Scene: The Tribunal's Realm
The Tribunal's Realm was a void untouched by time — an eternal expanse of celestial magic suspended in quiet balance. Endless skies of swirling silver mist turned slowly above a floor of translucent crystal, where every step echoed like thunder in a cathedral of the stars.
Three thrones stood in perfect formation, carved from elements unknown to man — glowing faintly with the colors of their occupants: crimson, ivory, and pitch black.
Fawkes appeared in a sudden burst of golden flame, wings trailing light across the sacred space. He did not screech or cry. He sang. A soft, mournful hymn that only a Phoenix could conjure — layered with memories, warnings, sorrow, and a desperate plea.
The sound washed through the Realm, shifting the currents of magic.
The White-Cloaked Tribunal, the sole female among them, lowered her hood, revealing eyes like moonlight on water. Her expression softened as she rose to approach the grieving phoenix.
"Such pain in your flame, old friend," she said gently, hand reaching forward. "Hogwarts… it weeps again, doesn't it?"
Fawkes's wings drooped as he perched on the edge of her outstretched arm, his song quieting to a low hum of affirmation.
The Black-Cloaked Tribunal stood next — tall, broad, restless. Power radiated from him in waves, like magma just beneath the surface. His tone cracked like a whip:
"Let it burn then. Tear it down and salt the ashes! The school is cursed! Every century, the same rot returns!"
"Enough."
The Red-Cloaked Tribunal, the calmest among them, had not moved. His voice was even, steady — but it carried weight, the kind that could stop storms.
"We do not judge in anger. Not when the Guardian still lives."
He turned to Fawkes, who met his gaze with burning eyes. The phoenix's memories were already flowing into the tribunal — visions of Hogwarts' corruption, of Dumbledore's deceit, of a boy marked by prophecy and burdened by manipulation.
The White Tribunal exhaled, eyes troubled.
"We cannot interfere directly. Not yet. But the Guardian… he can."
The Black Tribunal scoffed, folding his arms.
"He swore to stay beyond time until the castle itself cried for him. You want to break that seal over a squabble between headmasters?"
"This is no squabble," the Red Tribunal said, finally rising. "This is the death of a legacy."
Silence fell.
Then — a shimmering pulse rolled across the realm as the three stood together. A spell was formed not with wands, but with will. The Tribunal extended their arms and sent the call.
In another realm — cold and serene —
Snow fell in glittering silence. Blue-white auroras shimmered above ancient mountains, and in a hidden palace sculpted from living ice, two figures sat in quiet conversation.
The Snow Prince, clad in pale crystal armor, tilted his head as the air shimmered beside him. His companion stilled — the Guardian of the Founders, cloaked in midnight blue.
An echo brushed the Guardian's senses — old magic, ancient authority.
He stood slowly.
"...The castle calls."
The Snow Prince looked at him with quiet understanding.
"It is time then."
The Guardian didn't reply. His hand reached outward, fingers brushing the spell suspended in the air — the Tribunal's summons. He closed his eyes. The weight of Hogwarts returned to him all at once: the stones, the voices, the promises, and the betrayal.
His gaze darkened.
"Let them remember."
Scene: Whispers Behind the Headmaster's Door
In the quiet hours of the evening, the torches within the Headmaster's office burned lower, casting long, crooked shadows across the old stone walls. The room smelled faintly of lemon drops and betrayal.
Dumbledore stood near the tall window, blue eyes unreadable as he peered out over the castle grounds. Snape lingered in the corner, arms crossed, features sharp in the flickering light.
"Everything is in place," Dumbledore murmured. "The Ministry is distracted. The Order is following my lead. And the boy… well, Harry has always been so predictable. Noble. Reckless. His path is quite clear."
Snape's lip curled. "You're certain he will fall? That Potter will face the Dark Lord before the year ends?"
"Voldemort is obsessed," Dumbledore replied, with something too close to amusement. "He'll draw Harry in with dreams, illusions… he'll make it personal. All we need do is guide the boy. Nudge him when he hesitates. With Sirius," he turned slightly, "we might finally sever the last of Harry's anchors."
Snape raised an eyebrow. "An accident?"
"A tragedy," Dumbledore corrected softly. "One the boy will never recover from. The grief will push him straight to the battlefield."
He turned then, facing Snape directly, his smile as cold as the night beyond the glass.
"And when the Dark Lord strikes the fatal blow… I will arrive, moments too late. The hero avenged, the war ended, and the people will remember my name."
For a long moment, only the sound of the crackling fire filled the room.
On a shelf, half-lost in shadow and dust, the Sorting Hat stirred.
Its stitches pulled into a slow frown — not in fabric, but in soul. The Hat had heard many secrets in its time. Sly ambitions. Childish dreams. Even dark whispers. But this… this was rot. Root-deep and spreading.
"You were not always this blind, Albus," the Hat thought bitterly. "But ambition makes orphans of principle."
In the silence that followed, the Hat drifted inward — deep into its enchanted core — where memories of stone and fire echoed.
It thought of first years trembling under its brim. Of brave choices and quiet rebellions. Of founders long since dust.
And it thought of him.
The one who had not worn the Hat, because the Castle itself had whispered, "He belongs here."
The one the ghosts still honored. The elves still remembered. The one whose presence had made the stones sing with purpose.
The Guardian.
"You'll find Hogwarts changed," the Hat mused. "But perhaps not beyond saving…"
It glanced toward the phoenix perch. Empty. Still faintly warm.
"Fawkes has already left."
And for the first time in a very, very long while… the Sorting Hat felt hope.