The Christmas luncheon began under a cloud of tension, yet, almost inexplicably, the atmosphere soon softened into a fragile peace.
After the thunderous applause faded, the guests—whether out of conviction or simple politeness—chose to accept Dumbledore's words. Many still could not fully grasp what Master White had accomplished, but this was not the time or place to probe further. Better to inquire in private than risk making a fool of oneself in front of the entire hall.
Even Minister Fudge was no exception. An Auror leaned in, whispered something quickly, and Fudge's expression shifted at once—his mind turning over a dozen calculations.
Once the murmurs died down, Dumbledore smiled and gently closed his speech. At that very moment, an enchanted orchestra struck up a lively tune on its own, and the Great Hall at last embraced the festive mood.
The banquet commenced.
For the first time, young witches and wizards sat at the Hogwarts tables alongside their parents, excitedly pointing out their favorite foods and recounting stories of school life. Some barely touched their meals before tugging their families away to tour the castle. Still, the shadow of what had just occurred lingered in every whispered conversation.
Parents and guests moved among the crowd, quietly seeking answers from those who seemed more knowledgeable.
> "You should have taken Transfiguration more seriously when you were a student," one wizard muttered to his friend. "How am I supposed to explain it now? Think of it like casting a Killing Curse—but without a wand. Imagine that power. And then imagine what he could do with a wand in his hand."
> "Are you saying Master White can really stand against You-Know-Who?"
> "Without question. And remember—he's still so young. His magical strength will only grow in the coming years. Do you see what that means? Even when Voldemort was at his prime, could he have done something like this at that age? Give it a few years… even if He truly returns, what then? Dumbledore is still with us, and Master White's power only climbs higher. Why should we fear? Look at Fudge—nodding and groveling already. I'd wager he'll be bowing at Master White's feet before long."
More and more began to see it clearly—even if they couldn't fully understand the significance of that single Transfiguration. They realized how fortunate it was to have someone like Dumbledore, a figure of unimaginable power, still willing to guide them with patience rather than force.
That was why Dumbledore's defiance of Fudge and the Ministry shocked so many. They had grown complacent, treating the White wizard as little more than a symbolic figure, a mascot. They had forgotten the truth that had always defined the wizarding world: power reigned supreme.
And now, that truth had walked into the room in the form of a boy.
---
"Master White, our first formal meeting, isn't it?"
"Master White, what was it like facing You-Know-Who? Merlin's beard, I nearly wet myself at the thought!"
"Master White, I chair the Transfiguration Guild. We would be honored if you joined us after the holidays."
Damon, fresh from his dazzling display, found himself the center of a veritable storm. A line of admirers stretched from the dais all the way out the doors of the Great Hall. For now, he tolerated it with patience, shaking hands and exchanging words.
There was no shortage of curious well-wishers, opportunists, and hopeful matchmakers.
> "My daughter studies here too," said a stout wizard, tugging forward a shy girl. "She's in her fourth year—though her Transfiguration is nowhere near yours. At home, all she ever speaks of is you. Would you spare her some guidance when you have time?"
The girl hid her face against her father's robes, cheeks burning.
Not far behind, Gemma Farley, coaxed by her uncle, offered Damon a brittle smile. Her eyes, however, carried something sharper—resentment, challenge, and the weight of unspoken thoughts.
Others were less restrained. A bold young witch leaned close as she shook Damon's hand, scratching his palm ever so slightly with her nails. Her smile lingered, daring, as she whispered:
> "If you're willing, perhaps you could teach me Transfiguration… at night. When no one else is around."
Behind Damon, Dumbledore watched with a half-smile tugging at his lips.
"What's so amusing?" Damon muttered, glancing back. "If you'd kept better control, your student wouldn't have needed to step in."
The headmaster only chuckled, eyes twinkling brighter. He bent close and whispered, "You're right. And for that, I am truly grateful."
A sharp click rang out—one of the reporters had caught the moment. That photograph, later titled Hope, would be hailed as one of the Ministry of Magic's top ten images of the century.
---
The celebration carried on from noon well into the evening.
Old friends reunited, gossip flowed as freely as the wine, and couples whirled across the polished floor. In the private chambers above, politicians brooded, weighing the shifts of power. Children laughed at the sight of wizards with wooden legs and aurors missing arms, while Muggle parents clung nervously to their children, overwhelmed by the endless parade of enchantments.
The climax came when twelve ghostly steeds burst from the dungeon walls, each ridden by a headless knight. The crowd erupted in applause as the spectral cavalry thundered to the center of the hall. The riders reared their horses high, then halted as one—a bearded ghost lifted his severed head, played a triumphant horn, and bowed theatrically to the audience's delight.
Nearly Headless Nick, though still excluded from their company, held court nearby, boasting about his earlier "performance" during the petrifications. Few realized Dumbledore had truly frozen him for a brief moment. Nick would never admit it, of course.
By the day's end, Damon had accepted countless invitations and endured endless introductions. Finally, wearied, he excused himself under the pretense of a trip to the lavatory and vanished from the crowd altogether.
In his absence, the mood shifted once more. The lingering terror of Voldemort's return receded. The Ministry cleared Hagrid of all suspicion, lifting the ban that had long forbidden him from carrying a wand.
Happiness returned, yet beneath the joy ran a subtle undercurrent of unease. Voldemort's shadow had brushed their world again. A young prodigy had risen to power. And within the Ministry lurked Caliban Mortos.
Change had arrived—not dramatic, not violent, but inexorable. Like an invisible tide, it was reshaping everything.
Where, they wondered, would the wizarding world be carried next?
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