The fire in the Headmaster's office fireplace crackled softly, casting dancing shadows on the portrait-lined walls. The former Headmasters and Headmistresses of Hogwarts, normally lost in painted slumber or discreet whispers, were unusually alert. Many leaned forward in their frames, craning their necks eagerly, attempting to escape the confines of their canvas to glimpse the pages of the book resting in the hands of Filius and Pomona before them. The gossip of the century was unfolding before them, and they had no intention of missing a single comma.
It was an open secret among the staff that, despite their airs of academic seriousness, all Hogwarts professors shared a healthy appetite for gossip. Evenings in the staff room were often enlivened by the latest castle rumors, and none was a more avid consumer than the Divination teacher, Sybill Trelawney, who found in every trivial rumor a potential "omen" for her classes. But tonight, the gossip was not trivial, and even the most skeptical, like McGonagall herself or the reticent Snape, were caught in the revelation.
At the center of the scene, the Sorting Hat, pragmatic and with no time to waste, had performed a series of determined hops from its shelf to land with a soft "plop" on Dumbledore's silvery hair. From there, it had a privileged view. Dumbledore, for his part, merely smiled faintly and adjusted his half-moon spectacles, not altering his reading pace.
A house-elf had provided each professor with their preferred drink. Minerva McGonagall elegantly held a cup of green tea, occasionally directing small, precise pieces of meat towards her mouth with her wand without taking her eyes off the book. Pomona Sprout, her robes still stained with dirt, alternated sips of her comforting chamomile tea with hearty bites of meat and cheese-filled buns.
It was Severus Snape, however, who surprised the group. With an almost defiant gesture, he had requested a jar of exquisite apple juice with a touch of Firewhisky. The choice did not go unnoticed by Filius Flitwick, whose curiosity was instantly piqued.
"Apple juice with Firewhisky,Severus? A... bold combination," commented the tiny Charms Master.
"Refrain from commentary,Flitwick," murmured Snape, but it was too late. Flitwick, with enthusiasm, ordered the same. An elf instantly appeared with an identical jar for him. Flitwick took a cautious sip and his eyes widened.
"By Merlin's beard!It's delicious!" he exclaimed, before proceeding to enjoy it along with some potato appetizers and dip.
Snape, for his part, abstained from eating, limiting himself to long, meditative sips from his jar, his dark gaze fixed on the flames as if seeking answers in their dance. Dumbledore, in a cheerier corner of the table, hummed softly while reading, and occasionally popped a lemon drop from a small dish into his mouth, making small noises of satisfaction.
On his perch, Fawkes the phoenix observed the scene with his wise eyes before emitting a soft trill and burying his beak in his golden feathers, falling peacefully asleep. Mortal dramas interested him little.
When the last page of the first chapter was turned, Dumbledore lowered the book.
"Well,"he said, breaking the silence, "it's exactly as I remember it. From my arrival on that street that night using Apparition, to extinguishing the lights with my Deluminator. Even my expressions and dialogues are exactly the same. And from what I can see of the illustrations, they are the spitting image of what happened."
Minerva took the floor, her voice charged with a coldness that made the air tremble.
"I second that,"she said firmly. "From being on the wall looking at the map in my Animagus form, to the night, I spent the whole day observing that family," she declared, with a hint of contempt and anger that made Dumbledore shrink slightly in his seat. The others held their breath. "Right up to the arrival of Albus and Hagrid with the baby Harry. And I can say that the entire scene, even the illustrations, depict it in an overly realistic manner."
The other three wizards present maintained a respectful and somewhat uncomfortable silence. They had not been present during those events; on November 1st, 1981, they were at Hogwarts, planning their lessons for the following Monday. Snape, in particular, remained in absolute muteness, his thoughts plunged into a much more personal and ancient pain, in the memory of Godric's Hollow the previous night, weeping over a body that no longer held life.
Dumbledore spoke again, his tone serious.
"If what is depicted in this first chapter is as realistic as a memory itself,we can assume the rest of the book also holds more truths. We'd better keep reading. The next chapter is called 'The Vanishing Glass'. Let's proceed."
A new silence, even deeper than the last, took hold of the room. Only the soft turning of pages, Fawkes's quiet breathing, and the occasional crunch of a potato appetizer could be heard. The magic of the book was such that it completely immersed the reader, making forty minutes of reading pass in an instant.
Before anyone else could speak, it was Snape's voice, surprisingly, that broke the spell.
"It would seem..."he said, dragging out the words with a mixture of revulsion and fascination, "that Mr. Potter can speak Parseltongue."
The statement fell in the room like a bomb. Dumbledore, McGonagall, Sprout, and Flitwick froze. They had all reached that part: the visit to the zoo, Harry talking to the boa constrictor, the vanishing glass, and the reptile thanking him before escaping.
Flitwick was the first to react, his voice a squeak of disbelief.
"It seems Mr.Potter shares that ability with... with Voldemort!"
Hearing the name, McGonagall and Sprout visibly flinched, but composed themselves instantly. Dumbledore, for his part, paled slightly. His mind, always several steps ahead, weighed the terrifying implication: if Harry had acquired that ability, a gift almost exclusively hereditary and associated with Slytherin's line, it perhaps confirmed his greatest fear: that a fragment of Voldemort's soul resided within the boy.
"But... how is it possible?" asked Pomona Sprout, seeking a logical explanation. "As far as I know, the Potters share no kinship with the Gaunts, the only known descendants of Slytherin, let alone the Sayres of America. And as far as we knew, Lily Evans had no ancestors from those families." As a professor, she knew the lineages of her former students well.
Dumbledore sighed, a sound laden with the weight of unspoken secrets.
"That night,when Voldemort attacked the Potters and was defeated by Lily's magic, it seems he left a... 'gift' for little Harry." In his mind, the word "Horcrux" resonated like a funeral knell. He longed to be wrong.
Minerva, shaking her head as if to dispel the horror of the revelation, clung to a more tangible, though no less damning, detail.
"Leaving aside the ability to speak to snakes,"she said solemnly, "the book, although it softens the physical violence, confirms that Harry lives under the stairs. Something I only discovered when I transformed into a cat and was almost inside his house. It is, to put it mildly, very enlightening. And it's something not even we knew until today." Her gaze, laden with reproach, settled on Dumbledore once more.
Pomona Sprout, trying to alleviate the palpable tension, pointed to two illustrations in the book.
"Well...it seems poor Arabella broke her leg with her Kneazles. And it appears Dedalus Diggle has been in contact with Harry, at least greeting him."
Dumbledore nodded, making a mental note to investigate that unauthorized contact. Each new revelation was a reminder of how much had slipped through his fingers.
"Right," concluded Filius, taking a final sip of his juice with whisky. "Aside from confirming Mr. Potter's living conditions and his apparent Parseltongue ability, there isn't much else to share from this chapter."
Dumbledore nodded, running a hand through his beard. The atmosphere in the office was heavy, laden with uncomfortable truths and dark portents.
"Let's read the next chapter,"he proposed, and his voice, for the first time that night, sounded genuinely tired.
The Sorting Hat, on his head, adjusted itself slightly. The show, it seemed, was far from over.