Chapter 25: Of Mice and Men

Albus Dumbledore

Hogwarts, Great Britain

I was the Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards. I was the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. I was a student and later research associate of Nicholas Flamel, defeater of Grindelwald, and an Order of Merlin, First Class.

And yet, for all my many titles and decades of experience, I couldn’t help but be filled with wonder each new school year. Some of my colleagues liked to think they’d seen it all, heard every excuse for missed assignments or youthful mischief.

I disagreed. They were missing the point in my opinion. There was more to Hogwarts, more to education, than what went on in the classroom. There was a certain sense of novelty that Hogwarts never failed to instill in me, whether by its countless secrets or, occasionally, through its eclectic student body.

I was taking a great many risks this year. It had been an unexpectedly easy task, getting my old mentor and his wife to part with the philosopher’s stone.

The event had felt momentous despite their cooperativeness. There had been a sense of finality to it, the feeling that this might truly be the beginning of the end for my old friends. I would of course do my best to safeguard the stone and return it to them once Tom had been neutralized, but there were always risks, risks that they’d accepted. Even now, they were getting their affairs in order with the small cache of elixirs they had stored up, just in case.

I had thought that would be the biggest change this year. Violet Potter, the philosopher’s stone, and Tom’s impending return would all play a part in the fulfillment of a prophecy. Like actors in a play, they would all gather at the grand stage that was Hogwarts. And of course, I too would play my part.

If I was lucky, I could lure Tom to the seat of my power, defeat him and stall his return for a few more years, but I doubted things would go my way. Gambling against Fate was something even I could not do.

So, I promised I would do the best I could. If my part was not to vanquish yet another Dark Lord, then I would pave the way for the one who could. It was a decision I’d long since resolved myself to, ever since that fateful night Sybil uttered those words.

And then he came, the seer. Blaise Zabini was a once in a century talent, of that there was no doubt. I would dare say that not even Gellert was young Blaise’s match in the field of divination.

He reminded me of my old love: handsome, daring, with eyes brimming with ambition and love for magic, and oh so brilliant. It wasn't simply his flawless understanding of the material, something not even Minerva or Pomona could dispute.

It was how he carried himself. The young man knew more than he said, always presenting himself with meticulous care. He could fool his peers, most of my professors even, but I'd known too many master manipulators to be taken in. As prodigious as he was, he fell short of those with decades of experience.

I couldn't help but wonder at the cruel machinations of Fate. Surely there was a reason for the young seer's arrival here, in the same year as the prophesied savior of the magical world. Here, at the cusp of Voldemort’s second rise, was a young man who reminded me so dearly of Gellert.

Whether willingly or not, he would play a role in Violet Potter's story. Of that, there was no doubt. The two were already friends, possibly more according to Severus.

That, coupled with his clear cunning and his mother's reputation, concerned me deeply. I wondered how genuine he was. He would hardly be the first to tug at a young woman's heartstrings for personal gain. I would have liked to claim I was free of bias, that I would not hold a boy's heritage against him, but there was one scion of a dark family I'd already taken a chance on. Some suspicion was healthy.

Voldemort would rise again, as mandated by Fate. But I also felt it in my bones; he would fall just as swiftly. Perhaps it was fitting, that the tale forged by the tongue of one seer, would come to a close by the hand of another.

But what would come after? Would young Violet have to die to end Tom’s reign of terror? Or would she survive, only to find that her dearest love had taken the mantle of her greatest foe? Would Blaise become Violet’s Gellert? Or would they lead the magical world into a new age side by side, accomplishing what Gellert and I failed to do?

I did not know. For all my power and influence, I could not know. I saw them and I hoped and feared in equal measure. These were heavy thoughts.

Perhaps, I ought to take a heavier hand. I could call him into my office, impress upon him the importance of Violet's role and why he should not interfere.

But that would alienate him, possibly even pushing him further into the dark. He might act against me, and by extension Violet, purely out of spite. Being a seer offered greater knowledge, but greater knowledge did not automatically imply greater maturity.

It would also risk revealing more of the prophecy than I wished to at this time. Perhaps he knew, but I suspected that he did not. Prophecies were finicky things, and exceedingly rare. How could he know to look if he did not know one existed in the first place? And if he did not, I would not be how he found out. Giving him such information before he was ready would likely end in disaster.

No, a gentler hand was needed. He was too great an asset, if not now, then in the future. He could become Violet's greatest champion, her most stalwart ally and protector. I would need to nudge him carefully, and he would need to be watched of course, but a seer with his level of control had not been seen since the time of Nostradamus.

As I was contemplating the best way to approach him, I heard a knock outside my window. Turning, I was surprised to find young Violet's owl tapping on the glass.

Strange. Letters were delivered at dawn, no matter how far an owl had to travel. The magical familiars had certain enchantments that guaranteed such. That the snowy owl was here now meant this was a missive for my eyes alone.

Curious, I opened the window and offered the gorgeous creature a treat from Fawkes’ stash. She offered me a hoot of thanks and perched next to my fiery friend.

Violet’s owl, if I remembered correctly. Hagrid purchased her for her. He always did have an eye for the best sorts of creatures.

Though Violet was the child of prophecy, I had not done anything to indicate such. Her teachers were explicitly told not to show her any form of favoritism. I wanted her to enjoy her youth and sense of normalcy for as long as possible. And, like most teenagers, I doubted she would seek out her headmaster without good cause. Even then, her first choice ought to be Minerva, not me.

Which raised the question: Why?

I hummed in thought as I opened the wooden package. In it was a letter, and what appeared to be a dead rat. Either this was a prank in horribly poor taste, or Hogwarts has managed to surprise me yet again.

The missive was short yet cut me to my core: “You owe it to Padfoot.”

X

Violet Potter

I’d just brushed my teeth, taken a shower, and took a seat on the porcelain throne to tinkle before I turned in for the night. It was only about eight in the evening, but I tried to wash up fairly early because I usually spent an hour or two chatting with Parvati or reading a book before bed and getting up when I’d just gotten comfortable was a pain in the ass. Besides, I loved Parv, but she and Lavender hogged the bathroom.

That was when the glorified KFC Cluck Bucket flamed into the bathroom a foot away from my face. If Magical Britain had anything resembling common sense, it would have a fire safety code and this fucking arson-turkey wouldn’t be allowed anywhere near polite society, but it didn’t, so here it was.

“Aahhh!” I shrieked. I startled backwards, hit the raised toilet lid, and fell over.

On the plus side, I didn’t need to pee anymore. On the downside, I stubbed my toe on the ceramic tiles.

“Bwap?” the soon-to-be rotisserie squawked. It was laughing at me. I didn’t know how I knew, but I knew.

“Fuck…” I groaned in pain.

“Violet? You okay in there?” I heard Parv call through the door. “I heard a crash.”

“I’m good,” I lied through my teeth. How the fuck was I supposed to make “I pissed myself because a puffed up chicken jump-scared me,” sound believable? “ “I just… I stubbed my toe!”

“Alright, don’t hit your head now…”

I heard her walk away and let out a relieved sigh. I glared up at the bird. I’d never seen it before, whatever it was. It looked like an eagle and had red and orange feathers that seemed to glow with an inner light. Pretty, but I wanted to wring its little neck.

“What the hell are you?” It let out a musical trill that soothed my irritation somehow and held out a leg. Attached was a note. “For me? From who?”

“Bwap.”

“Yeah, fine…”

I untied the letter from its leg and began to read:

Miss Potter,

Please see me immediately in my office. My office is around the corner immediately following the second floor corridor. There is a gargoyle to mark the entrance. The password is “sugared sockeye.”

Signed,

Headmaster Dumbledore

PS: As I’m sure you are curious, Fawkes is a phoenix and my familiar. He would greatly appreciate an owl treat for his trouble.

“Owl treat my ass,” I grunted. “You’re lucky I don’t stuff you in a pot.”

The smug bird chirped and preened itself over the sink. Alas, I would not be getting my revenge on the foul fowl today. The headmaster would probably drown me in detentions if his bird went missing. Really, what kind of lunatic used an undercooked roast chicken as a mail-bird anyway?

Muttering to myself, cleaned up and got in the shower again. I threw on some clothes and headed out the door.

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“Vi? Where are you going?” Lavender asked.

“I forgot I was supposed to meet a teacher for something,” I replied. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back before curfew.”

“Ooh, are you in trouble?”

“I don’t think so? We’ll see.”

X

“Come in, Violet,” Professor Dumbledore said, eyes literally twinkling. That had to be a spell. Or a geriatric disease.

Unsure of whether I’d catch some magical disease by proximity, I looked around the office. It was… wild. Quirky? Dotty? I wasn’t sure how to describe it, except that it was as colorful as the headmaster’s usual dress.

The office was a tall cylinder. Above, from the ceiling to about a third of the way down, the walls were lined with moving portraits. Judging by how they were dressed, they were all important, probably past headmasters or famous alumni. That was where “normal” ended.

The rest of the wallspace was covered by bookshelves save two openings: one was the stairwell, which I assumed led to the headmaster’s quarters, and the other was some kind of marble basin filled with fluid.

No fucking wonder the Cluck Bucket was such a pain in the ass. He spoiled the damn thing and built a goddamn birdbath in his office!

The bookshelves weren’t much better. Half of it was filled with books, as I’d expected of the most learned man in Magical Britain. The other half was filled with trinkets and gadgets that made all sorts of noises. It was like if someone tried to explain the idea of steampunk to a nomadic tribesman who’s never seen machinery before, and only managed to get the “lots of whistles and shiny parts” down.

At the center of it all was my glorious headmaster, the off-brand Gandalf himself. He was stroking his cock, and thankfully in the best way that phrase could be interpreted. I briefly glared at my new nemesis. Lyra Malfoy could go fuck herself; she’d been replaced by Dumbledore’s cock.

Surprisingly, Hedwig was there as well, perched next to the puffed up peafowl. She offered me a fond hoot as she pecked at an owl treat. Her eyes barely left a box on the headmaster’s desk though. I’d never seen her glare like that; she reminded me of a mad dog almost.

“Good evening, professor,” I said politely. He was still the head honcho here. “And Hedwig? What’s she doing here?”

“Ah, your wonderful owl has delivered a pleasant surprise,” he said. He slid over a box on his desk. Inside was a note and one dead rat, minus one toe? Finger? I wasn’t sure what appendages were called on rodents. The note was simple enough but it meant nothing to me so I put it aside.

I could connect the dots. “Is this Scabbers?”

“He was called that, much to my regret.”

“Umm… I don’t get it. How did Hedwig find Scabbers? Why would she bring you a dead rat? And who’s Padfoot?”

“Curious… You do not know.”

“Uh, yeah? I mean, that’s gotta be a nickname, right?”

“You are correct, Violet. To be specific, they were the aliases used by a quartet of rather prolific pranksters about sixteen years prior. Padfoot, Moony, Prongs, and Wormtail.”

“Wait, this is about something that happened before I was even born? What’s that have to do with Scabbers?” This was getting more and more confusing.

“If my hypothesis is correct, Scabbers is in fact Wormtail.”

“Wormtail. Like a rat…”

“Indeed. You see, these names referred to the animagus forms used by each prankster. Prongs was a stag, Padfoot was a dog, and Wormtail was a rat. I have confirmed that the rat is in fact an animagus, and that he is not dead, merely drugged into a deathlike state via the draught of living death.”

“What was Moony?” I asked, curious in spite of myself. He might have been crazy, but the old man was great at telling stories.

He did that eye-twinkle thing and ignored me completely. “You might be more interested to know that Prongs was a young man by the name of James Potter.”

“Dad? Dad was a prankster?”

“Yes, he drove poor Minerva quite spare at times”

“C-Can you tell me more about him?” I asked, hating the way my voice quivered. But this was dad. No one ever told me anything about them except that they were heroes, that they died fighting.

It hurt, knowing how they died, but not how they lived.

“Perhaps another day,” faux-Gandalf said with a sad shake of the head. “I bring this up, Violet, because the friendship did not last. During the war, James and Lily went into hiding. Their home was placed under a powerful spell called a fidelius. It is a ward that prevents anyone from learning of a secret unless told by a secret keeper.”

I felt my stomach sink. “The secret keeper betrayed them.”

“Yes. Sirius Black, Padfoot. He has been in Azkaban, the most secure wizarding prison in Magical Britain, for thirteen years.”

“Good fucking ridance then,” I spat. Cluck Bucket moved down my list. Some bitch got my parents killed and left me with the Dursleys. I’d get even for that, one way or another. Then the rest of what he said registered. “This… This is Wormtail? Percy said he had him for over ten years! Why? Why would he pretend to be the Weasley family rat for so long then?”

Professor Dumbledore seemed to age a decade. He always looked old, all wise and beardy and shit. Now, he just looked tired.

Leontes liked to drop random facts and I knew there was some big war in the wizarding world that paralleled World War Two, and that the old man ended it in some kind of epic showdown with the big bad evil guy. He never seemed like a warrior though, more like the weird, old grandpa. I could believe it now though, he looked like he’d shouldered the weight of the world, and for far too long.

“Wormtail, Peter Pettigrew, died, murdered by Sirius Black,” he recited as if by rote. The twinkle was gone. His eyes looked so dead inside. “He died a hero, confronting his Death Eater friend, but failed to protect the lives of twelve muggles from a magical explosion. So violent was the explosion that the only thing that could be recovered of Peter was a finger. He was posthumously awarded the Order of Merlin, First Class for his courage and sacrifice.”

“That makes no sense! Then Scabbers can’t be Wormtail. He’s… He’s older than he should be and… missing a finger… Holy fuck, Scabbers is Wormtail…”

“That is what the letter implies, yes. And Sirius is in prison.”

“Which means Sirius Black didn’t kill Peter Pettigrew. The story is a lie.”

“That is what I called you here to find out,” he said. He pulled open a drawer and withdrew two vials among many. “I felt that you deserved to know, no matter how painful the truth might be.”

“What’re those, professor?”

“The first is the wiggenweld potion, the simplest way to awaken someone ensorceled by the draught of living death. The second is veritaserum, though muggles would call it a truth potion. The rat is an animagus, though whether it is indeed Peter, I cannot say for certain until I force him to turn back.”

“Either he’s Pettigrew and we have an innocent man in prison, or he’s not and there’s a second rat animagus missing a finger. In either case, someone’s been pretending to be the Weasley family pet for over a decade.”

“Quite, Violet. Both merit some serious questions, I should think. Although, just because Sirius did not kill twelve people and his old friend does not mean that he did not betray your parents.”

I stared at the vial. In the beginning of the year, Snape gave us some grandiose bullshit about how the subject he taught was oh so great. I had no interest in fame or glory. Putting a “stopper in death” sounded like the kind of thing that came with tons of capital “c” Consequences.

But… But truth? That, I could get behind. If he led with that, I might have paid more attention in class. Maybe Snape wasn’t full of shit after all.

“I want to be here for this,” I told the professor.

“I thought you might. I’ve always considered Hogwarts to be a place for new discoveries. It strikes me that even a century later, this castle never fails to surprise me,” Professor Dumbledore said with a wan smile. He waved his wand, an ornate thing with some kind of berry vine wrapping along the length. “Well then, Violet, shall we discover the truth together?”

I nodded jerkily. Then, everything I knew about my parents’ deaths was flipped upside down.

X

I glared hatefully at the man. He was a fat, ugly thing, with buck teeth and an unwashed appearance. Even as a man, Peter Pettigrew was a rat.

I’d never hated anyone this intensely before. I knew now why Hedwig wouldn’t stop mad-dogging the rat. She deserved all the owl treats, as soon as I got done feeding this bastard his own testicles. He’d been stunned to keep his damn mouth shut.

I swallowed thickly and blinked away bitter tears. The wizarding world wasn’t all sunshine and roses, I knew that now. “How, professor? How did Hedwig get Pettigrew then?”

That twinkle was back now, though nowhere near as bright. And it was just as annoying as the first time. “You truly knew nothing of this?”

“No, professor, I swear.” Even as I spoke, gears began to turn. Hedwig… The rat was drugged by a “distant admirer…” “Zabini! Zabini’s the only one who Hedwig might listen to besides me!”

“An apt conclusion, and one I suspect is true.”

“Then… Then that fucker knew my parents’ murderer was alive and didn’t tell me?”

“Perhaps he wanted me to verify the truth in his visions,” Professor Dumbledore said. “Or perhaps, he would have sent Hedwig to me even had he known the truth in full. If we called him now, I suspect he would feign ignorance.”

“Bullshit. Who else could it be? Call him over!”

Professor Dumbledore shook his head with a sad smile. “I will not. It’s not about what we know. I doubt he ever intended to hide his involvement from us.”

“From other people then…? Is this one of those ‘Everything is a message,’ things? He said that before.”

“Indeed. He would call it plausible deniability. Your father still has many enemies within Slytherin.”

“And getting my dad’s best friend freed from prison might put him in danger?”

“That seems likely. His mother is likewise very dark. Though uninvolved with politics in Magical Britain, she would not approve of his actions. In that context, I suspect any fitting reward I grant him would be little better than a poisoned chalice.”

“That’s not fair,” I muttered. He’d done more for me than anyone else alive. He’d given me the truth. He’d set my godfather on the path to freedom. “He… He deserves something. Credit. Money. Something.”

It rang hollow even as the words left my lips. He liked to act like life was a series of transactions, but what could I give him that was worth this? Had he acted because he knew how much I hated my relatives? Because he knew how much I wanted to know about my parents?

He hadn’t told anyone about the Dursleys either. I knew he knew because he hinted at it on the train. If this got out, never mind his house, his own mother might disown him. I knew how important secrets were to him, but I’d always dismissed it as him being a little quirky. It was only now that I fully understood why.

“He deserves a reward,” Professor Dumbledore agreed. “However, it strikes me that we ought to respect his wishes for anonymity.”

“It’s not fair.”

“For a boy who has granted me the chance to right a heinous wrong? No, no it is not. However, I believe I can spare a hundred points to Slytherin, for the greatest exemplar of his house’s virtues in a generation. Cunning and ambition can be quite admirable traits, wouldn’t you agree, Violet?”

“That’s so dumb,” I said with a watery smile.

“We do what we can, and however minor, this is what we can give at this time.”

“Then… What now?”

“Now, you return to bed, young lady.” He stood tall and I saw a little hint of the great wizard that featured in my history books. “I must insist on an appointment with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.”

I wanted to go with him. I felt like I should see things through to the end. “Professor–”

“No, Violet. Go back to your dorm. I assure you, I will do everything in my power to see justice done. After all, I owe it to Padfoot.”

Author’s Note

Here be Albus. There isn’t a perfect way to reconcile the first book with the rest of the plot, but my headcanon is that the Flamels gave up the stone because they were already considering moving on decades prior and saw this as a good chance to cut ties with the world while gifting their magnum opus to their student.

No, I’m not a teenager. Yes, I still laugh at toilet humor. Sue me.

Keep in mind that Violet has never met Dumbledore up to this point. Her first impressions of the man are hilariously wrong.

I opted to skip the obligatory veritaserum interrogation. You all know the story by now. Hope I did the emotional bit some justice.

Animal Fact: Pigeons produce milk. Well, kinda. They produce “crop milk,” which acts in much the same way to provide necessary antioxidants, fats, proteins, and other nutrients for their young. They are some of the few birds, alongside doves and emperor penguins, that do so.

Hey, if soy, almond, and cashew “milk” qualify as milk, “pigeon vomit” should as well. At least it’s an actual animal byproduct.

Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.