Madam Pomfrey bustled around Dumbledore with a combination of exasperation and genuine concern, her hands moving deftly as she performed diagnostic charms. Her gaze never strayed from his frail form, a slight frown creasing her brow as she muttered under her breath.
"You should know better than to get into duels at your age, Albus," she scolded, though her voice carried more affection than reproach. Her wand flicked with practiced ease, sending soft waves of light across him as she checked for any signs of injury or magical affliction.
Dumbledore, sitting up on the infirmary bed, managed a weak chuckle despite his visible exhaustion. His usually bright eyes, twinkling with mischief and wisdom, were clouded now with weariness. His robes, always immaculate, were slightly askew, and his once-imposing presence was diminished, but not entirely lost.
"Ah, Poppy," he said, his voice warm but tinged with a hint of regret. "It seems age has not dulled my spirit... or my tendency to get involved in things I probably should leave to the younger generation."
His words were delivered with that familiar gleam of mischief that often masked his more serious side, but Madam Pomfrey was not one to let such levity distract her.
"Well, perhaps not," she replied with a pointed look, as her wand emitted a soft glow as it passed over his chest. "But age does have its way of reminding us that even the most capable wizards aren't immune to the consequences of a poor decision. And I'll remind you, Albus, you don't heal as quickly as you used to. Now, hold still."
Snape, standing a few feet away, leaned against the doorframe with his usual air of cold detachment. His dark eyes flicked briefly to Dumbledore, though his expression remained unreadable, his arms crossed tightly across his chest. He did not seem particularly concerned, though his posture suggested a certain wariness, as if he were waiting for something he had not yet determined.
"He was found unconscious in the corridor, Poppy," Snape stated flatly, his voice thick with the weight of its inherent disdain, though his words were direct and unhelpful.
Madam Pomfrey paused mid-spell, her wand still glowing above Dumbledore's chest as she shot Snape a sharp glance.
"Was he now?" she asked, her tone steeped in incredulity, the corners of her mouth turning downward as she registered his complete lack of empathy. "And yet you did nothing but stand there? You should have brought him straight here the moment you found him." Her words were firm, laced with an edge of reproach that could not be ignored.
Snape's lips tightened, though he made no move to retort. His gaze flicked over to Dumbledore, his dark eyes momentarily softening, but only for a split second—an imperceptible shift before his mask of indifference returned. He merely nodded, the action curt and devoid of apology.
Madam Pomfrey didn't wait for any more of his excuse. "You're lucky I haven't had to heal him in ways that would have required more than a simple charm," she muttered, mostly to herself, as her wand darted from one part of Dumbledore's body to another. "Honestly, Albus, I've treated far too many of you reckless wizards. One day, I shall throw all of you out of this hospital wing and let you figure out how to patch yourselves up."
Dumbledore, despite the pain, found enough energy to let out a soft laugh, his eyes dancing as though they were in on some private joke. "I suspect that day will never come, Poppy," he said with a mischievous glint in his eyes. "I think you'd miss us far too much. Who else would provide you with the... excitement your life clearly thrives on?"
Pomfrey shot him a glare, though it was softened by a knowing smile at the edges. "Don't think you're so clever, Albus," she muttered as she checked the final results of her diagnostics. "You'll be well enough soon enough, but you will not be dueling again anytime soon, am I clear?"
"Crystal," Dumbledore replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm but warm beneath the surface, like a favorite, well-worn blanket.
Pomfrey turned to Snape. "And you," she said sharply, her eyes narrowing at him with a look that would have withered anyone else on the spot. "You're lucky I haven't had a mind to hex you for standing there like a statue while I've been trying to save this man's hide. Don't think I haven't noticed."
Snape's expression flickered for a moment, but only a hint of something—perhaps guilt, perhaps embarrassment—crossed his face before he wiped it away with the usual severity. "You have my apologies, Madam Pomfrey," he said, his voice cold and flat, but there was a weight to it now, perhaps begrudging respect hidden in his words.
Madam Pomfrey's eyes softened as she met his gaze. For a moment, there was something almost familial in the way she regarded him, despite all their differences. But she didn't let the moment linger. "Don't expect to be thanked for it," she muttered, her voice returning to its usual no-nonsense tone as she straightened her posture. "Now, Albus, I expect to see you resting properly for the next few days. No more dueling. Or I'll have you in here every week with another injury, and I will not tolerate that."
"Understood," Dumbledore replied, his voice sincere but with the faintest smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "And yet, I suspect that rest will be more difficult than you think. You know how I am when the work calls."
Pomfrey rolled her eyes, her expression softening just slightly, though still firm. "I know. You're as stubborn as a Blast-Ended Skrewt, Albus." She gave him a final, resolute look, her hands now on her hips. "But if you want to keep that spirit of yours intact, you'll mind your health."
Snape, still lurking at the door, offered no further words but merely looked between them both, his gaze dark and unreadable, as if seeing something neither Pomfrey nor Dumbledore were aware of. He offered a brief nod before turning toward the door, his robes sweeping around him as he made his exit.
Madam Pomfrey watched him go, then turned back to Dumbledore, her lips pursed in quiet annoyance. "That one... still a mystery to me."
"Ah, Poppy, you'll never change," Dumbledore said softly, his voice tinged with amusement and affection, but his eyes lingered on the door where Snape had just left. "But, then again, I wouldn't have it any other way."
Madam Pomfrey shook her head, but a faint smile crossed her face as she went back to her work, ensuring Dumbledore would rest well for the coming days—whether he liked it or not.
—
Dumbledore lay back against the soft pillows, the cool air of the infirmary filling the space around him, but his thoughts were far from calm. His mind churned with the weight of the troubling turn of events that had unfolded over the past few days. The room, usually a sanctuary of quiet and healing, felt suffocating as he let himself sink deeper into the depths of his contemplation.
Madam Pomfrey continued her examination, her movements brisk and efficient as she checked him over with practiced precision, but Dumbledore barely registered her presence. His mind was elsewhere—grappling with the cold truth that had haunted him for months. The loss of the final Horcrux had not just disrupted his plans; it had shattered them.
The Horcrux was crucial. It was the final piece in a dangerous game, the one thing that could have been used as leverage to get closer to the Potters and, ultimately, to Harry. He had convinced himself that even if they were able to track down the remaining Horcruxes, they would never know about the one hidden within Harry's scar. That knowledge, that terrible secret, was something Voldemort had buried deep—too deep, perhaps, for anyone to discover in time.
A deep, cold dread crept into Dumbledore's chest as he stared into the dim light filtering through the infirmary windows. Harry, the boy who had become so much more than a symbol of hope for the wizarding world, was caught in the web of fate, and Dumbledore could see no way to untangle him from it.
Harry's sacrifice, the one Dumbledore had always known would be necessary, weighed heavily on his heart. It was a cruel truth, a burden that no child should ever have to bear, yet one that he, Albus Dumbledore, had always understood in the deepest recesses of his soul. The boy had already suffered so much. From the loss of his parents, to the abuse he had endured at the hands of the Dursleys, and the constant looming shadow of Voldemort—Harry had already given more than his fair share. And yet, it was nothing compared to what the final battle would demand of him.
The vision of the boy's face—the confusion, the pain, the anger in his eyes—haunted Dumbledore, but he could not look away. Harry was the key. He had to be, no matter how much it hurt. The dark wizard's defeat, the world's survival, all hinged on Harry's willingness to face death. And Dumbledore... Dumbledore would have to be the one to prepare him for that.
A shiver ran through Dumbledore's frail form as the truth of it settled deeper into his bones. Harry would need to become something more than just a boy. He would need to become a symbol—a beacon of bravery, sacrifice, and love. All the virtues that Voldemort could never understand, all the things Harry had been taught by the very people who had loved him, were going to be tested in ways no one could predict.
The plan was intricate—meticulously laid out over the years. Dumbledore had meant to guide Harry, to prepare him for the inevitable confrontation, to be a mentor in ways that would help him grow into the hero he needed to be. Harry's courage was undeniable, but the raw, untapped potential within him required shaping. Dumbledore had always believed that love was the key, that it was the one weapon Voldemort could never defeat. But now, that vision of Harry as the self-sacrificing hero—the one willing to lay down his life for the greater good—was slipping from his grasp.
The realization hit him like a physical blow.
A Harry raised by Charlus and Dorea Potter would never have the same understanding of sacrifice, the same acceptance of duty. The Potters were kind, loving people—they had given Harry a family, a safe haven, and for that, Dumbledore was eternally grateful. But they were not the ones to prepare him for the harshness of the world that lay beyond the walls of their home. No matter how much they loved Harry, they would shield him from the darker truths that Dumbledore had tried to impart. They would coddle him, protect him, make him feel as though he could live a life free from the weight of his destiny. That, in itself, was a dangerous illusion. Harry's life could never be one of peace and quiet. Not now, not after everything that had happened.
And it was this realization—the slow, creeping understanding—that twisted Dumbledore's stomach. He had done everything he could to shape Harry's path, to make him into the hero he was meant to be, but this sudden shift in his upbringing threatened to undo it all. What had begun as a carefully laid foundation of tough love, of painful lessons that would eventually lead Harry to the realization of his true purpose, was crumbling. The Potters—dear, wonderful people—were inadvertently robbing Harry of the very lessons he needed to survive the coming storm.
Dumbledore closed his eyes for a moment, swallowing down the bitterness that rose in his throat. It wasn't just the Potters who had played a role in this. He had made his own choices, his own sacrifices, and now they were catching up with him. It was too late to change the course of events; too late to undo the past. The boy's fate had been sealed long ago. The choices made, the paths taken, had brought them all to this point.
And yet, as the weight of Harry's fate pressed down on him, Dumbledore couldn't help but feel a gnawing sense of guilt. Would Harry ever forgive him? Would he ever understand the depth of the sacrifice he was being asked to make? Could he?
The quiet buzz of Madam Pomfrey's charm brought him back to the present, her sharp voice cutting through the haze of his thoughts. "You're lucky you don't need more than rest, Albus," she remarked, her tone carrying more relief than reprimand as she finished her final check.
Dumbledore gave her a weak smile, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Yes, well, I suppose I have far too much left undone to rest for long, Poppy."
She looked down at him, her expression softening, but she didn't say anything more.
Dumbledore's gaze shifted toward the window, his thoughts swirling with the uncertainty of the future. Harry's life, his destiny, had always been a thing of immense importance. But now, more than ever, it seemed fragile, like glass on the verge of shattering. And Dumbledore wasn't sure if he could protect the boy any longer.
—
The heavy oak door to the Hospital Wing swung open with a violent crash, the sound of it echoing through the sterile, quiet room. Dumbledore's gaze snapped up, startled from his turbulent thoughts, and he immediately recognized the figures that had entered. Charlus Potter, flanked by a group of some of the most feared individuals in the wizarding world, strode in with an intensity that sent an involuntary chill down Dumbledore's spine. The air seemed to thicken with the weight of their presence.
Charlus, towering and regal as ever, his face a mixture of fury and controlled menace, led the charge, with Arcturus Black walking in behind him, his cold and calculating gaze sweeping over the room like a storm cloud preparing to unleash thunder. The older Black was a towering presence himself, as imposing as a mountain, and his sharp features, twisted in displeasure, suggested that his patience was in dangerously short supply.
Following them were Sirius Black, Alastor Moody, and Benjy Fenwick—three men who had all seen the worst the world had to offer, yet still managed to exude a certain dangerous charisma. Sirius, grinning but with a dangerous glint in his eyes, exuded the kind of charm that made even the bravest of men take a step back. Alastor Moody, as intense and paranoid as ever, kept his magical eye trained on Dumbledore, his hand never straying far from his wand, while Benjy stood a little apart, his steely eyes narrowed with distrust.
The group filled the room, the weight of their collective presence too much to ignore, and Dumbledore, despite himself, found a flicker of apprehension crossing his features. They were here for a reason, and it wasn't a good one.
"What is the meaning of this intrusion?" Dumbledore's voice, despite the calm words, couldn't entirely hide the tension beneath, like a man about to be caught in a trap of his own making.
Charlus' eyes burned into Dumbledore, the fury in them unmistakable. There was no warmth, no forgiveness in those sharp, steely depths—only the kind of wrath that came from discovering a betrayal. "We need to talk, Albus," he said, his voice cold as ice, yet rich with authority. "And I suggest you start talking fast."
Dumbledore sat up a little straighter in his bed, instinctively trying to regain his usual composure, but it was a losing battle. This was no ordinary conversation; it was a reckoning. And as much as he wanted to maintain his usual calm, the air in the room was thick with the promise of unpleasant truths.
The silence stretched for what felt like hours, and then Charlus, never one to play games, leaned forward just a fraction. "Did you know?" His voice cut through the tension like a blade.
Dumbledore, ever the master of composure, feigned ignorance, though the slightest crack of unease appeared in his eyes. "I'm not sure I understand what this is about, Charlus," he replied, his voice steady but laced with that hint of uncertainty only those who knew him well would catch. He knew what this was about—knew exactly where this conversation was headed—but he couldn't let it show. Not yet.
Charlus' eyes didn't leave his for a second, the piercing gaze never wavering. His mouth twisted into something like a half-smile, but it was the kind of smile you'd see on a man about to pull the rug out from under you. "Don't play games with us, Albus," Charlus retorted sharply, his voice low and dangerous, a reminder that beneath the calm demeanor of the Potters was a family forged in battle. "We know about the Horcruxes. We know you've been hiding things from us. So either you start talking, or we'll make you wish you had."
Sirius' deep chuckle rumbled behind him, and Dumbledore turned his gaze briefly to the younger Black. Sirius' smirk was wry and knowing. "Honestly, Albus, what were you thinking? Trying to hide something from us? You know the Potters and the Blacks don't exactly go in for that sort of secrecy. We've got eyes everywhere." His voice was full of sarcasm, the kind that only a man who'd spent too many years with his nose in dangerous affairs could pull off.
Arcturus Black, a towering figure of aristocratic disdain, stepped forward, his long, bony fingers clasped behind his back. His voice, as cold and calculating as the eyes that stared down at Dumbledore, sliced through the tension. "I'd advise you not to underestimate us, Albus," he said, his tone a thinly veiled threat. "You have been playing a dangerous game, and I believe you've underestimated the power of this family... and those who share our interests."
Alastor Moody let out a low, growling chuckle, his magical eye rotating to examine Dumbledore from every possible angle. "And here I thought I was the paranoid one," he muttered. "Seems like I've got some competition."
Benjy Fenwick, usually a man of few words, kept his hand on the hilt of his wand, his expression unreadable. His voice, when it came, was low but no less sharp. "This isn't the time for games, Dumbledore. We know what's at stake. Now, we need answers."
The walls of the infirmary seemed to close in as the weight of their collective scrutiny bore down on Dumbledore. He swallowed, but his mind raced. He had never been one to shy away from confrontation, but this... this was different. This was not just about the truth of the Horcruxes—it was about the greater battle that he had carefully orchestrated for years. The sacrifices, the plans, the pieces moving into place—he had never thought it would come to this.
Taking a deep breath, Dumbledore looked up, his gaze steady now, though tinged with regret. "Yes, I knew about the Horcruxes," he admitted, his voice dropping in volume, as if reluctant to allow the words to escape. "And I have been trying to protect you—all of you—from the terrible truths that must be faced." He paused, his eyes lingering on Charlus, the weight of the words almost too heavy for him to bear. "There is more at stake here than just us. The future of the wizarding world—of Harry—is... more complicated than you can imagine."
Charlus stepped forward, his voice growing colder. "I don't care about your reasons, Albus. You've lied to us. You've hidden things from us. And it's no longer something we can just ignore."
Dumbledore's eyes flickered for a moment, and his hands tightened into fists beneath the covers. "I never wanted this for any of you," he whispered. "But sometimes... the cost of the greater good is too high."
Sirius let out a bark of laughter, though it was dark and bitter. "Spare us the rhetoric, old man. You've been hiding things for years. It's time to stop pretending you're the only one who can see the bigger picture."
Moody's eye twitched, and he leaned in closer, his voice gravelly. "I've had enough of your games, Albus. If we're going to fight this war, we need the truth. All of it."
The room was tense, the air crackling with the dangerous mixture of fury and the desire for answers. Dumbledore felt the weight of the years of manipulation and planning pressing down on him more than ever. His mind raced as the truth of the situation crystallized around him—he was about to lose everything he had worked for. But he could do nothing but face it head-on. The game had changed.
—
Charlus Potter's glare cut through the room like a blade, his voice as cold and measured as an executioner's sentence. "Did you know, Albus, that there was a shard of Voldemort's soul in Harry's scar?"
The question hung in the air like a foul stench, and Dumbledore's face froze for a moment. His usual calm demeanor faltered, a twitch betraying his surprise. For the first time in years, the Great Albus Dumbledore was caught off guard. The room fell silent, the tension so thick it could be sliced with a knife.
Dumbledore cleared his throat, desperately trying to regain his composure. "I—"
"Don't," Charlus snapped, his voice sharp, laced with a venom that would have made even the bravest flinch. "Don't give me that. You knew, Albus. You knew and you kept it from us." His words were like daggers, each one landing with the precision of a man who had been wronged beyond measure. "You knew the very thing that could destroy Harry was living inside his skull, and yet, you kept it from him. You kept it from all of us."
Sirius Black, standing just behind Charlus, folded his arms with a slow, dangerous smile. His voice rumbled, deep and dark like thunderclouds. "I think it's cute, Albus. You've spent so many years pretending to be the wise, all-knowing wizard. Yet, here we are, and it's all unraveling, isn't it?"
His grin widened, a predatory gleam in his eyes, a sharpness that could strip the flesh off a man with a few words. "I'm guessing that whole 'greater good' line you've been feeding us doesn't sound as convincing now, does it?"
Dumbledore's eyes flickered, but he refused to give an inch, his voice steady, though the cracks in his façade were becoming more apparent. "Sirius, this is not the time for—"
"Isn't it?" Sirius interrupted, his tone biting. "Seems like the perfect time to me. You've been stringing us all along for years. The Great Dumbledore, playing chess with our lives. You thought you could manipulate us all like pawns, but we're not blind, old man."
Arcturus Black, tall and imposing, stepped forward, his presence as chilling as a winter's night. His voice was deep and thick, like the rumble of a distant storm. "Albus," he said, his tone laced with contempt, "the idea that you would keep such information from Harry, that you would treat him as a weapon, not a person... it's unfathomable. You, of all people, who speak so often of love and sacrifice, turned a blind eye when it truly mattered."
His eyes, cold as ice, pierced Dumbledore's very soul. "You did what needed to be done, but at whose cost? Harry's? The world's?" He shook his head, the disappointment in his gaze like a weight pressing down on Dumbledore's chest. "You betrayed your own principles, Albus. That is the truth you can no longer deny."
Benjy Fenwick, standing off to the side, his arms crossed with an air of quiet menace, spoke next. "You always believed you were the only one with the answers, didn't you, Albus?" His voice was low, calm, but there was an underlying tension in it, as though every word was carefully chosen. "The 'greater good'... All that moral high ground. But when it came down to it, you played with Harry's life as though it were some game, some... grand experiment. And for what?" He leaned forward slightly, the intensity of his stare growing. "For what, Albus? So that you could sleep at night with the justification that you knew what was best?"
Dumbledore clenched his fists, the tension in the room nearly suffocating. "I did what I believed was necessary," he said, his voice faltering slightly, "for the greater good."
Charlus' voice was a low growl, dangerous and unwavering. "Don't feed me that line, Albus." His tone was so harsh that it seemed to physically affect the air around him. "We all bought it once. We all followed you, believed in your vision. But you've forgotten the one thing that makes you human—accountability." His words were sharp, unforgiving. "You wanted Harry to fight Voldemort alone, didn't you? You wanted him to sacrifice himself. You turned him into a martyr, a lamb to the slaughter. But that's not going to happen anymore. Not on my watch."
Dumbledore's expression faltered, guilt flickering in his eyes for just a moment. He opened his mouth to speak, but Charlus raised his hand, cutting him off.
"You underestimated Harry," Charlus continued, his voice thick with disdain. "You thought he was a puppet, that he would bend to your will when the time came. But you know what, Albus?" He took a slow step forward, the weight of his presence pressing down on Dumbledore like a storm. "You didn't account for the fact that Harry Potter isn't just a tool. He's a man, a son of a lion, a warrior. And you tried to break him, but you've only made him stronger. And now you have to face the consequences of your actions."
Sirius stepped in beside his father, his grin wide, though there was no humor in it. "And, Albus, you've got to realize something." He paused, letting the silence stretch, before delivering the final blow. "Harry's not your little soldier anymore. He's not the boy you can push around. The game is changing, and you're not the one pulling the strings anymore."
Moody, who had been silent until now, took a step forward. His grizzled face, scarred and weathered, revealed no emotion. "You've forgotten how to play, Dumbledore," he said, his gravelly voice heavy with years of experience. "But we haven't. And it's about time you learned that the rules have changed."
Benjy, always the quiet one, added his voice with a final, cutting remark. "And Harry's no longer the boy who would trust you."
Dumbledore stood there, facing them all, the weight of his past mistakes pressing down on him. The room seemed to close in around him. He could feel their eyes on him, each of them expecting an answer, an apology, some form of redemption. But he knew, deep down, there was no easy way out. The reckoning had come.
—
Arcturus' voice was like a slow, deliberate draw of a blade. "Don't think for a second that we haven't seen through your little game, Albus," he began, his tone dripping with contempt. "For years, you've hidden behind the veil of 'the greater good,' manipulating every soul you could, all while sitting comfortably on your little pedestal in Hogwarts. You've been so busy playing chess that you forgot there were real lives at stake." He took a step closer, his piercing gaze unwavering. "And as for Grindelwald..." He let the name linger in the air like a curse. "You waited for us to come knocking, while you let him slaughter innocents. But, of course, you were more concerned with your little pet project—Gellert, your precious lover. How convenient that you never had to raise a finger until we were there to handle it."
Dumbledore's face blanched as if the weight of Arcturus's words had physically struck him. His breath quickened, but he held his ground. The truth in Arcturus's accusations was undeniable.
Charlus stepped forward then, cutting in with the cold, deadly precision that only he could wield. "And let's not forget your little 'Horcrux' problem," he said, his voice a dagger to Dumbledore's conscience. "The one you tried to sweep under the rug, the one you thought would go unnoticed. As we speak, the last of them is being destroyed." His eyes gleamed with a sharpness that could only be described as satisfaction. "And don't you dare act like you're the hero in this story, Albus. You're no more a savior than I am a saint."
Sirius, arms crossed, leaned back against the wall, a smirk curling his lips. "Oh, I just love how you think you're always the smartest person in the room," he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "You've got this whole 'grand design' thing going on, but you didn't account for a little thing called reality." He paused and gave a mock expression of admiration. "What a shocker, Albus—you of all people, playing God."
Dumbledore turned his gaze to Sirius, but his words faltered, as though the weight of his mistakes finally caught up with him.
Benjy, standing with arms crossed and his ever-present look of silent judgment, quipped, "God, it's like watching a cockroach trying to talk its way out of a boot." His gravelly voice was barely more than a low growl, but it carried a certain weight. "You've been pulling strings from behind the scenes for so long that you've forgotten what it's like to live in the real world, Albus. People die. Lives break. But you, you had a plan. A plan that made you feel comfortable. Never mind that it meant dragging others into it, did you?"
Dumbledore looked down, his heart pounding. But just as he was about to speak, Charlus's next words struck him like a bolt of lightning.
"I went to Ammon Raza," Charlus said, his voice slicing through the tension. "And he managed to extract the shard of Voldemort's soul from Harry. It's done, Albus." His words were final, each syllable punctuated with an unforgiving clarity.
Dumbledore's face twisted in a grimace as the full weight of that statement hit him. He had trusted no one with this knowledge—not even the people standing before him. Now, the very people he thought would never confront him had beaten him at his own game. His mind raced, seeking something—anything—to save face.
His voice was steady, though there was a flicker of desperation in his eyes. "The Horcrux within Harry... it was the only way to destroy Voldemort. You know that." He seemed almost... apologetic, but that only made the situation worse.
Charlus' gaze bore into him like a dagger. "And you were going to kill him for it, weren't you? All that talk of 'sacrifices for the greater good'... but where were you when Harry was growing up in that hellhole of a house?" He paused, taking in the suffocating silence. "You thought you could use him as a pawn, to save the world... and what did it cost? His innocence? His life?"
Arcturus's voice rang out, low and venomous. "And let's not forget, Albus, what we did when we found out. You've made one too many mistakes for me to keep turning a blind eye." He leaned in, his towering presence sending a chill through the room. "Try to control Harry again, and we will make you regret it. The Legion will be on you like a storm, and you know full well how we deal with those who betray us."
Sirius grinned wickedly. "You think we're bluffing? Go ahead, make another move and find out." His voice, though calm, held a thread of threat. "We don't need you, Albus. The world's changed. And we... we're done with your plans."
Moody, the ever-grim figure at the door, growled from the shadows. "You've made your bed, Dumbledore. Now you get to lie in it. You should've known better than to mess with people who know how to handle the truth. And that truth is, your plan was never as airtight as you thought."
Benjy snorted, his usual deadpan expression in place. "Don't let the door hit you on the way out."
Dumbledore's breath came quicker now, his eyes darting between them. He had no answer—no justification for what they had said, no defense against their accusations. His silence was deafening.
Charlus straightened, his voice cutting through the suffocating tension. "I'm done with you, Albus. We all are. If you ever try to interfere with Harry's life again, I will make sure you regret it. And you'll have to answer to all of us."
Arcturus added one final, cold statement, his gaze as sharp as ever. "And as for the rest of it—remember this: if you want to know what happened to Grindelwald, take a little trip to Nurmengard. See what happens when you cross us."
The room fell into a suffocating silence. Dumbledore, standing there alone, could do nothing but accept the truth of their words.
---
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