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Chapter 67
"Alright, I hope you can give me a satisfactory answer."
Karkaroff rose from his seat, brushing off his sleeves before casting a quick cleansing charm to banish the tavern's grime. He sniffed, displeased.
"If this tavern were in Durmstrang, I wouldn't bother with my wand. I'd punch the owner straight in the face. The conditions here are appalling."
"You might not win," Dumbledore murmured, his expression thoughtful. His long silver beard trembled faintly.
"…What?" Karkaroff wasn't sure he'd heard correctly.
"Nothing. Let's go."
And with that abrupt deflection, Dumbledore guided the pair out of the noisy bar and toward their destination.
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"So, you want to overturn the conviction of this half-giant named Hagrid?"
Karkaroff stood before Dumbledore's desk, his expression sharpening with irritation.
Dumbledore lifted a hand as if to explain, but Karkaroff cut him off immediately.
"Let me stop you right there. I am not interested in your sentimental nonsense. You're more than capable of delivering justice on your own. And besides, he's just a—"
He stopped.
Too late.
He had almost said bastard, but the fact that Madame Maxime was standing right there—and was clearly part-giant—finally caught up with him. Her face darkened instantly. She wasn't stupid; she knew exactly what he meant.
The old fox set me up again, Karkaroff cursed inwardly, forcing his stiff expression to soften. He needed to salvage this.
Just a few hours earlier, the three had arrived at the Hogwarts Headmaster's office through the Air Network—one of Dumbledore's privileges. He hadn't wasted time. He presented Karkaroff with a damaged black diary and asked for his expertise.
The summary was simple:
I don't dabble in the Dark Arts—not because I can't, but because I choose not to. But I need a favor from someone who does.
For Karkaroff, being personally requested by the world's most respected wizard had been flattering. The diary's lingering energy alone convinced him that the creator was an extraordinarily skilled dark wizard. Maybe Karkaroff could even glean something from it.
Durmstrang taught Dark Arts openly, and he himself had once been a Death Eater. This sort of magic didn't frighten him.
Hours passed.
The sun dipped slowly toward the horizon.
Karkaroff poured all his knowledge into the task. In the end, he managed to extract only several fragmented scenes and transfer them into Dumbledore's Pensieve.
From what could be salvaged, it appeared the half-giant Hagrid had been wrongly accused. But the diary was too damaged—most of the soul fragments gone or shredded beyond coherence.
This was all Karkaroff could do.
And now, after half a day of work, he was left with nothing but frustration—hence his earlier outburst.
"But this matter isn't unrelated to you," Dumbledore said gently. "Besides Hagrid's innocence… you also know the true mastermind behind the incident."
Karkaroff sneered.
"Hogwarts and Durmstrang aren't exactly neighbors, Dumbledore. The Triwizard Tournament has been canceled for Merlin knows how many years. How could I possibly know a Hogwarts student? Don't be absurd."
"This happened fifty years ago," Dumbledore replied calmly.
"Fifty—?"
Karkaroff froze mid-sentence.
Realization dawned.
Terror followed.
His face drained of color.
"That's—impossible. He must be dead! He has to be dead!"
His voice cracked. Words tumbled out, disjointed, frantic.
"This is just… just some cursed object he made. He vanished. He won't return. He won't. He won't."
He muttered the denial repeatedly, like a man possessed.
"Calm yourself, Karkaroff."
Dumbledore's voice, soft and steady, carried surprising weight. When Karkaroff met those piercing blue eyes, an involuntary calm washed over him.
Dumbledore rarely used Legilimency directly, but his mere presence could sway emotions.
"Last year," Dumbledore continued, "he infiltrated Hogwarts to steal the Philosopher's Stone—seeking to resurrect himself. He even killed a unicorn to prolong his life."
"This year, I searched half the Albanian Forest for him… but found nothing."
He paused.
"I believe you fear his return even more than I do."
"And that," Dumbledore said quietly, "is why I need your help."
He pressed forward relentlessly, not allowing Karkaroff's panic to spiral. He needed the fear to settle deep, to be remembered.
Traitors rarely met kind ends.
If Voldemort returned, his loyal followers—whether imprisoned in Azkaban or lurking in shadows—would flock back to him.
But those who had betrayed him?
Lucius Malfoy had been smart enough to avoid staking a clear claim. Karkaroff, however, was a marked traitor. His fate under Voldemort's rule would be grim—perhaps mercifully quick, perhaps unimaginably cruel.
Karkaroff knew this.
"I will stand with you," Madame Maxime said with firm resolve.
A woman of her stature didn't miss the implications. She made her position clear immediately.
"Thank you," Dumbledore said with genuine warmth. "Beauxbatons is fortunate to have a Headmistress like you."
And so, in the dim light of Dumbledore's office, the three heads of Europe's great magical academies reached a silent accord—united against the Dark Lord.
"…Damn."
Madame Maxime suddenly slapped her forehead.
"I forgot something."
"Is it urgent?" Dumbledore asked, already half-rising, wand in hand, ready to assist as host.
"It's not urgent…" Maxime murmured, looking embarrassed.
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