Vizet nodded slowly. After mulling it over, the pieces began to click into place.
"So… Headmaster Dumbledore, do you still plan to take Professor Quirrell to see Mr. Nicolas Flamel?"
Dumbledore inclined his head. "Yes. Quirinus must begin studying alchemy, truly understand the Philosopher's Stone, and — most importantly — learn to control it."
He leaned forward slightly, his tone growing firmer. "He must master the Stone's influence to purify his body. Passive reliance on it is dangerous — very dangerous."
Vizet's brow furrowed. "What's the difference? Between controlling the Stone and passively relying on it?"
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled as he offered a familiar example. "Let's take Baruffio's Brain Elixir. You're familiar with it, I assume?"
Vizet grinned sheepishly. "Very. Madam Pomfrey is always warning me not to use it."
"Good advice," Dumbledore said with a chuckle. "It's the perfect illustration of passive transformation. If a wizard uses Baruffio's Elixir regularly, they begin to depend on it. And dependence, as you know, has consequences."
He steepled his fingers. "Over time, the potion's effects diminish. To feel sharp and lucid again, the wizard increases the dose… again and again, until they become entirely reliant on it."
Vizet swallowed. "Completely lost?"
"Indeed," Dumbledore said solemnly. "Once the Elixir's effects fade to nearly nothing, the wizard finds themselves unable to return to their natural state. Their ability to act independently — think clearly, function without aid — vanishes. They become a shell."
He glanced toward the firelight, casting dancing shadows on the bookshelves.
"Quirinus' soul has already been purified. That is a rare and precious thing. I won't let him fall into the trap of dependency. He must become the master of the Philosopher's Stone — not a marionette dancing on the strings of its power."
Vizet thought back to Quirrell's quiet strength, the way he'd faced death — twice — without hesitation. He straightened.
"I believe in Professor Quirrell," he said, voice firm. "He can do it."
Dumbledore gave a quiet, pleased nod. "As do I."
Silence fell between them for a moment.
Dumbledore folded his hands again, his eyes distant and contemplative, reflecting the candlelight like twin stars in a midnight sky.
Vizet rubbed his own eyes, fatigue catching up with him at last. From the Quidditch final that morning to the battle and the mirror… it had been a relentless day.
Dumbledore asked suddenly, his voice low but clear, "Vizet, do you want to know what really happened between me and Voldemort? About what he said… in the basement?"
Vizet looked up. "Headmaster Dumbledore, if you're willing to speak about it — and it doesn't trouble you — I'd be honoured to listen."
Dumbledore met his eyes. Something in Vizet's calm, clear gaze seemed to ground him. He gave a soft cough before beginning.
"Voldemort believes I created him," Dumbledore said slowly. "And perhaps… in some way… he's not wrong."
He paused, choosing his words with care.
"He lived in an orphanage. Before I sent him his Hogwarts letter, I made inquiries. I visited. Spoke with the head matron."
A shadow passed across his face.
"Even as a child, he could control his magic — use it deliberately, even cruelly. There were… incidents."
"Incidents?" Vizet echoed, his mind flashing to his own childhood in the orphanage.
Dumbledore nodded. "The other children were afraid of him. And with good reason. If they crossed him, something happened."
"Once, a child's rabbit was found hanging from the rafters. On another occasion, he lured two children into a cave — and when they returned, they were pale, shaken, as though they'd seen something terrible."
Vizet felt a chill run down his spine. The way Dumbledore spoke… it wasn't just disappointment. It was grief.
"My first impression of him," Dumbledore continued, "was that I saw no goodness. Nothing to build upon. It was as if his heart had been hollowed out… and filled with darkness. That's not something you say lightly of a child."
His voice was quiet now, and stern. His eyes watched Vizet closely, reading his reaction.
After a long pause, Vizet said softly, "So he was… born evil?"
Dumbledore closed his eyes briefly. "Some would say so. But the more important question is… what might have been different?"
He shifted, his fingers tightening.
"Do you know what might've happened if he returned to that orphanage after Hogwarts? What the other children might've suffered?"
Vizet's expression hardened. "Yes… what about the other children?"
Dumbledore's gaze lifted. "That's exactly why he thinks I 'created' him."
"I met young Tom Riddle and peered — briefly — into his mind. He kept trophies, stolen toys from other children, hidden in a cupboard. I confronted him. Burned the cabinet to ashes… then restored it. I told him to return the toys, or he would not be admitted to Hogwarts. I still had a lot of troubles at the time... I could — should — have been more gentler with him."
"When was this?" Vizet asked.
"The summer of 1937. I remember it clearly."
Vizet nodded slowly. The timeline matched. That was during the rise of Grindelwald. Dumbledore's "troubles" likely meant those darkening days… and his hesitation about facing his former friend.
He didn't speak, but his understanding showed. Dumbledore seemed to notice — and relaxed slightly.
"I warned him then: Hogwarts would not tolerate theft. Or cruelty. But I failed. When he insisted on visiting Diagon Alley alone, I didn't stop him."
"I didn't like his nature — so cold, so secretive, so controlling. I was always on guard against him. And perhaps that distance… gave his darkness room to grow."
His tone was heavier now, and the light in his eyes dulled.
"Maybe… maybe I was too afraid. Maybe I thought I could contain him through vigilance. Maybe that's how Voldemort came to be."
A bitter smile tugged at his lips.
"Perhaps I was never meant to teach. If I was a better professor, he wouldn't hate me so deeply."
He looked away, voice barely above a whisper. "I wasn't a good brother. Or a good friend. And the people I couldn't save… the people I've killed…"
He trailed off. "Aberforth is the one who truly carried the family. Not me."
"A failure… isn't it?"
Vizet glanced behind Dumbledore. There it stood — the tall, silent Mirror of Erised, half-hidden in the shadows. Aberforth had once mentioned something… just a hint of the truth.
Everything made sense now. Dumbledore's weariness. His sorrow. His restraint.
Vizet exhaled gently. "Headmaster Dumbledore, I haven't told you much about the world inside the mirror, have I?"
Dumbledore turned his head slowly, his voice soft. "Would you… be willing to share it with me?"
He blinked, as if using the motion to avoid meeting his own reflection.
Vizet nodded. "There was a former Guardian in that world. A truly admirable man. He taught me something I won't forget."
"No matter how eloquent the storyteller is… we can never truly understand their journey. Their pain. Their joy."
"Those are theirs alone. The narrator carries the weight. We can listen — but we can never live their choices."
"That's why… you and Professor McGonagall never told me what a soul should be. You let me discover it for myself."
"Because every soul — like every life — is unique."
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