[Complete] Ch 10.1 Ending Maker: Fate Wizardry (Patreon)

Ending Maker: Fate Wizardry

Chapter Intro:

This fic’s premise is inspired by the webtoon titled Ending Maker/엔딩메이커 by Chwiryong and their illustrator chyan. Please check them out.

Story Starts

-=&<o>&=-

Ch 10.1

Assumptions Multiply

as They Are Neglected…

and It Seems, Girlfriends as Well

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore—or rather, Dumbledore for short. Albus to those who were close. Though there had been a cheeky Muggle-born a few years back who insisted on addressing him exclusively as 'the Supreme Mugwump.'

Albus chuckled to himself, earning a look from his Deputy Headmistress. The Scottish Transfiguration professor raised a questioning eyebrow at him, and he returned Minerva's scrutiny with an amused twinkle of his eyes.

A simple trick he had picked up decades ago. It did wonders for putting people at ease—though it also seemed to rile them up on occasion. One had to know one's audience.

Minerva shook her head and resumed her conversation with Filius.

Albus surveyed his staff, currently arranged around the circular table in the faculty meeting room. Pomona was showing Aurora something on a piece of parchment. Septima and Bathsheda had their heads together over what appeared to be a runic diagram. Poppy sat with her arms crossed, already braced for a long evening.

'Just two more—'

The door to the meeting room opened.

In swept his Potions professor—cloak billowing in that dramatic fashion that even Albus thought excessive at times. Severus did have a flair for theatrics. Only a few of the staff knew he had enchanted all his cloaks to do that. Nobody called him out on it. The often-sour professor deserved his small indulgences.

After all, Albus had his signature twinkling eyes. Severus had his billowing cloaks. Minerva had her tartan biscuit tin. Everyone needed something.

Severus was followed by the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor—his former Muggle Studies colleague, since replaced in that post by Charity Burbage. Quirinus Quirrell.

He had been quite a competent Muggle Studies professor, if a touch ambitious. Which was why he had taken a sabbatical to gain practical experience, returning with a newfound determination to pursue a career in Defence Against the Dark Arts.

Of course, much to Severus's displeasure, this meant he had been passed over for the position once again.

Albus would not risk Severus for that role. The curse upon the position remained as potent as ever, and he needed his Potions Master exactly where he was.

Albus suppressed a frown as he silently wished Quirinus luck. The man had returned from Albania... changed. The stammer was new. The nervous disposition was new. The turban was certainly new.

But people changed. Travel broadened the mind, and Albania had its share of dark creatures and darker histories. A young professor seeking to prove himself might well return shaken by whatever he had encountered.

Still. Albus made a mental note to keep a closer eye on Quirinus this term. Not that he could keep a Defence professor for longer than a year—he would not have bet his favourite stash of lemon drops on it.

Still. He was not a negligent man. He would not want anything ill to befall his professors—or anyone, for that matter.

"Achoo!"

"Albus?" his Deputy Headmistress asked in concern.

Albus shook his head. "Probably just some minor irritation. Anyway—"

He glanced around the table. Every seat was filled.

"Excellent." Albus smiled as he looked at all his professors staring back at him. With a clap of his hands, some evening snacks appeared on the table—delicate sandwiches, scones with clotted cream, and an assortment of pastries that Albus knew would vanish within the first twenty minutes. He also had wine chilled for after the meeting and, of course, a bottle of Ogden's Old Firewhisky for later.

One did not survive a century and a half without learning the importance of proper refreshments.

"Now then," Albus began, settling into his chair at the head of the table, "let us commence the first staff meeting of the Hogwarts school year of 2018. A most auspicious year, I feel. New faces, new opportunities, and—if I am not mistaken—a rather exceptional incoming class."

Severus scoffed quietly.

Minerva's expression shifted almost imperceptibly. Albus noted it. He noted most things.

"As is our tradition, we shall begin with our N.E.W.T. and O.W.L. years before working our way down. Minerva, if you would be so kind as to begin with seventh year?"

"Before we start—" Minerva began. "I must still protest placing Hagrid's dog—"

"Fluffy."

"Ahem—Fluffy," Minerva corrected herself, looking a little annoyed, "to guard whatever important artefact your friend asked you to hide."

"Ah—yes," Severus said slowly. "And the logic of announcing it to a hall full of hormonal dunderheads."

"Achoo!"

"Bless you," came from several professors.

Albus produced a handkerchief and sighed as the floodgates opened, every professor voicing their concerns at once.

He already had a plan to make sure the Stone would be safe from whoever wanted to steal it.

"Achoo!"

'This'll be a long evening.'

-=&<o>&=-

“—and that’s all I could say about my second-year Ravenclaws,” Filius finally finished.

Albus let out a quiet breath. Three hours. Three hours of reports, debates, and increasingly creative objections to the third-floor corridor situation.

He had managed to steer the conversation away from outright mutiny—convincing most of the staff that the corridor would be far more secure with everyone contributing to its defence. A collaborative effort, he had called it. A show of unity.

Severus had lifted his hands in exasperation. Minerva had pinched the bridge of her nose. But neither had resigned, so Albus counted it as a victory.

“So now we finally get to our first years,” Albus said.

Severus’s eyes narrowed.

Albus kept his expression pleasant. Neutral. Mildly interested, as any headmaster ought to be when discussing incoming students.

Seventeen years. Seventeen years of planning, of waiting, of careful preparation. And now Harry Potter sat in Gryffindor Tower, healthy and whole and—if the Sorting was any indication—rather more complicated than Albus had anticipated.

Thirty-one minutes. The longest hatstall in recorded Hogwarts history.

Albus filed that away for later consideration.

He turned to his Arithmancy and Ancient Runes professors, both of whom had taken on the additional duty of teaching introductory magical theory to Muggle-raised students.

“How are our Muggle-borns adapting to magic?”

The question came out smoothly. Not too eager. Not too pointed. Simply the concerned inquiry of a headmaster invested in his students’ welfare.

Even if Harry Potter wasn’t technically Muggle-born, he had been raised in a Muggle household. Away from any form of magic. Away from the wizarding world’s expectations and prejudices.

Which was, in Albus’s opinion, a pleasant consequence of the blood wards’ requirements.

He hadn’t needed a Harry who grew up with fame. Hadn’t wanted a boy who might inherit the casual superiority that even the kindest wizarding families displayed towards Muggles. That ingrained assumption of more—more power, more worth, more right to exist.

Albus could admit, if only to himself, that their world had its flaws. Animals, the worst of them called Muggles. Something less, the nicer ones implied. Incomplete.

Septima Vector and Bathsheda Babbling exchanged glances. Smiled.

“Minerva and Filius were right,” Septima began.

Albus tilted his head.

“There are certainly standouts in this year’s first years.”

He turned towards Minerva and Filius, both of whom had developed sudden interests in their teacups.

“This is the first time I’ve heard of this.” Albus steepled his fingers. “Standouts?”

Septima and Bathsheda, as professors for two of the electives with the smallest enrolment, had been given responsibility for the introductory magical theory classes. A sensible arrangement. Their lighter course loads allowed for the additional attention Muggle-raised students required.

The irony of the situation never failed to amuse Albus.

After his release from Azkaban—secured through generous donations and well-placed bribes—Lucius Malfoy had lobbied aggressively for shifting Hogwarts’ admission age from eleven to eighteen.

“Or at least,” Lucius had argued before the Wizengamot, “eighteen years old before they enter our hallowed institution.”

He and his voting bloc had magnanimously explained that magic required a certain level of maturity to wield safely. That young minds were too fragile for such power. That the change would benefit everyone.

Of course, Albus and everyone else knew the real reason. Seven additional years of private tutoring. Seven years of head starts in magical theory, wandwork, and political manoeuvring. Seven years for pureblood families to cement their children’s advantages before Muggle-borns even set foot in a classroom.

Albus had fought against it. He and his allies had blocked, delayed, and amended. They had argued passionately about tradition, about the importance of training students before their cores started acting out.

The bill passed anyway. Lucius had called in too many favours.

But then—wonderfully, unexpectedly—it backfired.

Albus had never fully appreciated what happened when Muggle-borns were integrated into the wizarding world at eleven. They adapted. They absorbed. They became, in many ways, indistinguishable from their pureblood peers.

Including the lack of wonder.

Children raised with magic treated it as ordinary. Unremarkable. Just another part of existence, like breathing or eating. They learned the spells, passed the exams, and never once stopped to ask why. Never questioned the foundations. Never pushed the boundaries.

But adults? Adults who had spent eighteen years in a world governed by physics and logic and natural law? Adults who had studied chemistry and biology and mathematics?

They came to magic with questions.

The past decade had seen a resurgence in magical research. Spellcrafters. Enchanters. Arithmancers who actually understood the numbers they were manipulating. Muggle-borns who looked at centuries-old spells and asked, ‘But what if we tried it differently?’

The start was slower, certainly. Muggle-borns needed time to catch up on practical skills. But they didn’t carry the same assumptions. The same limitations.

They didn’t know what was supposed to be impossible.

“Do tell us.” Albus leaned forward slightly. “Who are these standouts?”

Bathsheda just grinned, her eyes sparkling with barely contained mirth.

‘Wait, did she find out how—’

And as if to mock him, Septima’s eyes also sparkled.

For some reason, Albus felt disappointed.

“Before we highlight the standouts, let us talk about everyone else, as that would be quicker,” Bathsheda started.

Albus turned to the rest of the faculty. Their eyes widened as they looked at each other.

He didn’t like this.

“Let’s first talk about our only pureblood attending the class,” Bathsheda continued. “Mr Weasley, unfortunately, lacks the same mindset his older brothers possessed.”

The Weasleys had an arrangement with Hogwarts. The problem was that due to the size of their family—Molly had insisted she wanted a daughter, and kept trying until Ginevra arrived—Arthur’s government salary wasn’t meant for a family of nine.

Their enrolment was largely subsidised, with the caveat that once they graduated, the children would contribute to the Hogwarts Scholarship Fund. Enough to subsidise another student’s education. A cycle of generosity that Albus had implemented decades ago, and one that had served the school well.

Consequently, unlike most purebloods who could afford a practice wand for their children to learn basic magic before Hogwarts, the Weasley children had to share. One wand between seven children meant precious little individual practice time.

So as additional assistance, when each Weasley child entered Hogwarts, they were also enrolled in the Foundational Magic course. This had been a boon for Albus’s plans—he had wanted Mr Weasley to befriend Harry, and shared classes would provide ample opportunity.

“Same mindset as his brothers?” Minerva asked. As Mr Weasley’s Head of House, she naturally concerned herself with her charges. “In what way does he differ?”

It was Septima who replied. “Mr Weasley lacks the drive. He does have control over spells that are domestic in nature—most likely a consequence of repetition rather than mastery. But he lacks the want to understand things.”

“Unlike his older brothers, who might be too curious for their own good,” Bathsheda added. “And everyone else’s.”

A litany of chuckles followed.

Both Albus and Minerva frowned. This wasn’t uncommon, especially amongst purebloods who had grown up surrounded by magic. But the Weasleys had always been different. Bill had asked why constantly. Charlie had experimented with creature-handling spells until he’d accidentally set the Burrow’s garden on fire. Percy had memorised theory texts for pleasure. The twins—well, the less said about what the twins got up to, the better.

Ronald should have inherited that same spark.

“I’m bringing this up now because I’m certain many of our colleagues have noticed similar patterns with Mr Weasley.” Bathsheda looked around the table. “It will be up to us to push him.”

Nods of assent followed—though Severus’s face soured as if such effort were beneath him.

Albus sighed. From what he understood, both Bill and Charlie had donated practice wands to the family after receiving their first pay. Ronald had grown up with his own wand. The lack of resources couldn’t explain this particular problem.

“Also, there seems to be some tension between him and Ms Granger,” Septima added. “Though it appears rather one-sided.”

Albus chuckled. “Boys do sometimes unfortunately tease the people they like.”

Bathsheda gave him a look he didn’t quite understand, whilst both Minerva and Filius exchanged amused snorts.

It would be good for the Weasleys to have a Muggle-born enter their family, Albus mused. Perhaps Harry could help Mr Weasley court the Granger girl eventually. And a union between a Potter and young Ginevra would be quite the boon.

A nice reward, should Harry survive. To have a large extended family would no doubt be something the boy would want. Something he’d never had.

Speaking of which, it had slipped his mind that both Filius and Minerva had spoken about the Granger girl throughout the summer. He hadn’t paid much attention—he’d been occupied trying to convince the Flamels to finally embrace mortality. A decades-long conversation that had finally led them to surrender the Philosopher’s Stone to him—something he knew would attract a certain individual, or his active followers. The recent break-in at Gringotts was enough to indicate his bait was working.

Albus stopped his musings as his mind returned to the task at hand.

Perhaps the Granger girl was the standout? It seemed likely, given how effusively Filius had praised her at staff meals during the break.

“I’ll be speaking with Mr Weasley by the end of next week,” Minerva said, making a note in her leather-bound notebook. “How about my other Gryffindors?”

This year, Gryffindor had taken a large portion of the Muggle-borns. Usually Hufflepuff received the most—Pomona’s house had a reputation for welcoming those who didn’t quite fit elsewhere. But something about this cohort had skewed the distribution.

“Yes, before we move towards the standard performers—Mr Thomas seems far better at adjusting. I have no concerns with him.” Bathsheda consulted her notes. “Same with Justin Finch-Fletchley, though the latter does carry himself with a certain... air. Almost pureblood in manner, which somehow rubs Mr Weasley the wrong way.”

Albus frowned again. Mr Weasley didn’t seem to be making friends. Though at least Harry could help with that. Harry would need allies, after all. People who would stand beside him when the time came.

“So I would assume our standouts would be Ms Granger,” Albus said. “I do recall Filius and Minerva speaking of her during the summer.”

Septima shook her head. “Ms Granger is certainly one of them. But she isn’t alone.”

“Well—before we discuss Ms Perks and Ms Granger,” Albus said, having deduced the other standout. He glanced towards Severus, who had been the one assigned to deliver the acceptance letter to the Muggle-born girl. “What of Mr Potter?”

Bathsheda’s grin widened. Her eyes sparkled again.

“Actually, it is the three of them who are the standouts.”

Albus’s brows rose.

“First would be Ms Perks. Whilst she doesn’t have the experience both Mr Potter and Ms Granger possess—”

“Experience?” Severus scoffed. “From what I understand, Mr Potter was living within a Muggle household. Was the little brat given privileges? Special treatment, perhaps?”

Albus frowned. Had Petunia actually shared Harry’s heritage with him? The blood wards required Harry to call Privet Drive home, but they didn’t require ignorance. Still, he had assumed—

“Let me finish,” Bathsheda cut in, her tone tinged with irritation. “Ms Perks exhibits precisely the type of mind we’ve observed since moving the entrance age to eighteen. Curious. Questioning. Eager to understand the why behind the how. It also helps that she has healthy competition.”

‘Healthy competition?’

“From what I understand, Mr Potter and Ms Perks knew each other before Hogwarts,” Septima explained.

“Ah yes,” Pomona interjected. “I had Mr Potter partner with Ms Perks during my class. I overheard Ms Perks talking about their history.”

Pomona chuckled. “Especially within earshot of Ms Granger.”

Filius stroked his beard. “That explains the competition. Though I don’t observe the same dynamic between Ms Delacour and Ms Perks.”

Minerva visibly sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose.

Albus looked around the table. He felt as though he were missing something. Some crucial piece of context that everyone else possessed.

“Due to this competition, Ms Perks is particularly motivated,” Bathsheda continued. “She absorbs concepts like a sponge. If it weren’t for Mr Potter or Ms Granger, I would wager Ms Perks could easily top her classmates once she’s caught up with the purebloods.”

Albus’s mind raced. Certain things were slowly being unwound. Assumptions he’d made. Plans he’d laid.

“I sense Mr Potter’s fate shall take a turbulent turn,” Sybill chimed in, pouring herself a generous glass of sherry. “The cards spoke to me this morning. The Lovers reversed, flanked by the Queen of Wands and the Queen of Swords. Passion and intellect, both reaching for the same flame. When two queens circle a single king, blood follows. Mark my words—the tower shall fall before spring’s first bloom.”

Albus ignored this. Sybill’s daily predictions rarely amounted to anything, and her theatrical delivery had long since lost its novelty.

Minerva shook her head with undisguised exasperation.

“From what I observe,” Filius said, “Mr Potter does maintain a healthy relationship with both Ms Granger and Ms Delacour—”

‘Oh—’

‘Oh—’

‘Oh—’

Albus’s thoughts stuttered.

“Typical Potter,” Severus added, his lip curling. “Just like his father. Thinks himself magic’s gift to women.”

‘Oh—’

‘Oh—’

Filius chuckled. “From what I can see, Mr Potter isn’t the one wearing the trousers in that relationship.”

‘Oh—’

‘Oh—’

Minerva sighed heavily. “Unfortunately, it seems both Ms Delacour and Mr Potter are subject to the whims of Ms Granger.”

She paused, considering.

“Provided those whims remain within reason. To an extent.”

‘Oh—’

‘Oh—’

‘Oh—’

“Will that not pose a problem if Ms Perks continues to insert herself between...” Aurora Sinistra hesitated, searching for the appropriate term. “...the triad? The three of them?”

Albus’s mind spiralled further.

Harry Potter. In a relationship. With two witches. One of whom was the daughter of a prominent French Ministry official. The other being the exceptional Muggle-born that Filius couldn’t stop praising.

This was not in any of his plans.

This was not even adjacent to his plans.

“It seems Ms Granger isn’t particularly territorial regarding Mr Potter,” Bathsheda explained. “At least, not in the way one might expect.”

“Though Ms Perks does enjoy riling up Ms Granger,” Septima added with clear amusement. “Quite deliberately, I might add.”

Clap.

Minerva’s hands came together sharply, silencing the room.

“I feel we have strayed considerably from the topic at hand.” Her Scottish brogue grew more pronounced—always a sign of her patience wearing thin. “Septima, Bathsheda—please finish your report.”

Bathsheda straightened in her seat. “Very well. Ms Granger and Mr Potter demonstrate wandless magical control that rivals the old families and their inherited pathways for their particular brand of family magic. Ms Granger’s theoretical understanding is exceptional, and she asks questions that suggest she’s already reading well beyond the first-year curriculum. And it seems the two had experimented long before meeting anyone from the magical world—they have their own private terminology for their particular theory.”

Albus’s mind kept spiralling as he half-listened to their report. Why hadn’t Minerva or Filius told him about meeting Harry Potter?

Albus began to doubt things. He had been too busy securing Flamel’s Philosopher’s Stone to attend to the summer’s gossip.

Magical experimentation. Relationships established before Hogwarts. Magical pathways not covered by the Gate. Independence. Too much independence.

He listened, and his unease grew.

“—self-transfiguration?” Pomona asked, snapping Albus out of his spiralling thoughts. “At what age?”

“He didn’t specify,” Septima said. “But it was in response to his uncle’s physical treatment of him.”

Albus felt the weight of every eye in the room turn towards him. He kept his expression serene. Thoughtful. The mask of a wise headmaster processing unexpected information.

Inside, his thoughts churned.

‘Physical treatment? Enough to trigger a magical response—probably the start of his exploration of magic.’

Things didn’t bode well for Albus’s plans.

Albus listened. Nodded. Made appropriate comments.

But his thoughts remained elsewhere.

Harry Potter was not the boy he had expected. Not the lonely, approval-seeking child who would look to Albus as a grandfather figure. Not the blank slate upon which destiny could be written.

For some reason, Albus could hear the mocking laugh of his former mentor Nicolas Flamel. That infuriating Frenchman who always criticised Albus’s choices as if he were a child.

No plan survives contact with reality, Albus.

-=&<o>&=-

To be continued...

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