December 19th, 1971
David led his two young protégés toward the hospital wing, keeping his pace measured despite the urgency thrumming through his veins. Lily walked between them, one hand still pressed gingerly to the boils marring her face, while Severus stayed close to her other side—protective even in exhaustion.
The corridors were still mostly empty, the dinner hour keeping students occupied in the Great Hall or their common rooms. A small mercy. David had no desire to explain to curious onlookers why two first-years looked like they'd been through a war.
Which, in a sense, they had.
"Will we get in trouble?" Lily asked quietly, her voice small in the echoing corridor. "For fighting them?"
David glanced down at her, saw the anxiety written plainly across her young face beneath the angry red boils. Eleven years old and already learning that defending yourself could bring consequences as severe as the attack itself.
"No," he said firmly. "You were defending yourselves against three sixth-years who escalated to potentially lethal force. Self-defense isn't punishable. And I'll make certain the Headmaster understands exactly what happened."
"But Mulciber's family—" Severus started, then stopped, biting his lip.
"Has money and influence," David finished for him. "Yes. The Mulcibers are an old pure-blood family with seats on the Wizengamot and deep pockets for Hogwarts donations." He looked at both of them steadily. "Which is precisely why documentation and evidence matter. Why truth told clearly and firmly matters. They'll try to spin this as you two provoking them, as their sons defending themselves against aggressive Muggleborns."
He saw both children flinch slightly at the calculated cruelty of it.
"But they won't succeed," David continued, his voice taking on an edge of steel. "Because I witnessed what happened. Because you have injuries. Because the spell residue in that corridor tells a very specific story. And because I won't allow them to twist the narrative."
They reached the hospital wing. The doors were already open—Madam Pomfrey must have heard their approach, or perhaps some alarm had alerted her to injured students.
"Mr. Price," she said briskly, emerging from her office. Her sharp eyes took in Lily's boils and both children's disheveled, smoke-stained appearance in an instant. "What happened?"
"An altercation in the fifth-floor corridor," David said calmly. "Miss Evans took a Furnunculus Jinx. Mr. Snape is uninjured but magically exhausted. Both may be in mild shock."
Madam Pomfrey's lips thinned into a disapproving line, but she gestured them forward efficiently. "Beds, both of you. Miss Evans, let me see your face properly."
David waited until both first-years were settled on hospital beds, until Madam Pomfrey had begun her examination and started treating Lily's boils with a foul-smelling paste that made them deflate almost immediately.
"I'm going to speak with the Headmaster now," he told them quietly. "You're safe here. Madam Pomfrey won't let anyone bother you. Rest. I'll check on you both later."
Lily nodded, looking relieved. Severus just watched him with those dark, unreadable eyes—seeing too much, as always.
David turned and left before either could ask questions he wasn't prepared to answer yet.
The walk to the Headmaster's office was longer, taking him up through the castle's winding staircases and increasingly ornate corridors. He used the time to center himself, to push down the cold fury that still simmered beneath his carefully maintained calm.
Three sixth-years. Cornering two first-years. Escalating to Confringo.
The Blasting Curse.
Against eleven-year-olds.
If David had arrived even thirty seconds later—
He forced the thought away. He hadn't been late. Lily and Severus were safe. And now Mulciber, Nott, and Avery would learn that actions had consequences.
Even for pure-bloods.
Especially for pure-bloods.
As he walked, David reached into his robe pocket and withdrew a small crystal vial—empty, stoppered, standard issue from the Potions classroom stores. He'd taken to carrying a few ever since he'd started documenting things that might need documenting.
Memory extraction wasn't taught until sixth year, wasn't covered in the standard curriculum until N.E.W.T.-level courses. But David had read ahead. Had practiced on himself in the privacy of his London flat over the summer, perfecting the technique until he could pull memories cleanly without damage or distortion.
He knew Dumbledore well enough by now—three years of chess games and philosophical debates had taught him how the Headmaster's mind worked. Words were useful. Passionate arguments had their place. But evidence was irrefutable.
A memory, viewed in a Pensieve, couldn't be argued with.
David paused in an empty alcove, checking to ensure he was alone. Then he pressed his wand tip to his right temple, just above the ear, and closed his eyes.
The memory was easy to find—still fresh, still burning bright in his mind. The corridor. Lily and Severus surrounded. The three curses flying. His intervention. Cruor Limus. Everything.
He pulled gently, felt the strange silvery-cold sensation of memory extracting, watched the gossamer strand emerge from his temple and cling to his wand tip like spider silk. Carefully, precisely, he guided it into the vial and stoppered it immediately.
The memory remained in his mind—you didn't lose memories by extracting copies, merely created duplicates for viewing—but the vial now held irrefutable proof of what had occurred.
David pocketed the vial and continued walking.
He reached the entrance to the Headmaster's office within minutes: the great stone gargoyle that guarded the spiral staircase, imposing and motionless.
David had never learned the password. Dumbledore changed it regularly, usually to some Muggle sweet he found amusing. But David had never needed the password—the gargoyle had been instructed years ago to grant him access when necessary.
A privilege, Dumbledore had said when granting it. A sign of trust.
David suspected it was also a convenience—easier to let the boy come when needed than to constantly update him on password changes.
"Please inform the Headmaster that David Price would like a word," he said clearly, addressing the gargoyle with appropriate courtesy.
The gargoyle's stone eyes glowed amber for a moment—some detection charm confirming his identity, perhaps, or sending a message to the office above. David waited patiently.
Several moments passed. Long enough that David began to wonder if Dumbledore was occupied, if he'd need to return later.
Then, with a low grinding sound of stone against stone, the gargoyle sprang aside and the spiral staircase began to rotate slowly upward, revealing the ascending steps.
Permission granted.
David stepped onto the moving staircase, letting it carry him upward in a smooth spiral. The stone walls slid past, torches flickering in their brackets, portraits of former Headmasters and Headmistresses watching his ascent with varying degrees of interest or disapproval.
He'd made this journey many times over the past three years. For their chess games. For discussions about his independent study projects. For the occasional situation that required the Headmaster's attention.
But never quite like this.
Never carrying evidence of pure-blood sixth-years attempting to murder first-year students in the corridors of Hogwarts itself.
The staircase deposited him at the top, before the polished oak door with its brass knocker shaped like a griffin. Before David could reach for it, the door swung open on its own.
"Come in, David," Dumbledore's voice called from within, sounding tired. "I've been expecting you."
Of course he had. The Headmaster had ways of knowing what happened in his castle. Had probably been alerted the moment three dangerous curses were cast in a student corridor.
David stepped through the doorway into the circular office he knew so well.
The room was exactly as always: crowded with delicate silver instruments on spindle-legged tables, whirring and puffing smoke; walls covered with portraits of sleeping former Headmasters and Headmistresses; the magnificent phoenix Fawkes dozing on his perch by the door; the Sorting Hat sitting on its shelf; and behind the cluttered desk, Albus Dumbledore himself.
The Headmaster looked old tonight. Older than usual, the weight of his one hundred and ninety years sitting heavy on his shoulders. His robes were deep purple scattered with silver stars, and his long silver hair and beard seemed to glow in the firelight from the hearth.
But it was his eyes that drew David's attention—those blue eyes that usually twinkled with benign amusement or sharp intelligence. Tonight they were somber. Knowing. Heavy with some emotion David couldn't quite identify.
Regret, perhaps. Or resignation.
"Sit, please," Dumbledore said quietly, gesturing to the chair across from his desk—the same chair David had sat in dozens of times for their chess matches.
But the chessboard wasn't out tonight.
Tonight was serious business.
David sat, arranging his robes carefully, his posture upright but not rigid. He placed both hands on his lap, the crystal vial with its precious memory evidence a comforting weight in his pocket.
"I assume," Dumbledore said slowly, steepling his fingers before him, "that you've come to discuss the incident in the fifth-floor corridor approximately thirty minutes ago. The one involving Mr. Mulciber, Mr. Nott, Mr. Avery, Miss Evans, and Mr. Snape."
"Yes, Headmaster," David said calmly. "I have."
Dumbledore's eyes held his for a long moment, searching, assessing.
"Then please," the Headmaster said quietly, "tell me what happened. And David—tell me all of it."
David reached into his pocket and withdrew the crystal vial, placing it carefully on the desk between them. The silvery memory swirled within, catching the firelight.
"Ah, you have learnt to copy memories. Why does it not surprise me that you have read ahead, so to speak?"
Usually, David would humor the Headmaster. Perhaps they would share a private joke about his voracious reading habits, his tendency to master magic years before it appeared in the curriculum. It was part of their established dynamic—the precocious student and the indulgent mentor, both aware of the game they played.
But not tonight.
Tonight, two eleven-year-olds had nearly died in a Hogwarts corridor.
"With respect, Headmaster," David said, his voice quiet but carrying an edge that made it clear he had no patience for pleasantries, "I would prefer to discuss the memory's contents rather than my independent studies."
Something shifted in Dumbledore's expression. The faint warmth that had been there—the grandfatherly affection he usually showed David—cooled slightly. His eyes sharpened, became more assessing.
"Of course," Dumbledore said after a moment, inclining his head. "Forgive me. You're quite right. The matter at hand takes precedence."
He rose from behind his desk with the careful movements of a very old man, though David knew that impression was deceptive. Dumbledore could move with startling speed when necessary. He'd seen it once, when a student's experimental charm had gone catastrophically wrong in the entrance hall.
The Headmaster crossed to a cabinet against the wall, opened it with a tap of his wand, and withdrew the Pensieve—that shallow stone basin filled with an odd, silvery substance that looked like liquid light and liquid memory combined.
David had seen it before, of course. Had read about Pensieves extensively in preparation for this exact scenario. The theory was fascinating: a way to view memories without the distortion of time or emotion, to see events exactly as they had occurred from the perspective of the memory's owner.
Objective truth, as close as magic could provide it.
Dumbledore placed the Pensieve on his desk with a soft thunk, the silvery substance within rippling gently. Then he held out one hand, palm up.
"May I?"
David handed over the vial.
Dumbledore unstoppered it and tipped the contents into the Pensieve. The silvery memory strand slithered out like smoke, hitting the basin's surface and dispersing through the existing substance, mixing, integrating.
For a moment, both of them simply looked at it.
"I should warn you," David said quietly, "that what you're about to see is... severe. Three sixth-year students escalated to potentially lethal force against two first-years. What I did to stop them and protect my students was necessary, but you may find it disturbing."
Dumbledore's blue eyes found his, and there was something ancient and sad in them.
"I have lived a very long life, David," he said softly. "I defeated Grindelwald in single combat. I have seen more disturbing things than you can possibly imagine." A pause. "But I appreciate the warning nonetheless."
He gestured to the Pensieve. "Shall we?"
David stood and joined him at the edge of the basin. Together, they bent forward, their faces approaching the silvery surface.
The sensation was always disorienting—the feeling of falling forward, of the office spinning away, of being pulled into the memory itself.
Then they were standing in the fifth-floor corridor.
Not the real corridor—a memory of it, perfect in every detail but slightly ethereal, slightly unreal. The torches flickered with the same dim light. The stones looked the same. Even the temperature felt cold.
But they were observers now, ghosts in a moment already past.
David watched Dumbledore's face as the scene unfolded before them.
Lily and Severus walking together, arm in arm, chatting quietly. The casual warmth of friendship.
Then Mulciber, Nott, and Avery stepping from the shadows. The confrontation beginning.
David saw Dumbledore's expression tighten when Mulciber first used the slur. Saw his jaw clench when the hexes started flying.
They watched Lily and Severus fight with everything they had. Watched the creative use of first-year spells—the bracket, the tapestry. Watched two children battling for their lives with courage that belied their age.
Dumbledore's hands clenched into fists when the three dangerous curses flew—Confringo, Reducto, Deprimo.
"Merlin," he breathed, the word barely audible.
Then David's memory-self stepped into view, and the temperature plummeted.
They watched David stop the curses mid-air. Watched him compress them, redirect them, destroy a section of wall that had stood for centuries.
Dumbledore said nothing, but David saw his throat work as he swallowed.
Then came Cruor Limus.
David watched the Headmaster's face carefully as the spell unfolded. As blood became mud, as golems rose, as three pure-blood boys were dragged down and encased, as the mud crept toward their nostrils millimeter by terrible millimeter.
Dumbledore's expression was unreadable, but his hands were white-knuckled where they gripped the edge of the Pensieve.
They watched the entire confrontation play out. Watched David stop the mud just short of suffocation. Watched the three boys flee. Watched David transform back into the gentle mentor, comforting two traumatized first-years.
Then the memory ended, and they were pulled back into the office with a lurching sensation.
David stepped back from the Pensieve, giving Dumbledore space. The Headmaster remained bent over the basin for a long moment, his hands still gripping its edge, his head bowed.
When he finally straightened, he looked every one of his hundred and ninety years.
"That," Dumbledore said quietly, "was blood magic."
"Yes," David said, not bothering to deny it. "Though not the dark kind. It requires no sacrifice, causes no harm to the caster, draws no power from suffering. It's transformative magic using blood as a medium—no different in principle from Polyjuice Potion requiring a piece of the person you wish to become."
"An interesting rationalization," Dumbledore said, and there was no warmth in his voice now. No grandfatherly affection. Just cold assessment. "Did you invent that spell yourself?"
"I did."
"For what purpose?"
David met his eyes steadily. "To protect those who cannot protect themselves. To demonstrate to pure-blood bullies that their victims are not helpless. To turn their own bigotry against them in a way they cannot forget."
"By nearly suffocating them."
"I stopped well before that point," David said calmly. "I was never going to kill them, Headmaster. I wanted them terrified. I wanted them to understand—viscerally, completely—what it feels like to be helpless. To be at someone else's mercy. To know your life depends on their goodwill."
He paused, then added quietly, "The same thing they were trying to teach Lily and Severus. I simply taught it more effectively."
Dumbledore was silent for a long moment, his blue eyes searching David's face.
"You are fourteen years old," Dumbledore said finally, "and you have just created blood magic specifically designed to torture through psychological terror. Do you understand how deeply that concerns me?"
David felt something hot and sharp flare in his chest—not quite anger, but close. Frustration, perhaps. Disappointment that even now, even after everything Dumbledore had just witnessed, the focus remained on David's methods rather than the attempted murder of two children.
"You are not ignorant, Headmaster," David said, his voice controlled but carrying an edge. "You are not a fool. You know that what I believe, what I pursue with my entire being, would inevitably lead me to inflict pain upon my enemies. Not for pain's sake—never that. But for purpose."
He took a step closer to the desk, his grey eyes intense.
"How many Muggleborns will those three terrify now that they've seen there are consequences to their actions?" David continued, his voice growing more passionate. "That is one of the most poisonous traits of our society—lack of consequences. It has bred an invincibility in the pure-blood class that will take a lifetime to break. What better way to turn one of their greatest weapons, a slur so deeply ingrained in our culture that eleven-year-olds use it casually, against them?"
Dumbledore gazed at him with those ancient blue eyes, and David couldn't read what he saw there. Disappointment? Concern? Recognition?
"You always have an answer, David," Dumbledore said quietly. "No matter the question, no matter how difficult, you have a justification prepared. Logic arranged just so. Philosophy weaponized in service of your certainty."
He leaned forward slightly, and his voice took on a harder edge.
"Answer me this, then. Why did you watch the start of the duel from the sidelines? You have claimed repeatedly that you are not Grindelwald, that you are better, that your methods serve humanitarian rather than supremacist ends." A pause, weighted and heavy. "And yet, you did exactly as he would have done. Watched and waited for the precise moment to prove a point."
The words hit David like a physical blow.
The accusation underneath them—that he'd deliberately allowed Lily and Severus to be hurt, to be terrorized, to be placed in mortal danger, all for the sake of a dramatic intervention that would cement their loyalty and demonstrate his power—was so fundamentally wrong, so completely counter to everything he actually believed, that for a moment David couldn't even formulate a response.
He felt the personal attack land, felt it sink in like a knife between ribs, and couldn't contain the disappointment from showing on his features. His carefully maintained composure cracked, just slightly, just enough to let genuine hurt bleed through.
"Do you truly think so little of me, sir?" David asked, and his voice came out quieter than he'd intended. Almost wounded. "That I would place my charges in harm's way to prove a point that will prove itself regardless of any input from me? That I would gamble with Lily's life, with Severus's life, for the sake of theater?"
The Headmaster's expression shifted—a flicker of something that might have been uncertainty crossing his aged features. He opened his mouth, closed it, then his eyes narrowed slightly as if reconsidering something.
"Then how," Dumbledore asked slowly, carefully, "did you gain insight enough into events you did not personally witness for it to form a complete memory? The sequence began before your arrival. You saw Mulciber's initial approach, heard his first words, observed the entire escalation from its inception."
Understanding clicked into place, and David felt a strange mixture of relief and renewed frustration.
He gave the Headmaster a look of genuine bewilderment. "Did you not notice when viewing the memory that its edges were distorted? Slightly unfocused? The perspective occasionally shifting in ways my own viewpoint would not?"
Dumbledore's eyebrows rose fractionally.
"It was not my memory, Headmaster," David said, allowing a hint of dry humor to enter his voice despite the tension. "Our young pure-blood friend was kind enough to donate it. Mulciber's recollection of events, extracted while his mind was still reeling from terror and his Occlumency shields were nonexistent."
There was a long moment of silence.
"I was unaware," Dumbledore said carefully, his tone neutral but carrying undertones of something that might have been concern or might have been impressed despite himself, "that you have become an accomplished Legilimens."
David shook his head, the movement sharp and dismissive. "I'm not. Not truly. Entering the mind of a terrified opponent whose mental defenses have completely collapsed is hardly an accomplishment worthy of note." He paused, then added more quietly, "It's the equivalent of walking through an open door. No skill required beyond knowing the door exists and having the will to step through."
"Nevertheless," Dumbledore said, and now there was definitely concern in his voice, "Legilimency is magic that requires both power and a certain... detachment. The ability to navigate another's mind without losing yourself in their thoughts, their emotions. It is not typically mastered by students your age."
"I read ahead," David said simply, echoing the Headmaster's earlier observation with deliberate irony. "The theory is quite straightforward once you understand the principles. Mental magic is simply another form of intent made manifest. The same focus required for advanced Transfiguration, applied to consciousness rather than matter."
He could see Dumbledore processing this, could almost watch the calculations happening behind those blue eyes. Another advanced skill mastered years early. Another demonstration of power and capability that pushed David further outside the bounds of normal student development.
Another reason to be concerned about what David Price might become.
"You arrived when the three curses were cast," Dumbledore said, changing tack. "The Confringo, the Reducto, the Deprimo. In the memory, I observed you stepping around the corner mere seconds before they were unleashed." His eyes searched David's face. "That suggests you were already nearby. Already aware something was occurring. Why did you not intervene earlier?"
David had expected this question. Had known it would come.
"Because I did not know there was a confrontation occurring until I felt the magical pressure of three dangerous curses being cast simultaneously," he said honestly. "I was leaving The Circle's meeting room—we'd finished practice twenty minutes earlier, but I stayed behind to organize some materials. I was walking toward the main staircase when I felt it."
He paused, remembering the sensation. The sudden spike of concentrated magical energy, the wrongness of it, the immediate recognition that someone was in danger.
"Powerful curses have a specific magical signature," David continued. "They create pressure in the ambient magic around them, especially when cast in rapid succession. I felt three separate signatures converge—all dangerous, all aimed at the same point—and I ran."
"But not quickly enough to prevent the altercation from beginning," Dumbledore observed.
"No," David admitted. "Not quickly enough for that. If I'd arrived thirty seconds earlier, perhaps I could have prevented the entire confrontation. If I'd arrived thirty seconds later..." He didn't finish the sentence. Didn't need to.
Dumbledore was quiet for a long moment, his fingers steepled before him, his expression thoughtful.
"I owe you an apology," he said finally, and the words seemed to cost him something. "For suggesting you would deliberately endanger your students for theatrical effect. That was... unfair. And beneath me."
David inclined his head, accepting the apology but not quite able to let go of the sting entirely. "You were operating on incomplete information. A natural conclusion given what you observed."
"Perhaps," Dumbledore said. "But I should know better than to make assumptions about your character, even when concerned about your methods." He paused, then added more quietly, "Though that concern remains, David. Regardless of how you came to be present, regardless of the justification for your intervention, the fact remains that you created and deployed blood magic designed to psychologically torture three students."
"To protect two others," David said firmly. "To ensure that Mulciber, Nott, and Avery understand—truly, completely understand—that there are consequences to attempting to murder first-years in Hogwarts corridors. To make certain they never, ever consider doing such a thing again."
"By making them believe they were about to suffocate."
"By giving them a fraction of the terror they inflicted on Lily and Severus," David corrected. "A controlled, measured fraction, from which they emerged entirely unharmed physically. Unlike Lily, who will carry scars from those boils for several days even with Madam Pomfrey's treatment."
Dumbledore sighed, and in that exhalation David heard the weight of every argument they'd had over the past three years. Every chess game that had devolved into philosophical debate. Every disagreement about means and ends, about action and inaction, about the price of doing what was necessary versus the cost of doing nothing.
"What would you have me do, David?" Dumbledore asked, and he sounded genuinely curious. "You've brought me evidence of a serious incident. Three sixth-year students attacking two first-years with potentially lethal force. By rights, this should result in expulsion for Mulciber, Nott, and Avery."
"Yes," David said immediately. "It should."
"But you've also shown me evidence of yourself using blood magic—however you justify its nature—to terrorize those same students to the point of psychological trauma."
"Justified use of defensive magic to protect students under attack," David countered. "Self-defense extends to defending others when they're unable to defend themselves."
"Stopping the curses mid-air was defensive magic," Dumbledore said quietly. "Redirecting them was defensive magic. What came after..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "What came after was retribution, David. Punishment. Terrorizing them until they begged for mercy."
"Teaching," David said flatly. "Not retribution. Teaching them a lesson they desperately needed to learn and that apparently no one else in this school has been willing to teach."
"And what lesson is that?"
David met the Headmaster's eyes steadily. "That Muggleborns are not helpless. That half-bloods are not lesser. That the casual cruelty pure-bloods have practiced for centuries will no longer go unanswered." His voice hardened. "That there are people in this school—starting with me—who will protect those who cannot yet protect themselves. By whatever means necessary."
The last four words hung in the air between them like a challenge.
Dumbledore closed his eyes briefly, and when he opened them again, they held a sadness that made him look impossibly old.
"For the greater good," he murmured, so quietly David almost didn't hear it.
But David did hear it. His entire body went still.
"Ex necessitate," David said sharply, his voice cutting through the quiet. "Not 'for the greater good.' Our words are ex necessitate—from necessity. There's a difference, Headmaster."
Dumbledore's eyes snapped to his, suddenly wary. "Is there? It sounds remarkably similar to me. Different language, perhaps, but the same justification underneath. Actions taken because they're necessary. Because the ends justify the means."
"No," David said firmly, taking a step closer to the desk. "Grindelwald's 'greater good' was aspirational—a vision of the world he wanted to create, a future he believed justified any action in the present. Wizard supremacy. Magical rule. Domination disguised as benevolence."
His grey eyes burned with conviction.
"Ex necessitate is reactive. It's not about building a perfect future—it's about stopping preventable suffering now. It's the necessity of action when inaction causes harm. The necessity of protecting those who cannot protect themselves. The necessity of standing against injustice when everyone else looks away."
"Semantics," Dumbledore said quietly. "Different words for the same dangerous certainty. The belief that you know what must be done and are justified in doing it regardless of cost."
"It's not semantics," David shot back. "It's the fundamental difference between conquest and defense. Grindelwald sought to impose his will on the world. We seek to prevent others from imposing their will on the defenseless." He paused, then added more quietly, "Surely you of all people understand the difference between aggressor and protector."
Dumbledore was silent for a long moment, his expression troubled.
"I understand that those lines blur more easily than you think," he said finally. "That protection can become control. That defense can become retribution. That necessity—" he lingered on the word, "—can justify nearly anything if you're convinced enough of your own righteousness."
"Then what would you have me do?" David asked, frustration bleeding into his voice. "Stand by while Muggleborns are terrorized? Watch while half-bloods are beaten? Do nothing while pure-bloods attempt to murder eleven-year-olds in your corridors?" His voice hardened. "That's not neutrality, Headmaster. That's complicity."
"There is space between doing nothing and doing this," Dumbledore gestured at the Pensieve, at the memory of blood magic and psychological torture. "Between inaction and extremity."
"Show me that space," David challenged. "Show me the moderate response to three sixth-years casting deadly spells at first-years. The measured approach to attempted murder. The appropriate consequence for casual cruelty that's been permitted for so long it's become institutional."
He leaned forward, his hands on the desk.
"You can't, can you? Because that middle ground only exists when both sides operate in good faith. When there are rules everyone follows. But pure-bloods don't follow rules that protect Muggleborns—they make exceptions, they use influence, they ensure their children face no real consequences." His voice dropped. "So yes, Headmaster. Ex necessitate. From necessity. Because someone has to actually do something, and everyone else keeps choosing not to."
Dumbledore closed his eyes again, and when he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.
"Gellert said almost exactly those words to me once. About the necessity of action. About how someone had to do what needed doing." His eyes opened, ancient and haunted. "And I believed him. I helped him. Until I learned the cost of that certainty."
David felt something twist in his chest—not quite sympathy, but understanding.
"I'm not Grindelwald," he said quietly but firmly. "And The Circle is not his movement. We don't fight for domination. We fight for the right of every magical person to exist without fear. Ex necessitate—because it's necessary. Because the alternative is allowing oppression to continue unchallenged."
"And when you've won?" Dumbledore asked softly. "When there are no more oppressors to fight, no more victims to protect—what then, David? What happens to a movement built on necessity when the necessity ends?"
David opened his mouth, then closed it. The question was more complex than he wanted to admit in this moment.
"I suppose," he said finally, "we'll find out when we get there."
Dumbledore studied him for a long moment, those blue eyes searching David's face for something—doubt, perhaps, or uncertainty, or any crack in the absolute conviction that radiated from the fourteen-year-old before him.
He didn't seem to find what he was looking for.
"Very well," Dumbledore said, seeming to come to some internal decision. "Here is what will happen."
David waited, watching the Headmaster carefully.
"Mulciber, Nott, and Avery will be punished severely for their actions tonight," Dumbledore said, his voice taking on the formal tone of official pronouncement. "Detention for the remainder of the term. Loss of house points—fifty each. Letters home to their families documenting their behavior. And they will be required to provide formal apologies to Miss Evans and Mr. Snape, witnessed by myself and their Head of House."
"Not expulsion," David observed.
"No," Dumbledore admitted. "Not expulsion. Partially because expelling three pure-blood students from prominent families would create political complications that would ultimately harm other Muggleborn students—their families would retaliate through the Board of Governors, through the Ministry, through every avenue of influence available to them."
David's jaw tightened but he said nothing.
"And partially," Dumbledore continued, his eyes finding David's, "because you have already delivered consequences more severe than anything formal punishment could achieve. Those three boys will never forget what happened tonight. Will carry that fear with them. You've accomplished what you set out to do—they will never threaten your Circle members again."
"So my actions tonight will go unpunished as well," David said, not quite a question.
"Your actions tonight were problematic," Dumbledore said carefully. "The blood magic concerns me deeply. But you were defending students who were under lethal attack, and you showed restraint in not actually harming their attackers despite having ample justification and opportunity." He paused. "I will be watching you more closely, David. And I will expect you to inform me if anything similar occurs in the future. But no—no formal punishment."
David inclined his head, accepting the terms.
"However," Dumbledore added, and his voice took on a sharper edge, "I want your word, David. Your promise that you will not teach that spell—Cruor Limus—to your Circle members. That you will not distribute instructions for its creation. That it remains your knowledge alone."
David considered this for a moment, then nodded slowly. "You have my word, Headmaster. I will not teach that specific spell to any student."
"Thank you." Dumbledore sagged slightly in his chair, looking exhausted. "You may go. Check on Miss Evans and Mr. Snape. Ensure they understand they're not in trouble, that they defended themselves admirably."
David stood, straightening his robes. He'd reached the door when Dumbledore's voice stopped him.
"David?"
He turned back.
The Headmaster was looking at him with an expression David couldn't quite read—concern and sadness and something that might have been fear, all mixed together.
"Be careful," Dumbledore said quietly. "The path you're walking... I've seen where it leads. I've watched good people with noble intentions become monsters in pursuit of their ideals. Promise me you'll be careful."
David met his eyes for a long moment.
"I promise I'll always do what's necessary to protect those who cannot protect themselves," he said finally. "Whether that's careful or not... I suppose we'll see."
And with that, he left the Headmaster's office, leaving Dumbledore alone with his memories and his fears.
o–o–o–o