The cheers still echoed faintly in Albus Dumbledore's ears as he ascended the spiral staircase to his office.
The echoes of a thousand voices—students laughing, chanting, calling for Draconis—seemed to cling to his robes like smoke.
"Fizzing Whizzbees," he murmured to the stone gargoyle, and the passageway obediently twisted open.
He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a quiet click.
The noise of celebration faded, leaving only the soft crackle of the hearth and the steady tick of a silver contraption puffing blue smoke on his desk.
The room felt unusually still.
Fawkes stirred upon his golden perch, feathers gleaming faintly in the firelight.
"You needn't look so concerned, old friend," Dumbledore said, lowering himself into his chair. "The match was… spirited."
The phoenix only gave a low, almost sympathetic trill.
Dumbledore steepled his fingers beneath his chin and stared into the flames.
Cassius Snape.
The name alone carried weight now.
Barely two months into term, and already the boy had managed to rewrite more of Hogwarts' history than most headmasters did in a lifetime.
A new house.
A duel seeing a first year student defeat a teacher, even more a teacher whose a seasoned Ministry Auror.
And now—a Quidditch victory that would be sung about for years to come.
the boy has a bright future, but his destiny seems to be shaped by the will of Lady Draconis, such that i myself cannot intervene pulling him into my own plans.
He sighed, reaching for a peppermint from the crystal bowl on his desk.
It helped to think, to center the sweetness against the bitter taste of unease.
"Curious, isn't it?" he murmured to no one in particular. "How history so often begins in whispers… and ends in thunder."
His gaze drifted to the window, where the Quidditch pitch still glowed faintly under the setting sun.
Beyond it lay the dark smear of the Forbidden Forest.
A shadow among shadows.
Quirrell.
Or rather, what Quirrell had become.
Even now, after being driven from the castle by students, the man remained tethered to that vile fragment of soul he had invited to share his body.
Voldemort was still there, watching from the trees, gathering strength in secret.
Dumbledore could feel it in his heart—a subtle disturbance, like a faint taint trying to erode the very wards of Hogwarts protection.
And yet… he could not act.
The Board of Governors had nearly skinned him alive for "allowing" such danger in the school to begin with.
Publicly, he was to say Quirrell had taken ill.
Privately, he had to acknowledge that driving Voldemort into the open forest was, ironically, the safer option.
Better a serpent one could watch from afar than one coiled unseen in the walls.
Still, it gnawed at him.
Each night, the forest whispered back secrets he dared not share.
Dumbledore leaned back, eyes heavy with thought.
"We are at a strange crossroads, Fawkes. A new house rising, an old enemy stirring, and between them a boy who was meant to save us all… and yet cannot even open a locked door."
The phoenix ruffled his feathers with a mournful note.
"Ah, yes," Dumbledore murmured, his smile sad. "Harry Potter."
He opened a drawer and drew out a parchment—one of the many reports sent to him by the heads of house.
Snape's latest assessment sat on top, the words written in his sharp, neat hand.
'Academically stunted, socially isolated, and often found wandering with Mr. Weasley. Displays curiosity but lacks basic magical knowledge, including first-year spells.'
He exhaled softly.
The boy who lived, yet seemingly unable to live up to the name.
Harry had entered Hogwarts full of hope, but hope was a fragile thing when met with ridicule.
Sorted into Slytherin—a twist that even the Hat had hesitated over—and surrounded by peers who saw him as a traitor to his legend.
The Boy-Who-Lived was supposed to be brave, noble, Gryffindor material.
Instead, he spent his evenings with Ron Weasley, a boy whose penchant for trouble had already earned him two detentions and a month-long lecture from Filch.
Dumbledore's eyes softened as he recalled the incident on Halloween.
The trolls.
The chaos.
The terrified students.
Harry had not been among the heroes that night.
That honor, oddly enough, had fallen to young Cassius Snape.
Two trolls defeated single-handedly—all in the defense of others, true saviour material, except for one glaring fact.
His victory came after the use of dark magic, weak in comparison to true dark lords, but the freedom in its use was shocking.
The students had nearly worshiped him afterward, chanting his name as if he were some modern-day knight.
Beyond that was just the other day, his feint of using the killing curse in place of another spell, while admittedly genius had a dark undertone that forbidden was merely just a word to this child.
Lily Potter on the other hand had been livid.
He still remembered the letter she had sent two days later—delivered not by owl, but by a howler that rattled the entire office.
"How dare you let my son be put at risk, Albus! How dare you allow such creatures into the school! If anything had happened to Harry—"
She had gone on for several minutes before the letter finally burned itself to ash, leaving behind the faint scent of lilies and fury.
And yet, the irony was cruel.
Harry had not been anywhere near danger that night.
It was Cassius who had stood at the center of it, and it was Cassius who had emerged triumphant.
Dumbledore had thought Lily's temper would fade.
It had not.
She had since written three more letters, each more accusatory than the last, blaming him for everything from lax security to "favoring that boy Snape."
It hurt, though he did not show it.
The past had long ago become a wound that no magic could mend.
If only she could see what I see, he thought.
That Harry's struggle is not a punishment, but a path.
That greatness rarely blooms without hardship.
But there were days—even for him—when faith wavered.
He rose and crossed to the window, watching the last of the sunset spill gold across the lake.
Below, the castle lights flickered to life one by one.
Students would be dining now, recounting every second of the match.
No doubt Cassius was basking in the adoration of his peers, Cho Chang and Hermione Granger at his side.
A curious trio, to say the least.
He turned back to his desk, where a half-finished letter to the Ministry lay open.
He dipped his quill in ink, hesitated, and then set it aside.
Words seemed too small tonight.
Instead, he picked up a small glass sphere from the corner of his desk.
Inside it, faint runes glimmered, shifting with a light all their own—the monitoring charm he had placed upon the castle's wards.
The threads pulsed in harmony, stable… for now.