Professor Dumbledore's words were like that cup of honey yuzu tea—warm, soothing, and enough to make the tension bleed out of the room. Then again, maybe it was just the sugar high; sweets have a way of fixing your mood.
"So, Richie, please—don't worry yourself so much". Dumbledore slid a plate toward him and handed over a spoon. "Care for some pumpkin pie?"
"The kitchens went a bit overboard with the pumpkin desserts for the Halloween feast," the Headmaster explained with a wry smile. "But then the troll incident happened, and well... to avoid waste, I had the house-elves bring the leftovers up here. I've been eating pumpkin for days, and I still haven't made a dent in it".
Richie offered a small smile and took the spoon. "Thank you, Professor".
As he ate, Richie's mind was racing. From a perspective of someone who knew how this story usually went, Dumbledore's "reassurance" was a clear signal: the school—or at least the Headmaster—was fully aware that Quirrell was a problem.
That was all Richie needed to know. With the heavy hitters handling the safety net, he didn't need to play the part of the paranoid investigator anymore. He might have some gaps in his memories of the "original" timeline, but he knew the deal: Harry Potter was the one destined to carry the burden, and for now, Richie could just be a student.
Transfers can wait, he thought, savoring the pie. The Hogwarts library is way too good to leave behind just yet.
After finishing his snack, Richie politely excused himself. Professor Flitwick stayed behind, clearly having more "adult" matters to discuss with the Headmaster.
"A very impressive young man, wouldn't you say?" Dumbledore remarked as the door swung shut. He popped a candy that looked disturbingly like a real cockroach into his mouth. "Cockroach Cluster?"
Flitwick winced at the lifelike sweet and politely declined with a shake of his head. He took a sip of his tea and sighed. "Richie's performance over the last month has been nothing short of brilliant. He's independent, analytical, and knows exactly when to ask for help. He embodies everything a Ravenclaw should be."
Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. "High praise indeed. The boy should be proud".
"I can't recall many students quite like him," Flitwick admitted, his expression clouding. "Actually... Quirinus Quirrell was one of the few who did".
He tapped his fingers on the desk, his voice laced with confusion. "Quirinus's change is... baffling. I remember him as a brilliant boy—sharp, confident, and obsessed with Charms and Defense Against the Dark Arts. He had twelve O.W.L.s, Albus. I still remember his certificates."
Flitwick leaned forward. "But since he returned to Hogwarts this year, he's a different person. Stuttering, timid... he fainted because of a troll that a first-year could have tripped up. Do you know what the students call him? 'The Cowardly Incompetent.' As his former professor and current Head of House, I don't even know how to respond to that."
Dumbledore remained calm, dabbing his hands with a silk napkin. "We have all seen the changes in Quirinus. I have my suspicions, Filius... but suspicions are not proof. Until the truth surfaces, I cannot give you a definitive answer".
Flitwick frowned but didn't push. "I understand your caution, but as a teacher, I have to insist on one thing. I requested to add dueling practice to my Charms curriculum a week ago to make up for the lack of practical application in Defense class. Even if we can't start the physical training yet, at least let me give them the theory."
Dumbledore shook his head slowly. "Soon, Filius. But you must wait. Trust me, I will handle this".
Flitwick closed his eyes and let out a heavy breath. "Albus... what could possibly be more important than training our students?"
Dumbledore stared into the depths of his tea. "Would you like a piece of pumpkin pie?"
Richie made his way back toward the Ravenclaw common room. The castle was quiet; most students were still down at the Quidditch pitch, buzzing over the morning's match.
As he climbed the stairs, the heavy toll of the Hogwarts bells echoed through the stone corridors.
Bong—
Bong—
Because the castle was so empty and he was high up in the towers, the sound didn't just fade; it vibrated in the air, creating a long, haunting after-tone.
Richie stopped in his tracks.
Resonance... the lingering echo...
It clicked. He pulled out the mental image of the second riddle they had found in the kitchen.
"Fragments anchored in space and time, echoing in lingering resonance. When the thirteenth lowered whisper sounds, the secret will have nowhere left to hide."
"Anchored in space and time..." Richie whispered. If the "lingering resonance" was the bell, then the "thirteenth whisper" had to be a specific time.
He turned on his heel and began marching toward the Clock Tower. He had a feeling the next secret was waiting for him right at the source of that sound.