I Already Gave Him a Heads-Up

"December 31st, the very last day of the year," Dumbledore said, gazing out the window. Rain battered against the glass, creating a blurred view, as if the room itself was steeped in a hazy atmosphere.

Harry's voice was heavy. "So, he'll return? When the snow falls?"

The prophecy stated that "he will be liberated."

Clearly, this wouldn't be like the first year, where Voldemort appeared in the form of a shattered soul.

Dumbledore sought to comfort him. "Don't worry, Trelawney didn't specify this winter. And…"

He paused for a moment.

"Prophecies often carry symbolic meanings."

"Perhaps the snow she mentioned isn't referring to winter at all."

Harry's heart tightened.

If the snow wasn't literal winter, could it be a metaphor for frost?

But he was merely an ordinary Witcher; there was no reason for that group to pursue him here. And with the timelines shifting unpredictably, he still couldn't discern their trajectory.

"What does the red-haired raven represent?" Harry asked, clearly concerned. The Weasley family had already endured enough misfortune—he couldn't bear the thought of them being dragged into even more trouble.

Dumbledore waved his hand, and a book floated into his grasp. "Young people these days seldom read mythology."

"Have you heard of the Matronae, the three mothers?"

Harry shook his head.

"They're figures from ancient myths," Dumbledore explained, flipping through the book until he stopped at a page that displayed three portraits.

The women were all red-haired, exuding strength and majesty as they sat astride horses.

"In myth, each of them could transform into a raven," Dumbledore continued.

"The one in the center is Morrígan, the eldest of the three and a goddess of vengeance, known to some as Morgan le Fay, who appeared in Arthurian legends."

"The one on the left is Macha, a goddess of magic and fate, and also a deity of war."

"The one on the right is Nemain, the embodiment of venom and terror."

Harry shook his head. "They don't sound like good omens."

Dumbledore nodded in agreement. "While it's uncertain if the red-haired raven in the prophecy refers to one of them—or perhaps to the unified goddess Baíthé Baíthe—it likely symbolizes a shift in fate."

Dumbledore looked into Harry's eyes.

Everything seemed to have changed since he first saw those "cat-like" eyes.

"Have you consulted your clairvoyant old flame?" Harry asked. "She might have some insights."

Dumbledore nodded, his tone vague. "I will, if I remain stumped."

Fearing Harry might linger on this topic, Dumbledore steered the conversation elsewhere. "Lately, Lupin's been having the house-elves search for something. Do you know anything about that?"

Harry nodded. "It's part of an agreement we made. If he hasn't found it in half a month, I'll tell you."

Dumbledore smiled faintly. "Sharing secrets with Lupin already? I must admit, I'm envious. One meeting and you two are so close."

"He's a werewolf who's managed to control himself for decades without harming anyone," Harry replied flatly. "If you could resist eating sweets for 20 or 30 years, I might treat you the same way."

Dumbledore hastily took a sip of his honey water, looking startled. "That's even harder than getting Severus to stop insulting people."

Harry smirked. "By the way, Professor Dumbledore, Sirius Black might not be searching the castle for a Horcrux."

Dumbledore blinked in surprise, about to speak.

"Don't ask me why—it's related to that agreement. In at most half a month, you'll know the truth either way," Harry said, preemptively cutting him off.

Dumbledore set his cup down and spread his hands. "Fair enough. But the thing is, I've found evidence suggesting Voldemort did indeed hide one of his Horcruxes in the castle."

"Because of my earlier guess?" Harry leaned back.

The initial theory, the reasoning behind it, and even the method were all wrong.

But the conclusion turned out to be right?

Dumbledore nodded.

Harry clicked his tongue. "Poor Tom. To be exposed by us, of all people, by sheer coincidence."

"Luck is a part of skill," Dumbledore said with a smile.

"Have you found it yet?" Harry asked.

Dumbledore shook his head. "Not yet. Tom was both clever and cautious."

His gaze shifted to the Sorting Hat at Harry's side. "Harry, keep an eye out. Perhaps Gryffindor's trials will hold some clues."

"Did he really turn the relics of the other three founders into Horcruxes?" the Sorting Hat interjected, trembling slightly and sounding apprehensive.

Dumbledore nodded. "I believe so."

"How dare he!" The Sorting Hat shrank further into Harry's robe.

Dumbledore's tone turned grave. "I spoke with Helena—the Grey Lady, Rowena Ravenclaw's daughter. She admitted Tom deceived her and stole Ravenclaw's diadem during his sixth year."

"I suspect he hid the diadem within the castle."

The Sorting Hat squirmed. "And what about Hufflepuff's and Slytherin's relics?"

"I'm unsure about Slytherin's," Dumbledore admitted. "As for Hufflepuff's, I spoke with her descendants. They said her golden cup was in their grandmother's possession, but it vanished after her death."

"Apparently, during her lifetime, she had an intense romance with a handsome young man—practically her toy boy."

"When she died, the man disappeared. At least he didn't go after her inheritance."

Harry's eyes widened. "Professor, are you saying…"

Dumbledore nodded, prompting Harry to finish the thought.

"He seduced women to get what he wanted?"

Dumbledore blinked. "Harry."

"Why is that your takeaway?"

He had expected Harry to focus on how Voldemort likely turned the cup into a Horcrux after graduation.

But instead…

"Isn't it obvious?" Harry counted on his fingers. "Ginny, Helena, Hufflepuff's descendant… oh, and Moaning Myrtle, who died fifty years ago."

"All women."

Dumbledore pressed his lips together, choosing silence.

"So, the reason he later transformed himself into that grotesque form was because he overexploited his youthful charm?" Harry mused. "To avoid people uncovering his humiliating past, he changed his appearance completely?"

Dumbledore hesitated.

What now?

This theory sounds disturbingly plausible.

"Harry, this isn't the time to delve into Tom's romantic history," Dumbledore said after a long pause, pushing down his inner turmoil. "The Horcruxes are what matter."

Harry nodded, regaining his composure.

The Sorting Hat poked its brim out and spat indignantly. "Using one's looks! That's something even Godric Gryffindor wouldn't stoop to!"

Silence filled the office.

Dumbledore and Harry both turned to the Hat.

"Such low tactics aren't more fitting for Slytherin?" Dumbledore said calmly.

Sensing danger, the Sorting Hat tried to retreat, but Harry grabbed it and pulled it out.

"Hey, I meant Godric Gryffindor himself, not the whole house," the Hat protested, struggling uselessly.

Dumbledore and Harry's expressions remained icy.

"Fine, fine," the Hat muttered. "You know, Gryffindor and Slytherin were once close friends."

"They had similar temperaments."

The portraits on the walls leaned closer, filling the nearest frame with curious faces.

"They both believed in solving problems by any means necessary. Godric was strikingly handsome," the Hat continued. "Though he never took advantage of it, his looks certainly earned him some perks."

Dumbledore adjusted his glasses. "What an interesting bit of history."

Harry stayed silent.

Gryffindor reminded him of someone.

"Ending today's lesson with such a story feels rather fitting," Dumbledore said, flicking his wand to make Harry's empty cup vanish. "You should head back and rest."

Harry stood, bidding him goodnight.

Outside, the rain poured relentlessly, its sound filling the castle corridors.

By the time he reached the Gryffindor common room, the warmth of the crackling fireplace and the sight of Ron dozing over a pile of homework finally eased his troubled thoughts.

The next day was just as demanding.

Hagrid's Care of Magical Creatures class introduced them to Mooncalves—gentle, harmless creatures whose primary value lay in their manure.

Even Hagrid's tendency to favor Gryffindor was kept in check, and his grading remained fair.

The days continued in this fashion, filled with essays, complex spells, and stern professors.

By curfew on the third day, most Gryffindor third-years were already asleep.

"Time to go," Hermione whispered, her voice low.

Ron nodded.

Harry threw the Invisibility Cloak over them, and the trio silently made their way to the abandoned classroom on the fourth floor.

"Think Filch will catch us?" Ron asked nervously.

"I already gave him a heads-up," Hermione and Harry said in unison.

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Powerstones?

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