Chapter 775 0775 The Changes

December 25, 1997

If this were any other year, Hogwarts would already be on holiday by now.

The young witches and wizards would be home with their families, or else staying behind at the castle to celebrate.

But this year was clearly different.

Snow fell thick outside the window, and even so, a heavy fog hung over all of London.

Harry knew why. It was the Dementors.

They had once again been granted legal status, restored to their old posts as the guards of Azkaban.

The difference was that now, the prisoners they watched over belonged to the side of the just.

The Ministry of Magic had fallen completely.

It no longer mattered whether Minister Pius Thicknesse had been one of Voldemort's men from the very start—as Sherlock had once deduced—or had simply been overpowered later, once the Death Eaters infiltrated the Ministry.

Because everyone knew that the Minister of Magic was nothing now but a puppet.

The one whose word actually carried weight was the Ministry's Honorary Minister—who also happened to be the headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Voldemort.

Of course, no one still dared speak that name aloud.

But by now, even You-Know-Who felt somehow out of place.

And Tom Riddle was a name no one would ever dream of uttering.

So, following the Dark Lord, You-Know-Who, and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, Voldemort had acquired yet another title.

One now universally recognized across the wizarding world: the Great One.

The thought alone filled Harry with a deep, bitter scorn.

Great?

Him?

But the truth was, the people of the wizarding world had even less backbone than he'd imagined.

Many of them had embraced the title without a second thought.

Harry couldn't help but sigh again.

Well—whose fault was it that they'd lost?

To the victor go the spoils. That was simply how it was.

He slowly picked up that morning's Daily Prophet. Even though the paper had by now become nothing more than a mouthpiece for the forces of evil, they still kept watch on it in secret, if only to glean what information they could.

"For a time, the detective known as Sherlock, the great Mr. Holmes, enjoyed considerable renown.

"It has now been proven that this was nothing more than a fabrication concocted by the illegal organization known as the Order of the Phoenix.

"Sherlock Holmes leapt to his death from a tower at Hogwarts—in truth, an act of suicide born of guilt…"

Bang!

Even though he'd braced himself for it—knowing full well that the Ministry, under the control of Voldemort and Moriarty, would spare no effort in smearing Sherlock's name—Harry still couldn't stop his fist from slamming down hard on the table.

"Harry—!"

Almost instantly, a small figure with red hair came rushing over.

Ever since Cho Chang had graduated, sixteen-year-old Ginny Weasley had grown lovelier by the day.

Ever since Hogwarts had fallen under the control of Voldemort and his Death Eaters, students with any ties to the Order of the Phoenix no longer attended the school. As "blood traitors" among pure-blood wizarding families, the Weasleys were, naturally, no exception.

"Harry, you—"

Ginny looked at him with some concern, then glanced at the newspaper spread open beside him, and immediately understood the reason for his anger. "Don't pay any mind to this nonsense, Harry." She stepped closer and gently took his hand. "You know they're talking rubbish."

"I know."

Harry's voice was low.

"But what I don't understand is—Sherlock is already dead. Why won't they leave him be?

"Dumbledore is still here. The Order is still here. I'm still here. Why won't they come after us instead?

"What right do they have to slander a man who's already lying in his grave? What right?!"

Listening to Harry's furious words, Ginny said nothing. She only tightened her grip on his hand, silently.

She understood all too well the weight Harry had been carrying these past several months.

On the night Sherlock died, Snape—whom Dumbledore had trusted so deeply—had somehow, through means still unknown, managed to lead the Death Eaters straight into the heavily fortified castle of Hogwarts.

They say the strongest fortresses are always broken from within, and this had proven true once again.

Had it been anyone else breaching Hogwarts that night, the school's defences, together with the combined strength of its professors and students, might well have held.

But the trouble was, two particular people had come to Hogwarts that night.

One was James Moriarty, who had arranged to meet Sherlock atop the tower.

After that exchange with Sherlock, Moriarty had gone on to personally direct the entire assault on the castle.

The other was Voldemort himself.

It would be no exaggeration to say that Moriarty's alliance with him filled in, at a single stroke, the greatest weakness on Voldemort's side.

Add to that Sherlock's heroic death and Snape's betrayal, and the morale of the side of justice suffered a devastating blow.

Under such circumstances, Hogwarts found itself losing ground on every front.

It was at this most critical moment that Dumbledore stepped forward.

He challenged Voldemort to a wizard's duel.

If Dumbledore won, Voldemort and his Death Eaters would withdraw from Hogwarts at once.

If he lost, then Dumbledore and his supporters would be the ones to leave.

Viewed this way, the wager seemed hardly fair to Voldemort's side at all.

And yet, unexpectedly, Voldemort agreed to it.

But in that duel—watched by the entire wizarding world of Britain—Dumbledore lost.

Albus Dumbledore, the man universally acknowledged as "the only one the Dark Lord ever feared," had lost.

"No!"

"It's impossible! Absolutely impossible!"

Watching this unfold, not a single student or professor in the school could bring themselves to accept it.

How could Dumbledore lose?

How could he possibly lose?

Professor McGonagall first clapped a hand over her mouth—but in the next instant, she drew her wand.

"Stupe—"

But before she could finish the incantation, Dumbledore stopped her.

"No, Minerva."

"Albus?"

Professor McGonagall stared at him in shock, unable to understand why he wouldn't let her act.

She had wanted to cast this spell for as long as she could remember, and had simply never had the chance.

Now, it seemed to her, was the perfect opportunity.

Dumbledore had lost, yes—but if everyone stood together, they might still be able to fight these detestable men.

"I have always said that Voldemort possesses magical power I will never possess. There is nothing shameful in admitting that."

Dumbledore spoke calmly, then turned to face Voldemort, whose eyes burned scarlet.

"I have lost, Tom."

"Ha—hahaha, hahahahaha!"

Voldemort looked down at his own hands, and then burst into a peal of delighted laughter.

"Yes—they all say you are the only one I have ever feared. And yet now, you have lost, at my hand!

"Dumbledore, this proves it once and for all: your so-called love is nothing—nothing at all—before true power!"

"I may have lost to you, Tom, but that does not mean love has no power."

Though he had been defeated on the field of open combat, Dumbledore's composure remained entirely unshaken.

"Now—it is time you honoured your word, and let us leave."

Voldemort turned to glance at Moriarty beside him. Seeing the man give a small nod, he waved a hand grandly.

"Go, then. Just as the Great Dark Lord promised—I will let you leave unharmed. Though, mind you, only for today."

"That is more than enough, Tom," Dumbledore said mildly. "It seems that with Professor Moriarty's help, you've grown rather more gentlemanly."

At the mention of Moriarty's name, Voldemort's expression shifted violently.

"Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore."

At that moment, Moriarty spoke.

"Former Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. In 1945, defeated the dark wizard Grindelwald. Renowned for extraordinary wisdom and compassion.

"In his early years, he suffered a family tragedy—his mother, Kendra, and his sister, Ariana, both died under mysterious circumstances, and his father, Percival, died in Azkaban…

"I imagine it was precisely these wounds that shaped your profound understanding of love and sacrifice. Am I wrong?"

As Moriarty recited his history as though reading from a well-worn book—including the memories Dumbledore least wished to revisit—Dumbledore showed not the slightest flicker of surprise. And there was a reason for that.

Sherlock had said it himself, long ago: Moriarty was his equal in every way.

If Sherlock had been capable of seeing such things, then naturally, so was Moriarty.

Whether out of concern that harming the students and staff of Hogwarts would lead to a mutually ruinous outcome, or simply out of a desire to cultivate his own image as a man of his word—

In the end, the professors and students left Hogwarts whole and unharmed.

All except for Sherlock Holmes—who left carried out horizontally.

But it was from that day forward that the sky over the wizarding world changed.

Minister Pius Thicknesse publicly acknowledged the existence of "the Greatest One," declared Dumbledore a traitor to the wizarding world, and issued warrants for the arrest of every member of the Order of the Phoenix.

At the same time that the Greatest One assumed the post of headmaster, Severus Snape was made deputy headmaster.

After leaving the school, Dumbledore once again expanded the ranks of the Order of the Phoenix—drawing mostly from Hogwarts professors who had been driven out, and Ministry officials unwilling to bow to Voldemort's rule.

Of course, from that year on, the only students who continued attending Hogwarts were those who supported Voldemort.

The overwhelming majority of them were pure-blood wizards.

Because under Voldemort's rule of the British wizarding world, it was this group alone that now enjoyed privilege.

Once Moriarty joined Voldemort's camp, the wizarding world of Britain discovered, to its surprise, that unlike the last time Voldemort had ruled with an iron fist, the Death Eaters no longer slaughtered indiscriminately.

Of course, the persecution of Muggle-born wizards had by no means stopped.

But even as he safeguarded the privileges of pure-bloods, Voldemort had also worked to win over the largest group in the wizarding world—half-bloods.

In earlier times, wizards of all three backgrounds had coexisted without much friction.

Now, the smallest group—pure-bloods—stood at the very top, the largest group—half-bloods—followed close behind, and Muggle-born wizards were left at the very bottom of the hierarchy. Some half-blood wizards of less than upright character discovered they could now torment Muggle-born wizards as they pleased, without fear of punishment—and the situation inevitably grew ever more fraught.

Under these conditions, this segment of half-blood wizards had, if anything, become even more devout than certain pure-bloods, emerging as some of the staunchest supporters of Voldemort's rule. And of course, wherever there was oppression, there was also resistance.

Amid all this, Harry Potter had, without question, become the single most singular figure at the heart of the anti-Voldemort resistance.

Everyone still fighting on had pinned their hopes on him.

Dumbledore's defeat had shattered the old belief that he was "the only one Voldemort ever feared."

Sherlock's death meant there was no longer anyone capable of standing against Moriarty.

Given all this, Harry Potter—who had shattered Voldemort into fragments as an infant, and who had since faced him head-on more than once without ever being outmatched—found the value of his title as the Boy Who Lived rising immeasurably.

But at the same time, the pressure weighing on Harry had multiplied many times over.

It would be no exaggeration to say that although Harry was still only seventeen, he had already become the movement's spiritual leader, second only to Dumbledore himself.

In the eyes of some, indeed, his standing had even surpassed Dumbledore's.

And this included his enemies.

On the Ministry's list of most-wanted fugitives, Harry Potter occupied a category entirely his own.

He ranked even above Albus Dumbledore.

This, too, showed that Voldemort still placed unwavering faith in that old prophecy.

Only once Harry Potter was dead could he ever truly rest easy. Which meant, conversely, that so long as Harry Potter still lived, the wizarding world still had hope.

Given this, Harry found himself forced to make repeated public appearances, doing everything he could to keep spirits from breaking.

More than once during this period, he had drifted right up to the edge between life and death.

Throughout it all, the Weasleys—true to their pure-blood family's name—had stood firmly and unwaveringly at his side.

Harry's relationship with Ginny Weasley had likewise advanced by leaps and bounds.

Part of the reason, too, was that Cho Chang remained in Asia and had not yet made her way back to England.

"I'm fine." Harry gave Ginny a strained smile. "Have they arrived?"

"They're already here. But I told them you were resting, so I didn't wake you."

"It's all right, really."

Harry rose to his feet as he spoke, and strode toward the door in a few long steps.

He drew a deep breath, and in an instant, all the exhaustion, confusion, and sorrow across his face vanished without a trace.

In their place came something else entirely—optimism, resolve, an unbending will.

The moment he pushed the door open, there stood before everyone a saviour brimming with confidence, a figure capable of leading the wizarding world out of its darkest hour. Ginny, watching his retreating figure, found herself lost in the sight of him for a moment.

"...In short, what Voldemort is putting into practice now is essentially a rigid, hereditary class hierarchy.

The ruling elite, the warrior class, the merchant/artisan tier, and the disenfranchised underclass correspond, respectively, to pure-bloods, half-bloods, Muggle-borns, and Muggles."

Harry had barely pushed the door open when Hermione's calm, logical voice reached his ears.

The sound stirred something in him.

Everyone knew that Harry Potter had been Sherlock Holmes's closest friend.

But it was Hermione Granger who had known Sherlock the longest of anyone.

The moment she'd learned of Sherlock's death, Hermione had fainted dead away on the spot.

The intensity of her grief had been so extreme that Harry, at the time, had almost wondered if she were putting on a show.

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