POV
Albus Dumbledore
Albus Dumbledore stood in his circular office, the twilight staining the sky visible through the high windows orange. The day had begun like any other peaceful Saturday at Hogwarts, with the promise of perhaps some minor mischief from the students. The Weasley twins, newly enrolled students, whose mischievous smiles reminded him all too much of another quartet of young men from two decades ago, were already showing signs of following that legacy.
But the morning had taken an unexpected turn. Minerva's reaction, the book... the implications of what it recounted echoed in his mind like a disturbing echo. How could anyone else know Harry's location? He had been meticulous, even postponing registering the boy's address at the Ministry to keep him in the strictest anonymity until at least his Hogwarts enrollment. Now, that crucial secret lay printed for anyone to read.
The portraits of past headmasters murmured among themselves, painted whispers filling the silence. Phineas Nigellus Black, in particular, seemed to revel in the discomfort of the situation, a mocking smile on his severe face. The soft tinkling of Dumbledore's silver instruments on their shelves and the scratch of Fawkes preening his golden feathers were the only real sounds in the room.
The calm was broken when the door opened to admit three people. Minerva McGonagall entered first, her face a mask of severity, but her eyes, red-rimmed and slightly swollen, betrayed emotions she rarely allowed to show. Behind her, Pomona Sprout, with fresh dirt stains on her robes and a supportive arm around Minerva's shoulders. Filius Flitwick brought up the rear, his small stature not diminishing his presence, and his face a mix of worry and insatiable academic curiosity.
Albus opened his mouth to welcome them, but the words froze on his lips when the flames in the fireplace erupted in emerald green. From within, with a fluid motion and a characteristic 'pop', Severus Snape emerged. His arrival was as silent as his expression was eloquent: a deep distaste etched into every line of his pale face. Without a word, he positioned himself in the shadows at the back, like a reluctant specter.
"Please, have a seat," said Dumbledore, his calm voice cutting the tension. A gesture of his hand made four comfortable chairs appear in front of his desk. "We have much to discuss. My apologies, we shall have to forgo dinner in the Great Hall tonight."
As if his words were a signal, several house-elves appeared with a discreet 'pop', depositing trays with a succulent stew, freshly baked bread, and a steaming teapot on the broad desk, with one even placing a dish of berries for Fawkes, before disappearing with equal discretion.
Snape, who remained standing leaning against a bookshelf full of old tomes, snorted disdainfully. The others, however, accepted the hospitality. Pomona took a comforting cup of tea, Filius chose a plate of stew, and Minerva, with mechanical movements, held her cup as if the heat could drive away the cold she felt inside.
Once everyone was somewhat more comfortable, Dumbledore interlaced his fingers and rested his hands on the desk.
"Right,"he began, his blue gaze lingering on each of them. "Minerva, why don't we start with you? Tell us what you discovered."
Minerva placed her cup on the desk with a soft click. Her thin, strong fingers gripped the edge of the wood as if seeking an anchor. When she spoke, her voice was low but clear, laden with a contained fury that made every word tremble.
"Arabella Figg is fine, Albus. I found no trace of intrusive magic, curses, or any kind of external influence on her or her home. She is as dismayed as we are, though, luckily, she is unaware of the existence of this... this book." She paused, taking a trembling breath. "But what I did confirm, with my own eyes, from Arabella's window and then... then in my other form, is that every miserable word in this book about the treatment Harry receives is a disgusting truth."
She rose from her seat, planting both hands firmly on the desk and leaning towards Dumbledore. Her eyes, normally so serene, burned with a terrifying intensity.
"I spent hours there, Albus. Hours. I saw that obese brat of a cousin and his cronies chasing him around the garden like a pack just to bully him. I saw him carrying shopping bags bigger than he was, while his aunt shouted at him with that stretched neck of hers that looks like a shocked ostrich's, being ordered to do chores his small hands shouldn't be doing. I heard him being scolded, humiliated, and blamed for things the boy didn't even do." Her voice broke, but she did not lower her gaze. "And I saw him being hit with a belt by that walrus of an uncle and then being locked up. Not in a room, Albus. In a cupboard. A dark, dusty cupboard under the stairs, while bruises and marks from the blows began to form on his arms. That is the life of the 'Boy Who Lived'!"
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the sharp crack of Snape's knuckles as he clenched his fists against the shelf. Pomona Sprout brought a hand to her mouth, her eyes filled with horror. Filius Flitwick visibly paled.
Minerva straightened up, her body tense as a bowstring.
"I told you,Albus," she declared, and each word was a whip of disappointment and rage. "I told you that very night, almost 8 years ago. 'Those Muggles are the worst we could leave him with.' But you didn't listen. You trusted an ancient magic and disregarded the basic well-being of a child. What good is 'blood of her blood' if they raise him like a... a cockroach?"
She sank back into the chair, fury giving way to palpable anguish. A solitary tear, which she refused to wipe away, traced a path down her cheek.
"That boy doesn't just need to be taken out of there.He needs help. He needs kindness, he needs to see that the world isn't just that pit of contempt. If we don't fix this, and fix it now, the boy could be irreversibly harmed. What will grow up won't be a savior or a wizard, but a young man so broken inside that no spell can mend him. Trauma, Albus, is a wound that doesn't bleed, but rots the soul. And we... we are allowing it."
Minerva's revelation had left a heavy silence in the office. Albus Dumbledore lowered his head, his long fingers interlaced on the desk. The image of a cupboard under the stairs burned in his mind like an accusation.
"Perhaps... perhaps I was wrong that night," he admitted, his voice deeper than usual. "However, what's done is done. The only thing I can do now is ensure the boy has a more dignified life from this moment on." He raised his gaze, meeting Minerva's furious but hopeful eyes. "I cannot remove him from his relatives, Minerva. The protection his mother left him, that blood safeguard, is the only thing keeping him safe from certain... threats. It will last until he comes of age." He paused, his blue eyes seemed older than ever. "But I will have to personally visit the Dursleys. I will ensure Harry's treatment improves significantly. I was already considering it, but now I see it cannot wait."
The portraits on the walls remained unusually quiet. Even Phineas Black had stopped smirking, contemplating seriously the consequences of what had been revealed. For the portraits, trapped in their frames, moments like these—where history unfolded before their eyes—were both entertainment and a reminder of their inability to affect events, even when they wished to. Even the Sorting Hat, which spent most of the year on its shelf composing the song for the next Sorting Ceremony (a task it found monotonously boring with each passing year), seemed to be paying unusual attention.
Albus regained some of his composure and addressed Minerva directly.
"I will try to fix this matter,Minerva. I promise you. Don't worry, things will get better."
Minerva stared at him for a long moment, then took a long, calming sip of her tea. Finally, she nodded her head, once, brusquely. It was a vote of confidence, but a thin and conditional one. In her mind, she was already drawing up her own plans; if Albus didn't keep his word this time, she would take matters into her own hands, blood safeguard or not.
Filius and Pomona, who until now had been stunned spectators of a tragedy they were unaware of, remained in dismayed silence. In the wizarding world, children with magic were rare and precious treasures, protected and cared for with fierce zeal. The idea that one of them, and none other than Harry Potter, was suffering such abuse and neglect left a bitter, nauseating taste in their mouths. Pomona distractedly fiddled with a small vine peeking from her pocket, as if seeking solace in the simplicity of nature.
Before the awkward silence could settle too deeply, Dumbledore turned his gaze to the darkest corner of the office. Snape was still there, leaning against a shelf crammed with leather-bound volumes that were part of Dumbledore's most arcane personal collection. His face was an impassive mask, but Dumbledore, with his keen perception, had caught a brief and almost imperceptible tremor in Severus's hand when Minerva described the mistreatment Harry received. The pressure of his fingers against the shelf was so strong his knuckles were white. Now, under the expectant gaze of everyone, Snape had stabilized, his expression again carved in stone.
"Severus," said Dumbledore, his voice regaining its calm but firm tone, "why don't you share with us what you have discovered? Your... unique perspective on the scope of this matter would be invaluable."
All eyes turned to the Potions Master. Snape pushed his shoulders off the shelf with disdain, as if the mere act of having to participate actively was an unbearable nuisance. He crossed his arms over his chest, and when he spoke, his voice was a cold, deliberate thread that cut through the emotionally charged air.
"The scope," he began, without preamble, "is total and uncontrollable." His black eyes briefly swept the room, daring anyone to contradict him. "It is not limited to the shelves of that... bookstore." He said the word "bookstore" as if it had an unpleasant taste. "They are stacked in the very offices of The Prophet, selling like hotcakes next to the day's newspapers. They abound in Dervish and Banges, among the junk and used robes."
He paused, letting the image of the book's ubiquity sink in.
"To verify international penetration,"he continued, his tone slightly sarcastic, "I used my... ingredient acquisition trip... to visit similar establishments in the United States, France, and Germany."
His lips curved into a sneer that was not quite a smile.
"The book is there too.In Paris and Berlin, in particular, the copies are fully translated. The quality is impeccable. It is logical, and alarmingly obvious, to assume this... phenomenon... is repeating elsewhere globally. The leak, if one can call this situation a leak, is complete."
He added with a touch of bitter irony:
"Taking advantage of the trip,I acquired several rare ingredients that are... complicated to find here. Not all was a complete waste of time."
Then, his expression darkened, and his gaze settled directly on Dumbledore.
"I contacted certain known individuals.Among them, Lucius Malfoy." The name fell into the room with the weight of a tombstone. "Most received the book through their Flourish and Blotts subscriptions. However..." he made a dramatic pause, "upon seeing the title and cover, they dismissed it as another sensationalist tale about the Little Potter. Narcissa Malfoy, in particular, gave it to her son to play with, considering it harmless children's literature."
Snape fell silent abruptly, as if he had exhausted his word quota for the decade. He crossed his arms more tightly, if possible, and his gaze lost itself in the fireplace flames, daring anyone to ask for more. The effort of having had to vocalize such an extensive report seemed to have drained him to the marrow, or at least, that was the image he wanted to project.
Dumbledore felt a new weight on his shoulders. The idea that such delicate accounts, that secrets so deeply buried, could now be in the hands of Death Eaters—even if they dismissed them as "influenced by the Imperius Curse"—was deeply unsettling. Yet, he could do little to contain a tide that had already flooded the world. He sighed once more; it seemed he had done so more in this single afternoon than in the entire past month.
He directed his gaze, now laden with visible weariness, towards Pomona Sprout. The Herbology professor, who was still processing with evident astonishment the global scope Snape had described, noticed the Headmaster's gaze upon her.
"Pomona, my dear," said Albus, his voice soft but firm, "could you tell us how the situation is unfolding within our own castle?"
Pomona cleared her throat gently, adjusting her robes with an automatic movement that left a small smudge of dirt on the fabric.
"Well,Albus," she began, her voice as warm and earthy as the soil she so loved, "I've spent the day, between pot and pot, observing the corridors and common rooms. The book is, without a doubt, the topic of the day."
She took a sip of her chamomile tea before continuing, seeking solace in its familiar warmth.
"Most of the students still take it as a simple story,a very entertaining fiction, as it should be for children their age." She paused, her kind eyes clouding slightly with concern. "But I have noticed a... particular nervousness among some of the older years. It seems the book mentions them, or their families, in future events. It's a stir of anticipation, not alarm, for now."
"In Gryffindor," she continued, with a hint of maternal resignation, "as expected, there is the most commotion. Even the prefect Bill Weasley has a copy and I've seen him completely engrossed, fascinated by how his younger brothers are mentioned." A small smile touched her lips. "They're good kids, just... enthusiastic."
Her smile faded as she changed houses.
"In Slytherin,however, the reception is colder. They openly mock the content; they find the idea of the 'Boy Who Lived' being in the situation described in the book ridiculous. They dismiss it as a farce written by a wizard with little imagination or too much time on his hands."
Speaking of her own house, her face lit up with pride.
"My Hufflepuffs,good kids all, see it primarily as wonderful entertainment. The sixth years, led by that ball of energy Miss Tonks, are delighted with the illustrations. And our new first years, Messrs. King and Diggory, seem to have devoured it together; I saw them spending the day by the lake reading the book."
"In Ravenclaw," she concluded, "logically, they are more skeptical. They don't read it for the story itself, but analyze it. They treat it as a complex literary puzzle, looking for inconsistencies or hidden patterns. It's... academic."
"As for the staff..." she added, shrugging slightly, "most haven't given it much thought. Although..." she made a significant pause, looking at Dumbledore, "I did see Hagrid arriving around noon with a copy. I suppose he bought it in Diagon Alley this morning."
Pomona finished her report, taking another gulp of air as if she had just returned from a long walk through her greenhouses. She had painted a vivid picture of a castle that, although stirred by curiosity, remained oblivious to the true storm contained within the pages of that blue book.
Albus nodded slowly, a glimmer of relief momentarily mitigating the sorrow in his eyes. The picture Pomona painted, though full of bustle and curiosity, was surprisingly normal, even better than he had feared. At the heart of Hogwarts, life went on, still unaware of the depth of the secrets now circulating within its walls.
Before Dumbledore could address him, Professor Flitwick, unable to contain his academic agitation, began to speak with nervous energy, his words pouring out in a torrent.
"It's extraordinary! Completely extraordinary!" he exclaimed, his hands gesticulating in the air as if still performing complex wand movements. "I have subjected the book to everything I could think of. Diffindo, Incendio, Reducto! It's completely immune! The pages don't tear or scorch. It's more resistant than an ancient dragon scale!"
He adjusted his glasses on his nose, his enthusiasm growing despite the gravity of the context.
"I tried to modify the text with a reversible writing spell.Nothing! I tried Muggle methods, with scissors! The blade dulled before marking the parchment. These volumes are protected by a preservation charm that rivals that of the most protected magical objects in the wizarding world itself! It's an enchantment of astonishing power and elegance!"
Then, his expression turned from fascination to frustration, a frown clouding his face.
"But that's not all.I tried to trace the magical signature of the author, any residue, any shred of essence in the ink or paper..." He made a gesture of impotence, his hands falling to his sides. "It's useless. Every time my tracking spell got close to what I felt was the origin, or I tried to concentrate on the magical pattern... my mind... simply... wandered. I completely forgot what I was doing and started thinking about lesson plans or the melody of a catchy tune. It's a magic of concealment so deep, so absolute..."
He made a dramatic pause, looking at each of those present to ensure they grasped the magnitude of his finding.
"...that,in my opinion, rivals and could even surpass the complexity and power of a Fidelius Charm."
The impact of his words was tangible. Pomona Sprout let out a small "Oh!" and brought a hand to her chest. Minerva McGonagall visibly paled, understanding the implications of a secret of such magnitude being printed and distributed, yet its origin being impossible to trace. Even Severus Snape, who had remained like a statue of disdain, slowly raised an eyebrow, a minimal gesture that in him equated to an expression of absolute astonishment. The silence that filled the office was now one of fearful respect for a power that not even Filius Flitwick could begin to decipher.
"It is precisely what I feared," declared Dumbledore, his voice low but charged with a resonance that made everyone present turn to him. The air in the office seemed to grow stiller. The portraits on the walls leaned forward in their frames, completely forgetting their murmuring. Even the Sorting Hat, which usually feigned indifference to everyday affairs, seemed to turn slightly on its shelf. Fawkes, who had been quietly pecking at some shiny berries from the silver plate left by the elf, raised his golden head, his wise eyes fixed on his master.
Albus did not look directly at any of them, but observed the book, Minerva's copy, which rested on his desk, as if he could extract the truth from its closed pages.
"I have spent the afternoon at Flourish and Blotts,"he began, his tone one of deep reflection, almost to himself, but all listened intently. "And what I found is, if possible, more perplexing than the reports you have just given."
Finally, he raised his blue gaze, sweeping over each of the professors.
"For the employees,the shelf containing these books has always been there. The money from the sales simply disappears, and none of them seem to care or even notice beyond a small automatic commission. When I asked the owner, his confusion was genuine; for him, there was nothing out of the ordinary."
He paused, letting the unsettling normality with which the world had accepted the intrusion sink in.
"When I tried to remove the shelf with magic,a force I haven't felt in many years intervened. It wasn't a shield, it was an... impossibility. And when I contemplated actively preventing a customer from buying a copy..." Dumbledore closed his eyes for a brief instant, and a slight shiver ran through his body, "I felt a cold that froze me to the very core of my magic. A clear and undeniable warning that there would be catastrophic consequences if I did so. So I desisted."
He opened his eyes and his gaze, now full of a somber resignation, settled on the book.
"I saw Hagrid,and many other witches and wizards, buying the book. If what Severus has said is true" —Snape, in his corner, snorted loudly enough for the sound to be a clear, audible "obviously"— "then it is more than likely that by this time, half the wizarding world already has a copy. The truth, or a version of it, has been released. We can no longer contain it."
With a serene movement, Dumbledore pulled three new identical copies from a drawer in his desk. He slid one in front of Severus Snape and another in front of Pomona Sprout, while handing his copy back to Minerva. He kept the last one in his hands, running a finger over the golden title.
"We have speculated enough," he declared, and for the first time since the meeting began, a glimmer of his old determination returned to his eyes. "Now, we must confront the source of our shock. It is better that we read this book and, based on what we discover in its pages, decide collectively what to do next. Knowledge, however painful, is preferable to ignorance."