It seed like a polite inquiry and Dumbledore's expression radiated warmth.
However, sitting across from him like a frightened bird, Penelope felt an unsettling sensation— what would happen if she refused? Would she find herself facing the sa fate as Professor Ronnie Ehrlich that very night?
A book once recomnded by 'The Quibbler' suddenly leaped into Penelope's mind— 'A Century of Lies: The White King'— and she dared not utter a single word of refusal.
Dumbledore remained the sa Dumbledore, his character unchanged, but to Penelope, he felt sohow more... intimidating than usual.
"It is my honor to receive your teachings." Penelope dared not dwell on those terrifying thoughts any longer and quickly adopted her most humble deanor.
It wasn't insincere.
Countless wizards in this world longed for Dumbledore's personal instruction, didn't they?
"The Unbreakable Vow is a magical spell used to form an oath between wizards. If the vow is broken by one party, that person will perish."
"It is very practical for keeping secrets, having been employed since ancient tis up to the present," Dumbledore explained patiently as he signed the vow with Penelope under the watchful eyes of Hogwarts.
"Thank you for your guidance."
Penelope finally felt a wave of relief wash over her.
She had indeed learned sothing.
"I also want to thank you for your understanding. As your sowhat irresponsible and selfish headmaster, I believe this can serve as so form of compensation." Dumbledore retrieved a book from the shelf and handed it to Penelope.
It was his notes from his younger days.
Though Dumbledore had provided diligent instruction, the Unbreakable Vow was clearly unfair to Penelope; so genuine guilt flickered across his face.
Penelope felt as if she had stumbled upon a treasure, and the shadows in her heart instantly dissipated. The records of a great man were undoubtedly a prize that even the most esteed pure-blood families would covet.
"Thank you for your gift..."
This ti, the tremor in Penelope's voice stemd entirely from excitent.
"Don't forget your afternoon class."
Dumbledore escorted the overly excited Penelope to the door of the headmaster's office. When he returned to the hall of his office, the portraits of the past headmasters that had departed earlier returned to their fras.
The Sorting Hat continued to feign slumber.
Fawkes was shedding even more feathers.
It seed to have made a decision.
With a cry, it ignited itself in flas.
When the flas dissipated, the tea on the desk had already cooled, and Dumbledore sat quietly in his chair, watching as a chick erged from the ashes, revealing the form of a new phoenix.
"Albus, forcing a young wizard to sign an Unbreakable Vow is a violation of your position," The portrait of Armando Dippet suddenly interjected.
"This is the safest choice." A hint of sha flickered in Dumbledore's eyes as he spoke.
"Your current mindset is very dangerous; it will ultimately lead you into an abyss from which there is no return. You are rely weaving a beautiful dream that is destined to shatter!"
"Your younger sister is gone! There is no turning back on that path!" Armando Dippet's portrait scolded sharply, while other portraits joined in urging him.
"Yes, I believe the child from the Severus family must have only heard your story from sowhere; after all, there are always those who know your family's secrets, aren't there?"
"Hogwarts has no secrets; perhaps a ghost whispered it to him. Children's curiosity is such that they often dig deep into certain matters."
"I see this Gryffindor fool as nothing but a senile old man, utterly ridiculous! No one can accomplish such a thing! Not even the great Slytherin!"
...
The portraits might have gleaned so information from Armando Dippet. After all, he had witnessed Dumbledore's rise and subsequent self-imposed isolation as the headmaster.
"Are you all being a bit too noisy?" Dumbledore's voice was eerily calm.
"I may indeed be getting old, but I believe I am far from senile; in fact... I think I have never been so clear-headed in all these years."
He murmured softly.
His gaze fell upon the office.
Hidden behind the teacups and teapots was a library borrowing list.
'Records of Hogwarts' Past Students'
'Detailed History of Wizards in the Middle Ages'
'Legends of the Twilight Zone'
'Illusions: The Thin Prison'
...
In the basent of Hogwarts.
The black stone walls lood oppressively, lined with shelves filled with an array of glass jars containing strange and unsettling contents.
Suspended in colorful liquids were preserved specins— serpents coiled in eerie stillness, scorpions frozen mid-pose, bloated toads, and even the eyeballs and organs of unidentifiable creatures.
In the center of the room stood a large rectangular table, its surface cluttered with gleaming brass scales, delicate glassware for asuring potions, and dried herbs suspended in beakers.
Several copper cauldrons simred atop wrought-iron stands, their contents bubbling ominously. The air was thick with an indescribable blend of potion fus— pungent, acrid, and faintly tallic.
This was the office of the Head of Slytherin House, a chamber that, according to old rumors, had once served as a detention room for Hogwarts' most severe punishnts.
Now, after many years, it appeared to have reclaid its forr purpose.
Marcus Flint, a student with certain Ministry connections, was bound securely to a chair, his wrists and ankles wrapped tightly with enchanted ropes. Severus Snape had left him in this state for several hours.
To be honest, Snape was not torturing him— at least, not by the Ministry's definition. He was employing what he might, in a formal report, refer to as a 'classical thod of intelligence extraction.'
'Gurgle, Gurgle, Gurgle~'
The cauldrons continued to bubble ominously.
From furious shouting,
To silence,
To being Stupefied and rendered unconscious,
Marcus Flint had endured round after round of Snape's unique brand of 'care.' The long table beside him was littered with empty potion vials, their labels bearing the nas of various concoctions— each designed for purposes far beyond simple truth-serums.
Flint had, without a doubt, ingested an extensive range of potions. The ones still brewing would likely serve as his 'supper' for the night.
This was certainly not a school-sanctioned operation, nor was it an interrogation thod that aligned with Ministry-approved procedures. But Snape, the dark-hearted guardian of Hogwarts, had little concern for such trivialities.
The term 'Death Eater' required no further elaboration.
"Slytherin does not need such a student. Being lured to Hogsade by the bait of a re business card is more disgraceful than even the most naive of Gryffindors."
Snape raised his wand and muttered an incantation under his breath. He had, after all, been a dark wizard 'redeed' in the public eye. The difference between him and true practitioners of the Dark Arts?
(To Be Continued…)
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