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Chapter 14: Beware — Dumbledore Is Watching You
Hogwarts Castle
Headmaster's Office, Eighth Floor
Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore sat behind his desk in the high-backed headmaster's chair.
Opposite him sat Frank Mitchell, Hogwarts' newly appointed Defence Against the Dark Arts professor for the year—a seventy-year-old retired Auror.
"Frank, I've just received some rather interesting news," Dumbledore said, selecting a fizzing honey sweet from his beloved sweet tin and popping it into his mouth. "Four Thestral carriages were attacked by fire-breathing dragons."
Frank shook his head and advised him earnestly,
"Professor Dumbledore, you were already indulging in sweets back when you taught me Transfiguration. That really isn't good for your health."
Dumbledore laughed lightly.
"Sweets are a tonic! Look at me—I'm already one hundred and five years old. There aren't many people who can say they've lived longer."
Frank shrugged.
Well, this centenarian certainly looked far healthier than he ought to.
"Back to the matter at hand, Frank."
Dumbledore flicked his fingers, and a piece of parchment drifted through the air, coming to a halt in front of Frank.
"What do you make of this?"
Frank skimmed the contents, then remarked dryly,
"Professor, if I were still serving, I'd be inviting you to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement for tea—for unlawfully obtaining classified Ministry documents."
"Haha. No need for that." Dumbledore smiled.
"One of my students found the report quite interesting and thought I might enjoy seeing it."
Frank chuckled. As long as the old man was pleased, that was enough.
He grew serious and said,
"The idea of a fire dragon attacking a Thestral carriage has only appeared once in recorded history."
Dumbledore nodded.
"Of course. In 1890, during the goblin Lanlock's rebellion," he said, gazing out of the window.
"I was only nine years old at the time. The witch who resolved that crisis had already graduated by the time I entered Hogwarts. A great pity—I never had the chance to meet her."
(From The Legacy of Hogwarts)
Frank ignored the headmaster's nostalgic rambling and continued,
"What I mean is that the probability of a fire dragon attacking a carriage is vanishingly small. The only recorded instance was clearly deliberate."
Dumbledore followed his line of reasoning.
"So you believe the simultaneous attacks on four carriages in four separate locations were no accident?"
"Exactly," Frank replied firmly.
"This was a criminal act—someone planned it. What I can't understand is why. Driving a fire dragon to attack a specific target is extraordinarily difficult. What could possibly justify such an effort? Once Thestrals reach cloud height, they're practically impossible to detect."
Dumbledore asked mildly,
"Is it possible that it wasn't a dragon at all, but a wizard?"
"A wizard?"
Frank burst out laughing.
"Professor Dumbledore, surely you're joking. In today's wizarding world—aside from you—who could strike down a Thestral carriage from above the clouds with the destructive power of dragonfire?"
"Thank you for the compliment, Frank."
Dumbledore adjusted his half-moon spectacles.
"But did you notice something these four carriages had in common?"
"They were all rented by the Grey family?"
"Precisely. As far as I'm aware, the Greys are a vassal family of the Lestranges. Recently, they've been in serious conflict with the current young heir of the Lestrange family. Do you suppose it could have been that little girl?"
"Impossible—absolutely impossible!"
Frank felt his former teacher must truly be showing his age.
"I know that girl. She's wanted by the Ministry for killing two members of the Grey family. For a Squib, managing that alone would already be a miracle. A Thestral carriage? Out of the question—"
He stopped mid-sentence.
Seeing the faintly inscrutable smile on Dumbledore's face, Frank briefly wondered if he was the one hallucinating.
"You honestly believe that little… squirrel was responsible for destroying the carriage?"
Dumbledore removed his spectacles, set them neatly on the desk, leaned back in his chair, and replied calmly,
"Who can say? I merely believe she has the strongest motive of anyone."
His information sources were exceedingly reliable.
That house-elf named Momo was interesting enough—but even more fascinating was a certain abnormal child who had been absorbing magic into her body since birth.
And there was also that child's cousin—another one of his informants. With only the slightest prompting, she had revealed everything about her cousin.
This was attention from the White Demon King.
Dumbledore felt faintly disappointed with today's discussion. He had hoped the old Auror might offer some valuable insight—but alas.
Frank shook his head and left the headmaster's office, genuinely believing that Dumbledore was growing old, and wondering how much longer he could possibly live.
He had no idea that the following June, he would fall down a flight of stairs and break his neck…
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…
…
Hydras emerged from an alley near the Leaky Cauldron.
She was wearing a newly purchased Muggle outfit—a cute little dress.
When she stepped out, crowned with a thick mess of brown hair—
Yes. She had borrowed Hermione Granger's face.
Only the front teeth remained unchanged.
It was already past noon, well after lunchtime, and the Leaky Cauldron was nearly empty.
Old Tom sat behind the bar, head bobbing as though he might fall asleep at any moment.
The pub was filthy, cluttered, and greasy—hardly a pleasant sight.
In most wizarding homes, fireplaces served as nodes of the Floo Network.
Hydras often couldn't understand why pure-blood families preferred using Thestral carriages to transport their wealth when alternatives like Floo Powder and Apparition existed.
Was it prestige?
Or a misguided sense of safety?
Perplexing.
…
She was about to look away when a wanted poster caught her eye.
It was displayed prominently above the fireplace.
Right—her wanted poster.
In the image, she wore an exaggerated expression and was even captured mid lion-like roar, looking utterly deranged.
What nonsense!
She was clearly a gentle and quiet young lady!
"Boss."
Hydras tapped the bar, waking old Tom with a start.
"Oh—welcome!"
He shook his head groggily.
"Little witch? Hasn't term already started?"
As a descendant of one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, lying without hesitation was practically instinctive. Hydras answered smoothly,
"I accidentally destroyed my wand and cauldron while brewing potions, so…"
Then came Hydras' ultimate weapon—
Big, innocent, doe-like eyes.
｡◕ᴗ◕｡
"Oh, you poor child. How could you be so careless?"
"Come along, come along—I'll open the passage to Diagon Alley for you."
They arrived in the small courtyard behind the pub.
"You've clearly been here before, so I won't explain how to open the entrance," Old Tom said.
"Happy shopping."
"Thank you, Mr Tom."
Hydras gave a small bow.
"If I may trouble you—could you prepare a small oak cask of butterbeer for me? My seniors would adore such a gift."
She placed a Galleon on the bar.
"Of course, of course! Just come find me when you're done."
Hydras nodded and stepped into Diagon Alley.
Suddenly, the sharp sound of leather boots echoed behind her.
A woman with a tense, weary expression hurried past, soot still clinging to her robes. She carried an empty wooden box and rushed straight into Diagon Alley without sparing Hydras a glance.
That was—
Serenise Grey?
An empty box… on her way to Gringotts to withdraw funds?
How interesting.
What a lucky day.
Hydras smiled—mischievous, sweet, and utterly dangerous.
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