— — — — — —
"Appare Vestigium" was a tracking spell — one that could replay traces of magic, lingering magical energy, or faint echoes of what had recently happened in an area.
Of course, such magic had its limits. Dumbledore knew well that he couldn't perfectly reconstruct the past scene; the spell was more useful for gauging just how intense a battle had been.
And the result didn't disappoint him — though it did trouble him.
A blizzard had swept across the area, and after that, the vision became a blur of white and chaos.
That meant the magic had reached its limit.
"Death Eaters are this powerful now?"
He stood still for a while, thinking quietly, then turned and Apparated back to the Ministry of Magic.
"How did it go, Albus?" Fudge had been pacing anxiously. The office was empty except for him, and when Dumbledore entered, his eyes lit with hope.
"Cornelius, I'll need more leads — anything the Aurors gathered. And I'd like to bring a few of them back to Hogwarts with me. I have an item that can project their memories — perhaps it'll help us see what really happened."
"No problem. I'll come with you," Fudge said at once, eager to show initiative.
He gathered five Aurors, and together they followed Dumbledore to Hogwarts.
But when they reached the headmaster's office, Fudge froze at the sight of the door — or rather, what was left of it. The entrance was just a splintered mess of wood.
Hadn't there been an ugly stone gargoyle guarding this place before? He'd seen it plenty of times on his visits.
"Albus, what in Merlin's name happened here?"
Dumbledore gave an embarrassed smile. "I gave the gargoyle a holiday. I didn't think anyone would come by during the break."
Fudge blinked, utterly thrown off.
After a long, awkward silence, he managed, "You're… very considerate. If Hogwarts ever runs low on funds, just tell me. I'll do what I can to get the budget approved."
"Much appreciated," Dumbledore said mildly.
He didn't dwell on the embarrassing topic. Instead, he led everyone inside, took out the Pensieve, and showed the Aurors how to extract the specific memories he needed.
Then he guided Fudge through the viewing — as vivid as being there in person.
When Fudge's head lifted from the silvery surface, his face had gone paper-white. "Monstrous," he muttered. "Absolutely horrifying…"
The Aurors looked grim. They'd been powerless — their defensive enchantments had shattered in seconds, and then they'd been frozen solid, consciousness sinking into blackness.
When they came to, the attackers were gone.
"Thank Merlin those Death Eaters didn't mean to kill us," one thought. "Otherwise none of us would've made it back alive."
Death Eaters? These were more like dark lords in their own right.
"Try not to worry too much, Cornelius," Dumbledore said gently. "They caught you off guard. The Ministry's Aurors are capable — they'll handle things."
In the back, Kingsley Shacklebolt silently shook his head. "Handle things? Yeah, right. No way in hell, I'm handling people like them."
"Albus, you have to find them," Fudge said urgently. "People like that are far too dangerous."
"I'll do my best," Dumbledore replied, hesitating. "But you know how difficult it is to track two people who don't wish to be found."
"I trust you, Albus."
...
Once the Ministry group had gone, Dumbledore stood in the quiet, staring out into the dark night. He didn't head to bed. Instead, he Disapparated again — this time to Spinner's End.
"So late, and you're not afraid of disturbing my rest?"
Snape opened the door with a scowl, letting Dumbledore in. His house was small — two stories, maybe eighty square meters each — and filled with the smell of potion fumes. A row of cauldrons bubbled in the sitting room, heating the air to a sticky warmth.
"Brewing potions? That many?" Dumbledore asked, ignoring the biting tone.
Snape poured him a mug of hot cocoa, muttering, "I had an idea and decided to test it. Or are you planning to regulate my holiday schedule too?"
"Of course not," Dumbledore said, smiling. "I'm no Muggle capitalist. Just showing a little concern for my professor."
"I'm touched," Snape said dryly. "Now, aside from your concern, do you have an actual reason for being here?"
As he spoke, he realized his palms were damp with sweat.
The Dark Lord's moods could shift like a storm — everyone who'd served him had lived in fear. Except for the truly mad ones. But Dumbledore was different. Always calm, always kind — which somehow made him even more unsettling.
"I bring bad news. Oh, no, perhaps to you it's good news," Dumbledore corrected himself with a faint smile. "Peter is dead. Two Death Eaters ambushed the prison transport to avenge Voldemort."
Snape's hand paused midair, his cup hovering for a beat before he let out a short, satisfied laugh. It vanished almost as quickly.
"You should never have handed him to the Ministry," he said sharply. "If you'd let me deal with him, there'd have been no fuss. I imagine Fudge is tearing his hair out right now?"
"Quite right," Dumbledore admitted. "He's asked me to find the culprits as soon as possible."
"Then why come to me?" Snape slammed his cup down, splashing cocoa onto the table. "You think I killed the rat?"
"Of course not," Dumbledore said quickly, holding up both hands. "But you used to have… connections. I hoped you might recognize something. One of the attackers wielded powerful ice magic; the other was very skilled with curses. Any names come to mind?"
Snape frowned, thinking. "My rank among the Death Eaters was never high — the old ones outranked me. But… perhaps Alex, Gibbon, or Rodolphus Lestrange. They could manage something like that."
"They're all in Azkaban."
"Then I don't know," Snape said simply.
Dumbledore nodded, a touch disappointed. "All right. I'll find another way."
He turned toward the door.
Snape called after him, "You've never cared for this sort of political mess. Why the sudden interest?"
"Fudge was… very insistent," Dumbledore said with a sigh. Then he added, calmly, "Still, I doubt those two will act again. They've achieved what they wanted. Give it time — Fudge will calm down, and this will all fade away. Don't you agree, Severus?"
"Politicians always forget," Snape said, raising his cup in a lazy toast. "Safe travel."
"Goodbye. See you when term starts."
Bang!
The door slammed shut.
Snape sat back down, sipping cup after cup of tea, perfectly composed — at least on the surface. When he was certain Dumbledore was gone for good, he slumped into the couch, his back drenched with sweat.
"That old bastard…" he muttered under his breath.
...
Walking down the dark, narrow streets, Dumbledore let out a long sigh.
Not every truth needed to be spoken aloud, and not every crime needed evidence. He already knew who had done it.
To put it bluntly, there wasn't a single wizard in Britain he hadn't watched grow up. He knew their strengths, their temperaments, their limits.
Forget the Death Eaters — across the entire country, only a handful could unleash magic of that scale: Moody, a few of the old guard from the first Order of the Phoenix… and that was about it.
Add in motive, and it was obvious. One attacker had to be Snape. The other… was Tom Riddle.
Of course, in Dumbledore's mind, Snape had probably gone to Tom for help.
Still, knowing and accusing were two different things. Dumbledore couldn't point fingers without proof — and even if he had it, he wouldn't act.
The guilty were dead, the Aurors alive and unharmed. That was a balance he could live with. He'd offered Snape a subtle warning — a quiet reminder not to take things too far. Let this be the end of it.
What unsettled him, though, was Tom's progress. The boy's strength was skyrocketing. He had single-handedly taken down ten trained Aurors in seconds. In the memories Dumbledore had seen, Snape barely did anything.
"I really need to start paying more attention to my students' mental well-being," Dumbledore murmured to himself. His figure shimmered — and vanished into the shadows of Spinner's End.
---
Elsewhere, Tom received a message from Snape.
『Severus Snape』: Dumbledore came to me. He already suspects us. Keep your mouth shut. As long as we don't admit anything, he's got nothing to say.
『Tom Riddle』: Us?
『Tom Riddle』: Professor, you're the one who did the killing. I'm just an innocent student caught in the crossfire. I have no idea what you're talking about.
...
Ignoring the furious string of messages that followed, Tom went right back to his midnight snack and soap opera.
He'd never expected to hide anything from Dumbledore anyway. The man had been a genius centuries before most wizards figured out how to tie their robes.
But Tom wasn't worried. He'd already figured Dumbledore out: as long as you didn't cross a moral line, he'd let you dance around as you pleased. Honestly, the old man was probably pleased right now.
After all, what had Tom done tonight?
He'd stood up for his professor. Risked his neck against the Ministry's Aurors — all for the sake of loyalty and affection. That was the kind of thing Dumbledore loved to see: a student driven by emotion, by care, by connection.
So, let the Head of Slytherin stew in paranoia. Tom had every intention of enjoying his well-earned break.
Unfortunately, his second morning of blissful laziness was cut short by a knock on the door.
Amelia Bones stood there, looking worn-out and travel-stained, but managed a tired smile. "I'm here to give you more money again."
Tom blinked. "That so?"
"A hundred enchanted cloaks, a hundred 'Eyes of Warning,' and—" she hesitated, grimacing—"the Ministry's asking for ten of your top-tier guardian amulets. I know you usually refuse to sell those, but Fudge gave me strict orders. I have to bring back at least ten. Please?"
She looked genuinely embarrassed. After all, she was asking him to break his own rule.
Ah, dear, honest Hufflepuff Amelia.
Tom suddenly realized — outside of tech and finance, arms dealing was a goldmine too.
No wonder some countries were so fond of "helping" other nations start wars.
Tom was happy. This time, he was getting paid from both sides: Snape's revenge and the Ministry's panic.
"It's always War," he thought, "War is the most efficient way to redistribute wealth."
A wicked little thought flickered through his mind, then he quickly smothered it. No point letting that grow. For now, it was better to focus on business.
Putting on a look of surprise, he said, "That's quite a big order out of nowhere. I'll need some time to prepare."
"As soon as possible," Amelia said quickly. "It's urgent."
"What happened?" Tom asked, feigning curiosity.
Amelia hesitated, then sighed. She wasn't supposed to tell him — Fudge had made that clear — but Tom was her supplier. Hiding it from him felt pointless, even wrong. The public deserved to know anyway.
When she finally told him, Tom just stared blankly, then smacked a copy of The Daily Prophet onto the table.
"This? Seriously? You're acting like it's a state secret — it's literally on the front page."
Amelia leaned over, saw the headline, and couldn't help it — she burst out laughing.
.
.
.