Chapter 43: Dumbledore
Fred strode forward and knocked firmly on the door knocker. The oak door swung open silently.
Dumbledore’s Office was astonishing. The walls were lined with portraits of past headmasters, some asleep, others watching the visitors with keen interest, and a few merely empty frames. On a tall-legged table, strange silverware spun slowly, releasing small puffs of smoke. The Sorting Hat rested on a stand, seemingly asleep, emitting faint snoring sounds. Perched on a tall gilded perch behind the door was an extraordinarily beautiful bird. Its feathers were golden and crimson, though somewhat sparse, yet still dazzling in their brilliance, its eyes sharp and alert as it gazed down upon them.
"Good heavens!" Hermione whispered. "It’s a Phoenix! I read about it in books—Professor Dumbledore really has a real Phoenix—"
Albus Dumbledore sat behind the table, his eagle-like nose framed by half-moon spectacles, dressed in a deep purple robe adorned with irises. He sat in a high-backed chair, his pale blue eyes warm as he looked at the group.
"Welcome, children. I hope my office hasn’t bored you."
"Bored? This place is absolutely fascinating, Professor!" Fred said boldly, his usual exuberance returning.
Dumbledore smiled gently. "You wrote me that you had something very important to tell me. Now is the time."
The group exchanged glances, silently urging one another forward. Hermione hesitated, her courage faltering—she too had broken a rule, and the thought of confessing made her uneasy.
Finally, Wade stepped forward and repeated the conversation he had overheard, while the others chimed in with their own suspicions and deductions.
Michael’s face paled. He hadn’t expected to be brought here for such a serious matter. He looked from one face to another, feeling like the only one truly shaken.
Dumbledore listened with quiet patience, his expression unchanged. Then, his gaze settled on Wade.
"When you overheard that conversation, were you certain he didn’t see you?"
"I cast a Fire Spell just before he arrived. I don’t know if he noticed the trace. But as soon as he entered the room, I hid. From the window, I was completely out of sight."
Wade spoke carefully. "I made no sound. I used no magic. I didn’t leave any noticeable scent. I stayed outside until dawn before returning. On my way back, I passed Griffiths’ portrait and Professor Mor. In the Defense Against the Dark Arts class afterward, Professor Quirrell didn’t single me out in any way—his demeanor was unchanged."
Dumbledore nodded slowly. "It seems, then, he hasn’t discovered you. But I must stress this: from this moment on, do not dwell on this matter. Do not make eye contact with Professor Quirrell. Understood?"
Wade nodded silently.
"Professor!" Liam blurted out. "Why don’t you arrest him now? While he still doesn’t know he’s been exposed?"
"Not yet, Mr. Caro," Dumbledore replied calmly. "In fact, from the start of term, I had sensed something deeply troubling in Professor Quirrell. Your report confirms my worst fears. But the time is not yet right to reveal him. Rest assured, I’ve entrusted a most reliable person with watching him. I will also ensure the safety of all students."
"So… Professor… he really is…" George asked softly.
"I believe so," Dumbledore confirmed. "Voldemort has returned to this school—though in a form no one could have imagined. He likely never expected his flawless disguise to be uncovered by a few children. He’s always underestimated those weaker than himself. But you’ve done remarkably well."
"But—everyone says Voldemort was killed by baby Harry Potter, right?" Fred asked.
"He was grievously wounded that night, vanishing from sight. But he did not die. I have always known that." Dumbledore’s voice was quiet, firm. "Voldemort now exists in a rare state—one that even the Killing Curse cannot destroy easily."
Fred frowned, puzzled. But Dumbledore did not elaborate.
"Professor," Hermione asked hesitantly, "can I tell Harry?"
"I’m afraid not, Miss Granger," Dumbledore said with polite but unyielding certainty. "Given that Voldemort killed Harry’s parents, I believe it would be unwise for him to know his enemy is so close. Harry may not be able to remain as calm and rational as you are. This would place him in great danger. I need you to keep this secret—especially from Harry. Can you do that?"
They all nodded in unison.
Fred grumbled, "But the Dark Lord is still after him! Shouldn’t we just pull Harry out of the team for safety?"
"Wood would be devastated," George said with a weak smile. "He says Harry is the best Seeker he’s ever seen—Wood’s hopes for the Cup rest entirely on him."
"Oh, about that—" Dumbledore folded his hands, smiling gently. "I don’t believe we should let a shadowy gaze steal away the joy of Quidditch. So yes—Harry does not need to leave the team. I will ensure his safety."
Hearing that, the Gryffindors relaxed instantly. In the hearts of these young lions, who could be more trustworthy than Dumbledore?
They prepared to leave, cheerful once more—until Liam hesitated at the door.
"Professor Dumbledore—"
"Yes?"
"There’s… one more thing…"
Liam hesitated, swallowing hard.
"Go on, Mr. Caro."
"Professor Quirrell…" He looked up, mustering courage. "After you drive out the Dark Lord… will he… be okay?"
"Will he survive?" Liam pressed.
For the first time, Dumbledore’s composure wavered.
He stared deeply into Liam’s eyes, his own shimmering faintly with unshed tears.
"I’m afraid not, child."
Liam’s breath caught.
"Voldemort did something terrible to him—unspeakably terrible—when he bound himself to Quirrell’s body. They share a dark, twisted symbiotic bond. When Voldemort leaves, Quirrell will die."
The group fell silent.
For children of eleven, watching someone—no matter how wicked—inevitably face death was unbearable. A quiet sorrow settled over them.
"Children," Dumbledore said, lowering his gaze, his tone gentle yet unwavering, "your compassion, even toward someone like Quirrell, is noble. But when Quirrell willingly offered his soul to Voldemort out of greed and ambition, this outcome was inevitable."
As they stepped out of the Headmaster’s Office, their hearts were heavy.
"Dumbledore really knows everything," Fred said. "Did you see? He wasn’t surprised at all."
"It’s hard to believe," Liam said. "We’re just first-years. I thought things like war, the Dark Lord, death… they were far away. And Professor Quirrell—gosh, I heard he used to be kind."
They stood in the corridor, snow blanketing the grounds outside. Young wizards laughed and shouted as they played snowball fights. Harry Potter and Ron Weasley were among them.
"You’re right, Hermione," Fred suddenly said. "We shouldn’t tell Harry."
Hermione looked at Harry, her expression soft, filled with a motherly tenderness. "If he knew the truth, the weight of it—the hatred, the fear—it would crush him."
"Stop," Wade warned. "Remember what Dumbledore said. We mustn’t think about it. We mustn’t look at him. And we should stay as far away as possible."
Hermione nodded silently.
Michael looked at Wade, his mouth opening as if to speak—but then closed it. He shook his head.
Later that evening, after returning to the Common Room, Michael slipped away from the others, whispering only when they were alone:
"I thought you’d be angry with Dumbledore. He knew everything… and let students face danger. You nearly died, Wade."
(End of Chapter)
Chapter end
Report
