Ascension 39

“Fred Weasley, George Weasley…stand up,” Dumbledore’s voice echoed out at breakfast. Somehow, the quiet that had been stifling them all just seemed to deepen even more, not a single sound in the normally raucous, rambling chamber. Fred and George slowly stood up, none of that confidence and laughter from yesterday present on their faces. Neville understood their apprehension, their silence very well though. Their mother had not even waited until the morning to send them a howler, as McGonagall had carried one to their common room after dinner yesterday, silencing everybody’s cheering in an instant.

Even now, with the Slytherin table emptier than it had been yesterday night, and almost each and every faculty and student in Hogwarts currently present around them, not a whisper broke through the tension. Dumbledore’s voice was like mithril, his joviality and usual carefreeness nowhere to be found—and in the privacy of his mind, Neville was somewhat glad that this time, those eyes were not directed at him.

“You are hereby rusticated from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry until the Board of Directors, your Head of House and I decide otherwise,” his clipped voice echoed around them, reaching every corner and rafter. Everyone froze at the words, eyes flicking between the headmaster and the suddenly pale twins. There had been deductions, year-long detentions even…but to be sent home? It had been decades since that had happened, and even that had been a case of a particularly dangerous duel that had gone out of control.

“You shall be allowed to appear in the castle grounds only for your examinations at the end of your academic term. Your core subjects will all be graded at Acceptable, regardless if you score better,” he continued, shattering the stunned silence with another wave of shock, his face unchanging, “Your assignments are to be delivered by mail to the school, and again, they shall also not be scored above Acceptable. Your parents await you at the castle gates, your trunks have already been packed and sent ahead of you. I hope you will use this time wisely and reflect on the choices that you have made, as well as the options before you going ahead. Good day to you Mr. Weasley, Mr. Weasley, you may leave now.”

Th-That was…what in the Merlin was that?!

Neville sat stunned at the edge of the Gryffindor table, Ron to his left as Fred and George stood still for a moment, before slowly moving off the benches. This was not rustication! This was just a step below expulsion! And for what? Teaching the Slytherins what consequences meant?!

And yet, while every Gryffindor looked mutinous, none had the gall, the daring to speak amongst themselves, let alone against Dumbledore. Not when he was still staring at the backs of Fred and George as they walked between the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables, heads lowered and fists clenched.

As they finally cleared the entrance to the Great Hall, the first sound rose in their absence. Whispers didn’t come at once—they simmered. Percy’s fork clattered as he gripped it too hard, his face white, eyes staring at the floor. Ron just sagged in his place, and Ginevra quietly stared down at the table, wide-eyed and eyes tinged red with tears. Lee Jordan’s mouth worked soundlessly, like he wanted to shout but had swallowed the words. Seamus and Thomas traded looks that were equal parts awe and fear.

Then his eyes moved. At the Slytherin table, Malfoy’s smirk bloomed fast, sharp as a knife; Parkinson giggled behind her hand, though her eyes were nervous. Greengrass and the Potters were just staring at where Fred and George had walked outside, and Neville realised the implications when he didn’t find Davis next to them.

The Hufflepuffs, usually the first to titter, sat uneasy, muttering in low tones about how far was too far. Even the Ravenclaws, who usually were always so removed from the happenings of the castle that were not Quidditch or classes, were alert, all staring at either the Headmaster now seated in his place, or the remaining Weasleys.

Something shifted at the edge of his vision, and Neville blinked as the smell of breakfast wafted through his nose, everyone jerking in their places as the table was filled with all manners of dishes. Tentatively, everyone began to dig in, soft murmurs rising throughout the hall in the wake of what they had just witnessed. Neville however, just sat uncomfortably as Ron soundlessly looked down at the table, the tips of his ears red as he clenched his jaw.

Moments passed like that for them, in silence as the letters and papers finally streamed in. Predictably, the news of the prank had already made it to the tabloids, featuring an entire article by itself. Neville winced as he caught one of the lines in that grey text, talking about what steps would be taken against Arthur Weasley for his sons’ repeated offences…pranks were an offence now? Anger stewed inside his heart, and yet, he knew he was powerless to do anything.

Not just because he was yet to take up his position in the Ministry. But more-so because even if it was being blown out of proportion, Fred and George had crossed a line with this prank. Targeting a student or two at once with non lethal, easily removed pranks was one thing. To dose an entire house with an unknown potion and without knowing what reactions it might cause due to allergies or clashing of other ingestions was another. Thirty-one students had to be hospitalised overnight due to boils, bloody noses, damaged lungs, and throats. Dozens had already been taken home by their parents or elves in the morning hours, to avoid the public humiliation of their balding appearances.

Snape had been in a particularly foul mood, livid with wrath in that silent, emotionless way that had silenced laughter and made students piss their pants since yesterday. Even now, he lingered with a sneer that seemed to encompass the entire student body. 

The tension was a palpable thing, thick and suffocating, as if the very air held its breath, awaiting the next blow. Suddenly, a subtle vibration ran through the castle, a low hum that barely registered amidst the murmurs. The portraits on the walls stirred, their painted inhabitants whispering in alarm. Dumbledore's gaze sharpened, his eyes losing their weariness and gaining an intense focus. 

He rose slowly, his chair scraping against the floor, a sound that echoed unnaturally loud in the suddenly silent hall. McGonagall and Snape, as if on an unspoken command, moved swiftly to his side, their expressions grim. And then, with a soft, almost imperceptible shift in the air, the three figures were gone, leaving behind only the stunned silence of the Great Hall.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Only a couple of minutes had passed since the Headmaster and the two teachers had disappeared from the head table, and yet, Harry knew that something was happening in the castle. Beyond the Weasleys’ rustication and Dumbledore’s severe words, something had occurred to make the Headmaster and the two teachers apparate away, their faces grimmer than they had been since the stupid prank yesterday. He would know…he had learnt to look for the minutest shifts in expression while he and Persephone had had to watch out for Vernon’s rage-fueled beatings.

“There could have been another attack,” Daphne whispered from his right, her voice low and measured, as though quietness itself could anchor her against the unease clawing into the Hall. Harry nodded slowly, stirring his bowl of milk and cereal without tasting a drop. Yes, that made sense. But every student was either in the Great Hall or in the Hospital Wing right now. The only exceptions were the Weasley twins, who had just been dismissed from the castle grounds. Everyone else had been ordered to attend breakfast, even Longbottom, who had grown accustomed to skipping meals since Granger’s petrification.

“Maybe it isn’t the castle,” Persephone muttered, green eyes narrowed, darting between the sealed doors and the head table. “Could be parents. More of them. Coming for the Slytherins, or the Hufflepuffs who got caught up in yesterday’s prank.”

Her words carried weight, because she wasn’t the only one thinking it. Whispering rose like gnats around the chamber. Hufflepuffs speculated about another Ravenclaw being attacked, their voices quivering with fear. A knot of Slytherins to their left muttered darkly about the twins, insisting Dumbledore must have discovered some new mischief on their part. At the Ravenclaw table, quills scratched in frantic lists, as though homework and assignments were the important things right now.

His eyes turned to the teachers, and the staff exchanged wary looks. Sprout’s brow was furrowed; Vector’s fingers tapped nervously at her plate. Hooch had gone rigid, eyes fixed on the closed doors.

And then McGonagall’s voice carried across the hall, strong as steel, the words familiar enough by now for all of them.

“All students are to remain in the Great Hall until further notice.”

The words struck like hammer-blows.

Flitwick was the first to move. The Charms Master scrambled down from his seat, robes flaring as he hurried across the hall, muttering in quick, clipped tones. He passed through the doors just before they sealed shut, his small frame vanishing into the stone corridors beyond. The great oak doors shuddered closed with a boom that echoed against the rafters, sealing with a finality that hushed even the boldest voices.

And then there was nothing to do but wait.

Spoons clinked nervously against bowls. A few forced laughs sputtered and died. The silence in between was heavier than noise, pressing down on every student as though the very stones of the castle were listening. Everyone knew that the Heir of Slytherin had just attacked another student. 

“Not again.”

“The Heir… who else could it be?”

“But Dumbledore said Longbottom—”

“Then who?”

Neville’s name was taken in the same breath as Parsletongue and the Heir of Slytherin, yet there was a change in the whispers. Instead of the condemnation that Neville had been facing ever since he had talked to that cobra, there was a crack of confusion now, even disbelief at the thought of him being really innocent like the statement given by Dumbledore and his grandmother. Speculations ran rampant on just who had done it, and at the Gryffindor table, Ron Weasley loudly called out on everyone who had doubted his friend, daring them to accuse him again. 

Still, Harry couldn’t help but think of McGonagall’s words, and what they meant.

Another petrification, unprovoked and unexplained.

All that was left to see was just who had been the unlucky one this time. 

Minutes later, three sharp cracks split the air.

Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Snape reappeared at the head table, grim as death. Their eyes swept the hall once—and then, together, turned towards the Slytherin benches, and came to a stop on them.

Harry felt his chest seize. Daphne’s hands went rigid in her lap, knuckles white. Persephone’s breath caught, audible in her throat.

The realisation fell on them like a weight of stone.

This wasn’t about the Weasleys anymore.

It was about them.

And there was only one name, one absence, that made their stomachs drop. 

It was about Tracey.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I refuse.”

“Bu-”

“I refuse,” Arcturus repeated again, standing before them in his signature black and silver robes, his cane in his right hand with a snarling wolf head having replaced the top of it. His grey eyes looked at them both, before turning towards Tracey’s still, surprised form, “I understand your grievance Harry, Persephone. But staying here will solve nothing but give the perpetrator a chance at you both. Should you still feel the need to help this girl, the library of Kástro Mávros awaits you. But I shall not leave my wards at Hogwarts when these attacks continue unimpeded—especially when you risk your parseltongue being ousted like Longbottom’s was.”

“She is our friend.”

“I know,” Arcturus sighed, and Harry watched his grandfather’s eyes soften somewhat as he laid a hand on Persephone’s shoulder. Somewhere, in the back of his throat, Harry stopped the sob before it even formed, blinking back tears at the sight of the frozen, wide-eyed Tracey before him. In the last year, Daphne and Tracey had really become an important part of their lives. What had started as a hesitant transaction had turned into something that had taught him what friendship and support meant.

He had smiled, laughed and joked with them plenty.

But it was only now he was realising what the other end of that spectrum entailed.

The worry, the anger, the fear, the sadness. It was all new for him, yet familiar in the way he had felt those same emotions for his sister.

“I understand this is new for you,” Arcturus continued, his words clear, but not unkind as he laid his other on his shoulder, the cane vanishing as warm, thin fingers gripped him, “But there is nothing here for you two to do. In Kástro Mávros, you shall have access to a library larger than Hogwarts, and if it shall please you, then I too, shall make some time to assist you. However, cease the thoughts of staying here with such few students and teachers to stay this Heir’s plots.”

“A-As you wish,” Persephone nodded, raising her arm to wipe at her eyes with the back of her sleeve, before turning her gaze towards the elder wizard, nodding once.

Harry swallowed hard, nodding in tandem with his sister. The weight of Arcturus’s hand on his shoulder was grounding, though it did little to ease the tightness in his chest. He forced himself to look one last time at Tracey’s still form—her face caught mid-breath, wide-eyed and helpless—and then tore his gaze away.

She had been found a floor below the Hospital Wing, near the women’s washroom. Madam Pomphrey had discharged her, restoring her hair and stabilising the clashing magics inside her blood over the night. According to the Mediwitch, she had been ordered to wait until a Prefect or a Professor arrived to take her to the Great Hall, since Madam Pomphrey had more patients to focus on. However, for reasons unknown, she had walked off before Pomphrey could alert anyone about escorting her.

A couple of minutes later, Pomphrey had decided to send an elf after Tracey, as well as one to the Headmaster, only for her to be found, petrified with a message above her head.

“The Castle shall be purified.”

“Come,” Arcturus said, breaking him out of his thoughts and stepping back, the cane returning with a faint shimmer of displaced magic. “We will say our farewells properly and then prepare for departure. Madam Pomfrey will see to Miss Davis. Our presence here does nothing but invite whispers.”

They left the infirmary. The corridor outside smelled faintly of potion fumes and polish, lanterns burning steady along the walls. Standing at its center was Daphne. Her parents flanked her—Artemis Greengrass straight and stiff-backed in dark green, Ophelia with her hand pressed lightly to her daughter’s shoulder. Daphne’s eyes were a little red, but she stood tall, meeting Harry and Persephone’s gaze with quiet composure.

Across from them, Snape, McGonagall, and Dumbledore spoke with the Greengrasses in low tones. Their words carried no further than their little circle, but the tension was palpable in the set of McGonagall’s jaw, the stillness of Snape’s face, and the solemnity etched in Dumbledore’s blue eyes.

Arcturus greeted the family with a nod, his presence commanding enough to draw all eyes for a moment. Polite words were exchanged, clipped courtesies that carried the weight of old alliances and House politics. Finally, as the professors withdrew to confer further among themselves, Harry and Persephone stepped toward Daphne.

“Be safe,” Daphne said simply. Her voice was soft, steadier than her reddened eyes. Her gaze flicked past them toward the hospital doors, then back again. “I’ll…hold things here.”

Harry nodded, lips pressed thin. Persephone gave a small smile that did not reach her eyes. “We’ll see you soon.”

A quiet squeeze of hands between the girls was all there was time for before Ophelia drew her daughter gently away, Artemis guiding them down the corridor.

“Lord Black,” Artemis inclined his head in parting, and Arcturus returned it gravely.

When the Greengrasses had gone, the air in the corridor seemed emptier than before. It was then that footsteps approached from further down, uneven but purposeful. Neville Longbottom came into view, shoulders hunched, eyes shadowed.

“Mr. Longbottom,” Arcturus greeted, voice neutral but with a faint current of respect.

“Lord Black,” Neville answered quietly. Their gazes held a moment, something unspoken exchanged, before Arcturus inclined his head once and turned away.

“I’ll give you a moment.”

Harry, Persephone, and Neville stood together, the hospital doors looming behind them as he moved off, silently vanishing around the corner. Instinctively, all three glanced back at them, as though staring hard enough might let them see through the stone to their friends inside. Tracey unmoving, Hermione dwindling, two pieces of their little world taken from them.

Neville’s jaw clenched. “I can’t just…sit here. Not anymore.” His voice was low, rough, as though dragged from the pit of his chest. “The professors—they don’t know where the attacks are coming from. They don’t know how to stop it. But I keep thinking—if it’s some creature, it has to feed. It has to move. And if it’s moving…” He exhaled hard through his nose. “Then there’s a trail. Over the holidays, I’m going into the Forest. I’ll find it, or something that leads me to it.”

Harry blinked, startled but not surprised. “The Forest is dangerous enough without the Heir’s monster.”

Neville’s lips twisted, a sardonic smirk and a roll of his eyes following, “I’ve faced worse. And I won’t let it pick us off one by one while I sit and do nothing.”

Persephone looked at him steadily, then placed a hand on his arm. “We won’t be here to go with you, but Kástro Mávros has a library older than this castle. If there’s even a whisper of what the Heir’s using, or some mention of Slytherin and his pets, it’ll be written down somewhere there. We’ll dig for answers while you search for trails.”

Neville nodded once, the hard set of his face softening just enough to show his relief. “Then that’s our path. You search, I hunt. Between us, we’ll find it.”

They stood in silence then, the three of them, bound not by words but by the weight of everything unsaid—their friends, their fears, and the fragile thread of resolve that kept them standing.

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next few hours passed in silence for all of them. The departure of the students to Hogsmeade train station was delayed, as a full sweep of the castle was done by the professors, as well as the Auror team that had arrived post-haste. Harry and Persephone in the meanwhile, had walked around the ground with Arcturus, the wizard, telling them little tales of his own time here, especially a few amusing ones about their blood grandparents.

At one point, when they had been near the lake, they had caught sight of Hagrid being taken away by Aurors, faint protests audible despite the distance. “Fudge…and Lucius,” Arcturus had spoken as two figures became visible behind the auror’s, and the unmistakable hate in his voice for the Malfoy Lord made them both pause. Dumbledore and McGonagall were there too, and Harry imagined they were none too pleased about it, something Arcturus echoed as he turned around and continued, “They are taking him to Azkaban, I reckon. A holding cell is too lenient after so many attacks. Come, this does not concern us.”

Nodding at the words, they followed after him, and Harry waved a hand at the tentacle poking out of the sunlit water. Their trunks had already been taken to Kástro Mávros by one of the elves, as the afternoon sun started to dip, Arcturus took them past the Hogawrts’s gates. It was the first time he was properly seeing Hogsmeade, and the bustling magical town made him twist and turn his head every few metres. Brooms swept the snowy roads without a hand to guide them, and people apparated-disapparated without a care in the world.

“This town was established around the same time as Hogwarts was starting to be built,” Arcturus told them, nodding in the grand castle’s direction. “The workers, enchanters, and even the Founders needed a place to live comfortably while the construction went on. Once the castle was completed, these quarters turned into a township, because Hogwarts became a center of learning for centuries to come. Scholars from far and wide came here to study and research, gaining the patronage of Lords and furthering their knowledge.” 

“Do you think it is the Dark Lord again?”

“Hm?” Arcturus paused, looking down at hsi sister, an eyebrow raised, before he chuckled, “I am proud that you have begun to ask questions, dear child. As for your question…I do.”

“So then, who is he possessing this time?”

“Do you believe the Dark Lord to be such a simple-minded wizard that he would employ the same tactics twice?” he continued walking, his cane sinking intot he soft snow with every step, and Harry thought about the question, before shaking his head in refusal—even if he couldn't see it. As they strolled past the houses and numerous shops dotting the main street, he tossed a coin to a beggar on their left, the glint of silver catching in the warm light for a second, “Or does Dumbledore’s senility appear so profound that he would not catch another impostor?”

“Neither.”

Arcturus inclined his head faintly at Harry’s answer, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “Correct. Do not forget that, both of you. The Dark Lord may be many things—cruel, ruthless, ambitious—but never predictable. If this is his hand once more, then it is a different game than before. One we must be careful not to play blindly.”

Persephone’s brows furrowed, her hand tugging absently at her cloak as her green eyes swept across the street. A handful of shoppers glanced at them curiously, perhaps recognising Arcturus Black, but none dared approach. “Then what sort of game is it? Children are being attacked. Tracey—” Her voice hitched, just slightly, and she pressed her lips tight. “He isn’t hiding his moves. He’s… flaunting them.”

“That,” Arcturus said gravely, “is part of the danger. Fear spreads faster than poison, and far deeper. It divides. Already the castle murmurs against your Longbottom friend, already suspicion festers in every House. The true genius of Slytherin was never his basilisk or his bloodline—it was how well he understood fear.”

They walked in silence for a few paces. A broom swished by, scattering a puff of snow into the air. The sharp cold nipped Harry’s cheeks, but it was not the winter that made his shoulders feel so heavy.

“Then what do we do?” he asked finally. His voice was quieter than he intended, almost swallowed by the bustle of Hogsmeade. “Do we just wait for the next attack? For the mandragoras to mature while Tracey is under the risk of being attacked again?”

Arcturus stopped. Not abruptly, but with the deliberate halt of a man planting roots into the snow itself. He turned, his cane angled lightly across his body, and fixed them both with that piercing grey stare.

“You misunderstand, Harry. Retreat is not surrender. In Kástro Mávros, you will have resources beyond the reach of this castle, resources I could not place into your hands here. Knowledge, in the form of records older than Hogwarts. If there is a way to strike at this phantom hand that clutches the school, it lies there.” His gaze softened a fraction as it moved to Persephone. “And more importantly—you both will be alive to wield it. You witnessed the way the public reacts to your names…think of what that would be should your ability be revealed, especially with your House being Salazar’s own. Besides, there are places and events I wish for you to experience over the holidays…and it has been a while since I and Cassieopiea have spent some time with you.”

Persephone lowered her eyes, torn between frustration and reluctant acceptance. Harry clenched his jaw but said nothing. Deep down, he knew his grandfather was right. And yet, the thought of leaving Neville to face the whispers, Tracey to remain unaware yet alone…it left him with a bitter taste he could not quite name.

Then, belatedly, his mind caught up with the rest of Arcturus’s words. His eyes snapped up to meet the older wizard’s momentarily softened gaze. Harry froze, the sharp retort he had been holding withering on his tongue. His grandfather’s hand had been steady on his shoulder before, the voice firm as stone—but that look, fleeting as it was, carried something else entirely. For a boy who had grown up watching only Vernon’s fists and Petunia’s disdain, that quiet admission of care landed heavier than any lecture. Heat flared at the back of his throat, and to his surprise, a small flush crept across his cheeks.

Persephone felt it too. She had always met Arcturus’s authority with quietness and to-the-point responses, too used to vitriol and orders. Yet when his eyes softened on her, she felt her breath catch. It wasn’t the commanding head of House Black speaking in that moment, but something more vulnerable, almost fatherly. For a girl who had learned too young that adults meant cruelty or indifference, the weight of it left her blinking fast, biting her lip to keep from breaking.

Neither of them spoke, but something shifted in that silence — a thread binding them tighter to the old man who now guided their steps.

They resumed their walk, the clamor of the village pressing in once more, the sound of bustling shops and crackling fireplaces intruding on their thoughts. The station came into view at the far end of the street, steam already curling above the roofs from the waiting train.

Arcturus broke the quiet with a low murmur, so soft Harry almost missed it, “You will learn, children, that there are battles won by blade, and there are battles won by patience. Choose poorly, and you’ll lose both.”

The words sank deep, heavier than the snow crunching beneath their boots. For the first time since Tracey’s petrification, Harry allowed himself to look back—not at the castle towering on the hill, but at the snow-dusted roofs of Hogsmeade below it. From here, Hogwarts seemed smaller. Fragile, almost.

Persephone slipped her hand into his, squeezing once. Her voice was steady, though her throat was tight.

“We’ll be back,” she said, as though swearing an oath neither of them yet knew how to keep.

Arcturus’s cane struck the snow again, firm and final. “Yes,” he said. His eyes lingered on them both, softer once more, before hardening like steel. “You will.”