Chapter 1 – Schemes of the Last War
The office was dim, lit only by the flickering flame of the single candle on Dumbledore's desk. Fawkes perched silently on his golden stand, feathers gleaming even in the muted light. Albus Dumbledore leaned forward, his long fingers clasped over a stack of parchment. Each letter, each report, was a thread in the tapestry of his design—but even as he stared at them, a creeping frustration gnawed at him.
He poured himself a goblet of firewhisky and let it rest heavy in his hand. He had built a world around Harry Potter, and yet, even as he reflected on his own achievements, he could not shake the feeling that everything had been precarious. Every battle fought, every life spared or lost, every arrangement made—all leading to a single inevitable point: Harry's eventual sacrifice for the greater good.
Dumbledore allowed himself a slow exhale.
It had begun years ago, with the prophecy. A child marked by fate, the boy who would decide the fate of the wizarding world. He had done what he believed necessary: leaving Harry at the Dursleys' to cultivate humility, to build a shell of insecurity around him that would make Harry malleable, teach him caution. It was a harsh measure, but in his mind, it was the only way to prepare Harry for the horrors that awaited.
Yet, even as he remembered each step of his plan, there was an unease he could not shake. He had granted second chances to Death Eaters, underestimated threats, let innocents suffer in the name of prudence—all in the name of balance. His benevolence had cost more than he wished to admit. He had convinced himself that he knew what was best, yet the price had been steep.
He glanced at the pile of letters on his desk. The careful threads he had woven—Snape as protector, Molly Weasley as enforcer, Ron as a tether—were meant to secure Harry's path. Snape's loyalty would shield Harry while secretly binding him to Dumbledore's designs. Molly's guidance would subtly influence Harry's friendships, anchoring him to the Weasleys and their world. Ron's presence was to be the perfect control mechanism: a friend, yes, but a tether to Dumbledore's vision of the "greater good."
Every move was orchestrated, every relationship considered. And yet, the picture he had painted of Harry—fragile, obedient, ready to bend to necessity—was beginning to blur.
Dumbledore closed his eyes and let the firewhisky warm his throat. He recalled the final days of Voldemort's first reign. How many lives had been lost because of his passive approach? How many families had suffered because he had believed in mercy over decisiveness? He had survived those mistakes by convincing the world—and himself—that his actions were just. But in his quiet moments, he had never been able to forget the cost.
And now…
Now there was Percy Chronos. A boy—or rather, a man in the guise of a boy—who had appeared in Harry's life with a confidence and calm that unsettled him. A presence that defied prediction. The boy who had once been a simple pawn was now at the center of attention, guided by someone whose aura suggested dominion over forces Dumbledore had only glimpsed in legend.
He turned to Fawkes, and the phoenix regarded him with serene, unreadable eyes.
He is no pawn, Dumbledore admitted silently. He cannot be measured, cannot be controlled.
The thought was bitter. He had intended for Harry to remain uncertain, timid, compliant. To be the child shaped by circumstance, molded by the careful orchestration of allies and mentors. Every plan, every scheme, hinged on the boy's dependence. And yet, Percy had dismantled it before it could even take hold.
He thought of the summer just passed. Harry's laughter echoing through Privet Drive, his bold questions, his confidence growing under Percy's watchful guidance. Dumbledore had anticipated anxiety, hesitation, fear—but not this: a boy standing tall, secure in the presence of a stranger, unafraid, unyielding.
And they call me the master strategist, he muttered, a bitter smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Dumbledore shifted in his chair and traced the rim of his goblet with a fingertip. He had anticipated Harry's life being shaped by him. Every letter he had written, every instruction given to those around Harry, had been intended to ensure the child remained on a predictable path. And yet, even now, the boy's first steps toward independence had defied his expectations.
He leaned back and closed his eyes, imagining the long war to come. The boy, surrounded by allies he had never chosen. Pureblood whispers, cautious glances, families scheming to align themselves with unseen power. The Ministry, unprepared for forces they could not comprehend. And all while he, Dumbledore, was forced to react rather than control.
Control… the word tasted bitter in his mouth. Always control.
He made a mental note to check on Snape. The man had his own agenda, but for now, his role as protector of Harry—albeit a grudging one—was indispensable. Ron, too, needed careful steering. Molly… well, Molly was a loyal instrument, if naïve, but perhaps her devotion could be sharpened. Every piece on the board required adjustment now that the rules had changed.
The fire in the fireplace flickered, casting long shadows across the walls. Dumbledore's gaze lingered on the room, on Fawkes, on the parchments and reports, each one a promise of order he feared was slipping away.
And then the thought struck him with full force: Percy Chronos is not just a complication. He is a threat.
Not to the boy alone, but to the intricate web of plans Dumbledore had spent years crafting. If Percy remained by Harry's side, if his influence continued, then every carefully plotted path to the "greater good" could unravel.
He drained the goblet in one sharp pull and set it down with a decisive clink. There would be no panic, no rash decisions. He was Dumbledore, after all—the master of foresight, the orchestrator of destiny. Yet even as he said the words aloud to himself, a shadow of doubt crept in.
Can I truly bend this boy? Can I bend Percy Chronos?
The question was left unanswered as he rose and moved to the window, eyes scanning the castle grounds below. Somewhere, beyond these walls, the forces he had counted on would falter, and the boy he had so meticulously prepared to guide would laugh in the face of his plans.
A long night lay ahead. Schemes would be adjusted, allies repositioned, threads rerouted. But one thing was certain: the war for Harry's loyalty—and for the control of the prophecy—had already begun.
Fawkes stirred on his perch, stretching his wings and letting out a melodic call. Dumbledore's fingers curled around the sill of the window. He whispered softly, almost to himself:
"Harry… you will still serve the greater good. But I swear, if Percy Chronos continues to interfere… you may find even I cannot save you from the consequences."
And with that, he turned back to the desk, to the letters, to the schemes. The first night of frustration had begun.
Chapter 2 – Threads of Control
Dumbledore's office smelled of parchment, wax, and lemon drops. On his desk lay a game of wizard's chess, the black pieces scattered as if caught mid-defeat. It was not a random arrangement. He had been staring at it for hours, one finger tapping rhythmically against the knight that had just been taken.
Every pawn mattered. Every sacrifice had to serve the whole. That had been the lesson of the last war, or so he had convinced himself.
"Harry," he whispered, barely audible even to Fawkes, who shifted drowsily on his perch. "My boy… my weapon."
He hated the thought, the bluntness of the word, but it was the truth. The prophecy left him little choice. Harry was the one marked. He had to be sharpened into a blade—wielded at the right moment and discarded if need be. To ensure that outcome, Dumbledore had bound threads around him like a spider spinning its web.
Snape's Thread
Severus was the easiest to keep tethered. The man was broken, consumed by guilt and unquenchable bitterness. A single promise of Lily Potter's protection had been enough to bind him, though Dumbledore had never forgotten that Severus's loyalty lay only in obsession, never in principle.
"Protector," Dumbledore had called him. That was the role assigned, though it was half-truth. Snape's watchful presence over Harry was as much to monitor as to defend. Dumbledore knew the man loathed James's son with every fiber of his being. That hatred could be dangerous, but it could also be useful. After all, pain forged character.
Snape's sneers and cruelties would temper Harry, harden him. Dumbledore told himself it was necessary. What Harry suffered in the classroom would prepare him for the suffering ahead.
And in return, Snape's safety was assured. His role as a double agent shielded him from Azkaban, his usefulness outweighing his sins. A tool, sharp and venomous, but a tool nonetheless.
Molly's Thread
Molly Weasley had been a subtler piece. A woman of fierce loyalty and blind faith, she believed utterly in Dumbledore's wisdom. It had not been hard to encourage her belief that Harry needed a mother's guidance. Dumbledore had only to suggest, once or twice, that Harry would benefit from a warm, "proper" family, and Molly had leapt at the chance to fold the boy into her brood.
She did not realize she was also meant to be a gatekeeper. Through her, Harry could be gently nudged toward the Weasley family's values: loyalty to the Light, unquestioning trust in Dumbledore, disapproval of anything that smacked of ambition or power.
She dreamed of Harry marrying Ginny someday. Dumbledore had not promised her that, but he had not discouraged the fantasy either. A Potter bound to the Weasleys would ensure Harry's choices remained firmly within the bounds of safety—and of Dumbledore's control.
Ron's Thread
And then there was Ronald. The boy had been easy to shape. Insecure, overshadowed by his brothers, hungry for importance—Ron was the perfect candidate to become Harry's best friend. Dumbledore needed Harry to have companionship, yes, but not strength. Not allies who could challenge him or sharpen him too much. He needed a friend who would anchor Harry to the ordinary, keep him tethered, remind him of limits rather than possibilities.
Ron's loyalty could be counted on—Molly would see to that. His jealousy, though inconvenient at times, could also be useful. A jealous friend would prevent Harry from straying too far into ambition or darker alliances.
Yes, Ronald Weasley was the perfect tether.
The Web
Dumbledore leaned back in his chair and surveyed the chessboard again. Snape, Molly, Ron. Three threads spun into a web meant to keep Harry in place. Around them, others played their parts: Hagrid, the kindly giant who adored him; McGonagall, who would follow Dumbledore's lead without question; even Lucius Malfoy, whose arrogance was predictable and thus exploitable.
All of it had been designed so carefully. The Dursleys would keep Harry humble. Molly and Ron would keep him bound. Snape would test him, break him, rebuild him in pain. And Dumbledore himself—ah, Dumbledore would be the guiding hand, the one Harry turned to when he sought light in the darkness.
But the plan had not accounted for Percy Chronos.
The Snag
The name itself was a splinter under Dumbledore's skin. Chronos. No records in the Ministry. No mention in the great family trees of Britain. No trace in his own extensive knowledge of magical lineages. It was as though the boy and his companions had stepped out of myth and into his carefully curated stage.
Dumbledore had watched, quietly, as Percy placed his arm around Harry's shoulders at Privet Drive, as Artemis and Athena whispered wisdom that Harry absorbed like sunlight. He had felt the wards he had woven around that miserable home shudder under Percy's presence, as though the very magic of the place recoiled from him.
The web had trembled. The threads had loosened.
Ron still seemed eager to be Harry's friend, but Dumbledore had seen the way the boy's eyes narrowed at Percy. Molly's letters to him had been peppered with complaints already, thinly veiled concerns about "that strange boy" corrupting Harry's path. Even Snape, his bitter watchdog, seemed rattled—his usual cruelty bouncing off Percy and his companions like stones against steel.
Every carefully chosen piece was in danger of sliding out of place.
Resolve
Dumbledore sighed, folding his hands beneath his chin.
"This was not supposed to be so… unpredictable," he murmured.
The prophecy remained unchanged. Harry still had to walk the path of sacrifice. That truth was as immutable as the stars. But Percy's interference—his charisma, his quiet strength, the way Hogwarts itself seemed to bow to him—threatened everything.
Dumbledore would need to adapt. He would push Molly harder, encourage her disapproval of Percy until it sharpened into active resistance. He would remind Ron of his insecurities, keeping the boy hungry for Harry's attention and suspicious of rivals. He would lean on Snape's pride, fanning his envy of Percy into outright hostility.
If he could not remove Percy from the board, then he would isolate him. Undermine him. Make Harry doubt him, little by little, until the web tightened once more.
The boy must remain the weapon. The sacrifice. The greater good demanded nothing less.
He moved one white pawn on the chessboard, taking the black queen. His lips curved into a faint, weary smile.
"Yes," he whispered, almost to himself. "Even the strongest threads can be rewoven."
Fawkes let out a single, sorrowful cry, and the sound lingered long after Dumbledore returned to his parchments.
Chapter 3 – The First Cracks
Night lay heavy over Privet Drive. The air hummed with the faintest trace of wards — ancient, intricate, and carefully layered, bound with blood and fear. They were Dumbledore's most subtle work: protective enough to ward off Death Eaters, restrictive enough to keep a boy small. Harry Potter's entire childhood had unfolded under their unseen chains.
Dumbledore had always taken comfort in the neatness of it. The Dursleys, dreadful as they were, had been the perfect environment. Harsh, loveless, suffocating — exactly what Harry needed. A boy starved of affection would grow dependent on the first kind hand offered to him. And when that hand was Dumbledore's, Harry would cling without question.
But tonight, the wards trembled.
Watching from Afar
From his hidden vantage in Little Whinging, Dumbledore watched the scene unfold. He had not expected to be here — ordinarily, the wards whispered to him of Harry's safety without his needing to intrude. Yet a shiver in the network had roused him. Something foreign had pressed against the protections, something old and unyielding.
He saw them then: Percy Chronos and his wives. Three figures stepping across the neat lawns of Privet Drive as if they belonged to none of its ordinariness. Percy, tall and steady, radiating a calm authority that made the very night bend around him. Artemis, cool-eyed and protective, every movement sharp as a blade unsheathed. Athena, serene and calculating, her gaze cutting through the false peace of suburbia.
Harry stood with them, a boy caught between awe and relief. His shoulders were less hunched than usual, his smile brighter than Dumbledore had anticipated.
Dumbledore's heart sank. Already, the boy's chains were loosening.
The Wards Falter
The wards shuddered as Percy placed a hand on Harry's back. It was not overt magic, not a spell cast or a curse broken. It was presence — something deeper, something that resonated against the ancient enchantments like a discordant note.
Dumbledore narrowed his eyes, muttering an incantation under his breath. Runes flickered across his vision, revealing the state of the protections.
Cracks.
Hairline fractures where once the runes had gleamed steady. The wards strained as though Harry himself no longer fit within their parameters. The boy had been shaped to meekness, to isolation, but Percy's influence was rewriting the pattern. Confidence and belonging bled into Harry's aura, eroding the very foundation of the enchantments.
It was as though the magic of Privet Drive rejected Percy — or worse, bowed before him.
Dumbledore clenched his wand tighter.
McGonagall's Doubt
A flicker of memory tugged at him. McGonagall, years ago, had argued against leaving Harry here at all.
"They're the worst sort of Muggles, Albus," she had said sharply outside Number Four. "He'll be unloved, unwanted—"
"Precisely," Dumbledore had interrupted then, his voice calm, his eyes twinkling with calculated warmth. "He must not grow arrogant. He must not grow too sure of himself. Humility is the soil in which true greatness is nurtured."
But even then, he had seen the disapproval in her gaze. She had not been blind to the cruelty of his reasoning. She had not seen the necessity, only the cost.
And now, perhaps she had been right. Harry did not seem broken. He seemed… free.
Dumbledore ground his teeth, forcing the thought aside. No. His plan was sound. It had always been sound.
Dismissal
From the shadows, he watched Percy lean down, speaking quietly to Harry. The boy laughed — a sound too full, too unburdened, for this street of clipped hedges and tight-lipped neighbors.
The sound struck Dumbledore like a hammer against glass.
This was not how it was meant to go. Harry was supposed to look to Ron for laughter, to Molly for warmth, to Dumbledore for wisdom. Not to this stranger with no past and no record.
"No," Dumbledore whispered under his breath, the word harsh in the stillness. "It is a fluke. An interruption. Nothing more."
He turned, his cloak sweeping around him, and vanished from Privet Drive with a soft crack.
But even as he reappeared in his office at Hogwarts, surrounded by the familiar ticking of instruments and the soft rustle of Fawkes's wings, the unease gnawed at him.
For the first time in many years, Albus Dumbledore wondered if he had underestimated the boy he had so carefully caged.
And worse — if Percy Chronos was about to tear the cage apart.
Chapter 4 – Diagon Alley Whispers
The heart of wizarding London was alive with summer bustle. Owls swooped overhead, parchment lists rustled in eager hands, and shopkeepers called out to parents and children alike. For most, Diagon Alley was excitement and anticipation. For Albus Dumbledore, it was danger.
The Whispers Begin
He did not need to walk openly among the crowds to hear it. Information had always found its way to him — through portraits, spies, and gossip carried by those who sought his approval. But today, the reports were different.
"Chronos," the name kept surfacing. On the lips of pureblood matrons at Madam Malkin's, in the muttered speculation of goblins at Gringotts, even among the younger shopkeepers eager to appear informed.
The story was already a storm: a boy named Percy Chronos, arriving at Diagon Alley with two striking women at his side, neither wife nor sister according to conventional sense but introduced as both companions and equals. Together, they had drawn eyes wherever they walked.
What troubled Dumbledore most was not the gossip itself — wizarding Britain was always eager for new scandal — but the tone. It was not ridicule. It was curiosity. Respect. Even fear.
"Salazar's blood?" someone had whispered.
"No, no records of that line."
"Then where did he come from?"
"And did you see the owl — no, not an owl, something else — golden wings, like a legend come alive!"
By the time the rumors reached the Leaky Cauldron, Percy was already a figure of fascination.
Dumbledore's Calculations
From his high-backed chair in the Hogwarts office, Dumbledore sifted through reports with tightening lips. He had built his control on predictability: bloodlines, debts, favors, the balance of House alliances. The Black seat, the Malfoy fortune, the Weasley loyalty — all known quantities.
But Chronos was a void in the ledger. No Gringotts vault registered under the name. No Ministry file, no birth record, no trace in the family trees carefully recorded by generations of pureblood archivists.
A man without history. That alone should have made him an object of scorn. Yet instead, he had walked into Diagon Alley and shifted the currents.
Worse — Harry had been with him.
That was the detail that cut deepest. The Boy-Who-Lived, not trailing after Molly's red-haired brood, not clutching Hagrid's hand in bewilderment, but moving with quiet confidence beside this interloper. Laughing. Asking questions. Looking… at home.
Dumbledore's fingers drummed against his desk.
Molly's Report
The Floo flared. Molly Weasley's face appeared in the flames, flushed and eager.
"Oh, Professor!" she began breathlessly, "you wouldn't believe the commotion today. This Percy fellow — Percy Chronos, I mean, not my Percy, of course — the way people talk, you'd think he was some great lord back from the dead! Walking around with those… those women, flaunting himself in front of the children. Why, Ginny couldn't stop staring, and even Ron seemed distracted. I told him, of course, Harry's place is with us. He'll need a proper family, not—"
Dumbledore interjected with a soft chuckle, though the warmth in his eyes did not reach his thoughts.
"Yes, yes, Molly. Harry will always need good influences. You must do what you can to draw him close. A mother's care, even borrowed, is invaluable."
Molly beamed, reassured. The Floo winked out.
Dumbledore sat back heavily, the mask slipping the moment the flames died. Molly was loyal, yes. But her voice betrayed something else: insecurity. The Weasleys could not compete with the aura Percy projected. If even Molly's surety wavered, then others would as well.
Unwelcome Allies
Later that evening, a letter arrived on snowy-white parchment, sealed in green wax. Lucius Malfoy's elegant script sprawled across the page.
Headmaster,
It has come to my attention that a new figure, styling himself Percy Chronos, has emerged in the Alley. His presence unsettles many of us in respectable society. Naturally, you are the man to ensure balance is kept. I trust you will take steps before this influence spreads unchecked.
Dumbledore burned the letter after reading it, though his frown deepened. When Malfoy appealed to him, it was always a double-edged blade. Lucius never warned unless he, too, feared.
For Percy to disturb both Molly Weasley and Lucius Malfoy in the same week — that was no small feat.
Harry Slipping Away
The final blow came not from allies, but from a charmed mirror Dumbledore had long ago arranged in Diagon Alley. Through it, he caught a fleeting glimpse: Harry, standing with Percy and his companions outside Flourish and Blotts. The boy's smile was unguarded, his eyes bright with questions. Percy bent slightly to answer, his wives flanking Harry like guardians of old.
Not once did Harry glance about nervously for guidance. Not once did he look to the crowd, to an adult for reassurance.
He looked only to them.
The image seared itself into Dumbledore's mind, burning hotter than Fawkes's fire.
The Crumbling Plan
By nightfall, the whispers had grown louder than any denial. His carefully-laid first step — Harry bonding exclusively with Ron and Molly — had already faltered.
He had wanted Harry to be uncertain, grateful, malleable. Instead, the boy walked Diagon Alley with confidence, his path guided not by Dumbledore's chosen hands but by an enigma with no past.
Dumbledore stared into the darkened office, the instruments ticking like mocking heartbeats. His plan was not ruined. Not yet. But cracks had spread through its foundation.
And Percy Chronos, wherever he had come from, was the wedge driving them wider.
Chapter 5 – The Hogwarts Express Failure
The scarlet steam engine stood proudly on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, smoke hissing as families embraced their children. For most, this was a moment of tears and laughter — but for Dumbledore, watching through his enchanted mirror, it was supposed to be a moment of control.
Molly Weasley had done her part flawlessly, ushering her children through the barrier with fussing affection. Ron, the youngest boy, carried her instructions clearly in his head: Find Harry Potter. Sit with him. Be his friend. The plan was perfect. Harry would latch onto Ron's loyalty, and with Molly's guidance, the bond would grow into dependency.
But as the mirror shimmered, Dumbledore's eyes narrowed.
Harry did not walk alone.
He emerged from the barrier with Percy Chronos at his side, flanked by Artemis and Athena. The boy was relaxed, even smiling — so unlike the shy, uncertain pawn Dumbledore had expected. Percy drew stares immediately; the eagle Hedwig spread her wings with regal arrogance, and whispers darted down the platform like sparks.
Ron noticed them, of course. His freckled face flushed red, his eyes narrowing with a mix of awe and irritation. But instead of rushing forward, he lingered with his luggage, swallowed by the crowd. Harry's laughter — genuine, confident, warm — reached him across the steam. It stung.
Ron didn't speak. Not yet.
A Compartment of Contrasts
The train whistled, and the crowd dissolved in a flurry of goodbyes. Harry, Percy, Artemis, and Athena chose a compartment near the middle, Hedwig perched regally above, Kaal's faint glow emanating from Percy's side. The air inside was warm with camaraderie; the three spoke with the ease of people bound by trust, their words flowing between light banter and quiet reassurance.
It was here, minutes after departure, that Ron Weasley slid open the door. His ears burned red as he glanced inside.
"Er—hi. All the other compartments are full. Mind if I sit?"
Harry brightened immediately. "Of course not. Come in."
Ron shuffled inside, dragging his trunk and collapsing onto the seat across from Harry. His eyes flicked nervously between Percy and his wives, lingering just a moment too long on the girls before he quickly turned back to Harry.
"I'm Ron. Ron Weasley."
Harry smiled. "Harry Potter."
Ron's jaw dropped a fraction before he caught himself. "I—I know. Everyone knows. I mean—" He stopped, cheeks flaming.
Percy smirked faintly, but his tone remained smooth. "Pleasure, Ron. I'm Percy Chronos. These are Artemis and Athena."
Ron blinked. His mother's voice echoed in his head — stay close to Harry, don't get mixed up with the wrong sort. And yet here Harry was, already mixed up with them.
Still, Ron tried.
Conversation and Tension
Ron leaned toward Harry, eager to steer the conversation. "So — er — is it true? About… you know, You-Know-Who and all that?"
Harry shifted, uncomfortable. Percy's hand landed gently on his shoulder, firm but not possessive.
Harry nodded. "It's true, but I don't like talking about it. I'd rather just… start school like anyone else."
Ron deflated a little, then rallied. "Right. Sorry. I get it. I'm just—well, it's brilliant to meet you."
Artemis chuckled softly. "Brilliant? He's just Harry."
Harry grinned at that, and Percy added with an amused glance, "You'll find he's better company when you don't put him on a pedestal."
Ron shifted uncomfortably, caught between awe and the subtle pressure of Percy's confidence. He wanted Harry's friendship, but the dynamic was already wrong. Harry wasn't clinging to him for reassurance — he was relaxed, buoyed by the presence of Percy and his companions.
The tether Dumbledore had counted on was slipping even as Ron tried to tie it.
A Failed Anchor
For the rest of the ride, Ron chatted awkwardly — about his brothers, about Quidditch, about how he hoped to be in Gryffindor. Harry listened politely, even warmly, but the laughter he shared most freely was still with Percy, Artemis, and Athena.
Ron noticed. Every time Harry leaned toward Percy for a quiet word, every time Athena teased Harry like a little brother, Ron's stomach twisted tighter.
By the time the train neared Hogsmeade, Ron was no anchor. He was a passenger on the edge of Harry's circle — tolerated, but not essential.
The Mirror Darkens
In his office, Dumbledore's mirror flickered.
The plan had failed. The bond was not forming as it should. Instead of dependence, Harry was already building confidence — with Percy as his guide, not Ron.
Dumbledore's fingers tightened on the mirror's edge until his knuckles whitened.
The tether has slipped.
The Hogwarts Express had not delivered a pawn. It had carried a boy who was slipping from his grasp.
And worse — Percy Chronos was sitting right beside him.
Chapter 6 – Arrival Disrupted (Rewritten)
The Sorting Feast should have been a well-oiled ritual. For Dumbledore, it was always a moment to reinforce the illusion of control: a sea of impressionable faces, sorted neatly into houses, falling unconsciously into the system he had maintained for decades.
But tonight, the script was already fraying.
Harry Potter had not shuffled in meek and uncertain. He had walked tall, calm, with Percy Chronos and his two enigmatic companions at his side, as though the Boy Who Lived were not the central figure at all. Percy's presence — and the gleaming forms of Artemis, Athena, Hedwig, and the phoenix-dragon hybrid Kaal — drew every eye in the hall.
The Sorting itself had confirmed Dumbledore's unease. Harry, after long deliberation, had gone to Gryffindor. But Percy, Artemis, and Athena, one after another, had been placed firmly into Slytherin. The reaction was mixed: fascination from some, dismay from others, silence from the Slytherins themselves.
Then, halfway through the Feast, the castle itself stirred. The enchanted ceiling rippled as if the stars themselves bent lower to watch. Stone groaned deep beneath their feet. Across the high walls, glowing script unfurled like fire carving itself into air:
"By right of ancient covenant, private quarters are granted to Percy Chronos and his chosen."
Gasps tore through the hall.
Dumbledore had leapt smoothly to his feet, projecting calm as if nothing were amiss. "Ah, the castle occasionally exercises older enchantments. Nothing to concern yourselves with, my dear students—"
But Athena had cut across him with icy precision. "Older enchantments? Headmaster, these are the castle's own wards. They are binding. You cannot dismiss them."
Snape, flushed with fury, had tried to sneer it down. "Ridiculous. No upstart child will be granted privilege above the Head of House! If the castle dares—"
The hall had shuddered once more, the torches flaring, silencing him. The message on the walls glowed brighter before fading.
From that moment onward, conversation in the hall had been frantic and buzzing, but the authority of Dumbledore and Snape had been wounded.
After the Feast – The Inspection
Tradition dictated that first-years be shepherded to their common rooms by prefects. But tonight, Percy and his wives were accompanied by professors — Snape leading the way with an expression like carved stone, Dumbledore gliding behind with forced serenity, McGonagall stern but uneasy, and Flitwick bouncing nervously at the edge of the group.
The Slytherin first-years whispered frantically, stealing glances at Percy.
When the wall to the common room opened, cool green light spilling across the group, they all entered in tense silence.
And there, beside the fireplace, hung a portrait frame that had long been empty. Tonight, it was filled.
The painted figure was tall, dark-robed, with piercing eyes and a serpent coiled at his feet. Salazar Slytherin himself stirred, his painted form alive with uncanny energy.
Gasps broke out. Even Snape froze, blood draining from his face.
The founder's painted eyes moved over the gathered crowd… and then locked on Percy. Slowly, deliberately, Salazar inclined his head in a bow.
"Welcome, heir of Chronos," he intoned. "At last, one worthy to walk my halls with pride."
The room went deathly still.
Pureblood students stared in disbelief. Some Slytherins muttered frantic prayers under their breath.
Snape opened his mouth to object — but the portrait's eyes cut to him with such cold disdain that the words died in his throat.
"You, who bear my name in stewardship, should remember your place," Salazar's voice thundered. "The castle itself has chosen. You will not gainsay it."
Dumbledore's carefully woven mask never slipped, but his knuckles whitened on his staff. McGonagall's sharp intake of breath was audible in the hush. Flitwick muttered something in awe.
Artemis and Athena exchanged amused glances, their hands entwined with Percy's as though they had expected nothing less. Percy himself only smiled faintly, dipping his head in respectful acknowledgement of the founder's portrait.
Repercussions
The Slytherin first-years could hardly contain themselves.
Draco Malfoy's mouth opened and closed like a fish. Pansy whispered furiously to Daphne Greengrass. Theodore Nott leaned against the wall, pale but calculating.
"This changes everything," Draco hissed. "My father will—"
"Your father will panic," Nott finished for him. "So will everyone else."
Behind them, Snape's jaw clenched until it trembled. For once, he had no venomous retort.
And Dumbledore?
He stood in the green-lit chamber, every inch the calm old wizard — yet inside, his schemes unraveled thread by thread. The castle had sided with Percy, the founder himself had acknowledged him, and Harry had not even looked to Dumbledore for guidance all night.
The plan is cracking, he thought. And this is only the first day.
Chapter 7 – Flames and Feathers
The headmaster's office was quiet save for the crackle of the fire and the occasional shift of wings from the golden bird perched nearby.
Fawkes, regal and eternal, watched his master with steady eyes. The phoenix had comforted Dumbledore through dark wars, had carried him from peril, had sung healing fire into his wounds. For decades, Dumbledore had believed the bird's loyalty was proof that his path — however hard, however cold — was righteous.
But tonight, that certainty wavered.
The image of Kaal would not leave him.
A creature unlike any other: the wings of a phoenix yet lined with draconic flame, the body scaled with gold and ember-black, a presence that seemed too vast for a mere "familiar." And most unsettling of all — Kaal's devotion was not born of duty to the Light or loyalty to abstract ideals. His bond with Percy and those two girls was personal, unshakable, primal.
Dumbledore stroked his beard, eyes narrowing.
I have nurtured Fawkes for decades. And yet… I wonder if his bond is truly with me, or only with the greater balance he serves. He sings when I stray close to despair, but he does not bind his life to mine. Not as Kaal has to Percy.
The comparison stung. For all his reputation, for all the awe he commanded, Dumbledore realized his phoenix's loyalty was conditional. It was tethered to principles, not to Albus Dumbledore the man.
But Percy's beast — no, not beast, never that — had knelt to him in a way that spoke of chosen kinship. Kaal had not been trained, not purchased, not gifted. He had chosen.
A dangerous precedent.
And then there was the eagle.
Hedwig. Not the snowy owl Dumbledore half-remembered from some passing record, but a golden eagle, fierce-eyed and vigilant. She was no mere post-bird; her every motion screamed intelligence. The way she perched above Percy, Artemis, and Athena was not like a pet guarding masters — but like a sentinel watching over equals.
Dumbledore frowned, remembering the way Harry's green eyes had lit up when Hedwig had brushed her wing across his cheek at Diagon Alley. A bond was forming there as well, one Dumbledore had not accounted for. A familiar that would make Harry less lonely, less isolated… more difficult to mold.
He folded his hands behind his back, pacing the office.
Two ancient companions of mysterious origin, tied not to me, not to Hogwarts, not to the Light — but to Percy Chronos and, by extension, to Harry. Kaal is a symbol, as much as he is a protector: proof that Percy is not some boy playing at grandeur. The creature's existence alone raises questions I cannot answer. And Hedwig… she might give Harry the courage to resist me sooner than I wish.
Fawkes trilled then, a single clear note. Dumbledore turned sharply, searching the phoenix's eyes for approval, for reassurance that he was still the chosen one of destiny. But the bird only tilted his head, inscrutable.
Dumbledore sank into his chair, feeling the weight of the night pressing on him.
Once, he had thought his bond with Fawkes was the pinnacle of magical companionship. Now, he feared it was only a shadow beside what Percy had gathered around him.
If the boy truly commands such loyalty… then perhaps even sacrifice itself will slip beyond my grasp.
The fire popped in the hearth. Fawkes preened his feathers. And Albus Dumbledore stared into the flames, for the first time in many years uncertain of whether he still held the greater power.
Chapter 8 – Night of Realisations
The castle was asleep, but Dumbledore's mind was not.
Moonlight stretched across the shelves of his office, catching on silver instruments that ticked and whirred like a thousand whispering voices. The portraits of former headmasters pretended to sleep, though several cracked open wary eyes. They had seen Dumbledore brood before — but tonight his pacing was different.
Measured. Controlled. And angry.
He ignored the weight of their gaze. He had no patience for ghosts when the living world threatened to unravel.
His hand brushed the rim of a mead glass on his desk, then pulled back. No drink could soothe the sting of this evening.
Percy Chronos.
Even thinking the name sent irritation prickling down his spine. That boy and his companions — girls far too poised, far too knowing to be mere students — had unsettled everything. Hogwarts itself had defied him, bending instead to Percy's presence. A private set of quarters, beyond the Headmaster's authority, sanctified by Salazar Slytherin's own portrait bowing in respect.
Dumbledore had lived long enough to know what such symbolism meant. It was not just accommodation. It was allegiance.
And allegiance meant danger.
He gripped the desk edge, knuckles whitening. This was supposed to be Harry's story. Harry's path. Harry's sacrifice. The prophecy had been clear: the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches. And Dumbledore had spent years shaping that power. Isolating the boy. Starving him of love and certainty until he clung to scraps of kindness. Until he clung to Dumbledore.
It had been the only way.
Or so he told himself.
He spoke aloud now, voice low and rough, as though to justify the plan to the empty room.
"Harry's suffering was necessary. Comfort breeds complacency. Strength is born only from pain. Would the boy have survived to this age without me? Would he have walked willingly into the fire when the time comes? No. He must be tempered like steel. That is mercy, not cruelty."
The words rang hollow, but he forced conviction into them, polishing each syllable like glass.
Yes. Mercy. Greater good. Always the greater good.
He moved to the window, staring down at the gleaming lake. Percy's phoenix-dragon hybrid — that impossible creature — had flown over those waters earlier, a display so majestic it unsettled even the professors. Dumbledore's lips pressed thin. Fawkes chose me. Fawkes sings for me. What need has a boy like Percy for such a beast?
The comparison gnawed at him, though he crushed it quickly. That bond was an anomaly, nothing more. A distraction.
He returned to the prophecy in his mind like a priest reciting scripture. Neither can live while the other survives. Harry. It was Harry. It had always been Harry.
And yet…
He thought of the way Harry's eyes had lingered on Percy at the feast. Not awe-struck dependence, but camaraderie. Trust. Too much trust. The kind that could redirect destiny itself.
That could not be allowed.
"Percy is a disruption," he whispered, stroking his beard as though smoothing his own certainty. "But every disruption can be redirected. Every threat, absorbed or neutralised."
He thought of his tools. Molly, eager to insert herself as Harry's surrogate mother. Ron, groomed since birth to tether Harry with friendship laced in dependency. Snape, bitter and venomous, too blind to see how easily his hate could be shaped into service. Pawns, all of them. Not glamorous, not powerful, but useful. And in Albus Dumbledore's world, usefulness was the only currency that mattered.
He breathed slowly, deliberately. Yes. He had erred tonight, been surprised, even embarrassed. But he was still Dumbledore. Still the man who had outmaneuvered Grindelwald. Still the one wizard Voldemort feared to challenge openly.
What was one boy against that?
"Harry belongs to the greater good," he murmured, voice soft and fervent now, as if in prayer. "And if Percy thinks otherwise… then Percy will learn what it means to stand in my way."
Behind him, Fawkes gave a low, keening note. It was mournful, full of unease.
Dumbledore did not turn. He heard no warning in the cry, only confirmation.
He would not be swayed.
The sacrifice must come. Harry's death would save them all. And history, as it always did, would forgive Albus Dumbledore.
Chapter 9 – The Long War of Wills
The office was dark except for the fire. Its flames flickered blue and green, shadows painting the walls with ghostly shapes. Dumbledore sat in his high-backed chair, hands steepled, gaze fixed on the enchanted window where the night pressed close.
He had not slept. Sleep was for those who trusted the world to run without them. Dumbledore had never had that luxury.
"Control," he murmured to the silence. "Control separates saviors from martyrs. Control bends chaos into order."
His voice was steady, but his grip on the chair's arms was not. Percy Chronos — that name rang too loudly, too sharply, for one who was supposed to be irrelevant. A boy with no records, no lineage, no place in his design. Yet Hogwarts herself had embraced him, granting him quarters sanctified by Salazar Slytherin.
Salazar, who had despised Dumbledore's ideals.
Salazar, bowing to a stranger.
Dumbledore's jaw tightened. Unacceptable.
"This is not chance," he said to the fire. "It is interference. Fate itself has grown bold, setting another hand upon the board."
And Harry… Harry had smiled at Percy with trust that should have belonged to Dumbledore. The boy leaned toward Percy for confidence, for kinship, for guidance. Strength glowed in Harry's face where weakness should have taken root.
Harry was meant to be shaped. Broken down and remade into the tool destiny required. Into the sacrifice.
"If he grows too bold," Dumbledore whispered, "he will not walk willingly to the altar. He must believe death is mercy. He must believe me."
He rose, pacing the length of the room. His robes whispered against the stone, a soft echo of restlessness.
The plan still lived. Pawns remained in place. Molly Weasley, with her maternal warmth, would pull Harry into her nest, offering comfort in exchange for compliance. Ron, loyal in his insecurity, would tether Harry, steering him away from Percy's dangerous orbit. Snape's cruelty would cut Harry down, making gratitude for guidance inevitable.
Yes. The pieces were still his.
But Percy Chronos was no piece.
He stopped before the fire, its light painting silver into his hair.
"Then the war shifts," he said, as if the flames demanded his reasoning. "Not all victories are won in a single stroke. This will be a long war. My will against his."
His voice grew stronger, hammering each word into iron.
"I have bested Grindelwald, master of armies. I have withstood Voldemort, master of fear. Shall I be undone by a child with a gilded bird and a clever tongue? No. History bends to me. It always has."
He lowered himself back into his chair, the old wood groaning softly beneath him. His quill hovered above parchment but never touched it. The act of readiness was enough.
"Chronos may win moments," he conceded. "But I win eras."
And yet, unbidden, a thought crept in — quick, poisonous, fragile. What if this boy was not a moment? What if he was the axis upon which the prophecy turned?
For the briefest instant, doubt flickered.
It would not leave.
Dumbledore crushed it with words. "Then fate itself will learn discipline."
Behind him, Fawkes stirred. The phoenix gave a low, mournful cry — not the sharp warning of danger, but the aching note of inevitability. A lament.
Dumbledore did not turn. He could not.
The fire hissed and guttered as though in protest. Shadows stretched longer, darker, across the walls.
The war had begun. Not only against Voldemort. Not only against death. But against a boy who had cracked open destiny's script.
A war of patience.
A long war of wills.
And though he told himself he had no intention of losing… somewhere deep, buried where even he refused to look, Albus Dumbledore knew what he had never admitted before.
All great wars end in defeat.