When Andromeda had caught wind of Bellatrix and Nymphadora's mad plan to yank Harry out of a war zone, it set her off. Not the kind of anger that burns out after a row, but the kind that digs in, heavy and stubborn in her chest. She'd laid into them, thrown every argument she had—Grindelwald's dark wizards, the body count, the sheer bloody lunacy of it—begging them to see reason. When they wouldn't listen, she'd told them to march their behinds back to Hogwarts, where they'd be safe behind charmed wards. It didn't matter. Bellatrix, wild as ever, never took orders, least of all from her. Nymphadora, her sensible girl, had backed her aunt without a flinch, like Andromeda's pleas were from a stranger and not her mother.
So she'd walked out, told them to think it over, hoping distance would clear their heads. As she stood by the Floo, ready to head back to Grimmauld Place, she clung to a scrap of hope—Nymphadora would come round, wouldn't choose a death trap over her own mum. She pictured them waiting, maybe ready to hash it out like family, and that kept her going.
She stepped through the Floo, green flames spitting her into Grimmauld Place, and that hope died fast. The house was loud—jarringly loud. Grimmauld Place was always quiet, rhe walls kept things low even when this place used to be filled with her famil. Now, a mess of voices hit her, no laughter or banter. Her stomach knotted as she moved from the entryway, boots tapping the creaky floorboards, and pushed into the main room. She froze. She'd expected Bellatrix and Nymphadora scheming with a few daft friends dragged along. This wasn't that. Thirty wizards packed the space, all watching Bellatrix, who stood at the front, waving her wand like she was leading a bloody Auror squad. Andromeda's chest tightened with dread—not just for Nymphadora, but for what this meant. Bellatrix was pulling her daughter into something bigger, something that'd chew them up and spit them out. Harry's face flashed in her mind and she knew Bellatrix's love for him was driving this, a love so fierce it'd destroy them all if it went wrong.
She scanned the room quick. Moody leaned against a wall muttering to Kingsley, who stood with arms crossed, face hard. Lupin slouched by a chair, looking knackered, like he hadn't slept since the last full moon. Hagrid loomed at the back, shifting his weight awkwardly as he struggled to squeeze in. James Hawkthorne, the seventh year and strongest student of his generation, talked with Charlie Weasley and a few other students, all acting like this was just another Quidditch match. The rest were a mix—old Order members, strangers, some she recognised, most she didn't. Her eyes hit the table: a map of France spread across it, marked with ink, cities circled, lines drawn like a battle plan. It clicked. Bellatrix wasn't planning a sneaky Portkey to grab Harry. This was a full-on war effort. Andromeda's heart pounded—she couldn't lose Nymphadora, not to her sister's madness, not when she'd already given up so much to keep her safe.
She stepped forward, voice slicing through the noise. "Nymphadora, Bellatrix!"
Her daughter turned, eyes narrowing, stance braced like she was ready for a hex. "Mum, I'm not changing my mind. I'm doing this."
"Don't you start with me," Andromeda said, her voice low, shaking with held-back fear.
She faced Bellatrix, who was pacing, wand twitching in her hand. "Bella, we've done this already."
Bellatrix stopped, tossing her dark hair, a wild grin flickering before it turned sharp. "Andy, don't waste my time with this again. You know I'm not backing off." Her voice had that manic edge, the kind that'd scared Andromeda as a kid, but there was love in it too—love for Harry, for Nymphadora, for the family she'd die to protect.
"You're pulling my daughter into a bloody war!" Andromeda said, stepping closer, her fear for Nymphadora spilling out. "You're not thinking straight, Bella."
Bellatrix leaned in, eyes blazing, but her voice softened, almost pleading. "Nymphadora chose this, Andy. She wants to save Harry, just like I do. He's out there fighting alone, and I won't let him die. Not him, not after everything." Bellatrix's obsession with Harry wasn't just hero-worship—it was her anchor, the one good thing she could still hold onto after years of mistakes. Andromeda saw it, the way her sister poured her heart into that boy, and it tore at her, because she knew Bella would risk anything, even them, to keep him safe.
Andromeda's hands shook as she jabbed a finger at her sister. "She chose it because you're both too wrapped up in Harry to tell it's suicide. You love him, Bella—I get that—but it's going to cost me my daughter and all these people."
Bellatrix flinched, her wand hand twitching, but she held Andromeda's gaze. "And what's your answer, Andy? Sit here, safe behind wards, while Harry's cut to pieces in France? He's ours, our family, and I'll burn before I abandon him." Her voice cracked.
Andromeda turned to the room, taking in the wizards, the map, the way they watched without blinking. "You lot can't think this is going to work."
"We know it's a gamble," Moody said, limping forward, his eye fixed on her. "The Ministry's thrown in the towel, Andromeda. They won't lift a wand, so it's down to us." Moody's gruffness carried his own exhaustion—he'd fought too long to believe in easy wins, but he couldn't stomach doing nothing.
Andromeda exhaled, sharp and angry. "Then let the Ministry cock it up. It's their job, not yours. Thirty wizards against Grindelwald's army is nothing but a death wish."
"We're not clueless," Kingsley said, stepping up, his voice calm but firm. "We know what we're facing, but sitting here lets him win without a fight."
"Thirty people storming in won't change a thing," Andromeda said, her voice rising, thick with dread. "It's just going to get you killed."
"We've thought it through," Charlie said, moving forward, hands in his pockets. "We're ready for what's coming, Andromeda." Charlie's easy confidence grated her.
"You haven't thought of anything," Andromeda said, glaring. "You reckon you'll take down Grindelwald? Don't make me laugh! He could kill all of us without even breaking a sweat!"
No one spoke. The silence pressed down, heavy with her words.
Bellatrix tilted her head, voice dropping low. "And what happens if we do nothing, Andy? What happens when Grindelwald rolls over France and comes for us next?" Her eyes burned.
Andromeda's throat tightened. "Stepping into the war won't help, it'll just kill us sooner."
"We have to try," Kingsley said, his voice steady. "If we don't fight now, there'll be no one left to help us when he comes." He meant it, but Andromeda saw the flicker of fear—he knew the odds, knew they were betting lives on a slim chance.
"You don't have to do this," Andromeda said, her voice cracking with fear for her daughter. "You're choosing to die for nothing."
Kingsley shook his head. "If we don't take a stand, no one else will." His words carried a quiet resolve, but Andromeda felt his worry, the same one gnawing at her.
She turned to Moody, grasping at straws. "You really think this'll do any good?"
Moody's face twisted into a grim smirk. "I think it's a bloody awful plan, but I'd rather go down fighting than hide behind a ward waiting for the end." His defiance was pure Moody, and Andromeda knew he'd never back down, no matter the cost.
"We've got the French resistance with us," James said, voice firm. "It's not just thirty wizards out there." James was young, eager, but Andromeda saw the naivety in him, the kind that'd get him killed chasing a cause too big for him.
Andromeda's hands shook, her voice rising with panic. "That won't matter. French fighters, the Order, kids—it's all the same. Grindelwald will tear through you like parchment. Not one of you can face him and live." Her fear wasn't just for Nymphadora—it was for everyone here, people she'd stood with, mourned with. She couldn't bear more graves, not when she'd already lost so much to the previous war.
The room went quiet. She saw their urge to argue, but they knew she was right. Plans and numbers meant nothing against Grindelwald himself. When he showed up, it'd be over.
Footsteps sounded behind her, a cane tapping the floor. The air grew heavy. She tensed.
Everyone turned. A man stepped into the room.
He was tall, despite his age, dressed in black robes with green and silver trim, his cane barely touching the ground as he moved. He didn't hesitate, didn't ask to speak.
"When Grindelwald comes, I will deal with him myself," he said, voice low, rough with years but firm.
Andromeda's breath stopped. She knew that voice, that presence—didn't need to look.
Arcturus Black moved forward, her grandfather.
"Everyone clear out," he said, raising his head. "You've got your orders. I need to talk to my family alone."
Wizards moved quick, heading for the Floo, boots scuffing the floor. Arcturus didn't shout, didn't glare, but no one lingered. He wasn't violent without cause, but his shadow made you feel he could be. The last wizard vanished, green flames flaring.
Bellatrix, Nymphadora, and Andromeda stayed. Arcturus sat in a large black chair, cane resting across his knees.
"You haven't visited me in years, Andromeda," he said, voice slow, heavy with disappointment. "That cuts me deeper than you know." He wasn't just an old man—he was the last pillar of their family, holding it together through decades of loss.
Andromeda straightened her dress, met his gaze, her voice tight. "You said Ted wasn't welcome here. I reckoned that meant me too."
"You reckoned wrong," Arcturus said, his tone firm but worn. "You're a Black, Andromeda. This house is yours, no matter who you married." His eyes held hers, and she saw the truth—he'd never cast her out, never stopped seeing her as his own, and it stirred a pang of guilt for all the years she'd stayed away.
Andromeda gave a sharp laugh, bitter. "Mum and Dad disowned me. Aunt and Uncle cheered it on. Even Narcissa didn't say a word. How was I supposed to think I had a place here?"
Arcturus stood, slow, leaning on his cane. "I am not your mother."
He took a step toward her.
"I am not your father, nor your aunt, nor your uncle."
Another step.
"And I am certainly not your sister."
He stopped in front of her, towering despite his age. "I am Arcturus Black, Head of this House, your grandfather. If I say you belong here, you do. No one—not your parents, not your uncle, not that fool woman he wed—can change that."
His voice filled the room, and Andromeda felt small, not from fear, but from the realisation he'd been fighting for her all along, even when she'd given up on him.
"I understand, Grandfather," she said, looking down, her voice soft.
She'd rarely heard him speak like this. Growing up, he'd been a quiet figure, eating at the head of the table while others talked. Now, she saw the toll of those years, and it shook her.
"Good," he said, sitting back down, cane across his lap. "Now, you've got issues with Bellatrix's plan for France. You're a Black—say your piece."
Andromeda drew herself up, her fear for Nymphadora fueling her. "It's a bloody awful idea, Grandfather. Thirty wizards charging into a war we're losing won't save Harry—it'll just get them all killed."
Bellatrix spun toward her, hair flying, eyes wild. "They're not just any wizards, Andy! They're veterans, the best we've got, with years of fighting behind them! We can't leave Harry out there—he's facing dark wizards alone, and I won't let him die!" Her voice trembled with love and panic, her need to save Harry consuming her, and Andromeda saw how it drove every reckless move, even if it meant risking Nymphadora.
"Not all of them are veterans," Andromeda said, her voice shaking with fear. "James Hawkthorne's and Charlie Weasley's are seventh years. And Nymphadora my daughter is only a sixth year."
"I'm not a kid, Mum," Nymphadora said, stepping forward, her hair flashing red. "I can fight, and I'm going to help Harry. He's out there risking everything, and I won't sit here while he's in danger, he's one of my friends and I won't abandon him." Her voice was fierce, but Andromeda heard the crack in it—Nymphadora was scared, not of the fight, but of failing Harry of letting him die.
"They're not veterans, I'll give you that," Bellatrix said, her voice dropping, almost gentle. "But they're the best at Hogwarts, Andy. They've fought dark wizards, cursed spirits—they're ready, and they want to save Harry, same as me." She paced, hands shaking, and Andromeda saw her conflict—she hated dragging kids into this, but her love for Harry left no room for doubt, even if it broke her heart.
"They're still kids," Andromeda said, her voice breaking. "You're sending them to die, Bella, because you can't let Harry go. I know you love him, but it's going to cost us everyhting." Her fear for Nymphadora was a knife in her chest—she'd fought to keep her safe, and now Bellatrix's obsession was threatening to take it all away.
Arcturus slammed his cane down, the sound sharp. "That's enough," he said, his voice rough with age. "I won't have this turn into a shouting match like it did with your parents. Bellatrix, Nymphadora, hold your tongues. Andromeda gets her say."
"But Grandfather, you said we had to do this!" Bellatrix said, her voice rising, frantic. "Harry's out there, fighting for us, and we can't just leave him to face Grindelwald alone!"
"Be silent, Bellatrix," Arcturus said, his tone cutting through. "I gave my word, and you'll respect it."
Bellatrix froze, trembling, but nodded, looking away.
Arcturus turned to Andromeda, his eyes heavy. "Go on, Andromeda. Speak."
She took a deep breath, steadied herself, and faced Bellatrix, her voice trembling but firm. "I love you, Bella, even with all the mad things you do, but this plan is too much. You've been obsessed with Harry since the day he was born. There hasn't been a single day you haven't talked about him, looked at his picture, or written his name somewhere."
Bellatrix stood rigid, her wand hand twitching, her jaw clenched tight. Andromeda saw the fury building in her sister's eyes, but she pressed on, refusing to back down. "It's odd, a grown woman fixated on someone half her age, but you've gone beyond reason now. You've crossed a line, Bella, and you don't even see it."
Bellatrix's face twisted, her voice rising sharp and shrill. "How dare you speak to me like that,"
"How dare I?" Andromeda shouted, stepping closer, her fear fueling her. "How dare you! Your obsession with Harry has driven you to drag Britain into a war we've no business in. If you think Grindelwald or his allies won't turn their wands on us for this, you're a bloody fool. But worst of all, you're pulling my daughter—your own niece—into this suicidal mess, and you stand there acting like it's nothing."
Bellatrix's hands shook, her wand sparking faintly as she paced a tight circle, her voice climbing higher. "You think I want this, Andy? You think I'm happy dragging Nymphadora into a fight? I love her, same as you, but Harry's out there alone. He's family, he is James and Lily's little boy, and I won't let him die!" Her eyes blazed, and she jabbed her wand toward Andromeda, not casting but pointing, her breath ragged. "You'd rather sit here, safe behind wards, while he's torn apart? I can't do that, and neither can she!"
Andromeda opened her mouth, ready to fire back, but Nymphadora stepped between them, her hair flashing red, her voice fierce. "Mum, stop it. I'm not some kid you can lock in a tower. I'm going because Harry needs us, and I won't let him down, he'd do the same for me." Her defiance cut deep, and Andromeda's chest ached—Nymphadora was her world and yet she felt a million miles way at the moment.
Bellatrix spun toward Nymphadora, her voice softening, almost breaking. "See, Andy? She gets it. She knows what's at stake. Harry's fighting for us all, and we can't just leave him to Grindelwald's mercy." Her wand dropped to her side, but her hands still shook, her eyes darting between Andromeda and Nymphadora, pleading for understanding. "I'd die before I let anything happen to either of them, you know that. But we have to do this. We have to save him."
Andromeda's voice cracked, her fear spilling out. "You're not saving anyone, Bella. You're leading them to their graves, and you're too blind to see it." She turned to the room, where the remaining wizards stood silent, watching the sisters tear into each other. "None of you can face Grindelwald. You'll fight his lackeys, maybe win a skirmish, but when he shows up, it's over. You're throwing away my daughter for nothing."
Bellatrix's pacing stopped, her wand snapping up, sparks flying as she shouted. "Nothing? Harry's not nothing, and I'll be damned if I let him die because you're too scared to fight!" Her voice broke and she stepped toward Andromeda, close enough that their robes brushed. "I love you, Andy, but you're wrong, and if you can't see that, you're no sister of mine!" Her anger wasn't just rage—it was pain, a desperate need to protect Harry, anyone she called family, and it drove her to the edge, where reason didn't reach.
Andromeda recoiled, ready to shout back, but Arcturus slammed his cane down, the sound echoing like a spell. "That's enough from both of you," he said. He stood slowly, leaning on his cane, his eyes sweeping over them—Bellatrix trembling with fury, Andromeda rigid with fear, Nymphadora caught between them. "I've heard all I need to hear. Sit down, all of you."
Bellatrix hesitated, her wand still raised, but Arcturus fixed her with a stare, and she lowered it, slumping into a chair, muttering under her breath. Andromeda sat too, her hands clasped tight to stop them shaking, while Nymphadora perched on the table's edge, glaring at the floor. Arcturus remained standing, his shadow long across the room, and he spoke. "Andromeda, your fears are real, and I don't dismiss them. Losing Nymphadora, losing any of you, would break what's left of this family, there are few Blacks left in this world as is, we can't afford to lose more. But this plan will go forward, sacrifices or not. It's bigger than Harry Potter, bigger than any one of us."
He paused, his gaze distant. "Grindelwald is a threat we cannot ignore. He's carving through Europe, tearing down everything, and if we don't stop him now, there'll be nothing left to defend. Harry's part of this, yes, but it's not just about him. It's about the world we leave behind." His voice grew quieter, softer, and he looked at Andromeda directly. "Harry is our family. His grandmother, Dorea, was a Black, my niece, and I loved her like my own. She'd expect us to fight for him, to stand together, and I won't dishonor her memory by turning away."
Arcturus leaned on his cane, his voice firm again. "This is my decision as Head of House Black. We're going to France, and we'll fight. Andromeda, I hope you'll join us. You're a talented Healer, one of the best, and we'll need you when the curses start flying. Think on it." He didn't wait for an answer, just nodded once, signaling the matter closed. "I'm retiring for the evening. We've a long road ahead, and I need rest."
Bellatrix stood, her anger fading to a quiet intensity, and she crossed to Arcturus, touching his arm lightly. "Goodnight, Grandfather. Sleep well, and thank you for this."
Nymphadora slid off the table, her hair shifting to a calmer blue, and she gave Arcturus a small smile. "Night. I'll see you tomorrow."
Andromeda rose last, her voice barely above a whisper. "Goodnight, Grandfather."
Arcturus nodded to each, turned, and walked toward the stairs, his cane tapping steady on the floorboards. He climbed slowly, his back straight despite his age. He reached the landing, pushed open his bedroom door, and stepped inside, closing it behind him with a soft click. The room was dim, lit only by a single candle on the bedside table. His bed stood neat, the dark green quilt untouched, but something caught his eye—a parchment folded on the pillow, sealed with a plain wax stamp. He froze, his breath catching. Letters didn't come to his room unannounced, not unless they carried news too urgent for owls or Floo. He crossed the room, picked up the parchment, and broke the seal, his hands steady despite the sudden tightness in his chest.
He unfolded it, eyes scanning the scrawled words, and his breath stopped. The letter was from one of his contacts in France, a trusted source in the resistance. Three lines stood out, stark and final:
Louis Delacour dead.
Delacour family captured.
Harry Potter dead.
Arcturus stood still, the parchment trembling in his grip. He read it again, then a third time, as if the words might change. Louis, a friend and ally, gone. The Delacours—Fleur, Apolline, Gabrielle—taken, their fate unknown. And Harry, the last link to Dorea, dead. His knees buckled, and he sank onto the bed, the cane clattering to the floor. His mind raced, Harry was gone, and now the war felt heavier, darker.
He folded the letter, tucked it into his robes, and sat in silence, staring at the candle's flickering flame. Downstairs, his granddaughters waited, planning a fight they didn't know had already shifted. He'd tell them when they were ready, when they could face their grief, their anger. For now, he shouldered the weight alone, the loss of Harry and the Delacours joining the long list of those he'd outlived.
"I'm sorry Dorea..." he whispered before he lay down on the bed and closed his eyes letting dreams claim him.
___________________________
Dumbledore stood at the staff table in the Great Hall, his robes shimmering faintly as he raised his hands to quiet the chattering students. Hundreds of faces turned toward him, candles floating above casting shadows across the long tables piled with empty plates. He cleared his throat, adjusted his half-moon spectacles, and began speaking, his voice carrying to every corner. "Good evening, everyone. This year has been difficult for us all. We have lost dear friends and valued members of our community during the tragic events of Halloween. Their absence weighs heavily on our hearts, and I know many of you feel that loss every day."
He paused, scanning the hall, noting the bowed heads at Gryffindor, the tight faces at Ravenclaw. He clasped his hands behind his back and continued. "I see the fear in your eyes. I hear the whispers in the corridors. Many of you are frightened, and some of you are considering leaving Hogwarts, perhaps not returning next year. I understand why you feel this way. The world outside these walls grows darker, and it is natural to seek safety elsewhere." His voice softened, and he leaned forward slightly, meeting their gazes. "But I must tell you that leaving would be a grave mistake. Hogwarts will be safe again. In fact, it is safer now than it has ever been, thanks to the efforts of our staff and the strength of our wards."
Students shifted in their seats, some exchanging glances, others staring at him. He raised a finger, his tone firming. "It is here, within these walls, that you will learn to defend yourselves against the dangers of the wizarding world. You will master spells to shield your homes, charms to protect your families, and curses to face those who would do you harm. I implore you to stay, to stand together, and to grow into the witches and wizards this world needs." He smiled faintly, nodding, as murmurs rippled through the hall.
He straightened, folding his arms into his sleeves, and shifted his tone, addressing a new concern. "I know many of you are worried about the war in France, about the stories of Grindelwald's forces tearing through villages and cities. You fear for your friends, for your families, for the future. But let me assure you, there is no need to worry. Grindelwald himself will not set foot in Britain."
A voice shouted from the Hufflepuff table. "How do you know that, sir?"
Dumbledore turned toward the sound, a chuckle escaping his lips, his eyes twinkling behind his spectacles. "Because I am the greatest wizard to walk the earth since the Age of Heroes, since Merlin himself drew breath. There has been no one like me, and there never will be again. Grindelwald knows this, and he will not risk a direct confrontation with me unless he has no other choice." His voice carried a calm certainty, and the hall fell silent, students staring, some with awe, others with doubt. He let the words hang, then clapped his hands, breaking the tension. "Now, let us put aside such weighty matters and enjoy the feast. I believe I heard mention of treacle tart, and I am rather partial to it."
He waved his wand, and platters filled with roast chicken, mashed potatoes, and puddings appeared, the tables groaning under the weight. He sat down at the staff table, tucking his napkin into his collar, as students began piling food onto their plates, the hall filling with clinks and chatter.
Minerva leaned toward him, her lips pursed, her voice low but sharp. "Albus, did you have to be so full of yourself up there? Greatest wizard since Merlin? Really?"
Dumbledore chuckled, reaching for a drumstick, and waved a hand dismissively. "It's true, Minerva, and they needed to hear it. A bit of confidence goes a long way in times like these."
She rolled her eyes, folding her arms, and lowered her voice further. "Confidence is one thing, but we've got real problems to sort, and you're not helping by grandstanding." She glanced at the students, ensuring they weren't listening, and leaned closer. "The Grey Lady,, has taken up in the Forbidden Forest. She's scaring the magical creatures and cursed spirits there, driving them closer to Hogwarts. We can't have Acromantula's or worse knocking at our gates."
Dumbledore carved a slice of chicken, popped it into his mouth, and chewed thoughtfully, nodding as she spoke. She continued, her voice tightening. "We're short on teaching staff. The ghosts who filled those roles are gone, and we need to hire replacements before the term ends. The ward stone's still missing, Albus—we can't keep the castle secure without it. And half our staff, not to mention the seventh-years, keep disappearing. They come back late, won't say where they've been or what they're doing."
She paused, staring at him as he chewed, his eyes drifting to his plate. "Albus, are you listening to me?"
He looked up, mouth full of chicken, and mumbled something unintelligible, bits of food visible. Minerva's face tightened, and she snapped, "For Merlin's sake, swallow first, then talk."
Dumbledore grinned, swallowed with a gulp, and wiped his mouth with his napkin. "My apologies, Minerva. No need to fret so much. These things always sort themselves out in the end, don't they?"
She gripped her fork, her voice rising. "Because I'm the one who fixes them, Albus! You can't just wave your wand and expect it all to vanish!"
He raised an eyebrow, reaching for a roll. "Oh?"
Minerva's eyes flashed, and she slammed her hand on the table, her magic flaring. Her glass shattered, wine splashing across the cloth, and students nearby glanced over, startled. Dumbledore laughed, a deep, rolling sound, and pushed his chair back. "I believe I'll take my dessert in my office tonight. A slice of treacle tart sounds just the thing."
He stood, brushing crumbs from his robes, as Minerva continued, her voice sharp. "Albus, we need to address this now. The staff, the ward stone, the forest—you can't keep dodging it."
He waved a hand, already turning away, and walked down the dais, his robes swishing. She kept talking, her voice fading as he moved through the hall, students parting to let him pass. He reached the corridor outside, the noise of the feast muffled behind stone walls, and paused, glancing around to ensure he was alone. He drew his wand, flicked it in a precise arc, and activated his magical technique. The wall facing the grounds shimmered, and a door appeared, its edges glowing faintly, linking directly to his office. He pushed it open and stepped through, the door vanishing behind him.
The office was quiet, candlelight flickering across shelves of books and whirring silver instruments. His desk sat cluttered with parchments. But something was off. A figure stood near the desk, rifling through papers, back turned. Dumbledore's wand stayed in his hand, and he spoke, voice calm but edged. "Good evening, Professor Quirrell."
Quirrell whipped around, his turban askew, eyes wide with a fierce, manic glint. He froze, hands clutching a parchment, his breath hitching as he stared at Dumbledore.
Dumbledore tilted his head, slipping his wand into his sleeve, and stepped forward. "I'm afraid if you're looking for my lemon drops, you won't find them here." His tone was serious, no trace of his usual humor, and Quirrell's face tightened, his fingers twitching toward his own wand.
(AN: Haven't done this story in a while but it's good to come back to it. I do enjoy this story and I'm glad. you got a little peak at Dumbledores ability again. I wonder if any of you can guess it yet. You'll see a lot more of it. It can get confusing but don't worry I'll explain all my techniques as most of them are original. Anyway I hope you enjoyed the chapter.)
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