Before dinner, Ryze sat at his desk, pen in hand, composing a letter to Andromeda. His request was straightforward: procure as many raw materials for the Elixir of Euphoria as possible.
He had only a limited amount of time—one month—to significantly improve his proficiency with the potion. While he was confident in his ability to successfully brew it, Ryze understood something more subtle. Simply repeating the brewing process over and over again, like a machine, would not impress Professor Snape. Without demonstrating initiative—without showing signs of innovation or improvement—Snape would never allow him to endlessly consume valuable ingredients.
Fortunately, the Elixir of Euphoria was a sixth-year potion, far less common than those taught in the lower years. It wasn't something students casually brewed in large quantities. More importantly, it had practical value. A potion capable of inducing happiness and alleviating depression would undoubtedly find a market, especially with Christmas approaching. Whether inside Hogwarts or beyond its walls, such a potion would not go to waste.
By the time dinner arrived, Ryze had already made up his mind.
After finishing a serving of mashed potatoes, Ryze turned his attention to the dessert laid out before him. There was a Yorkshire pudding drizzled generously with syrup, its golden surface glistening under the enchanted ceiling's soft light. Beside it sat a small plate of hard candies, each one giving off a faint lemon fragrance.
"Oh, these are lemon sherbets," Terry remarked, reaching for one. "They were my favorite candy when I was a kid. Though… I'm not quite used to how sour they are at first anymore."
He popped one into his mouth.
Almost immediately, his expression twisted as he shuddered from the intense burst of sourness. A moment later, a faint popping sound could be heard—tiny explosions caused by the carbonated powder hidden within the candy.
Ryze watched with mild curiosity before picking one up himself.
The moment it touched his tongue, the sharp sourness struck like a sudden jolt. For a brief second, it was overwhelming. But then, gradually, the sweetness emerged, accompanied by a gentle fizzing sensation. The contrast between the initial sharpness and the lingering sweetness was surprisingly pleasant.
He nodded slightly.
"Yes… not bad at all."
As he placed another piece on his plate, a thought crossed his mind.
Was this tonight's password to the Headmaster's office?
After dinner, Ryze excused himself from his roommates, claiming he wanted to take a walk through the castle. No one questioned him. It wasn't unusual for students to wander Hogwarts in the evening, especially those who preferred quiet reflection.
He moved at an unhurried pace, making his way from the first floor up to the eighth. The corridors were dimly lit, their silence broken only by the occasional flicker of torchlight or the distant echo of footsteps.
Eventually, he arrived at his destination.
The entrance to the Headmaster's office.
Blocking the way was a massive stone gargoyle, its grotesque features frozen in a permanent sneer. As Ryze approached, the statue stirred to life.
"Password."
Ryze paused for a moment, then spoke calmly.
"Lemon sherbet… or Yorkshire pudding?"
The gargoyle did not respond verbally. Instead, it simply hopped aside, revealing the spiral staircase behind it.
Ryze raised an eyebrow slightly but said nothing. Either answer, it seemed, had been acceptable.
He stepped onto the moving staircase and ascended.
At the top, he knocked on the wooden door. After receiving permission, he pushed it open and entered.
What greeted him was not the imposing, dignified image one might expect of the Headmaster of Hogwarts.
Instead, Albus Dumbledore was bent over his desk, holding a small pair of silver tweezers. His attention was focused entirely on a delicate silver instrument, which emitted faint wisps of smoke as it rotated.
He looked… oddly preoccupied.
When Dumbledore noticed Ryze, his bright blue eyes lit up immediately.
"Ah, Mr. White! You've come at just the right time."
He straightened and beckoned him closer.
"Would you mind giving me a hand? This warning device seems slightly misaligned. I feel the smoke it produces is drifting at an odd angle. Perhaps a younger pair of eyes can spot the issue more clearly."
Ryze stepped forward without hesitation.
The device was intricate—its design both elegant and perplexing. As it rotated, thin streams of smoke curled upward, forming delicate patterns in the air. After observing it for a moment, Ryze carefully adjusted its position under Dumbledore's guidance.
"Like this?" he asked.
"Yes… yes, exactly."
After a few minor corrections, the device resumed a smooth, balanced rotation.
Dumbledore clapped his hands lightly, clearly pleased.
"Perfect. That seems to have resolved it."
He gestured toward the chair across from his desk.
"Please, sit down, Mr. White. I suspected you would understand the intention behind my letter."
As Ryze took his seat, Dumbledore opened a drawer and retrieved a small plate of lemon sherbets. He placed it on the desk between them.
"I do hope you enjoy these," he said cheerfully. "They've been a favorite of mine for many years."
He popped one into his mouth with visible delight.
Ryze followed suit.
The familiar burst of sourness caused both of them to narrow their eyes slightly, though neither commented on it.
Once the sensation passed, Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, his expression softening.
"Now then," he began, his tone calm and measured, "where shall we start?"
He paused briefly before continuing.
"Let us begin with your father."
"Although it was quite some time ago, I remember your father very clearly," Dumbledore said. "Alphard was… unusual, for a member of the Black family."
Ryze listened quietly.
"He was the first of his generation to openly oppose Lord Voldemort and the Death Eaters," Dumbledore continued. "That alone required considerable courage. But more than that, he influenced others—particularly the younger members of the family."
Before he could say more, a sudden voice interrupted him.
"Hmph!"
A portrait hanging on the wall shook violently.
"That traitor Alphard—he abandoned the glory of the Black family. A cancer, nothing less!"
The voice was sharp, filled with disdain.
"He corrupted Andromeda, and later that fool Sirius chose Gryffindor because of him. And now—now his son stands before me wearing Ravenclaw robes, hiding behind a pitiful surname like 'White' as if he were a common Muggle. Disgraceful!"
Ryze turned toward the source of the outburst.
The speaker was a man depicted in the portrait—a wizard dressed in silver and green robes, with a neatly trimmed goatee. His expression was sharp and calculating, though now twisted with irritation.
At present, he was glaring directly at Ryze.
Dumbledore sighed softly.
"My apologies, Mr. White," he said. "Allow me to introduce him. This is Phineas Nigellus Black—one of your ancestors. He also happens to be a former Headmaster of Hogwarts."
Ryze nodded.
"I've seen his portrait before, in the historical gallery."
He paused, then added calmly:
"The least popular Headmaster in Hogwarts history. Quite famous, in his own way."
The portrait's expression froze.
For a moment, Phineas seemed unable to process what he had just heard. Then his face contorted with outrage.
"Least popular?" he snapped. "That is nothing but the petty jealousy of lesser minds! My governance was firm—decisive! Do you have any idea how many exceptional wizards were educated under my leadership?"
He jabbed a finger toward Dumbledore.
"That includes the man standing before you—the so-called greatest wizard of the twentieth century!"
His gaze snapped back to Ryze.
"And you—boy! You carry the noble blood of the Black family, yet you choose to degrade yourself. How dare you repeat such shallow judgments to insult your own ancestor?"
Ryze met his gaze evenly.
His expression did not change.
"Then tell me," he said quietly, "where is the Black family now?"
The room fell silent.
"In the grave," he continued, "or in Azkaban?"
Phineas opened his mouth to respond—but no words came out.
For once, he had no immediate retort.
Because Ryze was not exaggerating.
Regulus Black had disappeared years ago, his fate unknown. Sirius Black languished in Azkaban, condemned and forgotten. The remaining members of the family had long since scattered, their loyalties fractured, their legacy diminished.
As for the women of the family, most had married into other houses, distancing themselves from the Black name. What remained was little more than a shadow—waiting, perhaps, for the final confirmation of Sirius's death so that the remnants of the estate could be divided.
Phineas's expression shifted.
Anger gave way to something more complicated—reluctance, perhaps even a trace of unwilling acknowledgment.
Then his eyes returned to Ryze.
Despite everything, there was one undeniable truth.
The boy standing before him carried the blood of the Black family.
More than that—he possessed talent.
Real talent.
Though he had abandoned the Black surname, though he stood apart from the family's traditions, Ryze represented something the Blacks no longer had.
A future.
A possibility.
A final spark in what had become a fading line.
Phineas said nothing more.
For the first time, the portrait remained silent.
And in that silence, the weight of reality settled heavily over the room.
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