The night air in the circular office of Albus Dumbledore shimmered faintly with the residue of magic. Silver instruments upon spindled tables whirred and puffed in soft, thoughtful rhythms, as though they too were considering the matters at hand. Fawkes dozed upon his perch, scarlet head tucked beneath a burnished wing, while portraits of former headmasters and headmistresses pretended not to listen.
Beyond the high windows, the grounds of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry lay hushed in early evening stillness. The wind traced idle paths through the Forbidden Forest, brushed the Quidditch stands, and skimmed across the wide, dark mirror of the Black Lake.
The lake was calm.
It had not always been so.
Dumbledore stood near the window, long fingers laced behind his back, blue eyes reflective behind half-moon spectacles. His gaze lingered on the water below, the moon’s silver reflection steady and unbroken.
The door opened with a quiet click.
“Ah,” Dumbledore said softly, without turning. “Thank you for coming, Severus.”
Severus Snape stepped inside, black robes flowing like ink spilled across stone. His expression was as guarded as ever, pale face unreadable, dark eyes already calculating the purpose of the summons.
“You wished to see me, Headmaster.”
Dumbledore inclined his head, still gazing outward. “Yes. I thought it best we speak privately.”
Snape’s eyes flicked briefly toward the portraits. Several were feigning sleep with theatrical exaggeration.
Dumbledore turned at last, robes whispering faintly. “The lake is calm.”
Snape did not immediately respond. He moved further into the room, stopping at a respectful distance from the desk. “It often is,” he said smoothly.
“Mm,” Dumbledore hummed, studying him. “But not last year.”
The words lingered between them.
Last year, the Black Lake had churned with unrest. The merpeople had been uneasy, their songs sharp with warning rather than melody. The giant squid had surfaced more frequently, agitated, its massive form breaking the water in restless arcs. Even the grindylows had been unusually bold.
Students had whispered of shadows beneath the surface.
Professors had noticed the tension.
Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled faintly—not with amusement, but with quiet awareness.
“You agree, I presume,” Dumbledore continued gently, “that the lake is… finally calm.”
Snape’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “Yes.”
“And,” Dumbledore added, voice deceptively mild, “I suspect you know why.”
Silence settled over the room.
One of the silver instruments let out a sharp puff of steam, as if startled.
Snape’s dark gaze locked onto Dumbledore’s. There was calculation there. Hesitation.
“I may,” he said at last.
Dumbledore’s expression did not change. “I would very much like to hear your thoughts.”
Snape exhaled slowly through his nose. “It is not my story to tell.”
A faint smile touched Dumbledore’s lips. “Ah. Then it is a story.”
Snape’s eyes narrowed slightly.
Dumbledore moved back toward his desk and seated himself, folding his hands. “Severus, I do not ask out of idle curiosity. If something occurred that has affected the balance of the lake—and by extension, the safety of the school—I must be aware of it.”
“It does not endanger the school,” Snape replied at once, tone firm.
“That is reassuring.”
“It was resolved.”
Dumbledore leaned forward slightly. “By whom?”
Snape’s gaze flickered, just once.
“A student.”
Dumbledore’s brows lifted a fraction. “A student.”
“Yes.”
“And this student resolved an issue significant enough to soothe an entire colony of merpeople?”
Snape did not answer immediately.
Dumbledore’s voice softened. “Severus.”
The Potions Master’s fingers twitched faintly at his sides before stilling. He disliked this. He disliked being maneuvered into confession by gentle insistence. But he also knew that Dumbledore would not relent.
“One of my first years,” Snape said at last.
Dumbledore blinked.
“A first year?” His tone was not incredulous—merely astonished.
“Yes.”
“And what precisely,” Dumbledore asked quietly, “did this child do?”
Snape’s eyes drifted briefly toward the window, toward the lake beyond.
“Last year,” he began slowly, “a mermaid was taken.”
Dumbledore’s posture sharpened almost imperceptibly. “Taken?”
“Poachers,” Snape said, voice dropping into something colder. “Magical traffickers. They have grown bolder in recent years. The merpeople are not easily subdued—but isolated individuals can be ambushed.”
Dumbledore’s expression darkened. “I had heard whispers of such activity in coastal regions. I did not realize it had reached so near.”
“It did not reach the lake directly,” Snape replied. “The mermaid in question was lured away during a seasonal migration near the outer waterways. She was captured and transported.”
“And your student became aware of this… how?”
Snape hesitated again.
Dumbledore waited.
“The mermaid,” Snape said finally, “managed to escape partial confinement long enough to send word. Through older magic.”
Dumbledore’s eyes glinted with understanding. “Ah.”
“There are bonds,” Snape said carefully, “that do not require language.”
Dumbledore studied him thoughtfully. “This first year… shares such a bond?”
“Yes.”
The single word carried weight.
“And so,” Dumbledore prompted gently, “this child went after her?”
“With their father,” Snape corrected quietly.
Dumbledore’s brows rose again.
“They tracked the poachers,” Snape continued, voice clipped but controlled. “Located the holding site. Freed the mermaid. Destroyed the containment wards. And returned her to the Black Lake before term began.”
For a long moment, the only sound was the soft ticking of a silver device that resembled a many-legged compass.
Dumbledore leaned back slowly in his chair.
“A first year,” he repeated softly.
“Yes.”
“And the father?”
“Capable,” Snape said, which from him was high praise indeed. “Extremely.”
“And the mermaid now resides safely among her kin.”
“Yes.”
“The unrest last year,” Dumbledore mused aloud, “was the colony searching.”
“Grieving,” Snape corrected quietly. “They believed her dead.”
Dumbledore closed his eyes briefly, absorbing the weight of that.
“And they know,” he said after a moment, “who returned her.”
Snape’s gaze hardened slightly. “They do.”
“And that knowledge has restored their peace.”
“Yes.”
Dumbledore opened his eyes again. They were bright, but solemn.
“Why,” he asked gently, “did this student not inform the staff?”
Snape’s expression shifted—not defensive, but resolute.
“Because the mermaid asked them not to.”
Dumbledore tilted his head.
“She trusts the student,” Snape said. “The fewer who know, the safer she believes she remains. Poachers track rumors. They exploit notoriety.”
“And the child agreed to silence.”
“Yes.”
“Even knowing they would receive no recognition.”
Snape’s voice was quiet. “Recognition was not the objective.”
A faint smile curved Dumbledore’s lips.
“No,” he agreed. “I imagine it was not.”
He studied Snape carefully now.
“You are proud of them.”
Snape’s eyes flashed faintly. “I am… satisfied.”
Dumbledore chuckled softly. “From you, Severus, that is near a declaration of devotion.”
Snape did not dignify that with a response.
Dumbledore rose from his chair and returned to the window. The lake lay serene beneath moonlight, its surface unbroken, silver and vast.
“To undertake such a task,” Dumbledore murmured, “at eleven years old… It speaks of extraordinary courage.”
“Courage,” Snape said quietly, “and loyalty.”
“Yes,” Dumbledore agreed. “A promise kept at great personal risk.”
He turned.
“I would like to award ten points to Slytherin.”
Snape’s eyes narrowed slightly. “On what grounds?”
“For bravery,” Dumbledore replied calmly. “And for honoring a promise that could not be spoken.”
Snape hesitated.
“The student does not seek acknowledgment.”
“They shall not receive public acclaim,” Dumbledore assured him. “I will not name them.”
“And if other houses question the award?”
Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled faintly. “I shall tell them that Slytherin has, on occasion, demonstrated virtues they are unaccustomed to recognizing.”
A flicker of something—approval? amusement?—passed through Snape’s gaze.
“You intend to leave the identity undisclosed.”
“Yes.”
Snape considered this.
Finally, he inclined his head once. “Very well.”
Dumbledore’s voice softened. “May I know who the student is?”
Snape’s expression closed immediately.
“No.”
The refusal was firm. Absolute.
Dumbledore studied him for a long moment.
“Very well,” he said at last, without resentment. “I will respect the boundary.”
Snape’s shoulders relaxed, almost imperceptibly.
“But,” Dumbledore added lightly, “should the child ever require assistance—”
“They will ask,” Snape said quietly.
Dumbledore nodded.
The two men stood in companionable silence for several moments, watching the moonlight dance upon the water.
“Severus,” Dumbledore said at last, voice thoughtful, “do you believe the lake will remain calm?”
“Yes.”
“And the mermaid?”
“She has resumed her place among her people.”
Dumbledore smiled faintly. “Then Hogwarts owes your first year a debt it does not know it carries.”
Snape said nothing.
But in his silence there was pride.
Far below, in the Slytherin dormitories, a first-year student lay awake in the green-tinged darkness. Moonlight filtered faintly through the underwater windows, refracted into wavering ribbons of silver.
Beyond the glass, shadows moved—gentle, curious shapes gliding through the depths.
One shape lingered.
A pale hand pressed briefly against the stone on the lake’s side.
A silent acknowledgment.
Above, in the Headmaster’s office, Dumbledore extinguished the last of the lamps.
“Ten points to Slytherin,” he murmured into the quiet room.
And the lake remained calm.
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