It seemed like a polite inquiry and Dumbledore’s expression radiated warmth.
However, sitting across from him like a frightened bird, Penelope felt an unsettling sensation— what would happen if she refused? Would she find herself facing the same fate as Professor Ronnie Ehrlich that very night?
A book once recommended by ‘The Quibbler’ suddenly leaped into Penelope’s mind— ‘A Century of Lies: The White King’— and she dared not utter a single word of refusal.
Dumbledore remained the same Dumbledore, his character unchanged, but to Penelope, he felt somehow more… intimidating than usual.
“It is my honor to receive your teachings.” Penelope dared not dwell on those terrifying thoughts any longer and quickly adopted her most humble demeanor.
It wasn’t insincere.
Countless wizards in this world longed for Dumbledore’s personal instruction, didn’t they?
“The Unbreakable Vow is a magical spell used to form an oath between wizards. If the vow is broken by one party, that person will perish.”
“It is very practical for keeping secrets, having been employed since ancient times up to the present,” Dumbledore explained patiently as he signed the vow with Penelope under the watchful eyes of Hogwarts.
“Thank you for your guidance.”
Penelope finally felt a wave of relief wash over her.
She had indeed learned something.
“I also want to thank you for your understanding. As your somewhat irresponsible and selfish headmaster, I believe this can serve as some form of compensation.” Dumbledore retrieved a book from the shelf and handed it to Penelope.
It was his notes from his younger days.
Though Dumbledore had provided diligent instruction, the Unbreakable Vow was clearly unfair to Penelope; so genuine guilt flickered across his face.
Penelope felt as if she had stumbled upon a treasure, and the shadows in her heart instantly dissipated. The records of a great man were undoubtedly a prize that even the most esteemed pure-blood families would covet.
“Thank you for your gift…”
This time, the tremor in Penelope’s voice stemmed entirely from excitement.
“Don’t forget your afternoon class.”
Dumbledore escorted the overly excited Penelope to the door of the headmaster’s office. When he returned to the hall of his office, the portraits of the past headmasters that had departed earlier returned to their frames.
The Sorting Hat continued to feign slumber.
Fawkes was shedding even more feathers.
It seemed to have made a decision.
With a cry, it ignited itself in flames.
When the flames dissipated, the tea on the desk had already cooled, and Dumbledore sat quietly in his chair, watching as a chick emerged from the ashes, revealing the form of a new phoenix.
“Albus, forcing a young wizard to sign an Unbreakable Vow is a violation of your position,” The portrait of Armando Dippet suddenly interjected.
“This is the safest choice.” A hint of shame flickered in Dumbledore’s eyes as he spoke.
“Your current mindset is very dangerous; it will ultimately lead you into an abyss from which there is no return. You are merely weaving a beautiful dream that is destined to shatter!”
“Your younger sister is gone! There is no turning back on that path!” Armando Dippet’s portrait scolded sharply, while other portraits joined in urging him.
“Yes, I believe the child from the Severus family must have only heard your story from somewhere; after all, there are always those who know your family’s secrets, aren’t there?”
“Hogwarts has no secrets; perhaps a ghost whispered it to him. Children’s curiosity is such that they often dig deep into certain matters.”
“I see this Gryffindor fool as nothing but a senile old man, utterly ridiculous! No one can accomplish such a thing! Not even the great Slytherin!”
…
The portraits might have gleaned some information from Armando Dippet. After all, he had witnessed Dumbledore’s rise and subsequent self-imposed isolation as the headmaster.
“Are you all being a bit too noisy?” Dumbledore’s voice was eerily calm.
“I may indeed be getting old, but I believe I am far from senile; in fact… I think I have never been so clear-headed in all these years.”
He murmured softly.
His gaze fell upon the office.
Hidden behind the teacups and teapots was a library borrowing list.
‘Records of Hogwarts’ Past Students’
‘Detailed History of Wizards in the Middle Ages’
‘Legends of the Twilight Zone’
‘Illusions: The Thin Prison’
…
In the basement of Hogwarts.
The black stone walls loomed oppressively, lined with shelves filled with an array of glass jars containing strange and unsettling contents.
Suspended in colorful liquids were preserved specimens— serpents coiled in eerie stillness, scorpions frozen mid-pose, bloated toads, and even the eyeballs and organs of unidentifiable creatures.
In the center of the room stood a large rectangular table, its surface cluttered with gleaming brass scales, delicate glassware for measuring potions, and dried herbs suspended in beakers.
Several copper cauldrons simmered atop wrought-iron stands, their contents bubbling ominously. The air was thick with an indescribable blend of potion fumes— pungent, acrid, and faintly metallic.
This was the office of the Head of Slytherin House, a chamber that, according to old rumors, had once served as a detention room for Hogwarts’ most severe punishments.
Now, after many years, it appeared to have reclaimed its former purpose.
Marcus Flint, a student with certain Ministry connections, was bound securely to a chair, his wrists and ankles wrapped tightly with enchanted ropes. Severus Snape had left him in this state for several hours.
To be honest, Snape was not torturing him— at least, not by the Ministry’s definition. He was employing what he might, in a formal report, refer to as a ‘classical method of intelligence extraction.’
‘Gurgle, Gurgle, Gurgle~’
The cauldrons continued to bubble ominously.
From furious shouting,
To silence,
To being Stupefied and rendered unconscious,
Marcus Flint had endured round after round of Snape’s unique brand of ‘care.’ The long table beside him was littered with empty potion vials, their labels bearing the names of various concoctions— each designed for purposes far beyond simple truth-serums.
Flint had, without a doubt, ingested an extensive range of potions. The ones still brewing would likely serve as his ‘supper’ for the night.
This was certainly not a school-sanctioned operation, nor was it an interrogation method that aligned with Ministry-approved procedures. But Snape, the dark-hearted guardian of Hogwarts, had little concern for such trivialities.
The term ‘Death Eater’ required no further elaboration.
“Slytherin does not need such a student. Being lured to Hogsmeade by the bait of a mere business card is more disgraceful than even the most naive of Gryffindors.”
Snape raised his wand and muttered an incantation under his breath. He had, after all, been a dark wizard ‘redeemed’ in the public eye. The difference between him and true practitioners of the Dark Arts?
He had the option of using ‘Obliviate’— the cleanest erasure of troublesome memories. Marcus Flint’s connections in the Ministry were a potential nuisance, but if Flint ‘remembered nothing,’ then naturally, there would be no issue.
‘Influence? Connections?’
What was the point of all that when a well-cast spell was far more effective?
“Severus, I hope I’m not interrupting.”
Just as Snape finished adjusting the color of the ominous potion in his hand, a familiar voice rang out. He turned swiftly— only to see Albus Dumbledore standing in his office, seemingly having materialized out of thin air.
“Albus, you… why are you here?”
Startled, Snape took a subtle step back, instinctively hiding the potion behind his robes. Clearly, this was not a concoction he wanted Dumbledore to scrutinize too closely.
“I simply wished to hear Mr. Flint’s account as soon as possible.”
Dumbledore cast a cursory glance at the bound and unconscious Flint before turning back to Snape.
“It was indeed the Imperius Curse,” Snape stated quickly. “If I hadn’t restrained him, I wouldn’t have been able to fulfill your request— he might have attempted a lethal ambush at any moment.”
The Imperius Curse.
One of the three Unforgivable Curses.
It stripped a victim of all thought and responsibility, leaving them in a state of blissful obedience. Under its influence, they would carry out any order given— murder, betrayal, self-destruction— without hesitation or remorse. Only the strongest minds could resist it.
“Indeed.”
Dumbledore nodded lightly, his expression unreadable.
“Did you uncover anything useful in Mr. Flint’s mind?”
Dumbledore took a step closer to the unconscious Slytherin. Then, under Snape’s watchful gaze, he raised his wand.
A shimmering silver thread of memory was drawn from Flint’s temple and placed into a prepared phial— a container of fine crystal, crafted to preserve extracted recollections.
“The spellwork behind this is exceptionally meticulous,” Snape muttered. “Whoever put that curse on him ensured that their identity was entirely erased from his thoughts.”
For a fleeting moment, Snape hesitated. Was Dumbledore ‘doubting’ him?
Did the headmaster suspect a Death Eater’s involvement?
Did Dumbledore no longer trust him?
Snape’s frown deepened as various thoughts plagued his mind.
“It seems our hidden adversary is quite the instructor,” Dumbledore mused. “Flint, for all his… limited abilities, somehow managed to master ‘your’ Sectumsempra in a single night and used it to murder our Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.”
Dumbledore’s ability to perform Legilimency without making direct eye contact was unsettling— one of many reasons so many feared him.
“Yes. Adding the name ‘Prince’ and then conveniently coming to ‘us’ to place blame was merely an act of petty vengeance.”
Through Legilimency, Snape had already grasped the nature of Flint’s resentment toward Ian and Daphne. The boy had been plotting and waiting for something like this from the start.
“Before even arriving in Hogsmeade, he was already scheming. Under the Imperius Curse, such commands may have been seamlessly woven into his subconscious,” Snape remarked. “Though I can’t be certain if its effects allow for such subtle manipulation.”
He preferred the Cruciatus Curse for that sort of persuasion.
Or, better yet, his own jinxes.
“Perhaps we should focus on reinforcing young wizards’ education on resisting deception,” Snape added, his voice edged with frustration.
Dumbledore remained silent.
“These potions— did they yield results?” He asked instead, glancing at the scattered vials on the table.
They are useful in unearthing the truth.
But not ‘necessary.’
“I was stabilizing his condition,” Snape replied smoothly. “The Unforgivable Curses leave lasting effects beyond just mere compulsion.”
His tone was flat, his expression impassive as he spoke.
Dumbledore studied him for a long moment, then finally nodded.
As if he had already known what the answer would be.
“A good excuse.”
Dumbledore nodded, surprisingly without reprimand or advice. Snape found the old man’s demeanor oddly uncharacteristic today. Before he could discern what was amiss with Dumbledore,
“I need a list of those who know the original incantation of the Sectumsempra curse,” Dumbledore said abruptly, pulling Snape from his thoughts.
“I haven’t shared this curse with many,” Snape replied. He strode to his desk, scribbled down a list, and handed it to Dumbledore with a grave expression on his face.
“This list is essentially useless. Bellatrix— that deranged woman— knows it as well. She may have already passed it on to Merlin-knows-how-many others.”
Dumbledore merely smiled at Snape’s warning.
“Even so, investigating this list may help us narrow the field a little,” Dumbledore said, his tone straightforward. Snape grasped his implication immediately.
“Those individuals wouldn’t dare show their faces now,” Snape countered, unimpressed.
“Regardless, there must be an infiltrator among the young wizards at Hogwarts,” Dumbledore said with certainty. “Foolish he may have been but Ronnie Ehrlich was no mediocre wizard; otherwise, my old friend would not have sent him to protect and observe. This man has slipped through Riddle’s grasp more than once.”
Snape nodded, acknowledging Dumbledore’s assessment. They had both seen Marcus Flint’s memories and knew precisely how Flint had murdered the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.
“At the time, Ronnie Ehrlich appeared to be searching for his lost wand, and given his unsteady posture, he must have been under the influence of some toxin.”
“I need Pomona’s assistance to examine Professor Ehrlich’s… remains.” Snape hesitated over the word; referring to the scattered fragments as “remains” felt grimly inadequate.
His own spell had indeed gone too far.
“I will assist you in the examination,” Dumbledore offered. His words, however, only deepened Snape’s frown and etched displeasure onto his face.
“Are you suspecting me?” Snape snapped, still fixated on Dumbledore’s unusual behavior. Under normal circumstances, Dumbledore would never question his work.
With Voldemort’s return looming, he couldn’t afford to be complacent.
“Of course not, Severus. You are the last person I would suspect,” Dumbledore assured him.
“I am well acquainted with the methods of these fanatics. Perhaps, by analyzing the poison used, I can uncover valuable clues.”
It was a reasonable argument.
Yet, Snape’s unease remained.
“You have never truly trusted anyone, Albus. The closer I get to you, the clearer I see it…”
“You are not wrong,” Dumbledore acknowledged, his voice calm. “Over the years, indeed, no one has truly seen through me.”
His response was devoid of the usual cryptic amusement.
Snape felt something was off.
Dumbledore, as he had always known him, might have delivered the same words in the same measured tone, but his very presence felt altered.
More concerning still—
He hadn’t reprimanded Snape for his punishment of Flint.
“You haven’t taken Polyjuice Potion to become… some other old wizard, have you?” Snape questioned sharply, reaching for his wand, suspecting that a follower of Grindelwald might be attempting to infiltrate Hogwarts in search of answers regarding a fallen comrade.
After all—
Dumbledore, who preferred to work through others, was uncharacteristically insistent on involving himself directly in everything today. It was difficult not to question if this truly was Dumbledore. Could no one have obtained a strand of his hair? Grindelwald’s followers were hardly amateurs.
Snape drew his wand, prepared to cast a stunning spell.
“Boom!”
Dumbledore’s wand slipped fluidly from his sleeve. With an effortless motion, he traced an elegant arc through the air. Before Snape could strike, he was flung back by an invisible force, slamming hard against the wall.
“Smack!”
The concealed potion vials he had tucked away shattered on impact, their contents spilling onto the floor. An eerie green smoke hissed from the mixture, curling through the air with a sinister whisper.
“Severus, you are being excessively paranoid,” Dumbledore said, lowering his wand with an air of mild exasperation as Snape slumped down from the wall.
“The school harbors a spy, and there has been a murder. Why should I not be cautious?” Snape retorted, disheveled as he picked up his wand.
He exhaled slowly.
The sheer power behind Dumbledore’s magic was undeniable. No one could so perfectly mimic such raw force.
“I will handle this matter,” Dumbledore said, turning his gaze to Marcus Flint, who remained bound to a chair. “I need to remove this boy from the premises for the time being. If you feign an ambush and claim to have failed the task I assigned you, I may be able to use him to draw out the traitor within our school.”
That was not the sort of strategy Hogwarts’ venerable headmaster should be proposing.
“He is a student, an underage wizard. You intend to use him as bait?” Snape demanded, his expression sharp with incredulity.
It was as if he were seeing Dumbledore for the first time. The man before him was not the legendary beacon of light Snape had come to know over the years. Compared to this ruthless schemer, Snape suddenly felt as guileless as a unicorn.
“This is the most efficient way to uncover the truth, Severus. But I assure you that I will not allow Mr. Flint to come to harm— no one will be able to touch him under my watch.”
Dumbledore’s tone was calm.
“If the Board of Governors learns of this, they will demand your resignation. If you lose the position of Headmaster, how do you intend to execute your plan to bring him down?” Snape argued, not yet willing to throw Marcus Flint to the wolves. Dumbledore’s approach was reckless— even for him.
“Aside from you, no one will know.” Dumbledore’s expression darkened for the briefest moment before he fixed Snape with a steady gaze, his voice lowering.
“Hogwarts is no longer safe; we need to resolve the hidden dangers quickly. Mr. Flint will not be sacrificed; he may just suffer a little.”
“This… is worth it.”
Dumbledore seemed to be convincing Snape or perhaps convincing himself. He didn’t wait for Snape’s response and moved to take the Stupefied and bound Marcus Flint away.
“What’s wrong with you?” Snape tried to stop him.
Dumbledore sighed, his expression heavy with unspoken burdens.
“I’m solving a problem.”
He closed his eyes, looking utterly exhausted.
“I suggest you take young Grindelwald directly and extract her memories. Ronnie Ehrlich is not an ordinary wizard; he wouldn’t recklessly consume any potion or food given to him by just anyone.”
“At the Start-of-Term Feast, he even ate only what he brought himself.” Snape made no secret of his suspicions regarding Aurora Grindelwald.
It wasn’t a personal bias.
It was the most rational and logical conclusion.
“If Ronnie Ehrlich is going to trust anyone’s food, it would be that which came from young Grindelwald. No acolyte would refuse the care of their heir.”
Snape fixed his gaze on Dumbledore.
“I don’t believe Miss Grindelwald is responsible. If she wanted an acolyte dead, she wouldn’t need to resort to such indirect means.” Dumbledore shook his head without hesitation.
“She has no interest in leading them; I can sense her resistance towards them.” Snape, as the Head of Slytherin House, had observed Aurora closely and had formed his own conclusions.
“Once we clarify the situation, the truth will become evident.” Dumbledore didn’t argue but instead cast a Levitation Charm, pulling Marcus Flint and his chair towards himself.
“You are instinctively rejecting the most likely suspect. I know it’s because of your… old friend.” Snape was one of the few at Hogwarts who dared to speak to Dumbledore so candidly.
“Severus, you still don’t understand me well enough.” Dumbledore pulled out a Portkey, gripping Marcus Flint, who floated beside him in midair, still bound to the chair.
“I only ask you this: if it turns out that young Grindelwald was the one who poisoned Ronnie Ehrlich and took his wand— what will you do?”
Snape clenched his jaw, unable to stop Dumbledore.
“In that case…”
Dumbledore’s cold gaze sent an unsettling chill down Snape’s spine.
“You will see me more clearly.”
His words made Snape’s breath hitch. This was no longer about the headmaster fulfilling his duty to protect students; Snape wasn’t sure what had caused Dumbledore to feel so unfamiliar.
‘Grindelwald?’
‘Dumbledore hadn’t left the school recently… had he?’
“I should remind you, Severus, that if Marcus Flint’s mind hadn’t been tampered with, he wouldn’t have accused Mr. Prince of murder.”
“Consider this carefully: when we went to find Professor Ronnie Ehrlich’s body and discovered that he was killed with Sectumsempra, who do you think will be blamed for it?”
Dumbledore left those words hanging with deep meaning.
He activated the Portkey and both he and Marcus Flint vanished from the dungeon.
In the now-empty room, Snape remained, frowning, his expression dark, his gaze unreadable.
…
In the first-year classroom…
Ian was dozing off.
History of Magic was widely considered the dullest subject at Hogwarts.
At first, he had doubted it, but then Professor Binns, with his monotonous, droning voice, had managed to turn even the most thrilling accounts of goblin rebellions into a soporific drone.
Even the most diligent Ravenclaws struggled to resist the creeping fog of boredom, while a significant portion of the Gryffindors had already slumped over their desks, fast asleep.
Those who managed to jot down names and dates were rare; Ian now fully understood what Dumbledore meant by a test of endurance.
He was only eleven.
And yet, he already felt like he was wasting his youth.
Even the sparrows outside had stopped chirping, as if they too had succumbed to the oppressive tedium.
“Professor, I heard from some older students that you accidentally left your body behind when trying to rise from your chair by the fire in the staff lounge?”
Ian raised his hand during a pause in the lecture, hoping to shake things up. The story was, without a doubt, the strangest way to become a ghost that he had ever heard.
“That’s correct; I was quite old at the time.” Professor Binns confirmed the tale without a trace of hesitation, entirely unbothered by recounting his own death.
…
(End of this chapter)
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