The torches along the spiral staircase flickered to life as though sensing Dumbledore's approach. He moved neither quickly nor slowly, his long robes trailing behind him as the professors followed one by one, their voices hushed but edged with urgency. The heavy wooden door at the top swung open at his command, revealing the round, cluttered office with its whirring silver instruments, shelves laden with books, and the ever-watchful portraits of former headmasters and headmistresses who already seemed awake and muttering among themselves.
"Sit, please," Dumbledore said softly, settling himself behind the claw-footed desk. Fawkes shifted on his golden perch, rustling his feathers, a low croon echoing in the tense silence.
The professors drew chairs close: McGonagall stiff-backed and tight-lipped, Snape looming like a shadow in his black robes, Sprout wringing her hands, Flitwick perched with nervous energy, and Moody stamping his wooden leg on the stone floor with a thud that made several sleeping portraits startled.
It was Snape who spoke first, his voice cold and edged. "It is obvious, surely, that Potter managed this himself. Fame and attention have ever been his weaknesses. A fourth champion… what better way to secure the spotlight?"
McGonagall's chair scraped as she sprang half to her feet, her face flushed with anger. "How dare you, Severus! Potter is fourteen years old. Fourteen! Do you truly believe a boy of his age, no matter how clever, could hoodwink the Goblet of Fire, a piece of magic older than all of us here? That is absurd."
Snape's lip curled. "Absurd perhaps, but convenient. Potter has a talent for finding himself at the center of spectacle."
McGonagall's voice rose, sharp as a whip. "You think he wanted this? You think he contrived to risk his life in tasks meant for grown witches and wizards? Shame on you, Severus!"
Flitwick squeaked indignantly from his chair. "Quite right, quite right! The enchantments upon the Goblet are formidable. I examined it myself with Dumbledore and Barty Crouch. No, a boy could not have done this alone. Someone powerful must have intervened."
A loud thump sounded as Moody's staff hit the floor. His magical eye whirled madly, fixing on Dumbledore. "And while we're asking questions, Albus, here's one you've not yet answered. Why in Merlin's name was that girl, Eira White, placed among the judges? A Fourth-year. A child. And not just any child." His scarred face twisted. "I've heard things. At the quidditch World Cup, her behavior. Things that don't sit right with me. She's got power, aye, but too much of it, and no control. You've gone and handed her more influence, here of all places. It stinks of risk."
Snape's eyes glittered as he seized the opening. "Indeed. A curious arrangement. The Whites have never hidden their ambitions. Perhaps this is merely their next step, positioning the girl at the center of power, under the guise of innocence."
McGonagall cut across him sharply. "Enough of this! Miss White has done nothing but comport herself admirably since arriving here from Beauxbâtons. She has shown intelligence, courage, and a generosity of spirit far beyond her years. I will not hear her maligned, Severus."
Moody gave a harsh laugh. "Generosity, aye? Or a mask. You've not seen what I've seen. Power corrupts, and power in the wrong hands destroys. Best to keep our eyes open."
Dumbledore raised his hand, and silence fell. His voice was gentle but carried a weight that could not be ignored. "I understand your concerns, Alastor. But the matter was not mine to decide. Minister Fudge, together with the Board of Governors, insisted upon her appointment. This very morning, I received a letter signed by each of them. They made it plain: Miss White was to be given a seat among the judges."
There was a ripple of surprise. Sprout gasped. Flitwick muttered, "Good heavens…"
Snape's eyes narrowed. "And she accepted it eagerly, no doubt. What better opportunity to exercise influence and show off, to curry favor with Hogwarts, or strengthen her family's grip on our affairs?"
McGonagall bristled again, her brooch glittering as she leaned forward. "Or perhaps she accepted because she has already given much to this school. I remind you, Severus, it was her family's gold that repaired the Quidditch stands after the disaster last summer. Twenty thousand Galleons, more than all other governors combined. A girl who invests so in our students' well-being is hardly scheming for attention."
"She invests to own and to be free from our influence," Snape snapped back.
"Enough," Dumbledore said, his voice no louder than before, yet it stilled the air. "Miss White's appointment is not the issue at hand. What matters tonight is that Harry Potter's name has emerged from the Goblet of Fire. We must discover who placed it there, and why. Until then, we must set aside suspicion and focus on the boy's safety."
He turned his gaze on Snape first. "Severus, however much you doubt him, Harry must be protected. That is your duty as a teacher, as it is for all of us."
Snape inclined his head stiffly, his face unreadable.
Dumbledore shifted his eyes to Moody. "Alastor, your vigilance is invaluable. But remember—watch Harry, not Miss White. Whatever she is or may become, she is not the one whose life is in immediate danger."
Moody's magical eye swiveled, narrowing, but he gave a grudging nod.
Dumbledore let his gaze pass over each of them in turn. "Whoever placed Harry's name in that Goblet did so with a purpose. And it was not to bring him glory. It was to endanger him. Guard him well."
There was silence. At last, Dumbledore rose, and the professors followed suit, chairs scraping against the floor. He dismissed them with a quiet word, and one by one they filed out into the night, their robes trailing, their thoughts heavy.
When the office was empty save for the portraits and Fawkes, who gave a low mournful trill, a dry voice drawled from above the desk.
"Tell me, Dumbledore," said Phineas Nigellus Black, lounging in his frame with aristocratic disdain, "the real reason. You do not bend so easily. You would not accept a child as judge merely because Fudge snapped his fingers. Why her? Why the White girl?"
Dumbledore did not answer at once. He sat very still, his long fingers steepled, eyes fixed on the fire crackling in the grate. The flames cast shifting light across his lined face, his half-moon spectacles glinting.
At last he said quietly, "Because I need allies, Phineas. And I believe what has befallen Harry tonight is not the work of chance. It has the shadow of Tom about it."
There was a rustle among the portraits. Some muttered darkly, some gasped, some scoffed.
Phineas raised his brows. "Allies, is it? You think to bind yourself to the Whites? Foolish. Very foolish. Their blood has been poison for centuries. Never trust a White. Never. You tread a dangerous path, Dumbledore."
Another portrait snorted loudly. "Says the Black who never trusted anyone!"
Several others chuckled and jeered, but Phineas' voice cut through, sharp as a blade. "Mark me, Dumbledore. That girl is not to be trusted. She will bring ruin if you let her in. Your enemies are not only outside these walls."
Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, the firelight flickering in his eyes. He spoke softly, almost to himself. "Perhaps. But to face Tom, I must be prepared to take risks. And I will take them."
"Besides," Dumbledore went on quietly, "she is bound to these events, whether she wishes it or not. It is time I began to consider her place in them."
Fawkes gave a sudden, low cry, his wings spreading wide, as if echoing a warning.
As Dumbledore spoke, his words drifting into the crackle of the fire, movement stirred among the portraits. High upon the far wall, the painted figure of Elisha White, once Headmistress of Hogwarts, sat tall within her gilded frame. Regal and composed, her dark hair swept into a knot and her silver robes gleaming faintly, she turned her painted gaze upon Dumbledore. With an air of quiet elegance, she regarded him steadily, her expression unreadable, though her eyes glimmered as if she had heard every word.