What was a pure-blood banquet like?
Refined. Hollow. Boring.
At least, that was how Dawn felt.
Especially with the endless speech droning on in the center of the hall—he was tempted to knock out all of the speaker's teeth just to stop the noise.
"Those who confront danger directly—Aurors and Hit Wizards, who risk their lives for our safety—yet their wages place them only in the middle of society! This is sothing I cannot accept!"
Old Avery stood at the center of the banquet, speaking passionately.
Dawn snorted.
What nonsense.
Aurors were absolutely among the higher-paid professions in the wizarding world. Even many departnt heads earned less than them, and Hogwarts' four Heads of House didn't necessarily make more either.
Middle inco?
Please.
Dawn tuned out the useless speech. Feeling the turbulent magic inside him, he uncorked a vial of Anger Potion and poured a bit into his drink.
Still… thinking again, perhaps Old Avery's definition of "middle inco" was asured against his own.
After all, at the start of the banquet, this extrely generous pure-blood had casually donated fifty thousand Galleons to the Auror Office and another fifty thousand to the Ministry.
He had even established a charitable foundation for all patients, including werewolves.
Finally, he announced—on behalf of the Hogwarts Board of Governors—that funding for the school would increase by thirty percent this year.
With that kind of spending, of course he thought Aurors were underpaid.
Dawn took a sip of wine.
Bitterness spread across his tongue, followed by a faint dizzy warmth trickling through his nerves.
It was his first ti drinking alcohol in his entire life.
It didn't taste good, but the drunken haze softened the overheated fury of his brain. It felt… nice.
He took another sip.
He knew perfectly well that drinking at this mont was unwise, yet the sensation was addictive.
The banquet continued like a wind-up machine—thodical, artificial.
A rapid clicking noise snapped from nearby.
Rita Skeeter was snapping photos nonstop, her automatic quill scribbling florid praises onto parchnt.
Dawn narrowed his eyes as he caught glimpses of Dumbledore's na repeated again and again.
Clearly she had begun her usual routine: praise one party, slander another.
Just then, Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magical Justice, stepped up beside Old Avery and posed with him for several photos. He seed in a hurry—within minutes, surrounded by aides, he exited the castle.
Dawn leaned against the wall, watching people drift in and out.
Alcohol settled warmly in his veins. The lights blurred into a soft haze, like drifting clouds.
Why hasn't Dumbledore left yet?
He glanced toward the banquet's edge. The young red-haired man—Dumbledore in disguise—was still talking cheerfully with a plump, flirtatious witch.
What would Grindelwald think if he saw this scene?
His thoughts scattered wildly, but he found the sensation oddly pleasant.
There—Lucius Malfoy brushed past the disguised Dumbledore and didn't recognize him at all, rely giving a haughty snort.
Everything was beginning to feel amusing, dreamlike—like Dawn had stepped out of the world and was simply watching a play unfold on a stage.
His emotions, sharpened by both alcohol and the Anger Potion, swung rapidly.
A mont ago he had been smiling at the taste of wine; now, after glimpsing Dumbledore, a sudden heaviness dragged at his chest.
Annoying.
Dawn sighed. Apparition was permitted inside the castle.
If Slughorn tried to leave while Dumbledore was still present, Dawn would neither attack in front of the old headmaster nor could he guarantee keeping up with Slughorn if the man Apparated away.
But it didn't matter.
Dumbledore was bound to leave halfway through.
Dawn checked the clock and brightened slightly.
"Sir?"
"Sir!"
"Sir, are you listening?"
A voice pulled him back.
He turned to find a tall, muscular man with blue eyes and short golden hair standing beside him.
Seeing Dawn's dazed expression, the man imdiately launched into an enthusiastic introduction.
"Sir, do you enjoy Quidditch? Oh, what a foolish question—who doesn't enjoy Quidditch?"
He laughed heartily. "My na is Ludo Bagman, Head of the Departnt of Magical Gas and Sports."
Ludo Bagman?
Dawn tilted his head. The na was familiar.
Where had he heard it— Ah, the Triwizard Tournant. That was it.
Once he rembered, Dawn felt oddly triumphant, as though he'd solved so grand puzzle. He lifted his cup and took another sip.
Bagman continued without pause:
"Sir, the mont I saw you, I felt you were soone with great presence!
I once played Beater for the Wimbourne Wasps, and rumor has it the Wasps are poised to win this year's League. Would you be interested in placing a wager?"
Right. Bagman—bankrupted by gambling.
Dawn smiled vaguely. He tossed his empty glass aside. Bagman reflexively caught it.
Realizing he had just acted like a waiter, Bagman's face darkened, though he tried to maintain a pleasant tone.
"So, sir, does this an—"
"Quidditch?" Dawn interrupted.
Under the hazy drunkenness, he grinned.
"Who would be interested in a sport where people fly around like insects? Would you?"
Bagman stared as though struck.
Insulting Quidditch was bad enough—but clearly the insult was aid at him personally. His face shifted from black, to green, to a furious purplish red.
Dawn chuckled, observing the shifting colors like an artist studying paint. But since Bagman didn't explode, Dawn got bored and waved him away.
Bagman watched Dawn's retreating figure, veins bulging on his hand. But seeing the crowd around him, he swallowed the rage and set the glass down stiffly.
Music drifted from enchanted instrunts, filling the castle with elegant notes.
Little clusters ford throughout the hall—people who attended the sa banquet, yet clearly separated by invisible social lines.
"Professor Slughorn! Thank you for honoring my invitation!"
Old Avery approached Slughorn with a bright smile, clinking glasses.
Slughorn chuckled and returned the gesture. "Avery, you flatter . Soone of your standing extends an invitation—how could I possibly refuse?"
They exchanged pleasantries around a small round table.
Then Avery steered the conversation toward business. "Professor Slughorn, may I place an order for so potions?"
"A simple matter!"
Slughorn agreed instantly. A chance to build ties with soone like Avery was not sothing he would overlook.
"What do you need?"
"Felix Felicis."
Avery said it without hesitation.
He had considered it for two days—ard with the Luck Potion, he believed he could face Dawn Richter one-on-one. The boy was only eleven, after all.
Avery listed several more potions—Fire-Protection Drafts, Healing Concoctions, and anything remotely useful in a duel.
He was trying to recall if he'd missed any when—
A purple-robed fat man pushed through the crowd and sat down uninvited at their table.
"Slughorn."
The fat man drawled the na lazily. "Can you tell your address? I have potions that I urgently need brewed."
Avery frowned.
He recognized the man at once—Jiggs, the small-ti shopkeeper from Diagon Alley.
Honestly, if pure-blood etiquette didn't require a host to morize and acknowledge every guest…
Soone of Jiggs's standing would never deserve a second glance.
Avery had invited him rely as background decoration—to make the genuine pure-blood guests feel superior.
Slughorn, polite but dismissive, answered without looking at him. "My apologies, sir, but I am in the middle of a discussion with Mr. Avery. If you require anything, contact later."
He wasn't offended—Slughorn was too vain and too experienced to care about minor rudeness. He simply saw no social value in the man and dismissed him.
"Avery, I can prepare all the potions you listed. If you need them urgently, I can borrow from other masters. But may I ask what you need them for?"
Avery smiled lightly.
"It is because of Dawn Richter."
Slughorn raised an eyebrow. "The fugitive?"
"Indeed."
Avery nodded. "I heard he returned to Britain. He's a disgraceful little wretch—but it's always better to be prepared."
Slughorn thought Avery was overreacting but nodded along.
"You're right to be cautious. That kind of unhinged criminal is capable of anything."
They clinked glasses elegantly.
Then—
"Interesting! Very interesting!"
The purple fat man slapped the table, laughing loudly.
Avery stiffened, annoyed at yet another interruption.
"Hmph! Isn't it obvious?" he sneered. "Dawn Richter is nothing but filth. We gave a mudblood like him the chance to learn magic, and instead of gratitude, he bares his fangs at us."
He thought of how much gold he had spent today and grew even more irritated.
"He's worse than a dog. At least a dog knows to wag its tail after being fed."
The fat man laughed even harder, nearly rolling out of his seat.
Avery frowned again.
He opened his mouth to rebuke him, but the fat man abruptly stopped laughing and pointed toward the castle entrance.
"Hey, look. A treat."
A treat?
Avery turned automatically—
And froze.
Through the open castle doors, across the distant sky, green light erupted—twisting with black mist. A skull, entwined with a serpent, slowly appeared.
The Dark Mark.
"Death—Death Eaters?!"
Avery shrieked in disbelief.
"Impossible—!"
His cry shattered the hall's tranquility. More and more people saw the symbol. Panic rippled through the crowd.
"No—that can't be! The Dark Lord is dead! He's dead!"
"Calm down! It could just be a stray Death Eater who escaped punishnt—don't panic!"
The hall dissolved into chaos.
Bang!
Dawn heard a familiar crack. He turned—Dumbledore's disguised form had vanished.
Dawn covered his mouth and laughed softly.
This was delightful.
The terrified screams, the crashing chairs—like a ridiculous stage play.
Avery's back soaked with cold sweat. He had lived through Voldemort's reign—he recognized that sickening green instantly.
He pushed up from his chair— And a crushing force slamd his hand down, pinning him halfway across the table.
Pain—sharp, searing—shot through him.
"Ah—!"
He stared down in horror.
A gleaming silver table knife had stabbed clean through his palm, nailing it to the polished wood.
"Jiggs! You—"
He choked on the words, eyes widening.
And Dawn smiled.
___________
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