By the time Dumbledore came back to his senses, the hot cocoa had gone cold. He could feel the icy liquid slide down his throat and settle in his stomach, leaving a bitter aftertaste once the sweetness faded. But he was content.
During their days in Godric's Hollow, they had known hunger and cold. His mother's meager wages could barely fill three children's bellies. Ariana had a poor appetite and ate very little at each meal; Aberforth and Albus would save every scrap of candy they could find, just in case it might tempt her to eat a bit more.
To this day, he didn't know if her lack of appetite was real, or if she was just trying to save food for her brothers.
After receiving his Hogwarts letter, he rarely went hungry or cold again. Up in the attic, when he told Ariana and Aberforth about school, his siblings would look longing at the mention of classes, but showed little desire for the food or warm beds.
Now over a hundred years old and still possessing a sweet tooth, Dumbledore sometimes wondered: if Ariana were alive today, would she still like sweets? Would she pester him for treats from Honeydukes?
He set down his porcelain cup and reached out to touch the gemstone, but a sudden wave of cowardice washed over him. Dumbledore hesitated for a long time, his bright blue eyes growing more fervent by the second.
"Albus..."
The voice of Headmaster Armando Dippet called from behind him. Dumbledore paused. He didn't need to turn around to know the portraits on the wall were whispering.
"The Deathly Hallows... the Resurrection Stone... they are omens of misfortune."
Headmaster Dippet's warning was anxious. The familiar yet strange words unlocked long-buried memories, allowing voices and images from decades ago to reach Dumbledore's ears.
The memory began the summer after his graduation. He felt trapped in Godric's Hollow, possessing magical power far beyond most wizards yet unable to use it. While his peers were traveling the world, his sister's condition kept him tethered home.
Just as he felt most confined in the old attic of the Dumbledore house, the nephew of his neighbor, Bathilda Bagshot, knocked on his door.
From his initial wariness—fearing the boy would notice Ariana's condition—to opening his heart about his future ideals and ambitions; from discussing Transfiguration essays to Dark Arts techniques; and finally, to dreaming of changing the world together... it all happened in less than a summer.
Gellert Grindelwald had been educated at Durmstrang, a school that encouraged the study of the Dark Arts. Gellert's talents were given full rein there, but even such an open-minded school could not tolerate his extremes.
For Dumbledore, who had been restrained for so long, Grindelwald's wild style was captivating. Their casual chats, initially harmless, gradually evolved into terrifying plans. By the time Dumbledore realized what was happening, he was already in too deep.
"The Elder Wand and the Resurrection Stone will grant us invincible power, an endless army of Inferi... The Cloak of Invisibility can be for your sister. Ariana could wear it and play outside."
"The Invisibility Cloak... Ariana could run in the sunlight and snow?"
Two teenagers sat side-by-side on a tree branch—one with bright blue eyes, the other with golden hair. Green vines hung down, offering shade. Dumbledore stared at the symbol of the Deathly Hallows on the parchment until the sun went down, only snapping out of his reverie to look at the boy staying next door with shining eyes.
"Gellert, we will find the Deathly Hallows. We will create a better world."
"For the greater good!" the golden-haired boy said with determination.
"..."
Listening to Headmaster Dippet's nagging, Dumbledore reached out and grasped the Resurrection Stone. Its surface was etched with crude, ancient markings: a triangle enclosing a circle, bisected by a vertical line—just like the symbol he had seen on that parchment all those years ago.
"Long time no see," the Headmaster whispered to the stone.
He held the Resurrection Stone, turned it slowly three times, watched the dreamlike moonlight and white mist seep through the window, and slowly closed his eyes.
Fawkes watched the tall, lonely figure silently. Compared to a hundred years ago, he had changed so much—wrinkles, a beard, a back not quite as straight. Humans cannot undergo rebirth; every time they wake up, they are older than the day before.
The Resurrection Stone pulsed, and a girl's figure truly stepped out of the moonlight.
The old wizard stood in the white mist with his eyes closed, tears flowing silently down his face.
Minutes later, a small, ethereal hand reached out from the moonlight. It clumsily touched his cheek, wiping away his tears. Illusion and reality intertwined as the small hand passed right through his head.
The old wizard's tears dripped into the porcelain cup, splashing into the bitter cocoa.
---
Saturday, Evening.
Inside the Daily Prophet offices, video editor Gilderoy Lockhart was buried in work. Memory Charms and False Memory Charms flowed from his wand as fast as a machine on a Muggle assembly line. In no time, he had compiled a video segment explaining vampires.
The "Shadow-Mirror" industry was just taking off, and wizarding media was still rough around the edges. Most reporters and editors had transferred from the newspaper side, so very few were skilled in memory editing.
Lockhart's mind held only fragmented memories, but his instinct for showboating and mystification couldn't be buried—it was carved into his bones. His editor-in-chief called it his "subconscious."
When a news report landed in his hands, he would chop and change, splice and dice. A simple story about an old witch tripping while walking would, under his editing, take a detour through blood curses, vendettas, and magical creature attacks to grab the audience's attention, before finally revealing the truth—
Her boots didn't fit, and she tripped on her heel.
At the end, he would flash the sign of a clothing shop—saying nothing, but implying everything.
After receiving Howlers from the old witch, the shop owner, and the audience, the Prophet had been bombarded enough. Editor-in-Chief Cuffe took him off news and put him on short educational segments.
As long as he didn't stray from reality or fabricate facts, he could be as flashy as he wanted.
"Miss Skeeter, please take a look."
Lockhart handed his work to his supervisor. Rita scanned it roughly. Although the visuals bordered on slandering vampires and a few shots implicated the pure-blood Greengrass family, overall, there were no major errors.
The Greengrass family was low-key, rarely interacting with outsiders or getting into conflicts. Even if they did sue the Ministry, these images wouldn't hold up as evidence.
At most, they'd send a few Howlers to the Editor-in-Chief, not her.
She sealed the memory in a glass bottle, signed the cork with the Skeeter mark, and sent it to the Department of Magical Transportation for broadcast.
Lockhart and Rita finished up, tidied the office, corked the ink bottles, and prepared to leave for the day.
Just then, Editor-in-Chief Cuffe knocked and entered, stopping them. "Emergency. We're adding a special report to the evening news. We're declassifying the Sirius Black escape and revealing the truth about Godric's Hollow."
"Didn't Umbridge warn us to suppress that story just a while ago? Why report it now?"
"Umbridge isn't the Minister. And even if she were, does she outweigh Dumbledore and Levent?"
"Mr. Levent has made a statement?" Rita asked, surprised and delighted.
"Not publicly. Professor Levent hasn't made an official comment, but Dumbledore showed up at the Three Broomsticks. He talked about the feud between Black and Pettigrew right in front of the patrons at the bar. Professor Levent wrote to tell me."
"What about the special lesson at Hogwarts last night?"
"Mention it in passing. It's not the main point."
"..."
With Cuffe's order, the entire newspaper office sprang into action, working overtime to produce the special report. Reporters, directors, and hosts grumbled about the extra hours, but moved with energy and purpose.
Damn Umbridge. We've wanted to stick it to her for ages!
The production was fast. The materials and script were ready-made; the report should have aired before the end of the Christmas holidays but was shelved due to Umbridge's warning. It hadn't been destroyed—just stored. With a few tweaks, it was ready to go.
That same night, the finished news segment was delivered to the Department of Magical Transportation and placed in the hands of Madam Edgecombe.
---
With traditional print media like newspapers and magazines, news would take days to spread.
With Shadow-Mirror news, information spread explosively. Add in the fact that this was a major story that had already blown up over the summer, and wizards were gathering in pubs everywhere that night to discuss it. Meanwhile, the Ministry had just closed for the day, leaving only a few interns on duty.
The Minister's office hadn't reacted yet and didn't know how to respond.
In Devon, England, on the outskirts of Ottery St. Catchpole, inside a fifth-floor bedroom at the Burrow, Arthur Weasley tossed and turned in his four-poster bed, sighing intermittently.
Whack!
Molly slapped his back. The scolding of a middle-aged witch was heavier than that of a young girl, and Arthur sucked in a breath through his teeth in pain. "Don't you have work tomorrow? Go to sleep!"
"I..."
Arthur froze in bed, hesitating.
During the evening news, his wife had been cleaning the kitchen and missed the report on Sirius Black. He didn't know if he should tell Molly now and make her lose sleep too, or wait until morning.
Just as he was struggling with the decision, a faint snore reached his ears.
"..."
Arthur sighed.
Better to tell her in the morning. The Shadow-Mirror will have follow-up reports anyway.
Memories of the Order of the Phoenix floated through his mind. He seemed to be asleep, yet awake—half-dreaming. The faces of James and Lily appeared repeatedly, followed by Sirius, Peter, and finally Harry.
Arthur opened his eyes and sighed dejectedly. After lying there for a long time, he noticed the fire in the grate dying down. He got up to add some charcoal.
Staring at the glowing coals, he thought for a moment, then grabbed a handful of Floo powder and threw it in. Green flames roared up.
"Diagon Alley!"
---
The Leaky Cauldron was ablaze with light.
Familiar figures were everywhere, gathered around the bar. Even the Quidditch fans had turned away from the Shadow-Mirror, ignoring the Scottish friendly match being broadcast.
The last time they were this united was probably to defend the Leaky Cauldron, working overnight to alter the Muggle government's development plans for Charing Cross Road. Even during the Goblin Rebellions, there hadn't been this many people here.
The bar was packed tight. Some people had squeezed all the way to the back. Besides himself, Arthur spotted several Ministry employees, but after a careful look around, he realized not a single person from the Minister's support staff was present.
That was good. Conversation could be free.
Arthur ordered a Butterbeer and used his size to squeeze inside.
Before he could find his footing, someone leaned in from the side and offered a plate of chips sprinkled with chopped parsley. It was his colleague and neighbor from the other side of Ottery St. Catchpole, Amos Diggory.
"Arthur, are you attending tomorrow's meeting?"
The middle-aged wizard was short and portly, with a potbelly and black-rimmed glasses.
Amos was a mid-level employee in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. He was a typical Hufflepuff—kind, good-natured, and close with most people in the Ministry. Aside from constantly bragging about his brilliant son, he didn't have many flaws.
"Huh?"
Arthur blinked. "Is it the end-of-month review?"
"It counts as the monthly review, but it's more than that. Madam Bones sent a special notice, and so did Umbridge..."
"I didn't know. No one notified me," Arthur said, feeling a bit left out.
"They sent the owls after work. Yours probably hasn't arrived yet."
Amos fell silent, holding a chip. "Whatever the meeting is, it's definitely to discuss the trial plan for Black and Peter. Madam Bones wants to lead the tribunal, while Umbridge wants to be the Chief Judge. Fudge is on her side."
"A Death Eater hiding for thirteen years—it's unimaginable. And an innocent wizard sitting in the deepest cell of Azkaban, suffering torture."
Arthur shook his head, listening to the discussions around the bar. For others, tonight was a sleepless night too; the number of patrons chatting through the night far exceeded usual. Occasionally, wizards from other places would stumble out of the fireplace, bringing fresh news.
"If you ask me, the fight between Bones and Umbridge doesn't matter. I just want to see Peter get the punishment he deserves," Amos said, slurring his words slightly from the drink.
Arthur felt a bit lost. As a Ministry employee, he had known for a while that Black and Peter were awaiting trial, but the truth of what happened back then had only been partially reported by the Prophet until now.
Recalling the days he worked alongside Peter, he suddenly felt a wave of fear.
He sat alone at the bar with his drink for a while, eating Amos's chips down to the crumbs. The patrons were still arguing loudly, and since several were Ministry colleagues, all sorts of baseless speculation drifted into his ears.
"The Ministry has seven departments. If there's an internal vote, the Department of Mysteries always abstains, and International Magical Cooperation likely will too. Umbridge has pulled in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures and the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes..."
"Wait, I get why Regulation and Control is with Umbridge—those executioners from the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures are as twisted as she is. But why Magical Accidents and Catastrophes?"
"Because that's where Fudge came from. That's his base."
"So who has Madam Bones pulled in?"
"Her own Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Madam Edgecombe's Department of Magical Transportation, and the Department of Magical Games and Sports."
"Three to two. Odds are looking good."
"Don't forget the Minister's office has a vote too."
"..."
---