"Welco, everyone, to a new year at Hogwarts! I have a few words to share with you... one of them rather important... so I thought it best to say it now, before you’re all distracted by the delicious feast before you."
Dumbledore cleared his throat and went on, "as many of you will already know from the search on the Hogwarts Express, several Dentors have been stationed at the school by the Ministry of Magic to carry out official duties."
A low murmur spread through the Great Hall as students glanced around at one another—especially those who had seen the Dentors on the train, their faces still carrying a shadow of fear.
"They are stationed at every entrance to the school grounds. While they remain here, I must make it absolutely clear—no one is to leave the castle without permission."
The Headmaster’s face was set and serious as his gaze swept the room, pausing briefly on the Gryffindor table.
"Dentors are not fooled by tricks, nor can they be deceived by disguises... not even invisibility cloaks. They do not distinguish between excuses and legitimate reasons. So I urge you... do not give them any reason to harm you."
He turned briefly toward the staff table. "Heads of Houses..." — then his gaze swept back across the students — "...and prefects, ensure that no student cos into conflict with the Dentors."
Percy, seated a few places up the Gryffindor table, puffed out his chest and glanced around with a self-important air.
Dumbledore paused once more. His expression stayed serious as his gaze slowly swept across the silent hall, giving the students a mont to take in the news.
"On a happier note," he said, his tone softening just a bit, "I am pleased to welco two new teachers to our ranks this year."
The Headmaster then introduced the two new professors with enthusiasm. The forr was the "generous substitute for Defense Against the Dark Arts, Professor Lupin," and the latter was "Rubeus Hagrid, who takes on the position of Care of Magical Creatures Professor while fulfilling his duties as the Keeper of Keys and Grounds."
Lupin stood up, offered a modest smile, and nodded politely around the hall before sitting back down, while Hagrid responded to his introduction with far more enthusiasm.
The students applauded warmly for both of them, with particularly enthusiastic cheers from the Gryffindor table at the half-giant officially joining the ranks of the professors.
Dumbledore’s speech, as always, was concise and ended there before he turned to Maverick to address the hall.
Just like in the previous two years, Maverick briefed the students on the arrangents for the inter-school Quidditch tournant, outlining the team selection process and announcing this year’s host. He also kept his explanation short and to the point, then handed the stage back to the old Headmaster, who finally declared the start of the great feast.
In an instant, a variety of delicious-looking food and desserts appeared on every plate, and the goblets brimd with drinks. The Great Hall buzzed with energy once more, and gradually, the gloomy expressions brought on by the unpleasant experience on the train began to fade—replaced by the cheerful clatter of knives and forks.
An hour later, once the plates were finally cleared, Dumbledore stood and instructed the prefects to lead the students to their respective common rooms—obviously marking the end of the opening feast for the new school year.
While the house leaders guided the new students away, Maverick returned to his office, then quietly slipped out the window and vanished into the night beyond the castle walls.
---
The following morning, Maverick sat in the Great Hall having breakfast, holding a copy of that day’s Daily Prophet while tuning into the various bits of gossip buzzing among the young witches and wizards.
So students clutched newspapers, surrounded by groups animatedly discussing the headlines. It wasn’t just the students—at the staff table, every professor had a copy in hand as well.
Dentors Run Amok on Hogwarts Express: Ministry’s Reckless Oversight Leaves Students Injured!
The headline struck like a punch to the gut for Britain’s magical administration, as the article made no effort to hide where the bla lay: the entire operation had been pushed through by Fudge himself.
At the center of the staff table, Dumbledore set down his copy of the Daily Prophet and turned his head, raising a very pointed eyebrow at the man beside him who was nonchalantly sipping tea and reading the sa paper.
Maverick glanced sideways, lips curling into a faint smile, and placed his paper down as well.
"The fat moron is going to have a difficult ti after this, wouldn’t you say, Headmaster?"
Cough. Cough.
From Maverick’s right, Professor Lupin—who had just taken a gulp of pumpkin juice—nearly spat it out, managing to swallow it down with great effort before breaking into a fit of coughing and clutching his chest.
"Are you alright, Professor Lupin?" Maverick asked, turning calmly in his direction.
"I’m—cough—" Lupin took a few sips of water, eyes watering slightly as he regained his breath. "I’m fine, Master Caesar. Just... sothing caught in my throat."
Maverick’s smile deepened, clearly amused, before he turned back to Dumbledore. Around them, several professors chuckled behind their cups. Maverick had never hidden his disdain for Fudge, and after two years of working alongside him, most of the staff were used to his occasional sharp remark.
"At the very least, could you refrain from arranging newspaper deliveries to the school in that manner? This is an institution of education, not a gossip pub," Dumbledore said mildly, though his eyes twinkled with pointed awareness.
He knew perfectly well who was behind all this. After all, this wasn’t the first ti a swarm of news owls had raided the school.
"Headmaster, I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about," Maverick replied with a straight face before casually taking another bite of food.
anwhile, across magical Britain, the wizarding world was waking up to the sa front-page headline—and reacting in equally dramatic fashion. In hos, shops, and crowded pubs, witches and wizards of every background were abuzz with disbelief... mostly outrage.
With very few exceptions, public sentint leaned heavily toward condemnation. The fact that children had been put in harm’s way struck a nerve, and even among those who usually supported the Ministry, the operation was seen as a reckless failure.
Noble families, in particular, were incensed. Their outrage was personal—after all, it was their heirs who had been put at risk. The justification of capturing a dangerous fugitive ant little in the face of that.
Even mbers of Fudge’s own faction found themselves uneasy. Discontent simred, and many were already preparing to descend on the Ministry, demanding an explanation.
---
BAM!
A pudgy hand slamd down on the large, ornate desk, the sound echoing through the high-ceilinged office like a thunderclap. Papers crumpled beneath the weight of the blow, their headlines barely visible as they bent under the pressure.
Cornelius Fudge, red-faced and seething, glared across the room with wild eyes. His jowls trembled with rage as he clenched the offending stack of newspapers in his fist.
"What is the aning of this?" he barked. "Has that fool Barnabas finally gone senile? Or does he think he has nothing left to lose?"
Across from him sat the only other person in the room—a squat woman in a sickly pink cardigan, every inch of her radiating smugness. Her short, curly hair frad a toadlike face, and her wide, fake smile never quite reached her cold, calculating eyes.
Dolores Umbridge folded her hands neatly over her clipboard, entirely unfazed by the Minister’s outburst. The scene before her was all too familiar—Cornelius Fudge, red-faced and sputtering, losing his composure yet again.
"I’ve already dispatched a team to summon Editor Barnabas for questioning," she said in her usual syrupy tone, though there was a sharpness beneath it. "But, Minister... I don’t believe this is rely the Daily Prophet taking liberties with your noble image. I fear we may be looking at sothing... larger. A coordinated effort, perhaps. A conspiracy."
"Conspiracy?" Fudge echoed, narrowing his eyes. At the ntion of the word, only one na ca to his mind, and that was Albus Dumbledore.
He clenched his jaw. For reasons he could never quite explain, even to himself, Fudge had always believed that Dumbledore was working against him. That behind the old man’s calm deanor and cryptic words lay a quiet campaign to unseat him... to take back control.
It didn’t matter that it had been Dumbledore’s own endorsent that helped him rise to power in the first place. Logic ant little when pride and fear were involved. And right now, with scandal flooding the headlines and nobles knocking on his door, paranoia found fertile ground.
While those uneasy thoughts about the Hogwarts Headmaster churned in his mind, a deeper, even more unsettling worry also began to gnaw at him.
The Daily Prophet had always stood by his side, echoing his policies without question. So why now? What had changed? What could possibly have driven them to publish sothing so audacious, so openly undermining his authority and tarnishing his na?
He wanted answers. He needed answers.
"No matter what... bring Barnabas. I’ll have a word with him myself."
Across the desk, Umbridge—his undersecretary and ever-loyal sidekick—nodded with her usual syrupy smile. For soone who had clawed her way up from the very bottom, grovelling to anyone with influence and licking every shoe and backside along the way, there was nothing more satisfying than watching powerful n stumble. It was, quite frankly, euphoric for her.
Unfortunately for both her and Fudge, the scene they hoped for—and the answers they sought—wouldn’t co so easily this ti. At least, not yet.
Even though Cornelius Fudge was the Minister for Magic, he couldn’t simply summon people without cause or force truths out of those unwilling to share them.
Because while he could coerce the common and the naive—force them to do things against their will and even get away with it—things changed when the person in question was soone noteworthy, soone backed by powerful allies. Then, it beca a political tug-of-war between equals—a matter of who had the bigger fist.
---
Back at Hogwarts.
Maverick finished his breakfast and made his way to the first-year alchemy classroom—his first lesson of the day—absently flipping through his schedule for the year as he walked.
Every Friday and Tuesday, he had two morning classes and two in the afternoon. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays were lighter—just three classes spread through the day—so his schedule wasn’t exactly tight.
He planned to use the free ti during the first term to finish combing through the rest of the books in the Chamber of Secrets.
There were still shelves in that hidden library he hadn’t fully explored, and he made a ntal note to return later that afternoon. With that thought, he stepped into the classroom.
—————————
Author’s Note:
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