Chapter Text
Albus Potter and the Dreamer's Curse
Chapter 1: The Jackal's Wager
The smell of ancient parchment hung heavy in the air, mingling with the dust that danced lazily through the single beam of moonlight piercing the gloom of the Restricted Section. Albus Severus Potter sat hunched over a blank piece of parchment, his quill hovering uselessly above the unmarked surface. The large, ornate clock on the distant wall had just chimed midnight, each resonant toll feeling like another nail in the coffin of his academic career.
"I'm never going to finish this," Albus muttered, dropping his quill and running his fingers through his unruly black hair—a trait inherited from his father that he had come to resent. "Vector's going to fail me for sure this time."
Across the table, partially hidden behind a teetering stack of arithmancy texts, Scorpius Malfoy's pale face emerged. His silver-blond hair gleamed almost ethereally in the dim light as he peered at his friend with a mixture of exasperation and sympathy.
"You haven't even started yet," Scorpius pointed out, his voice deliberately measured in that way Albus had come to recognize as his friend's attempt to be encouraging without sounding condescending. "The essay isn't due until Friday. That's nearly three whole days."
"Three days to write four feet on 'The Practical Applications of Advanced Summation Theory in Modern Spell Creation,'" Albus groaned, slumping further into his chair. "James would have had it done a week ago and gotten an Outstanding."
The familiar weight settled in Albus's chest—the crushing pressure of two legendary names and one famous father, all of which he was failing to live up to. Albus Dumbledore had been the greatest wizard of his age. Severus Snape had been a potions prodigy and a war hero. Harry Potter had saved the wizarding world. And here sat their namesake, a mediocre fifth-year Slytherin who couldn't even start his Arithmancy essay.
Scorpius closed the ancient tome he'd been reading with a gentle thud and leaned forward. "James wouldn't know Advanced Summation Theory if it transfigured itself into a Quaffle and flew up his—"
"Must you always be so crude, Malfoy?"
The sharp voice cut through their conversation like a slicing hex. Rose Granger-Weasley stood at the end of their table, her arms folded across her chest, her Gryffindor prefect badge catching the dim light. Her bushy auburn hair was pulled back in a practical bun, but several strands had escaped to frame her face, which wore an expression of practiced disapproval.
"Must you always be so punctual to criticism, Granger-Weasley?" Scorpius replied, leaning back in his chair with exaggerated casualness.
Albus suppressed a sigh. After five years, their exchange had become as predictable as the movements of the Giant Squid—constant, rhythmic, and impossible to stop.
Rose ignored Scorpius and turned to Albus. "You haven't started your essay yet?" She dropped her bag on the table with unnecessary force, causing a small cloud of dust to rise from the ancient wood. "I finished mine yesterday. Vector's going to notice if you copy from Scorpius again."
"I don't copy," Albus protested, heat rising to his face. "I... reference extensively."
"You referenced my conclusion on transmutation theory so extensively last month that you copied my spelling mistake about 'transfirguation,'" Scorpius said with a grin.
"Whose side are you on?" Albus hissed.
"The side of academic integrity," Scorpius replied solemnly, though his eyes danced with amusement.
Rose snorted. "That's rich coming from you, Mr. I-Need-Another-Week-For-My-Artistic-Process."
"It's called a methodical approach to scholarship, not procrastination," Scorpius shot back, his pale cheeks tinged slightly pink. "Some of us prefer quality over your Gryffindor rush to finish first."
"Some of us," Rose replied, pulling out a chair and sitting down, "actually care about deadlines and rules."
"Fascinating. Tell me more about how following rules blindly has always worked out well for your family," Scorpius drawled.
There it was, Albus thought—that spark in their bickering that had been growing steadily more pronounced over the past year. He'd pointed it out once, only to have both of them turn on him with such vehemence that he'd sworn never to mention it again. Still, it was there, crackling between them like a poorly cast protection charm.
"Can we please just focus on helping me not fail?" Albus interjected, playing his usual role as reluctant mediator. "I need something original for this essay. Vector specifically said she'd dock marks for regurgitating the textbook."
Scorpius's expression shifted, his academic competitiveness awakening. "Well, there's your problem. You're looking at all the standard texts." He gestured dismissively at the pile of books. "We need to find something obscure, something Vector hasn't seen a hundred times before."
"That's actually not a terrible idea," Rose admitted grudgingly.
"Your astonishment wounds me deeply," Scorpius replied, placing a hand over his heart.
"The really old arithmancy texts are at the back," Rose said, ignoring him. "The ones that predate standardized notation."
Scorpius was already on his feet. "Leave it to me. I know exactly where to look." He disappeared into the shadowy stacks with the confidence of someone who had spent far too many nights in the Restricted Section.
Rose turned to Albus, her expression softening slightly. "You know, you could have asked for help earlier. I would have—"
"I don't need special treatment," Albus cut her off, more sharply than he intended. "Sorry, I just... I'm tired of being 'Harry Potter's disappointing son' or 'the Slytherin mistake' or whatever they're calling me in the common rooms these days."
Rose's face fell. "No one who matters thinks that, Al."
"Dad doesn't say it, but I know he thinks it. Every time I go home, and James has another trophy or award letter..."
"Uncle Harry's not like that," Rose insisted. "And you know Aunt Ginny would hex anyone who compared you two."
Before Albus could respond, a triumphant "Aha!" echoed from the depths of the bookshelves. Moments later, Scorpius emerged, carrying not the dusty tome Albus had expected, but a slim volume that seemed to absorb the dim light around it rather than reflect it. It was bound in what looked like obsidian leather, with no visible title, only a strange silver hieroglyph etched into the spine.
"This," Scorpius announced, placing the book on the table with reverent care, "is definitely not in Vector's standard reading list."
The cover was blank except for a single ornament: a black stone scarab beetle set into the leather, its carapace gleaming with an oily iridescence that seemed to shift colors as Albus looked at it.
"What is it?" Albus asked, feeling a strange reluctance to touch the book.
"Egyptian, by the look of it," Scorpius said, his voice hushed with scholarly excitement. "Pre-Alexandrian period, if I had to guess. The magical practices of ancient Egypt are considered the foundation of modern arithmantic principles."
"That's... not a standard reference book," Rose said slowly, a note of caution entering her voice. "Where exactly did you find it?"
"Behind a false panel in the Ancient Studies section," Scorpius admitted. "I noticed it last term when I was researching for History of Magic."
"And you didn't report it?" Rose's voice rose in pitch. "Scorpius, books hidden like that are usually hidden for a reason!"
"Which makes them the perfect source for an original essay," Scorpius countered, already carefully opening the cover.
Inside, on the first page, was a title written in faded crimson ink: De Necromantia et Chronomantia Aegyptiaca.
"Ancient Egyptian Necromancy and Chronomancy," Rose translated, her face paling. "Scorpius, that's—that's highly illegal! Both of those magical disciplines are banned by the International Confederation of Wizards!"
"Only the practice, not the historical study," Scorpius corrected, already turning to the first chapter. "Besides, this is clearly an academic text, not a practical guide."
Albus felt a flutter of unease but also a spark of desperate hope. This was exactly the kind of source that could elevate his essay from mediocre to exceptional. Something Vector had never seen before. Something that might, just once, put him ahead of James.
"Let me see," he said, reaching for the book.
"Wait!" Rose hissed, grabbing his wrist. "We should at least cast some basic detection charms. Books like this often have protection spells or curses."
"In Hogwarts?" Scorpius scoffed. "The school wards would neutralize anything truly dangerous."
As they argued, Albus's fingers brushed against the scarab beetle on the cover. It felt unnaturally cold, as if it were drawing heat from his skin. Scorpius, noticing his interest, reached out and traced the outline of the insect with his fingertip.
"Beautiful craftsmanship," he murmured. "The scarab was a symbol of rebirth and resurrection in Egyptian mythology. The god Khepri was often depicted with the head of a scarab, rolling the sun across the sky just as the beetle rolls its ball of dung."
"Charming analogy," Rose muttered.
As Albus leaned forward to examine the hieroglyphs on the first page, his hand inadvertently pressed against the scarab at the same moment that Scorpius's finger completed its tracing of the outline.
The effect was instantaneous.
The beetle suddenly felt warm—unnaturally so—and began to vibrate with a low, bone-shaking hum. The air around them grew thick and heavy, smelling of ozone and dry desert sand. The hieroglyphs on the page lifted off as wisps of black smoke, swirling around them like a miniature sandstorm.
"What did you do?" Rose cried, stumbling backward.
"Nothing!" Albus and Scorpius shouted in unison.
The humming grew louder, more insistent. The scarab was now glowing with a sickly green light that cast bizarre, elongated shadows across the library. The pages of the book began to turn of their own accord, faster and faster, releasing more smoke-like hieroglyphs that encircled them in a dizzying vortex.
Albus tried to release the book, but his hands seemed fused to the cover. He felt a violent, nauseating pull behind his navel, far more brutal than the sensation of a Portkey. The library was dissolving around them, replaced by swirling darkness and the impression of silent, terrible screaming.
The last thing Albus saw before the darkness consumed him was the scarab beetle detaching itself from the cover and hovering in midair, its legs moving as if it were trying to roll an invisible sun across the sky.
Then, nothing.
The impact of the stone floor sent pain shooting through Albus's body. For a moment, he could only lie there, his cheek pressed against the cold stone, the taste of dust and something metallic—blood, perhaps—filling his mouth. The violent spinning had stopped, but his stomach hadn't yet received the message, and he fought back a wave of nausea.
"Is everyone all right?" Scorpius's voice came from somewhere to his right, strained but analytical as ever.
"Define 'all right,'" Rose groaned from his left. "I think I've left half my internal organs somewhere in that vortex."
Albus forced himself to sit up, wincing as his vision swam. They were still in the Restricted Section—or at least, a Restricted Section. The same tall bookshelves loomed around them, the same heavy silence pressed down, but something was... off.
"Where's the book?" he asked, his voice sounding strange and hollow in his ears.
"Gone," Scorpius replied, already on his feet and examining their surroundings with a furrowed brow. "But that's not all that's different."
Albus followed his friend's gaze. At first glance, everything seemed the same—the table where they'd been working, the stacks of reference books, the high windows with their diamond-paned glass. But as his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he began to notice subtle discrepancies. The torches in their sconces flickered with real flames rather than the eternal magical witchlight Headmistress McGonagall had installed during the last renovation. The books on the nearby shelves looked newer, their bindings less worn and faded. Even the air felt different—heavier, damper, carrying the scent of woodsmoke rather than the clean, slightly citrusy smell of the magical air purification charms.
"The books," Scorpius murmured, trailing his fingers along a nearby shelf. "Madam Pince reorganized the Arithmancy section last year, but these are in the old arrangement. And look—" He pulled out a slender volume. "Advances in Divinatory Calculus by Emmeline Vance. This was destroyed in the Battle of Hogwarts. I've only ever seen it referenced in other texts."
Rose had gone very still, her face pale in the torchlight. "That's not possible."
"Unless," Scorpius said quietly, "we've traveled back in time."
"That's ridiculous," Rose said, but her voice lacked conviction. "All Time-Turners were destroyed years ago. And even if one had survived, they're limited to five hours. Not... not whatever this is."
"This wasn't a Time-Turner," Albus said, remembering the scarab beetle and its uncanny movement. "This was something else. Something older. The book said Chronomancy, didn't it? Time magic."
"Egyptian time magic," Scorpius nodded, his expression shifting from confusion to a sort of horrified fascination. "Completely different from Ministry-regulated time magic. It could operate on entirely different principles."
"This can't be happening," Rose whispered, pressing her hands to her temples. "Time travel on this scale is impossible. It violates Croaker's Law of Temporal Displacement. It violates about seventeen international magical statutes. It—"
"It happened anyway," Albus cut in, standing up on shaky legs. "And we need to figure out when exactly we are and how to get back."
Scorpius was already moving toward the door of the Restricted Section, his natural curiosity overtaking his fear. "The simplest way would be to find a newspaper or check a calendar. But given the condition of the books and the torches, I'd estimate we're at least twenty years in the past."
"Twenty years?" Rose gasped. "That would put us around..."
"Our parents' time at Hogwarts," Albus finished, a cold weight settling in his stomach. The implications were staggering. If they truly had traveled that far back, they could be looking at a Hogwarts where their parents were still students. Where Voldemort was rising to power for the second time. Where Dumbledore and Snape—his namesakes—were still alive.
They followed Scorpius out of the Restricted Section and into the main library, which was eerily silent. Not the respectful quiet of students studying, but a complete and utter absence of sound. No whispered conversations, no scratching of quills, no rustle of turning pages.
"Where is everyone?" Rose asked, her voice barely above a whisper, as if the unnatural silence demanded reverence.
"It must be after hours," Albus reasoned. "Let's check the corridors."
The rest of the castle was equally deserted. Their footsteps echoed unnaturally loudly as they made their way through the familiar yet subtly different halls of Hogwarts. Suits of armor stood in positions Albus didn't recognize. Portraits he'd never seen before hung on the walls, their occupants oddly still and silent, not even stirring as the trio passed.
"Something's wrong," Scorpius said, stating the obvious. "Even at night, there should be prefects patrolling, Filch prowling around, ghosts floating through the walls. It's like the castle is..."
"Dead," Rose finished, shivering.
They reached the Entrance Hall without encountering a single soul. The great oak doors stood closed against the night, and the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall visible through the open doorway reflected a clear, star-filled sky.
"We should check the dormitories," Albus suggested. "If everyone's asleep—"
A faint sound from the direction of the Transfiguration Courtyard made them all freeze. It was the first noise they'd heard apart from their own voices—a sort of rhythmic swishing, followed by a soft muttering.
Exchanging wary glances, they moved cautiously toward the sound. The courtyard was bathed in silvery moonlight that cast long, strange shadows across the stone pathways. And there, in the center, was a small figure moving in slow, deliberate patterns.
It was a boy, no older than eleven or twelve, wearing Hufflepuff robes. He was moving his arms in a circular motion, as if polishing something, though his hands were empty. His eyes were open but strangely vacant, staring at nothing.
"Hello?" Rose called softly. "Are you all right?"
The boy gave no indication that he'd heard. He continued his polishing motion, muttering to himself, "Got to get it perfect. Match tomorrow. Can't let the team down."
Albus approached cautiously, waving a hand in front of the boy's face. There was no reaction, not even a blink.
"He's sleepwalking," Scorpius realized. "Look at his eyes—that glazed-over look. He's asleep but moving around."
"I've never seen sleepwalking like this," Rose said, frowning. "He seems to be polishing a broomstick, but there's nothing there."
"He's dreaming about preparing for a Quidditch match," Albus said. "But why would everyone in the castle be sleepwalking at once?"
They continued their exploration with mounting unease, encountering more sleeping figures along the way. A pair of Ravenclaw girls practicing silent wandwork, their lips moving soundlessly as they performed complex wand movements at empty air. A Gryffindor boy engaged in what appeared to be an animated conversation with a suit of armor, laughing and gesturing as if it were responding. All had the same vacant, unseeing eyes. All were completely unaware of their surroundings or the three strangers trying to get their attention.
Turning a corner near the Charms corridor, they came to an abrupt halt. Standing before a blackboard covered in complex diagrams was a tall, stern-looking witch with square spectacles and dark hair pulled into a tight bun. She was lecturing to an empty classroom, her voice crisp and precise as she explained the principles of cross-species transfiguration.
"Professor McGonagall," Rose breathed.
But this wasn't the elderly Headmistress they knew. This was a much younger version of Minerva McGonagall—still severe, still dignified, but with fewer lines around her eyes and mouth, her hair still black instead of iron gray.
"This confirms it," Scorpius whispered. "We've gone back at least twenty-five years."
"But why is she sleepwalking too?" Albus asked. "What's happened to everyone?"
They retreated around the corner to confer.
"This isn't natural," Rose insisted. "Entire populations don't just collectively start sleepwalking. This has to be some kind of spell or curse."
"A sleeping curse?" Scorpius suggested. "Like in those old Muggle fairy tales?"
"But why aren't we affected?" Albus wondered. "If it's affected everyone else in the castle..."
"Maybe it's because we weren't here when it was cast," Rose theorized. "We arrived after the fact."
"Or maybe the time travel protected us somehow," Scorpius added. "Either way, we need to find someone who can help. The Headmaster—Dumbledore, if we're when I think we are."
The name sent a jolt through Albus. Albus Dumbledore. His namesake. The greatest wizard of the age. If anyone could help them, it would be him.
"We should be careful," Rose cautioned. "These sleepwalkers—they're not aware of us or their surroundings. We don't know how they might react if we interfere."
As if to punctuate her warning, a thunderous crash echoed from a nearby corridor. The three of them jumped, then raced toward the sound, skidding to a stop at the entrance to a small side passage.
A fifth-year Slytherin boy stood there, his wand raised, his face contorted in an expression of fierce concentration. As they watched, he slashed his wand through the air and shouted, "Reducto!"
A bolt of blue-white light shot from his wand and blasted a hole in the stone wall opposite him, sending fragments of rock flying in all directions. Albus yanked Rose and Scorpius back around the corner just as a large chunk of masonry smashed into the spot where they'd been standing.
"He nearly killed us!" Rose gasped, her voice high with shock.
"He doesn't even know we're here," Scorpius said grimly. "He's dueling someone in his dream, but his magic is affecting the real world."
The implications hit Albus like a Bludger to the chest. "If they can all use magic while sleepwalking..."
"Then every person in this castle is a potential threat," Scorpius finished. "Unaware of their surroundings, unable to control their actions, but fully capable of using magic."
"We need to find Dumbledore," Rose insisted. "Even if he's affected too, we have to try."
They made their way toward the Headmaster's office with much greater caution, ducking behind tapestries and suits of armor whenever they encountered another sleepwalker. The password-protected gargoyle that guarded the entrance to the Headmaster's office stood inert, unresponsive to their attempts to guess the password.
"Now what?" Rose asked, frustrated.
Albus stared at the gargoyle, thinking of the stories his father had told him. "In an emergency, sometimes it just... lets you in. If the need is great enough."
As if responding to his words, the gargoyle suddenly sprang aside, revealing the spiral staircase beyond.
"That was... convenient," Scorpius said suspiciously.
"Let's not question our luck," Albus replied, stepping onto the staircase. "Come on."
The Headmaster's office was a circular room filled with delicate silver instruments that whirred and puffed small clouds of smoke. The walls were lined with portraits of previous headmasters and headmistresses, all of them unnaturally still and silent, their eyes closed as if in deep sleep. And behind the great claw-footed desk sat Albus Dumbledore.
Albus had seen pictures of his namesake, of course, and the famous Chocolate Frog card, but nothing had prepared him for the presence of the man himself. Even in sleep, there was an aura of immense power about him. His long silver hair and beard gleamed in the light from the fire crackling in the grate. His half-moon spectacles sat slightly askew on his crooked nose. His eyes were closed, but his lips moved slightly, muttering words in what sounded like German.
In his right hand, he clutched a wand—long, dark, and adorned with carvings of elderberries. The Elder Wand. The most powerful wand ever created. A Deathly Hallow, made by Death himself.
"Albus Dumbledore," Scorpius whispered, his voice filled with awe.
"He's affected too," Rose said, dismay evident in her tone. "Whatever this curse is, it's powerful enough to overcome even Dumbledore."
"What's he saying?" Albus asked, straining to hear the muttered words.
"I think it's about Grindelwald," Scorpius replied, his encyclopedic knowledge surfacing. "Dumbledore and Grindelwald were... close, before Grindelwald became a dark wizard. It was Dumbledore who finally defeated him in 1945."
A flash of scarlet and gold caught Albus's eye. On a perch near the desk sat a magnificent bird the size of a swan, with brilliant red and gold plumage and a long, shimmering tail. Fawkes, the phoenix. Unlike the portraits, the bird was clearly awake, its bright black eyes regarding them with an intensity that was almost unsettling.
"At least someone in this castle isn't sleepwalking," Rose said with relief. "Hello, Fawkes. We need help."
The phoenix tilted his head to one side, studying them with an unnervingly intelligent gaze. Then, to their utter astonishment, he spoke.
"Well, well. Visitors from another time. How tediously predictable."
The voice was dry, raspy, and dripping with sarcasm. It seemed to emanate from the bird, though its beak didn't move.
The three students stared at the phoenix in shocked silence. Fawkes clicked his beak impatiently.
"Well? Are you going to stand there gawking like first-years who've just seen a ghost, or are you going to explain why you've dragged your temporal anomalies into my carefully ordered existence?"
"You... you can talk," Rose finally managed, her voice faint.
"Yes, we've established that," Fawkes said dryly. "What's next? 'You're a bird.' 'You're red.' Shall we list all my obvious characteristics, or can we move on to something resembling an intelligent conversation?"
"Oh, for the love of—" Fawkes clicked his beak in annoyance. "I'm not a phoenix, you daft child. Not originally, at any rate. Do try to keep up."
"Then what are you?" Rose asked, her natural curiosity overcoming her fear.
Fawkes fixed her with a penetrating stare. "Once, I was a wizard. A powerful one, if I do say so myself. Until I made the grievous error of offending a particularly vindictive god." He stretched his wings, revealing the full splendor of his plumage. "Now I am this. Forever dying, forever reborn. Never changing, never ending." His voice took on a hollow quality. "Ten thousand years of watching empires rise and fall. Of seeing the same mistakes repeated, generation after generation. It does tend to give one a certain... perspective."
"Which god?" Scorpius asked.
"The same one who's currently turning this castle into his personal pantry," Fawkes replied darkly. "Anubis. The Jackal. Guardian of the dead. Judge of souls. And apparently, in his spare time, collector of magical essences." He gestured toward the sleeping Dumbledore with one wing. "This one has no idea what I truly am. In his naive heart, he believes I am simply a loyal, magical companion. It's almost touching, really, his ignorance."
"But if you're cursed to be reborn, why stay with Dumbledore?" Albus asked. "Why not just... leave?"
"Because even endless torment can become monotonous," Fawkes replied drily. "One must find some way to pass the millennia. Albus Dumbledore, for all his flaws—and they are legion, believe me—is at least interesting to observe. His machinations are... elaborate."
"We need your help," Rose said urgently, bringing the conversation back to their immediate crisis. "Everyone in the castle is under some kind of sleeping curse, and their magic is dangerous. They could hurt themselves or others."
"Yes, I had noticed the castle-wide epidemic of dangerous somnambulism," Fawkes remarked sarcastically. "Very astute of you to point it out."
"Do you know what's happening to them?" Albus pressed.
Fawkes tilted his head, considering. "It's called the Dreamer's Curse. Ancient Egyptian magic, rarely seen in the modern era. It traps the mind in an endless dream state while the physical body acts out the dream's contents." His tone grew somber. "If left unchecked, the victim's mind unravels, leaving the soul vulnerable to... consumption."
"Consumption?" Scorpius repeated, his face paling further. "By what?"
"By whom," Fawkes corrected. "By Anubis. The God of Death has developed something of an appetite for wizard souls over the millennia. They're quite the delicacy, apparently—all that magical energy, bound up in a neat little package." He fixed them with a severe look. "And you three have just delivered him an all-you-can-eat buffet."
"We didn't mean to," Albus protested.
"Oh, well, that changes everything, doesn't it?" Fawkes snapped. "I'm sure Anubis will be most understanding. 'Sorry for accidentally awakening an ancient Egyptian death god and condemning hundreds of people to soul-death. We didn't mean to.' Splendid defense."
"How do we stop it?" Rose demanded, her voice rising. "There must be a way to break the curse."
Fawkes sighed, a strange sound coming from a bird. "The Dreamer's Curse is bound to its caster. In this case, to Anubis himself. Only he can lift it—or be forced to lift it."
"And how exactly do we force a god to do anything?" Scorpius asked weakly.
"That," Fawkes said, "is the rather significant problem you now face." He hopped closer to the edge of his perch. "My magic is of life and rebirth—useless against necromantic arts such as these. I cannot help you directly."
"So we're on our own," Albus said flatly.
"Indeed. Although," Fawkes added, his eyes glinting with a strange light, "I might be persuaded to offer some... guidance. In exchange for a small consideration."
"What do you want?" Albus asked warily.
"Want? After ten thousand years, there's only one thing I want," Fawkes replied, his voice dropping to a whisper. "An end. True death. No rebirth, no renewal. Just... oblivion."
The three students exchanged horrified glances.
"You want us to... kill you?" Rose gasped.
"Not precisely. My curse cannot be broken by conventional means. But if you were to find a way to confront Anubis directly, to challenge his power..." Fawkes trailed off meaningfully. "One negotiation might lead to another."
A heavy silence fell over the office. Albus stared at the sleeping form of his namesake, the greatest wizard of the age, now helpless as a child. At the wand clutched in his hand—the Elder Wand, the most powerful magical artifact ever created. And at the phoenix who wasn't a phoenix, trapped in an eternal cycle of rebirth, desperate for the release of true death.
"All right," he said finally, straightening his shoulders. "What do we do first?"
Fawkes seemed almost surprised by Albus's directness. "First? First, you need to understand what you're dealing with. The entire castle is effectively a minefield of uncontrolled magic. Every sleepwalker is both victim and threat. Their magic is real, but their perception is entirely within their dreams. They cannot see you, cannot hear you, and cannot be reasoned with."
"We need to contain them," Scorpius said, his analytical mind already working on the problem. "Get everyone into one place where they can't hurt themselves or others."
"The Great Hall," Rose suggested immediately. "It's big enough to hold everyone, and we can secure the entrances."
"And their wands?" Fawkes prompted. "What of those? You cannot simply leave them armed."
"We'll have to take them," Albus said grimly. "Every single one. But where could we keep them safe?"
Fawkes fixed him with a penetrating stare. "Your father is Harry Potter, is he not? The boy who spoke to serpents?"
Albus felt a chill run down his spine. "Yes."
"And did you inherit his... particular talent?"
The question hung in the air. Albus swallowed hard. It was his most closely guarded secret, one he had never shared with anyone, not even Scorpius. The ability had manifested when he was nine, during a family trip to the London Zoo. He had heard the whispers from the serpent house, had answered without thinking. His father had gone deathly pale, and later that night, Albus had overheard his parents arguing in hushed, frightened tones. Since then, he had suppressed the ability, terrified of what it might mean, what dark inheritance it represented.
"Albus?" Scorpius prompted, looking confused. "What is he talking about?"
"I'm a Parselmouth," Albus admitted quietly, not meeting his friends' eyes. "Like my father was. I've never told anyone."
Rose gasped softly. "But Uncle Harry lost that ability when the Horcrux in him was destroyed."
"Apparently, some magical traits run deeper than magical parasites," Fawkes observed drily. "How... fortunate for us."
"I don't see how this helps," Albus said, uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation.
"The Chamber of Secrets," Fawkes replied, as if it were obvious. "A secure location only you can access. A perfect place to store several hundred wands, wouldn't you agree?"
Albus blanched. "The Chamber of Secrets? But that's—"
"Currently basilisk-free, thanks to your father," Fawkes interrupted. "And accessible only to those who speak Parseltongue. Unless you have a better suggestion for where to securely store the most dangerous collection of magical objects in Britain?"
Albus looked to his friends for support. Scorpius seemed thoughtful, while Rose looked torn between horror at the suggestion and recognition of its practicality.
"It... does make sense," Scorpius admitted reluctantly. "No one else could get to them."
"I can't believe we're even considering this," Rose muttered, but she didn't offer an alternative.
Albus took a deep breath. "All right. But first, we need to deal with the most dangerous people in the castle."
"The staff," Scorpius agreed immediately. "Particularly those with combat experience."
"Dumbledore," Rose said, looking at the sleeping headmaster. "And..."
"Snape," Albus finished, a strange twist in his stomach at the thought of confronting his other namesake. "We should start with them."
As if in answer to his words, a tremendous crash echoed from somewhere in the castle, followed by the unmistakable sound of shattering glass and a furious roar that seemed to shake the very walls.
"You'll find him in the dungeons," Fawkes offered unexpectedly. "He brews late into the night. A potion for the wolf, I believe."
"The wolf?" Rose asked, confused.
"Lupin," Scorpius whispered, his eyes widening. "Remus Lupin. He must be making Wolfsbane Potion."
"Which means we're in their fifth or sixth year," Rose deduced quickly. "When Umbridge was at Hogwarts."
"Delightful as this historical deduction is," Fawkes interrupted, "perhaps you might want to hurry? The potions master is working with highly volatile ingredients. In his dreaming state, the results could be... explosive."
As if to punctuate his warning, a distant boom echoed through the castle, followed by the tinkle of breaking glass.
"Merlin's beard," Rose gasped.
"Go," Fawkes urged. "I'll watch over our slumbering genius here. Though if you don't return, I do hope someone eventually thinks to feed me. Immortality doesn't preclude hunger, unfortunately."
They raced from the office.
"Fascinating," the ancient, trapped wizard murmured to himself once they had gone. "They might actually survive the night. How... unexpected."
The dungeons were in chaos. As they raced down the spiraling stone staircase, the air grew thick with acrid smoke and the tang of spilled potions. The temperature dropped sharply, the chill of the underground chambers intensified by the dampness that seemed to seep from the very walls.
Another crash, closer now, followed by an inarticulate shout of rage. They rounded a corner and skidded to a halt outside a heavy wooden door that stood partially ajar. Through the gap, they could see flashes of light and the silhouette of a tall, thin figure moving in jerky, agitated patterns.
"Snape's private laboratory," Scorpius whispered, his eyes wide. "My father told me about it. He used to brew experimental potions here."
"Experimental as in dangerous?" Rose asked tensely.
"Experimental as in unstable, volatile, and potentially explosive," Scorpius confirmed. "We need a plan before we go in there."
Albus peered through the gap in the door. The laboratory was a shambles. Shattered glass covered every surface, potions of various colors dripping from the walls and ceiling. In the center of the destruction stood Severus Snape, his black robes billowing around him, his wand slashing through the air as he fired spell after spell at invisible opponents. His face was contorted in an expression of such pure hatred that Albus physically recoiled.
"I won't let you touch her!" Snape snarled, his voice hoarse with emotion. "I'll kill you first, Potter! I'll kill you all!"
Albus felt as if he'd been punched in the gut. Potter. His father? No, his grandfather. James Potter, the bully who had tormented young Snape mercilessly. The man whose son Snape had protected at great personal cost, despite his hatred. It was one thing to hear the stories, to know intellectually that Snape had despised his grandfather. It was quite another to see the raw, unvarnished fury on the man's face, to hear the murderous intent in his voice.
"He's dreaming about my grandfather," Albus whispered. "About being bullied."
"He's more than dreaming," Scorpius said urgently. "Look at the cauldron behind him."
Albus squinted through the smoke. A large cauldron was bubbling violently on a blazing fire, the liquid inside pulsing with an ominous purple light. As they watched, Snape fired another curse that went wide, striking a shelf of ingredients. A shower of dried leaves and powdered substances cascaded into the cauldron, causing the mixture to hiss and steam alarmingly.
"That's going to explode," Scorpius said with certainty. "And take half the dungeon with it."
"We need to put out that fire and subdue him," Rose said decisively. "I'll handle the cauldron. Scorpius, you bind his legs so he can't move. Albus, you disarm him."
"On three," Albus said, drawing his wand. "One, two, THREE!"
They burst into the room together. Rose immediately aimed her wand at the cauldron. "Aguamenti!" A powerful jet of water shot from her wand, dousing the flames beneath the cauldron and sending up a cloud of steam.
Scorpius pointed his wand at Snape's legs. "Incarcerous!" Thick ropes materialized and wrapped themselves around Snape's ankles, causing him to stumble.
Albus aimed carefully. "Expelliarmus!" The disarming charm struck true, and Snape's wand flew from his hand, clattering across the room.
But the potions master was far from subdued. Even wandless and bound, he fought like a cornered animal, his eyes wild and unseeing. He lunged toward where his wand had fallen, dragging himself across the floor with his arms, his legs straining against the magical bonds.
"Stupefy!" Albus and Rose shouted in unison. The dual stunning spells hit Snape squarely in the chest, and he collapsed, unconscious but still twitching in the grip of his nightmare.
"That was too close," Rose gasped, lowering her wand with a shaking hand. "Look at this place. He could have killed himself."
Albus approached the fallen professor cautiously. Up close, Snape looked both younger and more haggard than he'd expected. His face was sallow and lined with tension even in unconsciousness, his greasy black hair falling across his face. This was the man his father had called "the bravest man I ever knew." The man whose courage and sacrifice had helped defeat Voldemort. The man whose name Albus bore.
And he looked utterly, profoundly miserable.
"The ropes aren't enough," Scorpius observed worriedly. "Even stunned, he's still dreaming. Look at him twitching. The moment the stunning spell wears off, he'll be just as dangerous."
"We need to calm him somehow," Rose said, biting her lip in concentration. "Something to ease the dreams without waking him up."
"Dreamless Sleep Potion," Scorpius suggested suddenly. "It's used to suppress nightmares. If we could find some, or brew it..."
"This is a potions laboratory," Albus pointed out. "If anyone would have it ready-made, it would be Snape."
They began searching the shelves that remained intact, careful not to disturb any of the mysterious substances they contained. After a tense minute, Rose gave a small cry of triumph.
"Found it!" She held up a small blue bottle labeled in Snape's spiky handwriting. "Dreamless Sleep Potion. Enough for one dose, maybe two."
"But how do we get him to swallow it?" Scorpius asked doubtfully. "He's unconscious, but not exactly cooperative."
Albus stared down at the twisted face of his namesake, at the lines of pain etched around his eyes and mouth. On impulse, he knelt beside the fallen professor.
"Professor Snape," he said softly. "Severus. You need to listen to me."
Snape twitched violently, his lips pulling back in a snarl even in unconsciousness.
"He can't hear you," Rose said gently. "Remember what Fawkes said? They're trapped in their dreams."
"Maybe not with words," Albus replied, not taking his eyes off Snape's face. "But somehow..." He placed a hand on Snape's shoulder, feeling the man tense at the contact. "Severus," he said again, more firmly. "You're safe. James Potter isn't here. Lily is safe."
At the name "Lily," Snape's expression changed subtly. The snarl faded, replaced by something almost vulnerable.
"Lily needs you to be calm," Albus continued, instinctively knowing he'd found the right approach. "She needs you to take this potion. It will help you protect her."
Snape's breathing had become less ragged. Slowly, carefully, Albus nodded to Rose, who uncorked the potion. With gentle pressure, Albus managed to part Snape's lips, and Rose poured a small amount of the blue liquid into his mouth. For a heart-stopping moment, they thought he might choke or spit it out, but then Snape swallowed reflexively.
The effect was almost immediate. The tension drained from Snape's body. The twitching stopped. His breathing became deep and regular, and his face relaxed into a more peaceful expression—still not happy, but no longer twisted in hatred.
"It worked," Scorpius breathed, sounding surprised and impressed. "How did you know what to say?"
Albus stood up, feeling strangely shaken. "I didn't. I just... guessed. From the stories my father told me." He looked down at the sleeping potions master. "He loved my grandmother. Even after all those years, he never stopped loving her. That's why he protected my father, despite hating him for looking like my grandfather."
"It's sad," Rose said quietly. "To be so consumed by love and hate at the same time."
"We should move him to the Great Hall," Scorpius said after a moment. "And find the others."
"Mobilicorpus," Albus murmured, pointing his wand at Snape. The professor's body rose a few inches off the ground, hovering there like a macabre puppet. Carefully, they maneuvered him out of the destroyed laboratory and toward the stairs, moving slowly to avoid jostling him and risking a return to his violent dreams.
They had just reached the entrance hall when another sound reached their ears—a soft, melodic muttering coming from the direction of the Transfiguration classroom. Leaving Snape's hovering form near the entrance to the Great Hall, they cautiously approached the source of the sound.
Professor McGonagall stood at the blackboard, her back to them, writing complex transfiguration formulas with quick, precise movements. She spoke in a low, steady voice as if lecturing to a full classroom, though the room was empty save for a few chairs that had been arranged in a neat semicircle.
"The key to successful cross-species transfiguration lies in understanding the fundamental biological similarities between the original form and the target form," she was saying. "One cannot simply impose the outward appearance of a teacup on a hedgehog without accounting for the internal structure..."
Unlike Snape, she seemed calm and controlled, caught in a dream of ordinary teaching rather than emotional trauma. But the wand movements she made as she demonstrated were real, and the spell light that occasionally emitted from her wand was concerning.
"At least she's not trying to kill anyone," Scorpius whispered. "Just teaching an imaginary class."
"She's still dangerous," Rose countered. "Those are advanced transfiguration spells. If one hits us by accident..."
"We disarm her like we did Snape," Albus decided. "But carefully. No stunning unless we have to."
They waited until McGonagall had turned back to the blackboard, then Albus stepped forward, wand raised. "Expelliarmus!"
McGonagall's wand flew from her hand, but unlike Snape, she didn't react violently. Instead, she paused, a slight frown crossing her face, then continued her lecture as if nothing had happened, making the same precise wand movements with her now-empty hand.
"That was... easier than expected," Rose said cautiously as she retrieved McGonagall's wand.
"She's deeply immersed in a normal, peaceful activity," Scorpius theorized. "Snape was in the middle of a traumatic memory, fighting for his life. The emotional intensity of the dream seems to affect how they react to outside interference."
"Let's get her to the Great Hall," Albus said. "Mobilicorpus."
McGonagall's body lifted gently into the air. As they guided her out of the classroom, she continued her lecture unabated, gesturing at invisible students and answering unheard questions with a patience Albus had rarely seen from the strict professor in real life.
They worked methodically after that, moving through the castle floor by floor. They found Professor Flitwick conducting an invisible choir, Professor Sprout tending to dream-plants in an empty greenhouse, and Madam Hooch refereeing an imaginary Quidditch match in the middle of a corridor. Each was disarmed and transported to the Great Hall, where they arranged them in neat rows, maintaining a respectful distance between them to prevent any accidental interactions between their dream-states.
It was strange and unsettling work. They were essentially kidnapping their professors, invading their private moments and dreams. Albus felt like a trespasser, witnessing things no student was meant to see—the vulnerability of the adults who normally seemed so powerful and composed.
They returned to the Headmaster's office last. Dumbledore remained as they had left him, seated at his desk, still murmuring in German, still clutching the Elder Wand in his right hand.
"This is the most powerful wizard in the world," Scorpius said quietly. "We need to be extremely careful."
"I'll do it," Albus said, stepping forward. "You two wait by the door. If something goes wrong..." He didn't finish the sentence. They all knew there was very little they could do if Albus Dumbledore, even in a dream state, decided to unleash his full magical power.
Scorpius and Rose retreated to the doorway, wands drawn but lowered, ready to act if needed. Albus approached the desk slowly, his heart pounding so loudly he was sure it would wake the headmaster.
Dumbledore's face was not peaceful. Tears leaked from beneath his closed eyelids, tracking down his lined cheeks and disappearing into his silver beard. His lips moved constantly, the German words too soft for Albus to understand, but the tone was unmistakable—grief, regret, a desperate pleading.
"Gellert, bitte," Dumbledore whispered. "Es tut mir leid. Es muss nicht so enden."
Albus's rudimentary German, learned from Scorpius during their third year, was enough to catch the gist. Gellert. Please. I'm sorry. It doesn't have to end this way.
He was dreaming of Grindelwald. Of their final duel, perhaps, or of their earlier friendship. Of the choices that had shaped both their lives and the course of wizarding history.
The Elder Wand was clutched in Dumbledore's right hand, held not like a weapon but like a talisman, his fingers white with the force of his grip. Albus knew he needed to take it—it was far too dangerous to leave the most powerful wand in existence in the hand of a dreaming wizard—but the thought of trying to pry it from Dumbledore's grasp filled him with dread.
Drawing a deep breath, Albus reached out and placed his hand gently over Dumbledore's. The old wizard's skin was cool and papery, surprisingly fragile beneath Albus's touch. At the contact, Dumbledore's muttering paused momentarily, then resumed, more agitated than before.
"Headmaster," Albus said softly. "Professor Dumbledore. I need to borrow your wand. Just for a little while."
Dumbledore's grip tightened, his knuckles whitening further. A soft glow began to emanate from the wand, pulsing in time with the headmaster's quickening breaths.
"Please," Albus continued, keeping his voice gentle. "I'll take care of it. I promise. I'll keep everyone safe."
The glow intensified. Albus could feel the power radiating from the wand, a deep, primal magic that seemed to resonate in his very bones. It was intoxicating and terrifying at once, and he understood suddenly why men had killed for this wand, why it had left a trail of blood and betrayal throughout wizarding history.
"I'm Albus Potter," he said, an idea forming. "Named for you. And for Severus Snape. I've come from the future, and I need your help. I need your wand to protect Hogwarts."
At the mention of Severus Snape, Dumbledore's expression changed subtly. The deep lines around his mouth softened, and his breathing steadied. The glow from the wand dimmed slightly.
"That's it," Albus murmured encouragingly. "Let me help you. Let me carry this burden for a while."
Slowly, incredibly, Dumbledore's fingers began to relax. The wand rolled slightly in his palm, and Albus carefully, reverently, lifted it away.
The moment his fingers closed around the Elder Wand, Albus gasped. It was like nothing he had ever experienced. Power surged through him, raw and untamed, ancient and newborn at once. The wand seemed to vibrate with potential, as if eager to channel magic far beyond Albus's modest abilities. He felt suddenly light-headed, dizzy with the realization of what he now held—the most powerful magical artifact in existence, one of the Deathly Hallows themselves.
His father had once possessed all three Hallows, becoming, however briefly, the Master of Death. And now Albus held one of them in his trembling hand.
"Albus?" Rose called softly from the doorway, concern evident in her voice. "Are you all right?"
He turned to face his friends, the Elder Wand still humming with power in his grip. "I'm fine. I've got it."
"Then let's get him to the Great Hall with the others," Scorpius said, though his eyes remained fixed on the wand with a mixture of awe and fear.
"Mobilicorpus," Albus said, and was startled when Dumbledore's body rose with such swift smoothness that it nearly hit the ceiling. He hastily adjusted his grip on the wand, moderating the power of the spell. The Elder Wand seemed to amplify his magic effortlessly, turning even a simple levitation charm into something far more potent.
They guided Dumbledore's hovering form down the spiral staircase and through the corridors, moving with greater care than ever. Every few steps, Albus would glance down at the wand in his hand, still hardly able to believe he was wielding it. It didn't feel like his wand—it felt alive, aware, calculating. As if it were assessing him as much as he was assessing it.
By the time they reached the Great Hall, the sun was beginning to rise, casting long, golden shafts of light through the high windows. The enchanted ceiling reflected a clear dawn sky, a beautiful counterpoint to the grim scene below. Dozens of bodies lay in neat rows on the floor, all of them lost in their private dreams, all of them utterly vulnerable.
They placed Dumbledore at the head of the hall, on the dais where the staff table usually stood. It seemed fitting, somehow, that even in this strange, suspended state, he should watch over his school.
"That's the staff accounted for," Rose said, pushing a strand of hair from her face. She looked exhausted, dark circles under her eyes, her robes torn and dirty from their night's work. "Now we need to find the students."
"There are hundreds of them," Scorpius pointed out. "Scattered throughout the castle. It will take hours, maybe days."
"Then we'd better get started," Albus said grimly, tightening his grip on the Elder Wand. "We'll work by house. Gryffindor Tower first, then Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Slytherin."
The task was even more arduous than they had anticipated. Each dormitory presented its own challenges. In Gryffindor Tower, they had to contend with the portrait of the Fat Lady, who, while also asleep, still blocked the entrance. It took Rose's knowledge of old Gryffindor passwords and a bit of magical persuasion to gain access.
Inside, they found the dormitories in various states of chaos. Some students were peacefully dreaming in their beds. Others were sleepwalking around the rooms, engaged in imaginary conversations or activities. A few were in more distressing states, caught in nightmares that had them crying out or thrashing in their sheets.
Most difficult of all was the discovery of their own parents as teenagers. In the fifth-year boys' dormitory, they found Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and the other Gryffindor boys. Harry was curled into a tight ball on his bed, his face contorted in pain, one hand pressed against the lightning scar on his forehead. He muttered names in his sleep—Cedric, Sirius, Mom, Dad—his voice small and broken.
Albus stood frozen, staring down at the teenage version of his father. He had heard stories, of course, about his father's connection to Voldemort, about the nightmares and visions that had plagued him during his fifth year. But seeing it—seeing the raw pain on his father's young face—was entirely different.
"Dad," he whispered, reaching out instinctively, then pulling his hand back before making contact. This wasn't his father, not really. This was Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, burdened with a destiny he hadn't chosen and tormented by a connection to the darkest wizard of all time.
"We need to move him," Scorpius said gently, placing a hand on Albus's shoulder. "All of them."
In the girls' dormitory, Rose had a similar moment of shock upon finding her mother. Hermione Granger was asleep at a desk, surrounded by books and parchment, her bushy hair even wilder than Rose's own. She was muttering what sounded like revision notes, her fingers twitching as if writing an invisible essay.
"She's revising in her sleep," Rose said, her voice a mixture of amusement and affection. "That's so... her."
One by one, they disarmed the students and transported them to the Great Hall, arranging them by house for simplicity's sake. The Ravenclaws were largely engaged in academic pursuits in their dreams, making them relatively easy to manage. The Hufflepuffs were varied in their dream activities but generally non-violent. The Slytherins presented a greater challenge, particularly the older students, many of whom were engaged in dream-duels or practicing dark magic in their sleep.
In the Slytherin fifth-year dormitory, they found Draco Malfoy, Scorpius's father, sleeping fitfully. Unlike many of his housemates, he wasn't dreaming of power or glory. He was curled on his side, much like Harry had been, whispering frantically.
"I can't do it," he murmured, his pale face tight with fear. "He'll kill my parents. He'll kill me. I can't, I can't..."
Scorpius stared at his father, his expression unreadable. "He's afraid," he said finally. "I always thought he was so confident back then, the way he tells it. So sure of himself and his place in the world."
"People rarely tell the whole truth about their past," Albus said quietly. "Especially the parts that make them vulnerable."
By the first light of dawn, they had managed to gather most of the castle's inhabitants in the Great Hall. The massive room was now filled nearly to capacity with the sleeping forms of students and staff, all arranged in neat rows, all lost in their private dreamscapes. Hundreds of wands had been collected, their owners rendered magically defenceless.
Albus stood at the entrance, the Elder Wand heavy in his hand, surveying the scene. It looked disturbingly like a mass funeral—silent bodies laid out in orderly formation, faces turned upward, hands folded across chests. The only signs of life were the occasional twitches and murmurs as dreams played out in hundreds of sleeping minds.
"We need to secure the wands," Rose said, coming to stand beside him. She held a large sack containing the latest batch they had collected. "And then seal the entrances to the Hall. Make sure no one can wander out."
"We'll need to use the Chamber," Albus said reluctantly. "Fawkes was right. It's the only place secure enough."
They made their way to the second-floor girls' bathroom, the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets. It was eerie and abandoned, just as it had been in their time, the sinks grimy with disuse, the mirrors cracked and tarnished. Moaning Myrtle was nowhere to be seen, perhaps off haunting some other part of the castle.
Albus approached the sink with the small snake etched into the copper tap. He had never actually tried to speak Parseltongue deliberately before, had always suppressed the ability when he felt it rising within him. Now, he stared at the tiny serpent, willing himself to see it as more than a simple engraving.
"Open," he said, but it came out as ordinary English.
"You need to really see it as a snake," Scorpius suggested. "Imagine it's real."
Albus concentrated harder, focusing on the etching until it seemed to shimmer and move in the dim light. "Open," he tried again, and this time he heard it—the strange, sibilant hiss that wasn't quite language and wasn't quite animal sound.
The sink began to move. It sank right out of sight, revealing a large pipe wide enough for a person to slide into. A dank, musty smell rose from the darkness below.
"I'll go first," Albus said, trying to sound braver than he felt. "Then Scorpius, then Rose. Send the bags of wands down after us."
The journey through the pipe was just as unpleasant as his father had described—a slimy, twisting slide that seemed to go on forever, plunging deep beneath the school. They landed with a thud on the damp floor of a dark stone tunnel. The bags of wands followed, sliding down the pipe with a series of clatters and thuds.
"Lumos," Albus murmured, and the Elder Wand lit up with a blinding brilliance that illuminated the tunnel as bright as day. He hastily reduced the power of the spell, still unused to the wand's tendency to amplify even the simplest magic.
The Chamber itself was vast and eerie, just as his father had described. Towering stone pillars entwined with carved serpents rose to support a ceiling lost in darkness. At the far end stood a gigantic statue of Salazar Slytherin, his ancient, monkey-like face staring down at them with empty stone eyes. And on the floor before it, barely visible in the dim light, was the massive, decayed skeleton of the basilisk that Harry Potter had slain over twenty years before—or, from their current perspective, about 3 years in the past..
"This is..." Rose began, her voice small in the vast space.
"Creepy? Terrifying? Nightmare-inducing?" Scorpius suggested.
"I was going to say 'impressive,' actually," Rose replied. "In a horrifying sort of way."
They deposited the bags of wands in a small antechamber off the main hall, sealing it with every locking and protection charm they knew. It wasn't a perfect solution, but it was the best they could manage under the circumstances.
As they prepared to leave, Albus paused, looking up at the enormous statue of Slytherin. "My father nearly died here," he said quietly. "Fighting a piece of Voldemort's soul and a thousand-year-old basilisk. He was twelve."
"And now we're fighting an ancient Egyptian god," Scorpius said. "Seems like dealing with impossible situations runs in your family."
"At least we're fifteen, not twelve," Rose pointed out, attempting a weak smile. "Practically ancient by Potter standards for facing mortal peril."
They made their way back through the tunnel to the pipe. Getting out proved to be a challenge they hadn't anticipated—the pipe was designed as a one-way entrance, with no obvious means of ascent.
"Fawkes carried my father and the others out," Albus remembered. "But we don't have a phoenix."
"We have the next best thing," Rose said, drawing her wand. "Ascendio!"
The charm propelled her upward into the pipe with considerable force. They heard her shriek as she shot up the slippery tube, followed by a thud and a groan as she presumably reached the top.
"Rose?" Scorpius called anxiously. "Are you all right?"
"Fine!" her voice echoed down to them, sounding slightly winded. "It works, but brace yourself for the landing!"
One by one, they ascended the pipe, emerging bruised but intact in the bathroom above. From there, they made their way back to the Great Hall to check on their charges.
The scene was unchanged—hundreds of sleepers arranged in rows, each lost in their own dream. Rose moved among them, checking for signs of distress or physical discomfort. Despite the circumstances, she insisted on making them as comfortable as possible, conjuring pillows for heads and blankets for those who seemed cold.
"They're people, not corpses," she said firmly when Scorpius questioned the use of their limited energy on such comforts. "And some of them are our parents, even if they don't know it."
"You're right," Scorpius conceded. "I'm sorry. It's just... looking at them all like this..."
"I know," Rose said softly. "It's like a mausoleum."
Albus, standing at the head of the hall near Dumbledore's still form, felt the weight of the Elder Wand in his hand. It seemed heavier somehow, burdened with the responsibility they now faced. He had never wanted to be a leader, had always been content to follow Scorpius's intellectual guidance or Rose's practical planning. But now, holding the wand of the greatest wizard who had ever lived, surrounded by the helpless bodies of everyone at Hogwarts, he felt the mantle of leadership settling on his shoulders like a physical weight.
"What now?" Scorpius asked, coming to stand beside him. "We've contained the immediate threat, but they're still cursed. And we have no idea how to wake them up or get back to our own time."
Before Albus could respond, the shadows at the edges of the hall began to deepen and shift. The temperature dropped sharply, frost forming on the windows despite the warm spring day outside. The torches that lit the hall flickered and dimmed, as if the darkness itself were drawing the light away.
"What's happening?" Rose whispered, hurrying to join them, her wand drawn.
"We should check the hospital wing next," Scorpius suggested. "Anyone already ill or injured will be more vulnerable to the curse."
They were turning to leave when a soft voice stopped them—a voice that seemed to rise from the shadows themselves.
"How fascinating."
The temperature in the Hall plummeted. The starlight from the enchanted ceiling dimmed, as if the stars themselves were being extinguished one by one. And from the deepest shadow near the high table, a figure emerged.
The shadows continued to thicken, coalescing at the far end of the hall into a tall, imposing figure. It stepped forward into what little light remained, revealing a form that was neither fully human nor fully animal. It had the body of a man, lean and muscular, clothed in what appeared to be ancient Egyptian garb—a simple white kilt, a broad collar of gold and lapis around its neck, golden bands encircling its biceps. But its head was that of a jackal—sleek black fur, pointed ears, and a long, elegant muzzle. Its eyes glowed an eerie gold in the dim light.
"Anubis," Scorpius breathed, his voice barely audible.
The god surveyed the hall with an air of satisfaction, his gaze moving over the rows of sleeping bodies like a connoisseur examining a particularly fine feast. When he spoke, his voice was deep and resonant, with an odd, echoing quality that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.
"How... efficient of you," he said, inclining his jackal head slightly. "Gathering my meal in one convenient location. I had expected to hunt them down one by one, but this is much more... civilized."
Albus stepped forward, the Elder Wand clutched tightly in his hand. He could feel its power thrumming through him, responding to his fear and determination. "You can't have them," he said, his voice steadier than he'd expected. "We won't let you."
Anubis's muzzle pulled back in what might have been a smile, revealing sharp, gleaming teeth. "You? Three children barely old enough to wield your magic? You would stand against a god?"
"We would," Rose declared, moving to stand beside Albus. "We brought them here to protect them from you, not to make it easier for you to... to eat them."
The figure inclined its head. When it spoke again, its voice was rich and resonant, with an accent Albus couldn't place—ancient and yet perfectly understandable.
"The little time-travelers," it said, those golden eyes gleaming with amusement. "How very enterprising of you. Most who stumble into my traps simply lie down and die."
Rose had gone rigid with terror. Scorpius looked as though he might faint. Albus felt the Elder Wand grow warm in his hand, but he knew instinctively that it would be useless against the being before them.
"Why are you doing this?" he asked, surprised by the steadiness of his own voice.
Anubis tilted his head, an oddly canine gesture. "Why does the wolf hunt the deer? Why does the hawk strike the mouse?" He spread his hands, long fingers splayed like a pianist about to play. "It is my nature to consume souls. And here, in this castle, I find hundreds of them—young, vibrant, magical souls, all conveniently gathered in one place." He made a sound that might have been a chuckle. "A feast such as I have not enjoyed in millennia."
"They're people," Albus protested. "Not food."
"From your perspective, perhaps," Anubis agreed amiably. "From mine, they are vessels of energy, little more." He glided closer, examining the row of sleeping figures. "Some more potent than others, of course. This one—" he gestured to Dumbledore, "—would sustain me for a century alone. Such power, such complexity."
"You can't have them," Albus said, stepping forward despite the terror threatening to paralyze him. "We won't let you."
Anubis turned those golden eyes on him, and Albus felt as though he were being dissected, every fiber of his being laid bare and examined.
"You," the jackal-headed figure said softly, "are not from this time. Your soul has a... dissonance about it. Fascinating." He leaned closer, his muzzle inches from Albus's face. "And you carry Death's instrument. How deliciously ironic."
Albus clutched the Elder Wand tighter, though he knew it was a futile gesture.
Anubis's attention focused on the wand, his eyes narrowing. "The Deathstick," he murmured. "How interesting. One of Death's own creations, in the hands of a child." He took a step closer, his gaze never leaving the wand. "You don't even know what you're holding, do you? The power it contains? The histories it has witnessed?"
"I know enough," Albus said, standing his ground despite the fear coursing through him. "I know it's the most powerful wand ever created. I know it's one of the Deathly Hallows. And I know my father once united all three, becoming the Master of Death itself."
At this, Anubis went very still. "Did he, now?" he said softly, a new note entering his voice—something like hunger, but sharper, more focused. "The Master of Death. How... presumptuous of your kind, to think death can be mastered." He studied Albus more intently. "And you are his son. His blood. His magic." A low, rumbling sound emerged from his throat—laughter, perhaps, or anticipation. "This changes things."
"What do you mean?" Rose demanded, her wand raised defensively.
"It means, little witch, that I find myself... intrigued," Anubis replied. "These souls are mine by right. I have marked them, cursed them, prepared them for consumption. But I am not without... sporting instinct."
"Sporting instinct?" Scorpius repeated skeptically.
"A game," Anubis clarified, his golden eyes fixed on Albus. "A wager, if you will. A chance for you to save these pitiful creatures, and for me to claim a far more interesting prize."
"What kind of game?" Albus asked warily.
"A series of challenges," the god explained. "Three tasks, to be completed before the curse reaches its final stage. Succeed, and I will lift the curse, leaving these souls intact. Fail, and not only will I feast on every soul in this castle, but I will claim yours as well—the son of Death's 'master,' wielder of Death's wand." His jackal teeth gleamed in the dim light. "A much rarer delicacy."
"And if we refuse?" Rose asked.
"Then I take what is already mine," Anubis said simply. "These souls are forfeit the moment I cast the curse. The game merely offers you a chance to save them—and yourselves."
Albus looked around the hall, at the hundreds of helpless people laid out like a macabre banquet. His parents as teenagers, his namesakes, his professors, countless innocent students. All of them depending on him, though they didn't know it. All of them destined to die if he failed—or if he refused the god's twisted game.
He felt the Elder Wand hum with power in his hand, sensed its eagerness for confrontation, its thirst for challenge. And beneath that, his own determination—a quiet, stubborn resolve that he had inherited from both his parents.
"What are the challenges?" he asked, his decision made.
"Albus!" Rose hissed in alarm. "You can't seriously be considering—"
"We don't have a choice," he cut her off. "If we refuse, everyone dies. At least this way, we have a chance."
Anubis's eyes gleamed with satisfaction. "Wise beyond your years," he commented. "As for the challenges... that would spoil the fun, would it not? You will know each task when it presents itself. You have until the next full moon to complete all three. That gives you..." He glanced at the enchanted ceiling, where the waning crescent moon was faintly visible in the morning sky. "Approximately eighteen days."
"And how do we know you'll keep your word?" Scorpius demanded. "What's to stop you from simply devouring everyone the moment we complete your tasks?"
"I am many things, young wizard, but I am not without honor," Anubis replied, a note of affront in his resonant voice. "I am a god of judgment, of weighing souls against the feather of truth. My word, once given, is binding." He turned his attention back to Albus. "Do we have a wager, son of Potter?"
Albus took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the decision pressing down on him like a physical force. He thought of his father, who had walked willingly to his death to save others. Of Dumbledore, who had orchestrated a war from the shadows. Of Snape, who had lived a double life of constant danger and deception. All of them had made impossible choices, had shouldered burdens no one should have to bear.
Now it was his turn.
"We have a wager," he said firmly. "Three challenges. Eighteen days. If we succeed, you lift the curse and leave Hogwarts forever."
"And if you fail," Anubis added, "I claim every soul in this castle, plus your own." He extended a slender, dark hand. "Shall we seal our pact?"
Albus hesitated only a moment before stepping forward and grasping the god's hand. It was cold as ice and hard as stone, seemingly solid yet somehow insubstantial at the same time. The moment their hands touched, a pulse of magic surged between them—ancient, primal magic, far older than anything taught at Hogwarts.
"The pact is sealed," Anubis declared, releasing Albus's hand. "Three challenges. Eighteen days. May the best... entity... win." With that, he began to dissolve back into shadow, his form becoming less distinct, less substantial, until only the gleam of his golden eyes remained.
"Oh, and one more thing," his disembodied voice added, fading into a whisper. "Do try to maintain the illusion of normality to the outside world. It would be such a shame if the Ministry or that upstart dark wizard were to interfere with our little game. I so hate sharing my meals."
And then he was gone, the shadows retreating to their normal places, the temperature in the hall gradually returning to normal. The three friends stood in stunned silence, the enormity of what had just happened—of the pact Albus had made—settling over them like a shroud.
"Albus," Rose said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. "What have you done?"
"What I had to," he replied, looking down at the Elder Wand still clutched in his hand. It seemed to pulse with a faint, approving glow, as if satisfied with his decision. "What any of us would have done."
"He's right," Scorpius said, placing a hand on Rose's shoulder. "We had no choice. At least now we have a chance—eighteen days to figure out these challenges and break the curse."
"And maintain the illusion of normality to the outside world," Rose added, her practical nature already focusing on the logistics of their impossible task. "How are we supposed to do that? The Ministry will notice if Hogwarts goes silent. Parents will expect letters. Voldemort will realize something's wrong."
"We'll have to fake it," Albus said, the beginnings of a plan forming in his mind. "Answer letters, maintain routine communications, give the appearance that everything is normal."
"While simultaneously solving Anubis's challenges and trying to find a way back to our own time," Scorpius summarized, a hint of his usual wry humor returning. "Simple, really."
"One impossible task at a time," Albus replied, his gaze sweeping over the Great Hall—over the hundreds of sleeping faces, over his young parents, over Dumbledore and Snape, his namesakes. Over the enormous responsibility he had just accepted. "First, we secure the castle and establish a routine. Then, we wait for the first challenge."
As if in response to his words, a soft, sarcastic slow clap echoed from the entrance to the hall. They whirled around to see Fawkes perched on the back of a chair, his bright plumage a splash of color in the somber room.
"Bravo," the phoenix said drily. "Truly inspiring. The noble hero accepts the villain's challenge, setting the stage for an epic confrontation. How refreshingly predictable."
"You could have warned us he was coming," Rose said accusingly.
"And spoil the dramatic entrance? I wouldn't dream of it," Fawkes replied. "Besides, the outcome was inevitable. Anubis was always going to offer a game, and you were always going to accept. It's the nature of your kind—and of his."
"You know him," Albus realized. "Personally."
"Ten thousand years is a long time," Fawkes said evasively. "One meets all sorts of entities." He hopped down from the chair and waddled toward them, his movements oddly ungainly for such a majestic creature. "The real question is, what will you do now? The clock is ticking, the pieces are in play, and you have no idea what game you're actually playing."
"We'll figure it out," Albus said with more confidence than he felt. "We don't have a choice."
Fawkes tilted his head, studying Albus with those unsettlingly intelligent eyes. "You know," he said conversationally, "your name is truly abominable. Albus Severus. What was your father thinking? Two of the most manipulative, secretive wizards who ever lived, bundled together into one unfortunate child."
Albus stiffened. It was a sore point, one he'd endured teasing about for years. "My father admired them both," he said defensively. "They were brave men who saved the wizarding world."
"Brave? Perhaps. Good? Debatable," Fawkes replied. "So tell me, young Potter—which one are you more like? The calculating chessmaster, always willing to sacrifice a pawn for the 'greater good'? Or the bitter, twisted soul, clinging to a hopeless love and letting it define his entire existence?"
"Neither," Albus said firmly. "I'm not like either of them."
"Hmm," Fawkes hummed skeptically. "We shall see, won't we? Under pressure, true natures have a way of revealing themselves." He turned and began waddling toward the door. "I'll leave you to your heroics. Do try not to get everyone killed. It would be so... untidy."
As the phoenix disappeared through the doorway, Albus felt a strange mixture of anger and uncertainty churning in his stomach. Was Fawkes right? Was he more like his namesakes than he wanted to admit? And if so, which one?
"Don't listen to him," Scorpius said quietly, as if reading his thoughts. "He's bitter and cynical. Ten thousand years of living would do that to anyone."
"He's right about one thing, though," Rose added, ever practical. "The clock is ticking. We need a plan."
Albus nodded, pushing his doubts aside. There would be time for existential crises later—if they survived. For now, they had work to do.
"First things first," he said, feeling the weight of the Elder Wand in his hand—the weight of responsibility, of destiny, of the impossible task ahead. "We need to secure the entrances, establish a watch rotation, and figure out how to maintain communications with the outside world."
As his friends nodded in agreement, Albus cast one last look around the Great Hall—at the rows of sleeping bodies, at the lives now in his hands. At the legacy he had never asked for but could no longer avoid.
"And then," he added softly, "we wait for the first challenge."
Outside, the sun continued its arc across the enchanted ceiling, oblivious to the deadly game that had just begun beneath it. Somewhere in the shadows, a god of death waited, patient and hungry. And in Albus's hand, the Elder Wand hummed with ancient power, eager for what was to come.
The Dreamer's Curse had claimed its first victims. The wager was set. And the clock was ticking.
That's the first chapter. Please review and I will post more :)