For a while, Lynn's life settled into a rather peculiar routine.
Wake up, wash, eat breakfast, and go to class.
Once the morning lessons ended, he would head to the Great Hall for lunch. Sometimes he chatted with Edgar and the others. Sometimes Slughorn intercepted him.
"Lynn, have you found any time to stop by my office recently?"
Afternoons were spent attending more classes, reading in the library, or fishing beside the Black Lake.
In the evening, he returned to the dormitory, talked about anything and everything with Edgar and the others, and went to sleep.
Then he woke up and did it all again.
From Monday through Friday morning, his life could be summarized in a handful of words:
Eating, drinking, sleeping, fishing, and studying.
Friday afternoons and weekends, however, were another matter entirely.
Those belonged to Hogwarts' administrative affairs—and to impersonating Dumbledore at various banquets.
Most of the paperwork consisted of applications that had already passed through Professor McGonagall's preliminary screening.
Of course, he couldn't simply throw everything into the fireplace.
Some requests were perfectly reasonable.
Lynn approved Professor Flitwick's proposal to expand the Dueling Club. He also signed off on Madam Pomfrey's request for new potion-storage equipment.
As for the remaining applications—the ones that could just as easily wait—Lynn employed the time-honored strategy of procrastination.
Dumbledore could deal with those himself once he recovered.
Fortunately, the Headmaster was improving by the day.
With each weekly treatment, the little black sphere compressed beneath the skin on the back of his hand shrank further. What had once been the size of a ping-pong ball was now no larger than a glass marble.
Lynn's escape from this double life was finally within sight.
Once Dumbledore made a full recovery, he would no longer have to impersonate him.
He was eagerly awaiting that day.
...
Halloween fell on a Friday that year.
The Great Hall had been transformed for the occasion.
Thousands of live bats wheeled beneath the ceiling, their fluttering wings casting restless shadows through the candlelight.
Jack-o'-lanterns of every size decorated the hall, their carved faces grinning, scowling, and leering at the students.
Lynn sat in the center of the staff table, smiling as he waved to the crowd below.
The students enthusiastically waved back.
"Hello, Headmaster!"
"Happy Halloween!"
"Professor Dumbledore, you look especially cheerful today!"
Lynn acknowledged them one by one, speaking slowly and gently.
He looked and sounded exactly like the real Dumbledore.
Rising to his feet, he offered a few words of seasonal goodwill before sitting down again to wait for the feast to end.
Without question, this was the most torturous part of the entire evening.
The house-elves had spared no effort on the Halloween feast. Students dug into their food with shining, greasy faces, their laughter and chatter mingling beneath the enchanted ceiling.
Meanwhile, Lynn couldn't touch the dishes he actually wanted.
To maintain his disguise, he had to stick to the things smothered in syrup.
If it weren't for...
At long last, the feast ended.
The students drifted out of the Great Hall in twos and threes, still talking and laughing.
The professors dispersed as well, several heading back to their offices.
Only after everyone else had left did Lynn rise from his chair.
He stretched his stiff neck and shoulders, then slowly made his way out of the Great Hall and back to the Headmaster's office.
He was just about to put Dumbledore's clothes away in the wardrobe when someone knocked.
Lynn immediately tensed.
Please don't let it be Professor McGonagall with another mountain of paperwork.
"Come in."
The door opened.
It was Professor McGonagall.
Fortunately, she wasn't carrying a towering stack of documents.
Only a single application.
Lynn released a long breath of relief.
"Professor, what's this one about?"
"Do you remember Mr. Thomas?"
McGonagall approached the desk and laid the document down.
Lynn nodded.
Thomas.
The stubborn student who had insisted on enrolling in every elective.
"He wants to drop some classes?"
Lynn picked up the application and glanced down.
A lengthy explanation filled the section marked "Reason for Request."
"I have been using the Time-Turner for just over a month, and I feel as though I have aged ten years.
"I keep living through the same hours over and over. My body moves forward, but my mind keeps slipping backward.
"I can no longer tell whether today is yesterday or the day before. I cannot remember whether I am attending a lesson for the first time or the third.
"I have no idea what the professors are talking about. I cannot keep up with what my classmates are saying. I do not even know what I am doing anymore.
"Therefore—I want to drop these classes!!!"
Professor McGonagall nodded and took a Time-Turner from her pocket.
"The Time-Turner must now be returned to the school," she said evenly. "According to the regulations, it is to remain in the Headmaster's custody."
Lynn accepted it and casually slipped it into his pocket.
McGonagall's eyelid twitched.
"Mr. Lynn, I must remind you that a Time-Turner is not something to be treated lightly. It is not a toy, nor a collectible, and certainly not something you can carry around in your pocket and use whenever the mood strikes you."
She paused, her gaze settling pointedly on his pocket.
"Mr. Thomas used it for less than two months and has already developed severe cognitive confusion. Had he continued any longer—"
"I understand, Professor," Lynn replied calmly. "I put it there out of habit. I'll return it to Dumbledore when he comes back."
McGonagall's lecture came to an abrupt halt.
"That had better be the case."
Before their conversation could continue, a telephone suddenly shrilled through the otherwise quiet office.
Lynn's expression changed.
The red telephone.
The Ministry of Magic's emergency line.
Dumbledore had warned him that whenever it rang, the Ministry was facing a crisis it could not handle alone.
Lynn immediately reached across the desk and lifted the receiver.
Scrimgeour's frantic voice burst from the other end.
"Dumbledore! The Dark Lord is attacking Azkaban! The Ministry needs your help!"
Lynn frowned.
"Why is he attacking Azkaban? There aren't any Death Eaters left inside, are there?"
"I don't know!" Scrimgeour sounded even more desperate. "He seems to be searching for something!"
Voldemort had gone to Azkaban to look for something?
What could possibly be there that warranted his personal attention?
Apart from rocks, seawater, and Dementors, the place contained little more than the rubbish left behind by prisoners who had spent decades rotting in their cells.
"All right. I understand."
Lynn paused briefly.
"I'll be there at once."
He hung up without waiting for Scrimgeour's reply.
Before Professor McGonagall could ask what had happened, golden-red light flared around him.
An instant later, Lynn vanished from the Headmaster's office.
...
When Lynn reappeared, he was high above Azkaban.
A cold wind swept down from the north, carrying the sharp tang of seawater and the prison's unmistakable stench of decay.
Beneath the moonlight, the fortress stood out clearly against the surrounding darkness.
Massive and angular, it occupied the center of the island.
Lynn's gaze moved across its silhouette and settled on the central courtyard.
A colossal pit gaped in the middle of it.
Even from this height, its sheer size was impossible to miss.
It had swallowed the entire courtyard.
The edges were jagged and broken, as though something had struck the ground with tremendous force from above—or burst through it from below.
Rubble lay scattered around the rim, some chunks as large as houses.
Inside the pit, a gigantic steel drill spun with a deafening roar.
It was dozens of meters across.
Its full length was impossible to judge. It had already bored so deeply into the earth that Lynn couldn't see where it ended.
Voldemort stood at the edge of the excavation, staring down at the drill as it ground its way deeper.
His wand was pointed toward it. Small movements of his wrist appeared to guide the enormous machine, driving it farther underground.
Lynn scratched his head.
What was this lunatic doing now?
Instead of hiding in some dark corner, he had come to Azkaban to carry out renovations?
Was he planning to demolish the prison and build himself a new house?
Or was he digging a basement to use as his next secret hideout?
Lynn waved his wand and cast a Disillusionment Charm over himself.
His outline blurred, melting into the surrounding night.
He descended behind an enormous slab of rubble and crouched low, peering cautiously around its edge.
From there, he could see Voldemort's profile.
Rumble—!!!
The drill's thunderous grinding reverberated throughout Azkaban.
The ground trembled beneath Lynn's feet.
Chunks of rock shook loose from the pit walls and tumbled into the depths, where the spinning drill pulverized them.
Dust billowed upward, forming a murky gray haze in the moonlight.
The night wind scattered it.
More dust rose to take its place.
Again and again, the haze gathered and dispersed.
Lynn remained quietly concealed near the edge of the pit.
Voldemort never noticed him.
His attention was fixed entirely on the drill. Not once did he so much as glance toward the sky.
He was so absorbed in his work that Lynn suspected he could stand up, stroll over, and treat him to a Cruciatus Curse before the man even realized he was there.
Time crept by.
The pit grew wider.
And deeper.
What had already been a massive excavation when Lynn arrived gradually became an abyss.
By now, when he looked over the edge, all he could see was darkness.
Then a tremendous crash echoed from below.
The sound changed abruptly, becoming hollow and resonant.
The drill had broken through into an open space.
Startled, Lynn straightened and peered down.
An enormous sphere floated silently at the bottom of the pit.
Its surface shone a brilliant silver, threaded with pale golden runes. Despite its metallic sheen, it possessed a strange translucence, as though it had been formed from flowing, liquefied starlight.
The sphere was perfectly smooth.
Smooth enough to reflect the drill's shadow, the jagged walls surrounding it, and the shafts of moonlight filtering through the dust.
Across its surface, the golden runes moved slowly.
Like blood flowing through veins.
The instant Voldemort caught sight of the luminous sphere, his eyes blazed.
The corners of his mouth lifted into a hideous grin.
Then his body dissolved into a cloud of black mist.
He plunged into the pit, hurtling straight toward the enormous silver sphere.
---
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