December 13th 1971
"Good, Lily, good!" David called out as he held a steady beam of magical energy, assaulting her shimmering gold shield.
The shield—a circular disc about two feet across, hovering in front of her like a floating plate—held for several seconds before hairline cracks began spreading across its surface. The golden light flickered, dimmed, and then shattered into sparks that dissipated in the air.
David cut the magical stream immediately, before it could reach her.
Lily stumbled back a step, breathing hard, her face flushed and sweaty. But she was grinning. "I held it longer that time! Did you see? At least five seconds!"
"Six," David corrected, allowing himself a small smile. "You're improving rapidly. Take a moment to catch your breath."
They'd been at this for a few hours now, in the practice area of The Circle's room. The floor was marked with chalk circles—practice zones for different levels of spell work. Lily was in the beginner's circle, the one closest to the wall with the padded cushioning charms (just in case). Severus was in the intermediate circle, working on his own shield practice with Mary MacDonald.
David had been teaching both first-years the precursor spell to Protego: Clipeo. A spell the Romans had invented in the early days of the Empire, back when magical warfare was as common as Muggle warfare and often conducted alongside it.
The spell created a small, circular shield of golden light, approximately two to three feet in diameter depending on the caster's power and focus. The shield appeared as a shimmering disc that hovered in front of the caster, moving to intercept minor jinxes and hexes. Not as comprehensive as Protego—which created a full magical barrier—but far more sustainable for extended practice.
It was also low in magical cost, which made it perfect for younger witches and wizards who were still building up their reserves. First-years like Lily and Severus could maintain it for minutes instead of seconds, which meant actual practice instead of constant exhaustion.
David had found the spell in an old history book tucked away in the Restricted Section—one he'd gotten permission to access for his "independent study" with Professor Flitwick. The Rise of the Roman Magus: Magical Warfare in the Republic and Early Empire. Dry as dust, written by some forgotten scholar in the 1700s, but absolutely fascinating once you got past the archaic language.
Most modern magic came from the Romans, really. That's why spells were incanted in Latin—it was the language of the Empire, the language of their magical innovations. The Romans had systematized magic in ways the tribal wizards before them never had. Created standardized incantations, documented spell theory, built the foundations that Hogwarts itself was eventually constructed upon.
It was a fascinating bit of history. Julius Caesar himself had helped form the idea of modern wands after he invaded Britain and encountered the druids with their staves. The druids had used long wooden staves as magical foci—powerful but unwieldy, requiring two hands and making close combat nearly impossible. Caesar's Magi had seen the potential and refined the concept: shorter, one-handed, more versatile. The wand as a weapon and a tool.
David sometimes wondered what the world would look like if the druids had won that conflict. If British magic had remained staff-based, ritual-focused, tied to the land rather than portable and individualized. Would the Statute of Secrecy even exist? Would wizards have remained more integrated with Muggle society, their magic too visible and too connected to place to hide effectively?
Pointless speculation, perhaps. But understanding where magic came from—how it had evolved, who had shaped it and why—that was crucial to understanding where it could go. What it could become.
"David?" Lily's voice pulled him from his thoughts. She'd caught her breath, her wand held ready. "Can we try again?"
He nodded. "Ready position. Remember—the shield follows your intent, not your wand. Your wand creates it, but your will directs it. Keep your focus sharp."
Lily settled into the stance he'd taught her: feet shoulder-width apart, wand held at chest height, her off-hand extended slightly as if physically directing the shield. It was a teaching stance—experienced duelists didn't need such obvious tells—but it helped beginners coordinate their magic.
"Clipeo," she said, her voice clear and firm.
The golden disc materialized in front of her, spinning slowly, light refracting off its surface in rainbow patterns. Steadier than her first attempts weeks ago, when it had flickered like a guttering candle.
David raised his wand. "Depulso."
A jet of silver light shot from his wand—a Banishing Charm, low-powered, the kind of spell that would knock someone back a few feet but cause no real harm. The kind of spell first-years would learn in a few months, though most would never think to use it offensively.
The charm hit Lily's shield dead-center. The disc flared bright gold, absorbed the impact, held firm. Lily's face scrunched in concentration, her extended hand trembling slightly from the effort of maintaining the spell.
David counted silently. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven—
The shield shattered.
But Lily had moved. Before the fragments had fully dispersed, she'd shifted her stance, angling her body so the residual magical energy from the Banishing Charm glanced off her shoulder instead of hitting her square in the chest.
She'd been paying attention to defensive footwork.
"Excellent," David said, and meant it. "You maintained the shield longer and you moved to minimize impact when it failed. That's thinking ahead. That's understanding that shields are temporary and positioning matters."
Lily beamed, still breathing hard but clearly pleased with herself.
Across the practice area, he heard Severus's shield shatter as well, followed by Mary's encouraging voice: "Better! You're getting the hang of angling it. Try again."
David glanced over. Severus was already resetting, his face set in determined lines. The boy had natural talent—his spell work was precise, controlled, with none of the wild fluctuations common in first-years. But he was also competitive in a way Lily wasn't. Lily wanted to learn, wanted to improve, wanted to master the magic for its own sake. Severus wanted to be better than everyone else. To prove something.
Both motivations were useful. Both could be shaped, directed toward the greater purpose.
"Again," David said to Lily. "This time, I'll throw two Banishing Charms in succession. Your shield won't hold through both—don't try to force it. Let the first one break your shield, then dodge the second. Understand?"
Lily nodded eagerly.
"Ready position."
She settled, wand up, determination written across her eleven-year-old features.
David felt a flicker of satisfaction. This was good work. Important work. These two first-years—brilliant, driven, hungry for knowledge and validation—they would be part of the foundation. Part of the generation that would actually do something instead of just accepting the world as it was handed to them..
"Depulso," David said, and began the lesson again.
Two beams of silver light shot out in quick succession—one, two—aimed directly at Lily's position.
She'd heard his warning. Understood what was coming. She waited, watching the first spell streak toward her, her golden shield humming with magical energy. At the last possible moment—just as the spell was about to make contact—she jumped to the left.
The first Banishing Charm hit her shield dead-center. The disc cracked with a sound like breaking glass, golden fragments scattering. But Lily was already moving, her feet finding purchase on the stone floor as the second spell splashed harmlessly against the wall behind where she'd been standing, leaving a faint scorch mark.
David lowered his wand, allowing himself a genuine smile as he crossed the practice area toward her. "Well done, Lily. It may not have been flashy, but it would save your life in a pinch. Survival trumps spectacle every time."
She beamed at him, her cheeks flushed pink, red hair sticking to her forehead and temples with sweat. Her hand was still trembling slightly from the adrenaline and magical exertion, but her eyes were bright with accomplishment.
"Come on," he said, gesturing toward the sitting area. "You've earned a break."
They moved away from the practice circles, leaving the sounds of continued training behind them—the crack of shields breaking, Mary's patient instructions, the steady flash-flash-flash of Ted's rapid-fire practice. The sitting area felt quieter by comparison, more peaceful, though still within sight of the others.
Several jugs of chilled water sat on the low table, along with a stack of clean glasses. David had learned early on that proper hydration was essential for extended magical practice. Dehydration led to poor focus, poor focus led to sloppy spell work, and sloppy spell work could be dangerous.
He poured them both a glass. Lily took hers and drank greedily, gulping down half of it in one go before pausing to breathe. David sipped his own more slowly, watching the continued practice with a critical eye. Marcus was doing well with Patricia—the girl's wand movements were much smoother than they'd been an hour ago.
They sat in comfortable silence for a few moments, just the ambient sounds of The Circle's work filling the space. The crackle of the fireplace. The occasional voice calling out encouragement or correction. The distinctive crack of shields meeting spells.
"C-can I ask you some questions?" Lily asked after a time, her voice carrying a small amount of shyness that surprised him. She was usually so confident during lessons.
David turned his attention to her, nodding. "Of course. What's on your mind?"
"It's not about The Circle or anything," she said quickly, as if worried he'd think she was wasting his time. "It's just... I don't know much about you. We talk about history and magic and what we're trying to do, but..." She trailed off, then gathered her courage. "Could you tell me a little bit? About yourself, I mean?"
He felt something warm settle in his chest. The others asked him questions constantly—about spells, about theory, about strategy and goals. But personal questions? Those were rare. Most members seemed to see him as older than he was, more distant. A teacher, a leader, but not quite... a person.
He smiled, and this time it felt easier, more natural. "I'm happy to answer whatever you'd like to know."
She nodded, more confidently now that she had permission. "Where do you live? I mean, during the summer. When you're not at Hogwarts."
He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking slightly. "I grew up in Sheffield. But I've since moved to London."
"London?" Her eyes widened slightly. "That must be expensive."
"I manage," he said simply. No need to explain the small flat he rented in a less-than-ideal area of the city, paid for with money carefully saved and invested. No need to mention that "managing" meant living frugally, every spare Galleon going toward books or materials for The Circle.
"Do you live with your parents?" Lily asked, her curiosity clearly building now. "Do you have a brother or a sister?"
The question hit him like a physical blow, though he kept his expression carefully neutral. The thought of his sister sent an old, familiar ache through his chest—duller than it used to be, but still there. Still present.
He still visited Ruth's grave every year on her birthday. Brought flowers, usually. Daffodils when they were in season. Sat beside the simple headstone and told her about what he was building, what he was working toward. Time had lessened the sharp edge of the grief, the way time always did. But it never quite went away. He didn't want it to.
"I do not," he said quietly. "My father passed when I was small—nine years old. Industrial accident. My mother passed during my first year here at Hogwarts."
That had been difficult. Returning home for Christmas break to find her gone—pneumonia, the neighbors said. She'd been too weak, too worn down from years of overwork and poverty. Her body simply hadn't had the strength to fight it.
He'd buried her next to Ruth. At least they were together.
"I had a sister," he continued, and his voice stayed steady despite the tightness in his throat. "Ruth. She was younger than me. But she also passed, just before I came to Hogwarts."
Lily's expression crumpled into immediate sympathy. Her eyes went wide and watery. "Oh, David. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to—I shouldn't have asked—"
"It's alright," he said gently, cutting off her distress before it could spiral. "You didn't know. And I don't mind talking about it." That was mostly true. It hurt, yes. But Ruth was also the reason. The foundation of everything he was building. Talking about her meant keeping her memory alive, keeping his purpose clear.
"What..." Lily hesitated, then pushed forward. "What happened? If you don't mind me asking."
David took a slow breath, considering how much to share. How much an eleven-year-old could understand. How much would help her see, truly see, why The Circle mattered.
"She was sick," he said finally. "Leukemia. The Muggle doctors did what they could, but..." He gestured slightly, helplessly. "There were treatments. Experimental ones. In London, in America. New and promising. But expensive. Far beyond what my mother could afford."
Lily was staring at him now, her water glass forgotten in her hands.
"Ruth died in our flat," David continued, his voice quiet but steady. "In pain. Suffering. Eight years old." He paused, let that sink in. "Three months later, I received my Hogwarts letter. I learned that magic existed. That there were people in this world with the power to heal, to cure, to save lives."
His grey eyes found Lily's green ones, held them.
"I learned that there were people who could have saved my sister. And they chose not to." He paused, letting the weight of that settle. "It was then that I started to become what I am today. A person who sees the world and knows it needs to change."
Lily looked at him with sympathy—her eyes had gone all soft and sad in the way children's eyes did when confronted with real grief. But there was something else there too. A thoughtfulness. A questioning look that suggested she was thinking past the immediate emotion to the implications.
She was quiet for a moment, clearly working through something in her head. Then: "Do you blame witches and wizards for what happened?"
He shook his head slowly. "No. Not individual witches and wizards, at least. I cannot truly blame any specific person—they didn't know Ruth existed, didn't know she was dying. How could I fault them for not helping someone they'd never heard of?" He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. "But I do blame the system. The Wizarding World as it exists. The way we've all been taught to shut our eyes tight to the suffering around us, especially when it's a Muggle suffering."
Lily nodded slowly, absorbing this. Her fingers twisted around her water glass, turning it in small circles on her knee. "The Statute," she said quietly. "The Statute of Secrecy. That's what keeps wizards from helping, right? Because we're not allowed to reveal magic to Muggles?"
"Exactly," David said, pleased that she'd made the connection. "The Statute was created in 1692, after centuries of witch hunts and persecution. It was meant to protect magical people from Muggle violence. And perhaps it was necessary then—I won't pretend to know what life was like in the 1600s. But now?" He shook his head. "Now it's just an excuse. A way to justify turning our backs on people who need help."
"But..." Lily hesitated, her brow furrowing. "Even if we didn't have the Statute, even if we could tell Muggles about magic... wouldn't most wizards still not want to help? I mean, the pure-bloods think Muggles are beneath them anyway."
"Many do, yes," David agreed. "Which is why simply removing the Statute wouldn't be enough. The entire system needs to change. The attitudes, the power structures, the way magical society is organized." He watched her carefully. "That's what we're working toward here. Not just equality for Muggleborns within the Wizarding World, but a fundamental restructuring of how our two worlds interact."
Lily was quiet again, thinking. Then she asked, her voice smaller, almost uncertain: "David? What do you... what do you think about Muggles? I mean, I know you want to help them, but..."
She trailed off, clearly struggling to articulate what she was asking.
"But what?" he prompted gently.
"It's just... you talk about how magical people should help them, should save them, should guide them." Her green eyes searched his face. "Do you think Muggles are... I don't know... less than us? Because they don't have magic?"
David was silent for a long moment, considering his answer carefully. This was delicate ground. Too much honesty might frighten her away. Too little might make her doubt his sincerity.
"I think," he said slowly, "that magic is power. Real, tangible power. And having that power makes us objectively more capable than those who don't." He held up a hand before she could respond. "That doesn't make us better people. It doesn't make us more deserving of happiness or life or dignity. But it does mean we can do things they cannot."
He gestured toward the practice area, where shields still flashed and spells still flew. "You can cast a shield charm. Your parents cannot. That's simply fact, not judgment. And because you can do something they cannot, you have options they don't. Solutions to problems they can't solve."
"Like healing," Lily said quietly. "Like curing diseases."
"Like healing," David confirmed. "Like curing diseases. Like preventing famines with growth charms. Like stopping wars with well-placed enchantments. Like saving lives that would otherwise be lost." He leaned back, his expression thoughtful. "Muggles have done remarkable things without magic—I'm not blind to that. Their technology, their science, their innovations. They've achieved things many wizards would consider impossible."
"But?" Lily prompted, because she could hear the unspoken word.
"But they're also destroying themselves," David said bluntly. "They have weapons now that could kill millions. They're poisoning their own air and water. They're locked in conflicts they don't know how to end because they don't have the tools to enforce real, lasting peace." His grey eyes grew distant. "Without guidance, without intervention, they'll either destroy themselves or stumble forward in suffering that could be prevented."
"And you think wizards should intervene," Lily said. Not quite a question.
"I think wizards have a moral obligation to intervene," David corrected. "Not to conquer. Not to enslave. But to guide. To help. To use our power for something more than preserving our own comfortable separation from their struggles."
He looked at her directly. "In the world I'm working toward, Lily, magical and non-magical people would work together. Not as equals in capability—because we're simply not, any more than a child is equal in capability to an adult—but as partners. With wizards providing the solutions that magic makes possible, and Muggles contributing their own innovations and perspectives."
"Like..." Lily struggled with the concept. "Like teachers and students?"
"Perhaps," David said carefully. "Or like adults and children. Or like—" he paused, searching for the right analogy, "—like someone who can see guiding someone who's blind. Not because the blind person is lesser, but because they literally cannot perceive what the sighted person can. The responsibility falls to those with the greater capability."
Lily was quiet, her young face scrunched in concentration as she worked through the implications.
"That's... a big change," she finally said. "From how things are now."
David smiled slightly. "Yes. It is. That's why we're starting now. Building the foundation, training people like you and Severus, creating a generation that understands what needs to be done." He paused. "By the time you're your parents' age, Lily, the world will look very different. And you'll be part of the reason why."
They went quiet for a time. The sounds of continued practice filled the silence—the rhythmic crack of shields, Mary's patient corrections, someone's frustrated sigh followed by encouraging laughter. Lily was clearly thinking through everything she'd just been told, her green eyes distant and thoughtful. David let her process, content to sit with his own thoughts.
He didn't often talk about Ruth. About his family. Most of The Circle knew the basics—that he was Muggleborn, that he'd lost people, that his drive came from somewhere deeper than academic interest. But the details? Those he kept close.
"Could you tell me about them?" Lily asked after a while, her voice soft and hesitant. "Your parents and... sister, I mean? If that's okay?"
David looked at her—this eleven-year-old girl with her red hair still stuck to her sweaty forehead, her eyes full of genuine curiosity and sympathy—and felt something in his chest loosen slightly. She wasn't asking to be nosy. She wanted to understand. Wanted to know him, not just what he could teach her.
He gave a small nod. "Of course."
He took a breath, organizing his thoughts. Where to even begin?
"My father was a factory worker," he said finally. "Steel mills in Sheffield. But before that, he was a soldier. He served in the Korean War—1950 to 1953. Came back when I was very young." David's jaw tightened slightly. "I don't remember many good things about him, if I'm honest. He was a drinker, and a mean one at that. I think he hated not being a soldier anymore. War allows the bullies to have an easy target, someone they're supposed to hurt. When he came home, my mother and then myself—we became those targets."
Lily's eyes went wide, her hand coming up to cover her mouth slightly.
"My mother always said he was different before the war," David continued, his voice flat and factual. "That he'd been kind once. Gentle. But I think he just hid it better back then. War just gave him permission to be what he'd always been underneath." He paused, considering. "He died when I was nine. Industrial accident at the mill. I didn't cry at his funeral."
The blunt honesty seemed to shock Lily, but David didn't soften it. These were the facts of his life. No point in prettying them up.
"My mother was a very religious woman," he said, and his voice warmed slightly—not much, but enough to notice. "Catholic. Every decision she made had something to do with God or being good in His eyes. She attended Mass daily after my father died, sometimes twice when she could spare the time." He looked down at his hands. "I loved her dearly when I was a boy. She worked herself to the bone for us—three, sometimes four cleaning jobs, scrubbing other people's floors until her hands bled. She always did her best to make sure Ruth and I were provided for. She wasn't always successful, but she tried."
"That sounds hard," Lily said quietly. "For all of you."
"It was," David agreed. "But when Ruth got sick..." His voice went harder again. "When Ruth got sick and the doctors said there was nothing more they could do, my mother turned to prayer. She believed that if she prayed hard enough, faithfully enough, God would intervene. That it was all part of His plan." He couldn't quite keep the bitterness from his tone. "And when prayer failed, when Ruth died anyway, she said it was God's will. That Ruth was with the angels now. That we should find comfort in that."
He looked up at Lily, held her gaze.
"I couldn't stomach it. The idea that there was some grand plan that required an eight-year-old to suffer and die. That we should just accept it and be grateful for the time we had." He shook his head. "We grew apart after that. I still loved her, but I couldn't... I couldn't forgive that acceptance. That passivity in the face of something so wrong."
Lily's eyes were shiny now, like she might cry. "I'm sorry," she whispered.
David gave her a small, sad smile. "It's alright. She passed during my first year here. Pneumonia. Her body was too worn down from years of overwork and poverty—she didn't have the strength to fight it." He paused. "I buried her next to Ruth. At least they're together now."
They sat in silence for a moment. Then Lily asked, her voice even softer: "And your sister?"
David's expression shifted. The hardness, the bitterness, the careful control—it all melted away, replaced by something gentler. Sadder. More openly wounded.
He gave a rueful smile, full of longing and old grief. "Ruthie. She was the light in our lives. In that damp, cold flat with never enough food or warmth or hope—she found happiness so easily. And she wanted everyone to feel just as she did. Wanted to share every bit of joy she discovered."
His voice took on a distant quality, like he was seeing her in his mind's eye.
"She was very creative. Always thinking up stories, making up adventures. She'd make little dolls out of twigs and grass and scraps of fabric, give them names and personalities, create whole worlds for them." He smiled slightly at the memory. "She wanted to be a painter when she grew up. She'd seen a painting once in a shop window—I can't even remember what it was of, something simple, but the colors captivated her. After that, she was obsessed. She'd draw on any scrap of paper she could find, using whatever she could get her hands on. Pencil stubs, bits of charcoal from the fireplace, even mud when she was desperate."
"She wanted to bring color and joy to everyone who looked at the things she painted," David continued, his voice thick now. "That's what she told me. That the world was too grey, too dull, and she was going to fix it. She was going to make it beautiful."
A tear slid down his cheek before he could stop it. He wiped it away quickly, almost angrily.
"She never got the chance," he said quietly. "She died before she could paint anything real. Before she could share any of that light she had."
Lily was crying now too, silent tears tracking down her flushed cheeks. "That's not fair," she said, her voice breaking slightly. "She should've... she should've gotten to do that. To paint. To make beautiful things."
"No," David agreed, his voice firm despite the emotion. "It's not fair. None of it was fair. And that's exactly why The Circle matters, Lily. That's why what we're doing here is so important." He leaned forward, catching her eyes. "So that no one else has to lose their Ruth. So that every child who wants to paint gets the chance to grow up and do it."
Lily nodded, wiping at her face with her sleeve. "I understand," she whispered. "I understand why you're doing this."
And David could see that she did. Really, truly understood. Not just intellectually, but emotionally. She'd connected his loss to his purpose, his grief to his vision.
Good.
That understanding would sustain her through the harder times ahead. Through the doubts and the sacrifices and the moments when the cost seemed too high. And he knew—knew with absolute certainty—that if the cause reached where he hoped it would, the cost would be very high. Revolution always demanded blood. History taught that lesson over and over again to anyone willing to pay attention.
He liked to think of himself as a man of history. Someone who looked to the past for answers about the future, who studied the patterns and learned from those who'd come before. He'd read extensively about what he was trying to do—revolutions, most people called them. Upheavals. Fundamental restructurings of society and power.
The French Revolution. The Bolshevik Revolution. The American Revolution. Grindelwald's attempted revolution, though that one had failed in the end.
Some had been bloody beyond measure. Some had devoured their own children. Some had achieved their stated goals only to become something worse than what they'd replaced. But some—some had genuinely changed the world for the better, broken systems that needed breaking, created something new from the ashes of the old.
The key was understanding which elements to preserve and which to discard. Learning from the successes and the failures.
To him, almost all of them had been necessary. Even the ones that had gone wrong. Even the ones that had cost millions of lives. Because the alternative—continued stagnation, continued suffering under unjust systems—would have cost even more in the long run. Just more slowly. More quietly. In ways that didn't make it into history books because oppression, when it's systematic and accepted, becomes invisible.
David took a slow breath, choosing his next words carefully. This was important. This was the moment where he could either inspire her completely or frighten her away.
"One day," he said quietly, his grey eyes intense, "we will be called many things. Heroes. Villains. Saviors. Destroyers." He paused, letting that sink in. "We will be called all this and more, depending on who's doing the calling and what they stand to gain or lose from what we've built. Labels thrown at us by those who benefited from the old system, or those who thrived under the new one, or those who simply want to reduce complexity to simple narratives."
He leaned forward slightly, his elbows on his knees, his full attention focused on her.
"But labels cannot—will not—hold us back from our purpose. From doing what we know is right, even when others call it wrong. From building what needs to be built, even when they call us mad for trying."
Lily was watching him with wide eyes, completely absorbed. Her water glass sat forgotten in her lap.
David held her gaze, let her see the absolute conviction burning in his eyes.
"I know you're young, Lily," he said, his voice gentle but firm. "Many would think that at eleven years old, you couldn't possibly understand the scope of what we're attempting. That you're too innocent, too naive, too sheltered from the harsh realities of the world to grasp what revolution truly means."
He shook his head slowly.
"But I think you do understand. Better than most adults, in fact. Because you've felt it—that burning in your chest when you see something unjust. That refusal to accept 'that's just how things are' as an answer. That certainty that the world can and should be better, and that someone needs to stand up and make it better."
Lily's breath had quickened slightly. She was nodding, small unconscious movements, agreeing with every word.
"I think," David continued, his voice taking on an almost prophetic quality, "that you are going to be the best of us. Not because you're the most powerful—though you have remarkable talent—but because you have something rarer than raw magical ability. You have conviction. You have the courage to question. You have a heart that breaks at injustice and a will that refuses to accept it."
He reached out, not quite touching her, just extending his hand in that same offering gesture he'd used when recruiting her. A bridge. A promise.
"I think you will grow into a marvelous woman, Lily Evans. Brilliant and brave and uncompromising in your pursuit of what's right." His voice dropped to something quieter, more intimate. More certain. "And I think you will be there, by my side, helping guide the world to be the best it can be. Not as my follower, but as my partner. As someone who understands the vision as clearly as I do and has the strength to see it through."
Lily's eyes were shining again, but not with tears this time. With something brighter. Fiercer.
Pride. Purpose. Belief.
"I won't let you down," she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion and determination. "I promise, David. I won't."
He smiled—warm and genuine and pleased.
"I know you won't," he said simply. "That's why I'm telling you this now. That's why I trust you with the truth about what's coming, about what we'll face, about what we'll be called." He paused. "Because I know you're strong enough to bear it. And brave enough to keep going anyway."
Lily nodded fiercely, her small hands clenched into fists in her lap. The same gesture she'd made when she first agreed to join The Circle. The physical manifestation of her determination.
Before David could say anything more, the door to The Circle opened with a sharp thud. A boy entered in quick strides, his robes slightly disheveled like he'd been hurrying. Dirk Cresswell—fourth year like David, one of the first to join The Circle back when it was just three people meeting in empty classrooms.
Dirk was a Muggleborn with an unusual obsession: goblins. Their history, their magic, their culture, their rebellion. He collected every scrap of information he could find about them, spoke about goblin rights with the same passion David spoke about Muggleborn equality. Most students thought he was strange for it, even some of the other Muggleborns. Why care about goblins when we've got our own problems? they'd say.
David didn't dismiss him. David had seen immediately that Dirk understood something crucial: oppression was systemic, not individual. If wizards could subjugate goblins—beings with magic, with intelligence, with their own rich culture—then of course they could justify doing the same to Muggleborns. The prejudice was the same, just wearing different faces.
Dirk had been grateful for that understanding. Had become one of David's most loyal members.
Now Dirk spotted them in the sitting area and moved quickly across the room, weaving between the practice circles where training was still ongoing. His expression was somewhere between amused and exasperated.
"Dave," he said, slightly out of breath. "Dumbledore is looking for you."
David couldn't contain the eyeroll. Of course he was.
"Why would the Headmaster be looking for you?" Lily asked, her confusion evident in her voice and her expression. She glanced between David and Dirk like she was missing something important.
David sighed, standing up and brushing off his robes. "Because we play Muggle chess from time to time," he said, his tone dry. "It was the price I paid for being given permission to start The Circle as an official club within Hogwarts."
Lily's confusion deepened. Her eyebrows scrunched together. "Chess? That's it? That's all he wanted?"
David gave a short laugh, though there wasn't much humor in it. "Oh, the chess itself is simple enough. Dumbledore's quite good at it, actually—better than most people realize. But that's not really the point." He glanced at Dirk, who was grinning knowingly. "He spends the match trying to pick apart the path I've chosen. Questioning my methods, my goals, my reasoning. Trying to convince me I'm heading somewhere dangerous."
"And you?" Lily asked.
"I spend it trying to do the same," David said with a slight smile. "Pointing out the flaws in his logic, the failures of his inaction, the consequences of his fear." He shrugged. "We've been having the same argument for three years now, just with chess pieces moving between the words."
"Does he..." Lily hesitated. "Does he know what we're really doing here? What you're teaching us?"
David considered this. "He knows we study history he finds uncomfortable. He knows we practice defensive magic more advanced than what's taught in standard classes. He knows we talk about Muggleborn rights and magical creature equality and the problems with the current system." He paused. "What he doesn't know—what he can't prove—is anything that would give him grounds to shut us down. As far as Hogwarts is concerned, we're just a student organisation focused on academic enrichment and mutual support."
"Which we are," Dirk interjected with a grin. "Just happens that our idea of 'enrichment' goes a bit beyond what's in the standard curriculum."
"Exactly," David agreed. He turned back to Lily. "The chess games are Dumbledore's way of keeping tabs on me. Trying to steer me away from whatever path he thinks I'm on. And they're my way of showing him I'm not afraid of his scrutiny. That I have nothing to hide."
"Even though you do," Lily said quietly.
David's smile widened slightly. "Even though I do. But he can't prove it, and I'm not going to volunteer the information. So we play chess, we argue philosophy, and we both pretend it's just a friendly mentorship between headmaster and gifted student."
Dirk snorted. "'Friendly.' Right. Last time I passed by his office during one of your games, I could hear you two 'discussing' Grindelwald through the door. Didn't sound particularly friendly."
"Spirited debate," David corrected mildly. "There's a difference."
He looked down at Lily, who was watching this exchange with wide eyes. The revelation that David had this ongoing relationship with Dumbledore—this chess game within a chess game—clearly fascinated her.
"I should go," David said. "Can't keep the Headmaster waiting too long or he'll think I'm avoiding him. Which would make him suspicious." He gave Lily a warm smile. "We'll continue this conversation another time. For now, practice your shield work. Mary can supervise."
Lily nodded, still looking slightly dazed by everything that had happened in the last hour. The personal revelations, the talk of revolution, and now this news about Dumbledore.
David straightened his robes, making sure he looked presentable. Can't meet with the Headmaster looking disheveled—that would suggest he'd been doing something he shouldn't.
"Wish me luck," he said to Dirk with a wry smile.
"You never need luck at chess," Dirk replied. "Just patience."
"True enough." David glanced back at the practice area, at the members of The Circle still training, still learning, still preparing for a future they couldn't yet fully envision. His gaze lingered on Lily for just a moment—this eleven-year-old girl who'd just promised to stand beside him and change the world.
Then he turned and headed for the door, already composing his arguments for whatever philosophical battlefield Dumbledore had prepared for tonight's game.
The real war was still years away. But these small skirmishes with the Headmaster? These were good practice.
And David never wasted an opportunity to practice.
o–o–o–o