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HP: Bloodraven Chapter 178 - Winter’s Quiet, Spring’s Whisper
🕑 Added 2025-06-04 22:38:55 +0000 UTCOn the seventeenth of January, 1993, the students of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry returned from their winter holidays bundled in cloaks and scarves, and stepped out onto the frost-kissed platform.
But unlike the lively buzz of September, when first-years gawked at everything and older students came back full of stories, there was less excitement now. Perhaps it was the cold weather, or maybe the holiday mood hadn’t quite worn off yet. In its place was a quieter feeling—something calm and steady, like settling back into a well-worn routine.
Not far from the platform, rows of Thestral-drawn carriages waited, creaking softly in the falling snow. The students climbed inside in an orderly fashion, cloaks drawn tight against the cold. As the carriages bumped along the narrow, winding path uphill, Hogwarts gradually appeared through the drifting flakes.
The castle stood as majestic as ever, its towers rising proudly against the deepening evening sky. Snow blanketed the rooftops and turrets, softening the sharp edges of the ancient stone. Tall windows glowed with warm golden light, casting a comforting glow against the cold outside. Beyond, the Forbidden Forest lay silent and still, its frost-laced trees standing watch, while the lake stretched frozen and gleaming like glass beneath the pale evening light.
Inside the castle, not much had changed. The paintings yawned and stretched awake from their own holiday slumbers, the ghosts floated idly about, and Filch, the caretaker, muttered darkly under his breath about muddy boots in the corridors.
Yet, there was one very noticeable absence—Professor Lockhart.
Gilderoy Lockhart’s fall from grace had been nothing short of spectacular. The International Confederation of Wizards took a special interest in his case—not only because he was a renowned celebrity, but also because his victims came from all over the world, not just Britain or Europe.
And so, for the first time in years, the ICW Criminal Court and the British Ministry of Magic came together to hold a joint trial. It wasn’t the first time such cooperation had taken place—whenever a criminal’s actions crossed international borders, joint trials were held. Sometimes, it involved not just one country, but several, and things could get very messy, very quickly.
Politics often tangled with procedure, long speeches dragged on for hours, and tempers had been known to flare. Fortunately, nothing of the sort happened during Lockhart’s trial. Proceedings moved along smoothly, almost suspiciously so, and by the end of it, everything had been covered. Thoroughly.
The courtroom was filled with faces from all over the magical world. Witnesses who knew exactly of what had happened—but had stayed silent out of fear or for other reasons—finally came forward to tell their stories.
Some, admittedly, seemed more interested in the spotlight than justice, but even they spoke under magical oath. The truth, no matter the motives behind its telling, carried weight.
Of course, a few strings had been pulled behind the scenes to keep things moving—and whoever was pulling them didn’t seem too concerned about staying discreet. No laws were broken, and the sudden appearance of well-prepared, credible witnesses only added to the growing interest surrounding the case.
By the time the verdict was announced, the name behind those quiet manoeuvres had become impossible to ignore. Jamison Greengrass had played his role to perfection, and by the end of it all, the name of his noble house was no longer just a respected fixture of old bloodlines—it was being spoken with recognition and weight across the entire wizarding world.
Politically, it was nothing short of a transformation. The once-overlooked Greengrass family, long considered too quiet to matter, had become a force to reckon with. But those who truly understood how politics worked in the magical world knew better. Influence like that didn’t just appear—it was placed, carefully and deliberately, by someone who knew exactly where to set the piece and when to make it count.
Finally, it was the testimony of two victims—both recently returned to their memories—that truly sealed Lockhart’s fate. Their accounts were clear, each word heavy with a pain that silenced the courtroom. Decades had been stolen from them—families forgotten, lives lost to a lie—all so a fraud could bask in borrowed glory. After that, there was no room for doubt, no clever twist or charming smile that could save Lockhart.
The verdict, when it came, was swift and final: life imprisonment.
Every Galleon Lockhart had earned from false fame, stolen stories, and fraudulent books was stripped from his vaults and returned to his victims and their families. His smiling face—on posters, book covers, even moving portraits—vanished from shelves across the wizarding world. For a man whose greatest desire was fame and glory, this was a punishment far worse than imprisonment.
For the students of Hogwarts, neither the trial nor the verdict came as a surprise. If anything, they found it wildly entertaining. For days, news of Lockhart’s downfall made its rounds—jokes were cracked, impressions were attempted, and the drama of his disgrace kept everyone talking.
But, as always, life moved on.
For the vacant position of Defense Against the Dark Arts, a surprising name stepped forward to fill the gap—none other than Albus Dumbledore himself.
At first, the students could hardly believe it. The idea of the Headmaster—arguably the most powerful wizard alive—teaching them personally for a whole semester seemed too good to be true. Yet there he was, standing before them in the classroom, eyes twinkling behind his half-moon spectacles, and greeting them with his usual calm warmth.
Gone were the impractical lessons and self-praise that Lockhart had filled the classroom with. In their place came real defense—proper spellwork, theory, history, and even a bit of dueling practice. From the very first day, the students were captivated.
It was clear to everyone that the second half of the school year would be very different from the first.
Of course, what the students didn’t know was that the only reason their busy headmaster had stepped in to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts for the rest of the semester was because, quite frankly, he had no choice.
The careless way Hogwarts had hired Lockhart in the first place was, unfortunately, the school’s fault—and as Headmaster, that meant it was his fault. With barely a month to find a replacement, and the press ready to pounce on the next name with teeth bared and Quick-Quotes Quills sharpened, he couldn’t afford another scandal.
So, in the end, the only option was to step in himself.
Apart from the changes to the Defense Against the Dark Arts curriculum, the daily routine at Hogwarts remained much the same. Breakfast in the morning, classes until lunch, lunch in the Great Hall, then back to lessons until about four in the afternoon.
Of course, there were two whose routines had changed since the start of the semester. Maverick and Dumbledore spent their free time each day in the Chamber of Secrets, poring over the library of the four founders. Newt had left the castle just a day before school started—perhaps because he had gathered all the research he needed from the basilisk guardian, or maybe he simply didn’t want to fall into Dumbledore’s trap and end up as a professor.
Maverick found it truly baffling that the old magizoologist showed almost no interest in the books or the founders’ library and focused solely on the basilisk itself. During his stay, Newt was almost always with the serpent, disappearing into the chamber for days at a time without coming out.
Of course, his suitcase had a small nook built just for him, complete with food and a place to freshen up and sleep, so it couldn’t be said he slept on the damp stone floor of the outer chamber.
And the basilisk seemed genuinely attached to him—or maybe just really impressed by his weird nature vibe. Maverick was certain that if it weren’t for the oaths the Serpent King had taken, it would have happily slithered out with Scamander and never looked back. The man was, without a doubt, a master of his profession.
Meanwhile, Dumbledore appeared to have stumbled upon something that piqued his strange curiosity as well. It was from one of the founders’ private collections—and private for very good (and very unsettling) reasons. It was a book, no, several, dealing with demonology and curses.
Inside Salazar Slytherin’s personal chamber, the old wizard sat at a stone desk, hunched over a weathered book written in a language that curled across the pages like smoke—something that looked like ancient Latin, though likely even older.
When Maverick asked about it, the Headmaster simply raised his cursed hand and said, “I may have found a way.”
That piqued Maverick’s interest, and he cast a glance at one of the books stacked on the table.
On Entities That Linger
He picked up the half-worn volume—or more accurately, the loosely bound stack of parchments—and sat down across from Dumbledore.
The old wizard glanced up over his spectacles and raised a brow. Maverick shrugged, said nothing, and opened the heavy cover.
The language was Latin, and Maverick was fluent—or so he thought. The writing felt like Latin’s rebellious, cryptic cousin: strange contractions, twisted metaphors, and sentence structures that seemed more cursed than constructed. It was... weird.
He gave the old man another glance, then closed the book decisively and stood.
“I can’t read this stuff,” he said. “But if you need my help, just ask, Headmaster.”
Dumbledore gave his usual serene smile, nodded, and silently returned to his reading.
---
Time passed like a slow, winding river, carrying Hogwarts gently from the depths of January into the cusp of spring.
The castle's snowy rooftops gradually lost their heavy coats, icicles dripping away with each slightly longer day. January had brought sharp winds and grey skies, while February softened the edges with the occasional sunny afternoon and the first hints of thaw. By March, the air was still crisp, but the promise of spring was there—melting snow revealing patches of grass, crocuses poking through the cold soil, and the Forbidden Forest shaking off its winter hush.
Nothing particularly exciting happened during those first two months. Maverick’s routine remained steady: class, library, Room of Lost Things, Secret Chamber—on loop, day after day.
He was nearly done combing through the Room of Lost Items, having bagged—well, uncovered—most of what was useful or even remotely interesting. As for the Secret Chamber, he had worked through what he estimated to be about one-tenth of the general library’s books.
It might sound like a lot—after all, the general library alone held at least a few thousand books—but most of it was material he either already knew or knew was available elsewhere, just dressed up in older, more elaborate language. Still, here and there, he came across pockets of fresh knowledge—some in general magical theory, some in potioneering, and even a few gems in alchemy.
Outside of his studies, he joined the trio for one of their training sessions in the Room of Requirement. Just once—but that was enough. And speaking of the trio, young Harry kept his word. He hadn’t breathed a word to Ron or Hermione about the secret chamber, or anything related to it, for that matter.
To reward his impressive feat of keeping tight-lipped—even against his bestest friends—Maverick took him back to the Chamber of Secrets for a second visit in February. Of course, it wasn’t for any reading; it was purely a social visit. Harry just wanted to see his snake friend.
Most kids would run screaming from the idea of seeing a forty-foot, venomous, ancient monster twice, but Harry seemed oddly comfortable with it. Maverick chalked it up to Parseltongue instincts—or maybe Harry just had a strange taste for snakes. Either way, the basilisk clearly remembered him and didn’t seem remotely bothered. If anything, it looked… pleased.
As for the revelation about Harry possibly being a descendant of the Peverell line, Maverick decided to wait until the end of the year before telling him. Naturally, Dumbledore preferred to wait until the boy was older, but Maverick dismissed that idea outright. Beyond secrecy for its own sake, there was no good reason to keep it from him.
After a bit of polite back-and-forth—some of it persuasive, some of it just plain stubborn—the old man eventually relented and left the matter entirely in Maverick’s hands.
Did Maverick get diplomatically scammed into carrying the burden himself? Quite possibly. He, thinking himself clever enough to see through the old man’s games and didn’t give it much thought—and Dumbledore, with a twinkle in his eye, simply smiled and moved on as if the whole thing had been Maverick’s idea all along.
And so, March rolled on. In its final week, the Hogwarts Quidditch team packed their brooms once again and set off for France, bound for Beauxbatons Academy of Magic and the second round of the inter-school Quidditch tournament.
