April 17, Sunday night.
Easter break was officially over. The school year was barreling toward the finish line, and the Hogwarts kitchens had pulled out all the stops—roast beef, steak-and-kidney pies, mountains of cheese, and every dessert under the sun. The Great Hall was packed, chatter bouncing off the walls, everyone acting like the mountain of homework they'd ignored for a week had never existed.
At the end of the Gryffindor table Harry kept his voice low so only Ron and Hermione could hear.
"Sirius took me back to Godric's Hollow. Saw Mum and Dad's graves… and the Dumbledore plot too. His mum and sister are buried there, and some old Abbott family stones…"
Ron jumped in, thrilled to finally know something Hermione didn't. "It's this ancient little town—wizards and Muggles living side by side since Godric Gryffindor's day."
Hermione's eyes stayed soft. "The Headmaster's mum and sister… that's so sad. He's got no family left."
Ron snorted. "He's pushing a hundred and twenty. If his mum was still alive that'd be the weird part."
The High Table was lit up like a Christmas tree. Dumbledore—well, the guy wearing his face—was dressed in gold-and-scarlet robes that screamed Gryffindor. He kept stroking his beard and staring at the silverware and the unopened bottle of Firewhisky like it owed him money.
"Albus, everything all right?" Professor Sprout asked, frowning. "You've been eyeing that whisky for ten straight minutes."
"Cough—yeah, just reading the label," Aberforth grunted, voice rougher than usual. "This stuff's from a Scottish dragon reserve. Less than ten bottles left in the whole wizarding world. Back before the International Confederation banned private dragon breeding, they used actual dragon fire to distill it. Wheat and grapes grown in dragon-shit fertilizer. Then all the dragons got shipped off to Romania…"
"Confederation… 'old boys'?" Sprout's eyebrows climbed higher.
"Uh… heard some blokes at the pub call 'em that." Aberforth cleared his throat fast. "How was your Easter, Pomona? The greenhouses doing okay?"
Sprout still looked a little weirded out but answered anyway. "First and third are fine. Second greenhouse's Mandrakes are almost ready—getting loud as the weather warms up."
"Maybe give 'em a splash of this," Aberforth muttered, already uncorking the bottle and pouring himself a generous glass.
He took a swig, smacked his lips, and decided it wasn't half as good as the stuff he kept under the Hog's Head bar.
"Cough—Albus," McGonagall hissed, tugging his sleeve. "Put that down. You've got the Headmaster's address before dinner starts."
"Address?"
A silver spoon tapped a goblet—ding, ding, ding. Every eye in the Hall swung to the High Table. Aberforth stood up slow, face turning beet red, mouth opening and closing like a fish.
McGonagall's lips pressed into a thin line. I knew this was a terrible idea. Letting a tavern owner play Headmaster—what the hell was I thinking?
To the students it looked completely normal. The Headmaster was doing his classic bit: pretending to think hard, cheeks flushed with "wisdom," letting the silence stretch until it was hilarious. Classic Dumbledore prank.
Only Percy Weasley at the front of the Gryffindor table rubbed the back of his head and narrowed his eyes. The old man had actually cracked him across the skull the other day. Dumbledore had never laid a hand on a student in living memory.
Aberforth finally blurted out the only thing he could think of:
"Dig in!"
"Woo!" George and Fred started clapping like maniacs. The whole Hall exploded with cheers and whistles.
Pure Dumbledore energy—stand up, make everyone wait, then say absolutely nothing. Master-level troll move.
Percy sank into thoughtful silence. Maybe wanting to ditch family for the Ministry really was that bad.
McGonagall stayed quiet too. No disaster had happened yet. She'd yell at Aberforth after dinner.
The feast kicked off properly. Forks clattered, voices roared, candle flames danced, and the enchanted ceiling's stars seemed to shake with laughter.
Down at the staff table Melvin kept glancing toward the Headmaster's seat, a crooked little smile on his face the whole time.
Snape, sitting to his right, noticed and gave a dry snort. "Dumbledore's finally lost it. If the Board of Governors hears about this—"
"How'd you spot it?" Melvin asked, genuinely curious.
Snape just gave him a withering side-eye.
"Oh. Right. Legilimency."
Melvin nodded, thoughtful. Of course a double-agent master Occlumens and Legilimens would see straight through a half-assed disguise. Aberforth was just a dropout barkeep; his surface emotions leaked like a sieve.
Melvin chewed his steak and kept thinking. Snape was still a little twisted from his Death Eater days—even after talking to Lily's shade through the Resurrection Stone, the guy carried shadows. Maybe there was a way to get him to give Hermione a proper talk about the mental side effects of Legilimency…
Before he could figure out how to pitch it, Flitwick leaned over from the other side, grinning. "What are you two whispering about? That's Albus's brother, right? The Hog's Head barkeep?"
Melvin blinked. "How the hell did you know?"
"We've known Albus for decades," Flitwick chuckled. "We've all tried to talk sense into him over the years—hell, we've tried to get him drunk at Christmas. He just wouldn't let it go. Good to see the old bastards finally made up."
Melvin felt a small twist of something like warmth. "Yeah… guess it is."
The other three Heads of House had been here since the fight against Grindelwald. They were basically Dumbledore's family. No amount of Polyjuice or beard-styling could fool people who'd watched him blink and frown for fifty years.
Flitwick was still smiling when Melvin leaned closer and dropped his voice. "Filius, you're the charms authority. Any research on Legilimency? Does it mess with personality? Got any advice for—"
"Not me—I've already mastered it. For a student. I'd never expose a kid to something risky, obviously…"
…
The next few days, Hogwarts snapped back into gear.
Summer was creeping in. The Scottish Highlands warmed up slow, like ivy sneaking across stone. Fifth- and seventh-years looked like they were one caffeine crash from death—library, classroom, dorm, repeat. They ate with textbooks open, muttering spells between bites.
The rest of the school had it a little easier. Between classes they still had time to gossip.
And the gossip had turned weird.
"I'm not kidding—the Headmaster's gone full senile," Seamus whispered dramatically on the path toward the Forbidden Forest edge. Care of Magical Creatures was next. "This morning I saw him lost on the rotating staircase between third and fourth floor. Stood there like a statue for half an hour until he followed Justin Finch-Fletchley out."
Dean nodded solemnly. "Not just lost—his mood's all over the place. Yesterday I was heading up to Divination and he was laughing with Trelawney one second, then spotted Percy and went full rage-mode. Chased the poor bastard while yelling."
"Chased him?" Ron's eyes lit up. "Like, actually hit him? Dumbledore never loses his temper."
"Swear to Merlin. Gave Percy a proper knuckle-rap right on the head. Kid ran off clutching his skull."
The Gryffindors around them gasped. Sweet old Dumbledore, smacking the Head Boy? Impossible.
Hermione frowned, thinking hard. "From everything you're describing… it sounds like Alzheimer's."
"What's that?"
Before anyone could answer, a cold laugh cut through the group.
Draco Malfoy turned around, sneering. "You really are thick, Granger. Wizards aren't Muggles. A wizard as powerful as Dumbledore doesn't just get 'old-person brain' like some Squib off the street."
Hermione smiled sweetly. "Funny—you usually hate anything Muggle, yet you know Alzheimer's is the medical term for senility?"
"I—Professor Levent mentioned it once," Draco snapped, face flushing. He flicked his robes and stalked off with Crabbe and Goyle.
The students kept chattering about the Headmaster's mental state all the way to the paddock.
Hagrid was already waiting, massive patched moleskin coat, crossbow slung over one shoulder, beard wild as ever. Fang the boarhound sat at his feet, and beside him—
"Today we're finishing the term with Porlocks!" Hagrid boomed, grinning wide.
Everyone's eyes dropped to the little creature behind the fence. Hoofed, monkey-ish arms, stubby fingers gripping the rails, walking on two feet. About two feet tall, covered in thick, soft hair with a mane of coarse bristles. It peeked shyly from behind Fang's leg.
"Porlocks are guardians of horses," Hagrid explained cheerfully. "They eat grass, nest in stable haystacks, mostly found in Dorset and Ireland. Dead shy around people—hide the second they spot ya. But if their herd's in danger? Blimey, you don't wanna see 'em angry."
The class was mixed Gryffindor-Slytherin. Hermione stood front-row center. To her left, Malfoy's crew eyed the creature. To her right, Pansy Parkinson and Daphne Greengrass… acting like best friends again, even after that blow-up in the Entrance Hall.
Pansy felt Hermione's stare and whipped her head around like a startled rabbit.
"Ya gotta read their mood perfect," Hagrid went on. "When they're shy, give 'em space. Offer grass or a treat nice and slow. If ya see 'em gettin' mad—run. Don't look back."
Ron leaned toward Harry. "Hagrid didn't bring another XXXXX beast again, right?"
"Shouldn't…?" Harry sounded way less sure than he wanted to.
Theory done, Hagrid clapped his huge hands, eyes sparkling. "Right then—who wants to come up and give it a stroke?"
The whole class looked at each other. Nobody moved.