"The truth is a beautiful and terrible thing." — Dumbledore
A few days before the start of the new school year — inside the Minister's office
The Minister's office was a study in carefully curated authority.
Dark wooden shelves lined the walls, filled with neatly arranged files, enchanted documents, and the occasional trinket meant to impress rather than serve any real purpose. A large window overlooked the heart of the Ministry, though the pale light filtering through did little to brighten the heavy atmosphere inside. The ticking of a brass clock on the wall sounded just a little too loud, as if time itself had grown impatient.
Behind his desk stood Cornelius Fudge.
He wasn't sitting.
He rarely did when he felt cornered.
His fingers tapped lightly against the polished wood, betraying a tension he was trying—and failing—to conceal. His posture was rigid, his smile strained, the kind worn by a man attempting to maintain control over a situation that was steadily slipping through his grasp.
Across from him sat Lucius Malfoy.
Straight-backed, composed, and impeccably dressed as always, he looked every bit the image of aristocratic control. His silver cane rested lightly against his leg, one gloved hand draped over it with practiced ease. And yet—
There were moments.
Brief. Subtle.
A tightening of the fingers.
A near-imperceptible stiffness in his shoulders.
As though something unseen lingered beneath the surface, coiled and waiting, leaving behind echoes that his body had yet to forget.
It was faint.
But it was there.
And then, there was Albus Dumbledore.
Standing slightly to the side rather than taking a seat, he appeared entirely at ease, hands loosely folded behind his back. His expression carried that familiar warmth—gentle, patient, almost grandfatherly. The kind one might offer to children who had made mistakes, and would, in time, surely learn from them.
"That's imperative," Fudge said, twisting the pen between his fingers. "We have to keep the community united, especially with these… ridiculous rumors about the Dark Lord returning. Otherwise… well, the British wizarding population could… suffer… greatly."
There were already far too many foreign bounty hunters and self-proclaimed experts wandering around, all chasing rumors of a "rat" allegedly tied to some forgotten British magical hero. The Ministry already had its hands full with that mess.
"I understand your concern, Cornelius," Dumbledore said calmly, his hands resting on the armrests. "But his return is real. Now is not the moment to dismiss it, but to prepare."
"Preposterous!" Fudge exclaimed, leaning forward, voice cracking slightly. "You're trying… trying to… sow discord, to undermine me! And look at the insolent girl you sent into the Court!"
"I assure you, Cornelius," Dumbledore said gently, a small smile tugging at his lips, "I have no interest in the Ministry. But as for Harriet Potter… treat her as you would any child. Do not try to embarrass her, as you attempted. She is remarkable, and approachable if you speak to her with respect."
"Setting aside the Girl Who Lived, or even the Minister's post," Malfoy said, voice sharp with a hint of disdain, "Dumbledore… in your old age, must you fabricate stories of the Dark Lord's return just to maintain your influence?"
"Exactly!" Fudge said, waving a hand. "I know you… that is, perhaps you're overreacting! It's over now. The wizarding world is safe, perfectly safe."
"Ah, if only it were that simple," Dumbledore said, tilting his head slightly, voice soft but serious. "There are many stories swirling in my mind, indeed. But I can assure you… even at my age, I can distinguish reality from fiction." He glanced kindly at Malfoy. "And you, Lucius… you do not seem well. Can I help in any way?"
"Mind your business!" Malfoy snapped, straightening, voice cold and clipped.
"This cannot go on," Fudge said, forcing firmness into his voice, though his fingers betrayed him, tapping nervously against the desk. "The press is in a frenzy—they're tearing into both you and Harriet. Now, while her… disrespect toward my—our authority may well teach her a lesson, she remains a symbol of this country. And this whole affair makes the Ministry look weak!"
He straightened slightly, as if trying to convince himself as much as the others.
"These rumors must stop. And you must issue a public apology. Surely, Headmaster, you can see the bigger picture?"
"That, my dear Cornelius," Dumbledore said calmly, his voice steady and unhurried, "is not something I can do."
For a brief moment, the warmth in his expression faded, replaced by something firmer.
"If anything, moments like these are precisely when witches and wizards must lift their heads and stand for what is right once more… so that the tragedies of the past are not repeated."
"You—" Fudge began, his face reddening, irritation finally overtaking his restraint.
"While it is indeed… unfortunate that this situation has caused such a public uproar," Malfoy interjected smoothly, his voice cutting in before the Minister could lose control entirely, "perhaps we are focusing on the wrong issue, Minister."
Both Fudge and Dumbledore turned toward him.
"What do you mean by that, Lucius?" Fudge asked, eager to regain footing.
"The problem," Malfoy continued, his pale gaze settling coldly on Dumbledore, "may lie in how the school is being managed by our esteemed Headmaster."
He paused, just long enough to let the implication settle.
"After all, he has held the position for… quite some time."
His lips curved faintly, though there was no warmth in it.
"As for Miss Potter's behavior… one might reasonably assume it reflects the influence of her education."
A brief, almost theatrical sigh escaped him.
"Her parents are, regrettably, no longer here to guide her."
The false sympathy in his tone was almost insulting.
"And if such blatant disrespect is permitted… one must wonder what kind of behavior is being cultivated within Hogwarts. What other issues may arise from an institution entrusted with shaping the majority of our future citizens?"
Silence followed.
Then—
Dumbledore's expression vanished.
Completely.
For the first time, there was no warmth, no indulgence—only something cold, sharp, and unmistakably present beneath the surface.
"To speak of the dead in such a manner, Lucius…" he said quietly, his voice losing all softness, "I cannot help but wonder how far you have strayed to find yourself here."
He took a slow step forward.
"But I will not allow you to cast doubt upon my students. I am Headmaster of Hogwarts, and I will not accept the suggestion that the children entrusted to this school are anything less than deserving of that trust."
His gaze sharpened slightly.
"I would advise you to reconsider your words."
The air in the room grew heavier.
Fudge felt it immediately—his breath hitching, his hands trembling more noticeably now.
Even Malfoy, though he did not step back, found his posture stiffening, something instinctive in him reacting to the pressure.
Still, he did not retreat.
"I mean no offense, Headmaster," Malfoy said, his tone smoothing out, though just a fraction less confident than before. "But perhaps this is precisely how we reassure the public in times like these."
He folded his hands neatly over his cane.
"By demonstrating that Hogwarts—the institution from which most of our citizens emerge—remains cooperative with the Ministry."
A slight tilt of his head.
"So that even after leaving its walls, they carry with them the reassurance that they are not… abandoned."
He let the idea linger, then added lightly:
"For instance… a formal inspection of the school during the upcoming academic year."
Fudge immediately seized on it.
"Yes! Exactly!" he said, almost too quickly. "That would calm everyone down—restore confidence, reassure the public… yes, yes, that's exactly what we need."
He looked at Dumbledore with renewed eagerness.
"Well, Headmaster? What do you say?"
Dumbledore remained silent for a moment.
Then, slowly, the warmth returned to his expression, as though nothing had happened at all.
"Well," he said lightly, a hint of amusement in his eyes, "I have nothing to hide. If it brings you peace of mind, then I see no reason to refuse."
He clasped his hands behind his back again.
"Though I can assure you… there will be no problems."
A small smile followed.
"Very well. I suppose I can do this—for the good of our dear Britain."
And just like that, the tension seemed to dissolve.
Or rather—shift.
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled faintly.
"Now then… speaking of Hogwarts," he continued, his tone brightening, "perhaps I could offer you a small preview of the wonders one might find there."
Neither man had time to respond.
"I recall one student—ah, young Mr. Whitby—who once gifted me a pair of green socks with little bears stitched upon them for Yule. A most thoughtful gesture. Quite a remarkable boy…"
And he continued.
And continued.
And continued.
Minutes turned into an hour.
Then two.
Then four.
A relentless stream of anecdotes—students, gifts, peculiar incidents, harmless chaos—delivered with unwavering enthusiasm.
Fudge's smile had long since become rigid, his eyes dull with suffering.
Malfoy, for all his composure, had not escaped unscathed either, his fingers tightening ever so slightly around his cane.
Dumbledore, of course, noticed.
He simply chose not to.
After all…
It was only fair they suffered a little.
As he stepped out of the meeting, Dumbledore found his thoughts drifting, almost inevitably, toward Harriet Potter.
His young protégée.
A faint smile touched his lips, though it carried a trace of something more complex beneath it. She had always possessed a certain… rebellious streak. But after this past year, it had sharpened, grown into something far more defined—far more deliberate.
Not that he hadn't noticed.
Not that he failed to understand the meaning behind those small gestures, the subtle defiance in her words, the way she looked at him.
On the contrary… he understood it all too well.
After all, had their positions been reversed—had he stood where she now stood—he was quite certain he would have been no different.
Perhaps even worse.
And yet…
That was precisely why he did not intervene.
Let her rebel.
Let her grow.
Perhaps, unlike him, she would one day step onto a stage far greater than the one he himself had been confined to.
There were paths even he could not walk.
Battles even he could not fight.
And cages…
Cages that could not be broken by strength alone.
A quiet sigh escaped him as he adjusted his robes, his gaze distant for a brief moment.
All he could do now… was watch.
And hope.
"Grow stronger, Harriet," he murmured softly to himself. "The cage we are trapped in is a powerful one… and even I cannot break it."
The Day of Departure
Harriet stood before the train, the low hum of voices and movement surrounding her like distant noise.
Eyes were on her.
Some friendly.
Some indifferent.
Some… curious.
And a few—sharp, almost amused.
It wasn't anything new. She had long grown accustomed to being watched. Still… it felt heavier than usual today. More deliberate.
She ignored it.
Her thoughts drifted elsewhere.
To Yuna.
She hoped things were going smoothly on her end. At the very least, they had ways to stay in contact. Harriet carried a phone—useless within Hogwarts, of course, but more than enough if she stepped far enough away from the castle grounds. And if that failed…
Well.
She had left Yuna with an owl.
Reliable. Discreet.
In this world, sometimes the old methods were still the best.
More importantly, she had managed to connect her with Sirius.
That, in itself, had gone better than expected.
Sirius had been… surprisingly cooperative.
That tilted things slightly in her favor.
For once, she wasn't moving alone.
A small breath escaped her.
It'll be fine, she told herself—more out of habit than conviction.
Not like she had much of a choice anyway.
Her gaze drifted over the crowd, lingering for a fraction of a second on the students watching her a little too closely… before losing interest just as quickly.
I didn't come to this world just to play along with it.
If that had been the case, she would have stayed home.
Her lips curved ever so slightly.
I'll do things my way.
Let them watch. Let them expect things.
In the end… it didn't really matter.
I'll become strong enough that no one can force me to do anything I don't want.
And if they tried—
Well.
That would be their problem.