The stone gargoyle guarding the entrance to the Headmaster's office was just as imposing as Adam had imagined, looming over him with a silent, stony glare. Professor McGonagall, walking a step ahead with her lips pressed into a thin line, stopped abruptly in front of it.
"Acid Pops," she said clearly.
The gargoyle sprang to life and hopped aside, revealing a moving spiral staircase that wound its way upward like a corkscrew. McGonagall stepped onto it without looking back, and Adam quickly followed, the smooth stone steps carrying them higher and higher in dizzying circles until they reached a gleaming oak door with a brass knocker in the shape of a griffin.
McGonagall pushed the door open but didn't step inside. She turned to Adam, her expression stern, though perhaps a fraction less severe than it had been the previous night.
"Wait here, Mr. Taylor," she instructed, her voice brisk. "Professor Dumbledore will be with you shortly."
"Yes, Professor," Adam replied, trying to keep his composure.
With a final, sharp nod, McGonagall turned and descended the staircase, the sound of her footsteps fading away. Adam was left standing alone at the threshold of the most powerful wizard's sanctuary.
He took a deep breath to steady his nerves. He knew this meeting was inevitable after being caught on the third-floor corridor, but actually standing here made the reality of it settle heavy in his stomach.
Steeling himself, Adam stepped inside.
The office was a large, beautiful circular room, bathed in the afternoon sunlight streaming through tall windows. It was, without a doubt, the most magical place Adam had ever stepped foot in—far more cluttered and fascinating than he had expected.
The walls were covered with the portraits of old headmasters and headmistresses, all of whom were currently snoozing gently in their frames, emitting soft snores and wheezes.
Adam walked further into the room, his footsteps muffled by the thick, patterned rug. The air smelled faintly of old parchment, dust, and something sweet—like citrus.
Every surface seemed to be covered in whirring, puffing silver instruments. Some emitted tiny smoke rings, others clicked rhythmically like the heartbeat of the room. Adam paused by a spindly table, watching a delicate silver contraption that looked like a planetary model, except the planets were spinning in erratic, impossible orbits.
He stared at it in awe. He had no idea what it did, but the intricate magic woven into it was palpable.
His gaze wandered to a glass case near the wall. Inside lay a magnificent sword with a ruby-encrusted hilt—the Sword of Gryffindor. Seeing the legendary artifact so casually displayed sent a thrill through him. It was real. Everything he had read about in his past life was tangibly, undeniably real.
On a shelf just above his head, the Sorting Hat sat motionless. Adam eyed it warily, remembering its comments about his blocked memories, but the hat remained silent, looking like nothing more than a tattered piece of old fabric.
But what drew his attention the most was a golden perch standing on a table behind the door.
Sitting on it was a large bird, though it looked far from majestic at the moment. Its feathers were a dull, sickly crimson, and many seemed to be falling out, littering the floor beneath the perch like dry autumn leaves. Its eyes were dull and watery, and it let out a soft, wheezing gag as Adam approached.
Adam's eyes widened in recognition. Fawkes.
He knew exactly what was happening. To anyone else, the bird would look like it was dying a miserable death, but Adam knew this was just part of the cycle.
A Burning Day, he thought, fascination overriding his nervousness.
He leaned in closer, careful not to touch. The bird looked back at him with a weary intelligence, letting out a low, croaking trill that sounded painful.
Adam smiled gently, marveling at the creature. Even in this decrepit state, there was a palpable aura of magic around it—a warmth that radiated from its fading feathers, filling the space around it with a comforting heat.
He watched the bird for a long moment, mesmerized by the rare sight of a phoenix nearing its rebirth, almost forgetting for a second that he was currently waiting to be interrogated by the greatest wizard of the age.
"He looks a bit dreadful at the moment, I admit."
The voice came from directly behind him, calm and conversational.
Adam jumped, spinning around so fast he nearly knocked into the golden perch. Albus Dumbledore was standing right there, watching him with a pleasant, unreadable expression. He wore long robes of midnight blue, and his half-moon spectacles caught the afternoon light.
Adam hadn't heard a door open, nor a footstep fall. It was as if the Headmaster had simply materialized out of the air itself.
"Professor Dumbledore," Adam stammered, straightening up quickly and stepping away from the bird. "I... I didn't mean to pry. I was just—"
"Admiring Fawkes?" Dumbledore finished for him, walking slowly past Adam to gently stroke the bird's balding head with a long, crooked finger. "Do not apologize. He is a fascinating creature, even when he is not at his best."
Fawkes leaned into Dumbledore's touch, letting out a soft, vibrating trill that sounded more like a wheeze than a song.
"Is he... sick, sir?" Adam asked, feigning a bit more ignorance than he actually possessed. He knew about the cycle of rebirth, but he had to play the part of a Muggle-born first-year who had only been part of this world for a month.
"In a manner of speaking," Dumbledore replied, his eyes twinkling as he looked down at the bird. "Fawkes is a phoenix, Adam. And phoenixes undergo a rather spectacular cycle of life. When their time comes, they burst into flame and are reborn from the ashes."
Adam nodded slowly, wide-eyed. "That sounds... intense."
"Oh, it is quite the spectacle," Dumbledore agreed lightly. "However, do not worry about witnessing such a fiery display today. While he certainly looks ready to combust, I am afraid this is merely the beginning of his decline."
Dumbledore withdrew his hand, brushing a loose red feather from his sleeve.
"Fawkes has entered his molting phase somewhat prematurely," he explained, moving around the large desk to take his seat. "It is a long, rather messy process. We likely have several months, perhaps even a full year, before his Burning Day actually arrives. Until then, I fear we must both simply endure his rather grumpy disposition and the constant shedding."
He gestured gracefully to the straight-backed chair opposite his desk.
"Please, sit down, Adam."
Adam sat down in the stiff-backed chair, trying to appear more relaxed than he felt. The velvet cushion was comfortable, but the intense gaze of the blue eyes peering over half-moon spectacles made him feel like he was sitting on pins and needles.
Dumbledore smiled, the tension in the room dissipating slightly as he reached for a small crystal bowl on his desk.
"Sherbet lemon?" he offered, holding the bowl out to Adam.
Adam blinked, momentarily thrown off by the casual offer. "Uh... no, thank you, Professor."
"A pity," Dumbledore said, popping one of the yellow sweets into his mouth with a contented hum. "They are quite delicious. A muggle sweet, I believe, but quite magical in flavor."
He chewed thoughtfully for a moment, the silence stretching out comfortably for him, but agonizingly for Adam. Then, without any change in his pleasant demeanor, Dumbledore's gaze sharpened.
"Now, Adam," he began, his voice soft but carrying a weight that demanded absolute truth. "I must ask you something important. Do you have any idea what lies beneath the trapdoor that the three-headed dog is guarding?"
Adam's heart skipped a beat, but he kept his expression perfectly open and confused. He shook his head, widening his eyes slightly for effect.
"No, sir," Adam lied smoothly. "I haven't the faintest idea. I just saw a big, terrifying dog and a trapdoor under its paw. I didn't stick around long enough to ask it what it was sitting on."
Dumbledore studied him closely, his expression unreadable. "I see. And yet, you returned to that corridor. A corridor that, as I announced to the entire school, promises a very painful death."
"That... was a misunderstanding, really," Adam said, leaning forward earnestly. "We—Harry, Ron, Hermione, Neville, and I—we accidentally ran into that corridor last week. We were trying to escape from Filch and Mrs. Norris, and we got lost. That's when we first saw the dog."
He paused, letting the story sink in before continuing with the part about Daphne.
"As for last night... Daphne, well, Miss Greengrass, she's been obsessed with finding some secret trial left behind by Rowena Ravenclaw. She was convinced that the third-floor corridor was where the trial was hidden because it was forbidden. She wouldn't listen to reason, and I couldn't just let her go alone. It was dangerous."
"A noble sentiment," Dumbledore said quietly. "Loyalty to a friend is a commendable trait, Adam."
He leaned forward slightly, his blue eyes locking onto Adam's. The twinkling was gone, replaced by a penetrating, X-ray intensity.
"But are you certain," Dumbledore asked, his voice dropping to a whisper, "that you were not looking for something else? Something... specific?"
At that moment, Adam felt it.
It wasn't a physical touch, but a strange, invasive pressure in his mind. It felt like a gentle breeze trying to push open a locked door, a subtle shifting of his thoughts that wasn't his own.
Legilimency.
Adam's breath hitched in his throat. He knew Dumbledore was powerful, but feeling him sift through his mind was terrifying. The System had protected him against Mrs. Greengrass, but Dumbledore was on a different level entirely.
Don't panic, Adam screamed internally. Don't think about the Stone. Don't think about the System. Think about... think about anything else!
He braced himself, clenching his hands on his robes, and desperately flooded his mind with the most random, mundane thoughts he could conjure.
He thought about the taste of the pumpkin juice at breakfast. He thought about the annoying squeak the portrait hole made when it opened. He thought about the pile of homework McGonagall had assigned them. He pictured a dancing troll in a tutu.
Just random noise. Just be a normal twelve-year-old boy.
The pressure in his mind persisted for a few agonizing seconds, sifting through the chaotic jumble of thoughts Adam was throwing up as a smokescreen. He felt exposed, vulnerable, as if the Headmaster were peeling back the layers of his consciousness one by one.
Then, as quickly as it had come, the pressure vanished.
Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, the twinkle returning to his eyes as he popped another Sherbet Lemon into his mouth.
"I see," Dumbledore said pleasantly, though Adam noticed a lingering thoughtfulness in his expression. "It seems you have had quite the adventurous first month, Adam."
"I have to admit, you're right, Professor," Adam said, a genuine smile finally breaking through his lingering nervousness. "Hogwarts is really wonderful."
He looked around the magical office again, letting his true feelings show—the part of him that was simply a boy living out his wildest dreams.
"Meeting new people, seeing creatures I thought only existed in stories... learning new magic every day," he continued, his voice growing warmer with enthusiasm. "And discovering that there are so many secrets hidden away in the castle just waiting to be found... it's honestly like a dream come true."
"It warms an old man's heart to hear such enthusiasm," Dumbledore said, his voice light, though the air in the room seemed to thicken with that same invisible weight.
He picked up a silver instrument from his desk—a delicate, spinning top that emitted tiny puffs of blue smoke. "Curiosity is a powerful force, Adam. It is the spark that drives all learning. But tell me, in your explorations... have you found that the castle yields its secrets easily?"
Adam felt the pressure in his mind increase, a persistent, probing hum that scratched at the back of his skull. It wasn't painful, exactly, but it was deeply uncomfortable, like someone standing just a little too close behind him.
Focus. Think about the stairs. Think about the trick step.
"Not easily, sir," Adam replied, keeping his tone light and conversational while he mentally replayed the memory of Neville getting his foot stuck in the vanishing step yesterday. "The staircases are... tricky. They like to change just when you're late. And I found a tapestry on the second floor that hides a shortcut, but you have to tickle the pear in the painting to get through."
He projected the image of the fruit bowl painting as vividly as he could—the texture of the canvas, the giggle of the pear.
Dumbledore chuckled, the sound dry and soft. "Ah, yes. The kitchens. A favorite haunt of many students, though usually discovered a bit later in one's schooling."
The mental pressure shifted, changing angles. It felt like Dumbledore was testing the edges of his thoughts, looking for a crack in the facade of the innocent first-year.
"And your studies?" Dumbledore asked pleasantly, setting the spinning top down. "Professor McGonagall tells me you have a knack for Transfiguration. And Professor Snape... well, he rarely compliments anyone, but his silence regarding your potions speaks volumes."
Adam forced a shy smile, while internally he began reciting the twelve uses of dragon's blood he had read about the other night. Cleaning ovens... spot remover... curing verruca...
"I just really enjoy magic, Professor," Adam said. "It's... it's everything I hoped it would be. My parents are Muggles, even though my mother can use fire element magic, you know, all of this... doing this kind of magic, seeing ghosts... it's amazing."
He let a genuine memory of his mother's smile surface—just the image of her face, warm and loving. It was a safe memory, one that anchored him.
Dumbledore watched him for a moment longer, the blue eyes searching, probing. He seemed to be looking for a shadow, a hidden ambition, or perhaps the dark knowledge Adam was fighting so hard to conceal.
But Adam held fast, his mind a fortress of mundane schoolboy thoughts and genuine wonder.
Finally, the pressure receded completely. Dumbledore sat back, clasping his hands together. The intensity vanished from the room as if a window had been opened.
"It is a joy to see such spirit," Dumbledore said, his tone signaling the end of the interrogation. He glanced at a strange clock on the wall, which had twelve hands and no numbers.
"But I believe I have kept you long enough. Unless I am mistaken, you have a Charms class starting in ten minutes, and Professor Flitwick does not appreciate tardiness, no matter how valid the excuse."
Adam stood up, his legs feeling a little shaky from the mental effort but relief flooding his chest.
"Yes, sir. Thank you, Professor."
"One last thing, Adam," Dumbledore called out just as Adam reached the door.
Adam froze, his hand on the brass knob. He turned back slowly.
Dumbledore was peering at him over his spectacles, his expression grave but not unkind.
"The third-floor corridor remains out of bounds. Curiosity is a virtue, but obedience... obedience keeps us safe. Do not let your hunger for secrets lead you into places where you cannot return."
"I won't, sir," Adam promised, and this time, he meant it. He had no intention of going near that dog again without a very good reason.
"Good day, Adam."
"Good day, Professor."
Adam pulled the door open and stepped onto the spiral staircase. As it began to descend, he let out a long, shuddering breath, wiping a sheen of cold sweat from his forehead. He had survived. But he knew, with absolute certainty, that Albus Dumbledore was not done with him yet.
The heavy oak door clicked shut, and the sound of Adam's footsteps faded down the spiral staircase. The office fell silent, save for the rhythmic whirring of the silver instruments and the soft, wheezing breaths of the dying phoenix.
Albus Dumbledore did not move immediately. He remained seated behind his desk, his fingers steepled together, his gaze fixed on the empty chair where the boy had just sat.
The twinkle in his eyes had vanished completely, replaced by a look of profound contemplation.
He had probed the boy's mind—gently, of course, but thoroughly enough to detect deceit. And he had found… nothing.
Nothing but the scattered, energetic thoughts of a twelve-year-old boy. He had seen flashes of a mother's smile, the anxiety of homework, the taste of pumpkin juice, and a genuine, unadulterated wonder at the magic of the castle. There was no wall of occlusion, no dark secrets buried beneath the surface, no malice.
According to all the laws of magic and the mind, Adam Taylor was exactly what he appeared to be: a talented, muggle-born wizard with a thirst for adventure.
And yet.
Dumbledore reached for a Sherbet Lemon, unwrapping it slowly.
"Curious," he murmured to the empty room. "Most curious."
While his Legilimency had revealed no deception, his instincts—honed over a century of dealing with the best and worst of wizardkind—told a different story.
He stood up and walked over to the window, looking out over the grounds where students were rushing between classes.
Adam Taylor was an anomaly. It wasn't just his talent, though that was remarkable. It was his influence.
Dumbledore had been watching Harry Potter closely since the boy arrived. He had expected Harry to struggle, to find his footing slowly. Instead, Harry was confident, supported by a tight-knit group of friends that had formed with unnatural speed.
And at the center of it all, quietly nudging them, was Adam.
It was Adam who had stood beside Harry against Mr. Malfoy. It was Adam who had helped solidify the bond between Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger, a friendship that might have otherwise taken months to form given their clashing personalities.
And more concerningly, it seemed to be Adam who was subtly guiding them toward the castle's mysteries. But why?
Dumbledore recalled the report from Hagrid. The children hadn't just stumbled upon the mystery of the package from Gringotts; they had asked specific, pointed questions. They were connecting dots that first-years shouldn't even see readily.
It felt less like childish curiosity and more like… guidance.
"He acts not as a participant," Dumbledore whispered to his reflection in the glass, "but as a shepherd."
Adam Taylor was leading Harry, Ron, and Hermione. He was giving them clues, shielding them from the worst of their mistakes, and accelerating their growth.
But why?
If Adam were an agent of darkness, his mind would have betrayed him. If he were working for Tom, there would be shadows. But there was only light—a strange, precocious light.
"You hide nothing," Dumbledore said softly, turning back to the room. "And yet, I feel you are hiding everything."
Fawkes let out a soft trill from his perch, shaking a few loose feathers to the floor.
Dumbledore smiled sadly at the bird. "Yes, old friend. Perhaps I am simply becoming a suspicious old man. But we shall keep a close watch on young Mr. Taylor. For a child that moves of his own accord can change the course of the entire school."
Adam didn't stop running until he reached the corridor outside the Charms classroom. He leaned against the stone wall, gasping for breath, his heart still hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
He wiped the cold sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. He had done it. He had survived a one-on-one with Dumbledore.
But the relief was tempered by a cold knot of anxiety. He knew he hadn't fooled the Headmaster completely. Dumbledore hadn't found the System or his memories, but he had clearly sensed something.
"Mr. Taylor!"
Adam jumped, straightening up as the door to the classroom opened and tiny Professor Flitwick poked his head out.
"Do you intend to join us today, or are you planning to stand in the corridor admiring the stonework?"
"Sorry, Professor!" Adam squeaked, slipping past him into the classroom.
The room was buzzing with activity. Adam quickly spotted Hermione near the back, saving a seat for him. He hurried over and slid into the chair, ignoring the curious looks from the other students.
"You're late," Hermione whispered as he sat down, though her eyes were wide with concern. "Where were you? Professor McGonagall said you were with the Headmaster!"
"I was," Adam whispered back, pulling out his wand and textbook.
"What happened?" Ron leaned back from the desk in front of them, his eyes eager. "Did you get expelled?"
"Shh!" Hermione hissed, nodding toward Flitwick, who was climbing onto his pile of books to start the lesson.
"I'll tell you later," Adam muttered. "But no, I'm not expelled. Just… a friendly chat."
"A friendly chat with Dumbledore," Ron whispered to Harry. "Blimey. He's mental."
Throughout the lesson, Adam tried to focus on the Cheering Charm they were supposed to be learning, but his mind kept drifting back to the office.
He realized he had to be more careful. Dumbledore had noticed his influence on the group. The Headmaster realized that Adam wasn't just a random friend—he was the one connecting the dots for them.
I need to step back, Adam thought, waving his wand mechanically. If I keep leading them by the hand, Dumbledore is going to think I'm manipulating Harry for some dark purpose.
He glanced at Hermione, who was perfectly executing the wand movement, and then at Harry and Ron, who were laughing as Ron's charm caused his textbook to do a little jig.
He had wanted to speed up their growth, to prepare them for the dangers ahead. But in doing so, he had painted a target on his own back.
"Mr. Taylor?"
Adam snapped out of his thoughts. Professor Flitwick was standing on his desk, looking at him expectantly.
"I asked you to demonstrate the wand movement for the class, if you please."
Adam blinked. He hadn't heard a word.
"Oh. Right."
He raised his wand. He didn't need to think about the movement; his body remembered it perfectly from his practice in the Room of Requirement.
With a fluid, precise swish and flick, he cast the spell. A stream of silvery light erupted from his wand, hitting the gloomy painting of a wizard on the wall.
The wizard, who had been weeping into his hands, suddenly looked up, beamed, and began to sing a jaunty opera tune.
The class erupted in laughter and applause.
"Excellent!" Flitwick squeaked, clapping his hands. "Five points to Gryffindor! Perfect form, Mr. Taylor, as always."
Adam lowered his wand, forcing a smile.
He couldn't help but feel the weight of his own competence. Even when he wasn't trying, he stood out. And in a school full of secrets, standing out was the most dangerous thing of all.
The crisp autumn air bit at Adam's cheeks as he sat by the edge of the Black Lake, the dark water lapping gently against the muddy shore. He had skipped lunch, needing the solitude more than food. The encounter with Dumbledore and the subsequent Charms class had left him feeling drained and exposed.
He picked up a smooth, flat stone and skipped it across the water. One, two, three skips before it sank with a quiet plop.
I need to up my game, he thought, watching the ripples spread and fade. I need to get stronger. Quickly.
The warning from Dumbledore was clear. The Headmaster was watching him, dissecting his influence on Harry and the others. And then there was Lucius Malfoy, spreading rumors that could get him killed by mysterious families. There was the curse on his wand that threatened to end his life or Hermione's.
The walls were closing in, and his current level of strength—Level 10—felt pitifully inadequate against the giants surrounding him.
He leaned back on his hands, looking up at the pale sky. In his previous life, amidst the noise and constant connection of the modern world, this was all he had ever wanted.
He remembered the suffocating buzz of smartphones, the endless scrolling, the disconnection from the tangible world. He had dreamed of escaping it all. He had dreamed of this.
Living in Hogwarts, he mused, taking in the scent of pine and water. Away from the screens and the noise. Just magic.
He closed his eyes, letting the breeze ruffle his hair. This was the life he had yearned for. He wanted to spend his days exploring the shifting corridors of this beautiful castle, finding secrets no one else knew. He wanted to sit right here, by this quiet lake, reading ancient tomes until the sun went down.
A soft smile touched his lips as his thoughts drifted further. He wanted the simple, beautiful things he had missed out on before. A pure childhood romance, untainted by the cynicism of adulthood. Maybe with someone who understood him, someone who could challenge him.
He thought of Hermione's bright, eager smile when he surprised her. He thought of Daphne's rare vulnerability in the corridor. He thought of the mysterious Ravenclaw girl dancing with blue flames.
That's all I want, Adam thought, a pang of longing tightening his chest. A well-dreamed life. Peace. Wonder.
But the reality of this world was not just wonder. It was dangerous.
He opened his eyes, the peaceful image shattering. To have that life—to sit by the lake without looking over his shoulder, to fall in love without fearing a curse would kill them both—he needed power.
He couldn't be a pawn on Dumbledore's chessboard. He couldn't be a target for the Malfoys. He had to be a player. He had to be undeniable.
'If I want peace,' Adam resolved, his grip tightening on the grass, 'I have to be strong enough to enforce it. And before all that I must disappear from the limelight. In the eyes of everyone, I'm just child. I need to fade into the background while I grow stronger in the shadows.'
He stood up, brushing the dirt from his robes. The nostalgia was gone, replaced by a cold, hard determination.