The chamber held its breath when the doors opened. Noon light spilled through the high windows, cutting bars across the stone floor. Dumbledore walked between two Aurors, slower than pride would prefer, robes pressed and wandless hands bound. The Skelegrow had done its work; the jaw no longer throbbed with every heartbeat. He could move it without feeling bone grind. Pain still sat in the hinge like a reminder.
He met no eyes as they passed the benches. The Progressives who had once leaned forward for his every word looked down at their parchments, adjusting quills that did not need adjusting. A few nodded, reflexes of habit more than loyalty. None spoke. The chair waited for him, iron cold and merciless. The chains slithered to life when he sat, links tightening until they bit skin. A trickle of warmth down one wrist confirmed it.
Frank Longbottom raised the gavel. The sharp crack echoed off the walls. "The session continues with the trial of Albus Dumbledore." The words fell heavy and final.
Amelia Bones rose from her desk. Her tone carried to every corner. "The charges remain as read yesterday. To wit: unlawful interference with a sealed will, endangerment of a magical minor, bloodline manipulation, alteration of official records, abuse of office, theft from the Potter vaults, and use of an Unforgivable Curse before this very chamber." The quill above her hand scratched each syllable in tidy confirmation.
Arcturus leaned forward, elbows resting on the carved armrest, eyes like winter steel. "How do you plead," he asked, voice even, the faintest curl of contempt under each word.
The chamber waited. Even the breaths along benches seemed to quiet. Dumbledore met the gaze of the Minister, then Corvus, seated near the lower steps, impassive. For an instant he considered silence. For an instant he considered lies. Both paths led to the same place. The memory of the lightning arc flickered behind his eyelids. He drew breath and felt the pull of old dignity settle across him like a cloak.
"Not guilty." The words came firm, unshaken. His level and experience in his own Occlumency was enough, his trust to manage the effects of Veritaserum made him choose to this plead.
Murmurs swept the benches like a draft. A few gasps. Some whispering names, some curses under breath. Arcturus did not move except for the faint incline of his head. "Recorded," Frank Longbottom announced, his voice neutral as if reading the weather.
Amelia turned to the dais. "Minister, I request authorization for Veritaserum."
Arcturus' fingers drummed once, then stilled. "Granted."
A healer in gray robes approached the chair with a small numbered vial balanced on a silver tray. The seal was unbroken, the wax stamped with DMLE sigil. She lifted it, snapped the seal, and tipped three precise drops into a waiting mouth of the former Headmaster. Dumbledore did not resist. The first touch of it spread warmth down his throat and an unnatural calm through his chest. He closed his eyes for a moment, felt the slow pulse behind them, and accepted the weight that settled on his thoughts.
The healer stepped back. Amelia waited the required count, then gave a small nod to the registrar. The man tapped his wand to the dicta quill. It floated upright, quivering in readiness.
"State your name and date of birth for the record," Amelia instructed.
Dumbledore's eyes opened. The blue had dulled a bit, yet the sharp glint was still there. The voice that came out was level, without inflection.
"Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. Born twentieth of August, eighteen eighty one."
The quill scratched the words into the page. The ink dried fast. The chamber did not move.
--
Amelia let the hush ripen, then lifted her chin toward the clerk. The dicta quill poised. Two aurors tightened their hold at the chair. Dumbledore's eyes filmed, then cleared and filmed again as the potion wrestled with steel discipline.
"Why did you send Rubeus Hagrid to Godric's Hollow on the night of Samhain, nineteen eighty one." Her tone stayed even.
Dumbledore's throat worked. A beat of silence. "To ensure their safety. I feared an attack."
Murmurs crept along the rails. Corvus lifted a hand. Amelia sealed the air around the chair with a privacy charm and turned.
Frank glanced to the dais. "The bench recognizes Lord Rosier. Let his voice be heard."
Corvus stood, inclined his head first to Arcturus, next to Frank Longbottom and lastly to Amelia. "Director Bones, Veritaserum mirrors the Imperius in liquid form. Three drops will not break a master occlumens such as Mr. Dumbledore who has a strong will as well. I suggest to increase the dose."
Amelia motioned for the court healer in green sleeves to step forward with the numbered vial. A mind healer followed, a quiet exchange and Amelia nodded once.
"Two more."
Dumbledore flinched. The auror on his left pinned the jaw. The healer tipped the glass. Drops fell and the terror showed on Dumbledore's eyes which was clearing from the haze every three to four seconds was pure satisfaction for many in the chamber. The drops of the serum administered. One, two. The head sagged. After a minute Amelia faced him again.
"Why did you send Hagrid."
This time the answer came without struggle. "Because of the prophecy," Dumbledore breathed. "I placed an Order guard near the cottage. I wanted eyes on the child who would end Voldemort."
Chairs creaked. Quills scratched. Frank's mouth thinned. Arcturus leaned back, hands still on the arms of the Minister's seat, stare like winter.
Amelia turned a page. "State how you learned of any prophecy."
"I heard Sybill Trelawney speak it," Dumbledore answered, voice distant. "I interviewed her for a Divination post at Hogwarts. She entered a trance. She spoke of the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord. Born as the seventh month dies."
"Date."
"Winter of eighty. At Headmaster's office."
A ripple went through the benches.
Amelia continued. "After hearing it, what steps did you take."
"I arranged matters so that Voldemort would target the correct child," Dumbledore said. There was no heat, nor shame in his tone. "Two families fit the verse. Potters and Longbottoms. I needed Voldemort to choose. I reduced the force and hex list issued to aurors so he would not have difficulties. I was sure Fate would guide the infant Harry. It was the surest way to unmake him."
Gasps bounced off the stone. A few of the Progressives stared at their hands. On the Neutrals' benches, Lord Abbott whispered to Lord Greengrass and went still.
Amelia's gaze did not waver. "How did you 'arrange matters.'"
"I used what Voldemort would notice." A slow blink. "I allowed Severus Snape to follow me where he would overhear and run to his master. I put Trelawney under Imperius and had her repeat the first half of the prophecy in Aberforth's in. Snape heard it and as I have foreseen it took it to Voldemort."
The old wood of the visitor rail groaned under sudden grip. In the gallery seats, Alice Longbottom folded both hands into her sleeves and stared at nothing. Frank stood without meaning to, then forced himself back to the bench, jaw working.
Amelia's voice turned quieter. "Confirm your acts for the record."
"I controlled Trelawney with Imperius," Dumbledore said. "I engineered Snape's eavesdropping. He took the bait and carried it to Voldemort."
Arcturus' knuckles went white against polished oak. "And the Longbottoms." It was not a question.
"I allowed rumors to reach the marked," Dumbledore went on. "Hints that Frank and Alice knew more than they did. If Voldemort failed with the Potters, he would turn to the other child. Either choice would answer the prophecy."
Frank forgot to breathe for a count of five. The quill's scratching sounded loud enough to hurt. In the second row, Lord Selwyn's eyes hardened to glass. Lord Yaxley did not look away from Dumbledore at all.
Amelia set the next sheet down with care. "You restricted auror doctrine during open war to increase the chance of a wanted Criminal to murder a child. Is this what you did?"
"Confirmed."
"Why not trust trained officers to win." Even Aemlia was starting to lose her deicipline towards such absurd logic, yet she wanted to understand and file everything.
"Because of the prophecy," the old man murmured. "Because Harry Potter was Fate's chosen.. 'but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not...'."
Rita Skeeter's quill rattled in the visitors' box, then sped on, ink spattering the margin.
Amelia steadied her tone. "After the fall, why did you place Harry Potter with Petunia Dursley without reading a will."
"Because of the sacrifice," Dumbledore replied. "I've created the blood wards tied to Lily's sister and young Harry. Voldemort could not pass those wards. With them the boy would have been be shaped by need, not by comfort."
"And the abuse recorded by Senior Auror Robards and Chief Curse Breaker Whitfoot."
Dumbledore's mouth moved. "Regrettable," he answered. "But necessary for the greater good."
A hiss rolled from three benches at once. Arcturus did not move except for the small muscle that jumped in his cheek.
Amelia's eyes flashed. "Who else knew you engineered the leak of the prophecy."
"No one," came the dull answer. "Snape thought himself clever while Trelawney remembers nothing."
Frank rose, palm flat on the bench. "Did you at any point instruct or encourage marked men or their sympathizers to attack the Longbottoms."
"I made sure they overheard the right whispers," Dumbledore said. "They acted as they always do."
Amelia drew a breath, she turned to Longbottom and warned him not to interfere again. "For the record," she continued with the question. "State why have you prevented the reading of the Potter's will."
--
The dicta quill hung over the ledger, tip trembling. Across from her, Dumbledore stared past the light orbs with glassy calm and the ruin of pride still clinging to the corners of his mouth. "The will would have placed the boy with his godparents," he had announced a moment earlier, voice cool as if discussing timetables, "and if they failed, the Ministry would have intervened. The prophecy was clear. I was chosen to be the hand of fate. Harry must die for the greater good. I would have slain Voldemort afterward and earned my place in history."
A murmur rose like heat from stone. Chairs creaked. Lord Greengrass went very still. Lord Abbott's jaw set so tight a muscle jumped. On the dais, Arcturus leaned forward by the width of a finger, eyes pale and cold.
Amelia's patience snapped. She lifted a hand to the dais. "Requesting an Unspeakable to advise on the prophecy."
Arcturus did not look away from Dumbledore. One short nod. A clerk hurried out. The chamber breathed in long, slow draws.
Robes brushed the arch a few minutes later. A hooded figure stepped into the well and inclined his head once. "Croaker," the voice identified himself for the record, low and calm. IT was impossible to confirm if this was the same unspeakable who came yesterday.
Amelia met him at the rail. "We require the correct procedure regarding a prophecy being offered as justification for state actions."
Croaker's gloved fingers rested on the wood. "Procedure begins with exact text and provenance." He waited. The room waited with him.
Amelia turned, raised her wand, and dropped a silencing dome over the witness chair. The hum of Muffliato softened the air inside the bubble. She did not want any other moronn especially from one part of the chamber to hear and take the role of 'hand of fate.' She leaned in. "Full wording and the date you first heard it."
Veritaserum;s glaze twinkled in Dumbledore's eyes. He could not fight it. The words came, soft and even. "The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches… born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies… and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not… and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives… the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies." He gave the date of his interview with Trelawney afterwards.
Amelia's quill scratched. She lifted the dome, crossed to Croaker, and passed the sheet. He read once. No flicker visible on the hooded face.
"Members of the Chamber," Croaker began, hands still, "prophecies are notorious for self fulfillment. The belief spurs the act. The act produces the outcome. Investigations in the Department of Mysteries show this pattern more often than not."
A hiss of whispers ran the benches. Frank Longbottom held up a palm. Quiet rolled back like a tide.
Croaker continued. "First question. Which Dark Lord. The world hosts many. Local warlocks rise and fall yearly. In certain African conclaves, the cycle turns in months. A vague title without jurisdiction or locus is not fit to drive policy."
Lord Selwyn's knuckles tapped once against the arm of his chair. Lord Hawkworth inclined his head by a fraction. On the Progressive benches, faces pinched and smoothed again.
"Second," Croaker went on, "I will not repeat the middle line and strengthen the pattern by fresh utterance. Treat it as unspoken in this hall." He lifted the parchment slightly. "Third. Calendars. Which seventh month. The wizarding world does not keep a single reckoning. Asia counts by its own systems. The Levant by another. The continental bloc and MACUSA by a third. Coligny, Mesoamerican, Lakota Sioux, Gregorian. Choose the one you fancy and you can pin a birth to it. That is not evidence. That is selection."
"Fourth," Croaker said, tone as even as snowfall, "the line about power unknown and mutual destruction is the very sort of phrasing that seduces the ambitious and terrifies the simple. In our halls we examine these lines as glimpses from a plane where time and cause do not align with our own. Seers see fragments they rarely understand, and those who hear them understand even less. We act only on prophecies from confirmed, repeatable sources with a demonstrated rate of accuracy. Sybill Trelawny is not such a source."
A hum rose, sharper now. Abbott leaned toward the Neutrals and murmured once; nods answered him down the row. On the dais, Arcturus' expression did not change, but his fingers stilled on the armrest.
Croaker let the silence stand. "Finally. Policy governed by oracular riddles invites abuse. Build a program on it, and you incentivize crusaders to manufacture the conditions. You force the path that the riddle merely described. That is not fate. That is engineering." His hood turned slightly toward the chair. "What you have heard is not a mandate for sacrifice. It is a pretext a man chose to believe and act on."
All eyes slid to Dumbledore. Veritaserum left his gaze unfocused, but the set of his mouth told its own story. He had chosen it. He had worn the choice like a virtue.
Amelia's palm flattened on the lectern. "Director's note for the record," she clipped out, each word clean. "The Department of Mysteries advises this chamber not to ground policy in the Trelawny recitation. Treat subsequent acts justified by it as individual choices."
The dicta quill scratched at speed, ink biting deep. Lord Greengrass exhaled, long and slow. From the Traditionalists, Selwyn gave a short, grim nod.
Frank rapped the gavel once. "Noted." He looked to the dais.
Arcturus turned his head a fraction, gaze never leaving Dumbledore. "The Chamber has its answer."
A stir moved the circle, soft as cloth. Corvus, half shadowed on the steps, watched the way the room tilted. Hands unclenched. Mouths pressed thin. The spell of destiny broke against plain speech and fell away.
--
Amelia did not wait for the murmurs to settle. Quill poised, chin lifted, she faced the man in chains: "Explain the need to raise protective wards for a fallen enemy. You Know Who was reported slain on the night of Samhain 1981."
Dumbledore's expression did not change. His voice, flat under the draught, scraped a little when it came: "He is not dead."
A draft seemed to move through the chamber though no door had opened. Robes stirred. A few quills lifted off parchment and hung in the air. Even among the Traditionalists, a shiver ran the rail at the name. Corvus watched the reaction with that slight, unreadable curve at the corner of his mouth. The line was finally in the water.
Amelia kept her footing. "Explain."
"The soul was splintered," Dumbledore answered. "Death was avoided by division."
Croaker spoke from the shadow of his hood: "Department of Mysteries advises cessation of public inquiry on that subject. The matter implicates bounded research. Jurisdiction transfers now."
Arcturus's gaze cut across the floor to Corvus, he was impressed his heir has recognized this months prior to this moment's confession. He turned to Amelia, she gave the smallest nod. Frank Longbottom signaled the clerk. The clerk's wand ticked against the ledger. The line was marked and erased with a note that the subject was trasferred to DoM.
Amelia pivoted without losing a beat. "Explain the withdrawals from the Potter accounts." She paused, 'once a thief, always a thief.' "Have you performed the same act before?." She asked.
"Yes." No struggle, nor hesitation. "The boy is destined to die. There is no point in leaving a family fortune to wither in a vault when the last heir will soon be gone. I have, on a regular schedule, drawn from lines of a similar nature. Some children came to Hogwarts as orphans and left without ever learning the truth of their blood. Faculty did not know either. Severus, for instance, could walk into Gringotts and claim the mantle of Lord Prince. He never knew and I never told him. I hold eight keys of that status. I disburse funds to oil politics, local and international, as needed."
The words dropped like stones. The chamber did not breathe for a heartbeat. Then it broke. "Veil." From the center. "Kiss." From the right benches. "Azkaban." From the left. Boots scraped. Wands rattled in clips. A few of the Progressives went dead pale.
Arcturus cleared his throat shaprly. The sound has cut the shoutings. It carried like a crack across a lake. Silence obeyed.
Amelia turned a page. "Explain your attack on Lord Rosier."
"He is too dangerous." Dumbledore's eyes did not quite find Corvus. They fixed somewhere past his shoulder. "In less than a year he unpicked my arrangements in Hogwarts and beyond. I curse the day I argued to bring him back to Britain. It was my worst misjudgment. Not even Tom or Gellert ever put me in a Ministry cell. He did. When I understood that I would not slip the temporary arrest, I chose to remove him and leave at once with my familiar. The fire would clear the field. I would repair the story. A narrative of a dark young lord, bent and stopped, would steady the realm. My name would have hold."
A dry stir moved along the Traditionalist benches. Greengrass's mouth thinned. Selwyn's eyes narrowed. On the Neutral side, Abbott's hand moved to his wand unknowingly.
Dumbledore spoke one more word, soft as breath: "Fawkes."
Whatever was left of the potion's calm cracked. Sweat beaded on his brow. His fingers shook against the iron. For a blink the mask of composure pushed up from beneath the draught, and the man looked older than his beard, older than the stone under the floor. The Healer was already moving. A vial touched the lip. The antidote went down. The tremor eased.
Croaker stepped forward as the glass clicked shut. "Custody transfer," he said, voice quiet enough to make people lean in. Two more cloaked figures entered the chamber silently. Silver bands tightened at Dumbledore's wrists and ankles of their own accord. The chair unlocked. Chains withdrew like snakes to the arms.
Croaker continued. "Department of Mysteries assumes control on matters of soul craft and related bindings," he announced for the record.
Amelia inclined her head once. "So noted. Please be informed his questioning is yet to be finished."
The Unspeakables turned as one. Dumbledore rose under their wand points. No struggle was left in his old bones. Just a long, thin line of a man who had built a web and watched it burn. He glanced once toward the visitor's benches. No help waited there. He glanced toward the Progressive rail. Most eyes avoided his. The walk to the side door sounded longer than it was.
The door shut without a slam. The echo took its time dying.
Frank set the gavel down rather than strike it. "Thirty minutes," he called, voice level. "Recess."
Benches loosened. Robes shifted. The clerk capped the ink. Corvus remained where he was, palms resting on the rail, gaze on the door the Unspeakables had used. Amelia closed her folio and exhaled once through her nose. Arcturus unfolded to his full height and looked over the chamber like a man measuring timber that would soon be cut.
No one spoke the name again. The silence did the work for them.