Elphias Doge – To Dumbledore
The fire in Dumbledore's office crackled softly as Elphias Doge finished his account. He had spoken carefully, every detail wrapped in the polished tone of a seasoned diplomat.
"Harry Potter," Doge concluded, "appeared nervous but ordinary. His scar was hidden, his manner shy. But the cousin, Void…" He trailed off, choosing his words with care. "He carries himself too still, too calm. For a boy of his age, it is unnatural. He unsettles even Muggles without meaning to."
Dumbledore steepled his fingers, his eyes glimmering with quiet thought.
"You suspect danger," he said softly.
"I suspect anomaly," Doge corrected. "Children forced into strangeness too young can grow unpredictable. His silence feels deliberate, his watchfulness sharper than it should be. Arabella Figg was right to mark him. He may become protective of Harry, yes — but whether that will serve our purposes or hinder them… I cannot say."
Fawkes shifted on his perch, letting out a soft trill. Dumbledore's gaze flickered toward the phoenix, then back to his old friend.
"Thank you, Elphias," he said at last. "Your caution is duly noted. Continue your role among the Muggles. I will consider what steps may be taken."
Doge inclined his head. "Of course, Albus. As always."
And though his voice was warm, his eyes still held the wariness of a man who had seen too many odd children grow into dangerous adults.
When Doge had gone, silence returned to the office. Only the fire crackled, and Fawkes rustled his feathers.
Reginald Marchbanks – To Griselda
The Marchbanks estate was quiet, its library lit by the pale glow of enchanted sconces. Reginald stood before his cousin, Griselda Marchbanks, her keen eyes sharp despite her years, as he recounted what he had witnessed at the gala.
"Harry Potter was as one might expect," Reginald said at last — "small, hesitant, clinging to his cousin. But the other boy, Void… he is different."
Griselda's brows lifted. "Different how?"
"He is calm. Too calm," Reginald said, pacing before the hearth. "He speaks little, but when he does, it cuts straight. The Muggles around him were drawn without knowing why. Even I…" He hesitated, then admitted, "Even I felt it."
Griselda's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "His mother."
"Amara Potter," Reginald said, nodding. "You examined her at Hogwarts."
Griselda leaned back, her expression softening with memory. "Yes. Lily Evans's twin. Amara was fierce in her protectiveness of those she loved — sharper than Lily in some ways, for where Lily's fire came bright and quick, Amara's burned steady and unyielding. She carried a strange stillness about her, the kind that unsettled professors who could not place it. She always seemed to see further than her years should have allowed."
"And he has his father's mark as well," Reginald added. "Void Potter the elder — James's half-brother. Quiet, controlled, with eyes so dark they seemed to cut past what people wanted you to see and into what they tried to hide. He trained in the East, and he carried their discipline back with him. A man who could stand silent in a room until others revealed themselves first."
Griselda inclined her head. "Then the boy is doubly marked. From Amara, her fierce loyalty and her strange calm. From his father, the stillness and those deep, dark eyes that do not simply look, but see. Such a child will always feel older than his years."
Reginald's mouth tightened. "And that is precisely what troubles people. Void's instincts are sharper than a child's should be. He notices what others ignore. Even the Muggles at that gala felt it, though they could not name what unsettled them."
Reginald's jaw tightened. "To some, that difference will look like danger. To me, he looks like a child. A child forced to grow faster than he should. A survivor, not a threat."
Griselda tapped her cane lightly, her gaze far away. "We must tread carefully, Reginald. Dumbledore has declared himself the magical guardian of both boys — Harry and Void alike. None questioned him. They all assumed James and Lily would have chosen him, and in Harry's case, they are almost certainly right. James and Lily trusted Dumbledore's cause, and few would dare contest his word in the aftermath of their deaths."
Her eyes sharpened. "But Amara and her husband were not the same. They did not oppose Dumbledore outright, yet they were known to challenge him when others would not. They never trusted his talk of the greater good. They saw the danger in those words, though they left it unspoken. I tell you this, Reginald — they would never have named him guardian of their son."
Reginald frowned, pacing. "And yet the world accepts it without question."
"Just so," Griselda said grimly. "Harry is Dumbledore's by law and expectation. Void is Dumbledore's only by assumption — by the silence of others who did not look closely enough. That makes the boy both unclaimed and yet claimed, a contradiction ripe for abuse. If Dumbledore seeks to bind him away, he does so with authority he was never truly given. And if he does, he will find resistance not only from Void himself, but from me."
Reginald bowed his head. "Then we will wait."
And in the quiet of the Marchbanks library, the old examiner resolved to protect a boy the world might already be weighing as a pawn.
Dumbledore Alone
The hour was late, and the headmaster's office was dim but for the steady crackle of the fire. Dumbledore sat at his desk, parchment spread before him, the quill in his hand moving with precise strokes. Each word written was not a record, but a plan — one that had grown more urgent with every whisper, every report, every uneasy flicker of doubt.
Void.
The name lingered like a thorn in the weave of destiny. The boy's presence threatened to unravel what Dumbledore had so carefully prepared. Harry was meant to be tempered by hardship, shaped by loss, guided only at the moments Dumbledore deemed necessary. But Void's shadow lay across the design — shielding, absorbing, protecting.
Harry must walk the path alone.
Dumbledore leaned back, his gaze drifting toward the fire. When the Potters had fallen, no one had questioned him when he declared himself the magical guardian of both surviving children. For Harry, it had seemed natural — James and Lily trusted him, and the wizarding world assumed they would have entrusted their son's future to him. That leash was secure.
But Amara and her husband had been different. They never openly opposed him, but they had always challenged him. They distrusted his rhetoric of the greater good, too shrewd to ignore the hidden cost behind those words. He knew — deep down — that they would never have named him guardian of their son. And yet, in the chaos after Voldemort's fall, no one thought to contest him. His word was accepted, and assumption hardened into law.
But assumption was fragile.
Void carried no loyalty to him, only suspicion. If left unchecked, that suspicion would grow into defiance. And in standing between Harry and hardship, Void might undo the shaping force of destiny itself.
Dumbledore's eyes hardened as he drew the plan to its conclusion: before the boys turned ten, Void would be separated.
The methods were cruel, but effective.
A controlled Obliviation, carefully targeted to strip the boy of ties that bound him too closely to Harry. Memories softened, redirected, replaced with pliant thoughts that would distance him. And for what the mind alone could not break, there were subtler tools — potions brewed to instill unease, to weaken bonds, to ensure Void never stood as Harry's shield.
Only one man could brew such potions to Dumbledore's exacting needs.
Snape's Refusal
Severus Snape stood in the firelit office, his black eyes glittering with suspicion as Dumbledore laid out the request.
"You would have me meddle with the boy's mind," Snape said at last, his voice quiet but sharp.
Dumbledore folded his hands, calm as stone. "Not meddle, Severus. Protect. Harry's path is clear, but his cousin clouds it. The prophecy speaks of one alone — not two. If Void continues to shield him, the prophecy may never be fulfilled."
Snape's lip curled faintly, though his tone remained smooth. "You speak of potions that do not dull the senses, but warp the heart. And you ask me to brew them for Amara's child."
The name hung heavy in the air.
For a moment, something flickered across Snape's face — a shadow of memory, sharp and painful. Amara Evans had not been Lily, no, but she had been his friend when no one else would stand beside him. Where Lily's fire had burned with judgment, Amara's had burned with understanding. She had seen through his choices, even the dark ones, and though she never condoned them, she never abandoned him either.
She had treated him like a younger brother — teasing, protective, unyielding in her loyalty. When Lily cast him aside, Amara did not. When he bore the brand of a Death Eater, she alone had defended him, shielding him from whispers and hexes in equal measure. She understood the reasons, if not the path, and never let him forget that someone still believed in him.
And now her son.
"You forget yourself, Headmaster," Snape said, his voice low and dangerous. "You named yourself his guardian when Amara never would have given you that right. And now you would strip him of memory and will because he unsettles your prophecy?"
Dumbledore's eyes were grave, but unyielding. "I do what must be done, Severus. Harry's path cannot be compromised. Void is… an interference. For the greater good, he must be restrained."
Snape's silence was long and heavy. His jaw tightened, his hands hidden in the folds of his robes. At last, he inclined his head, though the gesture was stiff, reluctant.
"I will brew what you ask," he said coldly. "But mark me, Albus — if you overreach, if you break the boy beyond repair, it will not be only destiny you answer to. It will be Amara. It will be me."
Dumbledore's expression softened, almost sorrowful, though his eyes glimmered with quiet triumph. "I trust you, Severus. You, more than most, know the weight of sacrifice."
Snape turned sharply, his cloak swirling behind him as he descended the spiral staircase, his face unreadable in the shadows.
Behind him, Fawkes let out a mournful cry, the note trembling in the stillness. His golden eyes lingered on Dumbledore, sorrow burning deep within them. To the phoenix, the man at the desk no longer looked like the friend he had once served, but a stranger cloaked in familiar skin.
And above the crackle of the fire, Dumbledore dipped his quill again, finalizing the date.
The plan would be enacted before the boys' tenth birthday.