A few minutes later, Gabriel found himself sitting in the Headmaster's Office - a place that honestly felt more like a museum than a workspace. Shelves upon shelves of curious trinkets and silvery instruments ticked and spun in the corners. The walls were lined with portraits of former headmasters pretending to sleep, though he could feel their eyes following him. Fawkes, Dumbledore's phoenix, dozed on his golden perch, glowing faintly in the dim light.
On the desk between them lay the small, worn, and utterly unremarkable black diary.
And yet, Gabriel could feel the thing - like a low, pulsing hum that made the air taste wrong.
Dumbledore looked older than he had ever seen him. It wasn't just the lines on his face; it was as though the diary itself had aged him. The old wizard took off his half-moon spectacles and cleaned them with the long, billowing sleeve of his mismatched cloak before setting them back on and studying the cursed object again.
"You, my boy, seem to have quite an inclination for finding trouble," he said idly.
Gabriel scoffed. "Me? No way, Professor - it's the witches of Britain that are trouble. If I had a Galleon for every time something happened at Hogwarts involving Halloween, a first-year Gryffindor witch, a bathroom, and a giant monster- well, I'd have two Galleons. Not much, but seriously, how the bloody hell did it happen twice?"
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled faintly at that. Just as Gabriel expected, the Headmaster already knew he was coming by the time he "knocked on the gargoyle" so to speak - he also already knew of Ginny's part in the whole mess, and had assured him she would not be responsible for the things she was made to do.
The Headmaster chuckled softly, flipping through the diary's blank pages. "Fate," he murmured, "is quite the interesting thing, isn't it?"
Gabriel opened his mouth to reply - but the fireplace roared to life with a burst of green flame.
Out stepped his mother.
Except… she looked different.
Gone was the elegant, gothic-victorian look she'd worn since arriving in Britain - the flowing black and blue fabrics, the silver jewelry that shimmered like moonlight. For the first time Gabriel could remember, Eloá Moretti was dressed like a proper witch: long cerulean robes with intricate gold embroidery, and a wide-brimmed hat perched at a deliberate angle. Her brown hair, usually loose, was woven into an elaborate braid that fell over one shoulder.
Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. "Very interesting indeed."
Gabriel turned toward him, indignation in his eyes. "Oi. Don't flirt with my mum."
The Headmaster didn't reply. Instead, his expression shifted - gone was the warmth and humor, replaced by a kind of grave stillness.
"Hello, Saint Germain," he said quietly.
Eloá's lips curled into something between a smirk and a snarl as she conjured an overly extravagant chair for herself beside Gabriel. She sat with all the grace of a queen who'd been forced to visit a court she disliked.
"Hello, Albus. I must say, you've aged disgracefully - and seem to have lost your manners along the way. Revealing secrets now, are we?"
Gabriel blinked. He had absolutely no idea what was going on.
The silence between them stretched taut - a wordless duel of wills that made the air itself feel heavier.
Finally, Gabriel huffed, reached up, tapped his forehead with two fingers, and flicked them outward with a small boom sound.
"Plot twist," he whispered dramatically. "Mind. Blown." Then, deadpan: "Now, can one of you please tell me what's going on with the wild west stare-off?"
Eloá arched a brow. "Well?"
Dumbledore steepled his fingers. "Why are you here?"
"Because," she said, her voice sharp enough to cut glass, "I don't want my son dragged into your problems. And because this is the second time he's done your job - protecting the students of this school while you sit behind this cluttered desk. So, Albus…"
Her eyes flashed.
"You will give him an explanation - and a proper reward."
Dumbledore's gaze grew grave, but Eloá didn't flinch. The silence between them stretched taut until he finally sighed, leaning back in his chair.
He turned to Gabriel. "What I am about to tell you must not be spoken of beyond these walls. For your own wellbeing, understand that there are those who would - out of fear, ignorance, or devotion to a narrow-minded worldview - seek to harm you for knowing it. Do you understand, my boy?"
Gabriel frowned but nodded, his curiosity now wholly hooked.
Dumbledore drew a deep breath, straightening as though to carry the weight of a memory that had never quite left his shoulders.
"Nearly fifty years ago," he began, "when I was still the Transfiguration Professor and Head of Gryffindor, the then–Headmaster, Armando Dippet, placed me in charge of meeting young witches and wizards of Muggle birth who were about to attend Hogwarts. It was my task to introduce them - and their families - to our world, to ease their first steps into it."
A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "It was a duty I particularly enjoyed. There is nothing quite like the joy in a child's eyes when they learn they can do magic."
His expression sobered. "On a morning in August, 1938, I met a child who was… different. An orphan, living in a grim London institution. His name was Tom Riddle."
Gabriel leaned forward slightly.
"Even then," Dumbledore continued, "Tom was an extraordinarily gifted wizard. He possessed an unnatural degree of control over his accidental magic. He could command animals, sense the presence of others, and know when they were being truthful. Once he came to Hogwarts and was sorted into Slytherin, those talents only grew."
Dumbledore's eyes dimmed with memory. "That, in itself, tested another of his gifts: his charisma. You see, even before the war, Slytherin House had its prejudices - though not as inflamed as they are now. Yet Riddle's magical prowess and charm were such that he managed to convince his peers to believe a polite fiction - that, being an orphan, his parents must surely have been powerful wizards themselves. Within a scant few years, he had not only earned their respect but their obedience. Slytherin was his."
"I'd wager that being a Parselmouth didn't hurt," Gabriel said dryly, piecing things together.
"Indeed," Dumbledore agreed quietly.
He folded his hands atop the desk. "But the polite fiction remained just that - a fiction. Tom Riddle was, in truth, the son of Merope Gaunt, a pure-blood witch who never attended Hogwarts, and Tom Riddle Senior, a young Muggle aristocrat. Merope fell in love with him and- through the use of love potions - forced him into marriage. When she became pregnant, she stopped administering the potions, hoping he would love her truly, or at least stay for love of the child. He did not. Merope was left penniless and heartbroken. She gave birth to Tom in the London orphanage and died shortly after, leaving him to grow up there alone."
Dumbledore paused, his voice gentling. "None of that should dictate how one judges a man's character, of course. But Tom… Tom Riddle was exceptional in more ways than one. At Hogwarts, he was the model student - the very picture of discipline and brilliance. He could recite, word for word, every event of the Goblin Wars. There wasn't a single charm he couldn't master on the first try. His transfigurations were flawless, his potions precise. Every one of his professors sang his praises."
He looked down at the diary on the table, his tone turning heavy.
"He curbed Slytherin's worst impulses, organized study groups, stopped bullying, helped anyone who asked. To the world, Tom Riddle was perfect."
Dumbledore's eyes hardened. "He was also, unfortunately, an utter psychopath."
Gabriel snorted. "Figures."
"Tom enjoyed seeing others in pain," Dumbledore said quietly. "He reveled in being superior. He could not relate to, nor connect with, other living beings. As a child, he killed small animals for sport. He tormented the other orphans - stealing from them, making them suffer 'accidents.'"
The Headmaster's voice darkened. "He learned early on that the easiest way to hide one's cruelty is behind a smile. He cultivated the image of a model student so thoroughly that no one would ever think to doubt him when something went wrong. He pretended to be good so that he might better indulge in evil."
Dumbledore's eyes drifted toward the window, the past bleeding through his words. "That facade culminated in the events of 1943. Riddle discovered the Chamber of Secrets - and the creature that slumbered within it. For months, he waged a campaign of terror throughout the school. Muggle-born students lived in constant fear of being the next victim. They were afraid to walk alone, afraid to leave their dormitories, afraid even to remain at Hogwarts. The number of students who withdrew from the school that year was the highest in its history."
He paused, his fingers brushing the spine of the black diary. "And then, his final act - he murdered Myrtle Warren, a young Muggle-born girl. whose very ghost that now haunts the bathroom where she died."
Gabriel grimaced.
"After that," Dumbledore continued, "my suspicions of him - and the pressure from the Ministry to close the school - had grown to the point that Tom decided to… cut his fun short, so to speak. He framed Hagrid, then a third-year student, as the one responsible for the attacks. The Ministry broke Hagrid's wand and forbade him from ever practicing magic again."
"What the hell?"
"Indeed," Dumbledore murmured. "After that, the star pupil of Hogwarts - the boy upon whom so many hopes were placed - graduated and took a job at Borgin and Burkes, a small, unsavory shop in Knockturn Alley. A year later, he vanished. And over time, the name Tom Riddle faded from memory."
The old wizard's gaze hardened. "Years later, he returned to Britain as Lord Voldemort. And I believe you know the rest of that story."
Gabriel leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. "Racist prick, domestic terrorist, self-aggrandizing titles… died to a baby." He snarked with genuine rage in his voice. "So, what? He enchanted his old school diary so anyone using it would relive the glory days of his high school career? That doesn't sound right."
Dumbledore allowed himself the faintest smile. "Not quite."
He adjusted his spectacles, eyes flicking briefly to Eloá before returning to Gabriel. "You see, one of the claims Tom Riddle often made, after renaming himself, was that he had achieved true immortality. It was dismissed by most - save for his most fanatical followers and the most afraid. But after the peculiar circumstances of his supposed death, I began to suspect he might have found some way to cheat death itself."
Eloá scoffed softly, but Dumbledore went on as if he hadn't heard.
"My suspicions were confirmed last year, when he guided one of his followers into attempting to steal the Philosopher's Stone - to restore himself to full life. I used that attempt to lure him into a trap," Dumbledore said simply. "And by the end of the school year, I believed I had finally destroyed the lingering shade of Lord Voldemort."
"Except you didn't," Eloá said, her tone mild but cutting.
Dumbledore inclined his head. "Except I didn't. The way Tom Riddle managed to cheat death was through the creation of a Horcrux."
The word seemed to darken the room.
"It is a ritual of the darkest kind," Dumbledore explained, voice heavy with disgust. "A wizard severs his own soul through the greatest act of violence known - murder. The fragment is then bound to an object, which becomes a tether, anchoring the wizard to the mortal world. So long as that object endures… he cannot truly die."
Gabriel's brow furrowed, a chill running down his spine. He looked at the diary on the table, suddenly very aware of the faint hum that still pulsed from it.
"So… this diary is his Horcrux?" Gabriel asked, his voice a mix of awe and disgust.
"Indeed," Dumbledore said solemnly. "And from the way it behaved, I believe it was created through the death of Miss Warren - back when he was still a student."
Eloá's lips pressed into a thin line. "And it's not the only one."
Gabriel blinked. "Not the only-? He did this more than once?"
Dumbledore didn't answer, and that silence was enough.
Gabriel's stomach twisted. "Why would anyone do that? Disfigure their own soul like that?"
"Because he was a coward," Dumbledore replied, his voice quiet but edged with something sharp. "So afraid of death that the very thought of it paralyzed him. He convinced himself he was above mortality - that no price was too high to escape what he believed to be a weakness of the human condition."
The office fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. Even the silver instruments on the shelves seemed to have stilled, their usual whir and hum replaced by the faint crackle of the fireplace.
Gabriel tried to process it all - but two questions kept gnawing at him:
"Right, and what does all this have to do with me? And why are you here, Mum?"
Eloá chuckled softly. "It has to do with you because I know you, Gabriel. Had you been given only vague answers, you would've kept digging - asking questions, experimenting, poking at things you shouldn't. So, I made sure your curiosity was satisfied properly, and that you'd be prepared if you ever encountered something like this again."
She tilted her head, a knowing smile curving her lips. "And as for why I'm here - well, I put a few monitoring charms on you after the Troll incident. The moment you came into contact with this… thing-", she shot the diary a look of sheer disgust."-the charms alerted me. Once I saw it wasn't an immediate emergency, I waited for the right moment to intervene."
Gabriel groaned softly, rubbing his face. "Right. Because why would I need privacy, I guess."
He dropped his hand and looked up again. "So what happens now? And, uh, what's with Professor Dumbledore calling you Saint Germain?"
Eloá's smile didn't fade - but it did change. It softened into something deeper, almost sad.
She drew her wand from her sleeve and gave it a slow, graceful wave. The air around her shimmered like heat rising off stone. Within moments, the woman before him began to blur and shift.
Where Eloá had sat, now there was a man - tall, elegant, dressed in a finely tailored suit. His face was unfamiliar and yet not. The curve of the jaw, the eyes, even the faint smirk - Gabriel saw flashes of himself in it, of how he used to look before his features changed.
And when the man spoke, the voice that came out was Gabriel's own - older, deeper, steady.
"I suppose you wouldn't remember," the man said with a faint, wistful smile. "You were very young when I still looked like this."
Then the illusion rippled and broke, and Eloá was back - same braid, same robes, same piercing gaze.
"We'll talk more about this when you're home," she said gently, rising from her chair. "For now, you should be in class."
She turned to Dumbledore with professional calm. "I'll stay behind to discuss my son's… reward for finding the Horcrux."
Gabriel just stared at her for a long, silent moment - his mind trying and failing to properly compute what he had just seen. Finally, he gave a small, numb nod and stood up.