Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Dumbledore house on Mould-on-the-Wold had a peculiar smell—like old parchment and burned toffee—and an even more peculiar ten-year-old inside it, who, on the morning in question, was trying to teach their cat to do tricks. 

"Come on," Albus whined. "You do it when Ariana tells you to! Just stand on your hind legs, raise your front paws like this—" he mimicked a high-five. The cat merely looked at him, unimpressed. 

With a sigh, Albus rolled over from his sitting-down position onto his back and snapped his fingers. On cue, the old gramophone in the corner started to play. Soothing chamber music oozed into the room. 

“Will this convince you now?” Albus asked the cat helplessly, who meowed discouragingly and began grooming itself. 

“Albus!” Ariana, his six-year-old sister, came into the room, her eyes shining with delight. She was four years younger than him. “What are you doing with Mr. Whiskers?” she scolded, crossing the threshold and scooping the cat up into her arms. 

“I’m trying to teach him how to do a high-five,” Albus sat up and crossed his arms over his chest petulantly, “Like you did yesterday, except he doesn’t listen to me.” 

“Silly Albus,” Ariana laughed. “You gotta convince him with sausages!” She scratched behind the cat’s ears. It purred happily. 

A loud bang came from somewhere in the house, interrupting their moment. The cat scrambled out of Ariana’s arms and landed on the floor, its ears flicking back warily. 

“ALBUS!” Their mother shouted, “I swear if it’s another one of your experiments—” 

“It’s not him, mum!” Ariana shouted back. 

“ABERFORTH, THEN—” 

“Sorry, mother!” Aberforth yelled back unrepentantly. 

As Kendra Dumbledore continued to scold Aberforth for whatever he had done, Albus smiled gratefully at his sister. “Thanks, Ariana.” 

Ariana bounced on her feet, grinning cheekily. “No problem! Will you go out and play with me?” She asked. 

Albus winced, “Sorry, sister. I have been grounded for the rest of the week, as Mother has decreed. Instead, why don’t we—” he reached down and tickled Ariana’s sides, causing her to fall over and squeal in laughter. “—Have a little fun inside the house?” Albus finished, feeling himself begin to laugh along with her as well. 

Ariana giggled. “No, Albus—” she gasped out, interrupted by yet another fit of giggles, “I—I want you to show me magic again!” She finished, grasping at Albus’ fingers while laughing nonstop. 

“Magic, huh?” Albus pondered, momentarily halting his assault to think. “Dearest sister, I think that can be accomplished in the house as well.” He pointed to the bookshelf covering one entire side of his room. “Pick a book from there.” 

Ariana moved to stand and walk over, but he firmly grasped her shoulders and moved her to sit down again, “No, silly,” Albus admonished, “Say the name and I’ll get it for you!” 

“The Tales of Beedle the Bard!” Ariana grinned. 

Albus concentrated hard on said book. When he had located it, he held up a hand and winked at Ariana, “Watch this!” 

In his mind, he repeated like a mantra, Ariana wants it, I cannot look stupid in front of her, please book, please come to me.

Fortunately: the book came flying out of the bookshelf into his outstretched hand. 

Unfortunately: said book came flying with so much force that his wrist bent with a painful crack . Nothing was broken, but he did get knocked over into a lying position once more. 

“Albus!” Ariana gasped in both delight and concern. 

Albus sat up straight and dusted himself off with a smile, passing her the book. “Not bad, right, dearest sister? Fantastic, even!” He puffed out his chest dramatically, sporting an over-large grin. 

Ariana pouted. “But I wanna see you do the heart thing with the leaves again!” 

Albus sighed. Six year-olds were so hard to convince. “I’ll teach you when Mother releases me from my punishment,” he promised. Ariana’s face lit up in delight, then fell again. “A week is sooooo long,” she whined.

“Sorry, sister,” Albus patted her head in sympathy. “Why don’t you ask Aberforth? There’s no ban on him.” 

Ariana’s face fell, but she nodded and left the room with The Tales of Beedle the Bard, leaving Albus with the nagging feeling that something was wrong, even though he didn’t see how his suggestion was unreasonable. Wasn’t asking Aberforth the right choice, since he was the one who could actually go out? Granted, Aberforth probably couldn’t do intentional magic yet, but they could still have fun outside, and that was Ariana’s goal anyway. 

He flipped onto his back again, and summoned another book from his shelf. This time, perhaps due to the lessened need for it to come over to him, the book landed safely in his hand. The Basics of Transfiguration, the book read. It was the first year book for Hogwarts students, and Albus had begged his mother to buy it once he figured out that he could do magic easily without a wand, to the shock of his parents.

The book assumed that wands were a prerequisite, but Albus was sure he could do it without one, because Transfiguration didn’t need spells. The book’s author had said in its introduction: Transfiguration is an exercise on intent: While subjects like Defense Against the Dark Arts often require a specific spell for the caster to achieve their goal, Transfiguration does not do the same. In fact, Transfiguration needs the caster to only think and wish, and so it is the most complex, and most creative of all magic disciplines. 

Albus took a deep breath and started trying out some of the exercises laid in the book. There was a pencil lying in front of him, and the goal was to Transfigure it into a matchstick. A matchstick was definitely smaller than the pencil, but Albus was sure he could do it. In his mind, he drew up a picture of a matchstick. Once he was sure he could envision every single detail of it, he waved his hand over the pencil, thinking: Change into a matchstick, now. 

With a ‘pop’ sound, the pencil changed into a matchstick. Albus picked it up and held it to the light in wonder. It looked just like a matchstick. 

Once again, Albus was reminded of how cool magic was. Now, time to find out whether it’ll burn up too—

Kendra Dumbledore appeared in the doorway. She didn’t look angry, but Albus hurriedly stuffed his matchstick into his pocket and stood up to greet her. “Mother,” he said formally. 

“Albus,” Kendra nodded. “Your father is coming back soon. Make your way down to join us for lunch.” 

Albus’ brow crinkled in worry. “Father is back? Did something happen at work?” 

Kendra already started to turn her back on him, but she paused. A rare smile broke across her face. “No, Albus. He’s popping back for a while to eat lunch with you and your siblings.” 

When Albus bounded down the stairs, Percival Dumbledore was already stepping out of the fireplace, brushing off the soot from his robes. Aberforth and Ariana were already clambering around him, asking for attention. Percival smiled, lifting them both up in the air. 

“Ari, Abe,” he said affectionately, kissing them both on their noses. “My darlings!” He ended off by nuzzling Ariana’s cheek aggressively, leading her to giggle in delight. Aberforth, on the other hand, squirmed around in his father’s arms in a silent request to be put down. Percival grinned and acquiesced, placing both of them down on the floor. His gaze met Albus’, and his grin widened further. 

Albus stepped forward, and had his hair ruffled by his father. “Albus, my dear boy,” Percival said with a twinkle in his eye, “What could you possibly have done to make your mother so angry? Grounded for a week, in this economy?”  

Albus sighed, an overdramatic, long-drawn sound that made Percival burst out in laughter. “I was only experimenting with the leaves,” he complained. 

“Only experimenting?” Kendra glared. “That’s it, you’re grounded for a month! My dear son, you made it float around in the shape of a heart! If any Muggles saw you—” 

“Kendra,” Percival interrupted. He had tried to school his features into a more solemn expression, but Albus could tell that a smile was threatening to break through regardless. “Let our boy have his fun, my dear. It won’t be long before he’ll be in Hogwarts, and you won’t even see him for most of the year!” 

Kendra sighed. “Is it too much to ask, wanting my son to not get into jail for breaking the Statue of Secrecy—”

“Hear, hear,” Percival quickly wrapped her in a hug. “Now, let’s get on with eating, shall we?” 

Lunch was particularly scrumptious, Albus noted, with roasted chicken and a thick gravy on the side that made the chicken extra flavourful, paired off with thick mushroom soup and some grilled vegetables. He had his plate polished within minutes, and a glance told him his siblings felt the same. 

Percival cleared his throat, signalling that he had something to announce. “Now, children,” he said, beaming. “I would like to say that I’ve just gotten a pay raise!” 

The children cheered. “Congrats, Father,” Albus grinned. 

“Does that mean you’ll be home more often?” Aberforth asked hopefully. 

“Yay!” Ariana cheered. 

“No, it doesn’t mean I’ll be home more often,” Percival answered, “But it does mean that we’ll be able to afford more things—Albus’ books, Ariana’s toys—and maybe a pet just for you, Abe?” His blue eyes twinkled kindly. Aberforth cheered. “I want something fluffy!” He declared. 

“Is the cat not enough for you?” Albus retorted. 

Aberforth frowned. “No, it isn’t,” he denied, “It’s too small. I want something larger! Something I can hug without crushing it!” 

“Something larger!” Ariana agreed, stuffing her mouth with chicken. 

Kendra sighed in exasperation, but a grin was spreading across her face involuntarily. 

Percival had to leave right afterwards, but he promised Albus that he would come back with more books and that he would see Albus’ trick with the leaves, Aberforth a new pet (“What do you want, a goat?” Percival had joked after Aberforth’s fifth rejection of possible pet ideas, and was horrified to see the boy suddenly fall silent in contemplation, something Aberforth never did.) and Ariana some new toys, like the dolls she had seen some Muggle children play with. 

Albus watched him as he stepped into the Floo. He turned back to see Kendra, who raised an eyebrow before sighing and ruffling his hair. 

“You’re intelligent for your age, Albus,” she sighed, “Too intelligent by far, in fact. But you haven’t realised how important the Statue of Secrecy is. The Ministry is arresting anyone that violates it, threatening to put them in Azkaban. You’re still underage, but we never know what might happen—you might get on the Ministry’s record, or you might be barred from entering Hogwarts—” she paused at Albus’ horrified look. “Yes, son. That’s why you must be careful. Understood?”  

“Yes, mother,” Albus replied. 

Kendra Dumbledore smiled, the lines on her face softening for a moment. “That’s a good boy. Now go back to your room. You’re still grounded, young man.” 

Albus trudged back up to his room. Peering out the window, he could see Aberforth and Ariana playing in the grass, both smiling widely. He turned back to The Basics of Transfiguration.

Time to see if he could transfigure the matchstick back into a pencil.

Chapter Text

Breakfast in the Dumbledore household was always a taxing affair for Kendra Dumbledore.

Firstly, she had to prepare the food before Percival had to leave, which was often way too early, and left them with very few mornings that they could call their own. Percival would always give her a kiss tasting of eggs and bacon, and she always had to fight back a grin as she wiped away the imprint of oil on her lips. This was all good, up until he left with a wave, leaving her with the household until the end of the day.

Secondly, she had to wake up three children with terminal cases of lying-in-bed syndrome, which meant that she had to physically drag them out of bed to ensure that they would stay awake, and then personally preside over their washing up to ensure they turned up looking half-decent.

Thirdly, and perhaps the most insufferable part of the entire ordeal, she had to listen to their ever-growing, ever-nonsensical debates over breakfast.

“I think we should get a goat,” Aberforth declared between bites of toast. “They’re clever, fluffy, and you can milk them.”

“You don’t milk pets,” Albus said without looking up from his book. “That’s uncivilised.”

“You don’t read at the breakfast table,” Kendra reminded Albus sharply, setting down a plate of eggs with more force than was intended. “And, milking pets is a perfectly reasonable thing to do,” she added as an afterthought.

“No it’s not,” Albus insisted. “You milk your farm animals, not your pets! Pets are meant to be companions, and they’re not meant to be used.” He ended off dramatically, pointing his fork.

“That’s not true! As long as you don’t force them it’ll be ok.” Aberforth insisted. “If I had a goat, I wouldn’t force it to give me milk! It would give it to me only if it wanted to.”

“I want a goat too!” Ariana proclaimed. Aberforth cheered, and the two high-fived each other.

Albus closed his book with a longing glance. “Since we’re just talking about things we want, then I want a Kneazle who can play chess.” He replied swiftly.

Percival had come back a few days ago with the books Albus wanted, and a wizarding chessboard that one of his colleagues gifted him. Albus now spent his time arguing with the talking pieces, or trying to teach Aberforth and Ariana how to play.

Kendra felt her head throb. “How do you know what’s a Kneazle?” she muttered.

Her children paid her no heed. “A Kneazle would eat your chessboard,” Aberforth retorted.

“Then it would have excellent taste!” Albus said sweetly, “Much better than my brother, at least—”

Kendra felt her head throb sharply. “Enough,” she ordered. Her children fell silent. “Eat your breakfast.”

Percival would disagree, but Kendra knew she would never have had three children if it was up to her. They were way too much effort.

Albus had counted exactly thirty-six things he could do without a wand, and he was determined to make it forty by the end of the week.

“Do you think lifting rocks counts as magic?” He asked Ariana seriously.

“Only if you don’t drop it on your own foot,” Ariana giggled.

“So if I drop it on your foot it’ll count?” Albus grinned mischievously. Ariana, who was poking at the daisies in the garden with a stick, paid him no mind, giggling to herself as the daisies opened and closed in sync with her prodding.

Albus ceased his ministrations to watch her. She wasn’t actually touching the flowers with the stick—it was more of waving it around, as if it was a wand. Albus wondered if the moving photographs in the Prophet had inspired her somewhat. They had recently taken a Muggle invention—cameras, Albus recalled—and adapted it for wizarding use in the Prophet. No wizard would willingly admit that they had stolen ideas from Muggles, of course, but Percival worked in the Department of Muggle Relations in the Ministry and thus could tell his son a few stories about the most recent quality-of-life inventions.

It was clear that she was performing magic, but he wasn’t sure if it counted as intentional or not. Well, he thought with a smile, Aberforth didn’t have this talent at her age, and he didn’t think his brother had it now, even if he was two years older than Ariana.

“Albus!” Their mother appeared at the doorway, calling for him. Albus stood up questioningly. “Your brother is asking for you,” she explained, turning around to lead him into the house. Albus chanced a look at Ariana, who was still whispering to the daisies.

“Ari,” he called out. Ariana looked up at him. “Do you wanna go inside?”

“No,” Ariana simply said, and continued talking to the flowers.

“Aberforth,” Albus grumbled as he stepped inside the house, “What do you want?”

Aberforth held up a small black object that looked like it had been broken before. “Look, Albus!” he said proudly.

To Albus’ dawning horror, it looked suspiciously like one of his chess pieces. He quickly strode forward and snatched the piece out of Aberforth’s hand. The piece that once was a knight had had its head cleanly broken off. A glance at the floor told him where that head had gone.

Albus tackled his brother to the ground. He yelled, “What exactly were you thinking?”, and with one hand pinning Aberforth to the ground, his other hand brandished the knight piece angrily. Aberforth cowered in fear.

“I…” he stuttered.

“Well?” Albus scowled.

“I—I only wanted to make them quiet! You always complain about how they’re too annoying…” Aberforth mumbled guiltily.

“That’s a good reason?” Albus roared. “Who said you could touch my things without my permission?”

He would have said more, if not for a pair of hands tugging him away from Aberforth. “That’s quite enough, Albus,” Kendra Dumbledore’s stern voice spoke out. “Your brother did not know any better, but you should. Is a chess piece worth this ruckus? Who taught you to scream and shout like an uncivilised child, hmm?”

Albus felt his face burn in shame, but a small voice in his heart screamed that no, he had done nothing wrong, and so he said nothing, staring at his feet resolutely.

“Albus,” Kendra’s voice was somehow even more disapproving than before. “Apologise to your brother. Now.”

Still burning in shame and indignance, Albus bit out, “Sorry.”

Kendra sighed. She took the chess piece from Albus’ hand. Reaching into her robes, she pulled her wand out and waved it in the air, muttering “Reparo”. The head that was on the ground flew up and reconnected itself with its owner. It was as if the chess piece had gained life again, with the knight instantly demanding that it be placed back onto the chessboard.

Albus watched all of this with no trace of emotion on his face.

Kendra rubbed her temples. “Honestly, all this shouting before noon. Both of you—out. Go find something productive to do. Preferably something that doesn't involve breaking magical items or each other.”

Albus stalked off towards the stairs immediately, not needing to be given any other instruction. Aberforth, who had gone pale from the confrontation, slowly got up from the floor, and, while steadily avoiding eye contact with his mother, slunk off towards the kitchen.

Kendra sighed again, and turned her attention towards the newly-repaired chess piece, grumbling indignantly from her hand. Waving her wand, she intoned, “Silencio.”

The knight’s complaints were instantly muted. Stowing her wand back into her robes, Kendra moved to place the piece back where it belonged.

It wasn’t until she placed the piece back in its box and turned to the window that the silence struck her.

It was too quiet, for a household of three young children. The garden, visible through the glass, was empty.

She rushed out through the front door and desperately looked around.

“Ariana?” She called.

There was no answer but the faint rustling of the leaves around her.

The daisies Ariana had been playing with still waved gently in the breeze, but the stick she’d been holding lay abandoned on the path.

Kendra felt her heart thud once—hard.

“Ariana?” she called again, louder this time.

Still nothing.

She stepped out into the garden, glancing left and right, and then ran. Ariana had wandered before—curious, dreamy—but she always answered when called.

Kendra turned on the spot, wand in hand, muttering tracking charms with a trembling voice. Nothing. Not even a flicker of her magical signature was detected.

She contemplated using a voice-magnifying spell, but their area was so full of Muggles that it was too risky. She stormed back inside. “Albus! Aberforth! I need you both, now!”

Aberforth peeked out from the kitchen. Albus trudged down the stairs, his sulking mood on full display, but both of them froze when they saw Kendra’s murderous expression. “What—” Albus began.

“Ariana’s missing.”

They were out the door in moments. Kendra scoured the woods beyond their lane, Albus circled the stream where they often went to skip stones, Aberforth climbed up on trees to gain a better view of the surrounding fields.

The sun began to set. Kendra’s voice was hoarse, her knees muddy. The boys fared similarly, with their voice cracking and their hands scratched.

And then—

“Here!” Aberforth cried, ear the edge of a thicket. “Over here!”

They ran to him.

Ariana lay curled on the ground, face half-hidden in her arms, limbs folded in strange angles as if she had collapsed mid-motion. Her clothes were torn.

“Ari…?” Aberforth whispered.

She didn’t look up.

Kendra dropped to her knees beside her and gathered the small body into her arms. Ariana didn’t resist. She didn’t speak. She didn’t cry.

Kendra stood, holding her daughter tightly. “Back to the house,” she said.

No one argued.

When they got back to the house, Kendra ordered, “Albus. Call your father through the Floo,” and swept up the stairs, still carrying Ariana in her arms. Aberforth followed behind, uncharacteristically quiet for once. Albus swallowed his fear and threw in the Floo powder, “Muggle Relations Office, London.”

He poked his head through the fireplace. Inside was an office bustling with people and activity. Pieces of parchment flew about the office and people were shouting randomly. For a moment, Albus froze.

Thankfully, a witch noticed his predicament and hurried over. “Hi, what do you need, young man?”

“I’m looking for Percival Dumbledore,” Albus urgently said. “Tell him it’s an emergency, and that we need him to return home immediately.”

The witch winced. “Sorry, young lad, but Mr. Dumbledore is a high ranking officer and I don’t have the authority—”

Albus’ face crumbled. “Please!” As an afterthought, he added, “Tell him it’s from his son. Please, ma’am, it really is an emergency.”

The witch, stricken by the urgency in his tone, hurried away to call Percival. In the minutes that passed, Albus felt his sense of trepidation growing bit by bit.

It’s okay, he told himself. Father will solve this. He has to. Ariana will be okay.

Percival Dumbledore’s face appeared in front of the fireplace. His face morphed into an expression of confusion, then alarm. “Albus! What are you doing here—”

“There’s no time to explain, Father,” Albus stressed. He pushed his body further into the Floo, grabbed hold of his father’s sleeve, and tugged. Leaning back, he pulled both of them back into the house.

Albus did not waste any moments before dragging his father upstairs, to Ariana’s room, where Kendra Dumbledore was feeding her potions and muttering incantations under her breath rapidly.

When she looked up and saw Percival in the doorway, her face crumpled up in worry, one that Albus had never seen before on his mother’s face. “Percival,” she said.

Percival was at her side in an instant. “What’s wrong?” He asked urgently. “What happened to Ariana?”

Kendra started crying.

Albus exchanged a stunned look with Aberforth. They had never, ever, seen their mother cry. Albus felt the floor underneath him drop. No, not Ariana, he thought desperately.

“Her magic is gone, Percival,” Kendra sobbed. “Gone. Withdrawn, suppressed, I don’t know, but chances are she might never cast a spell again—”

Percival held his wife as she weeped into his shoulder. But his gaze was drawn to the bed.

Ariana lay still, her eyes wide but blank. She wasn’t moving or blinking. Kendra had healed all her physical wounds and patched up her clothing, but it was still clear to all that something was wrong with her.

She looks like a doll, Albus thought.

Percival stepped away from Kendra and knelt down by Ariana’s side.

“Ariana,” he said softly, brushing a curl from her forehead. “It’s Papa. Can you hear me?”

Her head shifted a little. But she didn’t meet his eyes.

“I need to ask you something, sweetheart,” Percival said softly. “Can you tell me who did this?”

Ariana flinched.

“Did somebody come up to you?” Percival asked gently.

Ariana moved her hands to cover her face. Her whole body trembled. Albus’ heart broke at the sight. “Boys,” she whispered..

Percival gently removed her hands from her face and held them in his own. “Tell me who, Ariana.”

Ariana shook her head and tried to move her hands away, but Percival held on to them tightly. “You’re safe here, Ari. No one will hurt you with me here,” he promised.

Ariana began to cry. “Boys,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Boys… outside…” Then she continued to cry.

“What colour was their hair? What were they wearing?” Percival continued to press. Ariana shivered violently. Percival pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. “Please, Ari, I need to know.”

“Yellow,” Ariana muttered softly, her eyes darting around in fear. “Hair… yellow.”

“Were they the boys from the village? Henry? Thomas? The Barrett brothers?” Percival asked gently.

Ariana jerked out of Percival’s grasp at the last option, tossing around in her bed and turning away from him, her entire body shuddering.

Percival stood up. His blue eyes, normally kind, flared with rage. “I’ve heard enough,” he declared. He stomped out of the room. Kendra stood up. “Percival—”

But he was already gone.

Chapter Text

THE DAILY PROPHET 

BREAKING: HEAD OF MUGGLE RELATIONS OFFICE ARRESTED FOR ASSAULT AGAINST MUGGLES 

Percival Dumbledore, Head of the Muggle Relations Office, was arrested for assaulting three Muggle children on Tuesday. In a shocking breach of magical ethics and Ministry protocol, the very man entrusted with bridging the wizarding and Muggle worlds is now at the heart of a disturbing assault case. Reports indicate that he used a Bone-Breaking Curse on the three, shattering all the bones of their body as a result, before attempting the Cruciatus. Ministry Aurors, alerted to his use of extreme magic in a Muggle-dominated area, Apparated to the scene and witnessed a horrific sight. His attempt at using an Unforgivable was unsuccessful for reasons unknown, but the Muggles sustained considerable damage, landing them in St. Mungos for the foreseeable future.

“It’s really bad,” Edward Barrett, Head Healer of St. Mungos, confirmed in an interview with the Prophet. “We’ve never had a case of such extensive damage caused to Muggle children before. No potion seems to be working in fully mending their bones.” 

“It is inconceivable that an officer of the Muggle Relations Office would commit such a heinous crime against children,” the spokesperson for the Ministry of Magic stated when asked to comment. “The Ministry takes this incident extremely seriously and will be calling Mr. Dumbledore to trial next week.” 

Most close to Dumbledore declined to comment, but a colleague, who wished to remain unnamed, confided in the Prophet that Mr. Dumbledore had exhibited growing skepticism towards Muggle-Wizard relations ever since taking office. "It's no surprise, really. Many wizards get too stressed after working with Muggles for that long." Our anonymous insider commented.Three pure-blood groups of the Sacred Twenty-Eight have expressed their support for Mr. Dumbledore in this case, citing wizarding superiority and the distrust Muggles have historically harboured towards witches and wizards — see the Prophet's article on the Witch-Burning Rituals to know more. 

If found guilty, Percival Dumbledore could be sentenced to ten years in Azkaban. 

Albus folded his copy of the Prophet, his Father’s unsmiling face surrounded by Aurors, staring at him from the front page of the newspaper. His breakfast sat heavily in his stomach. Across him, Aberforth stared at his eggs, unmoving. 

“What’s going to happen to Father?” Aberforth whispered. He couldn’t read nearly as well as Albus, which was the only reason why he hadn’t snatched the newspaper from him yet. 

“He might be going to Azkaban,” Albus buried his face in his hands. He suddenly felt so very afraid, despite knowing that his father had done nothing wrong. 

“What?” Aberforth shouted. 

“Shhh!” Albus hissed, glancing frantically at the staircase. “Don’t disturb Mother, or Ariana. They say he’s going to have a trial, but if he’s found guilty, then he’ll be sent to Azkaban for ten years.” 

Aberforth slumped back in his chair. An expression of utmost fear crept onto his face. “Albus,” he started, “What if—what if, y’know…” 

“I’m sure he’ll tell the Ministry that they attacked her first,” Albus said hotly. “Then they’ll have no choice but to release him, because the Ministry has to be reasonable, or the Minister will lose votes with the public.” 

Aberforth nodded, his young face lit up in determination. “They ‘ave to,” he agreed, scooping up a spoonful of eggs and stuffing it into his mouth. “Father is gonna tell them, then he’ll be back with us again!” His mood lifted, Aberforth proceeded to polish off his plate in seconds. 

Albus watched as his brother dumped his plate in the sink. He moved silently over to place his plate in as well. Not wanting to alert Kendra, he grimaced as he picked up the sponge beside the sink and got to scrubbing the plates until he could see his own reflection in them. 

He found that he could not share Aberforth’s optimism. No matter how hard he tried, he could not convince himself that landing Muggles in St. Mungos for the rest of their lives would not put someone in Azkaban. It just didn’t seem like something the Ministry would allow, even if it had been Ariana who was attacked first. 

Hypocrites, all of them, Albus thought savagely, They never care about Muggles, so why are they acting like Muggles are so important? They don’t even have magic!

He went up the stairs, to where Ariana still lay in her bed, unmoving. Kendra, with circles under her eyes and her normally neat hair unkempt, fed her spoonful by spoonful of porridge gently. Suddenly, Ariana jerked and knocked the bowl of porridge out of their mother’s hand. 

The bowl shattered as it fell and the remaining porridge splattered everywhere, but it did not quite manage to cover the sound of Ariana’s scream. 

She tossed and turned, muttering frantically, “No more, no more…” while her hands went up to grasp at her hair. “Please… stop…” she cried out. 

Albus watched as his mother helplessly stared at her youngest daughter, her hands hovering in the air like she didn’t know whether to touch her or not. 

All of a sudden, Albus wanted to flee. Instead, he squared his shoulders, and stepped over the threshold. Kendra’s eyes snapped to him, but she didn’t say anything. Albus bent down and carefully swept the ceramic particles into a pile. Gathering up all his willpower, Albus closed his eyes and waved his hand over them. The ceramic and the porridge dissolved into the air with a crack .

Albus sat down on the floor, drained. Looking up, he saw his mother’s eyes trained on him. 

“Albus,” Kendra softly said. Her voice was cracked with disuse. “That was a very impressive bit of magic. Never show it to anyone else, my dear.” Her gaze moved back to the curled-up Ariana on the bed. She brushed a curl of hair away from her forehead. 

“The Muggles saw your sister doing magic,” she breathed. “They—they thought she was a devil, and so they tried to—” she shook her head. “Nevertheless, Albus, you must know how dangerous it is to show all your power, especially when your control over it is tenuous. Do you understand?” She fixed him with a feverish look, and he found that he could not look away. 

“Yes, Mother,” Albus’ voice shook. “I promise.” 

“Remember it for all your life, my child,” Kendra turned back to Ariana, and continued to try and coax her out of her state. Albus took it as a silent dismissal, and quietly stepped out of the room. 

A week passed, way too fast for Albus’ liking. Kendra had ordered him to go to court to witness his father’s proceedings while she stayed at home to look after Ariana and Aberforth, both deemed too young to witness such solemn affairs. Albus could still hear his mother’s tired voice: Your father’s trial… Aberforth is too young, and Ariana… I have to look after her. You have to be there, Albus, or he’ll be left with no one. 

Albus swallowed his fears and stepped into a red telephone box. He picked up the telephone and dialed in the numbers that his mother had told him to: One, One, Two, Two, Two, One, One, Nine...

The dial slid smoothly back into place. A cool female voice sounded inside the telephone box, “Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Please state your name and business.” 

“Er…” said Albus, uncertain what was going on, “I’m Albus Dumbledore. I’m here to… to attend my father’s… trial.” 

“Percival Dumbledore?” The cool female voice asked. Albus nodded before realising she couldn’t see him, and answered “Yes.” 

A badge slid out from the box where coins usually went. Albus picked it up. It said, Albus Dumbledore, Observer of Trial of Percival Dumbledore. 

The voice returned. “Visitor, please pin that badge to the front of your robes. Do note that you will be required to present your wand for registration at the security desk.” 

“But I don’t have a wand,” said Albus. 

The cool female voice did not answer. Instead, the telephone box shuddered, and he felt himself sinking into the ground. Albus stood ramrod straight, frozen in fear as the box sank through the pavement, and then continued sinking into solid ground where nothing could be seen. He felt as if he was in a coffin, getting buried alive.

After what felt like an eternity, the box finally shuddered to a stop and the doors sprang open. Albus stepped out apprehensively into a large, splendid hall. The walls on each side were made of shiny dark wood and had many fireplaces carved into them. 

Every few seconds, a witch or wizard would emerge or disappear into one of the fireplaces on the left; Albus wondered if it would be too presumptuous to ask one of them for help with directions, because he was irrevocably lost. 

Fortunately, a wizard emerging from the fireplace noticed his predicament, and strode forward. Smiling kindly, he asked: “What seems to be your business here, young man? We don’t get young visitors like you in the Ministry very often.” 

Albus swallowed. “I’m here for my father’s trial,” he explained helplessly. “Just that, I—I don’t know how to get there.” 

The wizard frowned. His gaze travelled down to the silver badge on the front of Albus’ robes. Suddenly, he spat on the floor, making Albus jump. 

“Dumbledore’s spawn,” the wizard muttered scornfully. “Your destination is over there,” he pointed forward and stalked off, muttering to himself about how he should’ve seen the resemblance.

Stricken with shock, Albus had to force his feet to shuffle forward. He felt as if everyone was looking at him, and it took all the willpower he had to not cower from their gazes. 

Finally, he reached a sign saying SECURITY. A bored looking wizard took out his wand and scanned him up and down, then ordered him to hand over his wand. 

“Sorry, sir,” said Albus, “But I don’t have a wand.” 

The wizard frowned at him. “You don’t have a wand.” He spoke slowly, like he was daring Albus to disagree. “Is this some kind of jest, boy?” He said disdainfully. His beady eyes looked Albus up and down. “Why are you even here, then?”

Albus flinched involuntarily. “No—no, sir, I haven’t gotten one,” he stammered. “I’m not eleven yet.” 

“Oh,” the wizard had the decency to look slightly ashamed. Waving his wand, he muttered a few words and a piece of parchment floated towards him, on which he scribbled a few comments before impaling it on a small brass spike. “You can go now,” he dismissed, and Albus was all too glad to scramble away from his judgemental gaze. 

It was only until he had walked away that Albus realised he didn’t know where to go. Cursing himself for his stupidity, he walked back to the security guard and asked for where his father’s trial was being held. 

The wizard’s eyes flickered to his badge. Albus felt himself rearing up for a fight, but thankfully, the wizard did not comment on it. With a bored voice, he said: “Level Two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Auror Headquarters, and Wizengamot Administration Services. You’ll find a lift up ahead.” 

“Thanks,” said Albus quickly, scurrying towards the lift. 

As the lift descended into the lower floors, Albus felt the urge to cry. He clenched his jaw and stubbornly looked at the lift doors, all while wishing vehemently that everyone would just disappear and let him take the lift in peace.

Albus had never been more eager to escape a place when the lift doors opened. He looked around hurriedly, but there were throngs of people in the corridor and Albus, reaching up to only their chest or waist, found his vision inherently limited. He stepped up on his tiptoes to get a better look, barely missing the whispers of the people beside him: 

“Blimey, today’s ol’ Dumbledore’s trial, isn’t it?” 

“Aye, it is. I still can’t believe he did such things, y’know, not with how nice he seemed to be. I think a lot of people thought he was a decent bloke.” 

“Yeah, well, evil people normally look kind on the outside… hid it pretty well, I'll give him that. ‘Shame we’re in Courtroom Six today. They’re right beside, in Seven. I’d pay good Galleons to see this sick fuck get what’s coming to him.” 

Albus swallowed the ball of fury inside him and followed behind the duo. They don’t know any better now. But they will after the trial. Then they’ll realise Father has always been a good person, after all. 

He continued down the hallway after the duo had entered a room on their left, and entered the room with a neat label COURTROOM SEVEN engraved in gold letters on its dark, wood door. He swallowed, and took a step in. 

A large dungeon greeted him. The walls were made out of dark stone, dimly lit by torches; benches rose on either side of him, already half-occupied by witches and wizards alike. They looked down on him, probably wondering what a child was doing here. Albus held his head up and calmly looked around, though his heart was beating violently. 

Do I have to stand here for the entire thing while they watch me? An alarming thought came to his consciousness. He batted it away. 

He must have looked like a fool, because a brown-haired witch curtly stood up from her seat and took his hand surprisingly gently. “You must be Dumbledore’s son,” she stated. She directed him to a chair at the back of the courtroom, where he sat down gratefully. 

He looked up at the stern-looking old woman, and said in a small voice (though he wanted to punch himself for it): “Thanks, ma’am.” 

The witch inclined her head. “No need, son.” She made her way back to her seat. No one else seemed to take notice of Albus, who sank down into his chair with trepidation. The benches in the courtroom were filling up, slowly but surely, and Albus wished he had a better way to tell time, because then at least he would know if the trial was starting soon. 

After what seemed like an eternity, the benches had finally filled up. An old wizard stood up, cleared his throat, and intoned, “Silence!” 

The room fell silent. The old wizard looked around, nodded, and announced: “Bring in the accused.” 

The door opened, and a man in chains wearing tattered clothing walked in, followed by two Aurors with their hands on their wands. Albus jumped up at the sight, his words stuck in his throat. Percival Dumbledore glanced up, and—was that a reassuring smile on his father’s face?

Albus felt hope shine its beacon on his face. He grinned back at his father, and settled back into his seat, now confident that Percival would make it back home. 

Murmurs had risen around the court. Most of the people present were glaring at Percival with unbridled anger, but some of them eyed him curiously. A few even sported faint smiles on their faces as they looked at him. Percival seemed to not be affected by any of them, judging by the tranquil smile he had on his face. 

“The nerve,” someone muttered angrily. 

“Since the accused is present, let us begin the proceedings. He has chosen to represent himself, with no witness present.” The old wizard looked down his nose at Percival, and adjusted his glasses. 

“Percival Aurelius Thomas Wolfgang Dumbledore,” he began, “You have been charged for the following crimes: That you raised your wand against three young Muggle children, all under the age of sixteen; which has been classified as a Class 5 assault case by evaluators at St. Mungos. This constitutes an offense under Section 137A, which clearly states that using spells that injure against Muggles is forbidden. Moreover, this is a direct violation of the International Confederations of Wizards’ Statute of Secrecy. Secondly, Aurors found you attempting to use the Cruciatus Curse, an Unforgivable.” 

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?” 

Percival smiled. “I would do it again, Minister.” 

The chamber went up in uproar. Several wizards and witches had gotten up from their seats and pointed them at Percival; Albus had stood up, too, in shock. No, no, Father, what are you doing? He thought desperately. Percival’s gaze met his, and the calmness in his eyes did not falter. But in that instant, a message passed between them, clearer than any spoken word. Albus understood his father's silent, desperate plea: Stay silent, Albus. 

Why? Albus thought desperately, but his father’s eyes, full of hardened resolve, had already turned away from his direction to look at the old wizard. In a clear voice, he asked: “Minister, are you really going to allow this blatant violation of court decorum?” 

The old wizard eyed him with disdain. Nevertheless, he complied. “Silence, all, and put down your wands.” 

Reluctantly, the ones standing up sat back down, but they continued to look at Percival with hatred. One of them raised their hand. The old wizard nodded. “Speak, Davies.” 

Davies stood up and asked: “Minister, are we going to let this farce of a trial continue? Look at him: he gets off from our reactions, from provoking our responses! I say we lock him away in Azkaban right now!” 

A chorus of agreement swept throughout the room. “Hear, hear,” a witch sang loudly. 

The witch that had helped Albus find a seat stood up. 

“Minister, I believe that we should allow the court to proceed as normal. Mr. Dumbledore, could you kindly explain your rationale behind these actions?” 

Percival inclined his head. “Certainly, Ms. Marchbanks. I hold no remorse towards attacking these Muggles, because—” 

This is it , Albus thought. He’s gonna explain the attack on Ariana, and their opinion on him is gonna flip. 

“—Truthfully, I believe Muggles should not be allowed to live on the same land as we do.” Percival spoke mildly, as if he had not just signed his own Azkaban warrant. 

Albus’ jaw dropped.

Percival carried on, unhurried: “There are simply too many conflicts between our kind. Due to the Statute of Secrecy we are forbidden to use magic in front of them, and yet no one has asked: why should we be the ones conforming to their culture, when it is clearly so very inferior?”

He spread his arms wide. “Any wizard could see plainly that with a mere flick of our wand—” he snapped his fingers—”we can do what took Muggles decades, even centuries, to achieve. Some of our abilities are completely out of their grasp. Can you name a Muggle that can summon things from far away? One that can travel from one city to another in a second? No! Then, why should we content ourselves with being equal to them?”   

An eerie silence fell over the court. Marchbanks blinked. “I see you truly have no remorse, Mr. Dumbledore. The years spent working in the Muggle Relations Office have not changed you one bit. A classic case of wizard entitlement.” 

She looked at him scornfully. “We are indeed able to accomplish much more than Muggles; however, nothing could justify the horrific injuries you festered on children. Your own child is sitting at the back of this very room, Mr. Dumbledore. How would you feel if he were to be targeted as such?” 

In that instant, all eyes in the room turned to Albus. He fought back a flinch from the unwanted attention. 

“I hand this back to you, Minister.” Marchbanks sat back down. 

“Thank you, Ms. Marchbanks,” the old wizard peered over his glasses. “We shall proceed to have a vote, then—” 

“No,” said Albus, his voice trembling. All heads swivelled around again to look at him, but he paid them no heed. 

“Father, please,” he pleaded. “Tell them.” 

Percival's eyes softened. “In my absence, Albus, take care of our family.” 

“Why won’t you tell them the truth!” Albus shouted, tears streaming down his face. 

Percival’s smile disappeared. He looked guilty, for the first time since entering the room. 

“Ah, but I have committed all of those crimes, haven't I,” said Percival gently. “I'm sorry, Albus. You have my word—it was all to create a better world for you and your sister .”

Albus blinked. It was clear that he had stressed the word sister. 

But why— He felt his heart break again as he connected the dots. He doesn't want Ariana convicted of violating the Statute of Secrecy. He doesn’t want her condition to be known, so that they won't put her in St. Mungos—or Azkaban.

Percival looked at him sadly. “You're a smart boy, Albus. You'll understand that all I do, I do for the greater good of our family.” 

Stricken with his newfound revelation, Albus sat back down silently.

The Minister observed their exchange quietly. When he spoke next, it was a warning: “Young Mr. Dumbledore, please do refrain from speaking out of hand; you are here, merely as an observer, and you do not have the authority to offer your views in this council. Now,” he continued.

“The prosecution is here to charge Mr. Dumbledore on 3 offenses: 1. Causing deadly harm using magic towards Muggles, which warrants up to three years in Azkaban; 2. The violation of the Statute of Secrecy, which warrants up to two years; and 3. attempting to use an Unforgivable Curse, which, given that it was not successful, warrants up to ten years.” 

“We note that Mr. Dumbledore has not attempted to disprove any of those claims.”

“Esteemed Members of the Wizengamot, let us cast our vote. Are we in favour of Mr. Dumbledore receiving the full sentence for his first offense?” 

Most hands in the room went up. Albus could count on one hand the number of people who had not raised their hand. The Minister surveyed the room and nodded. 

“Are we in favour of Mr. Dumbledore receiving the full sentence for his second offense?” 

Again, most hands in the room went up. Albus could not speak—it was as if someone had gripped his heart tightly in their hand and forced it to stop. 

“Are we in favour of Mr. Dumbledore receiving the full sentence for his third offense?” 

All hands in the room went up for the final time. The Minister adjusted his glasses and straightened his robes. 

“It is hereby decided, via the authority of the Wizengamot, that Percival Aurelius Thomas Wolfgang Dumbledore is to be sentenced to fifteen years in Azkaban.” 

The Minister clapped his hands. The Aurors standing beside Percival took a hold of each of his arms, and marched him out of the dungeon. Percival’s eyes met Albus’ one last time before he stepped out. 

Those blue eyes, once clear like the cleanest lake in the world, were now muddied with guilt.

Chapter Text

Kendra Dumbledore stood by the fireplace, a silent guard, as Albus stumbled through the Floo. Her face, already etched with sleepless nights and worry, crumpled further as her eyes fell on him. 

No words needed to be exchanged. She knew the outcome. 

Kendra led Albus to the couch in their living room and sat down. With her wand, she summoned a glass pitcher of water and a cup, filling it up. Pushing the cup in front of Albus, she ordered tiredly, “Drink.” 

Albus obediently drank the water offered, noticing just then how parched his throat was. “Mother,” he began. “Father—he—he refused to tell them about Ariana, he—” he swallowed. “He didn’t want them to lock her up. He wanted to protect her—”

Kendra shushed him. “I understand, Albus.” Her voice was oddly fragile. 

The house, usually bustling with the laughter of his parents or the distant shouts of Aberforth and Ariana, felt impossibly vast and cold. 

For a long time, neither of them spoke. Finally, Albus asked softly. “How are you going to tell this to Aberforth?” 

Kendra regarded him blankly. “We tell him the truth, Albus. There is no sugarcoating it. Your father will not be back for a very long time, and there is no telling if he will even come back.” 

“What do you mean?” Albus frantically asked. “His sentence is only fifteen years—surely he can—” 

“Many die in Azkaban, Albus.” His mother scrubbed her eyes tiredly. “The Dementors—they suck all joy out of you. Even if he came back, he wouldn’t be the same person.” She looked distantly at the ticking clock in the hall. Percival had brought it back from his workplace, a boyish excitement shining in his eyes as he explained how the clock worked to tell time. 

Isn’t it exciting, Albus, how Muggles manage to live their lives without magic? I couldn’t imagine it!

No, Father, Albus thought sadly. You couldn’t imagine how cruel they are too, without magic.

His mother’s fingers drummed a restless rhythm against the armrest of the couch. Her eyes darted around the familiar room, as if scrutinizing each shadow, each creak of the old house. A distant Muggle siren sounded in the distance, apparently snapping her out of it, because her face hardened and her gaze narrowed.

“Tomorrow, we will be leaving this place,” she said curtly before standing up. 

“To where, Mother?” Albus stood up too. 

“To a place without Muggles,” Kendra spat, and strode up the stairs. 

After a moment of deliberation, Albus followed her up too. When he passed by Aberforth’s room, he could’ve sworn he heard someone crying. 

“Shh,” Kendra Dumbledore softly coaxed Ariana into swallowing a Dreamless Sleep potion as they readied for their move. 

“Here, here, Ari,” said Kendra, “Don’t choke—yes, that’s right.” 

Ariana’s eyelids drifted shut moments later, her body finally relaxing from the tense position it had held throughout the day.  

A week had passed after Percival’s trial. The Dumbledore house, once echoing with the cheerful chaos of three children and the booming laughter of Percival, had fallen into a heavy, unnatural silence. Days bled into one another, marked only by the grim ritual of Kendra feeding spoonfuls of porridge to Ariana—it was difficult for her to keep anything else down—and Aberforth staying by her side, talking to her about the most mundane things. Albus, on the other hand, was left to his books and his thoughts. 

He had tried his best to talk to Ariana, even entertain her with the magic that once made her laugh in delight, but Ariana had started crying when he made a few paper planes fly to her. His mother had stormed into the room, taken one look at the situation, and told him severely, “Get out if you’re not going to do anything good.” 

Aberforth glared at him on his way out of Ariana’s room that day. He had not been allowed to be alone with Ariana since, always with his mother or Aberforth hovering nearby. He was forbidden to talk about anything magic or even Muggle-related, so there was really nothing he could talk about, except a few awkward, “Today’s weather is nice, isn’t it, Ari?” 

Those conversations never lasted long, if you could even call them conversations. 

Kendra stood, rearranging Ariana’s limbs slightly. She grasped Ariana’s hand in one of her own, and with the other, she drew her wand and summoned a lamp. Albus and Aberforth each held on to a part of the lamp, and with the help of the Portkey, they were transported to their new home. 

Albus had the distinct feeling of being squeezed through a tube, almost like toothpaste, as the Portkey took him through space to spit him out in the quaint living room of their new home. He stumbled and would’ve fallen, if not for Aberforth stumbling into him in the opposite direction. Their heads bonked together, and they both said in unison, “Ouch.” 

Kendra spared them an amused glance before Ariana cried out. They all whirled around to stare at her, Aberforth shrieking, “Ari!” before they hurried over to her side. 

“The Dreamless Sleep,” said Albus worriedly, “Why didn’t it work?” 

“I gave her a light dose to prevent complications,” Kendra said, though she was checking Ariana over for injuries, “Ari, do you feel uncomfortable anywhere?” 

Ariana shook her head, still silently crying, though she didn’t seem as affected anymore. Kendra sighed in relief and took her arm. “Let’s go, Ari, won’t you explore our new home?”

As Kendra led Ariana away, Albus and Aberforth exchanged a worried look. “She hasn’t been getting better.” Albus ran a hand through his hair. 

“She has,” Aberforth insisted. “She talked to me yesterday!”

“What did she say?” Albus asked eagerly. 

“She asked if we could get a goat!” 

“Oh,” Albus felt his laughter rising. “You still aren’t over that?” he asked, smiling. 

Aberforth drew himself up. “Goats are mag—magnif-cent animals,” he declared. 

“Magni-fi-cient,” Albus corrected. 

“Oh, go away,” Aberforth scowled. “Ariana likes goats, too, they’re great!” 

“It seems like I’m the only one who doesn’t like them, then,” Albus teased gently. 

“Yeah,” Aberforth said slowly. “You’re the only one.” 

You’re the only one. 

His words reverberated in Albus’ mind. As Albus met his gaze, the traces of shared humor vanished from Aberforth’s face, replaced by a look that was all too familiar. The look of raw pain, frustration, and sadness—the one he had seen in Percival’s eyes as he left the courtroom. You’re the only one who was with Father then. Why didn’t you save him? He seemed to ask. 

All of a sudden, everything was too much for Albus. The accusing blue of Aberforth’s eyes felt like an ocean that was drowning him—he wanted to get out, he had to—

He had his hand on the doorknob before his mother stopped him. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Grabbing his arm, Kendra whirled him around and started screaming in his face. “Do you think it’s safe to go out? Did I allow you to? Do you have a death wish, Albus Dumbledore?” His mother’s eyes had a frantic, almost crazed look to them. 

Albus flinched. “Mother—it’s not—I’m not—”   

Kendra was not listening. In a fit of rage, she continued. “I suppose you’re going to be like your father, then? Step out of the house one day to never come back? Well, if you’re going to, then do it now!” 

“No—No, that’s not what I meant—”

Ariana started crying. Something fell to the ground in the house. Kendra cast a dirty look at him, as if to say, “See what you’ve done,” and turned her back to him to go to Ariana. Aberforth, after a glance at his face, turned to go with their mother too. 

Albus stood for a moment, not knowing what to do with himself. Slowly, he moved over to the couch and sat down, burying his face in his hands. 

There came a knock on the door. Albus hurriedly wiped away his tears. Who's that? He wondered, before hurrying over to open the door.

A woman with a kind smile greeted him when he swung the heavy oak door open. Her hair, a soft silver, was streaked with traces of its original dark brown, like shadows clinging to moonlight. Her brown eyes looked at him with a hint of curiosity. 

“You must be Albus,” the woman said. She extended a hand for him to shake. “I’m Bathilda Bagshot, an old friend of your mother’s,” Albus hurriedly shook her hand. “And I heard about your father,” the woman finished sadly. 

“My condolences, young man,” she patted him on the head. “Is your mother at home? I’d like to speak to her.” 

Albus nodded. He did not know this woman, but instinctively he felt that she meant no harm. He hesitated slightly, glancing over his shoulder to the sounds of Kendra’s hushed whispers and Ariana’s soft sobs. 

“She’s… she’s busy,” he managed. He plastered a weak smile on his face. “Could you come back later?” 

Bathilda’s kind smile didn’t falter. “Ariana, is it?” At Albus’s shocked silence, she continued. “I remember her from years ago,” she said fondly. “Just a babe at the time, crying loudly—oh, and you too, Albus, you must’ve been less than five years old! Already grinning and waving at everyone, showing off your accidental magic—why, I still remember Dagmar’s face when you made his beard disappear!” She chortled. 

“I—what?” 

“Oh, forgive me, dear,” Bathilda apologised, the mirth in her eyes fading away. “I let myself get away from me sometimes. Perhaps I could wait here? Or… you could fetch your mother for me? I promise I won’t take long.” 

Albus, despite his apprehension, felt a faint stir of curiosity. This woman spoke of his family with a familiarity that felt both strange and oddly comforting in the cold, new silence of their home. "I... I can ask," he said, turning back into the house.

He found Kendra in what was to be Ariana’s new room, a small, sparsely furnished space on the ground floor. Ariana was curled on a makeshift bed, still whimpering, while Kendra sat beside her, stroking her hair distractedly. The air was thick with the scent of a calming draught. 

“Mother,” said Albus hesitantly. When Kendra’s gaze flicked to him, he plowed on: “There’s someone at the door looking for you. She says she’s an old friend.” 

Kendra froze. Her hand stilled in Ariana’s hair. “Bathilda?” 

“Yes,” Albus confirmed. 

“An old friend,” Kendra repeated to herself. She stood up stiffly. “Well, it’s best that I don’t keep her waiting,” she muttered. “Albus, Aberforth. Take care of your sister,” she instructed, her voice flat, devoid of her earlier rage.  Without another word, she swept out of the room. 

As the door closed behind her, Aberforth leaned in closer to Albus and asked hurriedly, “Who’s that?” 

Albus leaned towards him in return. “I’m not sure,” he confided. “She seems like she’s known us for a long time, though,” he added, thinking of her familiarity in recalling stories from Albus’ childhood. 

A weak voice piped up from the bed. “Is she scary?” 

Both Albus and Aberforth snapped towards the sound. “Ari!” Albus said, relieved. 

Aberforth looked at her disapprovingly, or as disapproving as his eight year old eyes could convey. “So you were listening in this whole time?” he said accusingly. 

Ariana giggled, a soft sound that reignited hope in Albus’ chest. “Yup,” she confirmed. “I don’t like it when Mother shouts though,” her shoulders slumped. “Do you think she’ll do that?” 

Albus hesitated. “I… I think this Bagshot’s pretty friendly,” he said slowly. “And she might really be a friend of Mother’s. So… maybe she won’t get mad?” he offered hopefully. 

“Maybe we should listen to what they’re saying!” Aberforth, ever the reckless one, suggested.

“You dare to accuse my sister of eavesdropping, Aberforth, when you are doing the same?” Albus smacked him on the head with a spare pillow that he picked up from Ariana’s mattress. Aberforth scowled, rubbing his head. Ariana, however, flinched. 

That did not escape Albus’s, nor Aberforth’s notice. Awkward silence fell across the room. 

Albus felt like he had to do something to rectify it. Clearing his throat, he said, “But that’s a pretty good idea, actually.” 

He walked over to the door, pointedly ignoring Aberforth’s “see? I’m right!” and opened the door slightly, just enough to let a sliver of light pass through. 

From the living room, they could hear snippets of the ongoing conversation:

“And what are you going to do, Kendra, when she grows up and both Albus and Aberforth go to Hogwarts?” 

“I’ll take care of her myself, as I've been doing—”

“And yet you won’t be there forever. Her magic will not be happy at being kept inside for so long. The Dumbledores have never produced a weak wizard, and you yourself are not a weak witch. There will be no reason for your child’s magic to be weak, and when it lashes out—” 

“I know, Bathilda.” Their mother suddenly sounded very old in that instant. 

Bathilda’s tone softened. “I do not wish to place an even larger burden on you, Kendra, but you must know that the future is bleak for all of your children. If you would just listen—” 

“I am not sending her to St. Mungos under any circumstances.” 

Bathilda sighed. “Regardless, I will still offer my help to you and your children, Kendra. Tell me, why was your boy looking like he was about to break down when I knocked?” 

“Albus?” Kendra’s voice held a bit of disbelief. “I was… displeased at him for trying to run out. He knows how dangerous it is, and yet he still foolishly tries to play around with his own safety. What do you expect me to do, Bathilda?” 

“I know, I know—next time, you can just send the boy to me. I’ll look after him, I promise.” 

There was a long pause. Eventually, Bathilda sighed. “You don’t trust me, do you?” she said sadly. Albus heard the screech of a chair being pulled back. “Really, Kendra, seventeen years of friendship—one would have thought I’d be different!” 

“What you think is none of my business, Bathilda.” 

“That may be so, but your children deserve better. My offer will still stand—and it applies to all of your children, actually, if you ever need a break.”

“Get out. Now.”  

Albus heard the front door close, and he hurriedly shut the door to Ariana’s room as quickly as he dared. He turned around to look at Aberforth and Ariana, both pairs of eyes wide with trepidation. 

 Aberforth was the first to break the silence. “What’s St. Mungos?” he demanded.

Albus swallowed. “It’s like a place where they treat your illnesses and injuries,” he explained. 

Aberforth clenched his fist in anger. “So she thinks that Ari should be taken away from—from our home?” 

Like Father was? seemed to go unspoken. Albus could only nod. Aberforth frowned. 

“I don’t like her,” he declared. Ariana piped up in agreement, “Me too.” 

Albus didn’t want to say anything. He thought Bathilda Bagshot seemed like a friendly woman who genuinely wanted to help, but how could he argue against his siblings who thought that she was an intruder? Albus couldn’t even say they were wrong to think that way, really, because who in their right mind would suggest Ariana being taken away? 

Be that as it may, but Albus simply couldn’t imagine a home where his little sister wasn’t present. 

The room fell into silence again, until Kendra opened the door. 

Her bloodshot gaze fell over the room, and she simply said, “Albus, Aberforth. If you two are willing, you may go to the house beside us and ask Auntie Bathilda to play with you. She is an old trusted friend of mine, and I’ll be more at ease if I know she’s with you.” 

“I don’t like her,” Aberforth said immediately. “I’d rather stay here with Ari. I don’t care about what Albus wants.” 

Albus looked at him with shock and betrayal. “What are you trying to say, Aberforth?” Albus asked, his voice trembling. His brother determinedly didn’t look at him. 

Kendra nodded in approval, her shoulders relaxing. “Good, good, you’re too young to be out anyways… Albus, how about you? You were sad at not being allowed to go out earlier, weren’t you? Now, you can go out whenever you please,” she said the last sentence with a hint of mock-sweetness. 

Albus’ words were stuck in his throat. No, he wanted to say. That’s not what I meant, Mother, I was just upset. I don’t want Ariana taken away either, I don’t want any of this at all! But he could say none of those words out loud, not while knowing what his mother truly meant. He knew she was angry at him for his father leaving. 

A small part of him wondered too, if he had just blurted the truth of Ariana’s attack out to the Wizengamot, would their family still be together? 

In the end, Albus simply nodded, muttered a “Yes, Mother”, and walked out of the room, his head hanging. 

Ever since that day, Albus felt like he could no longer talk to his mother anymore. Every time he wanted to tell her about something he learned, she would shut him down—either with “can’t you see I’m busy?” or “yes, yes, Albus, very good.” 

Once, when he was trying to show her how he’d managed to cut up ingredients instantaneously and precisely—which could save a great deal of time in making potions, he had happily thought, after taking three months to master the skill—his mother had taken one look, and snapped, “go bother someone else.” before turning back to her knitting. 

Albus didn’t try again. But he had read all his books front to back five times by now, and he was getting excruciatingly bored. For the first time, he longed to leave. 

He was lying down on the lawn one day with his hands behind his head, daydreaming about how life would be when he would finally get to go to Hogwarts—his letter was just three months away—when a voice from the lawn beside called his name. 

“Albus!” Bathilda Bagshot called, a smile on her face. In her hands she held a pitcher of lemonade and a glass. “Why don’t you come over and have a drink? I made too much lemonade, I fear.” 

Startled, Albus considered her words. He looked back at the house, wondering if his mother was watching the scene through the windows, and whether he would be labelled a traitor the moment he stepped back in. He thought of Kendra’s emotionless gaze whenever she looked at him and shivered. 

But what can I do? Mother already hates me, might as well find somewhere else to be so that she doesn’t get mad. The memory of Ariana’s pleading gaze when she said she didn’t like it when Kendra was angry brought him back to the present, and Albus made up his mind. 

“I’d love to,” Albus said, and stepped over to her lawn. He couldn’t help but feel like he was leaving something behind, but all of that vanished when he took a sip out of the glass of lemonade. 

“This is brilliant!” Albus grinned, and proceeded to down the entire glass in one gulp.

Chapter Text

Albus and Ariana sat side-by-side on the couch in their living room, their heads leaning against each other to look at the copy of the manuscript of Hogwarts: A History , its pages brand-new. Madam Bagshot, or Auntie Bathilda as she insisted he call her, had been kind enough to gift him a manuscript, even though the book had yet to be published. 

“It’s a castle?” Ariana asked, her voice filled with awe. 

“A real one,” Albus confirmed, grinning. “Look, it says that they’ve got an enchanted ceiling that mimics the sky in the Great Hall!” 

“Why not just have windows?” Ariana wondered. 

Albus laughed, ruffling his sister’s hair good-naturedly. “Silly, how would a few hundred students look through just a few windows?” 

Ariana pouted at that, her hands immediately batting his away in hopes of retaining her neat curls while shooting a half-hearted glare at him. That only made Albus grin harder at the cuteness of his little sister. 

“Look,” he pointed at the moving pictures of the book. Ariana’s eyes followed his finger with fascination. “That’s the Fat Lady, who guards the entrance to the Gryffindor common room. The portraits can even talk to you, like a real person!” 

“Wow,” Ariana breathed, her eyes wide and hopeful. “Can I go too?” 

Albus’s smile immediately faded from his lips. He suddenly found himself unable to meet his sister’s eyes. “Uh,” he floundered around for words, for something to say that would not let Ariana down, to soften the blow after all the amazing things he had just told her about Hogwarts. Stupid, he scolded himself. Why couldn’t he just stick to telling her fairytales? 

When Albus finally found the courage to look at his sister again, she had already dropped her gaze from the book, her eyes brimming with tears. 

Panicking, Albus reached out a hand to touch her shoulder, to offer what comfort he could. “I’m—I’m sorry, Ari—” 

With a scream, Albus was thrown away from Ariana halfway across the room, his back colliding painfully with the wall. Coughing, he immediately tried to get up to help Ariana, but the sight he saw stopped him in his tracks. 

Dark tendrils of magic were slowly but surely gathering around his sister, lifting her body up from the couch and into the air. They were condensing into a small ball of darkness, with her at the center—

Albus threw himself at his sister, his arms wrapping around her body. “Please, Ari, stop!” he pleaded. The dark tendrils bucked and writhed under his grip, heat searing his arms like a fire barely restrained—

Please, Albus thought wildly. STOP! 

His magic reacted in time to his will, and a white burst of light erupted from his chest, overwhelming the dark tendrils. They retreated back into Ariana's body. 

At the same time, Albus’s vision blacked out. The world fell away. 

The next thing he knew, a wet cloth was dabbing at his forehead. 

“Albus?” 

Albus groaned, trying to turn his face away from the feeling. 

“Oh, good, you’re awake—” 

Albus opened his eyes to two worried faces above him. Kendra and Aberforth, wearing similar frowns on their faces, looked at him with relief. He sat up, disoriented. A cup of water was pressed into his hands. He drank it gratefully. 

“Ariana?” Albus croaked. 

“She’s alright, thanks to you,” Kendra informed, taking his cup from him. Her lips drew up in a weary smile. “You’ve done well, Albus. Now rest,” she ordered, tugging on Aberforth’s sleeve to get him out of the room. Aberforth whisper-shouted “Good job!” at him before being dragged out. 

Albus felt his eyes close involuntarily. Trying to contain Ariana’s outburst had taken too much out of his body, and he was so tired that he could not possibly stay awake, despite his curiosity on how the sequence of events managed to unfold.

When he awoke again, it was almost time for dinner. Feeling well-rested, Albus threw the blankets off him in one swift motion and went to help his mother with preparing dinner. When he reached the kitchen, however, Aberforth was already chopping vegetables with the most determined look a nine-year-old could have, and Ariana was sitting on a stool nearby, observing their movements. 

She was the first to notice him. “Al!” Ariana beamed, bounding over to wrap her arms around his midriff. 

Albus ruffled his sister’s hair. “Feeling better now, are you?” he grinned. 

Ariana buried her face in his stomach, the tips of her ears glowing red. “‘M sorry I got angry,” she muttered. “I didn’t mean to!” 

“It’s fine, Ari,” he pinched his sister’s cheeks, forcing her to look at him. She seemed in much better shape than she had been for the past few days, and he wagered that it was because the outburst had tired out the Obscurial in her enough so that she was finally feeling less pain. 

Obscurial , an interesting term that he had found in one of Bathilda’s old books. He had shown it to his mother at once; they both agreed that the symptoms were very similar to Ariana’s—magic involuntarily suppressed in a child’s body, creating a creature that fed off it. There was a silent agreement, of course, to not mention that the book said Obscurials did not tend to live long. Albus silently vowed that he would find a way to cure it, but he would have to wait until Hogwarts to find the necessary materials.  

“What’s for dinner?” he called out to the two busy souls in the kitchen. 

“Boiled potato stew!” Aberforth called, brandishing his knife at him carelessly. Kendra noticed, of course. 

“Put your knife down this instant, Aberforth, or I swear—” 

Laughing, Albus wrapped an arm around his sister’s shoulders, and for a while he could believe that they could be a normal family again. 

It was in the midst of summer, that Albus found a nice little clearing at the outskirts of Godric’s Hollow, right beside the river that flowed from the mountains. It served as a nice place to clear his thoughts, and also a great place to fish. Money did not come readily to the Dumbledore family anymore after Percival’s imprisonment, and they could barely live off their existing savings in the Gringotts vault, not with three growing children.

As such, Kendra had sought to save as much money as possible, by growing vegetables in her garden. Gardening was not difficult to a witch—getting the necessary seeds was, however. She had chosen to purchase in bulk the cheaper vegetables, which also happened to be the ones that were easy to grow. 

Albus was so sick of the potatoes-carrots-tomatoes combination that he had begun to dream of them beating him over his head, but buying meat at the market was definitely illogical. As such, he turned his gaze to the river, and began happily camping there for nice, scrumptious fish. Albus had trained his magic enough to summon the fish out of the river, although he soon found that it was a terrible plan to grasp a slimy fish with his bare hands and expect it not to fall out. He now stabbed it with a pointy stick and threw it in his basket. 

If it was a lucky day, he could even bring his basket of fish out to the market at Godric’s Hollow to sell. He found that he often looked pitiful enough for a few old ladies to consider buying from him at the price of one Sickle and three Knuts. 

Today was his eleventh birthday, and Aberforth had ordered Ariana to pin their big brother to his bed so he couldn’t leave for this reason. 

“Come on, Ariana,” Albus whined. A seven-year-old’s weight was resting entirely on his stomach. “Don’t you want some fish for lunch?” he tried coaxing. Ariana stubbornly shook her head, her curls flying around her face.

“Mother said she’ll handle it!” she declared. Albus sighed. 

“Catching fish is not a fitting job for a lady like Mother,” he tried explaining. “It’s slimy and disgusting, you see—” 

Ariana didn’t seem to hear him. More plausibly, she did, but she was so committed to her role that she was wont to ignore his pleas. Putting on the cutest smile Albus had ever seen, with her big blue eyes glittering like a lake on a sunny day, she asked, “Will you read about magical creatures to me, Al?” 

Looking into her eyes, Albus felt his heart soften. He sighed. “Why, of course I will.” 

Aberforth chose this moment to barge into the room again. He grinned at Albus, showing off a missing tooth at the front which made him look absolutely hilarious in Albus’ opinion. “Mother’s done cooking!” he shouted jovially. 

Ariana cheered, and finally, shifted her weight off Albus’ stomach, which was glad to be freed from captivity. 

They made their way downstairs, where Kendra had laid out a spectacular birthday lunch: roasted fish, herb-stuffed with garlic and with lemon spritzed over it; Scotch eggs, and a few sausage rolls completed the humble meal.

“Happy birthday, Albus.” Kendra smiled at him, pressing a kiss to his forehead. She hugged him tightly, and only let him go when he started to squirm. And with that, all Albus’ grievances regarding his mother in the past few months dissolved in the wind. 

“Thanks,” said Albus happily. 

As they ate, the midday sun streamed through the kitchen window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air like tiny, golden fairies. The simple fare tasted better than any feast Albus had ever imagined, partly due to his hunger, but mostly because it was prepared with love.

Suddenly, a loud rap-rap-rap echoed through the room, not from the front door, but seemingly from the very air around them. All of them looked up from the food, startled. A large, tawny owl with a cream-coloured envelope tied to its leg was perched on the windowsill, and was rapping on the window with great rigour. Ariana let out a small gasp, clapping a hand over her mouth dramatically. 

Kendra nodded like she had expected it, and walked over to the window to let the owl in. The large owl hopped in, hooting impatiently and holding its leg out. Kendra untied the letter, and the owl, with another hoot, gave a majestic beat of its wings and flew away. 

Kendra smiled at Albus and handed over the letter to him, ruffling his hair again. “It seems that Hogwarts has given you a birthday present, Albus.” 

With trembling fingers, Albus took the letter and flipped to the back. His name was printed with clear ink on the front: 

Mr. A.P.W.B Dumbledore

The Bedroom

Godric’s Hollow

England 

He tore it open with anticipation and scanned the contents of the letter. 

HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY

Headmaster: Phineas Nigellus Black 

(Order of Merlin, Third Class, Lord of the Ancient and Noble House of Black)

Dear Mr. Dumbledore, 

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry . Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. 

Yours sincerely,

Armando Dippet 

Albus read and reread the letter thrice. He could barely believe it, even though he had known it was coming. He was finally going to Hogwarts.

It was what he had been hoping for ever since he found out that such a place existed for people with magic. Aberforth grinned at him, and loudly asked for a toast of orange juice to congratulate him. Ariana, however, looked down at her plate in silence, pushing her food around. 

All of a sudden, Albus felt horrible, like a bucket of cold water had been dumped over his head unceremoniously. He wanted to comfort his sister, but he couldn’t find any words to do so.

Kendra stood up, and, placing a hand on his shoulder, led him to her bedroom. Once in there, she let go of him and took out a black wooden box from the drawer. In it lay a dark-coloured wand. 

She handed it over to Albus, who stared down at the wand in wonder. It lay limp in his hand, but a few sparkles erupted from it when Albus waved it around. “It was your father’s old wand,” Kendra explained, her voice laden with sadness. “Ash wood, with a unicorn hair core—he got it from your grandfather.” 

“Now, it’s time for you to have it, Albus,” said Kendra softly. “You will make your father proud. I’m certain of it, my brilliant child.” 

Her eyes were suddenly moist. “I remember the day when you first showed magic. We had placed you in a crib, but you suddenly started floating in the air. Your father and I—we had only turned our backs for a moment, but your hands had already started grasping at the sweets we left on the table!” She laughed softly, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. 

“Look how you’ve grown, my Albus.” His mother pressed a kiss to his forehead. “I think—I know I have been harsh to you sometimes, but I have always wanted only the best for you.” 

Albus felt his eyes growing moist as well. “I understand, Mother,” he murmured, wrapping his arms around her. He rested his forehead on her shoulder. His mother’s arms came around him, and they shared an embrace for several long seconds. 

“Well,” said Kendra, wiping the tears on her face with her sleeve. “We’ll get you the school supplies in Diagon Alley next week. I may need to arrange with Bagshot to look after your siblings…” she trailed off, looking disturbed.

“You don’t like Ms. Bagshot?” Albus ventured. 

“It is not a matter of if I like her or not. I cannot know if she will blurt out Ariana’s condition to strangers,” Kendra said. She shook her head. “Maybe I’ll just leave your siblings to their own devices…” 

Albus frowned. He disliked the idea of having his siblings taken care of by someone they did not fancy. “You can stay to look after them, Mother,” he said. “I’ll just go to Diagon Alley myself.” 

How hard could it be, after all? 

Albus Dumbledore had confidence in most of the decisions he made, for they mostly ended up yielding the outcome he wanted, but it wasn’t long after until he stepped into Diagon Alley that he realised the Biggest Folly of Man was to believe he was infallible. 

Finding the Leaky Cauldron was easy in itself. He just looked out for the most decrepit bar in that area of London, pushed open the door and made eye contact with the bartender, who had nudged his head in the direction of the wall he was supposed to pass through. 

He tapped that one specific brick that his mother had told him about with his new wand—the wall shifted and melted away, revealing the vibrant, colourful chaos of Diagon Alley. Wizards in robes moved around, pieces of parchment and newspapers flew about in the air, and wands were waved freely. 

Albus thought he could feel the warmth of magic in the air as he stepped in, heart full of delight. 

He squinted down at the list of materials that first-years were required to bring. 

“Right,” Albus muttered to himself. “Uniform first, then books.” 

He then set off to find Madam Wilson’s Robes and Attire. There came the utter descent into bewilderment, because Albus was more useless at directions than he thought. 

He spotted a sign, or what he thought was a sign, depicting a rather stout witch being measured for robes. He veered left, only to find himself face-to-face with a shop window filled entirely with self-stirring cauldrons, each one bubbling with an alarming enthusiasm. A stout witch inside, her hair a riot of curlers, cackled heartily at his confused expression. This, he swiftly deduced, was Potage's Cauldron Shop , not Madam Wilson’s.

He retreated after hastily buying a cauldron, blushing furiously, and tried another promising-looking alleyway. This led him to a tiny, cramped establishment emitting a suspicious smell of burnt feathers and something vaguely sulphuric. A small, wiry wizard, perched precariously on a stool, was attempting to teach a rather uncooperative raven to say "Thank you." The raven, however, seemed only interested in saying "Nevermore!" in a surprisingly deep voice. Albus walked out immediately. 

The problem, he realised with a sinking feeling, was that he didn't have a map, nor did the street signs seem to follow any logical progression. One moment he was staring at a towering display of Quidditch brooms, the next he was facing a dimly lit shop selling nothing but arcane instruments that hummed and whirred menacingly.  

After what felt like an hour of increasingly frantic blundering, during which he tripped over a levitating pineapple and scurried away from a hooded figure trying to sell him love potions, he finally, miraculously, stumbled upon Madam Wilson’s Robes and Attires. 

The measuring process was surprisingly quick, though the pins Madam Wilson kept jabbing into him were less than pleasant. He opted for the cheapest plain black school robes, resisting the urge to splurge on anything more extravagant. The dark blue silk robe in the corner, lined with gold threads, seemed extremely cool, however… 

Madam Wilson noticed his gaze. “See something you like, Mr. Dumbledore?” she smiled. 

“No, madam,” Albus hastily said, grabbing his robes and hurrying out of the shop. 

The apothecary was a sensory overload, a dizzying array of strange smells and bubbling concoctions. He bought the basic ingredients for potions, carefully checking each item against his list, though he suspected he’d had to walk past it three times already during his earlier expeditions. 

Finally, he arrived at Flourish and Botts —he had been saving the best for the last. Despite his weariness, Albus felt a grin sneak itself onto his face. He must have looked mad to most people, he thought, still grinning wildly as he pushed open the doors and stepped in. 

He was instantly hit with the unmistakable scent of parchment, dust and ink. Books towered in every corner, stacked haphazardly, some even floating just out of reach as if playing hard to get. Titles flashed in gold, silver, and flickering ink. One tome fluttered its pages like wings, hovering above a boy’s head until a shopkeeper swatted it down.

Books—how marvellous a thing! Albus’s fingers skimmed over the spine of some books reverently. A few of them seemed to even vibrate under his touch. A book on the bottom shelf seemed to be beckoning him over. He picked it up. The cover read A Start to The Dark Arts. 

He flipped it open and started reading. The introduction said: 

It is heavily believed that the Dark Arts are exclusive to ones without morality… However, one must first understand shadow to walk in the light…

“How can I help you?” a curt voice cut through his reading. Albus spun around, and spotted a dark-haired man glaring down at him as if he had done something wrong. Albus coughed to hide his embarrassment. 

“I’m shopping for school books.” Albus held his list up. The man squinted at the titles on his list and pointed in a direction. “Basic first-year set. You’ll get them there.” He turned and was about to walk away. 

Albus hastened to add, “Can I get them second-hand?” 

The man turned back to look at him. His gaze seemed to soften slightly as he scrutinised Albus’s face, his untamed red hair, his too-thin frame and his slightly worn clothes. 

“I’ll see if there are any in the storeroom,” the man said gruffly. He disappeared into a room at the back of the store, his robes billowing behind him. When he reemerged, he was holding a pile of worn-out, dog-eared books that looked like they had seen better days. 

“Thank you, sir,” said Albus sincerely, dropping the books into his cauldron. “How much will that be?” 

“One Galleon and three Sickles, young lad.” The storekeeper was looking at him with something akin to pity now, a look that annoyed Albus slightly. He could not fathom why this man’s perception of him shifted with just a few words—wasn’t that terribly naive? 

“Can I add this in?” Albus felt compelled to ask, holding up the copy of A Start to the Dark Arts. 

The man’s face darkened comically. “That’ll be two extra Galleons.” 

Albus feigned a sigh and placed the book back in its place. He could not miss the simultaneously revolted and relieved look the storekeeper had on his face, and it made him grin to himself once he turned away from the man. 

He would buy that book one day just to spite the storekeeper. Maybe next year, however—he really didn't have much money left to spare. 

Albus returned to Godric's Hollow exhausted but exhilarated, his trunk filled with his new possessions. He spent the remaining weeks of summer poring over his textbooks, eager to absorb every piece of knowledge he could. He practiced rudimentary spells with his father's wand, the ash wood getting slightly more comfortable in his hand. 

The summer days, once long and languid, now flew by with alarming speed. Soon, the leaves outside their window began to turn fiery shades of red and gold, and a chill crept into the air, signaling the approach of autumn. The first of September arrived, bringing with it a flurry of activity and a nervous flutter in Albus’s stomach.

Albus had barely slept that night, thinking about how his life would be at Hogwarts. Would anyone want to be friends with him? How cool would the library be? Would the food there be nice? What if everyone was better than him and no one liked him? 

He thought about his father. It had been almost a year after his imprisonment. He wished, almost shamefully, that his father was here. He wanted to ask him questions—how was his Hogwarts life? What subjects did he like? Did he like Transfiguration as much as Albus did?—but more importantly, he wanted his father to send him off. For him to hug Albus and tell him that everything would be alright. 

Life sucked, Albus thought miserably. 

The journey to King’s Cross the next morning was fast and furious—Kendra had wasted no time in grabbing a Portkey to the station, which Albus hated vehemently—and after helping him levitate his trunk to Platform Nine-and-three-quarters, she kissed Albus on the cheek, told him to have fun, and disappeared just as quickly as she had came. 

Albus stared at the spot where she had vanished. He knew she was reluctant to leave Aberforth and Ariana alone even for a minute, but it left a sour taste in his mouth. 

A blond child behind him complained, “Ma, I’m eleven already, I can carry this up myself—” 

“Nonsense! Dear, levitate his trunks up, please, I’m trying to find where I placed his books—” 

“Did you not put it in the trunk?” 

“No, I put it in a sack—Ah, here!” 

Albus lugged his trunks up onto the train. He walked to an empty compartment and sat down quietly. He might have left Godric’s Hollow, but the twist of guilt, hope and wonder still followed him.