The next morning, the wizarding world awoke to a storm of ink and headlines.
The Daily Prophet's front page screamed in bold type:
TRAGEDY AT HARTLAND HARBOR
Dragon Fire Destroys Illicit Auction — Nearly Two Hundred Dead
Beneath the moving photograph of a charred coastline, paragraphs unfurled describing chaos, devastation, and heroic Auror intervention. According to the official version, a captured dragon broke free during an illegal auction, unleashing fire across the harbor before vanishing into the western sky. Among the dead were over a dozen pure-blood nobles and several foreign traders.
It was a story the public swallowed whole.
Inside the quiet of the Ministry of Magic, Amelia Bones stood by her office window, rereading the printed article for what felt like the tenth time. She didn't like half-truths—she lived for facts, evidence, and law—but this time, it was Dumbledore himself who had urged her to frame it this way.
"Better a contained tragedy," he had said, "than the birth of panic."
And he was right. There was no proof, no trail of magic, nothing linking Lord Blackfyre to the event beyond speculation and witness terror. The wards had collapsed, the corpses burned beyond identification, and the Ministry's own logs registered no traceable spell signatures.
Trying to arrest Blackfyre would only expose how helpless the Ministry had been. Worse, it would provoke him. And no one— not even Dumbledore— was certain they could subdue a man who rode dragons and fought like a force of nature.
So, Amelia signed off on the report, sealing the story as official truth.
At Hogwarts, Dumbledore folded his copy of the Prophet with slow, deliberate care. Fawkes stirred on his perch as he whispered, "It begins again—"
He looked toward the distant horizon, where a dragon's silhouette might once have soared through smoke and fire.
And though the world now called it an accident… Albus Dumbledore knew better.
His mind circled endlessly around the name—Lord Blackfyre—and the dragon that had chosen him. Every instinct whispered that this man would one day alter the balance of power in the wizarding world.
He wanted to meet him, to understand him. But he also knew that if he went now, the man would close off completely. Blackfyre was not naive; he was calculating. A sudden visit from the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot would only raise his guard, not his trust. Dumbledore had learned long ago that timing was everything—especially when approaching a man who wielded both mystery and power.
It was then the Floo network flared to life, the emerald flames twisting to form the worried face of Arthur Weasley.
"Ah, Arthur," Dumbledore said warmly, adjusting his half-moon spectacles. "What brings you calling at this hour?"
Arthur hesitated. "Headmaster, I just remembered something I should've mentioned earlier. I—I saw young Harry Potter recently."
Dumbledore's heart nearly stopped. "You saw Harry Potter? Where?"
"At that new place—Zeus Hotel, in Knockturn Alley, of all places," Arthur said, rubbing the back of his neck. "He looked… well, honestly, he looked healthy. A bit older than he should be. I thought it odd, but with everything that's been going on—McNair's death, the dragon incident—I didn't have much time."
For a long moment, Dumbledore said nothing. Then, quietly:
"Arthur, are you certain?"
"As certain as I am of anything," Arthur replied. "He was working there, I think. In the lobby."
The fire dimmed as the connection ended, and Dumbledore stood very still. The pieces in his mind began to click into place—Blackfyre, Zeus Hotel, the Veela staff, and now Harry Potter.
Could it be coincidence? Or was destiny, once again, playing one of its strange games?
He turned toward Fawkes, who watched him silently with golden eyes.
"Well," Dumbledore murmured, his expression thoughtful but shadowed, "it seems fate has already set the board. If Lord Blackfyre shelters young Harry Potter… then the time has come to make my move—carefully."
He extinguished the lamps one by one. His mind was already weaving plans—subtle ones, delicate as threads of silver.
Tomorrow, he would pay a visit to Zeus Hotel.
Not as Chief Warlock.
Not as Headmaster.
But as an old man searching for a boy he placed with his relatieves.
In the Headmaster's Office, the golden light from the enchanted lamps flickered against walls lined with portraits of former headmasters. Fawkes dozed on his perch, his crimson feathers glowing faintly in the warm air.
Across the desk, Alastor Moody sat stiffly, one magical eye whirring in its socket as he replayed the silvery strands of his Pensieve memory. The final image dissolved — the blazing harbor of Hartland, screams swallowed by dragon fire, and a small figure standing amidst chaos: Lord Blackfyre.
Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his beard.
"Remarkable," he murmured softly. "Wandless magic with such precision… yet his incantations were simple — almost crude. Either he is self-taught or deliberately concealing his full range."
Moody snorted. "Self-taught, most likely. His form's rough, his control's raw. But the power behind it— Merlin's bones, Albus, I haven't seen something like that in decades."
The memory shimmered again in Moody's eye: the dark cloak, the violent speed, the sudden eruption of bone spears and fire.
"He fights like a demon possessed, and moves like a beast," Moody muttered. "Sword in hand, no hesitation. You could see it in his stance — no fear of death. Celtigar fell like a fool."
Dumbledore sighed. "You admire him."
"I respect results," Moody corrected. "Celtigar and his kind were filth. You'd have spent the night trying to save them."
That earned a sharp look from Dumbledore. "Even filth, as you call them, deserve the law's judgment, not vigilante fire."
Moody leaned forward. "Law? You think the Wizengamot would've convicted Celtigar? He'd have bribed half the court and gone back to chaining merfolk for profit! No, Albus. Blackfyre did what the Ministry won't. He cleaned the rot."
There was silence for a long moment — only the faint ticking of a silver contraption beside the desk.
Finally, Dumbledore spoke, his voice low.
"And yet you did not summon me."
Moody met his gaze without flinching. "I didn't because if you'd come, you'd have turned your wand on the wrong man. The moment you saw him strike, you'd have stepped between him and the traffickers. Because you still believe everyone can be saved."
He slammed his fist lightly against the armrest. "I don't. I've seen too much, Albus. Sometimes, the only way to stop monsters is to unleash a greater one."
Dumbledore looked toward the window, the fading twilight painting his face in soft violet hues.
"I fear you may be right, old friend," he whispered, almost to himself. "But if Blackfyre truly wields that kind of power… then we must hope he remains on the right side of history."
Moody's scarred face twisted into a grim smile.
"That's the thing about history, Albus. The side that wins gets to decide which one was right."
After Moody's footsteps faded down the spiral stair, Albus Dumbledore remained still.
The fire burned low in the grate, casting restless shadows that danced along the carved phoenix motifs of his desk. Slowly, he rose and crossed the office toward the oldest section of his private library — the shelves he alone had keyed to his wand signature.
A whispered charm unlocked the cabinet. Dust drifted like gold motes as he drew out a thick leather-bound journal. The cover was cracked and faded, the title written in his own neat hand decades ago:
"The Twelve Uses of Dragon's Blood — Behavioral Addendum, 1948."
He turned the pages carefully. Notes filled every margin — sketches of wingspans, blood temperature ratios, even observations written during his time with the Romanian keepers. Dragons, he'd once written, were pride incarnate. The sky was their birthright, and no sentient being was permitted dominion above them.
Yet the memory he had just seen — Moody's recollection — defied every word in that journal.
A dragon, small but fierce, had descended upon a burning harbor… and bowed its head to a man. It had allowed him to mount its back — willingly. Not coerced. Not compelled. Chosen.
He closed the journal slowly, his reflection flickering in the gold-rimmed mirror behind the desk.
"Who are you, Lord Blackfyre?" he murmured aloud.
His mind turned over the facts — wandless magic, mastery of curses and ancient wards, the dragon bond, and that peculiar aura that even through the Pensieve had made the air itself thicker. He remembered Voldermort — all brilliance, no restraint — and yet the man he saw now… this Blackfyre was something else entirely.
And perhaps that frightened Dumbledore even more.
He placed the journal back in its case and sealed it with a locking rune. The echo of the spell faded, leaving only the quiet coo of Fawkes.
"Power without guidance," he whispered, "is the fire that burns both the dark and the light."
He turned back to the window, watching the stars shimmer over the darkened grounds of Hogwarts.
Dumbledore exhaled slowly. "Let us hope," he said to the silent night, "that this one does not fall where the last did."
Late into the night, Albus Dumbledore sat at his desk, quill poised above parchment. He had written and rewritten the same words several times, but the message refused to sound right. Finally, he exhaled and began again—his handwriting calm, deliberate, and heavy with meaning.
To my dear friend, Remus,
I hope this letter finds you well, though I fear the northern winds of solitude are harsh company. The world has changed once more, and I must call upon you, not as your old professor, but as one who still believes in what we once fought for.
Harry Potter has reappeared—earlier than I expected, and under circumstances most peculiar. He is alive, well, and, to my concern, now within the circle of a man who calls himself Lord Blackfyre. The name is ancient, Remus. Powerful. I know little of him, save that he commands both fear and respect in equal measure.
I would ask you to return. Quietly. I may soon need eyes I can trust, and hearts that have not yet hardened to cynicism. The boy may already be walking a path neither of us can foresee.
Bring only what you need. Fawkes will guide you safely home.
With faith, as always,
Albus Dumbledore
When he finished, Dumbledore set down his quill and sealed the letter with the silver crest of Hogwarts. He turned toward Fawkes, who had been watching him patiently, golden eyes gleaming in the candlelight.
"Find him, my friend," Dumbledore murmured softly. "You always do."
The phoenix let out a low trill—a sound somewhere between melancholy and hope—and seized the letter gently in its beak. With a burst of scarlet flame, it vanished into the night sky.
Dumbledore sat back in his chair, staring into the empty hearth. His thoughts drifted backward—to the boy who had once looked at him with wonder, to the werewolf who had loved him like a son, and to the choices that had scattered them both.
Now, the threads of destiny were weaving back together in a pattern he could no longer control.
The weight of memory pressing heavily against his chest.
He still remembered the look on Remus Lupin's face the night everything fell apart—the night they learned James and Lily Potter were dead, Sirius Black was branded a traitor, and Peter Pettigrew was presumed slain.
Remus had lost everyone in a single breath.
And when he tried to do the one good thing left—fight for custody of baby Harry—the Ministry had crushed him.
A werewolf, they said, could not raise a child.
No matter that he had once been the gentlest of men, no matter that James Potter had trusted him with his life.
Dumbledore had pleaded with the Wizengamot, but even he couldn't overturn the ruling. The only options left were the Malfoys—whose political influence and disdain for Lily Potter made them a dangerous choice—or the Muggle relatives, the Dursleys.
So, Dumbledore made a choice. A terrible, necessary choice.
And it had haunted him ever since.
Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, weary but resolute.
In the silence that followed, he whispered to the empty room:
"Forgive me, Remus. For all the choices I made that broke you."
Outside, the rain began again, falling against the castle walls like the quiet echo of old mistakes.
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