The door clicked shut behind the last Auror, leaving a heavy silence in Dumbledore's office. The air, still faintly warm from Fawkes' quiet trill, seemed to cool with their departure. Outside, distant footsteps faded down the staircase as Minister Fudge and Madam Bones were escorted away—Kingsley's murmured reassurances the last thing Harry heard.
Professor McGonagall stood rooted by the fireplace, her face pale and drawn. Her usual crisp composure had cracked under the weight of revelation.
"I… I can't believe it," she whispered, voice unsteady. "All these years… Sirius Black condemned, and Peter Pettigrew—alive? A traitor? I taught them both." Her eyes shimmered, not with tears, but deep sorrow.
Lupin remained by the wall, silent, stricken. His hands were clenched tight at his sides, and his eyes had not left the empty chair where Pettigrew had sat moments before. Guilt etched every line of his face.
"I believed the worst," he said hoarsely. "All this time, I thought Sirius had… I thought he'd betrayed James and Lily. That he'd killed Peter. I didn't even question it. I didn't want to." He exhaled shakily, shaking his head. "What kind of friend does that make me?"
"A grieving one," Dumbledore said gently.
He stood from behind his desk, his expression calm but shadowed by the weight of memory. "We were all misled. We must not blame ourselves for believing what was made to seem so certain."
McGonagall nodded slowly, wiping her glasses with trembling fingers. "Still… it's horrifying."
Dumbledore offered them both a brief, reassuring glance. "You've both been shaken by truths long buried. I suggest you take the day to reflect—and rest. Announce that classes are canceled for today. The students deserve to know why."
"And the staff?" McGonagall asked.
"Inform them. In private, at first. The full truth will reach them soon enough." He turned slightly. "Also… please bring the Weasley children to me. This matter concerns them directly. And we must inform their parents."
McGonagall stiffened slightly but nodded. "Of course, Albus."
Dumbledore raised his wand and conjured a glowing silver phoenix, whispering instructions to summon Arthur and Molly. The Patronus soared out the window, and Dumbledore turned to open the Floo Network in preparation.
Harry had remained quiet through it all, hands in his lap, gaze distant. Dumbledore turned his attention to him now.
"As for you, Harry… you've done something very difficult today. And very brave. But there is still more to come."
Harry nodded silently. His jaw was tight, but his eyes were steady.
"I'll stay," he said. "They need to hear it from me too."
Dumbledore gave a small nod of approval, though his gaze lingered a moment longer than necessary—watching Harry with a mixture of pride and something harder to define.
The office was quiet again, save for the ticking of a silver contraption spinning gently on a shelf near Fawkes' perch. McGonagall, Snape, Flitwick and Lupin had gone, and Dumbledore now stood near the window, the soft grey light casting his robes in shades of pale gold and violet.
Harry sat quietly across from the desk, the silence companionable but thick with unsaid things.
"You've done something remarkable today, Harry," Dumbledore said without turning. "Not just brave, but deliberate. Controlled." He looked over his shoulder, eyes twinkling—but not without weight. "I am proud of your progress. Truly."
Harry nodded, trying not to shift under the praise. "Thank you, Professor."
Dumbledore turned fully now, moving back to his chair. He studied Harry for a moment before asking, more gently, "And your scar? Has it troubled you recently?"
Harry blinked at the question, then slowly shook his head. "Not like it used to. After the Chamber… after the basilisk… it's like it calmed down. The scar has faded too."
Dumbledore's expression grew thoughtful and a touch more happier at that. "Curious," he murmured. "There are many theories, of course. But magic, especially the kind that binds and wounds, often reacts to profound events. You survived an encounter with a creature bound to death. That might have changed… many things."
"I don't know about all that," Harry said quietly. "But I know I've made my choice."
Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"
Harry met his eyes. "I want to become the best wizard I can. Not for fame. Not even for revenge. I want to honor my parents. I want to make them proud."
A soft smile curved Dumbledore's lips, and for a moment the lines on his face seemed gentler. "That is a noble ambition," he said, voice low. "And one I will gladly support."
He turned to his desk, opened a drawer, and pulled out two leather-bound notebooks—one weathered and dog-eared, the other thick with loose parchment folded between the pages.
"My personal notes," he said, placing them gently in front of Harry. "On Transfiguration and Defence Against the Dark Arts. Some theory, some spellwork, some… oddities."
Harry's eyes widened as he reached for them reverently. "You're giving these to me?"
"Lending," Dumbledore said with a twinkle. "But yes. Read them. Think about them. And when you're ready for more, my library is open to you."
He leaned back in his chair, folding his fingers together. "I want you to be ready, Harry. For when Voldemort returns—and he will—you must not only be brave. You must be prepared."
Harry nodded, his fingers tightening on the covers.
A knock at the door interrupted the silence. McGonagall reappeared, this time flanked by Ron, Ginny, Percy, and the twins—all of them looking confused, tense, and slightly out of breath. Behind them came Arthur and Molly Weasley, stepping through the still-glowing Floo, their faces etched with worry.
"Professor," Arthur said immediately, scanning the room, "your message sounded urgent—what's going on? Are the children alright?"
"They are safe," Dumbledore assured him with a raised hand. "Please, everyone, have a seat. I'm afraid I have news—difficult news—that concerns you all."
The Weasleys sat slowly, clustered around Harry, whose silence now took on a heavier presence. Ron glanced at him uncertainly, catching the tightness in his friend's shoulders. The twins, for once, refrained from comment.
"It's about Ron's pet rat," Dumbledore began, folding his hands in front of him.
Molly blinked. "Ron's rat?"
Dumbledore nodded. "Scabbers is not, in fact, a rat. He is a man. An unregistered Animagus who has lived under the guise of a pet for over a decade."
Gasps echoed around the room.
"What?" Percy said, frowning. "That's absurd!"
"I saw him transform myself," Harry said quietly, but with conviction. "So did Professor Dumbledore. His name is Peter Pettigrew."
Arthur looked stunned. "The Peter Pettigrew? The one who… who was supposed to have been killed by Sirius Black?"
Dumbledore gave a slow nod. "That was the tale we were told. But the truth is that Pettigrew faked his death—and framed Sirius for his own betrayal of the Potters."
"No," Ron whispered. "He slept on my bed. He was in my pocket!"
"He lived with us," Ginny murmured. "For years…"
The realization was visibly sinking in—disbelief giving way to creeping revulsion.
"I should have known," Percy muttered numbly. "He was always twitchy."
"None of you are to blame," Dumbledore said firmly. "He hid very well. He fooled the entire wizarding world."
Arthur's expression darkened. "Where is he now?"
"In custody," Dumbledore replied. "The Ministry will soon make a public statement. Sirius Black's name will be cleared."
Molly's hand flew to her mouth. "Dear Merlin…"
George spoke up, voice quieter than usual. "And you figured it out, Harry?"
Harry gave a slow nod. "I suspected something when I noticed he'd lived much longer than any rat should. I remembered a lecture Professor McGonagall gave about Animagi… and I did some reading."
Fred raised an eyebrow. "Reading? Who are you and what have you done with Harry?"
That earned a weak, strained chuckle around the room. Even Ron managed a hollow smile.
Arthur looked to Dumbledore. "Thank you… for telling us directly."
"You deserved nothing less," Dumbledore said.
Dumbledore gave them all a moment to absorb the weight of the truth. The Weasleys remained quiet—Percy visibly shaken, Ginny clinging to her mother's sleeve, the twins exchanging sober glances. Ron kept staring at the floor, jaw clenched, as if trying to recall every moment he'd spent with the rat that wasn't.
"Harry," Dumbledore said at last, voice gentle, "you may go with them if you wish. You've done more than enough today."
Harry nodded, standing up slowly. The notebooks weighed heavily in his hands, but in a way that felt grounding.
"Thanks, Professor."
Dumbledore inclined his head. "And remember—my door is always open."
As the Weasleys slowly left the office, still murmuring in shock and disbelief, Harry lingered at the door just long enough to glance back at Dumbledore. The headmaster gave him a reassuring nod, and with a final breath, Harry stepped out, following the others down the corridor.
The door clicked shut again, sealing the headmaster once more in silence.
Dumbledore remained seated, eyes fixed on the flickering flames in the hearth. His hands, folded atop his desk, were still—but his mind was racing.
The scar… fading?
He had hidden his surprise when Harry had said it so plainly, so casually. Since the basilisk, the pain has ceased. And the scar itself had dimmed.
That was not something to be taken lightly.
Fawkes let out a soft, curious trill as Dumbledore stood slowly, walking to the tall window and gazing out over the grounds. His expression was unreadable.
There had long been suspicions… fragments of possibilities he had never voiced aloud. That night in Godric's Hollow had changed Harry Potter in more ways than one. Lily's protection had worked—yes—but so too had Voldemort's curse left something behind.
A piece of him.
But what if the basilisk's venom… the sword… Fawkes' tears…? What if the soul fragment had been destroyed without anyone realizing it?
It was only a theory. Dangerous, hopeful, unconfirmed.
But the signs were there.
Dumbledore pressed his fingers together and closed his eyes briefly. If it were true—if even part of the darkness inside Harry had been cleansed—then it changed everything.
And yet… Harry's demeanor had changed too.
Sharp. Focused. Controlled. Not unlike Tom Riddle, in his school years.
Dumbledore would watch. Guide. And, if needed, intervene.
But for now, he allowed himself a single flicker of hope—quiet and fragile—that perhaps, just perhaps, one of Voldemort's safeguards had been shattered by Harry's own hand.
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[A/N] - I hope you're all enjoying the story so far. I'd love to hear your thoughts—what's working for you, what's not, and what you'd like to see in future chapters. Your feedback means a lot and helps me make this story even better. Please let me know in the comments or drop a review!
Thanks for reading !