Albus Dumbledore sat at the back of the courtroom, his hands steepled together, his fingers almost white from the pressure. The familiar hum of tension in the air barely registered in his mind, as his thoughts churned in chaotic disarray. This wasn't supposed to happen. Brutus Weasley was his project—his carefully managed, easily controlled pawn. He had worked tirelessly to keep that reckless boy from ruining everything, even going so far as to warn him time and time again. But no, the boy had to be an idiot. A fool who couldn’t take a hint when Lord Malfoy himself had intervened.

And then there was Alexandrina. Alexandrina.

His breath hitched at the thought. She had betrayed him. A member of his own staff—his trusted ally—had gone behind his back. Instead of coming to him first, as was her duty, she had gone straight to the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. What had she been thinking?

She should have come to me first. I am the great Albus Dumbledore. I am the one who has built everything—everything—that stands today. I am the one who defeated Grindelwald. He closed his eyes for a moment, clenching his teeth. But as the thought settled in his mind, another voice stirred. A dark voice, a slithering whisper that crept through the cracks in his resolve.

Did you? Did you truly defeat Grindelwald?

The words reverberated in his mind like the cruelest mockery, and for a fleeting moment, a terrible, bitter pain sliced through him. He wanted to dismiss it, to rage against it, but the voice only grew louder.

It wasn’t you. It was her. Alexandrina. She defeated Grindelwald, not you. You’re a fraud. You didn’t do it.

Dumbledore's heart pounded in his chest as the fog of doubt thickened, suffocating him for just a moment. His vision blurred, and for a heartbeat, it felt as though the weight of his entire existence—his legacy—was slipping from his grasp. He had always told himself that it was him, that it had always been him. The hero, the great and untouchable Albus Dumbledore.

But was it?

No. No, no, no. He was the one who defeated Grindelwald. He was the one who had done everything, orchestrated everything. Alexandrina—that little girl—had simply played her part in the grand scheme. But she had gone and ruined everything, hadn’t she? Gone behind his back, speaking with the DMLE, possibly dragging everything into the open.

No. He wouldn't let her. He would hold onto his narrative. His grip on power, his influence over the wizarding world—it all depended on it. If Alexandrina’s actions reached the wrong ears, if people began to question his authority, his carefully constructed empire would crumble. It would all be over.

A sharp breath broke through his thoughts. The door to the courtroom opened with a heavy thud, and all the air seemed to drain from the room as Alphard Black strode in. The prosecuting attorney had arrived, and with him, a palpable sense of dread filled the space. Dumbledore’s stomach twisted.

Alphard Black. A name that echoed with fear and power in the legal world, a man who had built his career on his ruthlessness, on his ability to tear down anyone who stood in his way. A man who seemed to have been born for the courtroom, whose mere presence made the strongest of wizards tremble.

Dumbledore’s breath hitched in his throat as Alphard entered with his signature swagger, his black robes flowing behind him like the dark shadow of doom. The man was a force—unstoppable, inevitable. Dumbledore had seen many threats in his time, but Alphard Black was a different breed. He had no morals, no sense of restraint. He wielded his words like a blade, and once he struck, there was no turning back.

For a fleeting moment, Dumbledore almost pitied Brutus Weasley. Almost.

But that feeling faded quickly. The boy is lost, now. Even Dumbledore, the great manipulator, knew when to concede defeat. There was no saving Brutus now, not with Alphard in the room. The battle was already lost, and Dumbledore—his self-preservation instincts kicking in—decided then and there to pull back any support he had intended to offer the boy.

It wasn’t about Brutus anymore. It was about Dumbledore. And Brutus was simply collateral damage in a war he didn’t understand.

I will win this battle, Dumbledore thought with grim satisfaction. I always do.

Alphard had begun his argument, the cold, calculated words slipping from his mouth like venom. The court was hanging on his every syllable, and Dumbledore, in his usual stoic fashion, kept his head down. The great Headmaster had nothing to add, nothing to say. His mind was elsewhere, calculating, scheming, watching the room. His eyes briefly flickered across to Brutus’s parents, their hopeful gazes seeking a lifeline, something, anything from him.

What a farce.

But Dumbledore did nothing. He couldn’t be bothered. His hand, once poised to help, was now withdrawn. Let them struggle. Let the Weasleys face their fate alone. He had bigger matters to tend to. His legacy, his survival—it depended on what happened next.

It was strange, this feeling that was creeping into him. Not fear, but a deep, gnawing emptiness. Was he still the same man who had defeated Grindelwald, the same man who had been revered, feared, respected? Or was he just an old, delusional fool holding onto a myth of his own making?

No. No, he wasn’t delusional. He had done it. He had built this empire. He was untouchable. He was the hero, the great Dumbledore, and no matter how many whispers of doubt threatened to break through, he would bury them.

He always did.

And so, as Alphard Black unleashed his fury on Brutus Weasley, Dumbledore stayed silent. He observed. He planned. He waited for the moment when the game would shift, when the pieces would move once more, and he would once again be the one pulling the strings.

Alphard Black walked into the courtroom with a predator’s grace, his every step measured, deliberate. He had that effect on people—his mere presence caused a ripple, a sharp intake of breath, a nervous glance. There was no hiding from him. There was no running. He had been honed in the art of intimidation since his youth, and today, it would be put to perfect use. He smiled thinly to himself, savoring the discomfort swirling around him.

The opposing counsel, a pathetic excuse for a lawyer named Hamish Falkner, was fumbling with his papers. The man was already sweating, though the trial had barely started. Ah, the beauty of it—just watching them squirm. They didn’t know it yet, but this was going to be an absolute slaughter, and he couldn’t wait for the first taste of blood. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

As he surveyed the room, he saw it—the familiar faces of those who had been part of his life, those who were still within his reach. But none of them held his gaze longer than she did. Lyra.

Her mere presence in the room made his blood simmer. She sat beside Lady Alexandrina, her pale face drawn with the weight of grief and fear. But it wasn’t just her sorrow that had his attention. No, it was the way she held herself, the way her eyes flickered between the world around her and the words she couldn’t yet say. He could feel it—the charge in the air. The subtle, undeniable tension that had been building between them for years, one that neither of them could ever acknowledge, at least not out loud.

Lyra was a mystery to him, a riddle wrapped in an enigma. But she was his. She had always been his. He’d watched her grow, seen her blossom into the woman she was now, and all the while, his feelings had only deepened. Yet, he kept himself in check. For a while, at least. The boundary between them was clear—eight years of age, and the ever-present shadow of Abraxas Malfoy, her brother, whose possessiveness over her was a near-constant, unyielding pressure. That was what had kept Alphard's hands tied, kept him from crossing a line that—deep down—he knew he was never meant to cross. She was forbidden. And yet…

But the rage now seething within him was far more personal than it had ever been before. It wasn’t just about the trial. It wasn’t just about honoring the Black name or defending the Malfoys. No, this was about Brutus Weasley. The imbecile who had dared to betray her, to make her cry, to make her look weak. He had no right to hurt her, to damage that fragile composure she so carefully built.

Brutus Weasley had crossed a line that Alphard wasn’t sure could ever be undone. In his eyes, Brutus wasn’t just some foolish student. No, Brutus was a threat to something far deeper, something far more personal. Something Alphard wasn’t prepared to name, not even to himself.

He watched as Brutus entered the courtroom, shackled and desperate, like an animal being led to slaughter. His face was pale, his eyes wide with fear. But it wasn’t fear of what would happen to him that Alphard could see. It was fear of what Alphard might do to him. Brutus knew. He knew that he had brought down Alphard’s wrath on himself, and the consequences would be far more than the legal system could ever impose.

Alphard turned his gaze back to Lyra, his eyes burning with an intensity that he would never allow to show. Her vulnerability now, her helplessness in the face of Brutus’s actions, fueled something in him that he couldn’t quite contain. She was so young, so innocent, so completely unaware of the storm raging inside him.

And yet, she had always known the power she held. Whether she realized it or not, Lyra had always been the center of his obsession. She was everything he wanted, everything he desired but could never have. The forbidden fruit that hung just out of reach, taunting him with its sweetness. Her eyes, her laugh, her every movement—it was like music to him. And now, to see her hurt, to see her broken, it felt as though a part of him had been shattered.

But no. He would never act on it. He couldn’t. Not with the boundaries that existed between them, not with Abraxas watching like a hawk. But damn it all, he wanted to. He wanted to make her his, to claim her, to tear down the walls she had so carefully built. But that would never happen. Not in this lifetime.

His attention snapped back to the trial. The prosecuting lawyer, Hamish Falkner, was fumbling with his papers, his face flushed with the panic of someone who knew they were about to lose. Alphard’s lips curled into a thin, cruel smile. This would be a slaughter. Brutus Weasley had no idea what he had walked into, and Alphard would make sure he paid the price for every second Lyra had been made to suffer.

Alphard’s gaze flicked back to Brutus, and the surge of fury that burned within him was almost tangible. Brutus had dared to make Lyra cry. And for that, there would be no mercy.

“Counsel,” Alphard’s voice cut through the air, smooth as velvet, yet laced with a venom that could burn. “I do hope you’ve prepared a defense worthy of your reputation. It would be... such a shame if I had to educate you on the finer points of wizarding law. After all, this is a matter of great importance. A matter of family.”

He let the words hang, watching Falkner’s face pale. The room held its breath as Alphard turned his gaze to Lyra once more, his eyes narrowing with a mixture of longing, rage, and something darker, something deeper. She would never know how much he craved her, how much he hated Brutus for what he had done.

But for now, Alphard’s focus was clear. He would see Brutus Weasley torn apart in this courtroom. He would make him suffer, not just for his own sake, but for Lyra. She would know that no one would ever hurt her again. No one would ever get away with it. Not while Alphard Black still drew breath.

Marvolo would never admit it out loud, but there was a gnawing curiosity, a flicker of jealousy, whenever he thought about Lady Alexandrina Peverell and the strange, wistful gleam in her eyes whenever she mentioned the past. What was it about him that evoked such nostalgia in her? He hadn't been able to resist; he had crossed that boundary, even though he knew he shouldn't.

It had been an unspoken trust she gave him, a slight vulnerability in her defenses. But that had been enough for him to use Legilimency—against his better judgment, against the moral code he'd long adhered to, against the knowledge that such an intrusion would likely end in disaster. And it had. She had slapped him, her palm striking his face with a crack that resounded in the cold Ministry corridor.

He had been too stunned to react immediately, the sting of her hand lingering more than the shock of the violation. Well, he mused, if curiosity killed the cat, then maybe this was his punishment. A slap was nothing in comparison to the guilt festering beneath the surface. No, it wasn’t the slap that bothered him. It wasn’t even the breach of her trust that plagued his thoughts. It was the memory he had uncovered.

The memory that haunted him even now.

It hadn’t been that long ago—perhaps a year, maybe two at the most. The scene was etched into his mind, disturbing and impossible to ignore. He saw a house—one that, through Ignitus Privit's memories, he recognized as the Burrow. The Weasleys. Why had Alexandrina been there? It made no sense. She was supposed to be on the continent, locked in an unrelenting battle with Grindelwald, far from the warmth of such a... common place. Yet there she was.

She was in the arms of a man, a boy, really. He had that typical Weasley charm about him, with hair the color of fire and eyes as blue as the summer sky. His laughter, unrestrained, echoed as he teased her, pulling her into a playful embrace. It was enough to make Marvolo's blood boil, his teeth gritting involuntarily. The boy’s laughter was a mockery, a venomous sting that Marvolo could barely suppress.

But then, something else. The boy leaned in, capturing her lips in a kiss, and Marvolo’s fury flared hot enough to scorch him. But what happened next was even more inexplicable—Alexandrina had paused. It wasn’t the kiss itself that had made her stop, but the strange shift in her demeanor. She had looked at the boy in a way that suggested more than mere affection, something far deeper, more consuming. And yet, she hesitated.

It didn’t make sense. She was supposed to be engaged to Thomas Sayre. Everyone knew that. So why? Why was she here, with this boy?

The confusion churned in his gut as he continued to sift through the memory, unwilling to pull himself out. That was when he saw it—the moment that unsettled him beyond reason. She had reached for a newspaper, the prophet and he had seen the headline.

It was dated December 25, 1996.

That was 42 years into the future.

Marvolo’s heart skipped a beat as his eyes scanned the words, the headline practically mocking him: The Dark Lord Returns. There, beneath it, was the image of himself—a monstrous, terrifying creature, draped in the guise of Naga. The form he had taken to instill fear into the hearts of those who followed him. And beneath that was a line that stopped his breath: The savior was telling the truth.

For a moment, he couldn't breathe, his vision blurring as the world around him felt like it had tilted on its axis. What in Merlin's name was happening? The future... the future had somehow woven its way into her memories. The future, with his own return.

And then came the tear. A single, solitary tear, falling from her eye as she gazed at the newspaper. Her lips trembled as she held it, and the red-headed boy, that damnable Weasley, kissed it away. And then, the breakdown. She crumbled, letting herself be consumed in the boy's arms, her sobs wracking her fragile frame.

Marvolo’s mind was in chaos. His thoughts clashed and twisted like a violent storm, his anger giving way to a strange mix of guilt, confusion, and disbelief. What did all this mean? Was it some twisted illusion? A vision from the past? No, it was real. The weight of the truth pressed heavily upon him.

Why did she cry? What did she know? How had she seen this future? And more importantly—why was he there?

His lips curled, half in disdain, half in confusion. The Weasleys. Of all people. Alexandrina, the untouchable enigma, the unyielding Lady Peverell, reduced to laughter and tears in the arms of a man who looked as though he belonged in a bard’s second-rate tale. It didn’t make sense. None of this made sense.

He gripped the edge of his desk, his knuckles blanching against the dark wood. The memory was an aberration, an impossibility, and yet it felt as real as the gavel in the Chief Warlock’s hand. It clawed at him, demanding answers, pulling at threads of logic until they frayed into nothingness.

And then there was Alexandrina herself. The woman who had slapped him—slapped him—in the middle of the Ministry of Magic without hesitation, as though he were an unruly schoolboy rather than the most feared wizard of his age. He almost smiled at the audacity of it. Almost. But the smile didn’t come, not with the lingering weight of what he had seen in her mind.

That memory had shaken her.

He could still see it—the single tear sliding down her cheek, kissed away by the red-headed boy as though he had any right to such intimacy. He could feel her grief as though it were his own, raw and unrelenting. And he hated it. Hated that she had let someone else see her like that, hated that she had let him into her world, even for a moment.

But most of all, he hated that he didn’t understand.

The questions gnawed at him like a cursed parasite, eating away at his carefully constructed composure. What connection did she have to a future that shouldn’t exist? Why did the sight of her so utterly undone make his chest ache in a way he refused to name? And why, why, did he feel that strange, inexplicable pull toward her, a fascination bordering on obsession?

Marvolo exhaled sharply, forcing himself to unclench his fists. The room had fallen silent, the murmurs of the court drowned out by the relentless pounding of his thoughts.

Answers. He needed answers.

He turned sharply, his black robes billowing as he strode toward Alexandrina, seated with the rest of her faction on the far side of the courtroom. The flickering torchlight caught in her dark hair, casting an almost ethereal glow over her features. She didn’t look at him, her eyes fixed on the trial proceedings, her expression unreadable.

But he felt her presence like a tether, pulling him closer, despite every instinct screaming at him to stay away. He couldn’t. Not now. Not after what he’d seen.

She had invaded his mind, his thoughts, his very sense of reality—and not for the first time.

The fury simmered beneath his skin, righteous and raw. She had answers, answers to questions that clawed at him like wild beasts. He was owed an explanation. Deserved one.

And yet…

There was something else. A fascination that ran deeper than fury, a pull that defied reason. Alexandrina Peverell was more than a puzzle to be solved. She was a flame, and he—despite his better judgment—was moth and man all at once.

Marvolo stopped a few paces from her, his hands curling into the folds of his robe. Took his seat didn't say anything, despite everything going on in his head.
For the first time in his life, he felt lost.

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NEXT CHAPTER WEASLEY IS GETTING DESTROYED.

MARVOLO KNOWS AND WANTS ANSWERS.

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