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The scene just now had been absolutely explosive.
After his muscles swelled and tore through his clothes, Dumbledore looked like the protagonist of some old-school hot-blooded shounen anime. But before Ian could react or take out his camera, Dumbledore began showing signs that something was wrong.
Thanks to that "muscle-burst" moment, Ian had managed to catch a glimpse of the strange changes on Dumbledore's body.
Mysterious symbols appeared on his skin.
There were two kinds of runes: silver and black. From Ian's observations and Dumbledore's brief explanation, it was clear that the silver runes were meant to suppress the power of the black ones.
The black markings themselves gave off a distinctly ominous feeling.
Their shape and arrangement faintly resembled the intertwined Deathly Hallows symbol. Even with their sharp eyes and good memory, however, Ian couldn't be completely sure. After all, the violent expansion and contraction of Dumbledore's muscles distorted the marks somewhat.
Like how a tattoo can look completely different when a person gains or loses weight, Dumbledore's marks only seemed similar to the sacred symbol.
Because of that, Ian couldn't be certain of his conclusion. But before Dumbledore covered the markings again, the observant young wizard noticed something else strange.
When the silver and black runes appeared, the edge of the headmaster's shadow became jagged as if countless thin black tendrils were writhing along it.
Later, when Ian dispelled his magic and Dumbledore stood up again, that bizarre vision vanished as if it had been nothing more than a fleeting hallucination.
Still, it was deeply unsettling.
"Professor, you—" Ian's voice caught in his throat. He opened his mouth to ask about the origin of the symbols but, upon seeing Dumbledore's expression, which clearly showed that he didn't want to speak of it, he swallowed his words. He could only silently ponder what was going on.
There was no doubt; it had to be a curse.
No one knew what method Dumbledore was using to suppress it. The fact that the curse still clung to him like maggots on bone, even after he had reached legendary status, spoke volumes. Legendary status might not even be enough to shake off this curse.
"I might be able to help you," Ian offered, eager to test his Paradox power on it.
But Dumbledore hesitated only briefly before shaking his head firmly. With a wave of his wand, he straightened his torn, wrinkled robes back into their proper shape.
Clearly, that brief moment of agony hadn't affected the old headmaster's ability to cast spells.
"It's just some old wounds, my boy," He said softly. "No need to worry, and certainly no need for any special treatment."
As he turned away, his familiar, reassuring smile returned, but Ian saw that both of the old man's hands were trembling slightly.
Perhaps the pain hadn't faded yet.
Still, he didn't want the young wizards to notice. His voice was as gentle as ever.
"When one gets old, the body always starts to show little flaws. One must learn to accept it, for that is life."
Even at that moment, Dumbledore could slip into philosophy. Truly, once a teacher, always a teacher— preaching wisdom had become instinct for him.
Ian didn't comment.
Since he had already dispelled his own magic, the entire valley returned to its original twilight state. The headmaster's shadow stretched long beneath the setting sun.
And all around them, the creatures that had previously been blessed began to stir again. Now deprived of that blessing, their primal instincts took over and they gathered from every corner of the valley, drawn to this place once more.
Not only ordinary animals, but magical creatures as well were the same.
The timid bowtruckle was no exception. After all, every living being possesses an instinctive yearning for evolution, a leap to a higher plane of existence.
The number of creatures gathering grew larger and larger.
"It's getting late, Ian." Dumbledore looked up at the darkening sky as he spoke. "We should head back. Let what happened today remain nothing more than a dream in the minds of these animals."
His words carried a subtle undertone that seemed to hint at something deeper.
Before Ian could ponder its meaning, the old headmaster raised his hand. The hand, which wore a ring, rested gently on Ian's shoulder. In the next instant, the familiar sensation of Apparition came over them.
The two of them reappeared inside the Headmaster's Office at Hogwarts. The sweet fragrance of honey tea mingled with the scent of old parchment. The fireplace crackled softly, and candlelight reflected from silver instruments danced across the room, casting Dumbledore's long shadow over the rows of bookshelves behind him.
The strange phenomena Ian had witnessed earlier were nowhere to be seen.
Still, his gaze couldn't help but flicker subtly toward Dumbledore's collar. The silver runes he'd seen in the valley were now completely gone, as if they had never existed. Even when Ian tried to sense them with his magic, there was nothing—no trace whatsoever.
Of course, the old headmaster could feel the boy's gaze.
"About what you saw today," Dumbledore said, shaking his head with a touch of helplessness. "I hope you'll keep it completely secret. Don't tell anyone.
Although his tone remained gentle, Ian noticed something unusual: Dumbledore's right index finger tapped his wand unconsciously in perfect rhythm with the ticking clock. It was a subtle yet unmistakable sign of tension.
"This is very important."
The old headmaster's voice hardened suddenly, and his blue eyes locked onto Ian's. He gestured for Ian to sit in the visitor's chair while he walked around the desk. As he passed Fawkes, the phoenix opened one golden eye and gave a faint, almost inaudible trill as if expressing concern for its master.
"I understand, Professor," Ian replied quickly, nodding and suppressing his curiosity. He decided to play the obedient student. "I was only testing my magic. Nothing else happened."
It might have sounded a little too defensive, but Dumbledore seemed slightly relieved nonetheless. He clearly had no intention of explaining further and instead steered the conversation in another direction.
"As for the changes you're experiencing," Dumbledore said, "I don't think any special treatment is necessary for now. Just keep an eye on yourself. I'll also conduct some research into what may have caused this."
Dumbledore's words carried their usual calming power. He pressed his fingers together thoughtfully. His eyes, hidden behind half-moon spectacles, glimmered as though he were weighing something unseen.
"I'll look into the origin of your bloodline," he added.
The old headmaster's blue eyes flashed briefly behind the lenses. It was clear he already had a few suspicions, perhaps based on rumors.
"..."
Ian opened his mouth but couldn't think of anything to say.
Compared to the possibility that he might have once been a bird, being considered some kind of extraordinary mixed-blood wasn't really that bad. At least he was still human, right?
When Ian's expression grew slightly dejected, the portrait of Phineas Black on the wall suddenly burst out laughing. However, it was silenced at once by a sharp glance from Dumbledore.
"Ah, it's already this late," Dumbledore said, turning toward the magical clock on the wall. The golden hands indicated that dinner in the Great Hall would soon end. "I think we should continue this discussion another day. The elves' carefully prepared dinner shouldn't be wasted. If I recall correctly, they made your favorite beef dish tonight, just for you."
What a flimsy excuse to send someone away!
Ian immediately noticed that Dumbledore seemed distracted and even uneasy. But he didn't press further. Hearing those words, Ian simply stood up and gave a small, respectful bow to the old headmaster.
"All right, Professor. Then I'll take my leave."
When Ian grasped the brass door handle, it felt ice-cold against his palm. As he turned to leave, he caught one last glimpse of Dumbledore seated behind his desk through the narrowing gap in the door. Candlelight flickered across his wrinkled face, illuminating every line carved by time.
It was old age.
It was weariness.
And it carried the quiet heaviness of twilight's decline.
"Good night, Professor," Ian said softly.
"Good night, Ian," Dumbledore's reply came, his voice sounding as though it had traveled from far, far away.
"Sweet dreams."
His gentle blessing lingered in the air.
(To Be Continued…)