Through Wands and War:A Wizards Life

The autumn chill had settled over Hogsmeade by late September, painting the leaves in fiery hues that shimmered under the pale sunlight. My restless night after the unsettling encounter with Professor Beery had bled into a morning heavy with the weight of my impending seventh year, and the stark reality of the war that awaited us beyond Hogwarts. But before returning to the castle, there was one crucial, often delayed, matter I had to attend to – a duty that had loomed over me since my seventeenth birthday back in March.

March 25th, 1937. That was the day I had legally become an adult in the wizarding world. For most, it meant little beyond the right to use magic outside of school and to take up various jobs. But for me, as the last remaining member of the Starborn line, it carried a far greater, heavier significance. I was now obligated to take up the Lordship of House Starborn. My ancestors had established their name through centuries of magical research and innovation, securing a position in the Sacred Twenty-Eight, and their legacy, and responsibilities, now fell solely to me. It wasn't an option; it was a mandate. My magical core, deep and resonant, felt tied to this inheritance, a subtle pull I had long recognized.

The thought of dealing with Gringotts, however, filled me with a familiar mix of apprehension and grudging respect. Goblins were meticulous, fiercely intelligent, and notoriously difficult to impress. But they were also the custodians of the oldest, most intricate magical laws concerning inheritance and lineage. If anyone could guide me through the labyrinthine process of assuming a pureblood Lordship, it was the Goblins.

I pulled on a set of my best robes – simple, dark grey, but impeccably tailored – a conscious choice to project an air of quiet authority. I didn't want to appear ostentatious, but neither did I wish to seem trivial. This was a serious matter. With a final glance around my cottage, confirming its wards were secure, I stepped into the Floo. "Diagon Alley!" I announced, the familiar green flames whisking me away.

Emerging into the bustling alley, the sharp, almost metallic tang of Gringotts – a scent unique to the bank – immediately cut through the usual smells of parchment and cauldron smoke. The majestic white marble building, stoic and formidable even amidst the vibrant chaos, always commanded a certain deference. The gleaming bronze doors, flanked by the stern-faced Goblin guards, seemed to watch every wizard who dared to approach. I pushed through the heavy doors, the murmur of the crowd inside immediately hushed by the sheer gravitas of the place. The echoing chamber, with its rows of counting goblins hunched over ledgers and scales, was a symphony of precise, rhythmic clicks and clangs. The air was thick with the scent of old gold and ancient magic.

I approached the main counter, where a particularly grim-looking Goblin sat. His eyes, dark and sharp, fixed on me. "Yes, Wizard?" he grunted, his voice like gravel.

"I am Marcus Starborn," I stated, keeping my voice level and clear, projecting a calm confidence despite the flutter in my chest. "I am here to see my account manager, Sruigrak. I believe he is expecting me." I had sent a pre-arranged owl a week ago, a formality I knew Goblins appreciated.

The Goblin scrutinized me, his gaze unnervingly piercing, as if trying to ascertain the very depths of my intentions. After a long moment that felt like an eternity, he gave a curt nod. "Wait here." He barked something in Gobbledegook to a smaller Goblin, who immediately scurried off into one of the many dark, vaulted corridors leading deeper into the bank.

I waited, acutely aware of the hushed efficiency around me. Minutes stretched into what felt like an hour, the rhythmic scratching of quills and the clink of gold coins providing the only soundtrack. Finally, a tall, particularly grizzled Goblin emerged from a corridor, his eyes, unlike the others, holding a flicker of something akin to recognition. His armour was more ornate, his posture more upright. This was undoubtedly Sruigrak.

"Marcus Starborn," Sruigrak stated, his voice a low, raspy growl, surprisingly less aggressive than the teller's. "I am Sruigrak, your account manager. Follow me." He turned without waiting for a response, leading me down a dimly lit, narrow corridor. The air grew colder, heavier, imbued with the ancient magic that protected Gringotts' deepest vaults. The walls were rough-hewn rock, studded with glowing, runic patterns that pulsed with faint energy.

We descended several flights of winding, stone stairs, the silence broken only by our footsteps. Finally, we arrived at a heavy, iron-bound door, intricately carved with what looked like ancient Goblin runes. Sruigrak tapped a specific sequence on the door, and it swung inward with a low groan, revealing a small, austere office. A single, sturdy wooden desk dominated the room, piled high with scrolls and ledgers. Two hard-backed chairs sat opposite each other.

"Sit," Sruigrak commanded, gesturing to one of the chairs as he settled into the other. He folded his hands on the desk, his dark eyes fixed on me. "You have come to formalize your Lordship, as is customary for your house upon reaching legal age. Your request for this meeting was… precise. I appreciate precision."

"Thank you, Sruigrak," I replied, sitting down, meeting his gaze directly. "It is time. I understand the process is complex."

"Complex, yes. But for the Starborn line, well-established. Your family has been with Gringotts for centuries. We hold all the relevant documents, all the necessary seals. The Lordship passes to the last living male heir, which you are. The magical testament of Lord Tiberius Starborn, your great-grandfather, made that clear. You are seventeen. The age of majority. There is no contention. It is merely a formality for you to acknowledge and accept."

He pushed a thick, heavy parchment across the desk. It was covered in tiny, intricate script, Goblin script, intertwined with various magical seals. "This is the Declaration of Succession. It confirms your lineage, your age, and your acceptance of the duties and privileges of Lord Starborn. Read it carefully. Once you sign, the magical bonds are sealed. There is no turning back."

I took the parchment, my heart thrumming a little faster. This was it. The culmination of centuries of legacy, resting on my shoulders. I read, my eyes tracing the dense script, though the core meaning was clear. It spoke of ancestral duties, of loyalty to the magical world, of the expectation of upholding the Starborn name and reputation. It mentioned the seat in the Wizengamot, the responsibility to the Ministry of Magic as a Head of House. It was all very formal, very old-world, a far cry from the subtle, desperate fight I was preparing for. But I knew this formality was a necessary foundation.

After a thorough read, I looked up. "I understand. I accept."

Sruigrak pushed a quill towards me, its tip shimmering faintly. "Sign here, with your full name."

I took the quill. It felt heavy, imbued with the weight of generations. With a steady hand, I scrawled my name, Marcus Septimus Starborn, on the designated line. As the ink dried, a faint, golden glow emanated from the parchment, a warm pulse of magic that spread through my arm, down into my core. It wasn't a sudden surge, but a deep, resonant hum, as if something ancient within me had finally awakened and connected to an even older power. The Starborn magic, the legacy of my ancestors, now flowed through me, recognized and affirmed by the very fabric of magical law. I felt a sense of belonging, but also an overwhelming sense of responsibility.

Sruigrak watched intently, his dark eyes seeming to absorb every nuance of the magical flux. When the glow subsided, he gave a slow, deliberate nod. "It is done. You are now Lord Starborn. A formal notice will be sent to the Ministry of Magic within the hour. Your seat in the Wizengamot will be acknowledged. You will receive summons for all relevant proceedings, as is your right and duty as a Head of House. We will also arrange for a liaison from the Ministry to contact you to brief you on your specific duties and responsibilities, as dictated by ancient statute."

He then pulled another, smaller ledger towards him. "Now, to the financial affairs. Your family vaults are considerable, Lord Starborn. The main vault, number 713, contains your family's accumulated wealth in Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts, as well as various precious metals and jewels. There is also Vault 714, the Starborn Artefact Vault, which holds various family heirlooms, magical artifacts, and research notes, some quite ancient. Access to this vault requires your specific verbal authorization and a magical blood signature upon each visit. Your father, Lord Septimus, prior to his unfortunate demise, left specific instructions for its management, as well as for the distribution of interest from the main vault into a quarterly allowance for your upkeep during your education. That allowance will now cease. As Lord Starborn, you have direct, unfettered access to all Starborn accounts."

He spoke with typical Goblin bluntness, his tone devoid of sympathy regarding my parents' deaths, a detached professionalism I appreciated. I had vaguely known about the family fortune, but the sheer scale of it, and the full extent of my new control, was somewhat daunting. "And the upkeep of the properties?" I asked, thinking of the cottage and the larger, ancestral manor that had remained largely untouched since my parents' passing.

"All properties remain under Starborn title. Gringotts manages the upkeep, taxes, and any necessary repairs using funds drawn directly from the main vault, as per standing instruction. You will now receive detailed financial statements monthly. Any large expenditures, any significant investment, any withdrawal above five thousand Galleons, will require your direct authorization. You are the ultimate authority."

He then laid out several more documents: statements detailing the contents of both vaults, a quarterly projection of income and expenses, and a rather imposing list of pureblood lineage conventions and Ministry protocols for Wizengamot members. It was a dizzying amount of information, but Sruigrak explained each point with crisp, efficient clarity, answering my questions with precise, unwavering logic. We discussed the secure channels for communication, the specific magical signatures required for certain transactions, and the discreet methods by which large sums could be transferred should the need arise. He even offered advice on investing, a surprising foray into a more advisory role.

"The current economic climate is… volatile," Sruigrak stated, his voice a low growl, echoing the news I'd been reading in the Daily Prophet. "The Muggle markets are unstable, and their instability often ripples into our own, albeit with a delay. We recommend diversifying your investments, Lord Starborn. Perhaps consider less volatile assets, or even some of the older, more tangible magical commodities. Certain rare potion ingredients, for example, have held their value remarkably well, even through periods of conflict." He gave me a sharp, knowing look. "Conflict, after all, often drives up the value of necessities."

His words struck a chord, a grim reminder of Beery's sorrow and the dark clouds gathering over Europe. Conflict. The goblins, of course, saw it purely through the lens of profit and loss, but their cold logic often contained a brutal truth.

We spent another two hours going over every detail. Sruigrak was efficient, never wasting a word, but surprisingly patient when I asked for clarification on particularly arcane legal clauses or financial instruments. He even offered a brief overview of the Wizengamot's current composition, noting the shifting alliances and the growing influence of certain factions. It was a crash course in the intricate politics of the British magical world, a dimension far more complex than just the "good versus evil" narrative often presented to students. The Starborn family had always been a voice of reason, often focused on magical advancement and research rather than political power, but they had always held their seat. Now, that voice, for good or ill, was mine.

Finally, with all documents signed, all explanations given, and a hefty new key to my vaults (a solid, rune-etched piece of silver that hummed faintly with magic) placed into my hand, Sruigrak concluded. "All affairs are in order, Lord Starborn. A Gringotts runner will deliver your updated ledgers and account details to your residence within the week. Do you have any further questions for today?"

"No, Sruigrak," I said, rising from the chair. "Your clarity has been… exceptional. Thank you."

He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. "It is our duty, Lord Starborn. Gringotts values its long-standing relationships." He then escorted me back through the winding corridors, the return journey feeling less daunting now that the weight of the unknown had been lifted. The clatter of coins in the main hall seemed almost welcoming.

Stepping out of Gringotts back into Diagon Alley, the late afternoon sun cast long shadows. The alley was still bustling, but the vibrant chaos that had earlier seemed a welcome distraction now felt brittle, precarious. The weight of the Lordship, of my vast inheritance, of the duties to the Ministry and Wizengamot, pressed down on me. It wasn't just gold and old houses; it was responsibility. It was a voice that would be heard in high places, a leverage I now possessed. And I knew, with chilling certainty, that I would have to use it wisely, not just for the Starborn name, but for the world. Professor Beery's tear-streaked face flashed in my mind. The casual, almost mundane setting of our conversation, shattered by the horrific reality of war. The formal legal documents I had just signed felt like a stark contract with that brutal reality. My family's name, passed down through generations of scholars and researchers, now carried the unspoken expectation of a warrior.

I made my way back to The Leaky Cauldron, my steps measured. The thought of lingering in the Alley, of enjoying the last vestiges of its carefree charm, vanished. I needed the quiet of my cottage, the solitude to process everything. The Floo journey back to Hogsmeade was swift, almost jarring in its abruptness.

Back in my cottage, the familiar Muting Charms and subtle wards closed around me like a shield. I placed my new vault key on my desk, its cool silver glinting in the fading light. The day had been filled with formalities, with financial ledgers and ancient laws, but the true burden was the realization that my personal fight had just been irrevocably intertwined with the wider conflict. My solitude, which had been a tool for training, now felt like a lonely obligation. I was Lord Starborn, and with that title came a grim clarity of purpose. I prepared for bed, my mind racing through the implications of the Wizengamot seat, the wealth, the influence. Sleep would be a long time coming. Tonight, the silence of the cottage was not peaceful; it was heavy with the weight of my new name and the looming shadow of the war to come.

…

..

.

After a few days

.

..

…

The air in my Hogsmeade cottage held the lingering scent of old parchment and the faint, almost metallic tang of the ancestral magic that had solidified within me after my visit to Gringotts. It was September 1st, a day that, for seven years, had always promised a comforting return to the familiar rhythms of Hogwarts. This year, however, the familiar anticipation was laced with a poignant understanding of finality. This was it. My seventh and last year. The thought felt both liberating and incredibly heavy.

I made sure my trunk was securely shrunk and tucked into my pocket, Hedwig's cage gently levitated by my side. She gave a soft hoot, her golden eyes seeming to understand the shift in my mood. The Floo network from Hogsmeade was always busy on September 1st, a constant stream of students embarking on their journey. I waited patiently, stepping into the green flames when my turn came. "King's Cross Station, Platform 9 ¾!"

The familiar sensation of spinning, of being compressed through a magical pipe, was over in an instant, depositing me neatly onto the bustling platform. The air was thick with steam from the Hogwarts Express, the excited shouts of children, the fond farewells of parents, and the distinct scent of coal and damp earth. It was a beautiful, chaotic symphony, a comforting normality that felt almost defiant in the face of the growing unease outside these enchanted walls.

I spotted my friends easily, their familiar faces a beacon in the throng. Eleanor, poised and elegant even amidst the chaos, was directing a hesitant first-year towards the correct carriage. Edgar, already deep in conversation with a stern-looking professor, was gesturing animatedly. Elara stood a little apart, gazing thoughtfully at the shimmering barrier that separated our world from the Muggle one. Henry and Leo were predictably engaged in a boisterous argument about Quidditch, their voices carrying over the general din, while Elizabeth stood with her arms crossed, a knowing smirk on her lips as she observed the entire scene with an almost cynical amusement.

A genuine smile touched my lips as I approached them, a rare occurrence during my solitary summer. "Rough start to the day, Leo?" I quipped, as I joined them.

Leo turned, his face splitting into a wide grin. "Marcus! There you are! Finally, some sanity. Henry here thinks the Falmouth Falcons will take the Cup this year. Pure delusion, I tell you! It's obviously the Chudley Cannons' year for a comeback!"

"Only if their Chasers suddenly learn how to fly in a straight line!" Henry retorted, good-naturedly shoving Leo.

Eleanor stepped gracefully towards me. "Good to see you, Marcus. I trust your summer was… productive?" Her eyes held a knowing glint, a quiet acknowledgement of the deeper magical pursuits we shared.

"As productive as possible," I confirmed, my gaze meeting hers. "And yours, Eleanor? I trust you found some time for rest amidst your scholarly pursuits."

"A little," she conceded, a faint blush on her cheeks. "Though I admit, the political news made true rest difficult. The ICW talks seem to be going nowhere."

"As predicted," I murmured, and she nodded, a shared understanding passing between us.

Elizabeth sauntered over, fixing me with an appraising look. "So, the prodigal son returns. Did you finally discover the meaning of life, or just how to make more noise with wandless magic?"

"Perhaps a bit of both," I said, a wry smile touching my lips. "Though I doubt the latter would impress the Ministry much. Unlike some of us, my talents aren't suited for public displays of rebellion." My gaze flickered to her, recalling her often-voiced disdain for the Ministry.

Just then, the prefect badge on my robes gave a faint, almost imperceptible hum, a subtle call that only prefects could feel. "Duty calls, it seems," I announced, pulling myself from the comfortable banter. "Prefect patrol. Looks like I'll have to interrupt your thrilling debate, Leo."

"Ah, go on then, Starborn," Leo waved me off. "Just don't take any points from the poor first-years. They're already terrified enough."

I gave them a brief nod and made my way through the throng, joining the other prefects who were already gathering near the staff carriage. The headboy, a stern seventh-year Gryffindor I knew vaguely, was assigning routes. I received mine and began my mandatory patrol through the train. It was a routine I knew well: checking for misbehaving students, breaking up minor scuffles, offering directions to lost first-years, and ensuring the general peace. The familiar scent of pumpkin pasties and chocolate frogs wafted from the compartments, intermingling with the underlying aroma of student magic. I found myself smiling at the sheer, unbridled excitement of the younger years, their faces pressed against the windows, eagerly anticipating their return to the castle. It was a simpler joy, one that felt increasingly precious.

After what felt like an hour, I returned to my friends' compartment, finding them sprawled comfortably amidst their trunks. I slid into an empty seat beside Edgar, feeling the gentle sway of the train as it picked up speed, rushing through the increasingly wild, green landscape.

"All quiet on the western front?" Henry asked, raising an eyebrow.

"For now," I replied, a subtle irony in my voice that only Eleanor and Edgar might catch. "Just the usual chaos. No rogue dragons or escaped pixies, thankfully."

"Good," Elizabeth grunted. "Wouldn't want anything to cut into our last year. Can you believe it, though? Our last year. Feels surreal. What's everyone planning on doing after we break free?"

Leo immediately launched into an elaborate fantasy about becoming the most famous Quidditch player in history, followed by Henry's more grounded, but still ambitious, talk of joining an experimental Magical Beast Reserve. Elara spoke softly of perhaps pursuing advanced studies in Ancient Runes, hoping to uncover forgotten healing spells, while Eleanor mused about a career in Charms research, pushing the boundaries of elemental manipulation. Elizabeth, ever pragmatic, declared her intention to join a mercantile guild, making her own fortune far from the Ministry's meddling.

When they turned to me, I hesitated. My true plans were too complex, too dangerous, to voice aloud. "I'll be pursuing independent research," I said, a vague but truthful answer. "There are some long-standing family interests that require my attention." The Lordship, the vaults, the Wizengamot seat – it was indeed family business, though I omitted the part about preparing to subtly dismantle Grindelwald's rise.

"Independent research, huh?" Leo chuckled. "Sounds terribly dull, Marcus. No grand adventures?"

"Perhaps a few, of a different sort," I replied, a small, knowing smile playing on my lips.

The conversation drifted, as it often did with my friends, touching upon a myriad of topics: predictions for the upcoming Quidditch season, the absurdity of the new Ministry dress code for Aurors, and the ever-present mystery of what Professor Dumbledore actually did in his free time.

"Speaking of professors," Henry mused, "what's the deal with Professor Beery? He seemed a bit… off, when I saw him in Diagon Alley."

"He's retiring, actually," I found myself saying, the words slipping out before I could fully filter them. It was meant to be a confidential conversation between us at the bar, but the sudden comfort of my friends, combined with the shock of the revelation, made me less guarded. "This is his last year."

A stunned silence fell over the compartment.

"What?" Elizabeth was the first to react, her cynical façade dropping to reveal genuine surprise. "Beery? Our Head of House? But… he's always been there! He can't just leave!"

"He's not just Head of Ravenclaw," Eleanor added, her brow furrowed. "He's Deputy Headmaster too. That's a huge departure. Why would he leave so suddenly?"

I hesitated, recalling Beery's raw grief, his tear-streaked face. How much could I say? How much should I say? The truth felt too stark, too painful for this casual setting. "He… he said it's time. That the current world needs 'a different kind of leadership.' Stronger, perhaps, for the times ahead." I omitted the part about him losing students, the specific brutal details. I wasn't sure I could articulate it without breaking the fragile peace of our conversation.

"A different kind of leadership?" Leo scoffed. "Is he implying he's not up to snuff? Beery's brilliant! He's always been fair. Never put up with any nonsense, but always gave you a chance."

"He mentioned Professor Dumbledore will be taking his posts," I added, offering a less personal, but still significant, detail.

That certainly shifted the focus. "Dumbledore?" Henry exclaimed, eyes wide. "Merlin's beard! That's… that's a lot of power in one man's hands, isn't it? Dumbledore as Head of Ravenclaw and Deputy Headmaster? He's already the Transfiguration master, and everyone knows he's the only one Grindelwald truly fears."

"It makes sense, I suppose," Elara murmured, ever thoughtful. "If Professor Beery feels he's not equipped for the coming storm, Dumbledore certainly is. He projects an aura of immense strength and resolve."

The conversation then spun off into speculative theories about Dumbledore's new, expanded role, the implications for Hogwarts, and how strict he might be as Head of House. It was all fairly mundane, a comforting return to the typical student worries that shielded us from the darker realities. They were concerned about their last year, their N.E.W.T.s, their futures. Not about students dying in distant lands. I listened, participating occasionally, a silent observer in their hopeful discussions, the knowledge of Beery's sorrow a cold stone in my stomach. I felt a pang of guilt for introducing that unsettling truth, however vaguely. It was a stark reminder of the burden of knowledge, of the secrets I had to keep, and the loneliness that often accompanied such insights.

The train journey, as alwayss, ended too soon. The Hogwarts Express hissed to a halt at Hogsmeade Station, and the familiar rush of students disembarking began. We gathered our belongings, shrinking trunks and shouldering bags, and stepped onto the chilly platform. The air, already crisp, held the intoxicating scent of pine and magic that always clung to the Scottish Highlands. The distant, shimmering lights of Hogwarts Castle twinkled against the darkening sky, a majestic, welcoming silhouette.

We boarded the carriages, pulled by the skeletal Thestrals whose quiet presence I had long grown accustomed to. The short ride up the winding path to the castle was filled with excited chatter and familiar landmarks: the dark, whispering trees of the Forbidden Forest, the glimpse of Hagrid's hut, the sprawling Black Lake.

Finally, we arrived, the majestic gates of Hogwarts swinging open to reveal the brightly lit Entrance Hall. The warmth of the castle enveloped us, the familiar scent of beeswax and ancient stone filling my lungs. The House tables in the Great Hall were already packed, alive with the joyous clamor of reunion. We made our way to the Ravenclaw table, finding our usual spot, and settled in, the sheer comfort of being back, surrounded by familiar faces, washing over me.

Headmaster Armando Dippet, a grand figure with a long silver beard and a penchant for elaborate robes, rose from the staff table. The Great Hall, usually buzzing with noise, quieted to a respectful murmur. His voice, though reedy with age, carried clearly through the enchanted hall.

"Welcome, welcome, students!" Headmaster Dippet boomed, his arms spread wide in a theatrical gesture. "To another glorious year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry! I see many familiar faces, grown taller and, I trust, wiser, over the summer break. And to our first-years," he paused, his eyes twinkling, "a very special welcome to your new home! You are embarking on the greatest adventure of your lives!"

He continued with the usual pleasantries, the announcements about forbidden areas, the encouragement to work hard and uphold the school's values. My gaze drifted to the staff table. Professor Dumbledore, resplendent in emerald green robes, sat with his usual quiet intensity, a faint, almost imperceptible smile on his lips as he observed the students. Professor Beery sat beside him, his expression a mix of gentle contentment and lingering wistfulness.

Then, Dippet's tone shifted, becoming more formal, more somber. "Now, for a most important announcement. As many of you may know, our esteemed Head of Ravenclaw and Deputy Headmaster, Professor Herbert Beery, has served Hogwarts with unparalleled dedication and wisdom for many, many years." Dippet's voice was full of genuine reverence. "However, Professor Beery has made the difficult decision to retire from his posts at the end of this academic year."

A ripple of murmurs, then a louder gasp, swept through the Great Hall. It seemed my earlier slip-up had only prepared my immediate friends, not the entire school. I saw heads turn towards the Ravenclaw table, students whispering, their surprise evident.

"Professor Beery," Dippet continued, his voice steadying the room, "has given his life to this institution, nurturing generations of bright witches and wizards. We owe him a debt of gratitude that can never truly be repaid. We wish him a most peaceful and well-deserved retirement." Dippet raised his goblet. "To Professor Herbert Beery!"

The students and staff echoed the toast, a wave of "To Professor Beery!" resounding through the hall. Beery himself rose, a shy, almost embarrassed smile on his face, and gave a small, dignified bow, accepting the heartfelt applause. He looked tired, but also strangely at peace.

Dippet then cleared his throat, his voice regaining its usual booming quality. "And now, to announce his successor! We are immensely fortunate that one of Hogwarts's own, a wizard of unparalleled talent and wisdom, has agreed to step into these vital roles. It is my immense pleasure to announce that Professor Albus Dumbledore will be taking over as Head of Ravenclaw House and Deputy Headmaster, effective next year!"

A much louder, more enthusiastic roar of applause erupted. Dumbledore rose, his eyes twinkling behind his half-moon spectacles, acknowledging the ovation with a serene smile. The news was met with far more excitement than sadness, a testament to Dumbledore's immense popularity and the almost mythical status he held among the students. I watched him, a faint unease stirring within me. Beery's reasons, his raw grief, weighed heavily. It wasn't just a simple retirement; it was a surrender to a changing, harsher world. Dumbledore was stepping into a war, not just a school. The applause, though genuine, felt almost naïve.

As the clapping subsided, Dippet raised his hands, and with a flourish, declared, "And now, let the feast begin!"

Plates instantly filled with mountains of delicious food, the air immediately filled with the happy clatter of cutlery and renewed conversation. My friends, now fully immersed in the excitement of the feast and the buzzing news about Dumbledore, started planning their strategy to befriend the new Deputy Headmaster. I watched them, a part of me wanting to join their joyous oblivion, but another part, the one shaped by Beery's tears and the chilling words of The Serpent's Eye, remained detached.

The feast was indeed glorious, but as I ate, my mind kept replaying Beery's broken voice, the unspoken weight of his lost students. Hogwarts was a haven, a temporary reprieve. But the world outside, the one Dumbledore was stepping more fully into, the one I would enter in less than a year, was no longer safe. The feast, for all its warmth, felt like a last, fragile moment of peace before the inevitable storm. My final year had truly begun, not with textbooks and spells, but with a chilling whisper of tragedy and the growing certainty that the path ahead was far darker than any of us truly understood.