The classroom door closed with a soft click as the last of their friends departed, leaving Chris and Daphne alone in the fading afternoon light. Dust motes danced in the golden sunbeams that slanted through the high windows, illuminating the lingering traces of magic that shimmered in the air from their practice session. Chris moved to the window, his white hair with electric blue streaks catching the light as he gazed out over the grounds, waiting. He knew what was coming, had seen the calculating look in Daphne's eyes when the Daily Prophet had arrived that morning, had noticed her studying him throughout the day, pieces falling into place behind that carefully composed expression.
"It was you, wasn't it?" Daphne's voice cut through the silence, crisp and direct as always. She leaned against a desk, arms folded across her chest, her posture relaxed but her eyes sharp as cut glass. "The article about Dumbledore. And the ones about Tom Riddle before that."
Chris turned from the window, his eyes meeting hers without evasion. A small smile touched his lips, neither confirming nor denying.
"I saw your face this morning," she continued, unperturbed by his silence. "When you first opened the newspaper. That little smile of satisfaction, like someone seeing a well-laid plan come to fruition. Most people looked shocked, horrified even. You looked... accomplished."
"Perceptive as always, Daphne," Chris finally replied, his voice quiet but unguarded. "Yes, it was me."
She nodded once, not surprised by the admission but pleased with the confirmation. "Both sets of articles, then? Riddle and Dumbledore?"
"Yes."
Daphne pushed herself off the desk and walked slowly around the room, fingers trailing over the backs of chairs as she processed this information. "Why?" she asked, turning to face him again. "What game are you playing, Chris? Because this isn't just about exposing uncomfortable truths. This is calculated."
Chris considered her for a moment, weighing something in his mind. "Dumbledore is manipulating events and people at this school," he said finally. "He has been for years. Harry Potter most of all."
"Manipulating how, exactly?" Her tone was skeptical, but not dismissive.
"Tell me, Daphne," Chris said, his voice taking on a teacher's cadence. "Have you ever wondered why Gryffindor manages to win the House Cup every year since Harry arrived? Despite Slytherin clearly leading before the end-of-year feast?"
A flicker of annoyance crossed her face. "Of course. It's blatant favoritism. Dumbledore awards Potter and his friends just enough points to overtake us."
"Yes. But have you asked yourself why?" Chris stepped closer, his voice dropping. "Why is he so invested in Harry's success, in his happiness, in maintaining his image as a hero?"
Daphne's eyes narrowed. "You're suggesting there's something more than simple bias for his old house?"
"I'm telling you that Dumbledore put Harry's name in the Goblet of Fire."
The statement hung in the air between them. Daphne's composure, usually unshakable, cracked slightly as her eyes widened.
"That's... that can't be..." She shook her head. "Why would he endanger his golden boy like that?"
"Because he needed to," Chris replied simply. "Because Harry was prophesised to face a dangerous enemy, and Dumbledore was growing impatient."
Daphne sank slowly into a chair, her mind visibly racing behind those ice-blue eyes. "You're talking about something bigger than school politics," she said finally. "Much bigger."
Chris nodded, his expression grave. "What I'm about to tell you can go no further than this room. I need a magical oath, Daphne."
She studied him, weighing her options. Then, without hesitation, she drew her wand and held it aloft. "I, Daphne Ophelia Greengrass, swear on my magic that I will not reveal what Christopher Emrys tells me in confidence today, unless given express permission by him to do so. So mote it be."
A thin ribbon of silver light wound around her wand, then extended to encircle her wrist before fading into her skin. The magic settled with a soft pulse that both could feel.
Chris nodded, satisfied. "There was a prophecy," he began, his voice steady, "about Harry and Voldemort. It stated that Harry needed to kill Voldemort for it to be over. Voldemort didn't die that Halloween night, or at least, Dumbledore believed he didn't. So he's been setting traps, creating scenarios where Harry and Voldemort might confront each other again."
"The Philosopher's Stone," Daphne whispered, connections forming rapidly.
"Exactly. Each year, a new test for Harry, designed to prepare him for the final confrontation. Except..." Chris paused, looking directly into Daphne's eyes. "Voldemort was killed during our first year."
Her breath caught. "How do you know that?"
"Because I killed him."
The silence that followed was absolute. Daphne stared at him, her mind struggling to process this statement against everything she knew about him.
"That's impossible," she said finally. "You were eleven."
"I was eleven," Chris replied. "When I discovered what Dumbledore was doing, I acted. I used family magic, Emrys magic, to locate and destroy Voldemort's soul."
"And Dumbledore doesn't know?"
"I sent an anonymous letter explaining that Voldemort was gone and how it was accomplished. But it only made him more paranoid, more determined to force events. Hence, Harry in the Triwizard Tournament."
Daphne was quiet for a long moment, absorbing this. "Why are you telling me all this?" she asked finally.
"Two reasons," Chris said, moving to sit on the desk opposite her. "First, you already suspected my involvement with the articles. Your mind wouldn't let go of that thread once you'd pulled it. Second..." His expression softened slightly. "Our families are bound now, in a way few magical families ever are. The healing magic I used on Astoria created a connection."
"The blood curse," Daphne murmured. "You saved her." Her composed mask slipped further, revealing genuine gratitude.
"I did. And I trust you, Daphne. You see the larger picture, understand the necessity of certain actions."
She nodded slowly. "The articles are just the beginning, aren't they? You're systematically dismantling Dumbledore's authority."
"He's manipulated too many lives for too long." A shadow passed over Chris's face. "Harry deserves better. The wizarding world deserves better."
"And Rita Skeeter? How did you convince her to write those articles?"
Chris's lips quirked in a slight smile. "Let's just say I have certain leverage over her, enough to send her to Azkaban. I'm under oath not to reveal the specifics."
Daphne nodded, respecting the boundary. "Well then," she said, straightening her posture as decision crystallized in her mind. "I want in. Whatever your next move is, I want to be part of it."
"Are you sure?" Chris asked, studying her face. "This path isn't without risk."
"My family has always played the long game, Chris," she replied, her composure fully restored but now with a glint of determination in her eyes. "And I recognize a winning strategy when I see one."
Chris extended his hand, and Daphne took it without hesitation. "We'll let the current storm settle first," he said. "Then plan our next move."
As their hands clasped, Chris felt a weight lift from his shoulders. The burden of secrets carried alone had lightened, shared now with someone whose mind worked much like his own, strategic, patient, and unafraid of necessary shadows.
...
In the week following Rita Skeeter's explosive article, Hogwarts underwent a subtle but unmistakable transformation. The change wasn't in the ancient stones that formed its walls, nor in the magical enchantments that filled its corridors, but in the very air itself, in the hushed conversations that fell silent when certain professors approached, in the questioning glances cast toward the headmaster's chair, in the way students gathered in tight clusters to debate history that had, until recently, seemed as immutable as the castle itself. Chris observed it all with quiet satisfaction.
Breakfast in the Great Hall no longer carried its usual morning chatter and clatter. Instead, conversations dipped and swelled like cautious waves, students leaning toward each other across house tables, newspapers still clutched in hands despite days having passed since the article's publication. The staff table had become a study in strained composure, Professor McGonagall sitting rigidly upright, her lips pressed into a thin line as she surveyed the students with protective vigilance; Professor Flitwick engaged in what appeared to be forced cheerfulness; Professor Sprout's usual warmth dimmed to a worried glow.
And at the center of it all, in his throne-like chair, sat Dumbledore. The headmaster maintained his outward serenity, his blue eyes still twinkling behind half-moon spectacles as he buttered his toast and nodded to students who dared to meet his gaze. But something had changed, the aura of unquestionable wisdom that had always surrounded him had thinned, becoming permeable to doubt.
"He's lost weight," Daphne murmured to Chris as they sat at the Hufflepuff table, her observation clinical rather than concerned. "His robes hang looser at the shoulders."
Chris nodded almost imperceptibly, taking a measured sip of pumpkin juice. "The constant energy required to maintain appearances takes its toll," he replied softly. "Especially when one's appearance begins to unravel."
Throughout the castle, in corridors between classes, the conversations continued. Chris passed a group of sixth-year Ravenclaws debating near a suit of armor.
"It's perfectly possible the article exaggerated the circumstances," one insisted, adjusting her glasses. "Skeeter is known for sensationalism."
"But the core facts check out," her companion argued. "I found three separate historical references to Ariana Dumbledore in the library archives. She did exist, and she did die young. That much is certain."
"Even so, to suggest Dumbledore himself might have…"
They fell silent as Professor McGonagall approached, her emerald robes sweeping the stone floor as she passed with a sharp nod of acknowledgment. The moment she turned the corner, their heads bent together once more, voices dropping to urgent whispers.
In the library, Madam Pince found herself unusually busy. Historical texts that had gathered dust for decades were suddenly in demand, biographies of famous wizards of the late nineteenth century, genealogical records of prominent magical families, even bound collections of old Daily Prophet editions. She watched with narrowed eyes as students pored over these materials, her territorial instincts for her books warring with her own curiosity about what they might discover.
On a bench near the Black Lake, a mixed group of fifth-years had spread out several tomes, one of which lay open to a faded photograph of a young Albus Dumbledore standing beside another young man, their posture suggesting close friendship.
"That has to be him, Grindelwald," a Hufflepuff boy whispered, pointing to the second figure. "Before he became... you know."
"They look close," observed a Slytherin girl, her tone heavy with implication.
"That doesn't prove anything about what happened to his sister," replied a Gryffindor, though her voice lacked conviction.
Chris and Daphne, seated on the grass near the black lake studying Transfiguration, exchanged a knowing glance. The seeds planted by Rita's article were taking root, branching out as students conducted their own investigations, drawing their own conclusions.
"I never imagined it would spread so quickly," Daphne admitted later as they walked along the lake shore, far enough from the castle to speak freely. "The article has affected almost everyone."
"People are hungry for truth," Chris replied, skipping a stone across the water's surface. "Even uncomfortable truth. Perhaps especially uncomfortable truth, when it concerns those who have positioned themselves as moral authorities."
In the staff room, tensions simmered beneath polite professional exchanges. Professor McGonagall had become Dumbledore's fiercest defender, shutting down any hint of speculation among her colleagues with the same severity she applied to classroom discipline. Professor Sprout approached the situation with sad resignation, focusing instead on comforting students who seemed upset by the revelations. Professor Flitwick responded with scholarly detachment, neither defending nor condemning, but insisting on concrete evidence before judgment.
Only Professor Snape seemed untouched by the general distress, a hint of satisfaction occasionally visible in the curl of his lip when Dumbledore's name arose in conversation. His dark eyes gleamed with vindication during staff meetings, though he offered neither criticism nor defense of the headmaster aloud.
The common rooms of each house became forums for debate, each with its distinctive character. In Gryffindor Tower, loyalty battled with disillusionment, older students sharing their personal experiences of Dumbledore's leadership while younger ones processed their shaken faith in a figure they'd been raised to revere. Ravenclaw's analytical minds dissected every angle of the story, constructing elaborate theories and counterarguments. Hufflepuff's discussions were tinged with concern for the emotional wellbeing of all involved, including, somewhat reluctantly, Dumbledore himself.
In the Slytherin dungeons, the atmosphere was more complex, a mixture of vindication among those who had always viewed Dumbledore with suspicion, and careful calculation among those who recognized shifting power dynamics and sought to position themselves accordingly.
"It's fascinating," Daphne commented to Chris during a study session, her voice low enough that only he could hear. "How differently each house processes the same information."
"Yet all are moving in the same general direction," Chris noted. "Away from blind faith, toward critical thought. That alone is victory."
Late one evening, as students retreated to their dormitories and the castle settled into night's quietude, Dumbledore stood alone in his office. The silver instruments that usually whirred and puffed sat silent on their spindly tables, as if reflecting their master's subdued mood. Fawkes watched from his perch, occasionally emitting soft, concerned trills that echoed in the circular room.
The headmaster moved to the window, gazing out at the starlit grounds of Hogwarts. His reflection in the glass showed a face that had aged years in mere days, the weight of exposed secrets carving deeper lines around his eyes and mouth. He touched the glass lightly, a gesture that seemed almost like a farewell.
"One does what one believes is right," he murmured to the empty room, "and bears the consequence of history's judgment."
...
"May I join you?" The question, accented in French, came from Fleur Delacour, who stood in the doorway of the unused classroom with uncharacteristic hesitation in her posture. Behind her peeked a smaller version of herself, Gabrielle, her silvery-blonde hair caught in a neat braid, huge blue eyes taking in the assembled group with shy curiosity. The study session had barely begun, books and notes spread across desks, wands at the ready for practice, when Fleur's unexpected arrival caused every head to turn. Chris, who had been explaining the principles of advanced Shield Charms, paused mid-sentence, a knowing smile touching his lips as if he'd been expecting this development all along.
"Of course," he replied, gesturing toward the empty desks near the front. "We were just discussing modifications to standard protective spells."
Fleur stepped fully into the room, Gabrielle trailing behind her, fingers twisted in the hem of her sister's blue uniform. "I 'ave noticed 'ow well 'Arry performed in ze tasks," she explained, her usual haughtiness softened by genuine admiration. "And... you are ze only ones who 'ave treated me as more zan... well, more zan what I appear to be."
The last words carried a hint of bitterness that resonated particularly with Hermione, whose expression shifted from initial wariness to understanding. Harry nodded in welcome, his own experience with unwanted attention creating an immediate bond of empathy.
"We'd be happy to have you," Susan said warmly, making room at their central table. "Both of you," she added with a smile for Gabrielle.
The younger Delacour brightened, then froze as she spotted Astoria sitting comfortably on Chris's lap, a position the younger Greengrass had claimed with habitual ease at the beginning of the session. Gabrielle's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, a flash of competitive determination replacing her shyness.
Within minutes, both girls were engaged in a silent battle of wills, Astoria clinging more firmly to "big brother" while Gabrielle deployed increasingly dramatic sighs and longing glances. By the session's end, Chris found himself mediating a compromise, Astoria would sit with him during theoretical discussions, Gabrielle during practical demonstrations. The solution satisfied neither completely but established a truce that would evolve, over the coming weeks, into a friendship built on their shared adoration of the white-haired boy they both viewed as the center of their young worlds. Something that Chris has no clue as to why Gabrielle is like this too. Though he would later find out it was due to Fleur and her constant mentioning of the white-haired boy.
As March melted into April, the study group settled into a rhythm of intensive preparation. Without knowing the exact nature of the Third Task, they focused on developing a comprehensive arsenal of magical skills that would serve Harry, and now Fleur, regardless of what challenges might arise.
"Adaptability is key," Chris explained during an evening session as rain lashed against the windows. "We can't predict what you'll face, but we can ensure you have tools for any situation."
Their approach was methodical, breaking down magical combat and survival into components: defense, offense, environmental manipulation, healing, and movement. Each area received dedicated focus, with different members of the group contributing their particular strengths.
In defensive magic, Daphne proved surprisingly adept. Her wand movements were precise and economical as she demonstrated variations on the Shield Charm.
"Intent shapes the shield's properties," she explained, casting a Protego that shimmered with unusual density. "Visualize not just a barrier, but the specific type of protection you need, against physical objects, spell energy, even environmental hazards."
Hermione expanded on this theoretical foundation, her extensive research yielding obscure protective spells from ancient tomes. Under their combined tutelage, Harry and Fleur developed layered defenses that could be cast in rapid succession, creating overlapping protections against different types of threats.
Transfiguration sessions, led primarily by Hermione with input from Chris, focused on combat applications rather than academic focused. The classroom would transform into a tactical proving ground, desks becoming cover, quills transmuted into distractions, floor stones reshaped into obstacles for pursuers.
"You don't need perfect transfiguration in a fight," Chris advised during one particularly intense practice. "You need useful transfiguration. Speed over quality, function over form."
To everyone's surprise, Harry displayed remarkable aptitude for this approach. Where his classroom transfigurations had always been adequate but unremarkable, he excelled at rapid, practical transformations under pressure. His instinctive magic responded to necessity in ways it never had to academic exercises.
"It's like flying," he explained to a curious Hermione. "I don't think about the theory of aerodynamics on a broom. I just... feel what needs to happen."
Counter-curses and healing magic became Hannah and Susan's domain. The two Hufflepuffs worked systematically through common combat injuries, cuts, burns, concussions, magical exhaustion, developing a repertoire of quick-cast remedies.
"In the task, you won't have time for complex healing," Susan cautioned as they practiced closing simulated wounds on conjured dummies. "These are battlefield patches, not proper cures. Enough to keep you moving until you can reach help."
Fleur contributed her own expertise here, the elegant French approach to healing charms complementing the more straightforward British methods. Her wandwork had a fluid grace that seemed to enhance the spells' efficacy, something she patiently tried to teach the others.
"It is not just ze words and ze wand," she explained, guiding Hannah's arm through a gentler motion. "It is ze feeling of 'armony between your magic and ze body you are 'ealing."
Movement and mobility training transformed the room into an obstacle course, with Chris directing exercises designed to enhance speed, reaction time, and spatial awareness. He taught them charms to increase traction on slippery surfaces, to muffle footsteps, to momentarily boost speed for evasive maneuvers.
"Your greatest advantage is unpredictability," he advised during a particularly grueling session that left even Fleur breathing hard. "An opponent expects you to move in certain ways, to follow predictable patterns of retreat or advance. Break those patterns."
Team coordination drills brought all these elements together. Chris would divide them into teams, creating scenarios that required combined efforts to overcome, defending a central point from multiple attackers, retrieving an object from a hazardous location, navigating a course where each member faced different obstacles only others could help them overcome.
In these exercises, Fleur's natural power and grace complemented Harry's growing combat instincts. Where he had once relied primarily on raw courage and luck, he now displayed thoughtful tactics and precise execution. His reflexes sharpened noticeably, defensive spells leaving his wand before conscious thought could form, his body moving with the same intuitive awareness he had previously shown only on a broomstick.
"You're anticipating now, not just reacting," Chris observed after Harry had successfully navigated a particularly complex gauntlet of hexes and obstacles. "That's the difference between surviving and prevailing."
Throughout these intensive sessions, Chris continued more advanced work with his core group, Susan, Hannah, Hermione, and Daphne. While Harry practiced dueling forms with Fleur, the others would gather in a corner of the room, voices low as they discussed the intricate theory of Apparition.
"The key is perfect visualization," Chris explained, drawing complex diagrams that showed the relationship between mental mapping and magical displacement. "Your mind must hold the destination with absolute clarity while your magic creates the pathway between points."
By late April, their efforts began showing tangible results. Enough to try outside the wards in the forbidden forest.
"It feel like i'm ready," she said, flexing her fingers as if to show her resolve.
The mental aspects of preparation received equal attention. Chris led discussions on maintaining focus under extreme stress, drawing on techniques that seemed beyond his years but which he attributed to "old family writings."
"Fear is natural," he told them during one such session, the evening light casting long shadows across their serious faces. "But it can be channeled. The same physiological response that creates fear, elevated heart rate, heightened senses, increased blood flow, can serve you if you direct it properly."
As May arrived, bringing with it the scent of approaching summer and the looming Third Task, the group had transformed from a collection of individuals into a cohesive unit. Even Harry, who had spent most of his life relying primarily on himself and his closest friends, had integrated fully into their collective approach.
One evening, as they prepared to end a particularly successful practice session, Harry paused at the door, looking back at the group with an expression of quiet amazement.
"I never thought I'd say this," he admitted, "but I'm almost looking forward to the final task. Not because I want to win, but because..." He gestured to the room, to all of them. "Because I know I'm ready. Because of all of you."
The simple statement, free of his usual self-deprecation, reflected perhaps the most significant change of all, not just in his magical abilities, but in his belief in himself, in his willingness to accept support, to be part of something larger than his own struggle.
As they filed out of the classroom, Chris remained behind for a moment, watching them go with quiet satisfaction. Around them, Hogwarts continued to buzz with rumors and speculation, students and staff alike caught in the ongoing fallout from Rita's revelations about Dumbledore. But here, in this room, they had created something different, a foundation of trust and capability that would serve them well, whatever challenges the Triwizard Tournament, or life beyond it, might bring.