Penthuisiast
patreon
SD: CH165 - The Letters At Breakfast
🕑 Added 2025-05-12 07:23:05 +0000 UTCThere I was. Five uninterrupted seconds away from pure treacle tart bliss. Warm, golden, lightly steaming — the dessert equivalent of a long hug. Next to me, Hermione was mid-sentence about spellcraft topology and how it might affect rune harmonics when Roger Bloody Davies decided to develop a death wish.
He barrelled through the Gryffindor table like someone had accused him of having emotions. I didn’t even look up. When someone stomps that loudly, they usually have nothing worthwhile to say.
“Potter,” he barked.
I stabbed the tart with a fork. “No autographs before breakfast.”
He wasn’t alone. Zacharias Smith had followed, wearing the expression of a man who smelled his own nonsense and decided it was cologne. And, as if summoned by cosmic irony, Cedric Diggory trailed behind them, trying very hard to look diplomatic and not like he was about to be publicly embarrassed.
Roger slammed a letter down like he’d discovered parchment for the first time. “You think this is funny?”
“I think you being this dramatic over ink is funny, yes.”
“This! The Prophet. The PILs. The Ministry’s warnings. Did you think this would humiliate us quietly?”
Silently, I gingerly held the letter and started reading.
Dear Mr. Davies,
We have received and reviewed your Public Interest Litigation regarding the cancellation of the Triwizard Tournament on grounds of procedural misconduct. While we appreciate your concern, your methods are inappropriate and disruptive. We expect no further such attempts. Any future correspondence of this nature will be considered obstruction.
Sincerely,
Sophie Kettleburn,
Office of Magical Games & Sports
“Well?” Roger demanded.
“Hmmm, that sounds like a half-baked idea, Davies. I mean, the Triwizard is an international event. Whatever were you thinking dropping a PIL like that?”
“I didn’t do anything!” he growled. “This is your doing! You set us up!”
I raised an eyebrow. “Us?”
Hermione stirred her tea next to me. Slowly. Dangerously.
“I got one too,” claimed Cedric. “From the Department of International Magical Cooperation.”
Right then, a streak of tawny feathers swooped in from above, dropping the day’s Prophet right next to me. Hermione left her tea and grabbed the paper.
“Look,” she said. “It’s even in the news.”
“Huh,” I muttered, looking at the lower part of the front page. And there it was, written in glowing capital text.
MINISTRY RECEIVES TWIN LEGAL THREATS FROM HOGWARTS STUDENTS
By Rita Skeeter
In a stunning turn of events, the Department of Magical Games and Sports and the DMLE both confirmed yesterday the receipt of two high-profile Public Interest Litigations (PILs) — one demanding the cancellation of the Triwizard Tournament, the other threatening a boycott.
The first, attributed to Ravenclaw’s Roger Davies, sparked an immediate internal Ministry rebuke. “Insubordination and fear-mongering,” one official stated.
The second, filed under the name of Cedric Diggory (Hufflepuff), a top contender for Hogwarts Champion, has drawn criticism from many quarters. “It’s disgraceful,” said one Hogwarts student. “He’s just trying to keep younger years out.”
“We are rather puzzled by the unexpected backlash to what should be a moment of great celebration across the British wizarding world,” said Ludo Bagman, organiser and member of the Department of Magical Games & Sports. “Yes, it is true that historically, the Triwizard Tournament has been reserved for senior students — however, recent magical advancements and unforeseen events in recent years have shown that raw magical talent does not always align with academic age brackets.”
“The decision to lower the age eligibility was made in consultation with multiple departments and with the aim of giving more promising young witches and wizards a chance to compete, to shine, and to win not only eternal glory but a sizable reward of ten thousand Galleons.”
“Frankly, I’m at a loss as to what’s more surprising — that some students are lodging legal petitions to cancel the Tournament (a move that could severely impact our international goodwill and public image), or that eligible students are angrily protesting the opportunity of a lifetime!”
The Department of International Magical Cooperation refused comment, while our inside sources from the DMLE have revealed that the PILs have been dropped, and a letter of warning has been issued to both students.
One thing is certain: with Beauxbatons and Durmstrang due to arrive soon, tensions at Hogwarts are reaching a fever pitch.
‘Huh,” I muttered, dropping the paper to one side. “Well, that backfired pretty badly, boys. Maybe you should’ve just taken your issues to the Headmaster, first!”
“My mother—she’s saying I’ve embarrassed the family!” Davies bellowed. Guy had a healthy set of lungs on him. I’m sure Molly would be impressed. “That the DMLE is treating my letter as a political threat!”
“Well you can’t go around demanding a ban for the Triwizard after all the hard work our Ministry has done for it, can you now?”
“Don’t play dumb,” Roger snapped. “You think we don’t know this was you? Filing letters under our names, getting the Prophet to turn us into jokes—”
“You flatter me. I had no idea I had that much free time. Did you, Hermione?”
“Well if you had, I’d very much want you to spend it with me,” Hermione said coquettishly.
Roger leaned in, voice rising. “You’re going to write a retraction. You’re going to tell the Ministry you forged it and you’re going to apologize—publicly.”
“Let me get this straight,” I said, finally looking at him. “You think I forged two different Ministry petitions, one to cancel a legendary tournament and another threatening an international boycott — using your name — because… what? I was bored?”
“You had a motive,” Roger snarled. “You’re scared of losing—”
I couldn’t help it. I laughed. Not a bark. Not a scoff. Just laughter — smooth and amused.
“You’re scared of being seen, Davies,” I said. “You want me gone not because I’m cheating, but because you know the moment I’m in, you’re not even worth betting against. This isn’t about glory. It’s about insecurity.”
A few students around us gasped softly.
“You’re so desperate to win something,” I added, “you’d rather raise the age bar and exclude half the school than take the risk of losing to a fourth-year. That’s not courage. That’s cowardice with polish.”
Roger’s wand twitched in his robes. Hermione’s eyes narrowed.
“At least Diggory here has something to lose,” I went on. “Unlike last year’s Quidditch match, I doubt there would be any dementors after my soul this time, yeah Cedric? Is that why you want me out of the competition? Because dear ole’ dad won’t be able to take it?”
Cedric faltered. His hand shook.
I leaned back in my seat, utterly at ease. “If I had forged anything, I’d have done a better job. PILs from both of you? That’s clumsy. Uninspired.”
Zacharias’ wand was already in his hand. “Potter, all of this can be solved easily. All you have to do is write to the Ministry, claiming you were behind it, and we can all put this behind us.”
“Oh?” I said very softly. “Is that a threat, Smith? And in front of everyone too?”
“This isn’t about me!” Smith defended. “This is about you. You have Bones in your pocket. Maybe she filed it on your behalf!”
“Really? Then why don’t you accuse her? Or even better, single her out at wand point?”
“She’s a Hufflepuff, and we Hufflepuffs always stand with each other,” Cedric defended. “Even if some of us are misguided.”
Hermione snorted. “More like you would piss in your pants if her aunt ever called you out on it.”
Calling out Amelia Bones as guilty for forging a PIL just to frame two students? They would be the laughing stock of the nation before the day was over.
“I don’t understand,” Hermione interrupted. “Just how great do you think of yourselves? Just because you’re from sixth and seventh years doesn’t mean you two can ban us fourth and fifth years out of the competition.”
“I’m also a fourth year and I—” Smith began.
“Please,” scoffed Hermione. “We both know you stopped using your brain a long time ago.”
“As if a fourth year could do anything remotely —” Roger began.
“Roger,” said Harry slowly. “I want you to think long and hard about what might happen when you finish that statement.”
Roger went silent, and then slowly let his gaze sweep the hall.
All he got were curious stares from all four Houses. I’m not sure what Ravenclaw thought of their ‘leader’ but I was pretty sure there were at least some from Gryffindor that wanted their chance at Eternal Glory and hadn’t sat for their OWLs yet.
“I think you have humiliated yourselves enough for one morning, don’t you think?” I asked, grabbing for my fork. “Like I said, I had nothing to do with this. If I had, trust me — the paperwork wouldn’t have been so obvious. That was amateur hour.”
When neither of them moved, I sighed.
“That means piss off,” I added, and reached for the tart —
—only for the spoon to be hurled out of my hands by a weak revulsion jinx.
And my treacle tart exploded.
Bits of golden crust and syrupy filling sprayed like shrapnel across the table, wetting my napkin. A blob landed in Hermione’s tea. Another hit my sleeve. A full chunk went airborne and nailed Seamus in the forehead.
The Hall went silent.
“Was that really necessary?” Hermione asked, flicking crumbs off her robes.
Roger raised his wand again. Zacharias, ever the sidekick, mirrored him with a twitchy flourish.
“Enough,” Cedric said, stepping in fast, palm out. “Let’s just calm down and—”
He didn’t get to finish, for they attacked anyway.
A Stunner and a restraining spell zipped toward me—one too slow, the other too obvious. It was like watching two Hufflepuffs try to reenact a Gryffindor fantasy.
Elaborate motions with wrists and palms. Fancy, meaningless strokes. Smith, I can understand, but Davies? He was a seventh-year student. Surely he knew that wand movements were a crutch for people with limited understanding of the spell?
Smith had chosen a stunner. Good choice! The stunner was a neutral spell, and did not need that much negative emotion. Davies on the other hand, had cast an Incarcerous, no doubt to restrain and lord over me.
I could have smashed them in the chest with my bare hands faster than it was taking them to finish the spell.
I batted away his stunner with a casual flick. You do not always need a full-size protego for that. Just enough intent, and the needed magic would do the trick just fine.
So long as you could trace the oncoming spell’s trajectory, that is.
In the same movement, I silently summoned a napkin, into the path of the Incarcerous, and flicked it at Smith. It hit Smith with a wet thwap.
“What the —”
The napkin detonated.
Cloth exploded outward like uncoiled serpents, conjured from nothing but magic and fury. They bloomed from the napkin’s folds in a frenzied spiral, wrapping around Smith’s torso, arms, legs, even his mouth, faster than he could scream. The magic swarmed him, like the napkin had transformed into a predator and decided he was prey.
The force of it lifted him off his feet for a half-second. Then gravity took over, and he crashed backwards into the Ravenclaw table, splintering the edge and sending silverware flying. A bowl of porridge flipped, somersaulted, and landed squarely on his bound head.
He let out a muffled, strangled groan through the ropes that now wrapped around his jaw like a bit gag, his limbs jerking pointlessly like a trussed-up scarecrow knocked off its post.
“What’s that spell?” Lavender half-shrieked.
“Oh, honestly,” said Hermione, as if she was in class. “It’s not that complicated if you’ve actually read the Basic Spell Interference Principles. The Incarcerous spell doesn’t care who it hits—it just needs a valid conduit. If it strikes a person, it binds them. But if it strikes an object that isn’t magically shielded, it can anchor itself there temporarily.”
She glanced at the napkin still twitching on Zacharias’s face like a proud cat watching a mouse trap snap shut.
Wizards, I swear, are a curious bunch. Always looking out for new spells or knowledge to add to their repertoire. And given how both Cedric and Roger had actually stopped to listen, they fell in the same category.
“In this case,” Hermione lectured. “The napkin acted as a passive spell matrix. It wasn’t alive, so the spell didn’t trigger fully. But the magic stayed—latched on, dormant, like a trapped kinetic charge. Then Harry threw it at Smith, and because the spell had already been ‘programmed,’ the moment it made contact with a viable magical target—bam, it resolved instantly and completed its binding algorithm. From napkin to full-body restraint in less than a second.”
She sniffed, clearly impressed despite herself.
“He basically redirected the spell’s endpoint by hijacking its trigger logic. It’s… it’s actually quite clever. A little bit reckless. Definitely not Ministry-approved. But clever.”
She turned to me, trying to look stern but failing to hide the sparkle in her eyes.
“You know, if you spent half as much time studying magical theory as you do improvising it, you might actually get ahead of me someday. Maybe.”
I rolled my eyes. “You done?”
“Yes.”
I turned towards Davies and Diggory, and gestured, “Gentlemen, shall we?”
And the spellfight was back on.
Roger screamed—not a war cry, but a confused, panicked kind of shriek—and flung a Slashing Hex at me.
I summoned Hermione’s plate and hurled it in the same motion.
The hex met porcelain. The plate shattered mid-air, absorbing the brunt of it—but didn’t stop.
What was left of the plate’s core crashed into Roger’s face. He staggered with a yelp.
Before he could recover, I flicked my wand. A combination of Leg-locker, and the feather-light charm, aimed for his feet.
Roger flipped up like a cursed gymnast, legs locked, spinning mid-air. His wand fell with a clink as he hung there upside-down, rotating slowly like a forgotten marionette.
“If Snape were here,” I muttered, “he’d demand royalties. He does seem the —”
“EXPELLIARMUS!”
Diggory’s disarming spell had aimed true, but I slipped at the last moment, and the spell hit Ron, hurling a half-eaten sandwich out of his hand.
Diggory didn’t wait, following it up with a Concussus—a wide concussive blast that rocked the tiles near my feet. I danced back a step.
“Tut! A school prefect causing property damage! Ten points from Hufflepuff!”
Diggory’s reply was a piercing hex. Ooh, someone liked to play with fire! I’d almost have gotten hit if King Puff hadn’t telegraphed it so perfectly. The hex missed, but Diggory took that as permission to cast another. He didn’t even notice the thin stream of energy I hurled at him.
Diggory’s next spell hit true. The hex gouged against my left leg, only it was Cedric that screamed in pain, dropping to the floor. I flicked my wand, and switched my ‘leg’ back, before he could even process what just happened. Another flick, and he was disarmed, his wand flying into my palm.
Then, I slid my wand back into its holster.
Silence bloomed like a shockwave.
Chairs were overturned. Tables scraped back. Students stared, open-mouthed. Someone gasped. Someone else dropped a goblet.
I stepped forward.
“Let me spell it out,” I said, my voice slicing through the stunned air. “You can burn in insecurity and call it fairness. You can demand the rules be bent in your favor, calling it justice. I couldn’t be bothered with it any more than what you ate for lunch last week. But if you come after me, or anyone I care for, then you better make it fatal.”
I lowered my voice down to just enough that Cedric could hear it.
“Because you’ll only wish my response was.”
Cedric met my eyes. His jaw was clenched, pride still flickering under the bruises.
But he didn’t raise his wand again.
Smart boy.
“POTTER!”
I winced. Not from volume. From inevitability.
Professor McGonagall descended from the staff dais like the vengeance of a thousand disapproving transfiguration essays. Every step was a drumbeat of doom. And right behind her, of course, came the bat himself — Severus Snape. Silent, expression unreadable, robes whispering like they were sharing secrets I wasn’t invited to hear.
McGonagall stopped a meter from me. I could smell the disapproval.
“I will ask this only once,” she said. Her voice was the calm before a volcanic detonation. “What, Mr. Potter, do you believe you are doing?”
I opened my mouth. Before I could decide between “self-defense” and “public service,” Zacharias piped up from the floor.
“He started it!”
“Mr. Smith,” said McGonagall in a frosty tone. “The way it works is, first I ask you a question and then you tell me a lie. If you lie to me before I have had my chance to ask the question, it offends my sense of propriety.”
I blinked. That was a good one.
McGonagall wasn’t done yet. “You are currently lying on your back with a shoe missing and your wand under a pumpkin pasty. Also, far away from your table. I suggest you reconsider your claim of innocence.”
Roger tried standing. “We were defending ourselves—”
“From what?” I muttered. “A dessert?”
McGonagall fixed me with a look that could turn basilisk blood to ice. “Mr. Potter.”
“He hexed my treacle tart,” I said. “The treacle tart, Professor.”
I could see it — the twitch in her mouth she fought to suppress. I had her. For a moment.
“And then?”
“And then they decided spellfire was a good idea before breakfast,” I said. “I disagreed. Violently.”
Snape folded his arms and finally spoke. “You turned the Great Hall into a dueling stage. What is this? A reminder of your supposed bravado at the World Cup? Clearly, fame has gone to your head.”
Ah. There he was.
“I think it was a tactical response to being ambushed by three older students who assumed I’d sit quietly and apologize for existing.”
Hermione cleared her throat. “They did cast first, Professor.”
Snape’s eyes slid to her. “And I’m sure your view is entirely unbiased, Miss Granger.”
“Actually,” McGonagall cut in, “Miss Granger didn’t cast a spell or eat a spell. Her testimony is acceptable. I’m certain we can also examine other students?”
Zacharias groaned dramatically. “He always gets away with it—”
“Enough!” McGonagall snapped. “This is a school. Not Knockturn Alley.”
She turned her glare on me. “Mr. Potter, you will report to Professor Babbling for your detention. Perhaps she can find something for you to carve that isn’t your name into Hogwarts legend.”
“Looking forward to it,” I said. “She owes me a new treacle tart.”
“Smith, Davies, Diggory — greenhouses. Devil’s Snare re-potting duty.”
Zacharias paled. “You’re punishing me?”
“You’re lucky I’m not making you wear a sign.”
Snape spoke again, voice slow and silky. “Might I suggest, Deputy Headmistress, that Mr. Potter’s behavior is beginning to show a… pattern?”
There it was. Predictable as sunrise.
McGonagall nodded. “Oh, I’m quite aware. The problem is, so far that pattern seems to be surviving.”
Snape’s lips thinned.
I smirked.
McGonagall’s gaze met mine again, and this time, it wasn’t just stern. It was… knowing.
“You should know, more than anyone, that after recent events, the eyes of the world are on you, Potter. You’re a symbol now. I’d rather you didn’t become a warning as well.”
The message was clear: keep winning your fights — but don’t make them public.
With that, she turned around and left, with Snape pulling the three upperclassmen up, trailing behind him like ghosts.
And I felt absolutely fantastic.
....
....
The summons came in the form of a silver phoenix, flaring to life beside me just after lunch. It gave no message, only gestured with a flick of its beak — and vanished. Hermione glanced up from her reading and gave me a look that was half warning, half expectation. I didn’t say a word.
I found the gargoyle already shifting when I reached the corridor.
No password. No riddles. Just an open invitation.
The spiral staircase turned silently, the air colder than I remembered. The door to the Headmaster’s office stood ajar.
“Come in, Harry,” Dumbledore said before I knocked.
I stepped inside.
The room looked the same — shelves of instruments, the slow tick of mechanisms, the quiet burn of enchanted lamps. But the man behind the desk wasn’t wearing his usual serenity.
He was watching me like I was something he’d caged once and found now evolved.
“Have a seat.”
I did.
He steepled his fingers. “Now that you are here, we can get to the bottom of things,” he said, though there was little of his usual joviality.
“Sure,” I said. “What can I do for you, professor?”
“I believe Professors Snape and McGonagall found you in the middle of an altercation with three students, two of them seniors, this morning.”
“Oh, that,” I said, waving away like it was nothing. “It’s alright, professor. You don’t have to apologise, but I appreciate the gesture.”
“Apologise?”
I held back a laugh. Albus Dumbledore was a master of wordplay, so deliberately twisting the context along odd tangents worked perfectly against the man, since it used his own technique against him.
“Why yes, I was harassed and attacked by three students this morning, two of them being my seniors, one of which was the Headboy himself. No doubt you’re feeling bad about such a harrowing experience.”
“Please be serious,” said Dumbledore, turning grim. “You are here because you humiliated those three students in the Great Hall.”
Straight to it, then.
“I responded to being attacked.”
“They provoked you,” he corrected. “You responded with calculated force designed not only to overpower, but to embarrass. You made a display.”
“Would you rather I cried?” I asked. “Maybe let them hex me across the table while I played the victim?”
Dumbledore’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I’d rather you remembered that with power comes restraint.”
I leaned back. “That’s funny. Because from what I’ve seen, restraint seems to be reserved for those too afraid to act.”
“That is not what I teach.”
“No,” I said, “but it’s what this school expects. Silence in the face of aggression. Diplomacy when your name is being dragged through the mud. I responded — firmly. And they’ll think twice before trying again.”
“You are not here to be feared.”
“I’m not here to be the punching bag for insecure fools either.”
He stood and walked to the window, hands clasped behind his back. “There are lines, Harry. Lines between power and spectacle. Between strength and showmanship. What you did — it wasn’t just about stopping them.”
“You’re right,” I said. “It was also about stopping the next dozen who thought I’d just lie down and take it.”
He turned slowly. “You’ve changed.”
“Experience does that to people,” I retorted. “I stayed silent while people accused me of being the Heir of Slytherin back in second year. Fat lot of good that did to me, professor. And after everything that happened at the World Cup, you have people like Diggory and Davies and Smith complaining about being lost in my shadow.”
“They are just fellow students, Harry. You have to consider what it must look like from their point of view. Empathy is what defines us from animals, Harry. Don’t forget that.”
”Would you also have me empathize with Death Eaters then, professor? How about the werewolves that attacked innocents at the World Cup? Or Lucius Malfoy and his ilk that caused the explosion? Perhaps I should empathize with their cause and just drop dead?”
Dumbledore said nothing.
“No, professor,” I said, standing tall. “I mean to live my life. I am here to get my education, and I shall. I owe nothing to anyone. So if someone thinks they can blame me for their own failings, it’s better they get their wake-up call as quickly as possible.”
“Was that what today’s event was about? A wake-up call?”
I felt my frustration grow. Dumbledore, it seemed, operated from a strange logic that those in power had to make concessions for those without.
“A lesson. If you bully the wrong person, it can backfire badly.”
‘I’m disappointed, Harry,” he said. “I did not think you would be so cavalier about your new-found power and place in society. This is not what I had in mind when I allowed you to live alone.”
“Excuse me?” I asked, narrowing my eyes. “You allowed me? Since when does a Potter need ‘permission’ to settle at his own property? If anything, you kept me away from my heritage.”
“With due reason,” the man murmured. “Clearly, you’re not quite ready yet.”
“Yes, clearly keeping me ignorant would have been a better idea. Less opposition, less original thinking that way.”
Dumbledore studied me for a long moment. “You don’t flinch. You don’t hesitate. That’s not how boys your age move.”
I gave a thin smile. “Guess I’m not just a boy anymore.”
He didn’t argue. “Why now?”
“Because I’m done pretending I’m just Harry,” I said. “I am not. And even if I wanted to, the world won’t let me. Guess after facing the wolves, I’ve learnt to bare mine too.”
A long silence stretched.
“I dare say you have,” murmured the Headmaster. “You’re walking a dangerous path, Harry.”
I met his gaze. “I agree. Students should not have to face hostile groups in the Great Hall. So much for the safest place in all Britain. Wonder how Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will feel about it.”
He didn’t react to the silent threat. The unflappable Albus Dumbledore, as always. “If that is all, professor, I’d ask permission to leave.”
“No, there is something else,” said the Headmaster. “When we last met earlier, you claimed that you would be looking for ways to control the power of necromancy that you seem to have imbibed from Voldemort through the connection you share. Have you found any headway into that?”
Classic deflection tactic. But not a useless one. I’ll bite.
“Not as much as I’d like. But I have gotten someone to look into it.”
“Who?”
“Narcissa Black.”
Dumbledore opened his mouth to say something, but then likely reconsidered his words. “Have you… are you certain that trusting her with something like this is the right thing to do?”
“Clearly you don’t.”
“I don’t.”
A silent draft of wind pervaded through the room.
“Why? Because she’s Lucius Malfoy’s wife?” I asked, tilting my head slowly. “If you remember, Professor, she came up to me with evidence against Lucius.”
Dumbledore approached the table, and grabbed a lemon drop, putting it in his mouth. “I’m many things, Harry, and stupid is not one of them. And the one thing I like to think I’m fairly competent at is reading people.”
His tone was still genial, but now, where there was merely disappointment, now had a trace of steel in it.
I just raised a brow in response, thinking of the many, many times Dumbledore had failed at doing just that. Tom. Snape. Pettigrew. Sirius. Pretty much all of his defence professors… ever. It proved to be a nebulous statement at best and delusional at worst.
“Are you accusing me of lying to you?”
“I am.”
There it was. Another direct answer to the point of bluntness. Whatever Tonks must have revealed to him must have shocked the man to the point that he wasn’t even bothering with his usual doublespeak.
“You need to be a member of the Black family to even get past the entrance to the Black library, Professor,” I said in a no-nonsense tone. “Not only is she the only option available, she also swore an oath of service to me as the Lord of House Black in return for asylum. Unless you have someone else in mind, I clearly have no options.”
“I am assuming you are referring to Auror Tonks,” he said softly.
“Oh not at all, Professor,” I said. “I was actually thinking of her mother, Healer Andromeda Tonks. I assumed that as a healer, she was likely to know more about counters to such… dark magic, more than an Auror cadet anyway.”
Take that. The problem with Andromeda Tonks was that, apart from being fully committed to her job at St. Mungo’s, she was completely neutral to Dumbledore and his schemes. And with Narcissa now cut off from the Malfoy name, she’d be more likely to join her sister’s side.
Huh. Maybe I should ask Narcissa to exchange correspondence with her estranged sister.
A small amused smile formed on his wizened face. ‘I’d never have expected you to judge people by their social ranks, Harry. Auror Tonks is quite the skilled witch.”
“If you say so, Professor.”
“Very well,” Dumbledore said at last. “However, I am quite… uncertain how the scar might be affecting your psyche, Harry. You have recently been through a traumatic situation during the World Cup, and I’m uncertain how Voldemort would manipulate you through the scar. It is my desire that you embark on a study of Occlumency this term. I shall talk with Severus to arrange classes for you shortly.”
Ah. The You-are-hiding-something-from-me-so-I’ll-Legilimens-the-fuck-out-of-you tactic.
Very well. Two could play that game.
“Thanks for the offer, professor, but I’m sorry I’ll have to deny it,” I said, giving him an apologetic look. “The last time we met, you told me that I should develop a pragmatic approach to things instead of going ahead with my emotions. And after what happened at the World Cup… seeing what the Death Eaters are capable of… I didn’t want to risk it any longer.”
“I’m afraid you have me at a loss, Harry,” said Dumbledore. “Exactly what did you do?”
“Oh, I thought I was being obvious. I hired a tutor for the psychic arts.”
For the first time, I thought I saw something akin to panic in his eyes.
“You… Harry, psychic instruction is something that you can only gain from someone you instinctively trust. Hiring someone out of nowhere…. I cannot even begin how —”
“But I didn’t just hire anybody, Professor,” I said. “I asked Madam Bones, who’s currently the Potter Regent if you remember, to get me a tutor she personally knows and trusts. I mean, if you cannot trust the Director of the DMLE, who can you trust?”
“But Harry, Professor Snape would have been an ideal teacher while you’re at school.”
“Perhaps,” I said. “But like you said, psychic instruction should be taken from someone I can trust, and Professor Snape is… well, I trust him as far as I can throw him. With a hurling spell.”
“Severus has my complete trust, Harry.”
“Too bad you are not the one learning from him then, Professor. Either way, I have hired someone, and we have agreed to have lessons during the weekends. I was… informed that as a Lord, I am allowed to leave for the weekends?”
Dumbledore narrowed his eyes. “You will not reconsider?”
“My word is my bond.”
Dumbledore sighed. “That will be all, Mr. Potter.”
“Good day, Professor.”
Comments
Hadrian v.E.
Le epic 🤌.
Alkole
As long as albus isn't cartoonishly evil and against harry for the sake of being against harry idm if he's not all perfect
