Dumbledore turned around, his piercing blue eyes resting on Harry's face, a glimmer of curiosity in them.
"Harry," he asked quietly, "have you discovered something?"
Harry steadied himself, then told Dumbledore everything he and Hermione had found in the old newspapers—Sirius publicly mocking the Death Eaters and being disowned by the Black family, the hasty replacement of the family heir, and the suspicious fact that too many people seemed to know who the Secret Keeper was.
"When you connect all of that," Harry said, frowning, "it just doesn't line up with the story that he betrayed my parents."
Dumbledore listened in silence, then slowly walked to his armchair and sat down. His fingers tapped the armrest in a thoughtful rhythm.
A steaming cup of tea suddenly appeared on the desk beside him, the amber liquid still rippling slightly.
Dumbledore blinked, a trace of surprise crossing his face.
"Thank you, Dobby," he said, addressing the empty air. "But I wasn't tapping the desk for tea this time."
Before he even finished the sentence, another identical cup appeared in front of Harry.
Dumbledore sighed with a faint, helpless smile. "Well, thank you all the same."
Turning back to Harry, he explained, "That was Dobby, once the house-elf of Lucius Malfoy."
"I remember him," Harry said at once. "Back in my second year, he kept intercepting my letters."
Dumbledore nodded. "Yes. At the end of that year, Lucius passed him along to Severus. It was a veiled signal—meant to alert Severus to the true nature of that diary, that it was a Horcrux. But Lucius had erased most of Dobby's crucial memories to keep the secret safe."
He paused, his expression shadowed for a brief moment. "Severus has never cared for house-elves, so he sent Dobby to me instead."
Harry nodded absently; he wasn't particularly interested in Dobby's backstory.
Seeing that, Dumbledore fell silent. The only sound in the office was Fawkes's soft, melodic trill from his perch.
After a long pause, Dumbledore finally spoke again, his tone tinged with quiet regret.
"When Sirius blew up that street—and the Ministry caught him on the spot—I knew something was wrong."
He lifted his gaze, the reflection of old memories flickering behind his eyes.
"At Hogwarts, Sirius was reckless and defiant, yes—impulsive, fond of danger—but never cruel. He'd pick fights to defend his friends, or to protect Muggle-borns from Slytherin bullies, but he would never have used magic to blow up a street full of Muggles."
Harry held his breath, listening intently.
"Before the trial," Dumbledore went on, "I meant to use Legilimency on him—to see what had truly happened. But before I could act, Sirius confessed to everything in front of the entire Wizengamot. He even laughed, saying, 'I'm glad he's dead.' He didn't look like himself at all."
Dumbledore's voice grew heavier. "At that time, I was searching the ruins of Godric's Hollow for traces of Tom's magic. After he killed your parents, he vanished—no body, no proof he was truly gone. So I focused my efforts there… and Sirius's case was left unresolved. Looking back, I should have pressed harder—should have read his mind."
Harry stayed quiet, but he'd noticed something subtle.
Since the conversation began, Dumbledore had said Sirius, not Black. That single choice of words told Harry that the Headmaster had already made up his mind.
Dumbledore seemed to read his thoughts. He set down his cup gently.
"I know you don't care much about what happened back then," he said, his tone soft but firm. "But someone has to."
Harry didn't argue. He reached for a strangely wrapped box on the desk, plucked out a cockroach cluster, and tossed it into his mouth.
"Did the portraits tell you?" he asked through a mouthful of chocolate, a smear of dark syrup at the corner of his lips.
Dumbledore chuckled ruefully. "Sometimes I wish I could plug my ears. But there are too many portraits in here—and they do love to gossip. You, in particular, are one of their favorite topics. So, yes, I overheard a few things. I didn't mean to—"
"I believe you," Harry cut in, his tone calm but certain. "If you want to know something, there's no keeping it from the greatest wizard of the century."
Dumbledore sighed and flicked his wand lightly. The last cockroach cluster floated neatly into his hand.
"Don't steal sweets from an old man," he said in mock reproach, then added seriously, "Now—back to the point.
If Sirius wasn't the traitor, then the one who truly betrayed James and Lily was…"
"Peter Pettigrew," Harry said before Dumbledore could finish, his eyes flashing. "Sirius blew up that street because he was trying to kill him."
Dumbledore nodded slowly, pain flickering behind his eyes. "That's what I suspect as well. If that's the case, then Sirius's confession may have been his way of…"
"I told you," Harry interrupted again, his voice cold as ice, "I don't care about Sirius. But the fact that he escaped now—it means one thing. Peter's alive."
"Yes," Dumbledore said gravely. "The Ministry only found one of Peter's fingers at the scene—"
He stopped mid-sentence, his expression hardening. His brows knit deep with concern.
"Harry, I don't want you taking justice into your own hands."
Harry met his eyes calmly. "Unless you tie me up, you won't be able to stop me."
The air seemed to freeze. The fire crackled in the grate, throwing flickering light across the stone walls, their shadows dancing like duelists.
Dumbledore studied the boy before him and, in that moment, saw traces of James's recklessness, Lily's fierce resolve, and something that belonged only to Harry Potter—an edge tempered in darkness and pain.
The room fell silent again.
Then, one of the portraits broke it.
Valentina Longbottom leaned out of her frame, eyes gleaming with admiration.
"Now that's the look of a fighter—like a blade forged in flame. Nearly Headless Nick's been singing your praises for years, saying you'll grow into a great wizard. I didn't believe him then—but now, I think he might be right."
She turned to the neighboring portrait. "Look, Grayson! That's our Gryffindor spirit! Great wizards just keep appearing one after another!"
The man in the next frame—Grayson Lestrange—snorted derisively, but for once didn't argue. He merely gave Harry a critical glance and turned away, pretending to study the wall.
Dumbledore rose, twirling his wand thoughtfully between his fingers.
A soft silver shimmer swept across the walls, and at once the portraits fell silent. Even Valentina retreated into her frame, leaving only her painted smile behind.
"That will be all for today," Dumbledore said gently but with finality. "Harry, I hope you'll reconsider what you're planning."
Harry didn't reply. He simply picked up his cup of cold tea and drained it in one go.
At the door, he hesitated for half a second, then pushed it open without looking back.
Dumbledore's words echoed faintly in his ears, but Harry's resolve was like a spell cast in steel—unyielding and unbroken.