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In the ancient and solemn Headmaster's office at Hogwarts, the magical lamps flickered, casting wavering shadows across the walls. The fire in the fireplace burned quietly, its warm glow reflecting off the silver instruments and portraits.
Yet, that warmth could not dispel the faint chill that lingered in the air.
It came from the eerie, empty suit of armor standing nearby. Portraits of past headmasters hung on the walls; their painted eyes seemed to silently watch everything in the still, heavy atmosphere.
No one spoke.
No one showed any sign of surprise.
"Riddle."
Dumbledore sat quietly behind the vast desk. His silver beard shimmered faintly in the light, and an emotion impossible to read flickered in his deep blue eyes.
"Heh."
The armor didn't move, but a low chuckle seemed to drift through the air, coming from somewhere far away or perhaps from the space around them.
It was impossible to tell where it came from.
"What did you do to Malfoy?" Dumbledore's tone was calm and unbothered by the strange happenings around him. He simply fixed his gaze on the faceplate of the armor.
Though gentle, his voice carried a weight that could not be defied.
The armor, called Riddle, did not immediately respond. It stood there motionless, like a silent statue.
In the quiet, Dumbledore waited patiently, as always.
After a long silence, the armor's head finally tilted slightly. A deep, rasping voice came from the still air.
"You're always like this, Dumbledore," said the armor. Its tone was cold and hoarse, carrying the grating texture of metal on metal. "You already know the answer, and yet you still insist on asking."
"It's simple. I gave Malfoy a chance to live. Otherwise, he would've died long ago, no, he would have ceased to exist."
Indeed, the voice carried shades of Riddle's old mannerisms.
And yet, it was clearly coming from the armor itself.
"So, you're telling me you have a merciful side now?" Dumbledore's gaze remained fixed on the metallic figure before him as he spoke. The armor's forged body gleamed with a cold sheen. The space where its face should have been was a void of utter darkness.
There was no flesh within.
Yet, Dumbledore seemed as though he could see something inside.
A soul, perhaps? Though, by this point, he could no longer be certain that the word applied. Whatever this Riddle was, it had transcended the boundaries of knowledge that even Dumbledore possessed.
"Why don't you ask that question to the one who rules me?" The armor rasped again, mockingly.
From the black void beneath the helmet, a pair of scarlet eyes seemed to flicker into existence, and then vanished.
"Oh, right," Riddle sneered, his tone laced with irony, perhaps even malicious delight. "Instead of worrying about that, you should think about how you plan to survive."
"Grindelwald can't save you."
His tone carried absolute conviction.
Dumbledore's expression didn't waver, but his fingertips paused slightly. The young Dark Lord seemed to notice, his voice slithering once again through the still air.
"Dumbledore, my foolish master says I have a death wish, but if you ask me, you're the one who can't stop tempting fate. Through all the histories I've seen, no one has ever courted death as eagerly as you."
"Who do you think you are? Do you think you possess the depth and foundation that my foolish master does?"
His voice dripped with mockery and disdain as it echoed through the room.
Each word was sharp and biting, like needles piercing the air and it carried with it a trace of Riddle's amusement.
However, Dumbledore merely responded with silence and a expressionless look on his face. The room fell silent; and only the portraits of past headmasters exchanged uneasy glances.
"Is it really worth your joy, Riddle?" Dumbledore slowly rose to his feet and walked toward the window. He gazed out across the distant Black Lake, a flicker of emotion glinting in his eyes.
"Do not underestimate… my determination to live."
That was all he said in the end.
The armor's laughter echoed through the air. Then, as Dumbledore drew his wand, he swept the Elder Wand sharply in its direction.
The next instant, the figure of the armor dissolved like smoke and it looked and felt as though it had never existed at all.
The matter only grew more unsettling.
Yet—
Aside from the portraits of the former headmasters, who dared not utter a word for fear of being caught up in Dumbledore's affairs again, no one knew what had transpired. In the silent office, only the phoenix's cry could be heard.
It was as if the bird was responding to Dumbledore.
…
Time passed.
Night would fade.
The light of dawn quietly spilled across the Hogwarts grounds.
By morning, the Hogwarts students had risen and begun a new day of learning and life.
Ian was no exception.
After a hearty breakfast, a full day of study awaited him.
Sunlight streamed through the tall windows of the Transfiguration classroom, where tiny motes of dust floated in the air. Professor McGonagall stood at the teacher's desk, ready to teach the second-year students a new Transfiguration topic.
The classroom was neatly arranged with rows of desks and chairs.
Sunlight shone through the windows, casting golden patches of light across the tabletops. Professor McGonagall wore her deep green robes; her entire figure emanated dignity and composure.
Her eyes gleamed with a mixture of sternness and anticipation. She held a small beetle in her hand.
"Today, we will learn to transform a beetle into a button," she announced. "This is an advanced form of Transfiguration that requires focus and precise control of your magic."
As always, McGonagall's voice was firm and commanding. Steady and powerful, it echoed throughout the classroom.
All the students focused their attention.
At least Ian showed proper respect, ducking under his desk to eat his sausage so as not to draw Professor McGonagall's piercing gaze.
Of course—
She did glance in his direction, but she chose not to say anything. Instead, her eyes swept around the room.
Then, she raised her wand toward the beetle.
"Remember," She said. "The key lies in the precision of your will, not the strength of your magic."
As she spoke, Professor McGonagall waved her wand, her lips moving in a careful incantation.
As a powerful witch, one at the Head of House level, she was capable of nonverbal spellcasting. However, since this was a lesson, she deliberately slowed her chanting, making each syllable distinct and clear.
As the magic formed, the beetle before her began to glow, and within that shimmer of light, it gradually turned into a finely shaped button.
A chorus of gasps rippled through the classroom.
The students' eyes lit up in awe; each was eager to try it themselves.
But when it was their turn, reality proved far more challenging.
Students from Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw bent over their desks, trying one after another. Soon, the classroom was filled with the uneven rhythm of incantations. Yet even the best Ravenclaw students frowned—their beetles either shrank slightly or turned into oddly twisted lumps of metal, not at all resembling buttons.
Though bright and quick-witted, the Ravenclaw students still found themselves struggling with this transfiguration.
After all, using magical power to turn a living thing into a dead object required a very different logic than turning a dead object into something else.
(To Be Continued…)