Dumbledore's gaze softened, though a trace of awe remained.
"Child, the phoenix has already chosen to co to your side. It's simply waiting for the mont you'll need it."
The headmaster's hand absently brushed his face once again, a gesture Ian was beginning to suspect betrayed lingering discomfort.
"I must say, I sincerely hope Severus never catches sight of your egg," Dumbledore added, his voice tinged with sothing between amusent and apprehension — a rare contrast to the composure he held when discussing far graver matters.
Ian, still studying the egg with curiosity, suddenly reached into his robes and pulled out two letters. The motion was so abrupt that it startled Dumbledore.
"The large one's for Aberforth," Ian said matter-of-factly. "Tell him to pay the postage himself, though. I've got no dealings with your brother."
"!!!!"
Dumbledore, who had previously maintained a kindly smile, froze as his eyes landed on the letters. His expression twisted into one of sheer disbelief — as though Ian had conjured a ghost before him.
The portraits of past headmasters lining the office stirred in similar astonishnt. So even covered their mouths in shock, though Ian, too preoccupied with rummaging through his chard wallet, failed to notice.
"You've… actually done it…" Dumbledore stamred, the disbelief etched deeply into his face. "This… this…"
Gone was the tranquil, grandfatherly deanor. The headmaster practically leapt to his feet, abandoning any pretense of age or frailty. The swiftness of his movents startled Ian.
"What a rebellious talent…" Dumbledore's voice trembled as he regarded the letters. "You truly are sothing remarkable."
Ian t his gaze, unimpressed.
The worn parchnt bore nothing remarkable at first glance, only the faint scrawls and doodles that Dumbledore's trembling hands traced with unmistakable recognition. As he reached out, his hands jerked back, paralyzed by hesitation.
He faltered.
For all his fad bravery, the old headmaster now quailed before two simple letters. Ian could practically feel the weight of the mories those envelopes held — mories Dumbledore had long buried.
Gryffindors were like that. Courageous, certainly, but often defenseless against the ghosts of their own past. Ian didn't need Legilincy to sense the fear swelling in Dumbledore's heart.
"Just a bit of reminiscing. Nothing more."
With no further ceremony, Ian thrust the letters into Dumbledore's trembling hands. The thin parchnt might as well have been a thousand-pound weight. Dumbledore's grip shook as he accepted them, his knuckles whitening.
He barely managed to steady himself as he collapsed back into his chair. His fingers traced the envelopes, as though their fragile paper could bridge the distance between past and present.
Ian could only watch in silence.
"Your gift… say nothing of it to anyone," Dumbledore whispered, his voice thick with unspoken emotion. "It is extraordinary — and deeply dangerous."
"Just you and the other headmasters know," Ian replied, raising an old wizarding cara.
The portraits on the wall stiffened, their painted eyes tracking Ian warily. Even the typically boisterous Phineas Nigellus said nothing. Only the Ravenclaw headmistress, her portrait frad in muted blue, dared to et Ian's gaze — and there, unmistakably, was fear.
"The headmasters are trustworthy," Dumbledore reassured, though the tremor in his voice betrayed the storm raging within. "They will guard your secret. And so shall I."
At last, summoning the resolve that had once defied the likes of Grindelwald, Dumbledore broke the seal of the first letter.
His hands shook.
The paper rustled softly as it unfolded. Line by line, the weight of its words seed to etch deeper sorrow into his weary face. Ian did not pry. Whatever mories were contained within were not his to know. He simply stood, cara still in hand.
Through the lens, he saw it.
Tears.
They welled in Dumbledore's eyes, defying his last attempts to contain them. A single drop fell, blotting the ink, and the old man clutched the letter as though afraid it might crumble away.
"Reparo."
Ian flicked his wand, murmuring the spell without fanfare. The ink reford, though the stains of sorrow remained.
"Thank you," Dumbledore rasped, his voice breaking. "Thank you."
But the headmaster's gratitude was swiftly lost to the weight of his grief. He buried his face in his hands, sobs muffled beneath trembling fingers. The tears continued to flow, staining both the parchnt and the wizened face of the man who had borne so much.
Ian said nothing.
He lowered the cara, the shutter unclicked. There were monts that did not belong to the film. Monts of raw humanity — even in a man like Albus Dumbledore.
The powerful, untouchable Dumbledore.
And yet now, before Ian's eyes, there was only a grieving brother — burdened by guilt, longing, and endless love.
At this mont, Dumbledore seed to have shed all the strength, composure, and boundless confidence he so often wore.
"Good night, Professor."
Ian cast one last glance at the old headmaster, his frailty laid bare, before gently closing the office door behind him. It was then that Ian had a revelation.
A ssenger was never ant to record. So monts were not ant to be captured — only rembered.
He was rely a passerby.
In the empty office, the echo of fading footsteps lingered like the soft hum of enchanted strings brushed by an unseen breeze. Outside, the moon hung high in the velvety sky. Only after long minutes of silent reflection did Dumbledore, his tears dried, carefully set the letter aside.
"He actually did it! That little wizard achieved the impossible!"
The portraits of past headmasters erupted, their disbelief echoing through the circular room.
"rlin himself possessed such abilities — it's not unheard of," Phineas Nigellus Black retorted sharply, his voice laced with a distinct note of pride. "Though I daresay none of you understand rlin's legacy quite as well as I do."
Phineas smirked knowingly, recalling the age-old rumor that rlin had once disguised himself to slip into the ranks of Slytherin.
"Regardless," Dumbledore's voice broke through the murmurs, his expression now unreadable, "I trust that every headmaster present will honor the sanctity of this chamber. What was witnessed here tonight must remain within these walls. Out of respect for your mory, I will not resort to magic to bind your silence."
He spoke with unwavering gravitas, his gaze sweeping across the portraits.
"Resort to magic? What were you planning to do — conjure Fiendfyre and burn us all?" Phineas scoffed, his indignation barely masking his unease.
Dumbledore's smile was faint but pointed.
"I think not. Though the headmasters of Hogwarts rarely stray down dark paths, you should all rember this: Ian Prince has the ans to find you should you betray his trust. And unlike most, that boy does not forgive lightly."
Phineas fell silent, his usual bravado diminished. The other headmasters, though less vocal, wore similarly conflicted expressions. The weight of Dumbledore's words settled heavily upon them.
"No one would dare speak of this," the once-terrified headmistress of Ravenclaw declared, her hands trembling. "This is no ordinary magic. Such power is beyond human reach. Mark my words — the gods themselves favor that boy. Your era has given rise to a chosen one."
Dumbledore blinked, montarily taken aback by the conviction in her voice. Before he could respond, Armando Dippet, his imdiate predecessor, spoke sternly.
"The boy has not only pierced the veil between life and death, but he even brought you a prophecy just now, Albus!" Dippet's tone was grave, though it failed to provoke any visible reaction from Dumbledore.
The current headmaster's eyes flickered, his fingers lightly brushing the aged parchnt.
"Since I first discovered Ian's talent, the thought crossed my mind," Dumbledore admitted quietly. "If he can walk the boundary between worlds as rlin once did, then perhaps he possesses another gift — the gift of foresight. It is not impossible. And the truth is, he has already seen further than Gellert Grindelwald ever could."
A tense silence followed. The painted eyes of Hogwarts' past leaders shifted between one another, the implications of Dumbledore's words settling in.
"You should ask him," Dippet continued with a scowl. "Ask where the rest of it is. I suspect he already knows."
But Dumbledore only chuckled softly, his eyes drifting toward the moonlit window.
"Ian has already given the number."
A flicker of lancholy passed through his voice.
"That alone is a gift. I have no right to ask for more. You see, the boy owes nothing, and yet he risked himself to offer this — out of kindness."
Carefully, Dumbledore set about folding the letter, his movents reverent, as though handling a priceless treasure. But as he slid it back into its envelope, sothing else slipped free.
A photograph.
It fluttered to the desk, face-up.
Three figures stood together in the fra, their postures easy and familiar, their laughter captured mid-motion. A warmth radiated from the image — a warmth that transcended ti.
"Christmas is still a long way off," Dumbledore murmured, his trembling fingers tracing the edges of the photograph. "But on this Halloween night, I daresay I've already received the most precious of gifts."
A gentle smile crept across his face, though his eyes still glistened from the tears that had fallen. He caressed the photo as though the smiles within might spill from it, bridging the chasm of years.
It was the smile of a younger sister.
anwhile, Ian was quite aware of the risk he had taken for Dumbledore.
Turning down a winding corridor, he barely had ti to gather his thoughts before he found himself face-to-face with Gilderoy Grindelwald.
"Well, well," Gilderoy's usual self-satisfied grin was firmly in place. "Another Horcrux, was it? I suspect I won't be getting much sleep tonight — not after a revelation like that."
There was sothing unsettling in the way Gilderoy's gaze glead. It was impossible to tell how much he had seen or overheard. Ian's hand twitched toward his wand, though Gilderoy showed no signs of imdiate hostility.
"Now then," Gilderoy continued, far too cheerfully for Ian's liking. "On this most fascinating of Halloween nights, would you care to accompany for a little excursion?"
It wasn't so much a request as a declaration. The gleam in Gilderoy's eye made one thing abundantly clear — Ian wouldn't be afforded the luxury of refusal.
(End of this chapter)
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