Having finished reading Gemma's letter, the group could only exchange glances, at a loss for what to say.
Percy was safe and sound. That, at least, was good news.
But the question remained: why had he volunteered to go with Fudge to a place as dangerous as Azkaban?
"Obviously to show his face in front of the Minister! He's gone mad trying to climb the ladder!"
Fred clenched his fists, his voice was filled with disgust and disapproval.
"And here Mum's been worried sick about him. He doesn't even care—he'd risk his own life just to suck up to his boss!"
George looked just as put out.
"Some men will do anything for a promotion."
The brothers traded remarks back and forth, clearly disgusted with Percy's decision.
Both of them knew well that their brother was obsessed with climbing the Ministry ladder.
But trying to curry favour at a moment like this, with life threatening danger on the line—that was something neither of them could stomach.
By now the Great Hall had erupted into an uproar, students from every House talking over one another about the news that Azkaban had been breached.
Some looked terrified. Others were furious. Others still wore nothing but worry on their faces.
Taking advantage of the noise around them, Hermione leaned in close to Sherlock and lowered her voice, her tone was grave.
"So, the information Malfoy passed along before was true? Voldemort really is making a major move."
"He's moving fast."
Sherlock nodded, his eyes were taking on a depth of thought.
"The moment he came back, he called his old followers to him, trying to rebuild his strength—only to run headlong into a serious setback.
He's been lying low ever since. That's not a man wasting time doing nothing.
All of this was to be expected."
"Yes. Expected," Hermione agreed, no small amount of emotions in her voice.
"And yet even though we knew, we still weren't able to stop it."
There was a thread of helplessness and regret running through her words.
"If the Ministry had listened to Dumbledore sooner—lifted the Dementors' guard, strengthened Azkaban's defences—maybe none of this would have happened."
"It was never going to be stopped."
Sherlock said it softly, and there was something faintly wistful buried in his voice.
"The truth is, the outcome was decided from the very start. The Ministry's arrogance, its delays, its habit of gambling on things turning out fine—all of it laid the groundwork for this disaster long ago."
Hermione looked at Sherlock in surprise, as though she hadn't expected him to say something like that.
Harry, too, found himself drawn into the conversation between Sherlock and Hermione, and leaned in closer. (Ron was still off discussing Percy with the Weasley twins and Ginny.)
"Do you know why we managed to land such a heavy blow against Voldemort last time?"
Sherlock didn't wait for either of them to answer before supplying it himself.
"Because that operation was entirely ours to direct. The Triwizard Tournament was held at Hogwarts. Dumbledore had absolute authority over Hogwarts. Every professor believed me, and every one of them was willing to act on it."
"But—but you already had the proof in hand!" Harry couldn't help blurting out. "You'd already exposed the fake Moody."
"Harry, Fudge saw all of that too, at the time. And he still refused to believe Voldemort could have returned."
Sherlock said this coldly. "That's simply how some people are. You can lay the proof right in front of them, and they'll still clap both hands over their eyes and pretend they can't see a thing.
The reason this operation failed is that Dumbledore's influence doesn't reach into the Ministry."
Harry and Hermione exchanged a glance and said nothing.
"He's had more than one chance to take that position for himself, and every time, he chose to walk away from it—chose to stay here at Hogwarts instead.
Teaching students isn't a bad thing, of course. But politics would have given him a far wider stage.
The trouble is, not only did he never go for it himself, he let the whole matter slide entirely—and the man who did end up in that seat hasn't just failed to help us. He's actively working against us at every turn."
Sherlock paused, then went on.
"It's been the same story since ancient times. If we don't occupy this place ourselves, someone else will. You could say the position we're in now traces directly back to Dumbledore's own choice, back then."
Hearing this, Harry and Hermione both turned, without meaning to, to look toward Dumbledore at the staff table.
As it happened, Dumbledore turned to look in their direction at exactly the same moment.
But both of them understood that Dumbledore's gaze, just then, must have been meant for Sherlock.
As their eyes met, something complicated flickered across Dumbledore's expression.
The noise in the Great Hall hadn't died down at all—if anything, it was only growing louder.
Panic was spreading like plague.
Younger students stared, terrified, at the ashen faces of their older housemates, while the older students argued furiously over what the newspaper had printed, their voices were filled with fear, anger, and disbelief.
Some had even begun to cry. Because every Auror who had died represented a family.
The mood at the staff table was just as grim.
Professor Dumbledore's bright blue eyes swept over the panicking students through his half-moon glasses; his expression was unusually severe.
Professor McGonagall's lips were pressed into a hard line, her face the colour of ash.
Professor Snape's face had gone as stiff and unreadable as a mask, though his eyes were darker than usual.
Professor Sprout sat with her head bent, murmuring quietly with Professor Flitwick.
Umbridge looked exactly like a startled pink toad.
Mad-Eye Moody wasn't even at the staff table at all.
Hagrid was blowing his nose hard into an enormous handkerchief, his eyes were rimmed red.
It was then that Dumbledore rose slowly to his feet.
He didn't use magic to amplify his voice, but when he spoke, that calm, carrying tone of his cut instantly through every sound in the Hall.
"May I have your attention, please."
Miraculously, every murmur, every sob, fell silent at once.
Hundreds of eyes—full of fear, full of need turned toward the headmaster they trusted above anyone else.
Dumbledore's gaze moved across every young face in the room, something complicated was on his eyes.
"By now, I imagine, all of you have heard this morning's news.
Yes. A terrible thing has happened.
Azkaban has been breached, and the Death Eaters imprisoned there for the terror and suffering they caused are free once more.
The Dementors who were meant to guard that prison's order chose instead to betray it, and threw in their lot with the darkness."
He paused here, giving the weight of the moment time to settle into every heart in the room.
"I think you should know that this is not an isolated event.
"Last year"—a sharp intake of breath ran through the Hall—"Voldemort returned, rising again after years of silence, and set out once more to sow terror.
The Ministry declared that operation a great victory, one that succeeded in capturing a number of his followers.
That much is true. But it also allowed a great many of us to let our guard down. Make no mistake: Voldemort's return is a fact beyond denial now, and a single setback does not mean surrender.
Today's disaster is powerful proof that his strength continues to grow. It has torn, without mercy, through the illusions some among us worked so carefully to weave.
There are things I had originally intended to save for the end-of-year feast, once your examinations were behind you and your minds more at ease.
But since the news has already spread, I see no reason to wait any longer."
His voice was steady, carrying a tone that soothed even as it refused to spare anyone the harshness of the truth.
"First, we must face the root of this squarely—this disaster was not unforeseeable!
From the very first signs that Voldemort had returned, and all the more so once his return was confirmed beyond doubt, warnings never stopped coming.
Warnings that he would try to free his followers. Warnings that the Dementors guarding Azkaban were a grave liability. Warnings that all ties to them needed to be severed immediately, and the prison's defences strengthened at once.
And yet those warnings were ignored—deliberately dismissed, deliberately delayed, by a Ministry more concerned with the appearance of stability.
It is precisely this failure to act, this ostrich's refusal to face the truth, that laid the foundation for today's tragedy—and the price has been paid in blood!"
A wave of whispers immediately ran through the Hall.
This, after all, was the first time Dumbledore had ever criticized the Ministry openly, in front of everyone.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, understanding perfectly well what this meant.
Dumbledore's gaze had turned sharp, and it reached far, sweeping across the long tables of all four Houses.
"The lesson written in blood could not be clearer: When faced with the threat of darkness, division, self-deception, deflection of blame, and slowness to act bring nothing but ruin!
Which is exactly why I must say again: there has never been a moment when we needed unity more than we do now!
Unity between the Houses of Hogwarts. Unity among every person in the wizarding world who values peace and justice.
Only by setting aside our prejudices, only by putting down our petty quarrels and gathering our strength into one, can we hope to withstand the storm that is coming.
These castle walls can offer shelter. But true safety comes from the courage within us, and from the trust we place in one another. I know that you are afraid. Fear is simply the natural response to darkness.
But remember this: Hogwarts has weathered countless storms since its founding. Within these walls, you remain, relatively speaking, safe.
The defensive magic protecting Hogwarts is ancient and powerful, and every professor here will do everything in their power to keep you safe.
That said, safety does not mean we can stand apart from what is happening.
Voldemort's growing strength means the darkness is drawing closer.
We must become more united, more vigilant, and work harder to better ourselves—not only in our skill with magic, but in the courage, it takes to tell right from wrong and hold fast to what we believe.
Starting today, security measures throughout the castle will be raised to their highest level.
Mr. Filch will increase his night patrols, and each of your Heads of House will pass along specific instructions you are to follow.
I ask every one of you to observe the school rules without exception—in particular, no leaving your common rooms after dark, and no approaching the Forbidden Forest or the edges of the castle grounds without a professor present.
Stay alert. Take note of anything that seems out of the ordinary, and report it to any professor at once.
And finally"—
Here, for the first time, a trace of warmth crept into Dumbledore's voice.
"I hope that you will look out for one another. Fear tends to isolate people. But unity brings strength.
Look after your fellow students—especially those who may be suffering more than most because of this news.
Hogwarts is a family. And in dark times such as these, we need the warmth and support of one another more than ever.
For now, I ask that you try, as best you can, to stay calm, and continue with your breakfast.
Classes will proceed as scheduled for the remainder of this term. Knowledge, in the days ahead, will be one of the most powerful weapons you have."
He inclined his head slightly and sat back down.
A round of enthusiastic applause broke out.
There was no denying it—Dumbledore still had a few tricks up his sleeve.
His speech had acted like a solid dam, holding back, at least for the moment, the flood of panic.
Though the mood in the Hall remained heavy and uneasy, at least the chaos had settled.
The students began eating mechanically, though the whispering never really stopped, every conversation was circling back to Azkaban, the Death Eaters, and the Dark Lord. Over at the Gryffindor table, Ron couldn't help but grumble.
"Classes as usual? After everything that's happened—who's got the head for Charms right now, or whatever—"
"Professor Dumbledore is right, Ron." Hermione's voice was still a little tight. "Panic and cancelling lessons won't solve anything. Staying focused on our studies and staying alert—that's what matters most right now."
As she said this, she glanced over at Harry and found him staring fixedly at the photograph of Bellatrix in the newspaper, his brow was furrowed, his expression was complicated.
"Harry? Harry!"
Harry snapped back to himself with a start, taking a deep breath, forcing down the emotions churning inside him.
"I'm fine," he said, his voice a little hoarse. "It's just—Bellatrix—she's out."
Hermione glanced over toward Neville.
He sat with his head down, staring at his own hands, his face was pale.
"And with so many more dangerous Death Ea—"
Harry turned to Sherlock. "Sherlock, what should we do now?"
A cool, steady light glinted in Sherlock's grey eyes.
He folded Gemma's parchment and tucked it into his pocket, then spoke slowly.
"This was to be expected. The Order of the Phoenix will be operating at full capacity now.
The first priority is locating and tracking the movements of the escaped prisoners. Hiding this many people at once is a far harder task than hiding one man like Voldemort alone.
After that comes dealing with the Ministry—and on that front, I imagine Dumbledore already has something in mind."
Sherlock glanced once toward the staff table, then turned back to his troubled friends.
"As for us, all we can do right now is exactly what Dumbledore asked of us—stay alert, focus on our studies, and keep ourselves safe."
His gaze finally settled on Harry.
"My dear friend, the mass escape of so many Death Eaters is certainly a serious threat. But what we need right now is calm and strategy—we should focus on what's actually within our own control."
Harry met Sherlock's eyes and found his answer in that deep grey gaze.
He understood exactly what Sherlock meant.
Horcruxes.
The prophecy.
Occlumency.
These were the things that fell within what he himself could do.
"As for the efficiency of the Ministry's bureaucratic machine..."
Sherlock's mouth twisted. "I imagine a hard lesson in reality might knock a bit of sense into them—get them moving a little faster. But counting on them to turn the tide themselves isn't realistic. So—"
Sherlock picked up his cup and took a sip of pumpkin juice, his movements were leisurely, wildly out of step with the tension in the air around him.
"A new storm has already arrived."
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