Finely crafted silver instruments sat on the desk. Tiny holes in their surfaces puffed out wisps of steam, making the air warm and humid. Through the haze, the silhouettes of Melvin and Dumbledore blurred.
"Voldemort's specter still wanders the forests of Albania. He won't sit idly by while we prepare. Quirrell two years ago is a prime example; even without a body or power, he can seduce other dark wizards to act as his puppets."
Melvin's voice was low and serious. "We can't always be forced into a defensive position. Last time, Hogwarts saw through his plot and successfully guarded the Philosopher's Stone, but the unicorns in the Forbidden Forest paid the price."
"I know. The unicorn herd has been wary of wizards and distant from the school ever since... The Centaur elders and the unicorn leader haven't invited me for tea in a long time."
Dumbledore's eyes showed regret and sadness, yet he remained unmoved. "But we have not yet determined the number of Horcruxes. As long as one remains in the world, Voldemort will always find a way to return. If we can gain intelligence about the Horcruxes every time we defend against him, it might not be a bad thing."
Melvin picked up his now-cool hot cocoa and levitated the cup over one of the silver instruments to reheat it. "Sir, Headmaster, Dumbledore—stop comforting yourself. Not every problem has a clear answer. When will we uncover the whole truth about the Horcruxes? Ten years? Twenty?"
Dumbledore's smile faded into silence. The white steam obscured his face. "An old wizard has plenty of patience."
"But Voldemort doesn't. He knows the dark side of the soul intimately and excels at luring wizards into corruption. No one knows when he might reappear..."
Melvin lowered his voice. "The victims of the Wizarding War are too numerous to count. The Longbottoms have suffered their injuries for twelve years. Last time, Quirrell caused casualties among the unicorns. Who knows who will be next? A student? A professor? An Auror... or perhaps a Headmaster?"
Hearing about students and professors being harmed, Dumbledore's gaze dimmed. But at the mention of himself, his eyes sparkled again, and he even had the mind to crack a joke.
"If that day truly comes, I suspect I won't be shedding any tears."
Melvin rolled his eyes. "You're 112 years old. You've lived enough. Of course you won't cry. But have you thought about who can stand up to Voldemort once you're gone?"
Dumbledore looked at him with a beaming smile. The soft light and curling steam made his aged face look exceptionally kind.
"Don't look at me. I'm not even fond of regular overtime, let alone shouldering such a heavy responsibility."
Melvin waved his hand dismissively. "If Voldemort attacks and even you can't beat him, I'm packing my bags and heading straight back to Ilvermorny."
For a Hogwarts professor to blatantly say such things in front of the current Headmaster and the portraits of past Headmasters caused an uproar on the office walls. Headmaster Black's portrait widened his eyes, struggling against the hand covering his mouth to shout curses.
Melvin took down his reheated cocoa. "Professor, rather than passively defending, why not seize the initiative? Let him resurrect under our watch, and keep casualties to a minimum."
Dumbledore lowered his head in thought. The antique clock by the wall ticked away the seconds.
"You are right... Voldemort might seduce dark wizards to help him return." Dumbledore sighed, still hesitant. "Very well. We hold the advantage now; perhaps we should seize the initiative. Let me hear your plan."
The corner of Melvin's mouth curved upward. "There is no special plan. I simply want to make good use of Peter Pettigrew. He is a cowardly but capable fellow. Given a suitable reason, Voldemort won't turn away a servant who delivers himself to the door..."
On a shelf nearby, Fawkes the phoenix lay in a nest made of the Sorting Hat, chin resting on the brim, staring ahead while a fiery crest feather bobbed on his head.
The discussion between the young professor and the old Headmaster lasted a long time. It was mostly Melvin speaking, with Dumbledore occasionally asking for details.
"I have made mistakes before. When I first met Tom Riddle, I noticed his abnormality. I had many opportunities to intervene and stop him, but I chose to wait. I waited for him to gather Death Eaters, waited for him to become Voldemort, waited for him to start the Wizarding War."
Dumbledore sighed, his expression complex. "Perhaps you are right, Melvin. We should be more proactive."
"Rest assured, Headmaster." Melvin downed his hot cocoa in one gulp and stood up to leave.
Passing the shelf, Melvin scooped Fawkes out of the nest and cradled him in one arm. With his other hand, he took the Sorting Hat and placed it on his head. While stroking Fawkes' feathers, he conversed with the Hat.
Fawkes' black eyes went wide, looking utterly bewildered.
"Oh! I remember this head! The Slytherin wizard!"
The Sorting Hat's voice was gruff but full of surprise. "Tell Dumbledore to keep that bird away from me! I am the Sorting Hat left by the Founders, carrying their wisdom, not some bird's nest!"
Melvin couldn't help but smile. "I'll pass that on. But before that, oh wise Sorting Hat, I have a question to ask."
"Ask away, wizard."
"Do you remember Peter Pettigrew?"
"Peter Pettigrew... hmm, let me look, let me look..."
The Sorting Hat muttered, rummaging through its memories. "New student in 1971. Unremarkable, quiet. Shrank his neck timidly, afraid of conflict, hated risks... ended up in Gryffindor."
"From your description, Peter showed a lack of courage even then. Events after graduation proved this—he defected to the enemy during the war, betrayed his friends, ran from reality, and hid as a rat for over a decade."
Melvin spoke casually. "So I'm curious. Did he strongly request to go to Gryffindor himself?"
"Presumptuous fellow! Are you asking if I Sorted him into the wrong house?"
The Sorting Hat sounded irritable. "No! Never! The Sorting Hat has never regretted putting him in Gryffindor. I hoped he would find the courage buried in his heart!"
"Alright, understood."
Melvin quickly took off the Hat and put Fawkes back.
Watching his back as he left the office, Dumbledore took two boxes from a drawer. In the left box lay a diadem set with sapphires. In the right lay a diary bought from a Muggle newsstand, opened to the first page, which bore dried, yellowed water stains and faded ink marks.
On the yellowed paper, the words written last time had disappeared, but the recipient still hadn't replied.
"Merry Christmas, Tom," Dumbledore whispered, tapping the cover.
He took out a quill, dipped it in ink, and began to write a Christmas greeting.
---
Gryffindor Tower, Boys' Dormitory
The Christmas feast was over. In the dormitory, only Harry and Ron remained. The lights were out, the room quiet. Both lay in their beds, silent for a long time.
Harry tucked in the corner of his quilt, staring wide-eyed into the darkness, strangely unable to sleep.
He didn't know what he was thinking about. He had absorbed too much information in just a few hours. When things came one by one, he could handle them, but back in the quiet dormitory, they all seemed to rush back at once, making him dizzy.
Worry about Sirius's case, anticipation for the reunion promised by Professor Levent, curiosity about Dumbledore's method—thoughts bubbled up like foam and burst one by one.
"Harry, say..."
Ron burped. To soothe his heart broken by Scabbers, he had stuffed himself with desserts and Butterbeer back at the feast. He was uncomfortably full now.
"When Sirius can appear openly... does that mean you won't have to go back to the Dursleys? He's your godfather; he could be your guardian."
"Maybe," Harry said, feeling a flutter of hope.
"Can I come stay at your place over the summer then?"
"Why? Isn't the Burrow fun?"
"Now, whenever I see familiar things, I remember the days with Scabbers."
"What about your bed? Scabbers slept there too."
"Ugh..."
Ron gagged, his stomach feeling even worse.
---
Hermione lay in her four-poster bed, holding up the gold necklace around her neck, examining it right before her eyes. The lights weren't out yet. The timer swayed slightly, its reflection dancing.
Yawn...
The young witch rubbed the corner of her eye, physically exhausted but mentally wired.
After returning to the feast, it wasn't long before Headmaster Dumbledore and the other professors hurried away. She hadn't had time to catch Professor McGonagall to return the Time-Turner.
Her dormmates had gone home. Lavender was mourning her pet rabbit, Binky. Parvati and Padma were visiting relatives. She was alone in the large dormitory, free to turn out the lights whenever she wanted.
On her bedside table were Christmas cards from home—one from her parents, one from Bastian.
The boy had filled the card with writing, riddled with spelling mistakes and grammatical errors. He hadn't been to school before and had only learned to read and write in the last six months. The childish handwriting was full of longing.
"If it's Professor Levent, surely he can cure Bastian's illness."
She was still thinking about the events in the spacetime rift.
The swarming Dementors and Boggarts, the dazzling Patronuses, the overwhelming Obscurus, and Professor Levent's unimaginable spells.
She picked up her wand to extinguish the light and tucked the gold necklace away. The cold metal made her draw a sharp breath, followed by a long sigh.
This was the last night she would have the Time-Turner.
Hermione's eyes darted around, shining brightly in the dark.
She opened the Time-Turner again, looking at the hands and the hourglass, pondering for a moment.
[Point Me]
The hands spun normally. The sand flowed steadily. The Time-Turner showed no reaction.
Hermione wasn't annoyed. She giggled, pulled up her quilt, and went to sleep.
---
"James... Lily..."
In the Defense Against the Dark Arts office, Lupin sat by the window. A golden moon hung in the sky, nearly full save for a tiny sliver missing at the edge. Moonlight slanted through the window, illuminating the photo of the Order of the Phoenix in front of him.
Dark circles bruised the skin around his eyes. Waves of exhaustion washed over his weak body, yet his nerves were raw, and he couldn't sleep. His fingers traced the faces of his two old friends in their youth.
He let out a long sigh.
It sounded like remembrance, and also like a eulogy.
---
In the Potions Office.
Snape was counting the processed toads—the batch Harry and Ron had handled that afternoon.
Although the detention had been a fabricated excuse, if he found too many substandard ones or shoddy work, he wouldn't mind sentencing them to more detention.
The hibernating, ugly creatures smelled of death, their mucus giving off a strange, foul odor. The Potions Master checked them meticulously, expressionless.
One after another, while the clock on the wall ticked.
Before dawn arrived, Snape finished processing all the ingredients. He sat at his desk and looked around. Essays were graded, lesson plans for the latter half of the term were done... he had nothing to do.
He sat with his eyes closed for a long time, but sleep still eluded him.
Snape sighed dejectedly and went into the bathroom to wash up, preparing to greet the new day.
---
Muggle Studies Office.
Melvin woke up in his bedroom. He vaguely remembered having a good dream, but the moment he opened his eyes, most of the memory vanished, leaving only a blurry impression.
Jormungandr (Yurm) was still sound asleep. He picked up the young snake and tucked it into his pocket; the snake merely wriggled instinctively, coiling its body.
He washed, changed out of his pajamas, and tidied his appearance.
Throughout the process, Melvin felt clear-headed and light-bodied, with none of the grogginess of going to bed late and waking up early.
Wizards had magic flowing through their bodies. Even without casting spells, it healed them. This was why wizards generally lived longer than Muggles and didn't have to worry about various diseases.
Melvin had originally planned to have breakfast in his office, but after thinking about it, he decided to check the Great Hall.
Last night in the office, Dumbledore mentioned he had asked the portrait of former Headmaster Everard to keep watch at the Ministry and notify Fudge and Madam Bones immediately.
Over the past few months, Sirius Black had dominated the front page of the Daily Prophet. In his few public appearances, Fudge had looked harried and irritable.
Given the Minister's obsession with the fugitive, even during the Christmas holidays, he would likely rush to the school the moment he got the news. He should have arrived by now.
Melvin walked down the stairs, slowing his pace as he crossed the corridor. He could already hear the noise from the Great Hall—Cornelius Fudge was the loudest.
"Haha... Amelia, Barty, you really didn't need to come. You should be enjoying your holiday at home, getting ready for the Malfoys' Boxing Day party."
The short, stout wizard spoke in a suppressed, deepened voice, affecting a false gravitas. "This is Hogwarts. Black has been arrested. There are three teams of Aurors outside. Dolores and I are enough."
If Peter was a weak, flabby stoutness, always looking subservient and unnoticed, Fudge was a sturdy, bustling stoutness. His unique fashion sense made him instantly recognizable in a crowd.
He wore a pinstriped suit, a long cloak, a bright red tie, and carried a lime-green bowler hat under his arm. Even his pointed boots were purple.
Bones and Crouch remained noncommittal, not answering him. Umbridge stood by, listening with a smile fixed on her lips, though secretly gnashing her teeth.
That detestable Malfoy! He didn't send me an invitation to the Boxing Day party!
I'll show him next year!
She wore a delicate pink cardigan set with a bow at the neck—a cutesy, girlish outfit. But paired with Umbridge's face and the occasional glint of malice in her eyes, it looked profoundly wrong.
---