ACT5CH7 - THE GATHERING OF KNIVES

Albus Dumbledore watched — and for the first time in decades, he wondered if the calculations he had built his life upon had finally slipped beyond his reach.

Harry Potter stood before the Wizengamot, the blackened bone of the Elder Wand cradled at his side, the Cloak — no longer merely the Invisibility Cloak but something far older, far darker — trailing behind him like a spill of living shadow.

Albus felt it.

Not just with his eyes, nor with the fine-tuned magic sense that had guided him through countless political chambers and battlefields. He felt it in his bones, in the thin places of the world where magic pressed too close — where Death itself whispered against the seams.

The Deathstick.

The name rang through him now, unbidden, old as legend, older than any title the wand had earned in modern years. Not just a wand, not just a weapon, but an axis — a relic so bound to the nature of power that even its owner could rarely tell where their will ended and its influence began.

Albus knew.

He had wielded it for all these decades.

And oh, how he had chained himself.

Layer upon layer of Occlumency, ritual bindings, deliberate psychological barriers, self-imposed oath-bound mantles serving as prisons crafted not only to guard his secrets, but to choke off the Elder Wand’s constant, gnawing whisper at the edge of thought. 

Take more. Command more. Be more.

Even the greatest wizard of the age could not hold it without cost. 

Without danger.

Without the creeping hunger for mastery that came baked into the marrow of the wand itself.

And Harry —

Harry now wielded the Deathstick.

And the Cloak.

And more than that — he wielded Death as its Vessel itself.

Albus felt something cold stir inside his chest, a soft shudder running through the hidden partitions of his mind.

Was this still the boy he had taught, guided, and secretly adored as the grandson he never had? The young man that had always chosen to do the right thing, instead of what was easy? One who had shed blood, sweat and tears to save others, whether it meant slipping down into the heart of the mythical Chamber of Secrets to face off a deadly basilisk; face a hundred dementors to save the man he never knew, all because he was innocent; or perhaps, taking the mantle of DADA professor even if it meant tangling with a curse that Lord Voldemort himself had placed, a curse that Albus himself had been unable to undo over the course of decades.

The sort of person that decided to ignore his own pain of loss and faced Ekrizdis with extraordinary valor to close the Anima breach.

Albus knew that the Deathstick did not serve lightly. It shaped its bearer. It amplified. It magnified. It fed not only upon the bearer’s magic, but upon their selfhood — drawing out ambition, ruthlessness, the cold, quiet certainty that one could and should impose their will upon the world.

Had Harry now risen to conquer and enslave the world, just like every other wielder before had? Like Gellert Grindelwald, or Emeric the Evil? If he was, Albus wondered if he — or any army — could really stop him.

And then there was the Cloak. No longer merely a veil, not when held by its master. 

It was a shroud. 

A promise. 

A passage between the seen and unseen, the living and the dead.

And Harry was the Keeper of the Gate.

For the first time, Albus wondered — not in fear, but in the brittle, shivering honesty of an old man standing at the edge of a truth he had long tried not to name —

If Harry Potter, who stood before them now, could truly hold back. 

If the boy he had once known, once gently shepherded, was still in there at all. 

If there was a line Harry wouldn’t cross.

Because what stepped into the Wizengamot today was not just power. It was power unbound. Power that did not tremble at old oaths or ancient laws or polite parliamentary restraint.

Power that knew, deep in its bones, that if it wished —it could shatter this place to splinters.

A part of him — the Professor, the Grandfather, the one that ached to shield Harry even now — whispered desperately that surely, surely, the boy he loved was still in there. Surely Harry would show the restraint, the patience, the hope that had always marked him.

But Albus, Brian and Wulfic — old strategists who had watched too many wars unfold, knew a harsher truth.

This Harry…

This Harry might not need to.

And therein lay the danger. For all Harry’s calm, for all his unshakable presence, Albus knew that power alone — naked, undeniable power — bred not only awe, but fear. And fear, when cornered, struck back.

Mulciber was the first voice to break the silence.

“Lord Potter,” he drawled, his tone oily with the satisfaction of a man who believed, wrongly, that power came from procedural control. “You stand before this body to answer for your unilateral use of magic — magic tied to international security, to national safety, to the very integrity of magical governance itself.”

Harry tilted his head, just slightly. The shadowed folds of his cloak rippled faintly, though no wind stirred the room. His yellow, slit-pupiled eyes rested on Mulciber — and the man’s voice faltered, just for a breath, just for the smallest catch of the throat.

Albus noted it. 

Noted the way even the boldest accusers, the most polished speakers, stumbled under that gaze.

Because the Gatekeeper didn’t have to argue. He didn’t need to protest or plead. 

He simply needed to exist, and the air trembled around him.

Mulciber swallowed, pressing on. “We have reason to believe that you, without prior consent from this body, without authorization and without any oversight, decided to take preemptive actions and employ the Fidelius charm to… shall we say, hide the place where the Anima had been unleashed. The place, I believe, is wherever you do… Gatekeeping. How do you plead?”

“Guilty.”

The bluntness in Harry’s words took everyone by surprise. 

Albus winced. Just that confirmation would work against Harry now. Until all this time, all they had was mere suspicions. Now, those suspicions would gain teeth.

“You — you confess to casting the Fidelius charm?”

“I do.”

“Knowing fully what it would entail —”

“You cannot cast the Fidelius without knowing what it entails, Lord Mulciber.”

His statements made the man suffer a whiplash. “I — yes, of course. That means you knowingly, voluntarily, cast the Fidelius to hide this… place where you do Gatekeeping, from the Wizengamot.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Hm, that’s a relevant question,” said the Gatekeeper. “I believe we have someone here that can answer it for us. Am I right, Minister Bones?”

Even Albus went from looking at Harry to gaping at Amelia. He had always known the woman to be level-headed, with her heart in the right place. Not someone that would perhaps, ever be part of the Order of the Phoenix, she stubbornly clung to authority and rules too tightly for that — but someone that stood against the darkness with an unwavering determination that would make Godric Gryffindor proud.

No wonder Gryffindor’s blade had found purchase in her hands.

Still.. Amelia?

“Minister… Bones?” repeated Mulciber, as the Minister slowly stood up, and for a heartbeat, the entire chamber waited.

‘We both know how things could potentially end, Harry Potter,” said the Minister slowly, firmly. “And believe it or not, it was not my intention to have the Department of Mysteries tangle with you. Not like this.”

“Ah, good,” said Harry. “At least you’re owning it up and not being a coward.”

Amelia glared at him.

“The Department of Mysteries?” asked Mulciber. “What do those bunch of shut-ins have anything to do with this?”

Neither of them bothered to even acknowledge that question.

“They attacked the site,” said Harry, his tone barely above accusal. “And they did it on your orders. And Croaker’s.”

“Croaker was tasked with close monitoring of… the site,” said Amelia warily. “They were not expected to do anything… more. Certainly nothing to cause you to suddenly leave this chamber mid-session.”

“Of course, that must be why the session was layered with a temporal stagnation right after this sham of a trial began.”

Murmurs began in the crowd.

“Croaker? —”

“Temporal —”

“What are they talking about —?”

“Bones must be with him in —”

“SILENCE!”  claimed Albus Dumbledore, banging the gavel. He still had an opportunity to salvage the situation. “Harr— Lord Potter, am I to believe that an untimely action by the Department of Mysteries that had… something to do with this unnamed place, caused you to leave mid-session? And… the Unspeakables had actually charmed this courtroom to stagnate in time?”

He was practically glowering at the sole Unspeakable sitting in one corner, a little away from Bones herself. 

An expression that he was sharing with the Minister herself.

Said Unspeakable stood up, his hood still up, maintaining his identity intact. 

“Well?” asked Albus.

“It’s classified, Chief Warlock.”

“Understood,” said Albus. “As Chief Warlock and your superior, you may now de-classify it for me.”

 In the stunned silence that followed, nobody even had the guts to point out that Albus Dumbledore had just pulled rank on somebody else in the middle of a Wizengamot session.

“We were under orders from the Voice himself. To take preemptive action and set this up. The… unit that was stationed in the North Sea… and they found something there, something that might have further triggered Lord Potter into suddenly leaving, shattering past our barriers.”

“But why the North Sea?” asked the Minister, confused.

“Exactly what I was wondering,” said Albus, frowning. “I thought the Minister said Croaker was tasked with monitoring this… site.”

“Yes.”

“So what were you doing in the North Sea?” demanded the Minister.

“That was where the Lochness was told to be, Minister.”

“But the only venue of importance there is Azkaban prison,” Bones replied heatedly. “What has that got to do with these orders?”

“If you will forgive my impertinence, Minister, Chief Warlock,” said the Unspeakable. “I believe it might have made sense before the Fidelius was cast.”

And just like that, all eyes turned to Harry Potter.

“Lord Potter,” said the Minister firmly. “I must ask you to undo the Fidelius and set things straight.”

“And why must I?” 

“Because it’s not right!” Bones stressed.

“Harry — Lord Potter,” said Albus, with just a tad of pleading in his voice. “Please do not aggravate this situation any further. It will not turn out the way you expect things to do.”

The Gatekeeper tilted his head a little, before looking at the Minister. She did not look away.

“Ekrizdis wanted to become God. He had access to the power to reshape Reality as we know it, and rebuild it in his image. I stopped him, sealed the power back and constructed a… Gate, to hold the tear tight. My godfather sacrificed his life to dispel the ritual circle atop St. Mungo’s, a circle that Ekrizdis had given Voldemort so that the bastards could trap me and use my power for their benefit.”

This time, he met Albus’s eyes.

“Power is what lets you destroy. Responsibility is what makes you choose not to. You taught me that, Professor Dumbledore.”

“And I am glad you took them to heart, Harry,” said Albus, ignoring the faux pas. “But how does that pertain to this?”

“Oh it does,” said Harry. “In spite of everything I had to go through, in spite of all my pains and losses, I have held up the mantle of Gatekeeper. I have taken up the responsibility because I must. I chose to stay away, confined at my Gate, until you — all of you — dragged me out into this freak show! And then when you realized that I wasn’t ready to be anyone’s pawn, you decided to take preemptive action. Actions that could have had disastrous consequences had I not intervened that very instant!”

He glared at the Minister.

“You make mistakes, and become the hero. Act preemptively with hostility and call it precaution. I act in defence of my duties, and I become the villain? How’s that fair?”

He took a step forward.

“I’ll be frank. I’m certain the whole lot of you have your reasons to control me. Some of you are nationalists who just want to keep the ICW from poking its nose into British territory. And if that means scapegoating me, you won't think twice. And then there are some of you that want to use this situation to gain power, either by dismantling the Potter Alliance, or throw me to the ICW, curry favor from international figures, or just want me dead or gone because of what I did to Voldemort, Ekrizdis, or your delusions of some return of the age of the gods. And then there are those of you who simply don’t want to be on the sinking ship and are too eager to latch on to the nearest offer of safety that the sharks are throwing at you.”

Another step.

“Debts. Vows. Fears. Agendas. Nationalism. Pride. Vengeance. I’m sure you have a litany of reasons to gather together for this sham of a trial. And I don’t care for them. They are your reasons. Not mine. I just want you to understand one simple thing.”

The floor stirred.

“Make no mistake,” said the Gatekeeper. “I did not become this strong because of Wizarding Britain, and I certainly didn’t obtain this strength to serve Britain. You all have no claim to my power other than what I allow, and frankly, seeing you all act like insecure, spoiled children like this because I happen to have power you cannot control is so silly and disappointing that it’s downright embarrassing.”

“And with the site sealed away under Fidelius,” said Albus wearily. “What are your aspirations now?”

“Finish my OWLs,” said Harry, exhaling. “And continue taking the Defence classes that you dumped on me, I guess.”

“And for the long term?” asked Tiberius Ogden.

“If you’re asking about what it means for the Wizengamot, I’ll disappoint you. Despite what some idiots would have you believe, I have never deserted to be a long term face of the Wizengamot. I don’t have the patience or the stomach for endless and pointless backstabbing between fools that endlessly put their pride before their own progress. The only long term projects I care about is my own research, the Workshop, and fulfilling my duties to my near and dear ones. And I fully intend for it to not include endlessly being the subject of controversy by weak-minded fools, greedy dark lords, and ancient contracts that can potentially wipe out humanity. Let somebody else deal with the nonsense.”

“And… the Fidelius?”

“It stays as it is. Safe from the hands of the inept, the greedy, and the corrupt.”

“Say we do not agree with it,” said Arabella Brown, standing up. 

“Then you’ll have to face a disaster that will make what Ekrizdis did look like a first-year’s attempt at a stunning spell.”

“What?” 

Harry’s eyes glinted. “Me.”

It was about as subtle as a sledgehammer. And judging from the lack of noise, the impact was just as devastating.

It was interesting to see the crone react to his words. And the others. Mulciber personally looked like he couldn’t be sure whether to take advantage of Harry’s rancor and open disdain of the Wizengamot, or be shocked at his blatant honesty.

Even Albus himself was flummoxed.

Archibald Smith was the first to crack. 

“Preposterous!” he roared, slamming his gavel-styled ring against the table. “You presume to dictate terms to the governing body of this nation?”

“Oh, come off it,” Daphne Greengrass’s voice rang out, clear and cool. “You’re trying to pull rank against the one man who brought back millennia-old Family Magic, elevated his House to nobility by Rite, and sealed an active apocalypse with his bare hands?”

“Nobility or not,” hissed Arabella Brown, rising stiffly, “refusing to submit to the authority of this chamber borders on sedition.”

Andromeda Tonks stood next, hair like black fire under the floating flames. “Refusal to submit to what? This isn’t governance, it’s a tantrum in brocade robes.”

That was all it took. The chamber erupted. Voices rose like dueling spells, Lords and Ladies shouting over one another, some demanding order, others sanction, and a brave few—blood.

Worse still, many of those voices came from once-allies. The Potter Alliance’s foundation had never been fragile, but neither was it immune to politics.

“Let this record show,” Nott said, ever the weasel, “that Mr. Potter has declared himself above the Wizengamot’s jurisdiction. That constitutes sedition against the Ministry of Magic.”

“Coming from a Death Eater?” Andromeda scoffed. “That’s like a dragon calling a salamander flammable.”

“You —”

Silence blanketed the Great Hall.

Albus Dumbledore slowly lowered his hand. The silence he’d imposed lay heavy across the chamber, flattening every sharp tongue, every restless whisper, every half-spoken insult. Only the faint crackle of the enchanted torches remained, their pale blue flames flickering along the marbled walls.

Albus let the hush settle, just long enough for the weight of it to press into each impatient heart. 

Just long enough for Nott’s lips to tighten. 

Just long enough for Mulciber’s sneer to twitch. 

Just long enough for Harry’s yellow eyes to gleam faintly in the stillness, head tilted in subtle amusement.

“We will take a recess.”

Several members looked ready to protest, but one raised hand silenced them all.

“Half an hour. To gather our thoughts. To cool our tempers. And to recall,” — his gaze swept slowly across the assembly — “that the purpose of this body is not to shatter, but to deliberate.”

His eyes flicked, just for a heartbeat, toward Amelia Bones. She gave a sharp, curt nod — her mouth a thin, tight line, her gaze already turning cold as steel. She was as likely to corner Croaker and dig every last word out of him.

Albus exhaled softly. One fire at a time, Amelia. One fire at a time.

Then, just for a moment, his gaze touched Harry. The boy — no, the Gatekeeper — stood still, watching him, that faint, slanted smile still tugging at his mouth. 

There was no mockery in it. 

But there was no softness, either. 

Just… understanding.

Albus inclined his head, the barest gesture. A silent offer.

Come. Let us talk. Before the storm returns.

Without waiting, Albus lifted his gavel and struck it sharply once.