Harry Potter and the Dovahkiin

Ben woke to the familiar scent of antiseptic potions and the distant sound of Madam Pomfrey muttering to herself, no doubt about the general stupidity of children.

Candlelight flickered against the high windows of the Hospital Wing, casting long shadows across the rows of beds. And the stiffness in his limbs told him he'd been out for a while.

Good. That meant the cheese dipped in Midazolam he'd "borrowed" from St. Thomas had done its job. He wasn't about to half-arse a fainting spell—especially not with Dumbledore and Snape watching.

He blinked lazily, took a moment to stretch, then propped himself up on his elbows and let out a groggy, well-practised groan. "I feel like I got hit by a Bludger."

A soft chuckle came from beside him. "I assure you, Mr. Brown, no Bludgers were involved."

Ben turned his head and found himself staring into the twinkling blue eyes of Albus Dumbledore. The old wizard sat in the chair by his bedside, looking perfectly at ease.

"I trust you are feeling better?"

Right. Time for a performance.

Ben blinked blearily. "Oh. Professor… Did I—uh—did I faint?" He frowned, as if struggling to recall. "I don't normally do that, y'know. Bit embarrassing."

Dumbledore smiled. "Understandable. However, given the rather dramatic nature of your—shall we say—episode, I do not believe anyone will think less of you."

Ben let out a weak chuckle. "Could've warned me first, Professor. If I knew this Seer business involved so much collapsing, I'd have brought a pillow."

Dumbledore tilted his head slightly, eyes twinkling just a bit more. "Ah, but foresight does not always extend to oneself. Or so I have been told."

Ben hummed, scratching his head. "Yeah… I don't really control them. It just… happens." He let his gaze drift in thought before shaking his head.

Dumbledore's expression remained unreadable. "Would you happen to recall the one you spoke tonight?"

Ben frowned, like he was digging through a foggy memory. "Normally, I remember them, but this time—" He exhaled, shaking his head. "Nothing. Like someone nicked the memory right out of my head."

Dumbledore regarded him carefully. "Nothing at all?"

Ben hesitated, chewing his lip, then sighed. "Well… I keep seeing an old diary." His brows knit together, like the thought had only just struck him as odd. "Not sure why. Just—keeps popping up in my head."

A long silence followed. Dumbledore said nothing, but Ben could feel him thinking.

Finally, the headmaster gave a slow nod. "Curious."

Ben gave a casual shrug, sinking back into the pillow. "Maybe it's nothing. Could be from a dream or something. Or maybe my subconscious is trying to warn me that I've forgotten to do an assignment."

"Perhaps," Dumbledore mused, voice light. "Rest now, Mr. Brown. You have had quite the evening. But should you recall anything more… you know where to find me."

Ben nodded, stifling a yawn as he watched Dumbledore stroll toward the exit, deep blue robes sweeping soundlessly across the floor.

Ben smirked to himself. That should be enough to set things in motion… but not too much. Wouldn't want to make things too easy.

With that, he let himself drift off again, thoroughly pleased with his own performance.

The whole reason for all this dramatics—the cryptic hints, the conveniently-timed fainting, his inaction towards the diary— was all because Ben wanted to test Dumbledore.

Yeah, ironic, isn't it? But Ben had read too many contradicting things about the man. To some, he was the greatest wizard to ever live. To others, a scheming puppet master with too many twinkles in his eyes. And to a fair few, something in between. Ben just wanted to know which version was true.

Back when he first read the books, he always found it weird that Dumbledore never figured out what was happening. The bloke knew about Myrtle's death. He knew about Horcruxes. And all he had to do was put two and two together—second-floor bathroom, mysterious monster, students getting Petrified. It wasn't exactly the hardest puzzle in the world.

Sure, he was a busy man, but what could possibly be more pressing than Slytherin's monster slithering about, trying to murder 𝚖̶𝚞̶𝚍̶—muggleborns?

So this time, Ben had made it easy for him. Laid out all the clues, just enough to put the pieces together. If Dumbledore still didn't put it together, then he was either daft, too distracted to care, or—worse—letting the attacks happen on purpose. Maybe to test Harry. Maybe to toughen him up. Maybe to make sure Harry was loyal to him.

Either way, Ben would soon have his answer. Now, all he had to do was wait and see how Dumbledore played it.

--

For a few days, the school could talk of little else but the attack on Mrs Norris. Filch had tried scrubbing the message off the wall with Mrs Skower's All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover, but to no effect; the words still gleamed as brightly as ever against the stone. Ben could tell it was written in paint from the faint, familiar smell—honestly, how was it that wizards could brew potions that reversed death but still remained oblivious to basic Muggle chemistry?

In the corridors, he often found students actively avoiding his path. The rumour about him petrifying the Trolley Witch had somehow evolved from baseless nonsense to absolute fact, and the theory that he was the Heir of Slytherin was only second to the possibility that Salazar Slytherin himself had time-travelled back to finish the job. Muggle-borns, in particular, had taken to flinching every time they met his eyes, which, frankly, was hilarious. He wasn't actually the Heir, but if people were going to be ridiculous about it, he might as well enjoy the show.

On the bright side, with everyone so fixated on him, Harry was mostly left alone. Small mercies.

Ben headed to the library to collect his History of Magic assignment from Hermione and found her in her natural habitat—half-buried under a stack of books, frantically scanning the shelves like a Niffler on a treasure hunt.

-End of Chapter-

100 chapters?! I never thought we'd make it this far—let's freaking go!

That's more commitment than Filch has to catching students, more persistence than Lockhart has in stealing credit, and frankly, more endurance than Harry had dealing with Snape.

Here's to 100 chapters of chaos, wit, and dangerously high twinkle levels! Thanks for sticking around!

PS- Every time someone joins my Patreon, a house-elf gets a day off. Probably.