In the headmaster's office at Hogwarts, everything seemed both timeless and ceaselessly in motion. Year after year, Fawkes the phoenix was reborn from its ashes. The star chart by the window revolved endlessly, mirroring the planets' eternal dance. The intricate silver instruments still sat on their slender-legged table, puffing out delicate wisps of smoke. The portraits of past headmasters and headmistresses snored softly in their frames, their heads lazily propped against armrests or the edges of the frames.
The only thing not caught in this perpetual rhythm was the office's master himself. He was growing old.
The rise and fall of two generations of Dark Lords, the unending workload, the accumulated fatigue, and the relentless passage of time had all taken their toll.
The greatest white wizard alive was now 112 years old. His waning energy, drooping eyelids, and slightly hunched back were constant reminders—to himself and to everyone else—that his youth was long gone.
But rest was not an option. Not yet.
The night sky outside had deepened into a velvety indigo, and the room was silent. Dumbledore sat in his customary seat, while across from him stood a man clad in black, with equally dark hair and eyes. His expression carried a trace of impatience.
"I assume you summoned me here because you have something of importance to discuss, and not to waste my life intentionally," Severus Snape began, his voice laced with sarcasm.
"I'm all ears, Headmaster," he added dryly.
"Sit down, Severus," Dumbledore said.
Gone was his trademark optimism. Instead, his face was clouded with concern, prompting a subtle shift in Snape's demeanor.
"Is this about him?" Snape asked as he took the seat opposite Dumbledore.
"No," Dumbledore replied, shaking his head. His sharp eyes fixed on Snape's face, as if scrutinizing every flicker of expression.
"It's about Orli. Your prized pupil, Orli Waters."
"She is not my—" Snape began instinctively, but Dumbledore cut him off.
"Severus, let's not waste time debating things we both know to be true, shall we?" Dumbledore said, his piercing gaze locking onto Snape's.
"What I need to confirm is this: you haven't been steering Orli toward an interest in Dark Magic, have you?"
Snape's pupils narrowed slightly.
He had, indeed, given her an advanced potions reference book for Christmas. The book included a few spells he had invented during his school years, but his focus had been on the potion notes and annotations. After their earlier conversation about Peter Pettigrew, he had assumed she didn't harbor the typical Gryffindor disdain for Dark Magic. He had simply torn out the book's signed title page. Could she have mentioned this to Dumbledore?
A spark of anger flared within him, fueled by the sting of perceived betrayal. Yet his face remained a mask of cold indifference.
"I don't know what you're implying, Dumbledore. But I have never taught her any Dark Magic," Snape said evenly.
He anticipated Dumbledore's reaction—a challenge, a rebuttal, perhaps even the production of the book as evidence. But Dumbledore did none of these.
As Snape's words settled in the silence, Dumbledore continued to study him, the worry etched on his face deepening.
"You should know, Severus," Dumbledore finally said. "Today is Hogsmeade Day—Harry and the others are in the village. But Orli, she used an Invisibility Cloak to sneak into the Restricted Section and read several books she had no business touching."
Snape felt as though the taut rubber band constricting his heart had suddenly snapped. The fury of betrayal ebbed away, replaced by an unexpected sense of relief.
"Headmaster," Snape said dryly, "when a thirteen-year-old, foolish Gryffindor gets their hands on an Invisibility Cloak, what exactly do you expect them to do? Volunteer to de-gnome Hagrid's garden? Or perhaps sneak off to help Filch fetch water and mop the floors?"
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