Monday — a heavy day. That saying is always apt, no matter how many times you recall it to yourself. Because in truth, it is the person themselves who makes the day heavy — purely from laziness and reluctance to return to the working routine and bustle after a weekend.
Having finished all my morning procedures and training, I arrived in the Great Hall for breakfast — clean, fresh, and alert.
— "Why all the long faces?" — I asked with a smile, looking at my housemates, who were listlessly poking at their bowls of porridge with their spoons. Some had even forgotten that bowls of their favourite toppings were sitting right beside them — various finely chopped fruits, dried fruit, raisins, or nuts.
— "Exams right after breakfast..." — came the reply from several directions, all carrying the same general sentiment.
— "All the more reason to eat a proper breakfast, surely?" — I had already assembled myself a bowl of porridge and a plate with fried eggs, bacon, sausages, beans, a bread roll, a large cup of juice, and I pulled a pitcher closer for good measure.
— "For you," — Hannah remarked drily, — "absolutely anything is a reason to 'eat a proper breakfast.'"
All the same, despite her sardonic tone, she set her gloom and despondency aside and began organising her breakfast to her own taste.
— "I don't understand it," — Zacharias was propping his chin on his hand. — "You eat, and eat, and eat, and eat some more, and you never get fat. You just get bigger. How?"
— "As I've said more than once — I train. A lot. Constantly."
— "You have, yes. But surely there's some secret to it?"
— "I cast various things for health..."
— "Oh, here we go," — Ernie groaned with mild irritation. — "Can we just eat, for goodness' sake. The sooner we start, the sooner we finish."
After breakfast, the exam marathon began. And it truly was a marathon. The first three days were exclusively written, theoretical exams. Only after that came the practicals. The logic behind this was straightforward: O.W.L.s, like the other school examinations, were administered by the professors themselves rather than a separate examining board, as was the case with N.E.W.T.s in seventh year. To free up as much time as possible for the professors and to avoid dragging the whole examination business out over too long a period, a simple solution had been devised: a duty examiner supervised the written, theoretical component. The practical element followed later, with the relevant subject teacher. Where a practical component was required at all.
Yes, there were subjects for which O.W.L.s had no practical component. These included Astronomy, Muggle Studies, History of Magic, and Arithmancy. The absence of a practical in Muggle Studies and History was self-evident, but Astronomy and Arithmancy required a word of explanation. The thing was, neither could be considered a fully self-contained discipline. Knowledge of both could play a role of varying importance in other fields — Charms and Transfiguration, or Potions, for instance — but neither, in and of itself, constituted a wholly independent practical discipline, and the applied component was therefore set out on paper alongside the theory.
Beyond that, I had recently been surprised in the library by Hermione, who told me that all students were permitted to sit any O.W.L. they wished. I was mildly puzzled, having been under a different impression. In the end, we decided to get to the bottom of where my misunderstanding — or hers — had come from. This proved less than straightforward, as there was no clear documentation on the matter. We eventually turned to Madam Pince. The librarian explained the whole thing in a few brief sentences.
As it turned out, up until about twenty years ago, there had been a requirement to obtain a teacher's permission before being allowed to sit an O.W.L. Before that, around fifty years ago, there had been other restrictions. A hundred years ago, sitting all O.W.L.s had been compulsory. In short, the rules had changed constantly, and students sometimes passed outdated information to one another simply because it came from what relatives had told them.
The current arrangement was as follows. Any fifth-year student could sit any O.W.L.s they chose, but was required to sit an "academic minimum" of core subjects: Potions, Transfiguration, Charms, Herbology, and Defence Against the Dark Arts. All other examinations were optional. However, students had to bear in mind that future training for various careers — whether privately, under Ministerial sponsorship, or with other organisations — required specific sets of passed examinations, and those lists extended well beyond one or two core subjects. Some careers, moreover, required N.E.W.T.s, which could not be sat without taking the advanced programme, and entry to that programme was contingent on achieving a certain grade at O.W.L. level.
There was one further important point. If a student's average mark across all their O.W.L.s fell into the "Poor" bracket — letter grades were converted to numerical scores for this purpose — they would still progress to sixth year regardless, but would be repeating the O.W.L. curriculum rather than moving ahead, and sitting the exams they had originally chosen in fifth year. And there was a not insignificant detail: in that scenario, tuition would be at the student's own expense. You'd have to find your own way. The Ministry, for instance, offered loans at modest interest. Alternatively, there was sponsored study — but then the bar was raised a little higher.
In any case, Hermione and I had decided at the time that we would sit all the O.W.L.s. Why? For her it was competitive academic spirit — she wanted to establish who was the better student. As for me, it wasn't particularly difficult. As the saying goes: challenge accepted. And one never knew what might prove useful later in life.
The written exams were straightforward enough.
We fifth-years were led into a fairly large hall filled with individual desks, set at a decent distance from one another. Special paper was distributed, along with special ink and special quills. All that was required of us was to receive our individual question sheets — distributed personally to each student by the duty examiner — and answer them.
Copying was not permitted: the quill, ink, and paper were enchanted in a specific manner, turning any copied text red rather than black. Communication between students was similarly prohibited — due to the same charms, every word spoken erased two words of written text. Could any of this be circumvented? Certainly. But I had no particular desire to test it. So at each examination I simply sat and answered from memory.
One exam followed another. Then lunch. Then more exams. Then dinner. After dinner, one was free to do as one liked — provided one kept within the rules. Or, as the Slytherins put it: don't get caught. The daily marathon, combined with the mental strain, left everyone fairly worn out however, and we simply sat together as a group in the common room at our usual table — resting and talking about small, inconsequential things.
That was how the first day passed — Monday. Then Tuesday.
On Wednesday at breakfast, during the morning owl post, I received a letter from Delacour. He was enquiring once again whether the Doctor would be available to meet with the same "important client," and then with him directly — the fee from the previous meeting needed to be passed along, modest as it was. I had to write back saying I would "arrange it," then dash up to the Owlery immediately after breakfast to send the reply. After that — another examination day.
That night, approximately fifteen minutes before midnight, I left Hogwarts. Under every concealment charm available, naturally. The form-fitting suit of wondrous fabric, the robe with the deep hood — that was the full "gentleman's kit."
Having ventured far enough into the Forbidden Forest to clear the boundary of Hogwarts' anti-Apparition wards, I conjured the Plague Doctor's costume about myself and Apparated to the loggia of Big Ben — the balcony above the clock face. That was where I had met Dumbledore last time.
The sky was clear tonight, but even so the stars were almost impossible to see — the light pollution from London was too intense, and even the brightest celestial bodies were barely visible to the naked eye. There was, however, plenty to admire in London itself.
Dumbledore, as before, was standing at the far end of the balcony. He had clearly sensed my arrival, despite my having Apparated with near-maximum magical control. I suspected that had my control been truly absolute — which would have required a considerable additional effort during an already demanding manoeuvre — my appearance would have remained invisible to him.
I dropped the concealment, retaining only the Muggle-repelling charms, and Dumbledore moved unhurriedly in my direction.
— "A fine night, is it not?" — he said by way of greeting.
— "As any night is, when the sky isn't overcast," — I replied through the voice distortion. — "Though in a city of this size, that hardly makes much difference."
— "Quite so."
Dumbledore came to stand beside me, and we both looked out over the city.
— "I take it our meeting tonight is anything but coincidental," — I decided to steer things towards the subject at hand, before Dumbledore could settle into idle conversation about the weather.
— "Indeed. A certain item — one we discussed at our last meeting — has come into my possession."
The Headmaster put on a dragonhide glove and, using it, withdrew from a small bag — clearly equipped with an Undetectable Extension Charm — the diadem itself.
— "I would recommend protective gloves," — he said. — "As a precaution, so to speak."
He hadn't yet offered it to me, evidently wishing to say something first. The gloves — one component of my costume — contained multiple protective runic sequences, created at the moment of Transfiguration and powered by the magic generated through wearing them. Beyond that, my hands were additionally shielded by the wondrous-fabric suit itself, which was capable of deflecting negative magic — not especially powerful magic, admittedly. As for curses rooted in Dark Magic, I was protected by the simple fact of the I-phoenix's existence and our connection — it literally absorbed anything that might come at me. If I chose to allow it, of course.
— "Have you already conducted your own diagnostics?"
— "Naturally," — Dumbledore nodded, without the trace of a smile — purely serious, businesslike. — "However, my expertise lies in areas rather removed from Dark Magic and soul-work in particular, and theory alone accomplishes little in such delicate matters. The specialists whose services are available to me are, for various reasons, unable to take on this particular work."
— "And now you want my assessment, as I understand it?"
— "That would be extremely valuable. And not without recompense."
— "Money will suffice. Consider it a straightforward consultation."
Dumbledore appeared mildly surprised — or at least produced the impression of it.
— "We are all human," — I answered the unspoken question. — "Even a wizard of great power, one capable of providing himself through magic alone with absolutely anything that comes to mind, has his particular interests or weaknesses. You, for instance, have made no secret of your fondness for tea and sweets."
— "A guilty habit, I confess."
— "Money is a simple and effective means of achieving any end, whatever that end might be. Whether purchasing tea and sweets, or travelling the world and sampling them at their very places of origin. One could, of course, arrange matters so that everyone is in one's debt and things arrive of their own accord — but there's no sense in multiplying complications where none are needed."
— "Is that the reason, then?"
— "Or perhaps it's simply an experiment."
— "And what, precisely, is the experiment?" — Dumbledore asked, with some interest.
— "Perhaps I am simply curious to discover how effectively one can monetise a rather unusual set of knowledge and skills."
— "A perfectly reasonable experiment, in my view," — Dumbledore nodded, extending the diadem. — "Though this particular case holds rather more interest than that."
— "It isn't necessary to take it in hand," — I extended my arm over the diadem and initiated a full sequence of diagnostic procedures.
I already knew everything there was to know about the diadem, of course. But I wanted to conduct real work — even if it was repetition. Without visual effects, naturally. Yet from Dumbledore's expression and the quality of his attention, it was evident he possessed a certain degree of magical sensitivity — practically impossible without extensive practice and a mind of considerable power.
Once again I spent nearly ten minutes examining the diadem with what I can only call phenomenal persistence — varied, inventive, and wide-ranging in its approach. In the end, I decided to apply Dark Magic blended with the phoenix's dementor energy, purely for the purpose of probing the soul. Something of that nature could not fail to register with a wizard like Dumbledore. And it didn't — though he gave no indication of reacting to it negatively, or of reacting in any particular way at all. If anything, there was a brief flicker of something like understanding on his face — a sense of: yes, there is no other way, which is precisely why I didn't fully understand what I was holding. Something in that vein.
When the diagnosis was complete, I redirected the full residue of the Dark Magic — mixed as it was with the dementor's unreadable energy — to the I-phoenix: blended with the Dark Magic as it was, I wouldn't have used the dementor energy at all otherwise.
— "Frankly," — Dumbledore noted that the diagnosis had ended, observing as I lowered my hand, — "I have encountered only one Dark wizard with such astonishing control."
— "I shall take that as a compliment."
— "That wizard came to a bad end," — Dumbledore said, shaking his head.
— "We are all mad — simply each in our own way. As regards the diadem..."
Dumbledore returned the ancient artefact to the bag and settled in to listen.
— "To begin with, it does appear to be genuine. This is Rowena Ravenclaw's diadem?"
— "That is what many believe," — Dumbledore nodded.
— "At the very least, this diadem contains extraordinarily complex magic that affects mental acuity, and it is approximately a thousand years old. Secondly — someone with rather clumsy hands has broken the structure of the magic within the diadem by inserting a miserable scrap of soul into it. Reprehensible, whichever way you look at it. They've ruined a fine object and got precisely nothing of value from the manipulation itself."
— "A soul. I see," — it appeared that Dumbledore's interest lay exclusively in one side of this coin, and whether he had already mourned the ruined artefact or simply didn't care, he made no mention of it. — "Tom truly did it, then. But why do you say the manipulation serves no purpose?"
— "My knowledge of soul-work is not extensive — but it exists."
— "And what does your knowledge tell you in this particular case?"
— "A soul is extraordinarily difficult to damage, break, or destroy — but not impossible. However, if I have understood what the creator of a Horcrux, as a concept, intended to achieve, the correct approach lies in an entirely different set of manipulations. A soul cannot be conceived of as something three-dimensional — it exists across far greater dimensions. Proper division — though that is not quite the right word — does not divide the soul, but rather binds it to something. To a diadem, for instance."
— "I don't quite follow."
— "May I offer a small illustration?"
— "I should be very glad to see it."
I was not surprised. I knew that Dumbledore was himself a great enthusiast of working with light and its manipulation — I had seen him do it on a few occasions at the seasonal feasts. Deeply modified Lumos, but Lumos all the same. I would use the same instrument.
With no superfluous gestures — literally at the tip of my index finger — I created a simple, semi-transparent, softly glowing cube.
— "Let us suppose that this three-dimensional cube represents the physical world as we know it. Within this cube there exists a soul — but the soul is not limited to three dimensions. To see this clearly..."
I transformed the cube into a flat square.
— "Let us reduce the cube's dimensionality to two, and represent the soul as, say, a three-dimensional spheroid..."
A semi-transparent yellow spheroid appeared in the illusion, positioned so that the plane bisected it into two equal halves.
— "Within our simplified three-dimensional world, it would appear to us that the soul — this spheroid — exists in one particular place," — I indicated the resulting circle on the plane. — "And in a certain sense, it does."
— "The principle is clear. The visualisation makes it quite easy to grasp," — Dumbledore nodded.
— "Now, as to proper soul division. Observe..."
A small magical adjustment, and at the point where the spheroid intersected the plane, it transformed — its outer shape barely changing — into something resembling a torus. A ring. The result: two circles on the plane.
— "Now within our improvised three-dimensionality, we appear to see two souls. Yet in reality it is one and the same soul, simultaneously present in two points of three-dimensional space."
— "Hm..."
— "The visualisation is imprecise, of course — there are far more dimensions than this, and precisely how many no one can say. But the principle is what matters. With a division of this kind, there is no actual connection between the supposedly separated parts of the soul — because they were never separated to begin with. And if someone destroys the physical vessel containing one of those parts..."
The spheroid came apart at one of its intersection points with the plane and, like jelly, flowed and reconstituted itself at the other point — without deformation.
— "...the soul finds itself entirely and undamaged in the other. Whereas what is inside that diadem is a genuinely broken-off fragment. Senseless and without mercy. Whoever devised the spell was moving in the right direction, but by entirely the wrong methods. I strongly doubt that anyone now living, anyone who has ever lived, or anyone born within the next several centuries, could fully and properly realise this particular form of immortality. It is not within our reach. Not mine, not yours, not anyone's on this earth."
— "I understand your view of the matter. But is there not a possibility that you are wrong — that the Dark Lord did, in fact, succeed in realising his intent? Is there a possibility that we are missing something, failing to see or feel something?"
— "There is always such a possibility," — I dispersed the illusion and turned to face the view of the city. — "Knowledge cannot be absolute. The more you know, the more you discover you don't know. The possibility exists. But your question doesn't come purely from doubt, does it?"
— "In part, it does. There is the matter of a confirmed connection between the Dark Lord and another Horcrux of a rather different kind."
— "Interesting. And is the method of its creation the same? Are the conditions and sequence of actions the same? If the process of creation differs, the end result may differ as well. Even the type of vessel could be a factor. A diadem, for instance, is a complex magical object. Is it possible that attempting to create something similar from a plain piece of wood might yield a different result? I cannot say with any certainty, since I don't know the mechanics of this... questionable piece of work."
— "I confess I hadn't considered that..."
Dumbledore fell into private thought, and I stood quietly and watched the city — picking out individual details with my eyes: pedestrians, automobiles, the play of light on signs, the flickering of traffic signals.
— "Well then," — Dumbledore returned from wherever his thoughts had taken him. — "Our meeting tonight has reached its natural conclusion. I will contact your intermediary to arrange payment for the... consultation."
A slight, courteous smile crossed Dumbledore's face. I gave a brief nod in his direction.
— "In that case," — I said, preparing to disappear, — "good night."
— "And to you, my dear..."
The moment I heard those words, I immediately concealed myself in every magical spectrum I could summon — taxing my mind considerably in the effort. Dumbledore registered mild surprise — but more importantly, from my personal standpoint, he plainly lost track of me across every spectrum.
— "...and to you," — he added, to the empty air, turning back to face the city.
Standing there for a few seconds, he let out a quiet, melancholy sigh, then disappeared into the vortex of Apparition. Only after that did I permit myself to depart in the same fashion — though I made a dozen or so feinting movements en route, designed to shake off any possible pursuer. Now I could return to Hogwarts.
The conversation had been unambiguously useful — for me, and I hoped for Dumbledore as well. His information about a Horcrux created by a clearly different method, and yet still maintaining a connection to the Dark Lord — that was genuinely interesting.
Against the background of those words, the image of Potter surfaced — and with it, his words. No. That was absurd. Something like that would be difficult to even conceive — and besides, if such a connection existed, Potter would simply always be the Dark Lord.
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