Hogwarts – Dumbledore's POV
The fire crackled gently in the hearth, its warm glow casting flickering orange halos across the polished oak of the faculty meeting chamber. Outside, rain tapped rhythmically against the high, arched windows of the castle, an almost melodic backdrop to the gathering within. The heavy scent of aged parchment mingled with the rich aroma of conjured tea and lingering hints of faint magical wards, a familiar combination that usually brought a sense of comfort and routine. Yet, an unmistakable tension hung in the air; nothing about this day felt ordinary.
At the center of the long, imposing table, a prominent headline loomed, projected brilliantly from a freshly opened copy of The Daily Prophet, its stark black letters promising disruption and intrigue.
"Youngest Dual Inventor in ICW History Partners with House Zabini – Vienna's Crowned Alchemist?"
Albus Dumbledore sat quietly at the head of the long table, his fingers steepled thoughtfully beneath his chin. The flickering candlelight cast gentle shadows across his face, emphasizing the weight of his expression. Around him, the Hogwarts faculty watched the floating headline with a mixture of anxiety and disbelief, as if it were an ominous proclamation of doom.
"Confirmed," McGonagall said at last, her voice steady but laced with an underlying tension. "Both potions were certified independently. The ICW's official transcripts arrived this morning. The first is the Rejuvenation Elixir, and the second—the one we've all been anticipating—is the Vigorem Draught."
Her tone was somber, clipped, reminiscent of someone delivering the terms of a lost duel, with all the finality that such an admission entailed. The room fell silent, the weight of her words hanging thick in the air.
But not everyone shared her grim outlook.
"Oh, I knew it!" exclaimed Filius Flitwick, his voice bubbling with excitement as he swung his legs slightly from the high-backed chair. He leaned forward, his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. "I knew he'd make something of himself! And now, just look at him!" His pride was palpable, a stark contrast to the rest of the faculty's apprehension.
Minerva blinked in surprise. "You're proud?"
Flitwick raised an eyebrow, a glint of pride illuminating his usually gentle demeanor. "Of course I am. I laid the groundwork for his runic studies. I dueled with him every week for three years, honing his skills and pushing him to excel. It was I who encouraged him to pursue his secondary certification in Ancient Alchemical Scripts, even when others overlooked his potential."
His expression shifted, the soft-spoken Ravenclaw vanishing for a moment, replaced by a fierce intensity. "And it was I," he continued, his voice steadfast, "who wrote his recommendation for the Ilvermorny exchange program. I detailed exactly the kind of wizard Severus Snape could become if given the right opportunities."
"Shafiq," murmured Pomona, her voice barely above a whisper as the implications of Flitwick's words settled in.
Flitwick shook his head slowly. "It doesn't matter now. Not really. That ambition was always there, simmering beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to ignite."
Across the room, Poppy Pomfrey sipped serenely from her steaming mug of lavender tea, the fragrant aroma wafting gently in the air.
"You all remember him as sullen," she said, her voice calm and steady, resonating with a quiet strength. "But I remember the boy who used to come to me, often battered and bruised from Gryffindor 'pranks' that somehow went unpunished. I am the one who taught him how to brew pain-numbing potions, a skill he mastered all too well when he preferred not to be seen limping through the dark, winding dungeons."
Minerva glanced down at her hands, her fingers trembling slightly as memories flooded back.
"I taught him the delicate art of wound-cleansing charms in the cozy confines of my office," Poppy continued, her gaze unwavering. "He even brewed fever reducers for the younger muggleborn students, those who couldn't afford store-bought potions. And not once—not a single time—did anyone in this room inquire why he possessed a deeper understanding of trauma magic than half our seventh-years."
Her gaze flicked towards Dumbledore, a hint of hostility in her expression.
"I also provided him with a heartfelt recommendation," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "Ilvermorny reached out for faculty insights, and I told them he was the rarest talent this school had ever witnessed—and the most unprotected."
A heavy silence enveloped the room. It was the kind of silence that pressed uncomfortably against the ribs, a palpable weight that settled not out of an absence of words, but because every thought worth expressing bore a pain too deep to articulate.
Dumbledore gazed into the flickering fire, his attention consumed by the dance of the flames as they cast shifting shadows over the surrounding walls. The comforting crackle of the wood as it split and burned—a mixture of old oak surrendering to the heat—filled the otherwise still air.
He did not turn to face the others seated around the long wooden table; he felt no need to. They were all painfully aware of Severus's brilliance. They recognized his potential, the sharp intelligence that sparked behind his dark eyes. They had witnessed his anger, of course, but also his curiosity, an insatiable thirst for something beyond the mundane—a yearning for significance that often went unacknowledged.
Yet, they had stood by as the Marauders mocked him, their laughter echoing cruelly in the corridors, letting him be humiliated and isolated. They comforted themselves with the belief that this was merely a rite of passage, adolescent rivalry born from the clash of different houses—an unfortunate but trivial part of growing up.
They cloaked it all with terms like discipline and balance, rationalizing their inaction with the feeble excuse of "boys will be boys."
They had failed to see the deeper repercussions of their negligence. Or perhaps they had seen all too clearly and simply made the conscious choice to look away.
He had reassured himself, when Severus chose to participate in the exchange program and left for Ilvermorny, that it was nothing to worry about. After all, the boy was merely a temporary absence, someone whose absence could be overlooked. He told himself that time would mend the situation and that Severus would return in time for his NEWT year.
However, as the days turned into weeks and those weeks stretched into months, that initial reassurance began to crumble. The distance that had once seemed minimal transformed into something far more profound and unsettling. Severus had completely transferred out of Hogwarts after spending only six fleeting months at Ilvermorny, severing the ties that had once held him in place.
Now, Severus embodied something entirely different—something that could no longer be ignored. He represented power. A formidable power that was now beyond reach, leaving a lingering sense of loss. He had become a voice of his own, answering to no one and carving his own path, leaving behind the shadows of his former life.
Flitwick's voice broke softly through the stillness of the room. "He's building a dynasty. And partnered with the Zabini's. It's not out of fear for his safety, mind you, but rather for leverage. I taught him to differentiate between the two."
Dumbledore finally lifted his gaze, the weight of Flitwick's words settling heavily in the air.
Across the table, Horace Slughorn shifted uneasily in his chair, the jovial warmth that typically radiated from his round face now absent. He appeared grey and aged, the years evident in the deep lines etched upon his forehead.
"I… never extended an invitation to him for the club," Horace admitted slowly, his gaze fixated on the newspaper headline from the Prophet that still floated ominously above the table, its implications hanging like a storm cloud. "I thought he was too bitter, too sharp-tongued. He lacked the pedigree that we valued. And honestly, I was wary of upsetting the others—Potter, Black, Nott, Rosier… They hailed from the right families, with long-standing names steeped in tradition. I couldn't very well advocate for a half-blood from Spinner's End, could I?"
Minerva made a low sound of disgust, her disapproval palpable.
Horace winced at her reaction, but pressed on with a sense of resignation. "I was aware of his interest in potions. Merlin, of course I was. I thought he was merely an enthusiastic hobbyist, nothing more than that. So when he approached me asking for a recommendation to join Ilvermorny's exchange program, I signed it without hesitation. I thought—well, let him travel and broaden his horizons. Learn some discipline. I never once considered that I might be signing away a once-in-a-century mind."
"You weren't the only one," Poppy said, her voice tight with suppressed emotion. Her hands were tightly clenched in her lap, a subtle manifestation of the turmoil brewing beneath her calm exterior. Until now, she had remained largely silent, but the expression etched on her face conveyed years of quiet understanding and unspoken burdens.
"For five long years, I treated that boy after your golden boys hexed him half to death," she continued, her tone icy and filled with conviction. "Broken fingers. Split lips. Burned skin. Each time, I healed him, piecing him back together. But with every return, he came back quieter, more precise, like a shadow of the boy he once was. And every time, I took it upon myself to teach him a little more—about anatomy, magical injury, regenerative theory—because deep down, I knew that no one else was going to care for him, to guide him."
McGonagall flinched at Poppy's words, the weight of guilt evident in her features, but she chose to remain silent, the tension in the air palpable.
Horace, overwhelmed by the gravity of the conversation, lowered his head, unable to meet anyone's gaze.
Across the table, Professor Whitby cleared his throat, trying to break the heavy silence. "You do all realize the world's noticed, yes?" he said, his voice steady but laced with concern.
Pomona Sprout shot him a sharp look, her eyes filled with defiance and understanding. "We're not blind, Whitby," she retorted, the urgency of the situation pressing against them all.
"No," Whitby replied, his tone resolute. "But perhaps you were."
The silence that followed wasn't filled with anger; instead, it carried a weight of shame.
Whitby pointed at the paper headline hovering above them. "He didn't just leave us behind. He published groundbreaking work. He secured patents. He forged alliances with one of the most influential business-political families in Europe. And we—Hogwarts—we barely merit a footnote in his narrative. Our best potioneer since Damocles Belby, and yet he had to venture to another continent to gain the recognition he deserved."
Minerva's mouth tightened into a thin, pale line, her expression a blend of frustration and concern. "And what are we supposed to do now?"
Whitby remained unfazed, maintaining his steady gaze. "We're losing our standing—not just here at home but among foreign academies, magical think tanks, and even in media circles. The latest ICW quarterly innovation report didn't even mention a single Hogwarts student. Ilvermorny, on the other hand, boasted five."
Sprout interjected, her tone sharp and clipped. "And it's not just the ICW! I've had three Muggleborn parents approach me about the exchange program in just the last two weeks. They're doubting Hogwarts's safety, especially with the recent attacks escalating and the unsettling whispers circulating."
Flitwick's brow knitted in concern. "Whispers?" he asked, his voice barely above a murmur.
"That You-Know-Who is growing in power," Sprout replied, her tone heavy with gravity. "There are rumors circulating that he already has supporters within the Ministry of Magic. And there's fear that the school could be his next target."
Minerva cast an acute glance at Dumbledore, her eyes sharp with concern. "Is there truth to that?" she pressed, urgency evident in her voice.
Dumbledore remained silent for several long seconds, the weight of the situation settling heavily in the room. Finally, he nodded slowly, a look of deep seriousness etched on his face. "Yes," he affirmed, a hint of weariness lacing his words. "More than I'm comfortable admitting."
The flickering flames in the fireplace crackled and danced, filling the tense air with a comforting warmth, contrasting the unease that hung over them.
"We're not just losing students," Whitby interjected, his voice tinged with anxiety. "We're losing faith in the very essence of what Hogwarts stands for. Muggleborns are seeking to leave—there's a panic among them. Purebloods are fracturing into factions, divided by loyalty and fear. The children are picking sides before they even understand the stakes involved."
"We've encountered this situation before," McGonagall murmured, her voice heavy with concern.
"Yes," Dumbledore replied, his gaze intense. "But not in this manner."
Because this time, he realized, the vital asset we desperately required vanished before the conflict had a chance to unfold.
He directed his attention once more to the newspaper clutched in his hands.
SEVERUS SHAFIQ: Youngest Dual Inventor. Zabini Alliance. Summit Power Shift.
Not Snape.
Shafiq.
The name seared into his mind, stinging like salt on an open wound.
A mind of his caliber could have altered the course of events. He could have become the focal point around which a more formidable resistance might flourish.
Yet now… he stood alone, serving no one.
Not the Order that once fought for a noble cause.
Not the Ministry, mired in its own bureaucratic struggles.
Not even the hidden pockets of rebellion lurking in the shadows.
He was devoted solely to his own agenda, pursuing a path that was entirely his own.
And Dumbledore found himself without a place at that table, exiled from the decisions that now shaped the future.
"He was never ours to lead," Flitwick remarked softly, a note of regret lacing his words. "Only ours to protect. And we failed at even that."
"No," Dumbledore interjected, a deep sorrow lacing his tone. "I failed."
A heavy pause settled over the room, thick with unspoken fears and the weight of impending conflict. "We'll need to double the protective enchantments," he added, his voice steady but laced with urgency. "If Voldemort tightens his grip on the wizarding world, Hogwarts will become the last bastion of hope for many."
McGonagall's brow furrowed as she considered the implications. "And what if he comes here himself?" she inquired, her tone a mix of concern and resolve.
"Then we do what Hogwarts was made to do," Dumbledore replied, his expression fierce with determination. "We stand and fight for what we believe in."
And in that pivotal moment, it became clear: the war had not just begun; it was already upon them, looming ever closer like an impending storm.
Unknown Chamber – The Dark Lord's POV
Tom Riddle sat resolutely on his throne of iron and onyx, his fingers interlaced in a steeple of contemplation, as a single piece of parchment floated before him. His expression remained impassive, revealing nothing of the turmoil that churned in his mind. Yet, the names inscribed upon the page—Zabini, Prince, Shafiq—carved new and intricate paths into the depths of his thoughts, igniting a flicker of intrigue.
He recalled the boy vividly: quiet, sharp-witted, with eyes that seemed to pierce through pretense. This boy was unfazed by the raw power that surrounded him, a power that had not yet justified its fangs. Riddle had not thought much of him before, seeing him merely as another pawn on the chessboard of his ambition. But now, the boy demanded his attention.
The Dark Lord rose from his seat, his movements deliberate and calculated. "The boy has forged his alliances," he murmured to the empty air around him, a web of strategizing unfurling in his mind. "Let's see how well they shield him… when the board turns."
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