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Peeking through the crack of the door.
Even in the brightly lit room, the golden cup in Dumbledore’s hand was still striking, radiating an aura of craftsmanship that only the most skilled alchemists could appreciate.
“Hufflepuff’s Cup!”
Ian recognized it almost instantly. It was Helga Hufflepuff’s treasured artifact, one of the precious legacies of the Hogwarts founders. Just like Gryffindor’s sword, Ravenclaw’s diadem, and Slytherin’s locket, Hufflepuff’s Cup stood as a pinnacle of magical creation.
While it might not rival the legendary Philosopher’s Stone crafted by Nicolas Flamel, the founders’ artifacts carried immense historical significance and powerful enchantments.
Wizards of their stature were masters of many disciplines. Though goblins may have provided the materials, the enchantments woven into these relics bore the unmistakable mark of the founders themselves.
Unlike Slytherin’s enigmatic locket, whose purpose remained elusive, Ian understood the properties of the other three founder artifacts. Gryffindor’s sword possessed an inherent resistance to corruption and grew stronger with each victorious battle, absorbing magical power in the process.
Ravenclaw’s diadem was said to enhance the wearer’s wisdom. Yet, from Ian’s brief encounter with Lady Ravenclaw’s portrait and his research, he suspected it functioned similarly to a magical variant of Felix Felicis — luck and insight magnified.
Perhaps it even provided effects akin to the elusive Wit-Sharpening Potion or the mythical Golden Apple.
Compared to these artifacts, Helga Hufflepuff’s Cup was more unassuming, much like its creator. Practical and nurturing rather than combative, it granted no advantage in battle or study. Yet, it was an unparalleled companion for hospitality and travel.
The cup’s enchantments could preserve food indefinitely, as though time itself stood still within its confines. Its spacious interior stored vast quantities of provisions, a testament to Helga Hufflepuff’s exceptional skill with Extension Charms.
Ian had even read that the cup could transmute water into wine. His countless hours in the Hogwarts library had introduced him to various accounts of the founders’ relics. Ever since his meeting with Lady Ravenclaw, his curiosity had only grown.
But even with all his research, Ian had found nothing of note regarding Slytherin’s locket. Its secrets eluded him. Perhaps, once Sirius Black was freed, Ian would have an opportunity to investigate further.
After all, Salazar Slytherin’s rebellious departure from Hogwarts had left a shroud of mystery. No one truly knew where he had gone, only that he vanished without a trace.
Ian had once stumbled across a peculiar legend in an old, unofficial chronicle. According to the story, an adventurer claimed to have seen a figure resembling Salazar Slytherin in Africa a century ago. The adventurer, familiar with Slytherin’s likeness from portraits, insisted that the founder had been searching for something.
The account went further, stating that the two had shared a meal — a fantastic claim considering the advent of the Golden Apple extinction. Without the aid of a Philosopher’s Stone, it was unthinkable that Slytherin could have survived for so long.
The adventurer’s writings were peppered with embellishments, their tone resembling the exaggerated narratives of Gilderoy Lockhart. Ian couldn’t help but think that, if reincarnation were real as Professor Morgan theorized, Lockhart’s previous life might have been none other than this self-aggrandizing storyteller.
Such thoughts aside, Ian’s primary concern remained the founders’ relics.
“Three of the four founders’ artifacts have already been tainted by Noseless Tom. I must protect Gryffindor’s sword and ensure he never lays his filthy hands on it.”
Ian remained hidden behind the door, peeking cautiously. Despite his expertise in Legilimency, Dumbledore was too engrossed to notice Ian’s presence.
The headmaster’s unwavering focus was locked on the golden cup, likely probing the fragment of shattered soul attached to it. In this state, Dumbledore’s legendary awareness paled in comparison to that of his faithful phoenix.
“Chirp, chirp~”
Fawkes had been preening his newly grown feathers on a golden perch when Ian’s forehead accidentally bumped the doorframe. With a swift flap of crimson wings, the phoenix glided towards Ian.
His forehead smarted slightly, but the greater concern was Fawkes’ inquisitive gaze — as though the phoenix had seen through every last one of Ian’s intentions.
The tip of Ian’s nose throbbed.
Phoenix, as usual, built a nest on Ian’s head— Ian was already used to it. He even touched the Phoenix on his head and happily reached his hand under the Phoenix’s tail. Fawkes, though feeling a bit uncomfortable, still chose not to leave Ian’s head.
“So warm! It’s the warmth of a Phoenix!” Ian excitedly took out his palm-sized money bag and pulled out a Phoenix egg with red patterns and an extraordinary appearance.
He swiftly stuffed it onto his head, and the somewhat dazed Phoenix Fawkes, feeling something immediately uncomfortable under its tail, wanted to flap its wings and leave Ian’s head.
“This is the nesting fee! You have to hatch the egg for me!” Ian anticipated Phoenix Fawkes’ reaction and pressed Fawkes down. Phoenix Fawkes ultimately didn’t continue trying to escape his grasp.
“Chirp chirp~”
It seemed to be cursing.
And it was the kind of cursing that was very harsh. Probably the interaction between Ian and Phoenix Fawkes disturbed Dumbledore, who finally looked up from the golden cup.
There was a flash of brilliance in his eyes, majestic and powerful, though it disappeared in an instant, it still made Ian, who was being watched, feel a terrifying fear. Of course, through the abilities of [Legilimency] and [Mind Perception], Ian knew that the person most afraid of Dumbledore in the room was obviously not him.
The will inside Hufflepuff’s Golden Cup was trembling, and it was unclear what Dumbledore had done to the remnant soul inside the golden cup just now.
“Good evening, Ian.”
Dumbledore put down the golden cup and smiled amiably at Ian, “Tonight is a lively night. I didn’t expect you to choose to visit me.”
He took off his glasses and started wiping them with a handkerchief.
“Good evening, Professor Dumbledore, has Professor Snape gone bad? He hasn’t taught us for several days. I think you should manage this Hogwarts salary thief. My uncle is not only neglecting his duties but this afternoon he even made me miss a Defense Against the Dark Arts class.”
Ian directly lodged a complaint.
He was still somewhat resentful about his afternoon regret.
“I heard from Severus that you secretly brewed a lot of Owl laxatives in the Potions classroom. I think our Potions teacher, no matter how bad, shouldn’t be that bad.” Dumbledore put his glasses back on, his tone full of teasing, making Ian’s indignant expression freeze.
“Chirp chirp~ chirp chirp~”
Fawkes on his head called out to his master a few times, the voice full of resentment, as if thinking Dumbledore’s evaluation of Ian was still too conservative.
“He’s slandering me!”
Under Dumbledore’s deep gaze, Ian somewhat embarrassedly averted his eyes, “Actually, I only brewed a little, at most enough for the Slytherin students’ Owls to consume.”
“Unfortunately, I was in a hurry to find you and couldn’t see the scene of birds raining from the sky, but Senior Penelope promised to take photos for me.” His tone carried a bit of regret.
“A long-planned prank, I think it’s because you haven’t received the compensation from those children yet?” Dumbledore bringing this up was really unexpected for Ian.
“Have you already sought compensation for me? They must not want to pay! I haven’t received a single golden Galleon yet!” Ian’s voice carried a sense of indignation.
Dumbledore chuckled lightly, “I sent them a letter. Perhaps they didn’t take it seriously before, but after tonight, I believe you’ll soon get the compensation you want.”
His words made Ian slightly stunned.
The young wizard’s gaze couldn’t help but return to Hufflepuff’s Golden Cup.
“Is it because of this?”
Ian thoughtfully walked forward to the opposite side of the desk. Hufflepuff’s Golden Cup was placed on the table, the cup body meticulously crafted from pure gold, shining with a warm and soft golden light, with intricate patterns carved on the surface: entwined vines, blooming flowers, and grains symbolizing harvest and abundance.
As Ian gazed at the golden cup.
He seemed to feel the warmth flowing from the cup body, a magical power that could smooth the wrinkles of the soul, but it was mixed with many discordant negative emotions.
From the defilement and desecration of the noseless monster.
“Yes, that’s right.”
Dumbledore nodded.
“I visited Azkaban to inquire about Riddle’s past. That woman is still loyal to Riddle, but in the end, I got the answer I wanted.”
“That answer led me to find this thing… in Gringotts.” Dumbledore’s casual description made Ian’s eyelids and face twitch a few times— he thought of tonight’s breaking news, combined with Dumbledore’s words now, the truth of the evening news was self-evident.
“Merlin Buddha above! So it was you who broke into Gringotts, and under the pursuit of goblins and wizards, nonchalantly took away an important item stored in someone else’s vault!” This wasn’t Ian praising Dumbledore, but the breaking news everyone was discussing tonight was reported exactly like this in the news.
Although Ian hadn’t paid much attention to the matter, when William brought him the latest edition of the Daily Prophet, he couldn’t help but glance at it. The front page featured moving photographs of goblins and wizards in chaos, scurrying through Gringotts like headless chickens.
“No one will suspect it was me. I made sure of that— besides, I had permission,” Dumbledore said with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.
He winked at Ian before adding, “As far as the public knows, it was one of Grindelwald’s Acolytes who broke into Gringotts. There were plenty of witnesses to confirm it. Didn’t you see the photograph in the paper?”
Ian was momentarily speechless.
“What does any of this have to do with my compensation? Are you saying that because the Acolytes are making trouble again, the Aurors will finally take me seriously?”
Ian decided it was best not to comment too bluntly on his headmaster’s… unconventional approach.
“In truth, the Acolytes don’t hold much sway in Britain these days,” Dumbledore admitted, his voice tinged with something almost like regret. “But the old pure-blood families— they aren’t fools. And as much as I try to keep my hands clean, even I am not entirely innocent in such matters.”
He leaned back slightly, his fingers interlacing as he regarded Ian with a knowing look.
“They will undoubtedly uncover the truth— perhaps some of them already have. But trust me, Ian, they will think twice about ignoring my letter now.”
Ian studied Dumbledore’s expression, reading the unshaken confidence in his face.
“Aren’t you worried they’ll report you to the Ministry?” Ian asked, genuinely curious.
Dumbledore leaned forward slightly, the candlelight casting flickering shadows across his face. His usual kindly smile remained, but there was something sharper behind it now— something far more intriguing.
“I don’t think they will,” he said softly. “They understand the balance of power… Besides, after I walked out of Gringotts with the cup I sought— despite being surrounded by Aurors— the Ministry would rather claim I’d been Confunded than admit the truth.”
He gave a light chuckle. “No doubt, every goblin and wizard who witnessed it will testify that they were pursuing a devoted follower of the ‘dreaded’ Grindelwald.”
Dumbledore’s voice remained calm and measured, yet Ian couldn’t help but feel a sense of disbelief.
This was Dumbledore speaking— Albus Dumbledore! Where was the ever-gentle, soft-spoken professor the world revered?
“Blimey… Are you teaching me that having power means you can do whatever you please?” Ian resisted the urge to poke Dumbledore’s face to make sure it was really him and not some mischievous Defense Against the Dark Arts professor playing a trick.
“I thought you’d be more interested in the compensation owed to you by the pure-bloods,” Dumbledore replied, smiling. “Ian, I am merely showing you that the world is not divided into simple black and white.”
He adjusted his glasses, his gaze still twinkling but now touched with something far more serious.
“One day, you may come to understand that even your noble and celebrated headmaster has done his fair share of unscrupulous things for the right reasons.”
Ian exhaled sharply, crossing his arms.
“I feel like I’m learning that lesson far too early.”
“Who says you aren’t?” Dumbledore responded with an amused nod.
Ian’s attention drifted back to Hufflepuff’s Golden Cup, its golden surface gleaming warmly in the dim light.
“You recognize it, don’t you?”
Dumbledore slid the cup forward. Ian, who had been itching to examine it up close, eagerly picked it up. The craftsmanship was exquisite— pure alchemy at its finest. He could already tell it had the power to transmute water into wine and even adjust the taste to perfection. A true masterpiece.
“It must have belonged to Helga Hufflepuff,” Ian murmured, curiosity and admiration flooding his thoughts.
He had read that this cup had been heavily cursed— protected by powerful dark magic, including a severing charm and cursed flames. Yet as he tapped the golden rim, nothing happened. He peered inside and was met with an unsettling sight: the darkness within felt vast and hollow, but more than that— Riddle’s fractured soul lingered inside, trembling in silent fury.
Ian’s casual handling of the cup caused a flicker of amusement in Dumbledore’s gaze.
“I’ve already removed some of the enchantments,” the headmaster said, watching Ian closely.
Then, with a small, knowing smile, he added, “Of course, what remains inside is still quite… stubborn.”
Dumbledore’s casual words sent a shiver down Ian’s spine. Unlike Harry, Ian was not being shielded from the truth.
He was being told outright.
“This thing is a Horcrux, isn’t it?” Ian asked, tilting the cup experimentally.
Though he couldn’t see the soul fragment, he could feel it— the malevolent presence lurking within. It was as if something was glaring at him from inside the darkness.
“So, that thing in there really is a piece of You-Know-Who?” Ian asked, shaking the cup like a tin of biscuits.
He swore he felt the soul inside glower at him.
Dumbledore, unfazed, simply nodded. “That would be correct.”
“How did he even end up in here?” Ian continued, shaking the cup again with curiosity.
Dumbledore observed him for a moment, then spoke with a certain weight in his tone.
“I rather thought you had already studied Horcruxes. After all, knowledge of Fiendfyre comes only after a detailed section on them.”
Ian froze mid-shake.
“…Oh.”
That was not the response he had been expecting.
He tugged at the corner of his mouth in a forced smile. “Did Aurora’s grandfather tell you? He actually knows that Aurora gave me that book?”
Ian knew there was no point in playing dumb.
But he wasn’t particularly nervous, either. After all, ‘Secrets of the Darkest Art’ was a book written by a Hogwarts professor— an officially sanctioned source of knowledge, albeit one most students weren’t supposed to have.
Stealing dark magic? Ridiculous. Ian was merely attending a professor’s class ahead of schedule! If Dumbledore could hire Grindelwald as a professor in his time, then surely Ian could critically study advanced dark magic under the watchful eye of the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.
Dumbledore couldn’t possibly hold a double standard — not unless he fancied the idea of Ariana rising from her portrait to lecture him on fairness!
That thought alone brought a wry smile to Ian’s face, but he quickly remembered the reason he had come to the headmaster’s office in the first place. His curiosity had been piqued by none other than Hufflepuff’s Golden Cup.
Just as Ian was preparing to retrieve the letter he had brought as an excuse, Dumbledore spoke — but surprisingly, he showed no interest in reprimanding him over the ‘Secrets of the Darkest Art’ book.
“It seems you’ve had quite the conversation with our Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. Yet, even so, it appears you know very little about Miss Grindelwald’s grandfather.”
Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled, though his voice held an unmistakable edge.
“He is a man who conceals more than he reveals. Even when he speaks the truth, one must always question what he chooses to leave unsaid.”
Ian shifted uncomfortably under the weight of Dumbledore’s words, his expression faltering. However, the headmaster, never one to linger on discomfort, soon explained how he had deduced Ian’s possession of the forbidden book.
“Your Fiendfyre bore distinct traces of Grindelwald’s handiwork. That particular tome was once a gift from me to him. What I did not anticipate was that he would eventually pass it on to you through Miss Grindelwald.”
Ian froze.
“Passed on?” He frowned. “That was Aurora’s decision, not his. Could this be some twist of prophecy?”
But how could Dumbledore be so certain of Grindelwald’s intentions? Was it simply an understanding that came from decades of friendship?
As Ian mulled it over, Dumbledore redirected the conversation.
“How much do you know about Horcruxes?”
Clearly, they had circled back to the previous topic.
“To be honest, not much,” Ian admitted, his gaze unwavering. “I avoided that part of the book. Splitting one’s soul seems both foolish and desperate. It’s a path that corrupts both life and death. Besides, you warned me at the beginning of the school year — one of your students lost their future because of a similar lack of wisdom.”
Dumbledore’s expression softened, the corners of his mouth lifting into a smile.
“I’m glad you remember my words. It shows discernment, Ian. Yes, only a fool would walk the path of self-destruction. ‘Wit beyond measure is man’s greatest treasure.’ I believe the Sorting Hat’s decision in placing you was most astute.”
Ian accepted the compliment with a polite nod.
“We must save Hufflepuff’s treasure,” he declared, attempting to imitate Lady Ravenclaw’s air of purpose. But the attempt quickly turned awkward. As Ian reached toward the cup, his fingers failed to interact with the cursed fragment within.
He scowled. Drinking wine infused with a piece of Voldemort’s soul was not on his list of ambitions. Still, he stubbornly tried several more times. Each attempt was met with the same empty sensation. Lady Ravenclaw’s methods were evidently beyond his grasp.
“Perhaps I lack the necessary understanding of the soul,” Ian muttered to himself, his frustration mounting. Unwilling to admit defeat, he seized the cup and began shaking it violently. His theory was simple: perhaps if the remnant soul were dizzy enough, it might fall out.
Fawkes, perched atop Ian’s head, remained utterly unbothered. The phoenix’s golden plumage shimmered in the candlelight as he continued warming the egg nestled beneath him.
Dumbledore watched this spectacle with poorly concealed amusement.
“You do realize,” he said gently, “that all you’re accomplishing is tormenting it. Dislodging a soul fragment isn’t as simple as rattling it loose… But I must say, Ian, you are quite unlike the rest of us.”
Ian, spurred on by the comment, shook the cup even harder. The phrase “torturing it” only emboldened him, though he wasn’t entirely sure whether he was doing this out of curiosity or sheer stubbornness.
The headmaster’s expression shifted to something caught between fascination and disbelief. It wasn’t every day that someone managed to disturb a Horcrux to such a degree. Most wizards couldn’t even sense the soul within, let alone provoke it.
“Whew, whew, whew!”
Ian, panting and exhausted, finally lowered the cup. He peered inside, half-expecting some sign of success. Instead, Voldemort’s remnant soul appeared to be in a state of utter disarray — the spectral fragment practically foaming at the mouth in rage.
But as Dumbledore had predicted, no matter how violently Ian shook it, the soul fragment remained stubbornly fused to Hufflepuff’s Golden Cup.
It was as though the Horcrux had become a parasitic entity, leeching its existence from the ancient treasure.
“I have a teacher who might be able to help,” Ian said, though he barely managed to keep a straight face. “But I’ll need to borrow the cup for a little while.”
Merlin knew Ian had no interest in the cup for its historical significance. No, what truly intrigued him was the prospect of dragging Voldemort’s soul along on another reckless adventure. Of course, that wasn’t something he’d admit to Dumbledore. At least, not until the day he cheerfully returned the cup — ideally after being crowned Hogwarts’ most unconventional president.
Dumbledore, however, wasn’t so easily swayed.
“It is possible to destroy the remnant soul while preserving the cup,” he said, his gaze unwavering. “I know friends with the necessary skills. There is no need to risk further damage to this treasure.”
Ian’s shoulders sagged slightly, though he plastered on an air of reluctant acceptance.
“Alright.”
He gently set the cup back on the desk, though his fingers lingered for a moment longer than necessary. The temptation to snatch it up and bolt out of the office tugged at him, but he resisted. Barely.
If he ever gave in, he’d absolutely blame it on the lingering influence of Voldemort’s soul.
“Please remember to return it to the house elves in the kitchens once the cursed soul within is destroyed. I seem to recall that this cup was once used to serve them.”
Ian nodded thoughtfully, a plan already forming in his mind. If the golden cup ended up with the house elves, he could more or less guarantee easy access to it. After all, he had an excellent relationship with the elves.
“Dealing with what’s inside won’t be too difficult,” Ian said. “The real trouble is that this isn’t the only one. I’d rather not let him realize that his secrets have been uncovered.” Dumbledore’s expression grew grim, his voice carrying a calm, unsettling resolve.
“He would flee — but what I seek is nothing short of complete eradication.”
It was rare to hear such ruthless intent from the Hogwarts headmaster. Ian involuntarily shivered.
“Indeed! That’s a most reasonable plan!” Ian declared with an exaggerated thumbs-up, though Dumbledore’s composed demeanor sent a chill down his spine.
This subtle, quiet menace was even more unsettling than the aura Grindelwald projected. Ian thought back to the memories Dumbledore had shown him. No wonder the old man and Grindelwald had once stood side by side.
“Riddle tore apart his soul — not once, but repeatedly. I can imagine the horror of it,” Dumbledore murmured, idly rotating the golden cup in his hands. “In pursuit of immortality, to shield himself from destruction, he made countless preparations. Far more than we might expect.”
A shadow of worry passed through the headmaster’s blue eyes.
Ian, noticing Dumbledore’s troubled expression, spoke up.
“Why not ask the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor? If I’m not mistaken, he might have some insight.”
It was, by all accounts, a reasonable suggestion.
But Dumbledore only gave a weary smile.
“Do you recall what I told you, Ian? When it comes to credibility, the words of our Defense Against the Dark Arts professor are scarcely more reliable than Riddle’s own.”
The fatigue etched on Dumbledore’s face stirred a pang of sympathy in Ian. The headmaster’s frustration and helplessness were clear.
“Why not transform into your younger self and plead with him?” Ian suggested, half-jokingly, though the mischievous glint in his eyes betrayed his amusement.
“…”
Dumbledore rubbed his temples, visibly at a loss. For a fleeting moment, the weight of the years seemed to press down on him. His face was hollowed with exhaustion, shadows sinking beneath his eyes.
“Perhaps,” Dumbledore said slowly, “listening to the perspectives of younger minds would serve me better. Ian, if you were to make an estimate — how many do you think there are?”
It was an uncharacteristically direct question.
“???”
Ian blinked, momentarily startled. He instinctively reached up to steady Fawkes, who had grown restless atop his head. The phoenix fluffed its feathers indignantly, clearly displeased at Ian’s sudden movement.
“Seven,” Ian answered at last, with a weary sigh. “It’s a rather magical number, isn’t it?”
Dumbledore’s eyes gleamed. He closed them briefly, then nodded, his expression softening with an air of reluctant acceptance.
“Indeed.”
His voice, though quiet, was filled with a certain sense of closure.
“Thank you.”
For a moment, Ian didn’t know how to respond. Fortunately, Dumbledore didn’t dwell on his gratitude. When the headmaster opened his eyes once more, the fatigue had vanished. His gaze was sharp and resolute, as though he had resolved to face what lay ahead.
But before Ian could brace himself for another grim discussion of Horcruxes, Dumbledore abruptly changed the subject.
“Child, Fawkes is a male phoenix. He cannot assist you in hatching that particular egg.”
Ian’s eyes widened.
“Chirp, chirp~”
Fawkes trilled from his perch. This time, when he flapped his wings and took off, Ian didn’t try to stop him. No wonder Fawkes had been so reluctant to nest on the egg.
“Why didn’t you say so earlier?!” Ian demanded, thoroughly exasperated. “If I’d known that, none of this would’ve happened!”
With a resigned huff, he pulled the egg from his head, glaring at Fawkes, who crooned smugly in response.
“Chirp, chirp~ Chirp, chirp~ Chirp, chirp~”
The phoenix’s cries were unmistakably indignant, as though giving Ian a proper scolding.
Only after Ian hastily offered some precious herbs as a peace offering did Fawkes finally cease his complaints. Ian could practically feel the promise of phoenix-shaped revenge hanging in the air — he half-expected Fawkes to spend the entire night outside his window, shrieking curses in birdsong.
“Professor,” Ian began, turning back to Dumbledore, “do you happen to know how to hatch this egg?”
Dumbledore regarded the phoenix egg with mild curiosity. Its vibrant shell bore intricate, flame-like patterns that gleamed beneath the light.
“That is a question you must answer for yourself,” he said, his voice filled with the kind of cryptic wisdom Ian had come to expect. “Each phoenix is unique. But rest assured, it will come to your aid when the time is right. Generations of the Dumbledore family have verified that truth.”
As he spoke, the headmaster’s fingers unconsciously brushed against his face, revealing faint scratch marks. Though they were barely visible, the fresh redness hinted at a recent encounter.
Ian’s brows furrowed.
“I haven’t even established a connection with the life inside. Will it truly help me?” Ian mused, frustration lacing his words. Despite numerous attempts, he had yet to sense anything from the egg. Given that it had come from the Twilight Zone, the unsettling thought occasionally crept in — what if the phoenix inside had perished?
“Many believe a phoenix’s arrival is heralded by song and dazzling flames,” Dumbledore replied, stepping toward Fawkes, who had now settled on his golden perch. He stroked the phoenix’s brilliant plumage, his eyes distant with memory.
“But,” Dumbledore continued, “the truth is far more complicated than that. There’s something you might not have considered — why did this egg come into your hands?”
Ian opened his mouth, tempted to explain how he had traded a Bowtruckle egg for it with a friend. But before he could speak, Dumbledore’s voice, low and contemplative, echoed through the headmaster’s office.
“The reason Fawkes recoils from that egg is because the life within stirs a sense of unease in him. A phoenix’s instincts are rarely mistaken… and this little one is exceptionally powerful.”
Dumbledore’s gaze softened, though a trace of awe remained.
“Child, the phoenix has already chosen to come to your side. It’s simply waiting for the moment you’ll need it.”
The headmaster’s hand absently brushed his face once again, a gesture Ian was beginning to suspect betrayed lingering discomfort.
“I must say, I sincerely hope Severus never catches sight of your egg,” Dumbledore added, his voice tinged with something between amusement and apprehension — a rare contrast to the composure he held when discussing far graver matters.
Ian, still studying the egg with curiosity, suddenly reached into his robes and pulled out two letters. The motion was so abrupt that it startled Dumbledore.
“The large one’s for Aberforth,” Ian said matter-of-factly. “Tell him to pay the postage himself, though. I’ve got no dealings with your brother.”
“!!!!”
Dumbledore, who had previously maintained a kindly smile, froze as his eyes landed on the letters. His expression twisted into one of sheer disbelief — as though Ian had conjured a ghost before him.
The portraits of past headmasters lining the office stirred in similar astonishment. Some even covered their mouths in shock, though Ian, too preoccupied with rummaging through his charmed wallet, failed to notice.
“You’ve… actually done it…” Dumbledore stammered, the disbelief etched deeply into his face. “This… this…”
Gone was the tranquil, grandfatherly demeanor. The headmaster practically leapt to his feet, abandoning any pretense of age or frailty. The swiftness of his movements startled Ian.
“What a rebellious talent…” Dumbledore’s voice trembled as he regarded the letters. “You truly are something remarkable.”
Ian met his gaze, unimpressed.
The worn parchment bore nothing remarkable at first glance, only the faint scrawls and doodles that Dumbledore’s trembling hands traced with unmistakable recognition. As he reached out, his hands jerked back, paralyzed by hesitation.
He faltered.
For all his famed bravery, the old headmaster now quailed before two simple letters. Ian could practically feel the weight of the memories those envelopes held — memories Dumbledore had long buried.
Gryffindors were like that. Courageous, certainly, but often defenseless against the ghosts of their own past. Ian didn’t need Legilimency to sense the fear swelling in Dumbledore’s heart.
“Just a bit of reminiscing. Nothing more.”
With no further ceremony, Ian thrust the letters into Dumbledore’s trembling hands. The thin parchment might as well have been a thousand-pound weight. Dumbledore’s grip shook as he accepted them, his knuckles whitening.
He barely managed to steady himself as he collapsed back into his chair. His fingers traced the envelopes, as though their fragile paper could bridge the distance between past and present.
Ian could only watch in silence.
“Your gift… say nothing of it to anyone,” Dumbledore whispered, his voice thick with unspoken emotion. “It is extraordinary — and deeply dangerous.”
“Just you and the other headmasters know,” Ian replied, raising an old wizarding camera.
The portraits on the wall stiffened, their painted eyes tracking Ian warily. Even the typically boisterous Phineas Nigellus said nothing. Only the Ravenclaw headmistress, her portrait framed in muted blue, dared to meet Ian’s gaze — and there, unmistakably, was fear.
“The headmasters are trustworthy,” Dumbledore reassured, though the tremor in his voice betrayed the storm raging within. “They will guard your secret. And so shall I.”
At last, summoning the resolve that had once defied the likes of Grindelwald, Dumbledore broke the seal of the first letter.
His hands shook.
The paper rustled softly as it unfolded. Line by line, the weight of its words seemed to etch deeper sorrow into his weary face. Ian did not pry. Whatever memories were contained within were not his to know. He simply stood, camera still in hand.
Through the lens, he saw it.
Tears.
They welled in Dumbledore’s eyes, defying his last attempts to contain them. A single drop fell, blotting the ink, and the old man clutched the letter as though afraid it might crumble away.
“Reparo.”
Ian flicked his wand, murmuring the spell without fanfare. The ink reformed, though the stains of sorrow remained.
“Thank you,” Dumbledore rasped, his voice breaking. “Thank you.”
But the headmaster’s gratitude was swiftly lost to the weight of his grief. He buried his face in his hands, sobs muffled beneath trembling fingers. The tears continued to flow, staining both the parchment and the wizened face of the man who had borne so much.
Ian said nothing.
He lowered the camera, the shutter unclicked. There were moments that did not belong to the film. Moments of raw humanity — even in a man like Albus Dumbledore.
The powerful, untouchable Dumbledore.
And yet now, before Ian’s eyes, there was only a grieving brother — burdened by guilt, longing, and endless love.
At this moment, Dumbledore seemed to have shed all the strength, composure, and boundless confidence he so often wore.
“Good night, Professor.”
Ian cast one last glance at the old headmaster, his frailty laid bare, before gently closing the office door behind him. It was then that Ian had a revelation.
A messenger was never meant to record. Some moments were not meant to be captured — only remembered.
He was merely a passerby.
In the empty office, the echo of fading footsteps lingered like the soft hum of enchanted strings brushed by an unseen breeze. Outside, the moon hung high in the velvety sky. Only after long minutes of silent reflection did Dumbledore, his tears dried, carefully set the letter aside.
“He actually did it! That little wizard achieved the impossible!”
The portraits of past headmasters erupted, their disbelief echoing through the circular room.
“Merlin himself possessed such abilities — it’s not unheard of,” Phineas Nigellus Black retorted sharply, his voice laced with a distinct note of pride. “Though I daresay none of you understand Merlin’s legacy quite as well as I do.”
Phineas smirked knowingly, recalling the age-old rumor that Merlin had once disguised himself to slip into the ranks of Slytherin.
“Regardless,” Dumbledore’s voice broke through the murmurs, his expression now unreadable, “I trust that every headmaster present will honor the sanctity of this chamber. What was witnessed here tonight must remain within these walls. Out of respect for your memory, I will not resort to magic to bind your silence.”
He spoke with unwavering gravitas, his gaze sweeping across the portraits.
“Resort to magic? What were you planning to do — conjure Fiendfyre and burn us all?” Phineas scoffed, his indignation barely masking his unease.
Dumbledore’s smile was faint but pointed.
“I think not. Though the headmasters of Hogwarts rarely stray down dark paths, you should all remember this: Ian Prince has the means to find you should you betray his trust. And unlike most, that boy does not forgive lightly.”
Phineas fell silent, his usual bravado diminished. The other headmasters, though less vocal, wore similarly conflicted expressions. The weight of Dumbledore’s words settled heavily upon them.
“No one would dare speak of this,” the once-terrified headmistress of Ravenclaw declared, her hands trembling. “This is no ordinary magic. Such power is beyond human reach. Mark my words — the gods themselves favor that boy. Your era has given rise to a chosen one.”
Dumbledore blinked, momentarily taken aback by the conviction in her voice. Before he could respond, Armando Dippet, his immediate predecessor, spoke sternly.
“The boy has not only pierced the veil between life and death, but he even brought you a prophecy just now, Albus!” Dippet’s tone was grave, though it failed to provoke any visible reaction from Dumbledore.
The current headmaster’s eyes flickered, his fingers lightly brushing the aged parchment.
“Since I first discovered Ian’s talent, the thought crossed my mind,” Dumbledore admitted quietly. “If he can walk the boundary between worlds as Merlin once did, then perhaps he possesses another gift — the gift of foresight. It is not impossible. And the truth is, he has already seen further than Gellert Grindelwald ever could.”
A tense silence followed. The painted eyes of Hogwarts’ past leaders shifted between one another, the implications of Dumbledore’s words settling in.
“You should ask him,” Dippet continued with a scowl. “Ask where the rest of it is. I suspect he already knows.”
But Dumbledore only chuckled softly, his eyes drifting toward the moonlit window.
“Ian has already given me the number.”
A flicker of melancholy passed through his voice.
“That alone is a gift. I have no right to ask for more. You see, the boy owes me nothing, and yet he risked himself to offer me this — out of kindness.”
Carefully, Dumbledore set about folding the letter, his movements reverent, as though handling a priceless treasure. But as he slid it back into its envelope, something else slipped free.
A photograph.
It fluttered to the desk, face-up.
Three figures stood together in the frame, their postures easy and familiar, their laughter captured mid-motion. A warmth radiated from the image — a warmth that transcended time.
“Christmas is still a long way off,” Dumbledore murmured, his trembling fingers tracing the edges of the photograph. “But on this Halloween night, I daresay I’ve already received the most precious of gifts.”
A gentle smile crept across his face, though his eyes still glistened from the tears that had fallen. He caressed the photo as though the smiles within might spill from it, bridging the chasm of years.
It was the smile of a younger sister.
Meanwhile, Ian was quite aware of the risk he had taken for Dumbledore.
Turning down a winding corridor, he barely had time to gather his thoughts before he found himself face-to-face with Gilderoy Grindelwald.
“Well, well,” Gilderoy’s usual self-satisfied grin was firmly in place. “Another Horcrux, was it? I suspect I won’t be getting much sleep tonight — not after a revelation like that.”
There was something unsettling in the way Gilderoy’s gaze gleamed. It was impossible to tell how much he had seen or overheard. Ian’s hand twitched toward his wand, though Gilderoy showed no signs of immediate hostility.
“Now then,” Gilderoy continued, far too cheerfully for Ian’s liking. “On this most fascinating of Halloween nights, would you care to accompany me for a little excursion?”
It wasn’t so much a request as a declaration. The gleam in Gilderoy’s eye made one thing abundantly clear — Ian wouldn’t be afforded the luxury of refusal.
(End of this chapter)
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