“Wow! What you said in the paper was incredible, Murphy!

That’s exactly how it should be—when faced with persecution and oppression, we have to fight back bravely!”

After leaving the club room, Jones slung an arm around Avery’s shoulders, half leaning on him as he pumped his fist with enthusiasm.

“Don’t worry, I’ll help you! The righteous lion is invincible!”

The righteous lion?

Avery shot him a sideways glance, then looked down at the dark green trim on the collar of his own robes, momentarily tempted to ask why it wasn’t a righteous snake instead.

But before the words left his mouth, he laughed at himself.

Avery knew perfectly well that the root of everything lay in his silent consent to his father’s scheme.

Even if they were victims now, they had nothing to do with righteousness.

“Thanks, Jones, but it’s fine,” Avery said. “You should go spend time with your girlfriend instead. If I remember right, she was upset after the Christmas gift you gave her, wasn’t she?”

“Yeah, I really don’t get it,” the brown-haired boy scratched his head. “A Transformer isn’t fun? Back in the Muggle world, those are super popular!”

Avery forced a smile. He didn’t have the energy today to give relationship advice. He waved goodbye and parted ways with Jones.

He headed down the stairs.

Stopping before a stone wall in the dungeons, Avery spoke the day’s password.

“Conquest.”

Rumble.

A stone door emerged from the wall and split open to either side.

Avery stepped into the Slytherin common room.

The green-toned room felt unusually cold and empty, not a single person in sight. After all, the cautious little snakes weren’t about to gather around him on January seventeenth.

If anything, Avery thought this was better.

He had even worried that Dawn Richter might have already infiltrated the place, using Polyjuice Potion to disguise himself and lie in wait nearby.

Though his response in the newspaper had been decisive, and he’d sounded firm when speaking with his father, as the date crept closer, the seventeen-year-old wizard still felt tense.

Avery tightened his grip on his wand.

He set his Transfiguration notes aside and sat down in a single armchair, watching the fire burn quietly in the hearth.

The firelight illuminated the tabletop. A calendar lay there, half torn away, with January 17 written in green ink, glaringly conspicuous.

“Come on, Richter. Come on. Let me send you to meet Merlin.” Alone in the common room, Avery muttered under his breath.

He was ready.

And yet— To everyone’s surprise, January seventeenth passed just like that.

Peacefully.

Nothing happened.

January eighteenth.

As the last traces of darkness were swallowed by the pale dawn, Dumbledore stood by the window with his favorite lemon drink in hand, watching the sun emerge from behind the clouds.

January seventeenth was over.

He had sat here all day yesterday, using the privileges of his position to observe every corner of the castle, and he was absolutely certain that nothing had happened.

It should have been a good thing. And yet, the old headmaster couldn’t settle his mind.

“Dawn… what exactly are you thinking?”

Dumbledore turned around. Newspapers from the past few days lay spread across the desk, the murder announcement displayed prominently at the top.

“Could Rita Skeeter know something?”

He stared at the reporter’s name beneath the article, suspicion flickering in his eyes.

But he also knew full well that she was not the type to tell him everything honestly.

“My most troublesome Ravenclaw…” The old headmaster let out a wry smile.

Bang!

Just as he was lost in thought, the door to the office was suddenly shoved open.

“Dumbledore! Avery—Murphy Avery! Where is he?!”

An agitated voice burst in first.

Several unfamiliar wizards followed, and at their center stood the current Minister for Magic.

Dumbledore frowned.

To be honest, after Fudge had been so thoroughly corrupted by power, Dumbledore had little desire to deal with him at all.

But since the man had come in person, he couldn’t simply ignore him.

With a tired sigh, Dumbledore asked, “What is it, Fudge? Murphy is still in the castle. Are you looking for him?”

“Still in the castle?”

Fudge’s eyes lit up, as if a massive weight had been lifted from his chest. He patted himself repeatedly. “That’s wonderful—Murphy Avery is still here! That’s excellent!”

Seeing Fudge’s odd reaction, Dumbledore felt a sudden sense of foreboding. “Fudge, what happened?”

“What happened?”

The Minister snorted, regaining his swagger. “Dumbledore, do you know that your student, Dawn Richter, publicly murdered someone yesterday on Skye Island?”

“…What did you say?”

Dumbledore froze.

“Take a look at this photo!” Fudge slammed a photograph onto the desk. “This was taken yesterday afternoon at the Skye Island Quidditch stadium!”

Dumbledore picked it up, his eyes slowly narrowing.

In the image— Two Quidditch teams were clustered together, arguing. At the center, a Keeper clutched a broken arm.

Beneath a massive broom sculpture, Dawn stood with his wand raised, a streak of green light bursting from its tip and hurling a black-robed figure into the air.

The Killing Curse.

Even from a photograph, Dumbledore could identify the spell without hesitation.

“Who was struck by the Killing Curse?” he asked quietly.

“The Aurors are investigating,” Fudge replied smugly, choosing his words carefully.

Dumbledore understood at once why Fudge had asked about Avery earlier. He had suspected the boy was the victim.

He glanced at the bright weather captured in the image.

“Fudge, after an incident like this, the spectators at the Quidditch stadium would have reported it immediately. Why come to me only today?”

“Why?”

Fudge’s tone hardened. “Because apprehending criminals is the Ministry’s responsibility. It has nothing to do with you!”

After relying on Dumbledore to gain his position, Fudge no longer wanted to leave the impression that every crisis required running to the Headmaster.

In truth, he’d come to Hogwarts today only out of necessity.

This case was different from before. It wasn’t rumor or hearsay—Dawn Richter had been photographed casting the Killing Curse in public.

As a result, public attention had shifted instantly.

No longer was it about “Dumbledore raised a bad student.”

Instead, outrage turned toward the Minister’s prolonged inaction, allowing criminals to grow so brazen.

The sudden reversal had left Fudge frantic since yesterday.

To protect his position, he had begun suppressing news about Dawn, even forcibly preventing the Skye Island incident from appearing in the Daily Prophet.

The inconsistency was laughable, but Fudge had always been a shortsighted man.

And once he realized the story could no longer be contained, he rushed to the castle, intending to shift part of the blame onto Dumbledore—only to hear that Murphy Avery was not the victim after all.

That was excellent news.

Fudge felt as though he’d narrowly escaped disaster.

All he needed now was to take a few photos with Murphy Avery and claim credit for ensuring the boy’s safety yesterday. That would stabilize his support instantly.

He urged, “Dumbledore, bring the boy here at once! With the murder announcement spreading so widely, we need to give the public an explanation!”

Dumbledore could easily see Fudge’s ulterior motives.

Staring at the figure being blasted away in the photograph, he considered for a moment, then did not refuse.

“Fawkes, if you would, please bring Mr. Avery here,” the old headmaster said.

The phoenix nodded almost humanly, let out a cry, and vanished. Thirty seconds later, it reappeared in a burst of flame—

Along with a disheveled Avery, bent over and retching.

“Oh, my boy, seeing you safe and sound is such a relief!” Fudge exclaimed, grabbing Avery with exaggerated concern.

At the same time, his eyes flicked subtly toward his subordinates, signaling them to take plenty of photos.

Dumbledore shook his head at the spectacle, took out a sour candy, and placed it in Avery’s palm.

“Thank you, Headmaster,” Avery said hoarsely, wiping his mouth as he recovered.

He recognized Fudge immediately.

Taught by his father, Avery knew the man’s character well. Determined neither to flatter nor offend him, he did not resist when he heard the clicking of cameras.

Fudge’s smile grew even brighter.

Having gotten what he wanted, he didn’t linger. After a few polite words, he left the school, already planning a special edition of the paper.

Soon, only two people remained in the office.

“What was he here for, Headmaster?” Avery asked, watching Fudge’s retreating back with curiosity.

Dumbledore didn’t answer. He simply handed Avery the photograph.

“Take a look at this first, Mr. Avery.”

Murphy accepted it with confusion. It was a Quidditch photo—but almost immediately, his eyes locked onto the two figures that mattered most amid the chaos.

“Professor—”

Avery’s hand clenched around the photo, his face draining of color as he looked up in panic. “That looks like my father!”

Even though the victim’s features were blurred by spelllight, Avery still recognized a familiar silhouette.

So it really was him…

Dumbledore thought grimly.

He had already felt the resemblance, which was why he hadn’t opposed Fudge summoning Avery earlier.

“Professor, where was this taken? When did this happen?!” Avery demanded, his voice breaking.

“Calm down, my boy,” Dumbledore said, pressing a hand downward.

“You must remember that Polyjuice Potion exists. That may not be your father at all. Perhaps Dawn intended to lure you out this way.”

“But—”

“Trust your father. Think about it. Knowing Dawn might target him, why would your father go to a place like a Quidditch stadium?”

Avery froze, realizing the logic in Dumbledore’s words. The panic on his face slowly eased.

Dumbledore smiled gently. “You don’t need to worry. Stay at the school. Leave the rest to me.”

“If only it were that simple.”

After Avery left the office, Dumbledore sighed. The smile faded from his face, replaced by deep seriousness.

Perhaps Avery would be reassured, believing the dead man was not his father.

But the old headmaster could not forget one thing. Whoever the victim was, someone had truly died there.

Why?

For days now, Dumbledore had been trying to make sense of Dawn’s actions.

From abducting Slughorn at the banquet onward, nothing Dawn did made sense to the seasoned wizard.

The public murder announcement. The Killing Curse on Skye Island.

What purpose did these acts serve? How were they connected?

Dumbledore felt lost in thick fog. Rubbing his temples, he decided he would need to visit Nurmengard again.

But just as the thought crossed his mind—

Bang!

The door was thrown open once more.

A witch reeking of alcohol, with dry yellow hair, staggered inside and dropped to her knees.

“Sybill?”

Dumbledore looked surprised. He opened his mouth to speak, but stopped short when he saw her rolled-back eyes and crazed expression.

The witch was Sybill Trelawney, Hogwarts’ Divination professor.

Though students and many teachers saw her as nothing more than a drunken fraud, Dumbledore knew the truth.

Trelawney did possess the blood of a Seer, and could occasionally enter a trance-like state, glimpsing the future.

Eleven years ago, the prophecy concerning Voldemort and the Chosen One had come from her lips.

Dumbledore focused, sitting back in his chair.

The witch wandered the office in a daze, then suddenly seized a quill from the desk. Without dipping it in ink, she began carving directly into the wooden surface.

Screech.

Screech.

The sound made one’s teeth ache.

With strength far beyond her usual frailty, rough letters were etched into the desk.

Moments later—

Trelawney shuddered, flung the quill aside, her eyes rolling back to normal as she snapped awake.

“Ah—Albus, what am I…?”

She clutched her head, panicking at the sight of herself in the Headmaster’s office, fearing she’d stumbled in drunk.

“Don’t worry, Sybill,” Dumbledore said gently, his sea-blue eyes hidden behind half-moon spectacles. “You’ve done nothing wrong. On the contrary, you’ve helped me greatly.”

He lowered his gaze to the words carved into the desk, reversed from his point of view, and softly read them in his mind.

Fountain of Fair Fortune.

___________

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