GAMES OF FATES (H.P/T.M.R)

Manuplation: The Magical Art Of Overthinking

The flickering candlelight of Dumbledore's office cast a warm glow, illuminating shelves crammed with ancient tomes and peculiar artifacts. The air was heavy with the scent of aged parchment and a hint of something sweet, perhaps the remnants of lemon drops, a favorite of the venerable Headmaster. Dumbledore sat behind his desk, fingers steepled, contemplating the chaos that had ensued following Cassopiea's disappearance.
With a heavy sigh, he rose and crossed to the window, looking out over the grounds of Hogwarts, now cloaked in twilight. The sun had set, leaving the sky a dark indigo. A gust of wind rustled the leaves, and Dumbledore’s silver hair swayed gently, a reminder of the passage of time. If only time could be bent to my will, he mused, eyes narrowing at the distant Forbidden Forest. If I could only manipulate it as I do the lives of others.

He turned back to his desk, his fingers brushing the spine of a weathered book.
Each player on the board must be moved with care. Cassopiea is a vital piece, and yet… He hesitated, staring at the empty chair opposite him. Sirius Black would do well to remember his lineage. A true son of House Black should not allow sentiment to cloud his judgment.

With a decisive nod, Dumbledore conjured a quill and began to write, each stroke deliberate. He penned letters to various allies, seeking support, subtly weaving Cassopiea’s fate into the fabric of his plans. After all, the ends justify the means, don’t they?

Meanwhile, far from the chaos of Hogwarts, Sirius Black paced the dimly lit confines of Number 12, Grimmauld Place. The air was thick with the scent of old wood and memories best left undisturbed. He stopped by the window, glancing out into the night, a frown etched on his face. The moon cast an ethereal light over the cobblestone street, illuminating the shadows that cloaked his thoughts.

Sirius Black, a son of House Black, guardian of a girl who could save the world—if only he could keep her away from Dumbledore’s grasp, he thought, irritation bubbling beneath the surface. He gripped the windowsill, knuckles white. How dare Dumbledore think he can control her?

A sudden noise pulled his attention. Kreacher, the ancient house-elf, shuffled into the room, carrying a tray of tea. “Master Sirius,” he croaked, eyes downcast. “I thought you might like some.”

Sirius turned, trying to mask his agitation. “Thanks, Kreacher. Just leave it on the table.” He watched as the elf dutifully obeyed, then muttered under his breath, “As if tea could calm the storm brewing in my mind.”

Sirius took a deep breath, the warmth of the tea soothing yet insufficient against the impending sense of dread. He sank into a chair, staring at the cup as if it held the answers to his problems. Cassopiea is safe at Shambhala Vidyashram. No one can reach her there but the students and professors. I need to convince Dumbledore that he should focus elsewhere.

As the minutes ticked by, he began to sketch out a plan. Perhaps if I create a diversion, Dumbledore will be too preoccupied to even think of Cassopiea. I’ll plant seeds of doubt about her whereabouts. Let him chase phantoms while she remains untouchable.

In the Malfoy , in a dimly lit chamber, Marvolo Slytherin stood, the cool stone walls echoing his thoughts. The flickering torchlight cast shadows that danced menacingly, mirroring the conflict within him. The air was thick with an unsettling energy, a blend of frustration and longing. He felt the pull of Cassopiea, a tether he could neither sever nor ignore.

What is happening to me? he pondered, the weight of his feelings wrapping around him like a shroud. It was absurd. A Dark Lord—feeling remorse? The very idea made him want to laugh, though the ache in his chest muted the humor. If someone told me I’d be contemplating my feelings over a girl, I’d have hexed them into the next century.