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HP421- Lovegoods
🕑 Added 2025-05-04 22:31:48 +0000 UTCAfter a brief silence, Snape asked, not raising his head. “Did anyone come when he summoned?”
Harry glanced at him, slow. “Funny question.”
Snape’s eyes finally lifted, sharp, focused. “But still a question.”
Harry didn’t answer right away. He looked back at the desk, tapped a knuckle lightly against the wood. “How do you know he summoned anyone?”
Snape didn’t blink. Didn’t look away either.
No reply.
Harry gave the smallest tilt of his head, not surprised. “Right.”
He didn’t push it. Snape wasn’t going to explain, and Harry wasn’t going to pretend he didn’t already know. He’d seen the way Snape moved when the pain flared. The moments his hand twitched. The way his eyes darkened when someone said the wrong name too casually. The Mark might have faded with time, but it hadn’t disappeared.
“When he called,” Harry said, “they didn’t show."
Snape bore his eyes into him, flat and sharp. “No one?”
Harry grinned. “No one.”
Snape didn’t answer right away. His gaze shifted toward nothing in particular, the sort of far-off focus that meant he was running numbers in his head.
Bellatrix was out. Everyone knew that. If even she hadn’t shown up, something was off. She wouldn’t ignore a summon—unless she was somewhere more important, or somewhere that made it impossible to respond. If the Mark had pulsed for him, it had pulsed for the rest. Which meant they felt the call.
And didn’t come.
That was the strange part.
Snape tapped the quill once against his open book. “It is getting late. You should return to your duties.”
Harry stood, nodding. Snape knew he didn’t have anything urgent. That was just his way of ending the conversation.
“Have a good evening, Professor.”
He left the office without waiting for a reply, headed toward the common room. Snape hadn’t said much, but enough to make a sensible picture.
Dumbledore left for North Korea—probably chasing Voldemort—but what was the play? Harry wasn’t arrogant enough to assume he knew better than the old man. Dumbledore had more years of magical theory and practice than most entire departments at the Ministry. If he made a move, he had his reasons. Still, it didn’t sit right.
Voldemort had never bothered with East Asia before. His wars were always local—British-born, bloodline-rooted. Stepping into the unknown wasn’t his style. Unless he was after something very old. Or very dangerous. If Voldemort had anything even half this obscure in mind, Dumbledore chasing him made more sense.
But it also raised a different question: what had Dumbledore seen that the rest of them missed?
First term flew by faster than anyone expected, and for once, Hogwarts didn’t feel like it had a countdown to chaos ticking under the floorboards. There were no cursed tournaments, no Death Eaters pretending to be professors, no one trying to drag Harry off into the Forbidden Forest for a surprise duel to the death. It was just school—loud, chaotic, hex-filled, but almost... normal.
It was the calmest term Harry had seen since he first set foot in the castle. Probably had something to do with Voldemort hiding out in East Asia, too far to chuck Unforgivables at anyone for now.
As Christmas loomed, talk around the castle shifted. Decorations started showing up—enchanted tinsel that tried to strangle you if you stood still too long, pine garlands laced with sleeping powder “for ambience,” and charmed snowflakes that refused to melt even if they landed in your hair.
Harry started prepping for the Yule gathering.
Since Fudge died three years ago, Harry had been the one to handle the most anticipated Yule planning. Amelia Bones had accepted it after the second year—turned “Potter Yule” into “Ministry Yule," giving him full authority.
Didn’t change much on Harry’s end. These days, he barely had to lift a quill. He signed off on things more than he built them. The first year was the real mess—figuring out venue logistics, balancing Ministry egos with school politics, his own agenda and new ventures he was trying, it was all too delicate to balance. Now? It mostly ran itself.
Still, it was December again, and the folder on his desk was thick with suggestions. Decorations, seating charts, guest lists. The enchanted paper even flickered whenever someone updated their RSVP—mainly Ministry heads and their plus-ones. A few names Harry flagged, he was still strongly against inviting any known or suspected Death Eater. There were also a couple of them had a habit of making scenes and pretending it was politics.
Across the table, Daphne and Pansy were going through the RSVP parchments, sorting them into stacks labeled “Must Seat,” “Optional,” and “Avoid at All Costs.”
“You’d think,” Daphne muttered, flicking her wand to push a name to the third pile, “after three years of this, they’d stop trying to bring their entire bloodline to the dinner.”
Tracey flopped onto the couch beside Harry. “I heard one of them brought a portrait last time. A speaking one.”
“Yeah,” Pansy said without looking up. “It was cursed to scream if anyone used the wrong fork.”
Harry and the others wrapped up after about an hour. Harry shut the final portfolio and stacked it on top of the others. “We’re done. Finally.”
“About time,” Daphne said. “My brain’s leaking out my ears.”
Astoria leaned over her chair upside down, her braid hanging toward the floor. “Can we sleep now?”
“No,” Tracey said. “We’re all taking turns reciting the guest list backwards first.”
“Good,” Astoria replied. “Because I memorized half of it.”
“You would,” Blaise muttered.
They filed out not long after, heading toward their rooms. It wasn’t too late, but the kind of tired that came from dealing with bureaucracy had hit everyone like a brick wall. And tomorrow was travel day.
Most students weren’t taking the train home. That much had become standard ever since Voldemort came back. Hogwarts Express wasn’t exactly subtle, and no one trusted a moving target with a roof that screamed “all students on board.”
This year was no different.
Harry would handle a few of them personally—Side-Along or Floo, depending on the wards. As for the rest, their parents were apparating straight to the gates.
Next day started early. The courtyard was filled with clusters of students dragging trunks, yawning through goodbyes, and triple-checking their bags for forgotten sweets or hidden prank items. McGonagall was overseeing the logistics, clipboard floating beside her, lips thinner than usual.
Harry stood near the gates with Daphne, Tracey, and Pansy while Astoria bounced between them, double-checking that her peppermint toffee hadn’t melted overnight.
A sharp crack echoed behind them as a Ministry-certified portkey guard appeared just inside the gates, checking his clipboard.
“Potter,” he called, nodding once. Harry returned the greeting, walking by. Neville arrived next, dragging a trunk that looked like it had been sat on one too many times. “Morning,” he said, panting slightly.
“You’re late,” Daphne said.
“I tripped over someone’s invisible snow trail.”
“Fred and George’s,” Tracey guessed.
“Obviously,” Neville said.
Harry said his goodbyes quickly. Tracey tried to squeeze in one last insult about his handwriting, but he just tossed her a chocolate frog and walked off.
Astoria hugged him like she’d never seen winter before. “Don’t let them start the party without me.”
“They won’t dare,” Harry said.
“You say that now.”
“Still true.”
Then he grabbed Hermione’s arm and apparated.
They landed just outside her parents’ house, half-shielded behind a frozen hedge.
Hermione stepped out, straightening her jacket. “Tell Daphne to stop reorganizing the schedule without showing me.”
“I’ll tell her you cried.”
Hermione gave him a look. “I’ll tell Astoria you’re the reason she didn’t get hot cocoa last week.”
“She got it eventually.”
Hermione rolled her eyes, then stepped forward and hugged him. “Be careful, alright?”
Harry hugged her back. “Always.”
Then she was gone, through the front gate, waving once before disappearing inside.
He apparated again.
This time, he landed just outside Hogsmeade, near the edge of the ward line. Luna was already waiting, coat buttoned wrong, two scarves twisted together like she wasn’t sure how cold worked. Her suitcase sat beside her, slightly crooked.
“I brought chocolate raisins,” she said, cheerfully.
Harry took a few chocolate raisins and tossed them into his mouth. “Let’s go. Your father’s probably pacing by now.”
Luna grabbed her suitcase with both hands. “He offered to come get me, but I told him no. I said you’d bring me. I told him you’re good at maps, and you don’t mind the strange.”
Harry chuckled. “You’re not strange. You’re just Luna.”
He gave her head a quick pat. She smiled wide, clearly pleased with the answer, then picked up her lopsided suitcase and offered her arm. Harry took it, and a blink later, they apparated.
They landed just outside the Lovegood home. The place hadn’t changed—still lopsided, still surrounded by wild grass, and still covered in enough odd symbols to make a textbook cry. Her father was already at the door, waving them over with both arms like they’d just returned from an expedition.
“Welcome, welcome! I’ve just put the kettle on,” Xenophilius called out. “Come in, come in!”
