I owe you an apology."
Harry didn't answer right away. His breathing was the only sound in the office, apart from the slow crackling of the candles burning down to stubs.
"Even though I've had a certain rivalry with Professor Einar," Dumbledore added with a trace of tired irony, "I have to acknowledge he did excellent work training the students… and you. I also know he gave you a choice. Two paths, two futures. I will say nothing that might influence your decision. From now on, Harry, it's yours. Yours and no one else's."
Dumbledore raised a hand, as if that small motion could somehow disperse the darkness around him.
"And I also apologize," he said quietly, "for having planned every step of your life as though I could control it all. For having believed, foolishly, that my involvement was the only way to ensure your survival. The truth is… it was never necessary for me to be present in that way."
Harry looked at him for a long moment. Between them, so many silences had piled up they were heavier than any spell.
"Then… if I decided to do nothing… if I just waited for the adults to sort everything out…," Harry asked, breaking the quiet in a low, measured voice.
"Then I would be glad for you," Dumbledore replied sincerely, inclining his head just slightly. "It is your choice. And I will see that it's respected. And as you can see," he added with the ghost of a tired smile, gesturing at the magical instruments still flickering restlessly across the desk, "I still have plenty of work left to help the Ministry find those things."
"I see," said Harry. He rose slowly, his cloak brushing over the polished wooden floor.
"And, Harry," Dumbledore called as his hand touched the door handle, "don't blame Ron for his fears. He only wanted to protect his family… even if he made a terrible choice."
"He did," Harry murmured, before leaving the office without looking back.
Dumbledore remained motionless. His fingers trembled once against the cold surface of the Pensieve, as though a pain he didn't dare name had opened in the back of his mind.
"Are you all right, Dumbledore?" asked one of the former headmistresses gently, from her portrait.
"Yes," he replied softly, closing his eyes as if holding something back with all his strength. "It's nothing."
But the other portraits did not look away from his hunched figure. And none of them pretended to sleep.
…