Hogwarts.
Thursday.
The sky remained overcast.
Heavy clouds hung low above the castle grounds, as though even the sun had hidden itself behind the thick gray blanket after everything that had happened the previous day.
"Looks like it's going to rain."
Dawn yawned and crawled out of his sleeping bag. Catching the scent of damp earth carried on the wind, he stretched lazily.
After nothing else happened during the night, he and the rest of the students had been gathered into the Great Hall by their Heads of House and told to sleep there.
Now, as a few students began stirring, the rest of the hall gradually came to life as well.
In the Slytherin section, Theodore—his hair sticking out in every direction—looked over at Dawn and asked curiously,
"Hey, Blaise. You came back really late last night. Do you know why they dragged us all into the Great Hall?"
"Who knows?" Dawn replied while pulling on his clothes.
The dismissive answer earned him an eye roll from Theodore.
While they were talking, the sleeping bags Professor McGonagall had conjured the night before vanished one after another.
Several students who had been determined to keep sleeping rolled across the stone floor before reluctantly climbing to their feet.
The long tables reappeared.
Breakfast materialized across their surfaces.
Steam and delicious smells quickly filled the air.
Dawn rubbed his stomach.
He was starving.
Finding a seat, he loaded a large steak onto his plate and grabbed a glass of milk.
Flap.
Flap.
The sound of wings echoed overhead.
Dawn paid it no attention.
Morning was always prime owl-delivery time.
He simply cast a small protective charm over his breakfast to keep feathers out of his food.
The hall gradually grew lively.
Pages rustled. Students chatted.
Then suddenly—
"Merlin's beard!" A student's shout rang out from one of the tables. "Someone died in the hospital wing last night?!"
Hmm?
Dawn paused halfway through a bite of steak.
Picking up a newspaper, he immediately spotted a photograph of the corpse displayed prominently on the front page.
His eyebrow twitched.
He had prepared for the possibility that the incident would become public—hence the blood message he'd written on the wall—but he hadn't expected it to happen this quickly.
The hospital wing was currently sealed shut.
Under normal circumstances, news of the death should only have spread after the boy's parents were informed.
Given the speed of publication—and the fact that nobody had discussed the incident during the previous night's stay in the Great Hall—there was only one explanation.
Voldemort had done it himself.
Perhaps after the suicide and before Madam Pomfrey regained consciousness, he'd controlled another student, taken photographs, and mailed them directly to the newspaper.
Dawn took a thoughtful sip of milk, leaving a white ring above his lip.
Carefully reading the article, he discovered that it only reported the death itself.
There was no mention whatsoever of Voldemort.
Which made sense.
The Ministry would never publish such a thing.
So Voldemort hadn't somehow established influence within the Ministry.
The purpose of sending the photographs was probably much simpler.
He was making sure the incident couldn't be buried. Making sure it would fuel the rumors he intended to spread.
Dawn shook his head.
Unconcerned, he set the newspaper aside and continued eating.
There was nothing to worry about.
The blood message he'd written was still there.
Once students saw it, public opinion would be guided in an entirely different direction.
Just then, he noticed movement near the entrance.
The four Heads of House entered alongside a red-eyed woman who still appeared to be fighting back tears.
The victim's mother.
Dawn reached the conclusion immediately.
The students who had read the paper reached the same conclusion.
The Great Hall gradually quieted.
By the time the group disappeared up the staircase, a solemn atmosphere had settled over all four house tables.
After all, someone had died.
But unfortunately, the mood didn't last long.
Much like students in Muggle schools hearing that someone had jumped off a building and becoming more interested in whether classes would be canceled, Hogwarts students were surprisingly resilient.
Soon, discussions shifted away from the victim entirely.
The most popular topic became the announcement that there would be no classes that morning.
That was what everyone truly cared about.
The only disappointing part was the professors' order that everyone remain inside the Great Hall.
And so the students entertained themselves.
Some played Wizard's Chess. Others pulled pranks. A few even flew broomsticks indoors.
Meanwhile, Dawn leaned back in his chair and opened a borrowed book.
He quietly read.
Only after finishing roughly a quarter of it did movement at the staircase draw his attention again.
Nicolas Flamel. The four Heads of House. Cornelius Fudge. Several Aurors.
They all entered the Great Hall together.
Dawn glanced over.
The victim's mother was absent.
She had likely taken her son's body and left Hogwarts rather than remain in a place filled with painful memories.
The remaining adults all wore different expressions.
Fudge looked openly pleased.
The professors looked dissatisfied.
And Flamel... His brows were furrowed so tightly they could probably crush a mosquito.
Dawn understood.
Impersonating Dumbledore while a student died on your watch was the kind of thing that guaranteed an awkward conversation later.
Then Fudge suddenly quickened his pace.
Marching up to the staff platform, he clapped his hands and amplified his voice with magic.
Every student's attention immediately shifted toward him.
Then he began speaking.
"Children, I know that many troubling events have occurred recently. I know some of you feel frightened. Uncertain."
"But don't be afraid!"
He threw his arms wide with practiced theatrical flair.
"Starting today and continuing until the end of the school year, the Ministry of Magic will dispatch officials to assist with administration and ensure your safety!"
Dawn sneered inwardly.
Watching the man perform on stage, he silently vowed that before the year ended, he would settle accounts with Fudge properly.
The students, still unclear about what was happening, exchanged confused looks.
After a long pause, scattered applause began to emerge.
"Thank you!"
"Thank you all for your support!"
Fudge bowed dramatically.
The grin hidden beneath his lowered head became increasingly smug.
Why was Dumbledore so respected?
His strength? His victory over Voldemort?
Perhaps.
But from a politician's perspective, the true foundation of Dumbledore's influence was obvious.
Headmaster of Hogwarts.
Virtually every wizarding child in Britain attended this school. The political capital associated with that position was enormous.
And Fudge coveted it desperately.
After last year's Dawn incident and now the death of a student, he'd finally managed to sink his teeth into a portion of that influence.
Standing off to one side, Flamel saw the expression on Fudge's face and quietly sighed.
'Albus. Please wake up soon. Your school is far too troublesome.'
The alchemist felt exhausted.
Then suddenly—
Just as the applause began fading—
°Avada Kedavra!°
A hoarse voice filled with murderous intent echoed throughout the Great Hall.
An instant later, a streak of green light shot toward the staff platform.
Everything changed.
Flamel lunged forward.
He grabbed Fudge and yanked him backward while simultaneously casting a Stunning Spell with the Elder Wand toward the source of the voice.
Bang!
Bang!
Bang!
Three impacts sounded in rapid succession.
The first was the Killing Curse striking the floor. The second was Fudge crashing to the ground.
The third was the student who had cast the curse collapsing unconscious.
But it wasn't over.
Not even close.
The spell had been a spark thrown into a powder keg.
Chaos exploded.
In the lingering echo of the curse, numerous students suddenly changed.
Confusion vanished from their eyes. In its place appeared identical expressions of cold malice.
Wands rose.
Spells flew indiscriminately in every direction.
Colored lights flashed.
Sections of the floor turned into mud. Birds materialized from the ceiling. Fires ignited among tables and debris.
Heat rapidly spread throughout the hall.
Even Dawn froze for a split second.
But his reaction was immediate. He snatched up a plate and hurled it at Neville's head.
"AAAH!"
Neville ducked instinctively.
A curse shot through the space where his head had been moments earlier.
At the same time, Dawn controlled both of his bodies.
Iron Skin Charm.
Disillusionment Charm.
Then he retreated swiftly toward a corner of the hall.
Strange.
What exactly was Voldemort doing?
Dodging stray spells while observing the chaos, Dawn found himself genuinely puzzled.
If Voldemort wanted rumors, the most effective method was obvious.
Create sudden, bloody incidents.
Events that left unforgettable impressions.
Not this.
Not indiscriminate attacks while every professor in the castle was present.
The sheer irrationality of it irritated him.
For the first time, he found himself giving serious consideration to Dumbledore's theory.
Maybe Voldemort truly had another objective.
Which raised an important question.
If Voldemort really had gained access to the Castle Consciousness before him—and if it could only be used once in the short term—what should he do?
What trump card could reverse a hopeless situation?
Dawn frowned deeply.
Then—
The riot ended almost as abruptly as it had begun.
Exactly as he expected.
Flamel and the four Heads of House acted simultaneously. Within moments, the rampaging students had been subdued.
Professor Sprout proved particularly effective.
She produced a strange flower with four differently colored petals.
Anyone who inhaled its scent immediately lost all strength and collapsed helplessly.
The attack had come without warning.
Fortunately, the professors had prioritized intercepting the most dangerous curses.
No students died. Still, their expressions remained grim.
McGonagall turned toward the headmaster.
"Albus," she said quietly.
The meaning was obvious.
Do something.
Flamel rubbed his temples with a bitter smile. He opened his mouth to speak. But before he could—
"Minister! Minister!"
An Auror finally recovered from his shock and rushed over.
"Are you alright?"
The once-dignified Minister of Magic was still sitting on the floor.
Sweat poured down his face.
Looking at the crater left between his legs by the Killing Curse, his knees went weak.
The overwhelming urge to use a restroom became impossible to suppress.
A spreading puddle and an unmistakable odor soon followed.
Then came Fudge's shrill scream.
"Reforms!"
"Immediate reforms!"
"No—Hogwarts must be closed! It will remain closed until the Ministry confirms it is safe!"
And so, as the furious Minister of Magic demanded the closure of Hogwarts itself—
The school's true guardian, the great wizard Dumbledore, remained completely immersed in a story being told by a two-year-old child.
"And then, at the Shrieking Shack, the trio discovered that Peter Pettigrew—the rat disguised as Ron's pet—was actually the traitor who betrayed Harry's parents, not Sirius Black."
Click.
The final building block snapped into place.
Admiring the ship he had assembled, Dawn casually finished recounting the events of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban.
"...And then?" Dumbledore asked instinctively.
Over the course of this conversation, he'd already heard summaries of the first three Harry Potter books.
He had heard about the Philosopher's Stone.
The Basilisk.
The diary suspected of being a Horcrux because it possessed a student's memories.
And Sirius Black's innocence.
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Dumbledore felt a stab of guilt.
At the time, grief and anger over James and Lily's deaths had prevented him from reopening the investigation.
If Dawn's story was true, an innocent man had suffered in Azkaban for more than a decade.
When Harry's parents had gone into hiding beneath the Fidelius Charm, Sirius Black had originally been designated Secret Keeper.
Then Voldemort somehow found them.
James and Lily died.
Harry survived.
Everyone naturally assumed Sirius had betrayed them. He was arrested and sent to Azkaban.
But according to Dawn's story—Sirius had secretly transferred the role of Secret Keeper to Peter Pettigrew.
The true traitor had never been Sirius at all.
It had been Peter.
The man believed dead. The supposed hero. The Animagus who had hidden for years as Ron Weasley's pet rat.
Could it really be true? Dumbledore couldn't fully trust it.
One detail bothered him.
In Dawn's account, there was no Dawn. No trace of him at all. Prophecies weren't supposed to work that way.
Still.
Once he woke up, verifying the Sirius and Pettigrew matter would be easy enough.
And if it proved true...
Dumbledore pressed his lips together.
His desire to hear the rest of the story intensified. Especially the parts involving Voldemort's Horcruxes.
"So what happens next?" he asked eagerly.
But this time—The child who had been assembling blocks suddenly turned around.
For a long moment, he studied Dumbledore with a peculiar look.
Then he said:
"Mr. Butler... You're acting very differently today."
___________
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