(Gilderoy Lockhart)
Dumbledore walked beside me at an unhurried pace, hands folded behind his back, robes swaying gently with each step. His expression was calm, almost serene, but I had learned by now that this usually meant his mind was several moves ahead.
"Gilderoy," he said casually, as if we were discussing the weather, "I paid a visit to Bellatrix Lestrange recently."
I kept my stride even, though my attention sharpened instantly.
"She was… uncooperative," he continued mildly. "Aside from mocking commentary, theatrical laughter, and a rather uninspired collection of threats, she refused to speak on anything of substance."
That sounded exactly like Bellatrix.
"And when I attempted to probe her mind," Dumbledore went on, eyes fixed ahead, "I found nothing accessible. No useful memories. No coherent thoughts related to Voldemort's deeper contingencies."
I frowned slightly. That alone was troubling.
"However," he added, after a measured pause, "I did find a sealed memory."
My fingers twitched at my side.
"A very carefully constructed one," Dumbledore said. "Locked away with considerable skill. Deliberate. Purposeful."
"She is hiding something," he concluded quietly. "Something important. Something she was instructed never to reveal."
Horcruxes, then.
I kept my face composed, nodding thoughtfully, as if I were piecing it together for the first time. Inside, my thoughts raced.
I knew exactly what she was hiding, and where.
Hufflepuff's cup, another of Voldemort's Horcruxes, and it was inside her Gringotts vault.
But I could not say it. Not without a source. Not without proof. Knowledge without provenance was suspicion at best and madness at worst, especially where Dumbledore was concerned.
Dumbledore sighed softly. "I discussed the matter with Gellert."
Of course he had.
"We came to the same conclusion," he said. "If Bellatrix will not speak willingly, and her mind will not yield under scrutiny, then we will have to remove her from Azkaban to obtain the answers we seek."
I let out a slow breath, as if weighing the implications. "That's… not a small undertaking."
"No," Dumbledore agreed mildly. "It is not."
He glanced at me briefly, sharp blue eyes assessing. "We would have to wait, of course. Security is currently… enthusiastic."
Because of Sirius Black's escape.
"Between the dementors, the Ministry's panic, and the increased Auror presence," Dumbledore continued, "any attempt now would draw far too much attention."
He stopped walking for a moment, turning slightly toward a window that overlooked the grounds. Students crossed the lawn below in small clusters, blissfully unaware of the conversations unfolding above their heads.
"Halloween," he said. "Festivities, distractions, lowered vigilance. It will present a far more… flexible environment."
I nodded slowly.
It was also perfect timing for another reason, though I kept that thought firmly to myself. Removing Bellatrix was not just necessary for questioning her. It was necessary for getting access to her vault. One problem solved two ways.
Aloud, I merely said, "It may be the only viable option."
Dumbledore studied me for a heartbeat longer, as if weighing my response, then inclined his head in agreement.
"Yes," he said quietly. "That was our conclusion as well."
We resumed walking, the doors of the Great Hall now visible at the end of the corridor. Warm light spilled out through the tall arches, along with the unmistakable scent of food, rich and inviting.
As we approached, the noise of students rose to meet us, laughter and chatter weaving together into the familiar hum of Hogwarts at midday.
Outwardly, I was calm. Attentive. Agreeable.
Inwardly, I was already planning several steps ahead.
Bellatrix Lestrange was a key, a very dangerous key. And soon, if all went according to plan, she would no longer be locked behind Azkaban's walls.
And neither would her secrets.
…
Wednesday, October 6, 1993
In hindsight, we should not have waited so long.
The realization came to me in the most unpleasant way imaginable, dragged out of sleep by an insistent tap tap tap against the window. It was barely six in the morning, the sky outside still wrapped in a dull, bluish-grey haze that promised rain later in the day. For a moment I tried to ignore it, half-buried in warmth and drowsiness, hoping it was part of a dream.
The tapping persisted.
I groaned and rolled slightly, the movement earning me an irritated sound from Aurora beside me. She turned her face into the pillow and shoved it over her ears with a muttered complaint, her hair a tangled mess across the sheets. On my other side, I felt Rosmerta stir.
"For Merlin's sake…" she murmured, pushing the blankets aside.
She padded across the room and opened the window just enough to let the owl in. Cold air rushed inside, carrying the sharp scent of early morning and damp stone. The bird swooped in, circled once with obvious indignation, and landed smartly on the bedpost, extending one leg with a rolled parchment tied neatly to it.
Rosmerta reached for the letter and frowned apologetically. "Sorry," she said, untying it, "I don't have treats here."
The owl fixed her with a long, judgmental stare, feathers ruffling in clear disapproval, then launched itself back out the window without so much as a goodbye.
"Well," Rosmerta said dryly, closing the window again, "that was rude."
She glanced at the parchment, then turned toward me. "It's for you, Gilderoy."
That alone was enough to set my nerves humming.
I sat up and accepted the letter, the parchment cool against my fingers. The seal bore the unmistakable mark of the Wizengamot. I broke it open and unrolled the message, my eyes scanning the text rapidly as my sleep vanished entirely.
Rosmerta leaned against the bedframe. "What is it?"
I frowned, reading it again just to be certain. "An emergency summons," I said slowly. "From the Wizengamot."
That got her full attention.
"There's a meeting at seven," I added, already doing the mental arithmetic. "Which means something serious has happened. They don't call people out of bed for nothing."
Rosmerta exhaled through her nose and shook her head. "Of course they don't."
She clapped her hands once, decisively. "Dobby!"
With a soft pop, the house-elf appeared near the door, eyes wide and ears twitching.
"Dobby will prepare breakfast for Master Lokihart!" he said eagerly, bowing so low his ears brushed the floor.
"Thank you," Rosmerta said. "Something quick. He needs to leave soon."
Dobby nodded so enthusiastically it looked painful and vanished again.
I swung my legs out of bed and began dressing, movements brisk and automatic. When I reached for my robes, my hand paused on the hanger holding my Wizengamot attire. Plum coloured. Heavy. Stiff. Official in all the wrong ways.
I scowled at them.
"I hate these robes," I muttered under my breath, but I put them on anyway. Emergencies did not allow for sartorial rebellion.
Once dressed, I leaned down and pressed a quick peck to Rosmerta's lips. "Go back to sleep," I told her quietly. "I'll be back when I can."
She smiled faintly. "Try not to start another fight with Umbridge."
"No promises."
I turned and brushed a gentle kiss against Aurora's temples. She shifted slightly but did not wake, merely grumbling something incoherent and curling deeper into the pillows.
Downstairs, the Three Broomsticks was silent, chairs still neatly arranged and the hearth only faintly warm. Dobby had outdone himself as usual. A modest but hearty breakfast waited on the table, steam rising invitingly from a plate of bacon, eggs and toast, a cup of strong tea beside it.
I ate quickly, mind already racing ahead.
An emergency Wizengamot meeting at this hour meant trouble. The kind that did not wait politely to be addressed. And for some reason, I had a very bad feeling.
By the time I finished my tea, the unease had settled firmly in my chest.
Whatever had happened, I was about to find out.
I just wish I could face it with more style. I looked at my plum robes with a scowl.
…