Harry Potter : Cael Vale’s journey to Hogwarts

The halls of Hogwarts were eerily quiet. Most of the students had gathered at the Quidditch pitch to watch the match between Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, their cheers and laughter echoing faintly through the stone walls. 

Marcus Flint strode through the dungeons with a crooked grin on his face, having no interest in the game. His fun came elsewhere.

It was tradition for him—when the professors and students were distracted, he'd roam the halls looking for lone Gryffindors to torment. Especially the younger ones. They were easy prey. Easy to frighten. Easy to hex.

He climbed to the third floor, boots echoing off the empty corridor as he muttered to himself about blood traitors and Mudbloods. He was halfway to the abandoned Charms corridor when a sharp noise echoed ahead—like a shattering whisper wrapped in wind.

Flint paused, frowning.

His curiosity piqued, he made his way toward the sound. The hall ahead was dim, the sconces unlit. A forgotten door hung slightly ajar, its hinges groaning as he pushed it open.

Inside stood a figure, still and silent, facing away from the door. The light caught their silhouette—a short , slender shape wrapped in black.

"Oy!" Flint barked. "What're you doin' here, lurking around like a creep?"

No response.

Flint scowled, stepping forward, fingers tightening around his wand. "You a first-year? Lost your tongue? Or maybe you're just another Mudblood sneaking around—"

The figure turned.

What Marcus saw made his sneer freeze.

There was something wrong about the face—unnatural, twisted, the eyes unreadable and ancient. His instincts screamed at him. He yanked at his wand—

But then he heard it.

A hiss. Low and coiling.

Something moved behind him.

Flint spun around—but saw only the corridor's windows, the fading afternoon light streaming through.

And then… in the reflection of the glass, two golden eyes blinked back at him.

"Oh—Mudblood—" was all he managed to say.

Then silence.

His body stiffened, limbs locked in mid-motion. He fell, eyes wide in frozen horror, as his wand clattered uselessly to the ground.

The corridor returned to stillness, and the door creaked slowly shut.

⸻

Out on the pitch, the Quidditch match had reached its climax. Cho Chang darted between the goal hoops on her broomstick, her sharp eyes locked on a glimmer of gold near the Hufflepuff stands. Cedric Diggory, riding in pursuit, pushed his broom harder, closing the distance.

The crowd roared.

Suddenly—FWEEEEEEEET!

A shrill whistle pierced the air.

The players jerked to a halt, confused. Cho glanced toward the ground. Madame Hooch was waving frantically, signaling the end of the game.

"But we haven't even caught the Snitch!" Cedric called as both Seekers descended in confusion.

"Why did you stop the match?" Cho demanded as she landed beside her.

At the base of the stands, Professor McGonagall was addressing the gathered students, her voice sharp with urgency. "Everyone—return to your common rooms immediately. You will move together by house. Prefects, lead the way."

Murmurs spread like wildfire. Groans of protest rose from players and students alike, but then Professors Flitwick and Sprout arrived, whispering quickly with Madame Hooch.

"There's been another attack," McGonagall said quietly to them. The shock on their faces mirrored the panic rising in the stands.

"Back to your dormitories," Flitwick announced, his voice higher than usual. "Immediately!"

⸻

Back at the castle, Harry found himself once again at the center of it all.

He stood outside the third-floor corridor with several prefects, his face pale. Professor McGonagall approached, eyes flickering between Harry and the stiff form of Marcus Flint, lying frozen near the doorway.

"I swear, Professor," Harry said quickly, "I didn't do it. I found him like this. I told the prefects right away. I didn't even have my wand out!"

McGonagall's lips pressed into a thin line. "I don't know, Mr. Potter… But every time this happens, you're there. This is the third attack, and things are escalating. I want to believe you—but I can't ignore the pattern."

Dumbledore appeared behind her, his expression unreadable. "Harry, come with me," he said softly.

⸻

The Headmaster's Office

The circular office of the Headmaster was quiet, filled with the soft ticking of enchanted instruments. Dumbledore gestured for Harry to sit.

"Would you like a sherbet lemon?" he offered.

Harry shook his head. "No, Professor. But… I didn't do this. I'm not attacking anyone."

Dumbledore nodded gently. "I believe you, Harry. But others may not. Children, even gifted ones, often fear what they do not understand. You must be patient."

Harry lowered his head. "They all think I'm some kind of monster."

"Then remember your friends," Dumbledore said kindly. "They believe you. Ron, Hermione, the Weasley twins… even young Mr. Cael. Hold on to their trust. You are not alone."

The words stirred something in Harry. He smiled faintly, nodding. "Yes. They believe in me."

Just then, a sudden gust of heat swept the room.

Harry turned. "Professor—your phoenix—it's… it's on fire!"

On the perch beside the window, Fawkes burned, golden flames consuming his body. Ashes floated to the floor.

Dumbledore rose and walked over. "Ah. Perfect timing. He's not dying, Harry. He's being reborn."

From the ashes, a small, wet chick poked its head up and let out a curious, warbling chirp.

"Welcome back, old friend," Dumbledore said softly, stroking the tiny creature's head.

Harry watched in wonder. "That's incredible."

"It is," Dumbledore agreed. Then, after a pause: "Harry… is there anything you wish to tell me?"

Harry hesitated.

The voices. The hissing. The sounds in the walls.

But if he told Dumbledore, would he be sent away? Would they think he was the Heir?

"No, Professor," he said. "Nothing."

Dumbledore studied him quietly. "Very well. You may go."

As Harry turned to leave, Dumbledore added, "Remember what I said, Harry. Trust your friends. That's how we protect one another. Through honesty and unity."

Harry nodded again and quietly left the office.

⸻

The flames crackled gently. Dumbledore returned to his desk.

One of the headmaster portraits stirred.

"That boy knows something," muttered the painted figure of a stern man in deep emerald robes. "You saw it in his eyes. Why didn't you use Legilimency?"

"I do not invade a student's mind without permission," Dumbledore said, still watching the smoldering ashes of Fawkes. "Not unless it's absolutely necessary."

"You didn't used to have such scruples," said another portrait—a sharp-faced man with a sly grin. "When you were my student, you tested Legilimency on your classmates all the time. Made one boy cry for a week."

Dumbledore chuckled softly. "Yes. I was young. And foolish."

"A Gryffindor through and through," said the portrait with a mocking laugh. "Reckless to the end."

Several of the Gryffindor portraits protested loudly, but were silenced by a raised hand from a quiet Ravenclaw headmistress.

Then one of the older portraits, a regal-looking man in black and silver, looked toward the mischievous one and said, "You've been unusually cheerful these past weeks, Black."

"Indeed," said the man with a smirk. "Because I've found a continuation of my bloodline."

Dumbledore turned, gaze sharp. "What do you mean?"

Black leaned back smugly. "A descendant of the Black family now walks these halls again."

Dumbledore frowned. "That's impossible. Most of the family are gone, imprisoned… or worse."

"Don't play coy, Albus," Black said coldly. "I won't tell you who it is. I won't let you twist him into another of your chess pieces."

"I don't twist children," Dumbledore replied calmly. "I protect them."

"He doesn't need protection. He's more capable than you know."

"So… he's a boy," Dumbledore murmured.

Black said nothing more. His smirk deepened, then faded into stillness.

Dumbledore turned back to the soft coo of the reborn phoenix, his expression thoughtful.