Dumbledore

When the first rays of morning light seeped through the crack in the door, Clara woke up in the Room of Requirement. She didn't know when she had fallen asleep. All she remembered was last seeing her own messy handwriting on the parchment, flickering in the dim lamplight.

She folded the parchment and slipped it into her robes, then pushed the door open. The Seventh Floor corridor was deserted, and Barnabas the Barmy was still being beaten on the Troll tapestry. Clara went down the stairs and through the sleeping castle.

The Headmaster's Office was behind a stone statue. It wasn't fully light when Clara arrived, and the corridor held only her and the gargoyle, which crouched silently in the morning light.

She didn't know the password, so she stood in front of the gargoyle and said, "I have something urgent to discuss with Professor Dumbledore. My name is Clara Albert, fifth-year Hufflepuff."

The gargoyle didn't move.

Clara sat down against the wall. She had plenty of patience; she had long since learned it through countless resets.

About two hours later, the gargoyle suddenly leaped aside, and a spiral staircase rose from behind it. Dumbledore stood at the top, wearing dark blue robes embroidered with golden stars, a hint of surprise in the blue eyes behind his Half-moon Spectacles.

"Miss Albert," he said gently, "how long have you been waiting here?"

"Just a little while, Professor." Clara stood up, shook out her slightly numb legs, and said, "I have something very important to tell you."

Dumbledore looked at her for two seconds, then stepped slightly aside. "Come in."

It was Clara's first time in the Headmaster's Office.

Most of the portraits of former headmasters on the walls were dozing. Fawkes tilted his head on his perch to look at her, and the fire burned steadily in the fireplace. Clara stood in front of the desk. Dumbledore came to a stop across from her, his hands folded in front of him.

"Go on, Miss Albert. I think we can sit down and talk."

He waved a hand, and the stools pulled themselves out.

"Professor, I was out of bed last night," she said. "I know that breaks the school rules, and I'll accept any punishment. But please hear me out first."

Dumbledore's eyebrows moved. He said nothing, only nodded.

"I saw Professor Moody on the Seventh Floor. He was drinking Polyjuice Potion. I saw his face change with my own eyes. His scars disappeared, his nose grew back, and his false eye fell out. He turned into a young man with light brown hair. He looked nervous, and then he drank Polyjuice Potion and changed back. He mentioned his 'master,' the Triwizard Tournament trophy, and killing someone."

That wasn't all she had heard. She had blended in some of her memories, such as the problem with the trophy and Cedric's death.

Clara said it all in one breath, her fingers clenched around the parchment, her knuckles white.

"I think someone is impersonating Professor Moody. The real Professor Moody might be locked up somewhere in the castle. I don't know who Fake Moody's 'master' is, but it must have something to do with tomorrow's Triwizard Tournament."

Dumbledore's expression grew grave.

He didn't speak immediately. His fingers interlaced, he watched her through his Half-moon Spectacles. The office was quiet for a few seconds, broken only by a soft cry from Fawkes on his perch.

"Miss Albert," Dumbledore finally said, his voice very soft, "are you sure you heard correctly?"

"I'm sure," Clara said, nervous about "lying" and a little excited.

In countless loops, she had never made it this far: sitting in the Headmaster's Office with evidence, facing a Dumbledore who was willing to take her seriously.

His voice remained gentle, without a trace of reproach. "You said Fake Moody mentioned the trophy and killing someone. You said it very naturally, as though those things were just as real as the other details you saw. But I think they weren't. Did you deduce them, or did you learn about them somewhere else?"

The air in the office seemed to congeal. Sitting in her chair, Clara clutched the cuff of her robes and turned her head away, no longer looking into Dumbledore's eyes, because she knew those blue eyes could see through everything.

"I didn't lie," she said, her voice a little hoarse. "I really did see-"

"You didn't lie." Dumbledore gently interrupted her. "I believe you saw him drink Polyjuice Potion. I believe you saw that young face. I believe you heard him mention his 'master.' All of that is true."

He paused. "Including the killing and the trophy. I believe those are true too, but you didn't hear them last night. Perhaps you learned about them somewhere else, and you didn't know how to tell me what you knew, so you hid them among the truths you saw with your own eyes."

Clara pressed her lips into a thin line.

"Miss Albert," Dumbledore said encouragingly, "look at an old man and tell him what else you know."

Silence.

Then Clara raised her head and looked at Dumbledore, her eyes red.

"You won't believe me."

"Let me try."

The flames in the fireplace flickered with a faint crackle. Fawkes spread his wings on his perch, then folded them again.

"Legilimency." After a long while, Clara forced the word out. "You can use Legilimency. I can't tell you, because I don't have any evidence to prove that what I'm saying is true. But you can see for yourself. You can see all my memories."

"You can see the first time I stood on the Quidditch Pitch and watched Cedric die in front of me. You can see me slip him a note, and him throw it into the fireplace. You can see me waiting for him outside the library, and going to Cho Chang and begging her to stop him. You can even see me rush onto the pitch to pull him away and get dragged out by two Aurors. Every time I failed, every time I started over, every time I opened my eyes and found myself still trapped in this damned loop."

Clara's voice finally broke, thick with tears, as though she had finally found somewhere to let it all out, and could finally tell a white-haired old man about those countless June twenty-fourths.

"When you're done, if you think I'm mad, you can send me to St. Mungo's. If you think I'm telling the truth..." She took a deep breath. "Then at least this time, I won't be the only one trying to find a way."

Dumbledore watched her for a very long time.

Then he drew his wand.

"I won't say that's brave," he said, "because no one should be forced to become this brave."

He raised his wand, bringing its tip close to her temple. "Are you sure, Miss Albert? I'll see all your memories. It will be very uncomfortable. I'll see things you might not want anyone else to see."

Clara thought of the Mirror of Erised in the Room of Requirement, of Cedric reaching out to her in the mirror.

But that didn't matter. If Legilimency could make Dumbledore believe her and save Cedric, then none of it mattered.

"I'm sure," she said.

Dumbledore nodded. The tip of his wand glowed silver.

Then he lowered it.

"No," he said.

Clara froze.

"I don't need to see all your memories," Dumbledore said, putting his wand back in his robes. "At least, not now. Your willingness to let me see them is enough."

Seeing Clara's confused expression, he bent down slightly and looked her in the eye.

"You're not mad, Miss Albert. I believe you. Leave the rest to me."

Clara's tears finally broke free completely.

She sat in the chair in the Headmaster's Office, covering her face with her hands, her shoulders shaking violently. She didn't know how long she cried. She only remembered that when she could finally lift her head, Dumbledore handed her a handkerchief embroidered with little blue stars.

"I have a suggestion," Dumbledore said after she had blown her nose. "I'm not sure how much I can help you in this loop. I'll send someone to look for Moody at once, and the trophy will be examined. I'll personally keep an eye on everything tomorrow. But you and I both know that might not be enough."

Clara nodded.

"If—and only if—we don't succeed this time, if you find that nothing we did today changed tomorrow's outcome, if you find yourself standing on the lawn on June twenty-fourth once again, watching the same result..." He paused, his blue eyes fixed on hers. "Then next time you come to me, just thrust a pair of Muggle woollen socks into my hands. I'll believe every word you say. I think that would save us quite a bit of time, wouldn't it?"

No one had ever said anything like that to her before.

In countless resets, she had received nothing but doubt, sympathy, and polite refusals. And now, Dumbledore had given her a promise.

Clara left the Headmaster's Office.

She walked back along the corridor. As she passed the Great Hall, she caught the aroma of breakfast, probably toast, fried eggs, and Pumpkin Juice mingling as they drifted through the crack in the door. Her stomach cramped, reminding her that she hadn't eaten in a long time.

Rowle was waiting for her at the entrance to the common room. Anxious, he tugged at her sleeve and asked where she had gone. She said she was fine, that she had just gotten up early for a walk. Rowle didn't believe her, but he didn't press her, only pushed a bread roll into her hand and made her eat it.

Clara chewed the roll. Her sense of taste, which had nearly vanished under the pressure of the past few days, seemed to return a little.

On the evening of June twenty-fourth, at the Quidditch Pitch, Clara sat in the Hufflepuff stands with Rowle beside her. She watched Dumbledore bend over the Triwizard Cup at the entrance to the maze, examining it. Blue light shone from the tip of his wand, sweeping over the trophy's surface in circles. After quite a while, Dumbledore straightened up and said something to Bagman beside him. Clara couldn't read lips, but she saw that Dumbledore's expression was calm.

The inspection was complete. There was nothing wrong with the trophy.

Her heart sank a little, but she told herself this was only part of the plan. Dumbledore knew about Fake Moody. He would keep an eye on the trophy, send people to patrol, and protect every student.

The champions entered. Bagman announced the start of the competition. Krum went into the maze, then Phoebe, then Harry and Cedric.

Clara gripped Rowle's hand.

She waited.

Twenty minutes. Thirty minutes. Red sparks. Krum was transported out. Phoebe was transported out.

And then-

Screams, cries.

Clara closed her eyes.

Darkness, falling, a nauseatingly familiar sensation of weightlessness.

Cedric had died anyway.

Even though Dumbledore believed her, Cedric had died anyway.

Was she disappointed? A little, perhaps, but not much. It wasn't the first time, anyway.

She opened her eyes.

Then she found herself face-to-face with her owl, Banban.