Harry Potter: Dragon Eyes

The morning light filtering through the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall felt oddly harsh to Albus Dumbledore's eyes.

Beneath the unlit floating candles and murmuring students, he cut a stoic figure at the High Table, his fingers curled around a half-finished cup of Earl Grey tea.

A ripple of whispers carried down the long house tables, but he ignored them.

He focused instead on Harry Potter, who was seated at the Ravenclaw table—of all places—next to that Delacour girl.

Potter glanced up from his conversation with her and offered Dumbledore a cool, almost challenging smirk.

It was the barest twitch at the corners of his mouth, yet it spoke volumes.

Once upon a time, Dumbledore had expected that boy's every glance to carry admiration and even awe.

Now, there was only defiance…

Fawkes, of course, was perched on Potter's shoulder.

That detail still stung Dumbledore's pride.

The phoenix had abandoned him, choosing Potter after their 'duel'.

'Short-sighted bird,' Dumbledore thought bitterly, making no sign of outward irritation.

He simply returned a mild, impassive look.

At the staff table, several professors shifted uneasily in their chairs.

They felt the tension.

The Daily Prophet's front-page coverage had exploded across the school.

If the glances from down the table were any indication, many were wondering how he would respond.

In truth, Dumbledore himself had not uttered so much as a sentence in public. Not yet.

He took another careful sip of tea and then set the cup aside.

'Patience,' he reiterated inside his head.

A great many illusions could be maintained if one displayed calm.

He had been controlling narratives for decades—he would do so again now.

'And no hasty remarks.'

He had learned that lesson the hard way: let others show their cards before revealing your own.

Just then, Professor McGonagall cleared her throat as she approached him.

"Headmaster," she murmured. Worry etched her features. "Shall we address the… Prophet?"

"Not yet." His voice was smooth, with no trace of anxiety. "I believe the school will benefit more from stability than from yet another dramatic declaration. Later, Minerva."

Her lips pursed, but she merely nodded and withdrew.

Dumbledore lowered his gaze to the half-empty plates.

'Let them whisper,' he told himself.

'Soon enough, the tension will soften… and that is when I will act.'

After breakfast, Dumbledore slipped away to his private office, ignoring the swirl of students in the corridors.

The gargoyle parted, revealing the spiral staircase leading to his domain.

Once inside, the door sealed itself with a firm thump that banished the noise of Hogwarts's daily bustle.

Silence reigned amid the ticking silver instruments and the usually talkative portraits.

The former headmasters and headmistresses hung motionless in their frames, feigning sleep.

Dumbledore strode to a tall cabinet lined with personal records of staff and students alike—tomes bound in peacock-blue leather.

He removed a smaller logbook from the second shelf and turned its pages.

Harry James Potter.

He skimmed the notes he had made during the last decade: indicators of potential threats, ways to influence the boy—now mostly obsolete.

Potter had grown bolder, craftier, and much more powerful than anticipated.

The boy had cultivated unexpected allies, most surprisingly, the press.

The corners of Dumbledore's mouth tightened.

"Let's see," he murmured, flipping the logbook closed with a snap.

Rita Skeeter.

She was the source of his current predicament.

He would not confront her publicly, no.

That would only give her more fodder. But she could be contained. Oh, yes.

He had already sent discreet word to a certain old friend at the Ministry—a senior figure who owed him far too many favours.

In time, he would see Skeeter's "sources" dried up, her access restricted, and perhaps even her legal standing jeopardised.

No direct confrontation. That would be beneath him.

But subtle letters, with well-placed suggestions about unregistered Animagi?

Those could do wonders.

'Next, there's the damned boy. Potter himself.'

The boy had proven far more dangerous than he once believed.

Stripping him of house points or giving detentions would be petty, too transparent, and pointless.

No, Dumbledore needed to erode the foundations of Potter's support—discreetly.

Reaching for another drawer, he retrieved a parchment.

A list of prefects, Quidditch captains, and older students with influence.

Dumbledore traced his finger down it, pausing at certain names.

A subtle word in the right ear, a hint that Harry Potter was "unhinged" or "meddling in dangerous affairs."

Small rumours, cultivated carefully…

'He's not the only one who can play games,' Dumbledore thought darkly.

'I have decades of experience, and unlike an impetuous teenager, I know the value of working from the shadows.'

'Patience,' he reminded himself.

He would ensure that key staff took a more watchful eye on Potter.

'I'll put Severus on heightened surveillance duty. His personal grudge against the boy would serve well—and his natural inclination toward suspicion could be particularly useful. Perhaps a few "chance encounters" in the corridors would suffice.'

Yes, Dumbledore decided.

'No furious outbursts, no hasty counter-speech. Let Potter think he has the upper hand for a while. I'll let the Wizarding public froth over Rita's dramatic accounts and by the time they realise I have never publicly addressed the matter—it will be too late. I'll have already moved behind the scenes—pressuring Skeeter into silence, sowing doubt about Potter's mental stability, and quietly fortifying my own power base at Hogwarts.'

He steepled his fingers, eyes drifting to where Fawkes's perch used to stand.

'Ungrateful bird.'

An unwelcome pang of loss rose in his chest, but he brushed it aside.

Soon enough, the wizarding world would either accept his decisions—or find themselves outmanoeuvred.

Already, a half-smile touched Dumbledore's lips.

They might revile him in private, but publicly he would remain what he had always been: Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, champion of the Light.

It was a mask he wore well, and for all Potter's newfound cunning, the boy still had much to learn about these political games.

With a swirl of his robes, he left the office to set those wheels in motion, confident that in time, when he did finally respond, it would be on his own terms—and with decisive force.

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Sorry for the delay, I forgot to upload...

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