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[Marvel's Hogwarts Professor] Chapter 421 - 425
🕑 Added 2025-01-02 01:00:02 +0000 UTCChapter 421
"Sirius Black, why didn't you follow your master?"
The room was suffused with an oppressive silence.
"Tell me, why are you staying here? Does your master have anything to say?"
The words echoed in the cold, dimly lit interrogation room, but they received no response. Sirius Black sat slumped in his chair, his eyes vacant and his head bowed. If not for the faint rise and fall of his chest, one might have mistaken him for a corpse.
Rufus Scrimgeour, the stern-faced Director of the Auror Office, leaned forward, his voice sharp and demanding. "Answer me!"
Cornelius Fudge, the beleaguered Minister of Magic, stood off to the side, his features taut with frustration. The recent mass breakout from Azkaban had thrown the wizarding world into chaos. Never before in history had the impenetrable prison suffered such a catastrophic failure, and it had to happen during his tenure.
Why me? he thought bitterly.
Meanwhile, Albus Dumbledore observed Sirius quietly from his position near the back of the room. The old headmaster’s piercing blue eyes, framed by half-moon spectacles, seemed to see more than what was visible to others. He said nothing, choosing instead to study the broken man before him.
"Sirius, are you going to tell me anything at all?" Scrimgeour barked again, his patience fraying.
Sirius remained silent, his head hanging as if the weight of guilt was too much to bear. For a fleeting moment, he glanced at Dumbledore. Guilt and sorrow flickered in his hollow eyes before he quickly shut them again, retreating into the cocoon of his despair. I'm sorry, Professor. I failed you. I failed James and Lily... I failed them all.
Dumbledore’s eyes narrowed imperceptibly. A subtle flicker of light glinted in his gaze—Legilimency. A faint thread of memories surfaced, but he kept his thoughts to himself, his expression unreadable.
"Director, we should use Veritaserum," an Auror suggested bitterly, his voice tinged with personal grief. He had lost a dear friend during the breakout, one of the many who had perished.
Scrimgeour hesitated, his sharp eyes flicking toward Fudge and Dumbledore. "Minister, Headmaster, the escape from Azkaban has caused immense damage. We need answers, and we need them now. I recommend administering Veritaserum to ensure Sirius Black reveals everything he knows."
Fudge shifted uncomfortably. The use of Veritaserum was heavily restricted; official approval was required, and its application often came under intense scrutiny. But the stakes were too high to dismiss the suggestion outright. He turned to Dumbledore, eager for the headmaster's support. "Professor, Sirius was once your student. What’s your opinion?"
Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully. "Given the gravity of the situation, I believe Director Scrimgeour's proposal is appropriate. However," he added firmly, "the procedure must be meticulously recorded and properly archived with the Ministry for future review."
Fudge nodded in agreement, relieved to have Dumbledore's endorsement. "Very well, proceed."
Scrimgeour gestured to one of the Aurors, who retrieved a small vial of pearly white liquid. The room seemed to grow colder as the Auror approached Sirius, wand in hand.
A soft red glow emanated from the tip of the wand as a spell immobilized Sirius. His head was forcibly lifted, and his mouth opened as though guided by an unseen hand. Despite his evident desire to resist, the magic held him firm. Three drops of Veritaserum glistened in the dim light before being administered to the prisoner.
Sirius shuddered violently as the potion took effect. His muscles contorted, and the wooden chair beneath him groaned in protest. Then, just as suddenly as it began, the trembling ceased. His eyes, now glazed and vacant, stared straight ahead.
"Who are you?" Scrimgeour began.
"I am Sirius Black, prisoner of Azkaban, eldest son of the Black family, and former student of Gryffindor House at Hogwarts," came the dull, mechanical response.
Scrimgeour nodded grimly. "Good. Now, tell me—what is your master's intention in leaving you behind in Azkaban?"
Silence. Sirius's mouth opened as if to speak, but no words emerged. His lips moved soundlessly, his expression strained.
Scrimgeour's frown deepened. "What is the Dark Lord's conspiracy?" he demanded, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade.
"I don’t know," Sirius rasped.
Scrimgeour clenched his fists. "Then why did you stay in Azkaban?"
Sirius's voice trembled as he answered, "Atonement."
"Atonement?" Scrimgeour sneered. "A traitor seeking redemption—how poetic. For whom are you atoning?"
"James. Lily."
A cold laugh escaped Scrimgeour's lips. "A traitor like you dares to speak of atonement? Tell me exactly how you betrayed them!"
Sirius's face contorted in anguish. For a moment, it seemed he might resist, but the Veritaserum overpowered his will.
"I... I trusted Peter Pettigrew," he admitted, his voice choked with regret. "I thought I was protecting them by making him the Secret Keeper. But I was wrong—so terribly wrong. That filthy, treacherous rat betrayed them to Voldemort."
The room fell deathly silent.
Scrimgeour and the Aurors exchanged stunned glances. Under the influence of Veritaserum, there was no doubt that Sirius was telling the truth.
Fudge's face turned ashen, and he began to wipe the sweat from his brow with a trembling hand. "This... this can’t be true," he stammered. "Peter Pettigrew is a hero—he's been honored by the Ministry!"
Dumbledore remained composed, though his eyes glimmered with sorrow.
As Sirius continued to mutter his self-recriminations, Scrimgeour's expression hardened. He knew the implications of this revelation. The Ministry had wrongfully condemned an innocent man while glorifying a traitor. The fallout from such a scandal would be catastrophic.
Fudge shook his head vehemently. "No! It’s a lie! Sirius Black is part of the Dark Lord’s scheme!"
Chapter 422
Ministry of Magic, Office of the Minister
“Lockhart, I know there’s something extraordinary about this.”
Cornelius Fudge’s voice quivered slightly, though he tried to mask his nervousness with a smile. His pudgy hands gestured animatedly as he paced across the gleaming floor of his office, the sunlight from the enchanted windows glinting off his pinstriped robes.
“But now, the Dark Lord has returned, and a large number of Death Eaters have been freed by him.” He paused, his brow furrowing deeply. “The Ministry of Magic needs celebrated wizards like you to step forward, to speak up and bolster public confidence.”
Gilderoy Lockhart, ever poised, leaned casually against the ornate desk, his polished wand twirling lazily between his fingers. His bright smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, which gleamed with calculated sharpness as he listened.
“Now is the time for us to come together as one,” Fudge continued, his tone edging on desperation.
Lockhart remained silent, letting Fudge’s words hang in the air. Behind his ever-charming façade, his mind worked quickly.
Fudge’s motives were transparent. To maintain his fragile grip on power, the Minister was scrambling for a scapegoat—or a savior. He’d dismissed Dumbledore as a potential ally, knowing full well the elder wizard’s influence threatened his position. That left Lockhart, a figure famous enough to inspire the masses but far enough from the center of power to seem non-threatening.
Lockhart finally interrupted, his voice smooth as silk. “Minister Fudge, how does the Ministry plan to handle the situation with Sirius Black?”
The name hit like a thunderclap. Fudge’s ruddy face paled, his expression betraying a flicker of panic. His mind raced. How does he know? The leaks were supposed to be contained! Dumbledore… it must be him.
“Minister,” Lockhart continued, his tone light yet pointed, “this is no secret. A number of Aurors were present during the interrogation.” He paused, letting his words sink in before adding, “And Director Scrimgeour… well, he has held his position for quite some time.”
Fudge’s eyes narrowed. Lockhart’s implications were clear. Scrimgeour’s ambitions were no secret, and if this matter spiraled out of control, it could be the final nail in Fudge’s political coffin.
“Lockhart,” Fudge finally croaked, his tone pleading, “what do you suggest we do?”
Lockhart’s smile widened ever so slightly. “The Sirius Black case can no longer be suppressed, Minister. The verdict must be overturned. But,” he added, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “we’ll need Dumbledore’s support to navigate this storm.”
Hogwarts, Headmaster’s Office
Lockhart sipped his tea with an air of satisfaction, his posture relaxed in the high-backed chair across from Dumbledore’s desk. The headmaster’s piercing blue eyes twinkled as he listened to Lockhart outline his plan.
“Later,” Lockhart continued, “we’ll have Sirius collaborate with the Daily Prophet. A public statement will help sway opinion and pave the way for overturning his conviction.”
Dumbledore stroked his long beard thoughtfully. “You’ve taken great trouble to assist Sirius, Lockhart,” he said warmly. “Allow me to thank you on his behalf.”
Lockhart waved a hand dismissively. “No need for thanks, Headmaster. Just remember your promise.”
“Ah, yes. The new school library,” Dumbledore said with a chuckle. “You’ll find my application form waiting for you. Take it to the library and copy whatever books you require—but do tread carefully. Some texts are enchanted, and they resist duplication.”
Lockhart inclined his head, his smile never faltering.
Before they could part ways, Dumbledore asked, “By the way, Lockhart, what did Gellert mention to you during your visit?”
Lockhart’s expression didn’t waver. “He spoke mainly about his meditation techniques. He plans to introduce them at Ilvermorny, making meditation a core part of their curriculum.”
“Meditation,” Dumbledore murmured, his voice thoughtful. “Gellert, always the visionary. I wonder… what has he foreseen this time?”
Hogwarts, Hospital Wing
Golden sunlight filtered through the tall windows, bathing the white hospital bed in warmth. Sirius Black lay still, his gaunt frame sinking into the mattress as he savored the rare luxury of sunlight.
“Time for your potions, Sirius,” Madam Pomfrey announced briskly, bustling into the room with a tray of colorful vials. Her voice was warm, but her eyes held a trace of pity.
Sirius cracked his eyes open, his gaze settling on the mediwitch. He didn’t resist as she approached, but his silence spoke volumes. The shadows of Azkaban still clung to him, making his newfound freedom feel almost unreal.
Pomfrey, undeterred, began administering the potions with practiced efficiency. Her creed was simple: patients needed medicine, rest, and a firm hand—no exceptions.
“Alas,” she muttered under her breath, “if only someone had listened earlier. Peter Pettigrew, the traitor! Who would’ve thought…”
A soft, hesitant voice broke through Sirius’s haze of exhaustion.
“Harry, this is your godfather, Sirius Black.”
The words were spoken with a blend of pride and awe, and Sirius opened his eyes to see a familiar figure standing at his bedside. The boy’s emerald-green eyes and lightning-shaped scar were unmistakable.
“Lily, James…” Sirius rasped, his voice thick with emotion. “This is your son.”
Harry stared at him, wide-eyed. The pale, haggard man before him seemed both a stranger and someone deeply familiar.
“You’re Harry,” Sirius said hoarsely. “You may not remember me, but I held you when you were born. I’m your godfather.”
“Godfather?” Harry echoed, his voice tinged with disbelief and wonder.
Before the moment could stretch further, Lockhart stepped forward, his tone brisk but kind. “Sirius, it’s been too long. We need to discuss some urgent matters.” Turning to Harry, he added, “Harry, you’ll have plenty of time to speak with your godfather later. For now, let us talk.”
Harry hesitated, glancing between Lockhart and Sirius. Finally, he nodded and left the room, casting one last curious look over his shoulder.
as Harry's retreating figure disappeared through the doorway, Gilderoy Lockhart pulled a chair close to Sirius’s bed. His usually dazzling smile softened into something more subdued, though his piercing gaze remained unwavering.
“Sirius,” Lockhart began, his tone uncharacteristically serious, “you don’t want to leave your godson Harry again, do you? Not after everything he’s endured... and certainly not by returning to Azkaban.”
The weight of the words lingered in the room, a quiet reminder of the stakes that still hung over Sirius’s freedom. Sirius sighed, leaning back against the pillows, his pale blue eyes betraying a flicker of vulnerability.
Ministry of Magic, Lecture Hall
The cavernous hall buzzed with hushed conversations. Rows of wizards sat in attendance, murmuring to one another while glancing curiously at the podium. The occasional flash of light marked the eager movements of reporters capturing every angle of the assembly. Whispers of anticipation filled the room.
Word had spread quickly: today, there would be news of great significance.
Near the podium, several Aurors stood like sentinels, their expressions steely and their wands subtly at the ready. The tension in the air was palpable.
A series of loud coughs suddenly silenced the crowd. All heads turned toward the stout figure who now stood at the center of the podium. Cornelius Fudge, the Minister for Magic, adjusted his robes with deliberate care, his round face a mix of solemnity and self-importance.
“I am Cornelius Fudge,” he began, his voice steady yet tinged with gravity. “Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. I’m sure many of you have heard the rumors… and I regret to inform you that they are true.”
A dramatic pause followed as Fudge’s expression darkened, his voice dipping into a tone of sorrow.
“We have received devastating news—several Aurors stationed at Azkaban have lost their lives in the line of duty.”
The hall erupted into gasps and muttered exclamations. The shock rippled through the crowd like a wave, and Fudge allowed the murmurs to build for a moment before raising his wand to his throat.
Sonorus.
“I understand your distress,” he continued, his voice now amplified to command attention. “This is not a sight any wizard wishes to see. Though the wizarding world has enjoyed relative peace in recent years, let me remind you—there is no true peace without vigilance. It is thanks to the brave souls of our Aurors, who stand as the first and strongest barrier against darkness, that we enjoy the freedoms we have today.”
The hall fell into a somber silence as Fudge’s words sank in.
“Let us now stand and give a moment of silence for our fallen Aurors.”
As one, the attendees rose. Heads bowed in unison as a minute of stillness descended over the hall. Even the reporters lowered their cameras, momentarily respecting the weight of the moment.
When the silence ended, Fudge’s voice returned, steady and commanding. “Though we mourn their loss, we must not let fear paralyze us. The Ministry has acted swiftly. We have identified the culprits—Death Eaters.”
At the mention of the Death Eaters, a visible shiver ran through the crowd. Whispers of dread and memories of past horrors swept across the room.
“But rest assured,” Fudge pressed on, “the Ministry has formulated a comprehensive plan to ensure your safety and to bring these criminals to justice. And to that end, I present to you the leader of this effort—Sirius Black.”
The name struck like a bolt of lightning. The hall erupted again, this time in confused murmurs. Sirius Black? The once-infamous Death Eater?
Before the speculation could spiral out of control, Fudge raised his hands. “I know many of you have questions,” he said, his tone calm but authoritative. “Allow me to clarify. The Ministry’s earlier stance on Sirius Black was part of a classified mission. Today, we declassify this secret.”
What followed was a masterclass in political theater. Fudge spun a tale of heroism and sacrifice. According to him, Sirius had been working undercover for the Ministry all along. Wracked with guilt over trusting Peter Pettigrew—a betrayal that had led to the deaths of James and Lily Potter—Sirius had volunteered to infiltrate Azkaban, gathering intelligence on Death Eater movements.
The story painted Sirius as a tragic hero, enduring unimaginable suffering for the greater good. It was a carefully crafted narrative, designed to transform public opinion and divert attention from the Azkaban debacle.
As Fudge spoke, the mood in the hall shifted. Suspicion gave way to admiration. By the time Fudge concluded, the room was filled with subdued awe.
When Sirius finally took the stage, his smile was thin, his movements hesitant. Though he resented being a pawn in Fudge’s political machinations, he understood the necessity. For Harry’s sake—for his own chance at freedom—he would play the part.
Hogwarts, Great Hall
Back at Hogwarts, the Daily Prophet was the talk of the castle. Students crowded around the enchanted tables, waving copies of the paper as they discussed the stunning revelations about Sirius Black.
“Sirius is incredible!” exclaimed a young Gryffindor, slapping the front page. “To endure all that for years… if I had a friend like that, I’d be the happiest wizard alive!”
“I know,” another chimed in, eyes wide with admiration. “He’s a real hero. I’ve decided—Sirius Black is my new idol!”
On the front page, a photograph of Sirius adorned in fine robes dominated the layout. His expression in the moving image was stoic yet resolute as he addressed an unseen crowd. The headline beneath proclaimed: Sirius Black: The Hero We Didn’t Know We Had.
At the Gryffindor table, Hermione Granger leaned toward Harry, holding the paper tightly. “Harry, is Sirius really your godfather?”
Harry nodded, his cheeks flushing slightly. “Yeah, Hermione, he is. I’ve been spending time with him lately, thanks to Professor Lockhart.”
Hermione’s eyes lit up with excitement. “Do you think he’d give me an autograph? He’s such a fascinating figure now!”
Hearing this, Ron perked up. “Count me in, Harry. An autograph from Sirius Black would be brilliant!”
Harry couldn’t help but smile at his friends’ enthusiasm. His relationship with Sirius had grown steadily over the past few days, and he felt an immense sense of pride in his godfather.
Hogwarts, Library
In the quiet sanctity of the library, Lockhart perused the shelves, his fingers tracing the spines of ancient tomes. His faint smile betrayed a mix of satisfaction and anticipation.
For a school, the number of books in its collection reflects its heritage. At Hogwarts, the towering shelves of the library stood testament to centuries of magical study and discovery. But for Gilderoy Lockhart, the significance of these books had shifted.
The texts in Hogwarts’ collection no longer posed a threat to him. After all, he had struck a deal with Dumbledore. The headmaster, ever the idealist, had agreed to grant Lockhart access to rare tomes in exchange for his support in stabilizing the wizarding world during these turbulent times.
As he considered this arrangement, Lockhart’s thoughts wandered to Sirius Black.
Sirius, now a symbol of hope and resilience, had unexpectedly become the center of attention. His transformation from a disgraced fugitive to a celebrated hero was nothing short of remarkable. Even Cornelius Fudge’s approval ratings had seen a modest increase, largely due to Sirius’s newfound fame.
But fame was a double-edged sword. Lockhart knew that Sirius’s rise came with its risks. While the Azkaban scandal had been temporarily silenced, whispers still lingered. More importantly, Sirius was now tasked with leading the campaign to encircle and suppress the Death Eaters.
“Tsk, tsk,” Lockhart murmured to himself. “If he succeeds, the glory will be his. But if he fails, the blame will crush him. How convenient for Fudge.”
Lockhart’s lips curled into a knowing smile. The Minister of Magic had masterfully avoided taking on any direct responsibility, placing Sirius in the spotlight while shielding himself from potential fallout.
Still, for Lockhart, this was all part of the plan. Sirius needed purpose—a fulcrum to motivate him. And what better incentive than the hunt for the Death Eaters? After all, every grand story needed a catalyst, a touch of drama to set events into motion.
Hogwarts, School Hospital
Sirius Black lay on a hospital bed, his frame thin but his spirit slowly recovering. After a decade in Azkaban, the toll on his body and mind was evident, but Madam Pomfrey’s comprehensive care had worked wonders. For the first time in years, Sirius found himself enjoying a moment of peace.
For Sirius, the idea of catching Death Eaters felt almost like play. He had faced horrors far worse than anything these remnants of Voldemort’s forces could muster.
“Godfather, how are you feeling?” Harry Potter’s voice broke through his reverie.
Sirius turned his head, a genuine smile lighting up his face as he saw his godson leaning over the bed. “I’m fine, Harry. You don’t need to worry about me.”
“How’s Hogwarts treating you?”
Harry tilted his head thoughtfully. “It’s been great. Professor McGonagall’s brilliant, and the headmaster is kind. I’ve learned so much magic.” Then, with a slight scowl, he added, “Except from Professor Snape.”
At the mention of Snape, Sirius’s expression darkened. “That greasy git,” he muttered. “He’s as vile as ever, skulking around and playing with dark magic. Harry, don’t let him get to you. If you ever need help, just ask me.”
Harry nodded eagerly. He didn’t like Snape either, especially the way the Potions Master seemed to delight in tormenting him during class.
As if suddenly remembering something, Harry reached into his bag and pulled out a quill, several posters, and a small stack of notebooks. Placing them on Sirius’s bed, he asked, “Godfather, can you sign these for me? My friends all want your autograph.”
Sirius chuckled, ruffling Harry’s messy hair. “Of course. If they’re your friends, they’re mine too.”
As he signed the posters and notebooks, Sirius’s tone grew nostalgic. “Harry, friends are one of the most important things in life. Treasure them. Someday, you might need their help more than you know.”
His voice faltered slightly, and a shadow passed over his face. “But remember, Harry—never trust someone with a rotten heart. Surround yourself with people who stand for what’s right.”
Harry, sensing the change in Sirius’s mood, nodded solemnly. “I understand, godfather.”
Sirius smiled faintly, brushing away the moment of melancholy. He continued signing the items, adding little notes of encouragement beneath his name.
When he picked up a photograph, however, his hand froze.
“Harry,” he asked, his voice trembling, “whose picture is this?”
Harry leaned closer, glancing at the photo. It showed himself, Ron, and Hermione smiling brightly. On Ron’s shoulder perched his pet rat, Scabbers.
“That’s Ron,” Harry replied. “He’s my best friend. Why?”
Sirius’s eyes narrowed, his hand shaking as he pointed at the rat. “Harry, this… this rat. Is it Ron’s pet?”
Harry frowned, confused by Sirius’s sudden intensity. “Yeah, that’s Scabbers. But he’s been missing for two months. Ron thinks a cat ate him.”
Sirius’s expression hardened. His blue eyes burned with fury as realization struck him like a thunderbolt. “Peter Pettigrew…” he muttered under his breath. “That filthy rat is alive.”
Sirius’s breathing quickened, his thoughts spiraling into chaos. Images of James and Lily, betrayed by their friend, flashed in his mind. Pettigrew had lived all these years, hiding in plain sight, mocking their sacrifice.
“Pettigrew must die,” Sirius growled, his face contorted with rage.
Harry recoiled slightly, startled by the sudden ferocity in his godfather’s demeanor. Before he could say anything, another voice interrupted.
“Sirius, calm yourself,” Lockhart said as he entered the room. His tone was soothing but firm. “You need rest. Let me handle this.”
Sirius closed his eyes and took a deep breath, his muscles slowly relaxing. When he opened them again, his gaze locked on Lockhart with steely determination.
“Professor Lockhart,” he said, his voice steady but icy, “the Ministry has tasked me with capturing the Death Eaters. That includes Peter Pettigrew. He won’t escape me this time.”
Lockhart’s smile flickered, though he nodded in agreement. “Of course, Sirius. But you’ll need to be careful. We can’t afford another scandal.”
Sirius didn’t respond. His thoughts were already elsewhere. Peter Pettigrew, you’re going to pay for what you’ve done. This time, there will be no escape.
Chapter 423
Second Grade Classroom, Ilvermorny, USA
Faint sunlight filtered through the large glass windows, casting soft golden rays onto the desks of eager young wizards. The classroom buzzed with quiet conversations, the kind of free-spirited atmosphere that spoke of excitement and discovery.
Grindelwald, disguised as Principal Camus, stood at the front of the room. His expression was kind and approachable, but beneath the surface, his calculating mind was at work. His piercing gaze swept over the students, assessing their potential.
With a slight cough, he commanded their attention. “Cough! Cough! It’s class time.”
The students fell silent almost instantly. There was something inherently commanding about the presence of a teacher—more so when that teacher was the principal.
Grindelwald’s lips curled into a faint smile as he surveyed the obedient young wizards. “This class marks our third exploration of meditation,” he began. “I trust you’ve been practicing what I taught you in the previous two sessions?”
Several hands shot up, their owners eager to prove their dedication. Grindelwald’s eyes landed on a boy in a dark green robe, his delicate features alight with excitement.
“Sedar,” Grindelwald called, nodding for the boy to speak.
The young wizard stood and spoke loudly, his voice brimming with enthusiasm. “Principal, in the first class, you told us that meditation is the key to a new era for wizards. You said that only those who master it will rise to the top of our world.”
Sedar continued, summarizing the lessons with surprising precision. “You also taught us how to eliminate distractions, how to sense the magic in the air, and how to focus our minds. But, Principal, the biggest challenge we’ve faced is overcoming our own distracting thoughts.”
Grindelwald’s nod was almost imperceptible, but there was approval in his eyes. Sedar’s potential in meditation was undeniable—perhaps even invaluable in the future.
“Well said, Sedar. Ten points to Horned Serpent!” Grindelwald declared, his tone warm and encouraging.
A few more students contributed their thoughts, earning praise and points for their respective houses. The atmosphere grew increasingly lively, the students feeding off their principal’s energy.
“Excellent,” Grindelwald said finally. “You’ve done well so far. Today, we take the next step. I will teach you the meditation method itself.”
Drawing his wand, Grindelwald began to trace patterns in the air. Intricate runes appeared, glowing with different hues: fiery red, icy blue, and vibrant green. The students gasped in awe, their eyes wide as they took in the magical spectacle.
“Now, as I’ve mentioned before,” Grindelwald began, his tone measured, “the meditation method we’ll explore is based on the pioneering work of Gilderoy Lockhart.”
A flicker of admiration crossed his face as he continued, “Lockhart’s creativity has opened a new door for us, one that could redefine wizardry itself. But,” his voice grew slightly heavier, “his work remains in its infancy. There’s much more to uncover—work that will require the efforts of many bright minds, including yours.”
The students sat up straighter, a ripple of excitement passing through them.
“Through my own research, I’ve refined and expanded upon Lockhart’s initial methods,” Grindelwald said, gesturing to the runes hovering above. “I’ve discovered that meditation methods can be categorized based on their elemental properties. Each of you will have a natural affinity that aligns with one of these methods.”
He pointed to the fiery rune. “This is the Red Flame Meditation. Those who practice it will find fire-based spells easier to master. Your magic will grow more explosive and dynamic.”
He then gestured to the icy rune. “The Frost Meditation enhances control over cold-based spells, imbuing your magic with precision and endurance.”
“And here,” he continued, indicating the green rune, “is the Life Meditation. This method is attuned to healing and nurturing magic, fostering balance and vitality in its practitioners.”
The room buzzed with whispers of wonder as the students leaned forward, captivated.
Malfoy Manor at Night
The grand hall of Malfoy Manor exuded wealth and lineage. Its marble floors gleamed under the soft glow of enchanted chandeliers, while priceless artifacts adorned the walls and corners—a testament to the Malfoy family’s pure-blood heritage.
But tonight, the manor’s usual air of refinement was replaced by an oppressive tension. Dark wizards and Death Eaters filled the hall, their varied robes and auras forming a tapestry of menace.
At the head of the assembly stood Tom Riddle—Lord Voldemort. His once-handsome face now bore the snake-like deformities of his dark transformation. His eyes glinted with cold malice as he regarded the gathered crowd.
“I am back,” Voldemort announced, his voice cutting through the murmurs like a blade.
A heavy silence followed, the weight of his words pressing down on everyone in the room.
“Yet I return… disappointed,” he said, his tone sharp and disdainful.
The gathered wizards exchanged uneasy glances, their confusion evident.
Voldemort raised his wand, his movements deliberate and commanding. “Who are we?” he asked, his voice echoing off the high ceilings.
When no one dared respond, he answered his own question. “We are wizards. We are the noble inheritors of magic, once revered as gods among Muggles. We created life, shaped the rules of existence, and sought immortality itself.”
His words conjured a mixture of emotions. Some wizards lowered their heads, their expressions tinged with fear. Others gazed at him with adoration, as though worshipping a deity.
What Voldemort spoke of reverberated deeply with his audience, conjuring images of ancient wizards from history—figures of immense power who once commanded respect and fear.
“Although the Statute of Secrecy forced us into the shadows,” Voldemort continued, his voice cold and unwavering, “we remain wizards, wielders of the most powerful magic in existence. Our rightful place is one of glory, dominance, and the status that accompanies true strength.”
His red, serpentine eyes scanned the gathered crowd. “What do you think?”
One of his fanatical followers, a Death Eater with wild eyes and a trembling voice, stepped forward. “Master, you are right! We are superior beings, and it is only natural that we should reclaim the world that belongs to us.”
A chorus of agreement rose from the Death Eaters and many dark wizards in attendance. “Long live the Dark Lord! Wizards should rule over everything!”
While the sentiment resonated with most, others hesitated. Among them were the pure-blood families—Malfoys, Rosiers, and others—whose expressions betrayed a blend of contemplation and cautious silence. They were not as quick to declare allegiance, knowing the cost of misplaced loyalties.
Voldemort observed this hesitation with a faint, calculating smile. He understood the delicate balance of fear and ambition that ruled these families. For now, their cooperation sufficed.
“In the current wizarding world,” Voldemort continued, his voice rising slightly, “only a handful could oppose me. Dumbledore is old, Grindelwald is isolated in the United States, and the so-called hidden ‘masters’ are cowards, unwilling to risk their lives. As for the Ministry of Magic and its Aurors?” He let out a derisive laugh. “They are nothing but ants beneath my heel.”
His words washed over the room, drawing excited expressions from his loyalists.
“Master, what is our next move?” one of the Death Eaters asked, barely containing his eagerness.
Voldemort raised his hand, silencing the room. “The first step is simple,” he said, his tone turning icy. “The wizarding world must know that I have returned. We will make our presence felt, and we will not hide.”
Hogwarts, Headmaster’s Office
In the stillness of the night, Albus Dumbledore stood by the window of his circular office, gazing at the crescent moon. The silvery light bathed the room in an ethereal glow, casting shadows over the many magical devices that whirred and ticked softly on their shelves.
Dumbledore sighed deeply. Trouble was brewing, and he could feel the weight of it pressing heavily upon his shoulders.
Grindelwald was overseeing Ilvermorny in America, no doubt teaching meditation and cultivating his own influence. Voldemort had returned, and though he had yet to strike openly, the storm was inevitable.
And then there was Lockhart—leaving Hogwarts to establish a new magical school.
“So much out of my control,” Dumbledore murmured, his voice tinged with weariness. He rubbed his temple and turned back toward his desk, resolving to focus on the tasks at hand.
Just then, the stone gargoyle outside shifted with a low rumble, signaling a visitor. Moments later, Severus Snape stepped into the office, his dark robes billowing as he climbed the spiral staircase.
“Ah, Severus,” Dumbledore greeted warmly. With a flick of his wand, he conjured two steaming cups of tea, their delicate fragrance filling the room.
Snape, however, made no move toward the offered tea. Instead, he stood silently, his dark eyes fixed on Dumbledore, waiting for him to speak.
Breaking the silence, Dumbledore asked, “Severus, how fares the mark on your arm? Has he summoned you recently?”
Snape’s expression remained impassive. “The Dark Lord has called upon me,” he admitted. “But I provided an excuse to delay meeting him.”
“What excuse?” Dumbledore inquired, his blue eyes narrowing slightly. “And are you certain he believed you?”
Snape inclined his head. “I told him that I have been studying meditation under your guidance. The Dark Lord is intrigued by the concept and requested that I bring him any meaningful results.”
At this, Dumbledore fell into a pensive silence. Meditation. The word had become almost ubiquitous in recent months. Grindelwald was spreading its practice across Ilvermorny. Voldemort, too, had taken an interest. And, of course, it all began with Lockhart’s groundbreaking work.
Finally, Dumbledore reached into his robes and withdrew a slim, light-blue book. He handed it to Snape. “This contains portions of the meditation techniques Lockhart and I have refined together. Present it to the Dark Lord. Gain his trust, and learn what he plans next.”
Snape’s dark gaze lingered on the book for a moment before he nodded. “As you wish.”
Malfoy Manor, Study
In the private study of Malfoy Manor, Tom Riddle—now fully transformed into Voldemort—sat at an ornate desk, his long, pale fingers turning the pages of a heavy tome. Stacks of ancient magic books surrounded him, each bearing the crest of the Malfoy family.
His expression was grim, his movements agitated. He had spent hours searching for something specific, a secret buried in the annals of magical theory: how to sever a soul fragment without alerting the other pieces.
Time was running out. Lockhart’s growing influence unnerved him. If the charlatan-turned-researcher discovered Voldemort’s lingering vulnerability, it would be disastrous.
A knock at the door broke his concentration.
“Enter, Bellatrix,” Voldemort called, already sensing the presence of his most fanatical follower.
Bellatrix Lestrange stepped into the room, her dark eyes gleaming with devotion. “Master,” she said, bowing low. “Snape has arrived. He claims to have completed the task you gave him.”
Voldemort’s lip curled slightly. “Send him in,” he said.
Moments later, Snape entered the study. His black robes swept across the floor, his face an unreadable mask. The tension between master and servant was palpable.
“Leave us,” Voldemort commanded Bellatrix. She obeyed reluctantly, casting one last look at her master before closing the door behind her.
With a flick of his wand, Voldemort cast a silencing charm over the room. The air seemed to hum with latent magic as he fixed his gaze on Snape.
“What have you brought me?” Voldemort asked coldly.
Snape reached into his robes and produced the light-blue book Dumbledore had given him. “This,” he said, his voice steady, “is a compilation of meditation techniques that Dumbledore and Lockhart have been refining. He instructed me to pass it along and to earn your trust.”
Chapter 424
Dusk, Godric's Hollow
Godric's Hollow, a village steeped in history, was named after Godric Gryffindor, one of the founders of Hogwarts. Nestled in a serene valley, it served as a unique convergence of the magical and non-magical world. Wizards and Squibs lived side by side with a smattering of unsuspecting Muggles, creating a peaceful harmony rarely seen elsewhere in the wizarding world.
In the center of the square stood an obelisk, its surface engraved with names—a war memorial for the Muggle residents. But to wizards, the monument appeared differently: a statue depicting three figures.
A bespectacled man with unruly hair stood beside a kind-looking woman holding a baby boy in her arms. They were none other than James, Lily, and Harry Potter—the family whose sacrifice had brought about Voldemort's downfall.
Near the statue sat an older man on a weathered bench. His walrus-like mustache quivered slightly as he frowned at the Daily Prophet in his hands. Dressed in a well-worn brown suit, his rounded figure gave him an air of amiable indulgence, but the sharpness in his eyes told another story.
Horace Slughorn, the former Head of Slytherin House and founder of the Slug Club, was no stranger to power and intrigue. Today, however, he was a man burdened by heavy thoughts.
The headline of the Daily Prophet screamed: “Sirius Declares: Death Eaters Will Be Captured, and Peace Restored!”
Horace’s lips pursed as he scanned the article, which painted a rosy picture of Sirius Black as a courageous hero dedicated to restoring peace. The words lauded Sirius’s supposed undercover work in Azkaban, framing him as a selfless figure who had endured years of suffering to gather intelligence on Voldemort’s followers.
“Rubbish,” Horace muttered, shaking his head.
The story was a fabrication, a clumsy attempt by the Ministry of Magic to save face after the disastrous Azkaban prison break. Horace knew better. Nearly all the Aurors had been killed during the breakout, and a legion of Death Eaters and dark wizards had escaped, leaving the Ministry scrambling to regain control.
The notion of Sirius Black enduring humiliation to infiltrate Azkaban struck Horace as laughable. He knew Sirius well enough to recognize that guilt and a sense of responsibility for his friends’ deaths had likely driven him to that hellish prison. Atonement, not strategy, was Sirius’s true motive.
As Horace’s eyes drifted to the statue of the Potters, a pang of sadness gripped his heart.
Lily, he thought, you gave everything for peace. And now it seems that peace is slipping through our fingers.
Horace sighed deeply. The jailbreak was no mere coincidence. He suspected a powerful dark wizard had orchestrated it, and the signs pointed to only one possibility: Voldemort had returned.
Having been privy to Voldemort’s darkest secrets during his rise to power, Horace knew better than most that the Dark Lord was not easily defeated. He had taken great care to erase his tracks in recent years, avoiding undue attention, but now it seemed he would need to vanish entirely.
Time to disappear again, Horace thought grimly.
Rising from his seat, he left the square and headed toward the valley’s winding streets. Over the years, he had established multiple safe houses across the country, each stocked with resources to facilitate a quick escape. But this time, he would leave England altogether. The stakes were too high to risk staying.
The streets of Godric’s Hollow were quiet as Horace walked briskly toward his modest home. It was an unassuming blackstone cottage nestled among others of similar design, its charm lying in its plainness.
Once inside, Horace wasted no time. Drawing his wand, he cast a series of concealment spells to ensure he remained undetected. Satisfied with his efforts, he entered his bedroom and approached a well-worn wardrobe.
From its depths, he retrieved a small, enchanted safe. With a practiced touch of his wand, he unlocked it, revealing a space far larger than it appeared.
Horace muttered an incantation, and in an instant, his portly figure transformed into a porcupine, its spiked body compact and deceptively nimble.
The Animagus form had served him well over the years, allowing him to access tight spaces and avoid detection. The porcupine scurried into the safe, where the interior expanded into a well-organized storage space.
Returning to his human form, Horace surveyed the treasures within. Shelves lined with rare potion ingredients gleamed under a soft magical light, and piles of gold Galleons sparkled temptingly to his right.
A faint smile crossed his lips. Years of careful networking and potion-making had amassed him considerable wealth, enough to sustain a comfortable life abroad.
After a moment’s satisfaction, he began preparing for departure. He transfigured the safe into a suitcase, enchanted to be light as a feather despite its contents.
As Horace made his way to the front door, his thoughts raced.
The official routes are too risky. I’ll have to rely on smugglers this time. Merlin help me—long-distance Apparition has never agreed with my constitution.
Suddenly, the air around him chilled. His steps faltered as a faint yet unmistakable sense of unease crept over him.
“Professor Slughorn, long time no see.”
The voice, slightly hoarse but unmistakably mocking, froze Horace Slughorn in his tracks. He swallowed hard, his wand tightening in his grip, as he turned slowly to face the speaker.
By the tea table in the hall stood a group of dark wizards, their black robes exuding a malevolent aura. At the forefront was a tall, pale wizard with a cruel smirk: Yaxley, one of Voldemort’s most loyal Death Eaters.
“Yaxley,” Slughorn said cautiously, his tone strained, “what brings you here?” His eyes darted toward the door as he began edging backward, his movements slow and deliberate. “If you’ll excuse me, I have pressing matters to attend to.”
Yaxley’s smirk widened, his eyes gleaming with malice. “No need to rush, Professor. The Dark Lord has extended an invitation to you. He has returned and assures your safety—provided you cooperate.”
Slughorn’s face darkened. He could hear the veiled threat beneath Yaxley’s polite words. Without wasting another moment, he raised his wand and shouted, “Apparate!”
But instead of the familiar pull of magic whisking him away, a black shimmer rippled through the air, anchoring him in place.
Anti-Apparition!
Before Slughorn could react, a flurry of curses erupted from the Death Eaters.
“Stupefy!”
“Petrificus Totalus!”
“Imperio!”
Slughorn’s reflexes, surprisingly agile for his age and build, kicked in. He dodged and deflected the incoming spells with remarkable speed, his wand moving in practiced arcs.
“Expelliarmus!”
“Confringo!”
“Protego!”
The hall filled with flashes of red and green as spells collided, sending shards of glass and splinters of wood flying. The walls cracked under the strain, and the air grew thick with the acrid scent of burning magic.
“Professor,” Yaxley called out mockingly between curses, his voice laced with fanatical zeal. “The Dark Lord has risen to a new level of power—wisdom and strength unmatched. Join us, and you’ll share in his glory!”
Slughorn gritted his teeth, blocking another barrage of spells. “Glory?” he spat, his voice filled with disdain. “You mean eternal servitude under a madman who values nothing but his own power? No, thank you.”
Yaxley’s face twisted with rage. “You dare insult the Dark Lord?”
Slughorn barely dodged a slicing hex aimed at his chest, countering with a disarming charm that sent a Death Eater’s wand clattering to the ground. But he was outnumbered, and exhaustion was setting in.
Just as a streak of green light from a Killing Curse narrowly missed him, a powerful voice rang out.
“Expelliarmus!”
“Stupefy!”
Slughorn turned to see a group of Aurors rushing into the hall, led by none other than Sirius Black. Their combined spells formed a protective barrier around Slughorn, momentarily halting the Death Eaters’ advance.
“Professor Slughorn,” Sirius called, his voice firm but reassuring, “we’ve got this. Get to safety!”
Before Slughorn could respond, another voice joined the fray.
“Protego!”
A pale golden barrier shimmered into existence, encasing Slughorn in a protective dome. Gilderoy Lockhart stepped forward, his wand radiating power as he faced the Death Eaters with a calm, almost casual confidence.
“Professor Slughorn,” Lockhart said gently, “we received intelligence that you were a target. Luckily, we arrived in time.”
Relief washed over Slughorn, and he allowed himself a brief smile. “Lockhart, it’s been a while. You’ve certainly lived up to the reputation of Hogwarts’ finest.”
Lockhart’s smile was modest. “Just doing my part, Professor. Now, let us handle this.”
Lockhart stepped into the fray, his wand a blur as he unleashed a series of powerful spells.
“Confringo!”
“Expulso!”
“Incarcerous!”
Each spell struck its mark with precision, forcing the Death Eaters to retreat. Yaxley’s composure faltered as he realized the tide of battle was turning.
Desperate, Yaxley rolled up his sleeve to reveal the Dark Mark on his forearm. Pressing his wand to the mark, he began to chant in a low, guttural voice.
“Great Dark Lord, your faithful servant calls to you. Grant me strength to smite our enemies!”
The room seemed to darken as an oppressive aura filled the space. Dark green runes etched themselves onto Yaxley’s face, pulsating with malevolent energy. His voice rose, laced with dark magic.
“Damned Lockhart,” Yaxley snarled. “I curse your soul to decay! I curse your body to rot! I curse your magic to wither!”
Chapter 425
Evil. Decay. Fall.
Dark green light crackled through the air, filling the space with an oppressive aura of death. The sinister energy emanating from Yaxley’s cursed form sent shivers through everyone present.
Sirius Black stood at the forefront, his wand clenched tightly in his hand as he eyed the grotesque transformation before him. The Death Eater Mark on Yaxley’s arm seemed alive, slithering across his flesh like a malevolent serpent. It climbed toward his forehead, where it burned itself into a vivid, glowing skull.
“Protego!”
“Magicis Protego!”
Aurors and wizards alike shouted defensive incantations, their voices trembling as they cast shields around themselves. Sirius himself braced for the worst, his heart pounding as he focused on Lockhart at the center of their formation.
“Thunderbolt!” Sirius called out, aiming a streak of red lightning at Yaxley.
But the spell veered midair, twisting unnaturally as if pulled by an unseen force. It struck the wooden floor, leaving a scorched mark but causing no harm.
“I curse you!” Yaxley’s voice boomed, dark and guttural. The Death Eater Mark glowed fiercely as he channeled his master’s power, aiming it squarely at Lockhart.
A sudden wind, cold and unnatural, swept through the room. The windows rattled violently as the dark energy surged, casting the house into an eerie, flickering twilight.
Slughorn, standing directly behind Lockhart, could feel the palpable malice in the air. His instincts screamed at him to flee, but his legs felt rooted to the spot. He could only watch as the curse raced toward Lockhart.
Yet, as the dark energy collided with Lockhart, his body emitted a thin, golden light. The aura was faint but unwavering, radiating purity and an unyielding strength that seemed to repel the darkness. The curse fizzled as it met this light, dissolving harmlessly into the air.
Slughorn’s breath hitched as he stared, equal parts amazed and relieved. The golden glow inspired confidence, breaking through the despair that had been creeping into his heart.
Meanwhile, Yaxley’s transformation reached its peak. The dark green runes on his body pulsed with malevolence, his flesh twisting and contorting grotesquely. Finally, his features shifted entirely, taking on a new, more familiar visage.
“Tom…” Slughorn gasped in horror, his voice trembling.
The room fell silent as Voldemort’s image emerged from the corrupted form of Yaxley. His slit-like nostrils flared slightly as his cold, red eyes scanned the room with detached curiosity.
“Has the curse failed?” Voldemort mused, tilting his head as if evaluating his own borrowed form. “Interesting…”
Then his gaze fell on Slughorn. “Professor Horace,” he said softly, his voice almost mocking, “what a disappointment.”
Slughorn instinctively took a step back, his wand trembling in his grip.
“You were my most esteemed Potions Professor,” Voldemort continued, his tone deceptively cordial. “I expected you to stand with me in reclaiming the glory of wizards. And yet… here you are.”
Without warning, Voldemort’s expression turned cold.
“Avada Kedavra!”
The green jet of light sped toward Slughorn, exuding death. Slughorn barely had time to react before the curse struck—but instead of meeting its mark, he felt a powerful force yank him sideways.
Lockhart had pulled him out of harm’s way, the Death Curse obliterating the floor where he had been standing moments before.
The Aurors, paralyzed by fear at Voldemort’s presence, hesitated. Even the experienced among them faltered under the weight of his infamous reputation. Their trembling hands betrayed their terror, and some instinctively stepped back.
Only Sirius stood firm, his jaw clenched in defiance. His hatred for Voldemort burned brighter than his fear.
You killed James and Lily, Sirius thought bitterly. You destroyed their lives. You will pay.
“Avada Kedavra!” Sirius roared, channeling his rage into the deadly curse.
But Voldemort barely spared him a glance. With a flick of his wand, he redirected Sirius’s spell effortlessly, the green light spiraling harmlessly away.
“Pathetic,” Voldemort muttered, turning his full attention to Lockhart.
“So,” he said, his tone curious, “you’re Lockhart.”
Lockhart gave a small nod. “Indeed. And you, I presume, are Voldemort.”
Voldemort’s lip curled slightly. “Do you think you can protect Horace from me?”
Lockhart’s gaze remained steady. “I know I can.” His voice was calm, but his words carried an unshakable confidence.
Voldemort chuckled, though the sound was devoid of humor. “I am not Grindelwald, Lockhart. Whatever you may have accomplished against him means nothing to me. I will crush you.”
Lockhart smiled faintly. “Words are cheap, Voldemort. Shall we see who stands at the end of this?”
Without warning, Voldemort raised his wand. “Avada Kedavra!”
Lockhart reacted instantly, his wand moving in a blur. The golden light around him flared brightly as he countered the Death Curse with a powerful spell of his own.
The two spells collided midair, green and red beams locking in a fierce struggle. The impact sent shockwaves rippling through the room, kicking up clouds of dust and debris.
The duel between Lockhart and Voldemort's puppet had reached its climax, a display of raw magical power that left even the most battle-hardened Aurors in awe. As spells clashed in dazzling flashes of light, Slughorn couldn’t help but notice how composed Lockhart appeared. Despite Voldemort’s dark magic, Lockhart seemed to face him without strain, as though he had anticipated every move.
Slughorn’s eyes lit up as a thought struck him—a spark of realization that mingled with a sense of awe and concern.
Across the room, Voldemort’s puppet staggered, its once-commanding presence now faltering. A network of cracks spread across its surface, and its dark green magic began to waver.
“Damn it!” Voldemort’s voice hissed through the crumbling vessel. “This body is fragile—unsuitable for a proper battle.”
With one final surge of energy, Voldemort infused the puppet with his remaining power. “Next time, Lockhart,” he spat, his tone dripping with malice, “you will know the true strength of a top dark wizard.”
Before Lockhart could respond, Voldemort turned his gaze toward Slughorn. His cold, detached expression sent a chill through the former Slytherin Head.
“Professor Horace,” Voldemort said softly, his voice carrying an unmistakable threat, “do not forget the promise you made to me.”
As the last syllable echoed, the puppet collapsed into ashes, its remnants scattering into the air. The oppressive dark aura lifted, leaving behind an unsettling silence.
Lockhart lowered his wand, allowing the residual magic in the room to dissipate. The remaining Death Eaters, who had moments ago fought with unrelenting ferocity, now looked visibly shaken.
The Aurors, emboldened by Lockhart’s display of strength, regained their confidence. Their wands snapped upward, and a flurry of incantations filled the air.
“Petrificus Totalus!”
“Stupefy!”
The remaining Death Eaters fell one by one, immobilized and disarmed. Sirius, his expression dark with determination, stepped over the fallen bodies and approached Lockhart and Slughorn.
“Professor Lockhart, Professor Horace,” Sirius said, his voice calm but edged with urgency, “Voldemort’s return is a matter of grave importance. I need to report this to the Ministry immediately.”
His eyes flicked briefly to the petrified Death Eaters. Despite their capture, his thoughts lingered on one name: Peter Pettigrew. That rat.
Sirius’s jaw tightened. If Pettigrew had indeed returned to Voldemort, he needed to uncover his whereabouts. These Death Eaters might hold the key.
Hogwarts, School Hospital
Later that evening, Horace Slughorn found himself lying on a pristine white hospital bed in the Hogwarts infirmary. His plump figure looked comically out of place among the neatly folded sheets and orderly rows of medical supplies.
On either side of his bed sat Dumbledore and Lockhart, both wearing expressions of polite concern.
“This is absurd!” Slughorn grumbled, shifting uncomfortably. “I am a Potions Master. I know my own body, and there’s nothing wrong with it!”
Dumbledore chuckled softly. “Horace, you’re not as young as you once were. A little caution won’t hurt.” His tone was light, but his eyes held a twinkle of mischief.
Lockhart smiled faintly. “Professor, the headmaster’s advice is sound. It wouldn’t hurt to stay here for observation—just in case.”
Slughorn puffed up indignantly, but he knew better than to argue. Both Dumbledore and Lockhart clearly intended to keep him within Hogwarts, likely to ensure his safety.
“Fine,” Slughorn muttered, his voice heavy with resignation. “But don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing. You’re trying to keep me from running off!”
“Perish the thought,” Dumbledore said lightly, though his amused expression betrayed him.
Slughorn sighed and leaned back against the pillows. After a moment, his eyes brightened as he addressed Lockhart. “To be honest, I regret not recruiting you for the Slug Club when you were a student. That may have been one of my greatest oversights.”
Lockhart chuckled. “You flatter me, Professor. But perhaps it’s not too late to remedy that mistake.”
Dumbledore joined in the laughter. “Indeed, Horace. I believe you can still induct him—if you’re persuasive enough.”
The mood lightened, and for a brief moment, the tension of Voldemort’s return seemed to fade. But as the conversation continued, Slughorn’s demeanor grew more serious.
“Dumbledore,” he said cautiously, “Lockhart has told you about Tom’s return. What exactly is your plan to deal with him?”
Dumbledore’s gaze softened, but his answer was enigmatic. “Do not worry, Horace. We are prepared.”
Slughorn’s face flushed with frustration. Prepared? He needed details, assurances that he could rely on, especially if he intended to slip away from the chaos.
Turning to Lockhart, Slughorn said, “Lockhart, your strength has grown immensely in recent years. Even the Dark Lord’s puppet couldn’t match you tonight.”
Lockhart inclined his head in thanks.
“But,” Slughorn continued, his voice tinged with caution, “that wasn’t Voldemort in his full strength. That was a puppet—a fragment of his power. The next time you face him, he won’t hold back. You must prepare yourself.”
