The Polite Interrogation

The letter arrived without flourish, without signature, and without the faintest trace of ceremony—just a plain piece of parchment that fluttered down into my lap while I was pretending to read in the Gryffindor common room. The handwriting, though, was unmistakable: elegant, deliberate, and maddeningly calm.

Password is Acid Pops. When convenient, the office is open to you.

I turned it over. No seal. No hint of wax or charm. Just a message and the unspoken weight behind it. I folded it once and tucked it into my sleeve.

Hermione, perched sideways in a chair with one leg draped over the armrest, looked up from her book.

"Who's it from?"

"Santa," I said flatly.

"Try again."

I tilted my head toward the fire. "The old man."

Her expression tightened. "You're not seriously thinking of going alone."

I shrugged. "What's he going to do? Offer me tea and emotional riddles until I cry?"

Hermione set her book down carefully. "Don't joke. Not with him."

Then she hesitated, eyes fixed on the fire. "I've had time to think about what you said. About Dumbledore."

I didn't speak. Just watched her.

"I don't fully understand it," she admitted. "I still don't know if I can—but I trust you enough to be… cautious. Wary, even. Something about him doesn't sit right. Not anymore."

I blinked, surprised by how much that meant. And because deflection is a learned instinct, I wiped an imaginary tear from my cheek with theatrical flair. "I'm so proud of how much you've grown."

She threw a cushion at my head.

From the nearby window seat, Luna's voice drifted in like mist. "Be careful what mirrors you step through, Sky. Not all reflections end."

I blinked. "Right. That clears everything up... Luna, how did you get into our common room?"

"...Yes?" Luna said with a questioning gaze.

...

...

Forget it.

Still, I stood. Tugged my robe tighter to my body. The parchment in my sleeve felt warmer than it should've.

Hermione and Luna walked with me to the portrait hole but didn't follow. "Come back in one piece."

"I always do."

"That's not the same as coming back unchanged."

She was right. She usually was.

The Headmaster's office was warm, gold-lit, and smelled like pine, lemon oil, and old parchment. I gave the gargoyle the password—"Acid Pops"—and the spiral staircase began to turn. When it deposited me at the door, it creaked open without me knocking.

Dumbledore didn't look up from his book. "Come in, Mr. Kingston."

He gestured to the chair across from him as though we were regular correspondents in the habit of shared evening chats. I sat, careful not to slouch, careful not to relax.

"Tea?" he offered.

"Always."

With a flick of his wand, the silver kettle began to pour itself. Two porcelain cups hovered into place between us.

"Lemon drop?" he added.

"No, thank you. I already brushed my teeth."

A ghost of amusement twitched at the corner of his mouth.

Fawkes, perched silently near the edge of the desk, tilted his head at me. His eyes were too ancient for comfort.

"It's been some time since we last spoke," Dumbledore began. "Last year, if I'm not mistaken."

"Apologies," I said. "I must be more forgettable than I thought."

He smiled again, slower this time. The smile of a man who'd just heard the beginning of a chess match.

"You've been absent. And the castle," he said, stirring his tea, "has a curious way of noticing absences it wasn't given permission to allow."

"I didn't think I needed a permission slip to take a long nap."

"No, but when the nap lasts three days, people start checking for pulses."

I sipped my tea. It was good. Of course it was.

"And did your… retreat yield anything enlightening?" he asked.

"I've always found solitude to be quite informative. Silence says what words won't."

He tapped a finger against his teacup. "That sounds like something Tom Riddle might've said."

I didn't flinch. "And how often do you quote him in casual conversation?"

"Only when I wish to see how a student reacts."

There it was. The subtle shift. The gloves had come off, though politely.

"I'm nothing like him," I said.

"No. You're not," Dumbledore replied. "You're messier."

I grinned. "Thanks."

He leaned back, fingers steepled. "Some weeks ago, near the lake, I sensed something... unsettling. A ripple through the wards. Brief, but charged with old magic. And another time, near the Whomping Willow, a magical disturbance I couldn't quite place. I suspected a cursed object might have been brought onto school grounds. But then... I sensed you trying to destroy it. And I chose not to intervene."

"I was merely trying my best to do society a favor," I said lightly.

Dumbledore tilted his head slightly, not buying the deflection. "Let's not waste each other's time, Mr. Kingston. You brought something dark into this school. And then, you tried to destroy it. I saw enough to know that much."

I met his eyes. "And yet, you let it happen."

"Because you didn't hesitate," he replied. "You treated it like a threat, not a toy. That said more than any confession."

I leaned forward, placing my tea down. "It was a threat. One that should never have existed. I hated it. From the moment I held it, I could feel it… breathing. Watching. Manipulating."

His fingers steepled again, but his eyes had sharpened. "Then you understand what you were handling."

I reached into my robe and pulled out a folded page—the copied parchment from the quill I'd used during the dissection. I laid it gently on his desk. "This is all that's left. The Diary fought like a dying man—denial, rage, bargaining, despair, and then… silence. Flamel and I recorded every word as it came through. I managed to drive something so twisted, so vile, into writing its own eulogy. It begged us to stop, Dumbledore. It offered power, cried apologies, screamed hatred. And then… it stopped. Like it wanted to die."

Dumbledore's fingers hovered over the parchment without touching it.

"And you did this… with Nicholas Flamel?" he asked slowly.

I gave a half-smile. "Flamel supervised. He wanted to see what sort of madness could be pushed back into silence. He's the only one besides Hermione who knows the full truth."

The Headmaster stared at me, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. "That… does put things in a different light."

Dumbledore read in silence, eyes scanning the page, and then looked back to me. "And now?"

"Gone," I said. "Reduced to ash. I spent two days analyzing the residue—Flamel's labs are more secure than Gringotts. It was a Horcrux. You know what that means, don't you?"

His expression darkened. "A piece of soul, forcibly torn and bound," he said slowly, then gave a long breath through his nose. "I suppose Flamel must have told you what a Horcrux was. It was... unwise of him, I think, to pass along knowledge of such dark magic. Even under supervision."

I tilted my head, watching him carefully. "Do you fear me going dark, then?"

Dumbledore's gaze met mine, steady and unreadable. "No," he said at last. "From my perspective, you're more of a wildcard than anything. Not dark. Not entirely light either. Just someone with his own principles, his own bottom line."

A faint chuckle escaped him as he added, "And at the very least, someone who knows exactly where that bottom line is—and how not to cross it."

I nodded. "Tom Marvolo Riddle. Rearranged, it spells I am Lord Voldemort. That Diary was him—his essence. A younger version, slivered and stored like poison in a bottle. If I hadn't taken it… someone else would've. And it would have hollowed them out until he walked again in their skin."

The fire crackled in contemplative silence.

"Tell me," he said at last, "what is it you want from this school?"

It wasn't a question. It was a spell.

I met his eyes. "To be prepared. And to stay free."

He studied me like a man inspecting a volatile potion.

"Freedom is rarely given," he said. "It is almost always taken—at a cost."

I didn't blink. "Then I'll make sure I'm the one setting the price."

Silence stretched. Even the phoenix was quiet.

At last, Dumbledore stood. "Well, Mr. Kingston. I appreciate the conversation."

"Likewise."

I turned to go.

"One last thing," he said, voice still mild. "It's a curious thing—how a boy might disappear entirely from the castle without tripping a single ward. Not through the gates. Not through the sky. Not even through the forest. Just… gone."

I didn't turn back.

"Then maybe you should upgrade your eyes."

"Maybe so, but I assure you, we WILL revisit this topic in the near future."

The walk back to Gryffindor tower was uneventful, except for the quiet in my own mind. Dumbledore didn't trust me—but he didn't fear me, either. He knew I'd never be on Voldemort's side. That, at least, was something.

Hermione was waiting in the common room when I returned. She didn't ask questions. She just handed me a biscuit, a blanket, and sat beside me.

I took them all.

Because for now, trust didn't need to be spoken. Just offered.