His gentle blessing lingered in the air.
Once the young wizard left, silence deepened in the office. The old headmaster's smile slowly faded, replaced by a more complicated expression.
He raised his wand.
A soft click echoed as the door locked itself.
Then, with a graceful flick, his wand traced a silver-blue arc through the air. Twelve magical barriers rose from the corners of the room, sealing it in an impenetrable web of enchantments.
"My apologies, old friends," Dumbledore murmured to the portraits on the walls.
With a gentle tap of his wand, every painted figure froze in place. Phineas Black's half-raised goblet hung motionless in the air.
It was a truly astonishing sight.
Dumbledore was known for hiding countless secrets within these portraits, yet now he was actively shielding something from them. Whatever his reason, it was clear that he wasn't being cautious of the other headmasters. The mistrust stemmed from something else, something far more serious.
Only after sealing the office completely did he move toward the mirror.
He took a deep breath, his face tightening in pain, and slowly unbuttoned his robes. His chest, no longer a powerful mass of muscle, appeared thin and slack with age.
The skin was pale, fragile, and slightly loose.
With trembling fingers, Dumbledore gently wiped his chest.
When his fingertips brushed the spot just beneath his third left rib, black lines like spiderwebs surfaced beneath the skin—those same mysterious marks that Ian had glimpsed earlier.
Faint traces of silver runes shimmered alongside them, forming a suppressive seal.
It was a terrifying symbol, a fusion of a triangle, a circle, and a vertical line.
Clearly, Ian hadn't been mistaken.
The mark was seventy percent identical to the Deathly Hallows emblem, but it had disturbing differences: twisted, vine-like tendrils spreading outward like a parasitic infection creeping through the veins.
"Even the power of God can't weaken it..." Dumbledore murmured, gazing at his reflection. His eyes were filled with exhaustion and quiet resignation. A faint sigh escaped his lips.
He stared at the mark on his chest. In the mirror, the black veins continued to spread, slowly but relentlessly eroding the boundary of the silver runes like ink bleeding into parchment.
Perhaps triggered by his touch, pain twisted his expression.
Immediately, Fawkes flew from its perch. Its crystalline tears fell upon the writhing black markings. As the droplets touched the corrupted lines, the dark power shuddered and receded until the silver runes surged forth once more and sealed it completely.
"Thank you, Fawkes."
Dumbledore's expression softened as he spoke to his faithful companion. Fawkes nuzzled gently against the old man's cheek and chirped softly, anxiously.
"Yes, yes, I know," Dumbledore said, forcing a faint smile. "But some prices must be paid. As long as the reward is great enough, the sacrifice is worth it."
His tone was calm, but his conviction in his voice was absolute, almost frighteningly so.
...
On the covered bridge, the stone gargoyle guarding the stairway was dozing off when two sharp kicks sent it stumbling awake. It opened its brass-colored eyes in fury, only to meet the thoughtful gaze of Ian, who stood with his head slightly bowed.
A second later, as though startled by reflex, the gargoyle jumped aside, clearing the path to the corridor. The young wizard walked past but not before turning back to give the creature a few extra kicks.
The gargoyle shrank back pitifully, not daring to protest. It stiffened into its stone form, like a shrunken alchemical turtle.
"Do your job properly next time," Ian warned, his voice lazy but firm. "Slack off again, and I'll have you working for another thousand years without pay."
Honestly, Dumbledore's earlier comment about Ian was spot-on. He did have the makings of a black-hearted taskmaster.
"Dumbledore really is a strange one," Ian muttered as he left the Headmaster's office. He was still thinking about the mysterious mark that Dumbledore had hidden.
Whatever it was, it definitely wasn't simple.
Maybe even Grindelwald didn't know about it.
Lost in thought, Ian made his way through the castle's corridors toward the Great Hall, arriving just as dinner was ending for the day.
Candles floated overhead, illuminating every table. Students from each house sat with their friends, and the sound of their laughter and chatter blended into a warm, joyful melody.
The air was filled with the rich aroma of food: roast turkey, puddings, and pumpkin pasties. Dishes of every kind lined the tables, steaming and golden, and Ian's appetite surged.
He was just about to find a place to sit when a loud commotion suddenly erupted from the Gryffindor table.
Ian turned to look.
Hermione and Neville were struggling to hold up a red-faced Ron Weasley and were half-dragging him toward the door of the Great Hall.
"Cough, cough! Cough, cough!" Ron's face was bright red, his eyes bulging, and his hands were flailing wildly around his throat. He looked utterly miserable.
"Again, Weasley?" Ian raised an eyebrow and took a seat at the Slytherin table. Beside him, Aurora Grindelwald elegantly sliced a piece of lamb. The silver fork glinted coldly between her fingers.
"The sixth time," Aurora said without looking up, a strand of platinum hair falling over her pale cheek. "This time, he tried to swallow an entire fried drumstick in one bite."
Her knife tapped lightly against the plate as she lifted the tender meat to her lips and chewed with refined slowness.
"Madam Pomfrey really ought to reserve him a personal bed in the infirmary."
Her tone was so calm that it almost sounded like genuine, thoughtful advice.
"That's...tragic," Ian murmured, watching the trio being escorted out. Hermione's curls had turned wild from running and looked like those of a Blast-Ended Skrewt. Neville's round face was full of panic.
The corner of Ian's mouth twitched as he muttered to himself in amusement. "The new Golden Trio of Gryffindor doesn't seem quite as reliable as the last one."
Just as he began gnawing on his chicken leg, a movement caught his eye down the table.
Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, had noticed him.
Setting down his utensils, the bespectacled boy hurried over, moving with purpose despite his awkwardness.
"Ian, thank you so much! If it weren't for you, I might've been dead, or worse."
Because of the crowd around them, Harry didn't elaborate, but his voice conveyed genuine emotion. Ian could feel the gratitude pouring straight from the boy's heart.
Clearly, once he'd regained his senses, the Boy Who Lived knew exactly who had saved him.
"It's nothing," Ian said with an easy smile, putting down his fork and knife. "We're schoolmates, after all and I am just lending a hand."
For once, he actually sounded magnanimous.
Of course, as he looked at Harry, another thought flickered through his mind.
He recalled what he'd learned about the Soul Hall in a previous timeline. Could he use Harry Potter as bait to lure Lily out of the Soul Hall?
"Achoo!"
For some inexplicable reason, Ian suddenly sneezed in the middle of plotting against Harry Potter.
Confused, he rubbed his nose and looked around. Up at the teachers' table, Professor Snape glanced his way with a faint scowl, as though sensing something was off.
(End of chapter.)
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