He gave Ian a final wink.
Their presence vanished utterly.
No weight.
No warmth.
No breath.
They had become like morning mist— faded with the night wind.
Like the end of a dream.
Or a story never told.
"This has been… profoundly enlightening."
Ian's expression shifts. The mirth gave way to calm reverence. He bowed slightly to the empty space where the two had stood, holding the moment in stillness before finally turning back toward the castle.
The wind rustled through the trees.
Far off, the soft babble of the Black Lake echoed against the stone.
The night had grown deep.
Only the stars bore witness to what had transpired.
...
"Dong~ Dong~ Dong~"
The bells of Hogwarts tolled through the castle, marking the dawn of Christmas Day. Ian had finally stepped into a moment he had long yearned for—byet had remained just out of reach for what felt like an age.
And yet…
The joy he had imagined did not quite rise to meet him. As he made his way up the empty, echoing staircase, Ian hesitated, casting a glance toward the headmaster's office as he passed.
Truth be told…
There were still far too many mysteries left untold in the endless loop he'd escaped.
The old headmaster's thoughts were always veiled in riddles, and Ian couldn't shake the feeling that Albus Dumbledore had left more unsaid than shared.
Take, for instance, the Sorting Hat that Professor Dumbledore had produced at the very end— claiming it was merely a precaution. Ian couldn't decide if the old wizard had foreseen everything that followed, or if even he had been unsure.
A mind as deep as Dumbledore's is not easily plumbed.
"Hōng lóng lóng~!"
Perhaps he'd lingered too long before the entrance. The stone gargoyle guarding the office stirred to life, sliding aside with a low rumble to reveal the hidden staircase beyond. Ian steps inside, climbing the spiral stairs that lead to the headmaster's door.
It was a place he had visited often during the cycle, and yet now it felt unfamiliar— festively transformed. Charming, enchanted reindeer pranced through the air above twinkling garlands, and a jolly Father Christmas waved merrily from a snow-globe shelf.
"Is there something you need, Ian?"
Albus Dumbledore's voice floated from within, calm and unmistakable. Ian hadn't knocked nor spoken ,but the old headmaster, as always, knew exactly who stood outside his door.
That voice…
He had only heard it recently, yet now it sounded gentler, more at ease— exactly the way Dumbledore always had when speaking to his students and staff.
"Er…"
Ian steps inside. The old wizard sat peacefully behind his desk, reading spectacles perched upon his nose, nose buried in a thick, leather-bound tome, exactly as he always had— before everything.
The recent memory of a very different Dumbledore flickered in Ian's mind. This quieter version, with his twinkling eyes and worn robes, made Ian feel as though time itself had folded strangely.
"Let me try to explain…" Ian began, sifting through tangled thoughts, uncertain how to begin describing all he had seen and endured.
His hesitant tone caught Dumbledore's attention. The headmaster looked up, his gaze sharpening behind his half-moon glasses.
"I get the sense you're about to spin me quite the tale," He said with a knowing smile, eyes gleaming with quiet amusement and unmistakable interest.
But—
Before Ian could get a word out—
"If it's a long one," Dumbledore said, stifling a yawn behind one hand, "We may have to save it for later. You know how these old bones of mine feel about staying up past midnight."
"..."
Ian's carefully prepared words were swallowed back into his throat. Looking up, he could see that the headmaster genuinely looked a bit weary.
"Well then… Merry Christmas, Professor. Here— your gift," He said instead, offering a carefully wrapped parcel. The story, for now, would have to wait.
"Thank you, my boy."
Dumbledore accepted the gift with a warm smile and then reached into a desk drawer, producing a small, square box wrapped in silvery ribbon.
"And it would hardly be proper if I didn't return the favour," He added with a wink.
Ian took the gift, and as his fingers touched it, he noticed something: the once-burning magical brand that had haunted him throughout the cycle was now entirely gone.
Dumbledore, meanwhile, was visibly growing drowsier.
Not wanting to overstay, Ian nodded politely and turned to leave. He weighed the box in his hands, already half-sure of its contents— after all, the headmaster had once promised him this very thing during one of their many looping encounters.
Back then—
Dumbledore had said he would give him the lantern.
"I reckon it's the lantern, then," Ian muttered at the door, as if guessing the answer aloud one last time—knowing that once outside the cycle, there would be no more room for prophecy games.
"Quite right. It is a lantern."
Dumbledore confirmed the guess with a smile— but to Ian's mild disappointment, the old wizard didn't look even remotely surprised. Ian let out a small sigh, then slipped quietly from the office.
Moments later.
"That gift you gave the lad was rather valuable; I saw how much effort you poured into brewing it." A voice drifted from the wall— a portrait of a former headmaster, known in life to be a touch on the thrifty side, speaking with something that almost resembled sentimentality.
Albus Dumbledore gently closed the book in his hands.
"I did promise him," He replied, his voice soft and even, as he returned Fool's Fate to its place on the high shelf behind him.
Now that the young wizard had gone, Dumbledore no longer looked the least bit drowsy. Or perhaps, truthfully, he had never been tired at all. For several hours thereafter, he remained seated, quietly reading through a number of old, well-thumbed tomes.
The Secrets of Time-Turners
The Whisper of Cross-Time
The Testimony of Legends: The End of the Age of Magic
...
The headmaster appeared to be waiting— for someone or something.
And soon enough.
As dusk slipped into night.
He paused, sensing a shift, and looked up just as Grindelwald entered the office without so much as a knock. His expression was somewhere between curious and contemplative.
"I had a dream," Grindelwald said plainly.
Albus Dumbledore let out a long breath, a rare note of relief escaping him.
"Good. That means my part of the enchantment held." He stood slowly, gathering the books stacked before him and returning each one to its proper place on the shelves.
"And yours?" He asked, glancing sidelong at his old companion.
Grindelwald gave an exaggerated shrug. "When have I ever botched an incantation?" He said, casually strolling toward the sleeping Fawkes. Dumbledore followed, gently nudging the dozing phoenix awake.
"We'll need a bit of your help, old friend…"
Once Fawkes had ruffled his feathers and given a mildly reproachful trill, Dumbledore and Grindelwald both laid their hands on the phoenix's tail.
In a flash of golden fire—
They vanished from the office.
Such was the magic of the phoenix: a creature capable of transporting those it trusted to places even Apparition could not reach.
…
(To Be Continued…)
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