Harry Potter and the Silent Guardian

The Great Hall buzzed with life, its autumn banners casting warm hues across the walls and floating candles flickering softly overhead. Plates were still half-filled with desserts, and students lounged in their seats, chatting contentedly with full stomachs as the Halloween Feast neared its end.

Then, without warning, a burst of red-gold fire ignited in midair at the staff table. The swirling flames blazed brightly beside Snape's goblet, drawing gasps from the Hall. The shimmering fire morphed into a small piece of parchment, perfectly folded, floating neatly in front of Snape's hooked nose.

Instantly, the chatter ceased. Even the most oblivious students froze, their conversations cut short as every eye turned to Snape.

Snape moved swiftly. He snatched the parchment from the air with precise, almost frantic movements, and tore it open. His dark eyes scanned the contents, widening with alarm. Without a word, he stood, his black robes swirling dramatically around him as he strode from the Hall.

The moment the doors swung shut behind him, the room erupted into a storm of whispers.

"What just happened?"

"Was that… phoenix fire?"

Harry didn't join in the speculation. He knew Fawkes was involved. Dumbledore had sent a message, and it must have been urgent. Fawkes rarely acted in public. Some students went their entire time at Hogwarts without ever seeing the phoenix. For him to deliver a note during dinner meant something serious was happening.

Harry's mind churned with possibilities. Was Dumbledore in danger? Had something really gone wrong as he expected to on this cursed night? Around him, classmates whispered theories—an attack, Ministry trouble, a crisis with the staff—but Harry remained silent.

As the feast drew to its close, Harry forced himself to smile and nod politely during idle conversation. Inside, however, his thoughts raced. Whatever had happened, he was determined to find out.

---

After dinner concluded—and with the buzz of Snape's abrupt departure still rippling through the students—Harry slipped away from the crowd. Finding a secluded alcove near the staircases, he checked his surroundings before pulling out a battered piece of parchment. With a tap of his wand, he whispered, "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."

The Marauder's Map sprang to life, ink swirling to form the intricate layout of Hogwarts. Harry's eyes darted across the lines and names dotting the map. Snape wasn't in the Headmaster's office or the Infirmary. Instead, his footprints hovered in the dungeons, alongside another name: Albus Dumbledore.

Dumbledore's figure barely moved, as though he were lying still. Harry's heart sank. If the headmaster was incapacitated, it could only mean something serious had happened. This needed investigating.

Snape's office wasn't the most obvious place for a meeting with Dumbledore, but it was good news for Harry. Sneaking into Snape's office undetected was going to be far easier than trying to infiltrate the Headmaster's.

With a thought, Harry vanished, his Invisibility Cloak merging with his being instantly. He pocketed the Map and began making his way to the dungeons, taking care to avoid Filch and any lingering students.

The corridors were mostly empty, save for a few stragglers returning from the feast. Harry moved swiftly, his footsteps silent against the stone floors. Soon, he stood before the heavy wooden door of Snape's office.

The wards surrounding the office were strong but not impenetrable. Snape relied more on his reputation to deter intruders than on intricate wards. Harry grinned to himself—no student dared sneak into Snape's office, except him.

After a moment's work, Harry bypassed the wards with ease, careful not to trip any alarms. The door opened soundlessly, and he slipped inside, closing it just as quietly behind him. To ensure he wasn't noticed, he cast a series of subtle illusion charms over the door, masking its movement from the occupants of the room.

---

Warm lamplight bathed the cramped office, casting flickering shadows across shelves crammed with dusty jars and vials. An adjoining chamber had been hastily expanded—likely transfigured into a makeshift sickbay. At the far end, Severus Snape hunched over a table, carefully ladling a dark, viscous potion into a flask. On a transfigured bed lay Dumbledore, unmoving.

Still invisible, Harry inched closer, his gaze locking onto the scene. It didn't take long to see what was wrong.

Dumbledore's right hand and forearm were blackened, the veins twisted and gnarled with dark magic. The sight was unmistakable—the mark of a lethal curse. Harry recognized it instantly: the same curse that had struck Dumbledore in the canon timeline. His face, usually serene and composed, was pale and slack, etched with pain.

The ring, Harry thought grimly. The cursed ring from the Gaunt shack. He had left it there deliberately, removing the Horcrux portion while ensuring the curse remained intact. He had hoped Dumbledore would succumb to it, just as he had in the original timeline. And he had.

Harry's emotions churned—a strange mix of triumph and sadness. He felt no sympathy for Dumbledore, not after the old man's manipulations, but seeing him now—frail and dying—stirred an unexpected pang of pity. He shook the feeling off. This was how it had to be. The wizarding world needed new leadership, real change, not the strings of an aging puppet master. Yet, with Dumbledore incapacitated, Harry knew the burden of fighting the Dark Alliance would only grow heavier on his own shoulders.

Snape's sharp voice brought Harry's focus back to the present. The potions master cursed under his breath as he stirred another cauldron with quick, precise motions. Muttering something under his breath, Snape rummaged through a drawer and spun back to the table, slamming a mortar down. His movements were controlled but frantic—time was clearly short.

On the bed, Dumbledore moaned softly, his half-lidded eyes barely open. The black curse had spread further up his arm, inching toward his shoulder. Fawkes perched at the corner of the bed, letting out mournful trills and trailing his golden tears onto Dumbledore's hand. The tears glimmered briefly but failed to banish the curse. Whatever dark power anchored the magic was far beyond the phoenix's healing abilities.

Surprisingly, Fawkes didn't react to Harry's presence. Whether it was the power of the bound Invisibility Cloak or simply the phoenix's focus on Dumbledore, Harry didn't know. He stayed silent and still, hidden in the shadows.

Harry knew of no cure for such a dark curse. He was only in the early stages of his studies in the Dark Arts. Perhaps Arcturus might have known of some obscure ritual to break it—but even if he did, Harry doubted the irony of using dark magic to save the so-called champion of the Light would sit well with anyone.

Harry's gaze shifted to a side table. Among scattered potion vials and scraps of torn cloth lay the shattered remains of the Gaunt ring. Its band was cracked, the black gem partially dislodged from its setting. He recognized it instantly—the Resurrection Stone. The last piece of the puzzle.

When he had visited the Gaunt home, Harry had deliberately left the ring behind. The stone's dark reputation for driving its owners to madness or even death had been enough to make him wary. The thought of seeing the ghosts of loved ones was not a temptation he was willing to face.

Moving carefully, Harry leaned closer, inching around Snape, who was absorbed in his work. In one swift, silent motion, he snatched up the ring—or what was left of it. The bent metal dug into his palm, the stone jutting out as though it wanted to escape its broken shell.

Clutching the stone, Harry felt a faint pulse of ancient magic, like a distant heartbeat. Now he held all three Hallows: the Invisibility Cloak, the Elder Wand, and the Resurrection Stone. For a moment, a chill raced down his spine. According to legend, anyone who united the Hallows would become the Master of Death.

But as he waited, nothing happened. No cosmic power surged through him, no overwhelming energy enveloped him. The stone remained inert, humming faintly, but otherwise lifeless.

"Maybe it's just a myth," Harry muttered to himself, tucking the stone into an inner pocket. He had no intention of using it—he already had enough ghosts haunting his nightmares. Still, if the day ever came when he truly needed it, it would be there, safely hidden away.

Refocusing, Harry turned his attention back to Snape. The potions master was working feverishly: measuring, pouring, and muttering soft incantations to stabilize Dumbledore's condition. On the transfigured bed, the headmaster lay unconscious, his breathing raspy, the black curse creeping ever closer to his elbow. The room felt thick with tension, the silence broken only by Fawkes's mournful cries.

For a brief moment, Snape froze at the phoenix's lament, his frustration flickering in a sharp glance toward the bird. Then, with renewed determination, he continued his work, his movements swift and precise.

He's actually trying to save him, Harry thought, a flicker of confusion stirring within him. Snape—the Death Eater and spy—was putting extraordinary care into his efforts. Harry couldn't understand why. From what he'd theorized, Snape should have welcomed Dumbledore's demise. With the headmaster gone, Snape would only have to answer to one master instead of two. His exhausting role as a double agent could end.

But it seemed Snape had his own reasons for keeping Dumbledore alive. Perhaps it was fear—fear that if Dumbledore died, Snape would be left alone, caught between Voldemort's wrath and the uncertain future. Or maybe Harry had misjudged him entirely. Maybe Snape was a good guy disguised under that emotionless face.

Either way, Snape's meticulous skill and unwavering focus spoke volumes. For now, at least, he was doing everything in his power to save the dying headmaster.

---

Satisfied, Harry stepped back, careful not to disturb a single flask or ward. Snape was far too focused on his work to notice the faint shift in the air. Fawkes flapped his wings once but made no other movement. Whether the phoenix had sensed him or not, Harry couldn't tell.

Silently, Harry glided toward the door, reactivating the wards he had disabled to slip in unnoticed. With deliberate precision, he slipped out into the corridor, still cloaked in invisibility.

Once safely back in the Head Boy's room, he turned off his Invisibility Cloak. Moving to the corner of the room, he tapped his wand on the hidden latch of his trunk, revealing a secret compartment. Inside, he placed the Resurrection Stone within an ornate box lined with powerful wards. He locked the box and shut the compartment with a final tap. Carrying the stone with him daily would be tempting fate, and Harry had no desire to court that kind of power—not yet, anyway.

Sinking into his chair, he exhaled deeply, his mind swirling with possibilities. The ring's curse had pinned Dumbledore down, months earlier than the timeline he knew. The Light's figurehead was now effectively crippled. If word of this got out, chaos would spread like wildfire. The Dark Alliance would see no reason to act cautiously; Voldemort's forces could make their move on the Ministry without hesitation.

And Umbridge—if she realized how close Dumbledore was to death, her grip on Hogwarts would only tighten. That thought alone brought a surge of irritation. With Dumbledore weakened, Harry knew he couldn't waste time playing games with her anymore.

"So be it," he murmured, drumming his fingers on the armrest. If Umbridge overreached, he'd deal with her—permanently, if necessary. There was no room for hesitation. She needed to leave, and soon.

As for the wider wizarding world, Harry's role might have to shift. Instead of direct confrontations, guerrilla tactics would be smarter. Small, precise strikes against vulnerable targets. He was confident in handling scattered groups of enemies without any risk to his safety.

As for Dumbledore… Harry felt no urgency to intervene further. The old man could spend his remaining days chasing illusions or clinging to whatever influence he could muster. Harry saw no reason to hasten his demise but equally no need to save him. A quiet end might be the most merciful outcome Dumbledore could hope for.

Outside the tower window, a crack of lightning illuminated the swirling autumn sky. The storm matched the turmoil brewing inside Harry's mind. Somewhere out there, Voldemort and his allies were undoubtedly making their own moves. They had been far too quiet lately.

The next few days, Harry suspected, would bring answers—and likely, more problems.