Dumbledore advanced through the stone corridors, across the entrance hall, and through the doors of the Great Hall, where he finally spotted Minerva McGonagall. The Deputy Headmistress walked hurriedly toward him, her face distorted by an anxiety she rarely permitted herself to exhibit in public.
"Albus..." she uttered in a restrained voice, though the speed of her words betrayed the storm she carried inside. "How... how did everything turn out?"
The Headmaster merely let out a dense, weary sigh. By now, the rumor of the duel of honor had already leaked through the cracks of the castle; professors and students knew that a second-year student was gambling with destiny at the Ministry. The tension at Hogwarts had been suffocating since morning. Well, perhaps with the sole exception of Gilderoy Lockhart, who had already found a way to weaponize the drama of others to brag to his classes about "how to mediate in conflicts of high diplomacy."
Just like Minerva, the school community had spent hours holding its breath, fearing a possible tragic outcome. Officially, only Dumbledore had been granted the opportunity to leave the school and witness the duel. However, that was not entirely accurate. Albus knew perfectly well that someone else had slipped into the crowd at the Atrium.
During the climax of the combat, the old man's sharp senses had detected a familiar magical signature: Severus Snape. The Potions Master had camouflaged himself among the mass of bureaucrats with impeccable mastery, striving to dilute his silhouette and hide. What Dumbledore still could not decipher—and what presented itself to him as a disturbing enigma—was the true recipient of that silent anguish: was Severus wasting away over the safety of the Weasley boy, or did he fear for Malfoy's fate?
It was a destabilizing mystery. At what point had his austere Potions Master developed such a keen interest in Red's escapades? The doubts began to branch out in his mind like poison ivy, and the panorama grew even darker upon evoking the unshakeable, almost mystical loyalty that Nymphadora Tonks displayed toward the boy.
Can I truly continue to trust Severus? Has Red already extended his threads to the core of my own staff? Who else has submitted to his control in the shadows? In whom can I place my trust... and how deep has this boy dug?
Albus was forced to suppress those thoughts. They were poisonous conjectures, the kind of suspicions capable of shattering the self-control of any leader. He understood, with a bitter lucidity, that this scenario of absolute distrust was precisely the worst possible map; perhaps, the subtle work that Red himself had designed to destabilize him before their meeting. He could not afford the luxury of falling apart.
"Albus?" Minerva insisted, breaking the thick silence upon seeing the Headmaster staring into nothingness, lost in the labyrinth of his musings.
"Forgive me, Minerva," he replied, blinking to focus back on reality, while the air left his lungs in another heavy sigh. "The duel has taken place... Everything has concluded."
"And the result?" she inquired, with that tinge of strict but maternal concern she reserved for each of the students under her tutelage.
"Red has won..." the old man pronounced, causing McGonagall's features to relax in a gesture of absolute surprise, followed by the beginning of a sigh of relief. However, Dumbledore completed the sentence before she could catch her breath: "But Lucius Malfoy has perished in the process."
The final words cut through the air, freezing the relief in the professor's throat. Her previous surprise instantly transformed into an even greater one. Minerva opened her mouth, but the words seemed to stick to her lips; she stammered a couple of disconnected syllables, caught in the violent clash between incredulity and the need for answers.
How was it possible that Lucius Malfoy, one of the most protected and influential wizards in the country, had died at the hands of a child in a duel formalized by the Ministry?
"It is a complex matter, Minerva..." Dumbledore ruled, cutting off the tide of questions before it could begin. His tone carried a fatigue that admitted no replies. "Tomorrow the morning papers will break down the technical details. Or, if you prefer, you may consult directly with Severus; it is highly likely that he possesses the same information I do."
He threw out the suggestion without any intention of expanding upon it. He possessed neither the time nor the emotional stability to articulate a chronicle of what had occurred, and in the process, he shifted the weight of suspicion toward the territory of his elusive Potions Master, planting a subtle hook without issuing definitive judgments until he possessed irrefutable evidence.
"Has everything gone in order here at the school?" he immediately inquired, attempting to regain the reins of control. "Any anomalous incidents? The state of the rest of the students?"
Despite the fact that his intellect assumed Red would not activate any hostile maneuvers against the student body at this stage, Albus no longer felt capable of certifying anything with absolute certainty. Lately, the board had become far too erratic.
"No, nothing outside the ordinary margins..." Minerva replied, realizing that the Headmaster was deliberately avoiding the Ministry matter. "The rumor of the duel kept the school in a state of constant agitation during the afternoon, particularly that group of girls... but nothing is out of order. Except for one detail..."
"A detail?" Albus's gaze sharpened.
"The portraits in the antechamber notified me that someone accessed your private office a short while ago. Apparently, they await you inside. The paintings were unusually evasive and nervous, but they did not provide further specifics. I attempted to present myself at the location to verify the visitor's identity, but the gargoyle at the entrance flatly denied me access. You modified the password without notifying us, making it impossible for me to force an entry. I was evaluating the need to send you an urgent message, but it just coincided with your arrival..."
Upon hearing his deputy's statement, Dumbledore furrowed his brow in a gesture of sharp alarm. He had not altered the access key to his office.
The implication was immediate and terrifying: it was another of Red's ploys. A calculated maneuver to guarantee that the meeting occurred in strict privacy, and at the same time, a silent demonstration of force to evidence the absolute control the boy exerted over the internal mechanisms of the castle without the administration having the slightest suspicion. The old man's nerves tightened once more. How devoid of information he found himself against an opponent who operated at his leisure throughout Hogwarts. No, the label of "child" definitely no longer fit into any of the equations involving Red Weasley.
"Very well, Minerva. Please continue with your duties. I shall handle this matter personally..." he declared with a dull sigh.
"Are you alright, Albus?" she asked, halting her steps, visibly concerned by her old friend's unusual demeanor.
"Just... tired, Minerva. Profoundly tired..." the Headmaster confessed, allowing a flash of genuine human vulnerability to leak into his words. "I believe I could use a vacation."
"You should consider taking a proper rest as soon as the term ends," she agreed with a mixture of respect and affection toward the old man.
Albus merely nodded, resuming his walk, but the professor's voice stopped him a few yards away.
"Albus?" Minerva called, imbuing her tone with a tinge of shyness and haste so markedly foreign to her habitual severity that the Headmaster could not help but spin on his heels, observing her with frank confusion. Seeing the head of Gryffindor gripped by an almost childish embarrassment was an unprecedented sight.
"Yes, Minerva?" (Dumbledore)
"Speaking of... vacations and absences..." she began, clearing her throat to mask a guilt she considered unworthy of her position. "Would it be feasible for you to grant me next Saturday as a day free from institutional responsibilities? I have certain matters to attend to outside the school..."
The Deputy Headmistress looked terribly apologetic; not because of the legitimacy of the request itself, but because of the motive behind it. Her ethical rigidity reproached her for asking for personal concessions precisely now, when the school was dealing with so many simultaneous crises and following her recent disappearance of several days. She felt guilty for claiming a day that, by any ordinary standard, belonged to her by legitimate right.
"Of course, Minerva. I would only ask that you remind me a couple of days prior," Albus replied, forcing a benevolent smile. Although his deputy's unusual shyness piqued his curiosity, he understood he did not possess the necessary mental reserves to pry into his staff's secrets; a dilemma of nightmare proportions awaited him on the upper floor. Furthermore, political prudence advised against putting more pressure on his right hand; he had already experienced the logistical chaos entailed by McGonagall's prolonged absence and had no intention of repeating the scenario. If granting an occasional sabbatical guaranteed the stability of her presence, he would gladly yield.
With permission granted, Dumbledore resumed his ascent toward the headmaster's tower. Minerva, on her part, although consumed by intrigue over the duel, declined the option of seeking out Snape to interrogate him; she preferred to throw herself immediately into her pending obligations in the Great Hall, as if an excess of labor zeal could compensate for the day off she had just secured.
...
Dumbledore reached the eighth floor, stopping before the stone gargoyle that guarded access to his office. He contemplated it in silence for a heartbeat, expecting rejection, but the block of stone simply rotated on its axis, opening the way without offering resistance. The Headmaster did not know whether to experience an ephemeral relief upon confirming that the castle still respected his access credentials, or to be profoundly alarmed by the certainty that whatever awaited at the top possessed the faculty to manipulate Hogwarts' frameworks to its complete whim.
Beneath the sleeve of his robes, the old man's fingers closed around the Elder Wand; he drew it with a fluid and lethal movement. He harbored no intention of rationing his power this time, regardless of the nature of the danger he had to neutralize. He exhaled a final sigh—a habit that was becoming dangerously frequent for him in recent hours—and undertook the ascent up the spiral staircase with an iron determination. As the steps rotated, his agile mind configured a thousand wartime scenarios and dark ambushes that could await him past the threshold. With his mental shields pushed to the limit, he pushed the heavy oak door and entered.
The Headmaster crossed the frame with a severe countenance, a firm step, and an oppressive aura that made the air of the room vibrate... However, on the other side of the wood, he found no torrents of fiendfyre, nor charnel houses, nor a hostile gloom. There was nothing more than his own office.
Dumbledore's harsh expression faltered, mutating into deep bewilderment upon detecting no anomaly whatsoever. He did not perceive the magical signature of the Weasley student in any corner; the office appeared deserted, though at this point he no longer trusted appearances. Even so, the physical normalcy of the place was absolute. The only unusual thing was the thick, calculated muteness of the surroundings: the frames of the old headmasters had been methodically covered with thick velvet curtains, nullifying any visual or acoustic testimony from the paintings. In the middle of that sepulchral silence, a single alteration stood out.
The old man advanced with slow steps, wand held forward and a brow where confusion and extreme suspicion mixed, directed toward the strange guest that occupied his floor.