The Gathering Of Masks.
The staff room at Hogwarts is the same as it has always been. Ancient wood, dim candlelight, the faint scent of parchment and pipe smoke clinging to the air. A place frozen in time, untouched by the outside world.
And yet, change lingers. It seeps into the cracks of conversation, into the way voices lower, glances sharpen, hands curl a fraction too tight around teacups.
War is coming.
They do not say it. Not yet. But it hums beneath their words.
I sit near the far end of the table, where shadows gather in the corners of the room. My posture is relaxed, the perfect imitation of an ordinary professor. An observer, unnoticed. But unnoticed is not the same as unseen.
“Before we begin,” Headmaster Dippet’s voice is steady, practiced, but the years weigh heavy in his throat. “I would like to extend my gratitude for your continued dedication to Hogwarts. Another year awaits us, and with it, the responsibility to shape young minds into a brighter future.”
Brighter. A carefully chosen word.
A lie.
I glance at the others. Slughorn, fingers tapping absently against his cup, eyes flickering with quiet calculation. Merrythought, her usual half-smile in place, but there is an edge to it, something brittle. Others nod along, murmuring agreement, but they are waiting.
They are waiting for what comes next.
“We must also discuss a… growing concern,” Dippet continues, and now the shift begins. “There have been reports—disturbances beyond the castle walls. Unrest.”
Unrest. Another lie.
They mean Grindelwald.
They mean the whispers of darkness spreading across Europe, curling into the edges of Britain, no longer a distant storm but a shadow at their own doorstep.
Merrythought speaks first, voice light but laced with steel. “This is Hogwarts, Armando. Whatever happens beyond these walls, it does not change our purpose.”
“Perhaps not,” Slughorn interjects, “but we would be fools to pretend our students are not affected.” His gaze sharpens. “Some of them have… particular interests in the current state of affairs.”
They mean Tom Riddle.
They mean the boy who walks the halls with a quiet sort of hunger, who listens more than he speaks, who smiles but never truly means it.
There is a pause.
Dippet exhales. “I trust you will all be observant. Should any concerns arise… I expect them to be brought to my attention.”
An empty reassurance. They will watch, but they will not act. Not yet.
I sip my tea, the warmth settling on my tongue like a distant memory. No one looks at me. They do not yet know what I am.
A god dressed in human skin.
A creature that once unmade a man with nothing but thought.
They do not know.
And so, I listen.
And I wait.
And then I pounce.