NOVEL WEB Chapter 75: THE LORDSHIPS WEIGHT
The familiar scent of old stone, beeswax, and bubbling cauldrons was a comforting embrace as I settled back into the rhythms of Hogwarts. After the emotional upheaval of Professor Beery's revelation and the sobering weight of my newly accepted Lordship, the routine of classes felt like a familiar anchor. Yet, it was an anchor in turbulent waters, and the quiet hum of the castle, which once signified peace, now felt like a fragile barrier against the growing storm outside.
My first few classes of Seventh Year were a mixture of familiar faces and challenging new material. Advanced Potion-Making under Professor Slughorn was as effervescent and demanding as ever, requiring intricate precision that, ironically, mirrored the subtlety I'd been practicing with my Draconic magic. I found myself instinctively applying the principles of Nahl (flow) to the precise stirring of ingredients, the perfect temperature control, achieving results that even Slughorn, with his customary effusiveness, found remarkable. He often beamed, calling my concoctions "exemplary" and "a true testament to the Starborn touch," a phrase that now carried a new, heavier resonance for me.
Transfiguration with Professor Dumbledore, now also my Head of House and the Deputy Headmaster, was, as always, an intellectual dance. His lectures were rarely straightforward; they were labyrinthine explorations of magical theory, philosophical musings woven into the fabric of transformation. He'd discuss the inherent nature of objects, the very A'kren (essence/substance) of what was being transformed, in a way that resonated deeply with my Draconic understanding. He pushed us not just to change an object, but to understand why it could be changed, to grasp the magical currents that permitted such shifts. On my first day back in his class, his piercing blue eyes lingered on me for a fraction of a second longer than on other students, a flicker of something unreadable – perhaps acknowledgement, perhaps anticipation – that only I seemed to notice. His questions in class, too, felt more pointed when directed at me, less about rote answers and more about pushing the boundaries of conventional magical thought. He was testing, probing, and I found myself responding with an almost instinctive understanding, my answers often drawing out a rare, thoughtful hum from him.
Defence Against the Dark Arts, however, was where the external tension truly bled into the curriculum. Confronting the Unforgivable was not a theoretical text; it was a grim manual for survival. Our new professor, a stern, retired Auror named Professor Thorne, wasted no time in introducing us to advanced defensive spells against Dark Arts that had previously only been whispered about. We practiced shielding against simulated Cruciatus Curses, learned counter-curses for obscure binding spells, and studied the subtle tells of wizards capable of wielding truly dark magic. There was a palpable shift in the air in that classroom, a sense of urgency that permeated every lesson. Students practiced with a grim determination, no longer treating it as just another subject, but as vital preparation. I, too, applied myself, but my mind was often elsewhere, analyzing the spells not just for defense, but for their weaknesses, their underlying magical vulnerabilities that Fen could exploit. I watched my classmates, noting their reactions, their fear, and recognized the same fear that had broken Professor Beery. It made my heart heavy, but strengthened my resolve.
My duties as a prefect, which resumed on the first day back, offered a different lens through which to observe the atmosphere of the school. The younger students, particularly the first and second years, seemed oblivious to the deeper currents of anxiety. Their concerns revolved around lost robes, forgotten textbooks, and the occasional prank gone awry. I found myself offering gentle guidance, breaking up minor squabbles in the corridors, and helping a lost first-year find his way to the Transfiguration classroom. It was a comforting normalcy, a reminder of the innocence that Hogwarts still strove to protect. Yet, even among the older students, there was a growing undercurrent of unease. Whispers about "Grindelwald's moves," "Ministry failures," and "missing persons" circulated through the common rooms and during mealtimes. The Daily Prophet, delivered to the school, often carried grim headlines about escalating tensions in Europe, refugee crises in magical communities, and thinly veiled threats from Grindelwald's 'New Order'. I heard students discussing how their parents were worried, how travel plans had been cancelled, how even the usually secure summer holidays felt tainted by a vague sense of dread. I would offer quiet, non-committal responses, my mind always calculating, always observing. My magical resonance sensing, honed over the summer, allowed me to pick up on the subtle shifts in the ambient magic around students – the faint, lingering aura of fear around one, the agitated magic of frustration around another. It was like reading their emotions, not through Legilimency, but through the raw, unfiltered language of their magical cores. It was a constant, almost overwhelming stream of information.
My friends, bless them, were my anchor to conventional reality. Over meals in the Great Hall, or during study sessions in the Ravenclaw common room, our conversations revolved around the usual seventh-year concerns: N.E.W.T. revision, Quidditch matches, the next Hogsmeade trip. But the shadow of the outside world, and Professor Beery's impending retirement, often crept in.
"Can you believe Professor Beery's actually leaving?" Leo exclaimed one evening, shoveling a forkful of roast chicken into his mouth. "It's still so weird to think about. Who's going to tell off the younger years when they try to sneak extra dessert?"
"He looked genuinely heartbroken at the feast," Elara added softly, her gaze lingering on the staff table. "I wonder what truly made him decide now."
I felt the familiar prickle of information I couldn't share. The raw grief of Beery's confession, the brutal reality of his former students' deaths – that was not something to be casually tossed into a Great Hall conversation. "He said it was time," I repeated, vaguely. "That the world needs a different kind of strength now. Dumbledore's strength."
"Well, Dumbledore certainly has that in spades," Henry said, nodding thoughtfully. "It's a bit daunting, though, isn't it? Knowing he's Head of House now. Will he be as approachable as Professor Beery?"
"I heard he's already changed some of the Ravenclaw common room rules," Elizabeth interjected, a hint of rebellion in her voice. "More mandatory study hours, less time for 'frivolous pursuits.' Typical Dumbledore. He'll turn us into a bunch of bookworms with no life."
Eleanor, ever the peacemaker, chuckled. "He's just ensuring we're prepared for our N.E.W.T.s, Elizabeth. And for what comes after. He's always been about pushing us to our full potential." Her words held a deeper meaning for me, one that only she seemed to instinctively grasp. Eleanor, with her own quiet strength and sharp intellect, was perhaps the only one among them who understood the true weight of Dumbledore's presence, and the gravity of the times.
The conversation naturally segued into our post-Hogwarts plans. Leo still dreamed of professional Quidditch, Henry of obscure beast research. Elara was debating between a curse-breaker apprenticeship or joining a magical archaeology expedition. Eleanor spoke of advanced Charms research, perhaps at a continental institute, while Elizabeth was already scheming ways to start her own import-export business, convinced that economic stability lay in shrewd trading, not Ministry regulations. When they turned to me, I gave my practiced answer about "independent research" and "family interests," a half-truth that felt increasingly like a full deception. My new Lordship meant those "family interests" were now terrifyingly vast and acutely relevant to the brewing war. The weight of my Gringotts visit, the documents signed, the key to the Starborn vaults – it all felt incredibly heavy, a secret burden I carried alone. I was no longer just a student with academic ambitions; I was Lord Starborn, with a seat on the Wizengamot and an ancient magical lineage now wholly dependent on me. The thought of engaging with Ministry bureaucracy, of sitting in those stuffy Wizengamot chambers, filled me with a quiet dread. I was not built for politics, but it was now undeniably my responsibility. I even received a formal parchment from Gringotts, delivered by a swift, stern-looking Ministry owl, confirming my Wizengamot seat and stating that a liaison would contact me soon to brief me on my 'duties to the Crown and the Magical Community.' It was all very official, very proper, and utterly detached from the bloody reality Beery had so painfully revealed.
Despite the relative normalcy of Hogwarts, my enhanced senses and strategic mind, honed over the summer, kept me perpetually on edge. My magical resonance sensing had become so refined that I often picked up subtle shifts in the ambient magic of the castle itself. I'd walk past a particular stretch of wall in the dungeons and feel a faint, agitated hum, almost imperceptible, as if the ancient stone itself was bracing for something. I'd notice the Protective Wards of the castle, usually a seamless, impenetrable hum of power, occasionally flicker with a minute, internal disruption – like a tremor far below the surface. These weren't signs of immediate danger, but rather faint whispers, distant echoes of the turmoil outside. They were like the first ripples on a calm lake, indicating something significant had disturbed the depths, far from view. I even caught a subtle, almost unnoticeable magical signature, thin as a wisp of smoke, around certain mail deliveries to the staff table – nothing overtly harmful, but indicative of some kind of information tracing charm, a subtle monitoring that made me wonder if even Hogwarts's internal communications were being subtly probed. It hinted that Grindelwald's influence was beginning to probe even the school's defenses, or that the outside world's turmoil was closer than it seemed. My mind, working ceaselessly, automatically analyzed these minute observations, trying to piece together a larger picture. Were these casual probes? Tests? Or simply the increased paranoia of a Ministry under pressure?
In the quiet of the Ravenclaw common room late at night, when most students were asleep, I often found myself staring out the window at the Black Lake, my mind racing. I reflected on the insights gained from 'The Serpent's Eye' and my Draconic practices. Grindelwald operated not with brute force alone, but with insidious psychological warfare, with the unseen hand. He chipped away at trust, sowed discord, and manipulated information. My unique abilities, the subtlety I'd cultivated, felt like the only true counter. Conventional magic, the powerful spells and wards taught at Hogwarts, felt like blunt instruments against such a nuanced threat. I pondered how my unseen hand magic could be brought to bear in the context of Hogwarts or the wider magical community, should the need arise. Could I subtly strengthen the castle's existing wards from within, making them less susceptible to external pressure? Could I, without detection, subtly influence the outcome of Ministry debates, nudging key figures towards more effective action, or away from disastrous policies? The ethical implications were still murky, a constant knot in my stomach. To manipulate minds, however subtly, was dangerous territory, even for what I perceived as a greater good. Yet, what was the alternative? To stand by and watch as the world crumbled, as more Professor Beerys broke, as more students like Elara and Thomas were senselessly murdered? The thought hardened my resolve, pushing aside the lingering doubts.
As the weeks turned into months, the crisp autumn air gave way to the biting cold of winter. Hogwarts, for all its magic, could not entirely keep the chill of the outside world at bay. The Daily Prophet grew grimmer with each passing week, its headlines mirroring the anxieties that permeated the school.
'Ministry Confirms Refugee Camps Established in Pyrenees – Thousands of Central European Wizards Seek Asylum'
'Grindelwald's Propaganda War Intensifies – 'Greater Good' Slogan Appearing in New Pamphlets Across Continent'
'ICW Emergency Session Called Amidst Fears of Eastern European Escalation'
'Unexplained Magical Disruptions Reported in Muggle Financial Centers – Ministry Investigating Links to Dark Artefacts'
The last headline sent a jolt through me, confirming my earlier fleeting thoughts. Muggle instability, economic anomalies – it was all part of Grindelwald's grand design. Strun (chaos) was not just for magical storms; it could be applied to the intricate systems of the Muggle world, sowing disorder, blurring lines, creating a sense of helplessness that would drive people, Muggle and magical alike, towards the promise of a 'strong leader,' however tyrannical. It was brilliant, insidious, and terrifyingly effective.
I found myself spending more time in the Room of Requirement, pushing the boundaries of my detection and counter-detection spells. I learned to create layered illusions that could fool not just the eye, but magical sensors. I practiced creating subtle magical distractions, fleeting anomalies in the magical ambient that could divert attention, misdirect focus, or even induce momentary confusion in a target. The Room of Requirement, ever responsive, provided me with increasingly complex scenarios to test these abilities – simulated patrols of Aurors with heightened senses, intricate wards that mimicked Ministry security, even phantom individuals whose magical signatures I had to subtly influence or observe without detection. It was a rigorous, isolating pursuit, far from the shared joys of my friends.
Sometimes, late at night, a profound loneliness would settle over me. The gap between my lived reality and that of my friends felt like a chasm. How could I explain the ethical tightrope I walked, the insidious applications of magic I was mastering, to those who still believed in clear lines between good and evil, between light and dark spells? They were preparing to fight a visible war, with wands blazing. I was preparing for a shadow war, a battle for the very minds and souls of people, where the most potent weapons were often invisible. The burden of my knowledge, the weight of my Lordship, and the chilling implications of my power, lay heavy on my heart. I was Lord Starborn, a lineage that had always been about quiet wisdom and groundbreaking magic, but now, I realized, it was a name destined to be etched into the grim tapestry of a coming war, a war that demanded every subtle, potent skill I possessed. My final year at Hogwarts was not just about academic excellence; it was a desperate race against time and a final, intense preparation for the battle that truly mattered.