Harry Potter: The Bard of Hogwarts

The wizarding world had a way of signaling impending trouble: when flocks of owls began blotting out the sky, something big was always brewing.

That evening, as the last of the sunset's golden light spilled over the cobbled streets of Hogsmeade, both the Three Broomsticks and even the notoriously dingy Hog's Head were unusually packed.

Dozens of witches and wizards, some with children in tow had descended upon the only all-wizarding village in Britain. Hogsmeade was humming.

"Everyone's lost their minds, I tell you. Never seen the like," Aberforth Dumbledore muttered irritably from the doorway of the Hog's Head. His arms were folded, his thick brows drawn in a permanent scowl.

Running the pub had never been about money for him. If he'd cared for gold, his family vault at Gringotts would've kept him in Firewhisky for ten lifetimes. No, the bar was a habit. A way to be left alone. Preferably by people who didn't look like they were about to cause trouble.

Which, regrettably, was exactly the vibe he got from the couple now standing at his doorstep.

"I'll say it again, sir," Lucius Malfoy said, his voice hoarse with exhaustion but still carefully measured. "We only require a modest room. I won't be staying. It's for my wife."

Lucius looked more worn than usual, less polished silver and more tarnished pewter but his grip on Narcissa's hand was firm, even possessive. The gesture was strangely out of place for a man who usually held himself like a statue carved from cold marble.

Of course, as a Malfoy, he owned property in Hogsmeade. Probably several fine cottages and at least one manor house. But not tonight.

Tonight, he didn't trust anyone. Least of all the safety of his wife staying alone.

Yes alone.

Lucius wasn't about to do anything reckless or damaging to the family name. Not yet. Not while the storm clouds were still gathering. But he could at least ensure Narcissa was somewhere watched, somewhere discreet.

And oddly enough, the Hog's Head dingy, smoky, and likely cursed in places was perfect. As the unofficial black market of the wizarding world, it had one virtue: it was safe. Or, more accurately, people were too scared to cause trouble here.

The fact that Aberforth Dumbledore ran the place was deterrent enough.

When Lucius finished his explanation, Aberforth's expression softened just a fraction. He didn't like smooth talkers especially the Ministry-adjacent sort but there was something sincere in the way Narcissa held Lucius's hand. That kind of love was hard to fake.

"One room. Private washroom. Four Sickles a night," Aberforth grunted finally. Without waiting for a reply, he turned and shuffled behind the stained bar, rummaging through a battered drawer in search of a key.

Lucius exhaled deeply, as if some great weight had momentarily lifted from his shoulders. Narcissa, however, looked stricken.

"Darling… do we really have to do this?" she whispered. Her voice was low but urgent, trembling with barely restrained emotion. "You know what I mean. This feels... wrong."

Lucius tightened his grip on her fingers. "It's not about want. It's about need. Fifteen years ago, we thought it was over and then everything turned on its head."

He didn't elaborate. Didn't need to. The war had taught them both how quickly the tide could change.

Lucius glanced toward the bar again. Aberforth had found the key and was watching them from across the room, a grim look in his eyes.

"Just stay here. Trust me. When Christmas comes we'll go home," Lucius said softly.

The word home seemed to catch in Narcissa's chest. Her hand, which had begun to slip from his, gripped him tighter again.

Life, it seemed, was mostly made up of arrivals and departures.

As Lucius and Narcissa shared their quiet farewell in Hogsmeade, far away in London, at the Ministry of Magic, the true powers of the British wizarding world were gathering again.

Only this time, the atmosphere wasn't animated with shouting or finger-pointing. It was dead silent.

"You all know what's going on. Don't act like you don't."

Cornelius Fudge stood behind his desk, attempting something like authority. His voice was sharp, but his eyes betrayed him, nervous and uncertain.

Normally, his bluster could carry him through a meeting. But tonight, even the most bureaucratic minds in the Ministry were gripped by unease.

If the attack on Diagon Alley had taught them anything, it was this: they were completely unprepared.

Two thousand werewolves had been hiding in greater London alone. Two thousand. And who knew how many more across the rest of Britain?

"We can't cut off potion supplies," said Ludo Bagman suddenly, breaking the tension. "In fact, we may need to stockpile them. Let them steal it, even."

It sounded ridiculous on the surface, helping dangerous magical creatures access Wolfsbane. But Bagman wasn't wrong. He understood what Fudge hadn't yet dared to say aloud: the whole wizarding world was one full moon away from chaos.

If werewolves lost control in Muggle areas, the Statute of Secrecy would collapse overnight.

That was why, despite the bitter taste, many in the room nodded grimly at Bagman's suggestion.

Thirteen full moons a year, give or take. Thirteen nights where hundreds, possibly thousands, of infected wizards and Muggles might turn into monsters.

Better they be sedated than rampaging through Piccadilly Circus.

It was a bitter compromise. But better a slow poison than sudden death.

Even Amelia Bones, head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, did not object. And that said everything.

Yes, there were many werewolves. Too many. But most of them were ordinary Muggles before infection. Their strength, even transformed, was inferior to that of a full-grown troll. Or a team of trained Aurors.

She could handle them. She was sure of it.

The real issue wasn't the werewolves. It was Voldemort. And the balance of power in the wizarding world was teetering.

But what she and others couldn't understand, was Albus Dumbledore.

Why had the so-called greatest wizard alive done nothing?

No outreach to the Ministry. No warnings. No advice. No leadership.

His silence had allowed the uneasy peace to stretch on. A tightrope balance, and everyone was afraid of who might break it first.

Maybe that's why Bagman's desperate suggestion wasn't shot down.

While the Ministry debated, the man they questioned Albus Dumbledore was in his office at Hogwarts, wrestling with a different dilemma.

On one side: thousands of Muggles being turned into werewolves by the day.

On the other: Harry.

The boy was running out of time. The Horcrux inside him was still festering. And unless they found a way to remove it without killing him, nothing else would matter.

The people being transformed weren't exactly innocent. Many were addicts, vagrants, criminals.

But life was life.

Its worth wasn't measured in statistics, or purity, or even behavior.

"Severus, there's nothing we can do to improve the potion?" Dumbledore asked quietly.

He already knew the answer. But he had to ask.

Snape stood across from him, face stony, black eyes like bottomless ink.

"Not unless you're planning to kill him," Snape replied.

The chill in his tone could've frozen the very air.

Dumbledore sighed. "I'm sorry, Severus. But you see the state of things—"

"If that's all, Headmaster, I have work to do."

Snape didn't let him finish. He rose abruptly and strode toward the door.

He didn't care about the Muggles. Especially not the kinds he had grown up around in Spinner's End violent, broken, lost.

Dumbledore watched his retreating back. His lips parted as though to speak.

But in the end, the words stayed unspoken.