One early morning in February, as pale winter sunlight struggled through the ceiling of the Great Hall, Ron sat hunched over his breakfast with a posture like someone carrying an invisible weight on his shoulders.
The hall buzzed with its usual morning clatter of cutlery against plates, the rustle of the Daily Prophet being passed between hands, the sleepy murmur of early conversations but Ron seemed isolated within his own bubble of discontent, mechanically spooning porridge into his mouth without really tasting it.
Throughout the entire month of January, he hadn't been comfortable at all, feeling continuously irritable, as if he were trapped inside a suffocating jar with limited air and no visible means of escape.
The date of his duel with Malfoy hung over his head like the Sword of Damocles. What made him even more annoyed was that both Harry and Hermione had actually become friends with that damned Krum!
Not just casual acquaintances who nodded politely in corridors, but 'close' friends who spent time together, who had developed the kind of familiarity that used to belong exclusively to their trio.
They had even started calling each other by their first names with Harry and "Viktor" this, Hermione and "Viktor" that. The casual intimacy of it grated on Ron's nerves.
Although Ron didn't know exactly why, he just really disliked that guy Krum.
And moreover...
Ron always felt like he was being abandoned, left behind while his two best friends.
Of course, logically speaking, that was just an illusion.
Harry still helped him practice spells in his spare time between classes and tournament preparations, dedicating hours to drilling defensive hexes and offensive jinxes, preparing him for the duel with Malfoy.
As for Hermione... well, it was best not to mention her at all.
At this uncomfortable thought, Ron looked up from his cooling porridge at the seat across from him.
Hermione was right there, barely three feet away, her bushy hair bent over a Transfiguration textbook supported against a marmalade jar.
However, neither of them wanted to acknowledge the other's presence, maintaining a stubborn silence that had become their default mode of interaction over the past weeks.
Normally, with Harry present to act as mediator and buffer, the atmosphere wouldn't be quite so suffocatingly tense. But Harry had gone out early this morning before most students had even awoken from their dormitories.
Ron didn't know what to say to Hermione in Harry's absence, so he said nothing at all, returning his attention to his breakfast.
At the same time, in Adrian's office where a fire crackled in the hearth, Harry was sitting in one of the armchairs, discussing matters regarding the rapidly approaching Triwizard Tournament task.
There were only a dozen or so days left until the second task of the Triwizard Tournament, though Harry felt more prepared than anxious about the approaching deadline.
"So, are you prepared for the second task?" Adrian asked, his tone casual. He sat behind his desk.
Harry picked up his teacup took a sip of the Earl Grey tea, and said, "Probably... According to the hint given in that song from the golden egg, we need to retrieve something precious that belongs to us from somewhere underwater."
He set the cup down gently. The teacup left a ring of water on the table surface.
"It seems you're already confident of victory." Adrian leaned back in his own chair, and smiled with a touch of satisfaction as he observed Harry's relaxed manner and steady demeanor.
"Not quite confident of victory," Harry shook his head with appropriate caution. "No one can guarantee everything will be foolproof until the very last moment, no matter how much preparation you've done. But I've made all the preparations I reasonably can..."
He paused, organizing his thoughts before continuing. "You told me that was mermaid singing in the golden egg, and Hermione subsequently told me that a large colony of merpeople lives at the bottom of Hogwarts' Black Lake. So, I decided the logical approach was to try to find them, to scout the terrain and understand what I'd be facing."
"And the result?" Adrian raised his eyebrows with genuine curiosity about how far Harry's preparation had extended.
"There are indeed merpeople there, quite a large community actually," Harry spread his hands looking somewhat helpless.
"The underwater village is bigger than I expected. But I don't understand their language at all—I have absolutely no idea what they're saying to each other. It sounds like... well, like screeching and wailing."
He grimaced slightly at the memory of the sounds. "I found several books about mermaid language and Mermish linguistics in the library but... I don't think anyone would actually learn Mermish unless they had to—it's far too boring and complicated!"
Adrian noted with private amusement that Dumbledore had done exactly this supposedly boring thing.
"So how did you manage to get down to the Black Lake's bottom?" Adrian asked, leaning forward with interest.
"A Bubble-Head Charm was sufficient for breathing," Harry explained, unconsciously straightening with pride in his magical accomplishment. "Though it took me several attempts to get the spell strength right: the first few times, the bubble was too fragile and burst almost immediately under the water pressure."
He rubbed the back of his neck in memory. "Oh, but the charm's strength can't be too weak, as I learned the hard way. When I finally reached the lake bottom on my third attempt, exploring the merpeople's territory, the Bubble-Head Charm suddenly broke apart because I hadn't maintained enough magical energy in it.
I was running out of air and starting to panic when the Giant Squid noticed my distress and actually rolled me back to shore with its tentacles. It's really quite a good squid, intelligent and surprisingly gentle despite its size."
The memory still brought a slight shudder to Harry.
Adrian nodded with deep satisfaction, pleased that Harry had shown such initiative and thoroughness.
It seemed he no longer needed to worry particularly about Harry's performance in the Triwizard Tournament.
There was no need to worry about Cedric either. His spell techniques were very solid and well-practiced, built on years of steady study, and it wouldn't be especially difficult for him to find workable solutions on his own when faced with such challenges.
Moreover, Adrian had also dropped several subtle hints during their casual conversations.
Unless the tournament organizers changed the ultimate content of the competition at the last moment which would be both unprecedented both Hogwarts champions should perform splendidly.
But that probability of major changes wasn't particularly high, given all the planning and preparation that had already been done.
"Bang!"
After Harry left with a cheerful wave and promises to keep Adrian informed of any developments, there was a sharp knocking sound at the window in the office.
An owl, a small brown one that Adrian didn't recognize threw in a letter through the gap he'd left open for Ray's convenience, and immediately flapped its wings and flew away without waiting for treats or acknowledgment.
Adrian didn't even see clearly what it looked like properly—clearly the bird was terribly busy, it was probably a postal owl with a full route of deliveries to complete before noon.
The envelope floated perfectly onto the desk, settling precisely in the center of his workspace.
Adrian felt somewhat strange, his brow furrowing with puzzlement. 'Who would send me a letter around this time?'
Most of his mail came through usual known channels at more expected hours.
He picked up the envelope, examining it with the cautious attention he'd learned to apply to unexpected, unknown mails. The handwriting on the front looked official, formal, with the slightly pompous embellishments.
He opened the envelope carefully and discovered it was actually from Cornelius Fudge.
Perhaps a belated Christmas greeting?
No, that would be far too late even by the most generous standards of etiquette. Christmas had been nearly two months ago.
And besides, Fudge was probably busy as hell right now with the Karkaroff scandal and its political fallout, with absolutely no time for social niceties or personal communication of that nature.
With rising questions in mind and growing wariness about the letter's purpose, Adrian unfolded the single sheet of parchment and began to read.
After casually scanning it a few times, his expression darkened with each line...
"Snap!"
Adrian snapped his fingers sharply, and a flame appeared from nowhere. The fire ate the letter completely, reducing it to ash within seconds, the blackened fragments crumbled and disappeared before they could even reach the floor.
"Truly hopeless," he muttered in a low voice heavy with disappointment and contempt. "Absolutely hopeless."
The content of the letter had been very simple, almost insultingly straightforward:
Fudge hoped Adrian would act as a public witness for Karkaroff, making official statements to the press that Karkaroff had simply gone mad from unrelated causes, and that everything else reported in the papers was just malicious rumors and sensationalist speculation designed to undermine public confidence in the Ministry.
After all, Adrian had been involved in the Karkaroff incident from the beginning, discovering the plot and witnessing Karkaroff's mental destruction. His testimony would carry certain weight with the public.
Adrian didn't think such testimony would be of any actual use in calming public fears or changing the basic reality of the situation.
The evidence was too overwhelming.
Moreover, he didn't particularly want to deal with Fudge or become entangled in the Minister's increasingly desperate political maneuvering. Aligning himself with Fudge's denialism would only damage his own credibility when the truth inevitably emerged.
As soon as Voldemort returned to power, Fudge's downfall was almost inevitable.
His current behavior could only deceive himself and perhaps a few willfully blind supporters.
After a while spent contemplating these unpleasant political activities, Adrian shook off his dark thoughts and returned to grading the essays stacked on his desk.
"Bang!"
The window was knocked again, more insistently this time.
Adrian was somewhat puzzled, his attention pulled from a particularly poor essay on dragon behavioral patterns, there seemed to be an unusually large amount of mail today, far exceeding his normal post.
He looked toward the window again with mild exasperation.
However, this time, instead of another anonymous postal owl, a pair of sharp, intelligent large eyes appeared in front of him—eyes that he knew very well.
"Ray?"
Adrian was slightly stunned by Ray's unexpected appearance and quickly rose to open the window wider. "What are you doing here? I thought you were playing in the Forest."
Ray called out in greeting. He gestured with one wing for Adrian to look at the top of its head.
Adrian understood and stuck his head out the window into the cold air, and discovered with surprise that Ray had an unusual passenger: a tuft of red feathers stood out vividly against the thunderbird's blue-grey feathers.
Well, that wasn't just a tuft of loose feathers, it was Fawkes the phoenix, newly reborn not long ago after his most recent burning day and currently in the form of a scrawny chick.
The baby phoenix looked very small and delicate, almost hilariously tiny on top of Ray's massive head.
Fawkes was perched there like a bright red crown, appearing perfectly comfortable with this unusual mode of transportation.
The scene was unexpectedly funny and harmonious.
Ray and Fawkes both called out a few times in a complex exchange that seemed to be actual conversation.
Adrian quickly understood what they meant through a combination of Ray's familiar communication style and Fawkes' gestures: they were asking him, with some urgency, to come to the headmaster's office immediately.
The journey wasn't particularly long. Adrian wasn't far from the headmaster's office.
It took him only two and a half minutes of quick walking through relatively empty corridors to appear at the gargoyle guardian, speak the password ("Fizzing Whizzbee"), and ascend the spiral staircase to stand in front of the office door.
"Professor Dumbledore, you were looking for me..." Adrian pushed open the heavy oak door without bothering to knock as Dumbledore had clearly been expecting him. "Oh, are you organizing your memories?"
At that moment, Dumbledore was standing beside the Pensieve, his tall figure bent slightly over the shallow stone basin.
Silver-white memory threads like liquid moonlight were being drawn from his temple with the tip of his wand, slowly falling into the stone basin.
The memories swirled in the basin with hypnotic beauty, forming patterns that suggested faces, places, scenes from a long and extraordinarily eventful life.
Hearing the noise of Adrian's entrance, the old man looked up slightly, straightening with visible effort. His eyes showed some weariness behind the half-moon spectacles as organizing memories had always been mentally and physically exhausting work, requiring intense concentration and emotional resilience to relive past experiences without becoming lost in them.
"Ah, Adrian, you're here." Dumbledore's voice remained steady despite the fatigue apparent in his posture.
He gently waved his wand, and the last few strands of memory floated into the basin like falling stars, disappearing beneath the silvery surface.
"Please sit. Would you like to try some newly arrived lemon sherbets? They're a particularly good batch, I had them specially ordered from Honeydukes."
Adrian shook his head politely. His gaze fell on the Pensieve with undisguised interest, drawn to the swirling memories within.
Compared to sweets, this magical artifact interested him far more.
Compared to when he had last visited this office several weeks ago, there was now conspicuously much less white substance, fewer stored memories swirling in the Pensieve's depths.
The basin seemed almost empty, relatively speaking.
"It looks like there are far fewer memories inside than before," Adrian observed, unable to contain his curiosity about what memories Dumbledore had chosen to remove and why.
"Yes," Dumbledore nodded, moving away from the Pensieve with slow, careful steps, as if his knees pained him. "Memories always need to be sorted periodically—put some in for safekeeping, take some out for review, and that way you won't miss the truly important ones when you need them most. I wish I could always stay this clear-headed, but the reality is, I've still forgotten a great deal over my many years."
His tone carried a melancholy that Adrian had rarely heard from their usually optimistic headmaster.
Adrian had never personally used a Pensieve for long period of time. He wasn't entirely clear on the subtle implications of what Dumbledore meant about the balance between stored and retained memories.
"So," He changed the subject, sensing Dumbledore's reluctance to explain further on his memory management, "what did you call me here for, Professor Dumbledore? I assume it's something important if you sent Fawkes and Ray to fetch me."
Dumbledore walked over to one of the chairs near his desk and sat down with a soft sigh of relief, gesturing for Adrian to take the seat opposite.
"It's about Barty Crouch," He said simply, his expression growing grave.
Adrian was slightly stunned, his eyes widening with surprise and concern. "I remember you mentioned to me back in December that you would go see him personally after Christmas ended—two months have passed since then, and I always assumed he was still normal."
"Is that so?" Dumbledore seemed genuinely surprised by this revelation, his eyebrows rising above his spectacles.
He glanced at the Pensieve across the room, then shook his head with what might have been self-blame. "Perhaps I shouldn't have memories entering and leaving my mind quite so frequently."
________________
You can read more chapters on:
patreon.com/IamLuis