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Albus Dumbledore
Albus Dumbledore watched the silver instruments on his desk whir and puff, their delicate mechanisms tracking magical disturbances throughout the castle. He had always found comfort in their gentle hums and occasional whistles—like old friends whose conversations had long since settled into familiar patterns. Tonight, however, they seemed agitated, spinning faster than usual, emitting sharper whistles that pierced the evening quiet.
Rather like my own thoughts, he mused, stroking his beard absently.
The light in his office had begun to fade, painting the bookshelves in amber hues that reminded him of phoenix fire. Fawkes sat motionless on his perch, eyes half-closed but watchful. The bird had been particularly alert these past few days, as though sensing the tension that had descended upon the castle like an invisible fog.
When the first knock came at his door, Dumbledore straightened in his chair, composing his features into the serene expression his staff had come to expect. The mask of the all-knowing headmaster—sometimes he wondered if any of them suspected how often he was simply making his best guess, like everyone else.
"Enter," he called, his voice carrying the warm authority that had become second nature after so many decades.
They filed in one by one, his heads of houses and the other professors, their faces bearing varying degrees of concern. The absence of Binns was, as always, unremarkable—the ghost rarely involved himself in matters concerning the living students. Dumbledore watched them arrange themselves around his office. Minerva naturally took the chair to his right, her posture as rigid as ever, while Filius claimed the cushioned footstool that accommodated his stature. Severus, predictably, remained standing, positioning himself slightly apart from the others, back against the wall where he could observe everyone.
Mirabel Garlick—still new to her role as Head of Hufflepuff after Pomona's semi-retirement to focus solely on Herbology—seemed uncomfortable, fidgeting with the sleeve of her robes. Young, he thought, but then they all seemed young to him these days, even Minerva with her silver-threaded hair.
"Thank you all for coming," Dumbledore began, conjuring additional chairs with a flick of his wand. "I believe we all understand the purpose of this gathering."
The missing student. Gregory Goyle. Four days now, and not a trace—most unusual for a boy who had never shown particular talent for stealth or independence. In Dumbledore's long experience, when students vanished, they were either hiding (typically discovered within hours in some broom closet or forgotten classroom) or they had left the grounds entirely. Goyle had done neither, it seemed.
"I'd like each of you to share your thoughts," he continued, folding his hands on his desk. "Your honest assessment, without holding back. Minerva, perhaps you could begin?"
McGonagall's lips thinned momentarily, a sign she was organizing her thoughts.
"I find it difficult to believe the boy simply wandered off," she said, her Scottish brogue more pronounced as it always was when she was troubled. "Gregory Goyle has never struck me as the adventurous sort—certainly not brave enough to venture beyond the castle walls alone, especially in these times."
She adjusted her spectacles, a gesture Dumbledore recognized as her gathering momentum for a more controversial point.
"As for his father collecting him... well, even with Goyle Senior's connections to You-Know-Who, I cannot imagine he would risk coming to Hogwarts, not with you here, Albus." The faith in her voice would have been touching if it didn't carry such a burden of expectation.
"My suspicion," she continued, "is that the boy was following orders—perhaps from Draco Malfoy, perhaps from someone else—and found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time."
Her gaze flickered toward Severus, then back to Dumbledore. "I do not believe any of my Gryffindors had anything to do with his disappearance. They may be reckless at times, but they are not... malicious."
The hesitation before her final word did not escape Dumbledore's notice. Minerva had always defended her lions fiercely, but even she had moments of doubt. He nodded thoughtfully, turning his attention to Mirabel Garlick.
The young woman straightened under his gaze. At twenty-seven, Professor Garlick was the youngest Head of House in over a century, a fact that had raised eyebrows among the Board of Governors. Dumbledore had supported her appointment; her connection with the students was remarkable, and Hufflepuff House had flourished under her care these past months.
"Professor Garlick," he prompted gently. "Your thoughts?"
"I can't imagine any of my Hufflepuffs deliberately harming another student," she said, her voice carrying the slight lilt of her Welsh upbringing. Her red hair—so vibrant it reminded Dumbledore painfully of Lily Evans—was tied back in a practical plait that reached her mid-back. "They value fairness above all else."
She paused, fingers tracing the embroidered badger on her sleeve. "But... Cedric's death is still fresh for many of them. And after Luna Lovegood was found bleeding in the snow..." Her green eyes clouded. "I can't rule out the possibility that one of them might have sought justice, especially if they believed Goyle was responsible."
Interesting, Dumbledore thought, how quickly the rumor had spread that Goyle was behind the attack on Miss Lovegood. No evidence had been presented, no accusations made publicly, yet the student body seemed to have reached this conclusion collectively.
Filius Flitwick cleared his throat, drawing Dumbledore's attention. The Charms professor sat with perfect posture despite his diminutive stature, his feet dangling well above the floor.
"My Ravenclaws tend to seek knowledge rather than confrontation," he squeaked, gesturing expressively with his small hands. "I would be very surprised if any of them took direct action against Mr. Goyle."
The tiny professor's expression grew troubled. "However, Luna Lovegood is one of ours, even if she doesn't have many friends within Ravenclaw. She is... unique in her perspectives, but she is still under our protection."
Filius adjusted his spectacles, a nervous habit he shared with Minerva. "It's possible someone from my house felt compelled to address what they perceived as an injustice, particularly if they believed the usual channels of authority had failed."
The implied criticism was clear, and Dumbledore felt its weight. The attack on Luna Lovegood had indeed gone unpunished—no culprit identified, no consequences assigned. In the absence of justice, people often sought to create their own. It was a pattern as old as humanity itself, one he had observed countless times throughout his long life.
The moment for Severus had arrived, and Dumbledore turned to the Potions Master with a sense of foreboding. Severus Snape stood with his arms crossed, shadows playing across his sallow features in a way that emphasized the hollows beneath his cheekbones. He looked, as he often did, like a man carrying invisible wounds.
"Severus?" Dumbledore prompted, knowing what was coming but allowing it nonetheless.
"None of my Slytherins would harm Goyle," Snape stated flatly, his voice carrying that particular silken quality it adopted when he was being deliberately provocative. "They understand the value of house loyalty, unlike certain... other students."
His dark eyes glittered with malice. "I believe Potter is responsible for Goyle's disappearance. Perhaps even his death."
The words fell into the room like stones into still water, creating ripples of tension that Dumbledore could almost see. Minerva's outrage was immediate and fierce.
"That is an outrageous accusation, Severus!" she snapped, her Scottish accent thickening further with anger. "Potter may bend rules, but he is not a murderer!"
"No?" Snape's lip curled. "The boy has shown increasing disregard for rules and boundaries. He believes himself above consequences—"
"As opposed to your Slytherins?" Minerva interrupted, spots of color appearing high on her cheekbones. "Many of whom have parents who are Death Eaters? Even you must admit some of them might have had reason to silence Goyle."
Severus's expression darkened dangerously. "My students understand discretion, at least. Unlike Potter, who seems incapable of controlling his emotions since the death of his godfather last year."
His voice dripped with contempt as he continued, "Black was as useless as a wizard could be, but for some unfathomable reason, Potter had affection for the worthless man—"
"Enough." Dumbledore did not raise his voice, but power resonated in the single word, enough to silence the room instantly. Even Fawkes stirred on his perch, feathers rustling in the sudden quiet.
He regarded Severus with disappointment rather than anger. "We understand your position, Severus. In the future, I suggest greater care with your words."
Severus inclined his head fractionally, acknowledging the admonishment without yielding his position.
Dumbledore looked around at the assembled faculty, noting the tension that had settled over them. Division was the last thing they needed now, with darkness gathering beyond their walls. Voldemort would be delighted to see Hogwarts fracturing from within.
"I want all sixth and seventh-year students questioned," he said firmly. "All of them, without exception. No house is to be excluded from this investigation."
He met each of their gazes in turn, his blue eyes serious behind his half-moon spectacles. "We cannot afford to overlook any possibility, nor can we allow our personal biases to color this investigation. A student is missing. That must be our primary concern."
They nodded, even Severus, though his agreement seemed reluctant at best. One by one, they filed out of his office, carrying with them their assignments and their doubts. Only Severus remained behind, as Dumbledore had expected he would.
When the door closed, leaving them alone, the atmosphere shifted subtly. The performance ended, masks adjusted. Their relationship had always existed on multiple levels—headmaster and teacher, leader and spy, friend and... not quite enemy, but something more complex than ally.
"Well, Severus?" Dumbledore asked quietly, leaning back in his chair. His hand—the one blackened by the curse, carefully concealed by a glamour charm during the meeting—throbbed with a dull, persistent pain. A reminder of mortality, of time running short. "What are your true thoughts on this matter?"
Snape's posture relaxed marginally, though his expression remained guarded. "I have no concrete evidence that Potter killed Goyle," he admitted, moving to the window where he could look out over the darkening grounds. "But I would not rule out his involvement."
Dumbledore nodded, having expected as much. "And Gregory's father? What has been his reaction?"
"Furious, as one might expect," Snape replied, his reflection in the window glass appearing ghostly and insubstantial. "He demands answers I cannot provide. The Dark Lord..." He paused, seeming to search for the right words. "The Dark Lord appears strangely pleased by the situation."
That gave Dumbledore pause. Tom Riddle's pleasure rarely boded well for anyone. "Pleased? In what way?"
"He seems to relish the possibility that Potter might have killed a fellow student," Snape said, turning back to face Dumbledore. "He spoke of it as a... corruption. A step toward darkness."
Of course he would, Dumbledore thought wearily. Tom had always been fascinated by the corruption of innocence, by the transformation of light into shadow. It was, perhaps, the one thing he truly understood about love—its capacity to be twisted into something unrecognizable.
"This could all be resolved quite simply," Snape continued. "Allow me to use Legilimency on Potter. The truth would be revealed immediately."
Dumbledore shook his head. "No, Severus. I will not permit such an invasion. Harry would never commit such an act."
The certainty in his voice was genuine. Despite his many worries about the boy, despite the darkness that sometimes showed itself in Harry's eyes when he spoke of Voldemort, Dumbledore could not bring himself to believe Harry capable of murder. Not yet. Not while he still had choices.
Snape's expression tightened with frustration. "You are too determined to see the good in people, Headmaster. You refuse to acknowledge the darkness gathering around you until it is too late."
There was something personal in the accusation, a bitterness that went beyond their current disagreement. Dumbledore regarded his spy thoughtfully, wondering not for the first time how much of Severus's soul remained intact after so many years of divided loyalty.
"Perhaps," he conceded softly. "If I'm going to make a mistake, I'd prefer it to be by trusting too much rather than by doubting too much."
The younger man made a sound that might have been a scoff, turning once more to stare out the window. The sun had nearly set now, casting long shadows across the grounds, transforming the familiar landscape into something more mysterious, more threatening.
Much like our students, Dumbledore thought, watching Snape's rigid back. They change before our eyes, childhood falling away to reveal shapes we never anticipated.
The silver instruments continued their quiet whirring, measuring magical currents and disturbances throughout the castle. Outside, darkness was gathering, both literally and figuratively.
Dumbledore sighed softly, feeling the weight of his years pressing down upon him. So many secrets to keep, so many half-truths to juggle. Sometimes he wondered if he had spent so long playing chess with the lives of others that he had forgotten they were more than pieces on a board.
But there was no time for such philosophical indulgences now. A student was missing, darkness was rising, and time—his time, in particular—was running short.
"We shall see what your questioning reveals, Severus," he said finally. "I hope, for all our sakes, that your suspicions prove unfounded."
Hermione Granger
The abandoned classroom's dust motes hung suspended in the weak afternoon light, reminding Hermione of frozen time. She'd read once about temporal magic, how certain spells could create bubbles where seconds stretched like taffy—places where a minute inside might equal hours outside. This room felt like that: a pocket outside normal time where the three of them could speak freely about what they'd done.
What I've done, she corrected herself, fingers absently tracing the wood grain of the desk where she perched. The others were accessories after the fact. The blood was on her hands alone.
Harry paced near the window. Five steps north, turn, five steps south, turn, like a wind-up soldier with limited range.
"McGonagall will interrogate all of us," Ginny said, sitting cross-legged atop a desk opposite Hermione. Unlike Harry's restless movement, Ginny was still, controlled in that athlete's way that always made Hermione faintly envious. Only her fingers betrayed her anxiety, picking at a loose thread on her uniform skirt. "What do we tell her?"
Hermione's mind whirred through possibilities, cataloging and dismissing them. Partial truths were safer than outright fabrications. Lies needed maintenance; they required constant attention, cross-referencing, and perfect recall. One discrepancy could unravel everything.
"We need an alibi for that night," she said finally... Was this who she was becoming? Someone who could discuss covering up murder with the same detached precision she applied to Arithmancy equations?
"I've been thinking about that," Harry said, interrupting his pacing to lean against the windowsill. A cobweb clung to his shoulder, but she didn't mention it. "We can't all claim to be together—that's too convenient. And they'll check the common room and dormitories first."
"The library?" Ginny suggested.
Hermione shook her head. "Madam Pince keeps meticulous records of who enters and leaves. I was banned that week for accidentally dripping ink on a table, remember?"
That seemed like a lifetime ago—Hermione Granger's greatest transgression being ink on library furniture. Before she'd killed a boy. Before she'd enjoyed killing him.
"We could say we were practicing defensive spells," Harry offered, rubbing the back of his neck where tension had knotted the muscles. "With Luna in the hospital wing, we were worried about more attacks."
Hermione's analytical mind seized on this immediately. "That's good. It's logical, consistent with our known behavior patterns, and—" She caught herself using the clinical language again and softened her tone. "It makes sense. People would believe we'd do that, especially after what happened to Luna."
Luna's pale face appeared in her mind's eye, that moment in the hospital bed. The image shifted, transformed: Goyle's face now, eyes bulging with shock as his life drained away.
She swallowed hard. "But where were we practicing? The Room of Requirement would be too obvious."
"Empty classroom on the fourth floor," Ginny said promptly. "The one with the cracked mirror and the old dueling platform. Nobody ever goes there because of that boggart that moved in last term."
The specificity was perfect—detailed enough to sound genuine, vague enough that proving or disproving their presence would be nearly impossible. Hermione found herself nodding approval, admiring the Slytherin-like cunning that Ginny occasionally displayed. The Hat had considered Slytherin for her too, she'd once confessed to Hermione. Sometimes Hermione wondered if she herself had been properly sorted. What would the Hat say about her now?
"That could work," Harry said slowly, turning to face them fully. "But we need more than just an alibi. We need to redirect suspicion entirely."
"What do you mean?" Ginny asked, leaning forward.
Harry's eyes met Hermione's, and she saw something calculating there that sent a chill through her. This was not the Harry who had faced Voldemort with pure-hearted courage. This was someone else—someone forged in loss and hardened by necessity. Someone who understood that survival sometimes required moral compromise.
"I mean," he said carefully, "that the best defense is a good offense."
Attack as a form of protection. Aggression as a shield.
"You want to blame someone else," she said. "Frame someone for what I did."
Harry nodded. "Not just anyone. Someone who deserves it."
Draco Malfoy. The architect behind Luna's attack. The one who had set everything in motion.
Ginny's eyes widened, but Hermione noted the absence of protest in her expression. Just months ago, any of them would have balked at the idea of deliberately framing another student, regardless of their guilt in other matters. Now they were considering it with the calm detachment of much older, more hardened people.
Is this what war does? Hermione wondered. Or is this what killing does?
"How?" she asked simply.
"I've been watching Malfoy since term began. Following him under the invisibility cloak. I know things—patterns, conversations, places he goes when he thinks no one's looking."
The admission startled Hermione. Harry had mentioned his suspicions about Draco before, but she hadn't realized the extent of his surveillance. Once, she would have lectured him about obsession, about breaking rules. Now she simply waited, oddly patient, for him to continue.
"We just need to plant seeds. Create a narrative where Malfoy and Goyle had a falling out. Where Goyle was a liability that Malfoy couldn't afford."
"It's brilliant," she admitted softly. "And it's not even entirely untrue. Malfoy did order Goyle to attack Luna."
"Exactly," Harry said. "We're just... connecting dots that already exist. Rearranging them slightly."
Ginny slid off her desk, moving to stand closer to them, forming a tight triangle. The three of them huddled together.
"So what exactly is the plan?" Ginny asked, her voice barely above a whisper despite the privacy charms they'd cast. "What do we tell McGonagall?"
McGonagall
Minerva McGonagall approached the portrait of the Fat Lady. Her boots made a click against the stone floor—the sound of order and purpose in a castle that had begun to feel increasingly chaotic. She had always found comfort in routine, in structure. In knowing exactly where one stood.
These days, no one seemed to know where they stood.
"Bumblebee," she said crisply, and the Fat Lady—who had wisely refrained from her usual banter after one look at Minerva's expression—swung open without comment.
The common room fell silent as she entered, the sudden cessation of chatter as pronounced as a Silencing Charm. Dozens of eyes turned toward her, some wary, some curious, some deliberately blank. The rich crimson and gold of the room—colors that normally filled her with quiet pride—seemed oddly garish tonight, too bright against the gravity of her purpose.
The fire in the hearth cast dancing shadows across young faces that suddenly looked much older than their years. War did that, Minerva knew. It aged you in ways that had nothing to do with calendar days.
"Sixth and seventh years remain," she announced, not bothering to raise her voice. Experience had taught her that speaking more quietly often commanded more attention than shouting. "The rest of you are free to go about your evening."
A ripple of movement spread through the room as the younger students gathered their belongings. Several cast sympathetic glances at their older housemates before filing out, their whispers following them up the dormitory stairs like trailing mist.
When they had gone, Minerva surveyed the remaining students. Fourty-three in total. Fourty-three young people who should have been worrying about exams and Quidditch and adolescent romances, not death and disappearance and the growing shadow of war.
"I assume you are all aware," she began, removing her spectacles to polish them briefly with the edge of her tartan robes, "that Professor Dumbledore has requested I speak with each of you regarding Mr. Goyle's disappearance."
The spectacles went back on, bringing the room into sharper focus. She noted the positions of certain students with particular interest. Potter sat on the hearth, seemingly relaxed but with tension visible in the set of his shoulders. Miss Granger occupied an armchair near him, her posture so rigid it would have made Minerva's deportment teacher proud.
"Before we begin the individual interviews," she continued, "does anyone have anything they wish to share with the entire group?"
She hadn't expected an immediate response—Gryffindors might be brave, but they weren't foolish enough to volunteer information in front of their peers without considering the consequences. So the hand that rose from the cluster of chairs by the window surprised her.
Neville Longbottom. His face had thinned over the past year, baby fat giving way to a jawline that increasingly resembled his father's. The resemblance caused a pang in Minerva's chest. She remembered Frank Longbottom sitting in this very room, his laugh warm and genuine, his talent in Transfiguration exceeded only by his kindness.
"Mr. Longbottom?"
Neville lowered his hand, looking briefly as if he regretted raising it in the first place. But he straightened his shoulders—another echo of his father—and spoke clearly. "Why are we being questioned, Professor? The last time I saw Goyle, he was arguing with Malfoy about some botched job."
Minerva kept her expression neutral, though her interest sharpened. "Elaborate, please."
"It was after Potions last Thursday," Neville said, gaining confidence as he spoke. "I was collecting extra fluxweed for my Herbology project, and I overheard them in the corridor. Malfoy was furious about something Goyle had done—or hadn't done properly."
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the room. Dean Thomas nodded vigorously. "Hannah Abbott mentioned the same thing at breakfast yesterday. Apparently, several Hufflepuffs witnessed a similar argument outside the greenhouses."
"Padma Patil told me Goyle and Malfoy haven't been speaking for days before Goyle disappeared," Parvati added. "She said it was common knowledge in Ravenclaw."
Interesting. Very interesting. Minerva filed away each statement. As a younger teacher, she had taken physical notes during such interviews, but experience had taught her that students spoke more freely when their words weren't being visibly recorded.
"I appreciate your observations," she said, inclining her head slightly. "However, we will proceed with the questioning as planned. The headmaster has been quite clear—no stone is to be left unturned."
Her gaze swept across them again, noting the subtle shifts in posture, the exchanged glances, the nervous fidgeting of fingers against fabric. In her years as Head of Gryffindor House, Minerva had developed an almost preternatural ability to sense when her lions were hiding something. Right now, that sense was humming like a plucked harp string.
"I'll call you forward one by one," she announced, moving to establish herself in a high-backed chair near the portrait hole—a position that would allow private conversation while still keeping the rest of the room under observation. "Mr. Finnigan, you first."
Seamus approached with his usual swaggering gait, though it seemed more forced than natural tonight. The interviews proceeded—Minerva had always prided herself on efficiency. Each student answered her standard questions: their whereabouts four days ago when Goyle was last seen, any interactions they'd had with the missing Slytherin in the days prior, any unusual behavior they'd noticed from other students.
Most claimed to have been studying, sleeping, or socializing in easily verifiable locations. A few admitted to rule-breaking activities—McLaggen confessed to an after-hours meeting with a Ravenclaw girl that brought a flush to his cheeks, and the Creevey brothers acknowledged sneaking into Hogsmeade for butterbeer. Minerva noted these infractions but didn't comment on them. There were larger concerns at hand than curfew violations.
During Thomas's interview, the boy leaned forward with unusual seriousness. "Professor," he said, lowering his voice, "is it true that Goyle was the one who attacked Luna Lovegood? That's what everyone's saying."
Similar questions arose in subsequent interviews. The rumor had clearly taken hold, spreading through the student body with the speed that only school gossip could achieve. Minerva gave them all the same response: a noncommittal reminder that speculation without evidence was both unhelpful and potentially harmful.
In truth, she herself suspected Goyle's involvement in the attack on Miss Lovegood. The timing aligned too neatly for coincidence, and Goyle had demonstrated both the capacity for cruelty and the poor judgment such an attack would require. But suspicion was not proof, and Minerva McGonagall had never been one to present conjecture as fact.
When Miss Granger's turn came, Minerva beckoned her forward with particular interest. The girl had been uncharacteristically quiet this term—still brilliant in class, still first with her hand in the air when questions were posed, but somehow... diminished. Less present. As if part of her mind were constantly elsewhere, wrestling with some problem she couldn't solve.
Tonight, however, she approached with her usual purposeful stride, taking the seat opposite Minerva with her back straight and her hands folded neatly in her lap. Too neatly, perhaps. The deliberate composure of someone working very hard to appear normal.
"Miss Granger," Minerva began, keeping her tone conversational. "Where were you four days ago, between the hours of four and eight in the evening?"
Hermione met her gaze directly—a good sign, generally, though Minerva had known accomplished liars who could maintain perfect eye contact. "I was with Ginny—Miss Weasley—Professor. We were practicing defensive spells in the abandoned classroom on the fourth floor. The one with the old dueling platform."
"For four hours?" Minerva raised an eyebrow, allowing a touch of skepticism to color her tone.
"After what happened to Luna..." Hermione's voice faltered slightly, her composure cracking to reveal what appeared to be genuine distress. "It was a wake-up call, Professor. None of us are safe anymore, not really. We wanted to be better prepared."
The explanation was entirely plausible. In fact, it was exactly the sort of response Minerva would have expected from Hermione Granger—practical, proactive, focused on improvement. And yet... something felt rehearsed about it. Too perfect, like an essay that hit every point but lacked true insight.
"I see," she said, making a small note on the parchment she'd finally removed from her pocket—not recording Hermione's words, but creating the impression that she might be. Sometimes the suggestion of documentation was more effective than the reality. "And you saw or heard nothing unusual that day? No disturbances in the corridors, no unusual gatherings of students?"
Hermione shook her head, a strand of her unruly hair escaping its confines to brush against her cheek. "No, Professor. It was quite ordinary, aside from our practice session."
Minerva studied her favorite student—for she had been that, though Minerva would never have admitted such partiality aloud—and wondered what secrets those intelligent brown eyes were keeping. There was something different about Miss Granger lately, something Minerva couldn't quite place. A hardness that hadn't been there before, perhaps. Or simply the inevitable loss of innocence that came with growing up in dangerous times.
"Thank you, Miss Granger. You may return to your seat."
Minerva finally turned her attention to the one interview she'd been both anticipating and dreading. "Mr. Potter."
Harry Potter unfolded himself from his position by the hearth and approached her seat. The firelight behind him cast him in silhouette momentarily, creating the illusion of a much taller, broader figure—a glimpse, perhaps, of the man he would become if he survived the trials ahead.
If. The word chilled Minerva more than she cared to admit. Once, she had been certain of Harry Potter's ultimate triumph. These days, certainty seemed a luxury none of them could afford.
He sat across from her, green eyes serious behind his spectacles. Those eyes—Lily's eyes—regarded her with a mix of respect and wariness that twisted something in Minerva's chest. When had he learned to look at her with caution rather than trust?
"Mr. Potter," she began, keeping her voice level. "Do you know anything about Gregory Goyle's disappearance?"
Direct, perhaps too direct, but Minerva had never seen the point in circumlocution with Harry. The boy appreciated honesty, even when it was uncomfortable.
"No, Professor," he said, maintaining eye contact just as Hermione had. "I have no idea where Goyle is now."
The careful phrasing caught Minerva's attention. Not "I don't know anything about his disappearance," but "I have no idea where he is now." A subtle distinction, but potentially significant.
"However," Harry continued before she could pursue this thought, "I believe Draco Malfoy might have information."
Minerva's eyebrows rose a fraction. "Oh? And what leads you to that conclusion?"
"I've been watching him," Harry admitted, a touch of defiance entering his voice. "Since the beginning of term. He's been acting strangely—sneaking around, disappearing for hours at a time, looking ill and stressed."
"Many students are stressed these days, Mr. Potter," Minerva pointed out. "Yourself included."
"It's more than that." Harry leaned forward, intensity radiating from him like heat. "I think he's a Death Eater, Professor. Or at least working for them."
The blunt statement shouldn't have surprised her—Harry had been making similar claims for months—but the timing of this particular accusation gave Minerva pause. Was he genuinely concerned about Malfoy's activities, or deliberately redirecting suspicion?
"That is a serious allegation," she said carefully. "Do you have evidence to support it?"
"Six days ago, I saw Malfoy and Goyle arguing in the corridor outside the Potions classroom," Harry said, echoing Neville's earlier statement. "Malfoy was furious, saying Goyle had 'botched a simple job' and 'couldn't be trusted to do anything right.' He said there would be 'consequences' if it happened again."
Minerva's interest sharpened further. "And what do you believe this 'job' entailed?"
"I think Goyle attacked Luna on Malfoy's orders," Harry said, his voice dropping to ensure it wouldn't carry to the rest of the room. "And I think he messed it up somehow—maybe he was supposed to frighten her, not nearly kill her. Or maybe he was supposed to finish the job and didn't."
The theory aligned with Minerva's own suspicions, which made her all the more wary of it. Harry Potter had an uncanny ability to find trouble—or, more accurately, to position himself at the precise nexus of unfolding events. That he should happen to overhear the exact conversation that supported his theory of Malfoy's villainy seemed... convenient.
"And where were you when Mr. Goyle disappeared?" she asked, steering the conversation back to its original purpose. "Four days ago, between four and eight in the evening?"
"Here, in the common room," Harry replied without hesitation. "I was playing chess with Ron and helping Neville with his Defense Against the Dark Arts essay. You can ask either of them."
Again, an easily verifiable alibi. Again, the nagging sense that she was being presented with a carefully constructed narrative rather than the unvarnished truth.
"I see," she said, studying his face for any sign of deception. Harry had never been a particularly skilled liar—his emotions too close to the surface, his moral compass too firmly fixed to allow comfortable dishonesty. Yet tonight he seemed different. More guarded. More... adult.
They were all growing up too fast, these children of war. Learning lessons they should never have had to learn.
"Thank you, Mr. Potter," she said finally. "You may return to your seat."
Completing her final interviews with the seventh years, Minerva rose from her chair, feeling the protest of joints that had been still too long. Age was catching up with her, little by little. Another casualty of this interminable war—the luxury of believing one had time.
"Thank you all for your cooperation," she announced to the room at large. "You may return to your evening activities."
The tension in the room eased slightly, students beginning to move and speak again as if released from a spell. Minerva gathered her parchment notes—mostly empty, save for a few key observations—and prepared to take her leave. She had much to report to Albus, though how much of it would be useful remained to be seen.
At the portrait hole, she paused, looking back at her Gryffindors. They had already begun to cluster in their usual groups, heads bent together in whispered conversations. Plotting, planning, worrying—the perpetual state of youth in troubled times.
Her gaze lingered on Potter, Granger, and the Weasley girl, huddled together by the fire. Whatever secrets they were keeping, Minerva hoped they were worth the cost of deception. She hoped they understood the weight of the choices they were making.
Because in war, every choice had consequences. And some, once made, could never be undone.
With that sobering thought, Minerva McGonagall squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and stepped through the portrait hole to face whatever came next. After all, that was what Gryffindors did—moved forward, even when the path ahead was shrouded in darkness.
Snape
The Slytherin dungeon corridors always smelled of cold stone and ancient magic, a scent Severus had found comforting since his own student days. Tonight, however, the familiar atmosphere felt oppressive, the weight of damp air and secrets pressing against his temples like the beginnings of a migraine. His footsteps echoed with precise, measured beats—the rhythm of a man who had learned early that hesitation invited attack.
The Dark Lord was delighted. Those three words had been repeating in Severus's mind since his meeting with Dumbledore. When the Dark Lord was pleased, death inevitably followed—sometimes immediately, sometimes after an elaborate game, but always, eventually, death.
Severus paused outside the entrance to the sixth-year boys' dormitory, collecting himself. The corridor torches cast his shadow long and distorted against the stone wall—a fitting metaphor for his existence, forever stretched between opposing forces, forever misshapen by the demands of his dual allegiance.
He didn't knock. Respect was a currency in Slytherin, and Draco Malfoy had been making substantial withdrawals lately with no deposits to show for it.
The door swung open silently—Severus had long ago mastered the art of entering a room without announcing himself, a skill equally useful for catching students in wrongdoing and for surviving Death Eater gatherings where showing weakness was fatal.
Draco sat alone on his bed, bent over what appeared to be a letter. The dormitory was otherwise empty—Crabbe would be at Quidditch practice, Zabini likely in the library, and Goyle... well, Goyle's absence was precisely the point of this visit. At the sound of the door, Draco's head snapped up, his pale features arranged in the habitual Malfoy sneer that had become increasingly unconvincing as the term progressed.
The boy looked terrible. The aristocratic features he'd inherited from Narcissa were gaunt, skin stretched too tight across cheekbones that had always been sharp but now appeared positively knife-like. Dark smudges like bruises shadowed eyes that darted nervously toward the door before recognizing Severus and settling into defensive hostility.
"Professor," Draco acknowledged, the single word dripping with precisely the sort of insolence Lucius had always cultivated. The parchment in his hands disappeared into a pocket with a sleight of hand. "Something you need?"
Severus closed the door behind him, securing it with a nonverbal locking spell and adding a Muffliato for good measure. The privacy charms settled around the room like an invisible curtain, the subtle magical disturbance raising goosebumps on his forearms beneath the heavy black robes.
"I believe we are overdue for a conversation, Mr. Malfoy," he said, letting his voice drop to the silken register he reserved for his most dangerous moods. Students from other houses found it terrifying; Slytherins recognized it as a warning.
Draco, it seemed, had lost the ability to recognize warnings. He leaned back against his headboard with affected casualness. "I wasn't aware we had anything to discuss, Professor."
Severus remained standing, using his height to full advantage. Power dynamics were never accidental in Slytherin. "Gregory Goyle has been missing for four days."
"Has he?" Draco's surprise was as poorly acted as a first-year's Transfiguration attempt. "I hadn't noticed."
Pathetic. Narcissa had clearly neglected to pass on the family talent for convincing deception. Though perhaps that was unfair—Narcissa had always been the most skilled liar among the Blacks, her falsehoods delivered with such serene conviction that even those who knew better found themselves doubting their own perception.
"I find that difficult to believe," Severus replied, "considering Mr. Goyle has served as your personal shadow since your first day at Hogwarts."
A flash of genuine emotion crossed Draco's face—annoyance, perhaps, at the implied subservience, or anger at being caught in an obvious lie. It vanished quickly behind the mask of aristocratic indifference he wore with increasing desperation these days.
"We've had a... disagreement," Draco admitted. "I've been giving him space."
"Four days of space," Severus repeated, letting skepticism sharpen each syllable. "During which time the entire faculty has been mobilized to search for him, and the headmaster has personally interviewed every sixth and seventh-year student."
"Well, clearly they haven't found him," Draco snapped, his composure fracturing briefly. He caught himself, shoulders straightening as he added more calmly, "Perhaps he's simply left the grounds. Gone home to his uncle, we all know how Goyle always said his uncle was more fun with his spells."
"His uncle who is in Azkaban," Severus reminded him coldly. "Along with your father."
The barb struck home—color flooded Draco's pale cheeks, two spots of angry red that stood out like hexes against parchment. His hand twitched toward his wand before he thought better of it.
Good. Let the boy remember who he was dealing with. Let him remember that while Severus might be obligated to protect him, that protection did not extend to coddling his arrogance.
"What do you want from me?" Draco demanded, dropping all pretense of politeness. "I don't know where Goyle is, and frankly, I don't care. He's not my responsibility."
"Where did you last see him?" Severus pressed, moving a step closer to the bed. The room was cold—Slytherin dormitories always were, regardless of the season—but he welcomed the chill. Cold cleared the mind, sharpened the senses.
Draco's eyes narrowed, calculating. Weighing truths and lies, costs and benefits. Severus could almost see the arithmetic of self-preservation working behind those gray eyes so like Lucius's.
"Before the Quidditch match against Ravenclaw," he said finally. "I told him to go to the Forbidden Forest after the Match."
Severus kept his expression neutral despite his surprise. "You sent Gregory Goyle, a student with barely enough magical competence to cast a reliable Stunning Spell, into the Forbidden Forest alone? For what purpose?"
"That's not your concern," Draco replied, chin lifting in defiance.
"I have made it my concern," Severus countered, dropping his voice to a near-whisper that had made braver men than Draco Malfoy flinch. "As your Head of House, as the one who made an Unbreakable Vow to your mother—"
"I didn't ask for your protection!" Draco interrupted, color high in his cheeks now. "I don't need it. I have everything under control."
The claim was so patently absurd that Severus nearly laughed—a harsh, bitter sound that hadn't escaped him in years. Everything under control? The boy was unraveling before his eyes, threads of sanity and judgment fraying visibly with each passing day. The strain of Voldemort's task was consuming him from within, hollowing him out like Dementors did their victims, leaving only the shell of the proud, spoiled child he had once been.
Just like his father. The thought came unbidden, unwelcome. Lucius too had believed himself in control, right until the moment the Dark Lord had taken everything from him. All that remained was his son who was send do an impossible task, a task he clearly was supposed to fail.
"Why did you send Goyle to the Forest?" Severus asked again, this time reaching subtly toward the boy's mind with Legilimency—not a forceful intrusion, but a gentle probing, searching for surface thoughts that might betray what Draco was hiding.
Draco jerked back as if physically struck, eyes widening with fury as he felt the whisper-light touch against his mental barriers.
"Don't!" he shouted, hand flying to his wand. "Don't try that trick on me!"
Interesting. Someone had taught the boy rudimentary Occlumency—Bellatrix, most likely, given Narcissa's limited skill in the area. Not enough to truly shield his mind from a determined attack, but enough to recognize when someone was attempting entry.
"I am trying to help you, Draco," Severus said, allowing a rare note of genuine concern to color his tone. The boy was teetering on a precipice, though he was too blinded by fear and pride to see it. "Whatever you're involved in, whatever the Dark Lord has asked of you—"
"I have it under control," Draco repeated, the words taking on the desperate quality of a mantra. "I don't need your help. I don't want your help. Goyle will come back from the Forest eventually. Probably."
That final word—"probably"—contained more truth than anything else Draco had said. The uncertainty in it, the tacit acknowledgment that Goyle's return was far from guaranteed. Severus filed it away, another piece in the increasingly disturbing puzzle of Draco Malfoy's assignment and Gregory Goyle's disappearance.
"If that is your position," Severus said after a measured pause, "then I will not waste more of my time attempting to assist someone who refuses assistance." He moved toward the door, robes billowing around him in a manner that he knew many students found intimidating. "But remember this, Mr. Malfoy: pride has led better wizards than you to their graves. Your father's current circumstances should serve as evidence enough of that fact."
The silencing spells dissolved as Severus unlocked the door. Before closing it behind him, he glanced back at Draco, who sat rigid on his bed, face pale with suppressed rage and something that might have been fear.
"And if Mr. Goyle does not return from the Forest 'eventually,'" he added quietly, "you may find yourself explaining his absence to parties less inclined to mercy than Dumbledore."
The door closed with a soft click that seemed to echo in the empty corridor. Severus stood motionless for a moment, mind working through the implications of the conversation.
A different narrative began to form in Severus's mind, one that aligned with his earlier suspicions. Potter. Always Potter, at the center of every calamity that befell this school.
If Draco had indeed sent Goyle to the Forbidden Forest, it created an opportunity that Potter might have seized. The boy had been watching Draco obsessively this year—Severus had caught him lurking in corridors, disappearing around corners whenever Draco appeared. It was entirely possible that Potter had overheard Draco's instructions to Goyle, had followed the larger boy into the forest, and had taken his chance for vengeance.
After all, Potter had just lost his precious godfather. Grief did strange things to people—twisted their moral compasses, made them capable of acts they would normally abhor. And with Lovegood's attack... Potter had always been protective of his friends to the point of recklessness. If he believed Goyle responsible for nearly killing the Lovegood girl, he might have decided to dispense his own form of justice.
The isolated location would have been perfect. No witnesses. No interruptions. Just Potter and Goyle among the trees, where screams would be swallowed by the vastness of the forest, where a body could be hidden and never found.
As Severus strode away from the dormitory, his footsteps no longer echoed but seemed absorbed by the stones, as if the castle itself were swallowing the sound. In the distance, the faint clamor of students returning from dinner filtered down from the upper levels—normal life continuing in its oblivious way while darkness gathered in the corners, in the shadows, in the hearts of children being pushed toward choices.
Severus knew those choices all too well. Had made them himself, once, and had spent every day since paying for them. He had chosen darkness, had embraced it fully before realizing the true cost. Was Potter now making the same mistake? Taking that first irreversible step down a path from which there was no return?
Some prices, he reflected bitterly as he ascended toward the light and noise of the main castle, could never be paid in full. Some debts followed you to the grave—and perhaps beyond. Potter would learn that lesson soon enough, if he hadn't already. The blood on one's hands never truly washed away, no matter how righteous the cause had seemed at the time.
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