The Fall of Dumbledore: The White King

End of The Year

As the final weeks of term wound down at Hogwarts, a bittersweet melancholy seemed to settle over the castle grounds. The sunny days grew longer and warmer, beckoning the students out onto the sprawling lawns and sparkling lake shores to soak up the fleeting hours of levity before summer parted them once again.

For Harry and his closest friends in Slytherin house, the end of another year felt heavier than most. So much had transpired over the past months, unbearable secrets and life-altering revelations that bound them together more tightly than a coven of blood brothers. When they caught one another's eyes across the Great Hall or between classes, entire unspoken conversations seemed to pass in those weighted glances.

Still, Harry refused to let the burdens lying in wait for the summer holidays dampen his spirits entirely. He, Draco, Pansy, Blaise, and the other Slytherin elites took full advantage of the warm, lazily drifting days. They roved the grounds in a rowdy pack, lounging on the soft banks and skipping rocks through the waters of the Black Lake. Their raucous laughter and jibes echoed off the castle walls as Harry tried to commit every achingly nostalgic moment to memory.

He knew in his heart this year marked a point of no return. One way or another, his life would be irrevocably shattered and remade in the coming weeks and months. So he reveled selfishly in the relative innocence and simplicity of youth while he still could - splashing in the shallows, daring Draco to grapple matches on the lawn, sharing a purloined bottle of dwarven wine with Blaise and the others under a canopy of stars.

These carefree rigors did little to distract from the constant, gnawing sense of unease that followed Harry everywhere beyond the safety of the Slytherin dormitories, however. In classes, at mealtimes, during Quidditch matches - always, the watchful gaze of Albus Dumbledore seemed to weigh heavily upon him with silent accusation and disappointment. Despite the old wizard's apparent belief that Harry had played some tragic role in Ginny Weasley's demise, the young Slytherin knew the reality was quite the opposite. He had emerged on the other side utterly remade, a disciple of ancient darkness fully committed to the rise of Lord Voldemort.

Harry met the headmaster's stony stares with flinty determination. He knew the strained set of Dumbledore's mouth all too well, the palpable sorrow and frustration rolling off his tensed form in waves. Let the old man wring his hands and mourn his shattered preconceptions about the Chosen One. Harry reveled in his mentor's incomprehension, in the knowledge that his true machinations remained sealed behind the impenetrable veil.

At night before surrendering to fitful dreams, Harry often found his fingers unconsciously tracing the snake-like scars crisscrossing his arms and chest like runes of eldritch power. Reminders of his harrowing transformation in the Chamber of Secrets into the dark heir Riddle helped forge. Each ridge of mottled flesh was like a brand proclaiming his new truth - no more an avatar of the light, but a conduit for ancient shadow magic and corruption.

With these thoughts swimming in his head for his final nights at Hogwarts, Harry let the quiet sounds of his dorm mates' deep breathing lull him into something resembling peace. No judgment, no folly of redemption, no uncertainties binding him to manufactured destinies. Only the steady drumbeat of his will, growing stronger and more resolute with each passing day.

Before long, the morning came when trunks were packed, dresses robes meticulously folded away, books stacked neatly for storage over the summer hols. A reunion with the Malfoys awaited, along with all that entailed conspiracies and shadow rites. But first, the ritualistic journey aboard the scarlet Hogwarts Express back to London's bustling King's Cross Station.

As he settled into his plush compartment surrounded by Draco, Pansy, Blaise, and the other elite Slytherins, Harry couldn't help but feel a nagging sense of unease already creeping back in. The ride stretched on for hours, punctuated by easy conversation and swapping stories, but their laughter seemed to ring just a bit more hollowly than he remembered. Their jocularity was strained, masking a vein of trepidation over the monumental events waiting just over the horizon.

At last, the train pulled into the London station, their journey ending in a billow of steam and a thunderous cacophony of squawking owls and reunited families. Harry did his best to school his features into a polite mask of bemusement while bidding his friends farewell. For most, home meant a respite after long months of study, laughter, and leisure with loved ones before buckling down to prepare for the next term.

Not him, however. As the others enthusiastically hugged their parents and guardians, levitating luggage and racing for the exits, Harry felt the weight of his solitude like a stone in his chest. He knew his fateful summer had only just begun.

With the station clearing of its bustling crowds bit by bit, the Boy Who Lived retreated into a quiet alcove near the barrier back to the Muggle world and steeled himself. Taking one final, shuddering breath, he closed his eyes and focused with an intensity born from weeks upon weeks of disciplined mental exercise. When next he opened them, every last vestige of the lost, Muggle-born waif persona had vanished behind a mask of inscrutability.