The eighth-floor corridor of Hogwarts Castle stretched in absolute silence. At half past five in the morning, every student lay safely tucked away in their dormitories.
But then, without warning, a door materialized on the blank wall opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy being clubbed by trolls. A girl stumbled through, nearly collapsing as she emerged from whatever lay beyond.
She turned back with a bloodstained palm and sealed the door behind her, watching until it vanished entirely before limping toward the headmaster's office. Her robes hung in tatters—hem shredded, sleeves torn away—revealing arms carved with deep gashes that yawned open like hungry mouths. Her other hand clutched something precious.
A diadem. Once magnificent, now tarnished beyond recognition. The blue sapphire at its center must have blazed with ethereal light a thousand years ago, but now the crown lay dulled and defiled. Dried slime and corrosive stains covered its surface like battle scars, as though some venomous creature had been gnawing at it for centuries. The sapphire itself had turned a sickly gray-green, split by a jagged crack that seemed to pulse with malevolent energy.
She staggered through empty corridors, hauled herself up staircases, and finally collapsed before the stone gargoyle. Her lips parted to speak the password, but for several heartbeats, her consciousness seemed to drift away on a tide of blood loss. Darkness pressed at the edges of her vision—
The gargoyle slid aside without a word.
"Orli?"
Professor Dumbledore's voice drifted down from the spiral staircase above. He descended quickly, still dressed in yesterday's robes, his usually immaculate appearance suggesting a sleepless night. When he saw Orli's condition, genuine alarm flickered across his features.
"Good heavens, child—what's happened to you?"
With a gentle wave of his hand, he lifted her from the stone floor, guiding her weightless form up the stairs and into his office. He settled her carefully onto a plush Persian carpet near the fireplace.
Orli forced herself upright, fumbling for vials in her robes. The blood-replenishing potion burned down her throat, followed by the sharp bite of Pepper-Up Potion. Steam poured from her ears as strength slowly returned to her limbs.
Fawkes suddenly rustled his magnificent feathers and swooped down from his golden perch. The phoenix pressed his beautiful head against her wounded arm, and crystal tears began to fall. Each drop that touched her torn flesh worked instant magic—pain melted away, skin knitted together, scars faded to nothing. Within moments, her arm was whole again.
"Child," Dumbledore said softly, his piercing blue eyes fixed on the diadem in her grasp, "is there something you wish to tell me?"
Fawkes trilled once and glided back to his perch beside the door.
"Yes."
Orli met his gaze without flinching. Something had changed in her overnight—her expression held a steely resolve that made her seem years older, harder, as though innocence had been burned away by whatever she'd endured.
"Perhaps you've always harbored doubts about me, Professor, but today I must speak certain truths. I won't bare my soul completely—but I swear I'll speak no lies. If you deem it necessary, we can seal this with an Unbreakable Vow."
Dumbledore fell silent. For one electric moment, Orli caught a flash of something fierce and searching in his eyes—like staring into the heart of a blue flame. She held his gaze steadily. With her mastery of Occlumency now, her mind was a fortress. Unless she chose to open those gates, even Albus Dumbledore would find nothing but impenetrable walls.
"Orli," he said at last, his voice returning to its familiar warmth, "you may say whatever weighs upon your heart."
He settled back in his chair, fingers steepled.
"I've watched you grow from a child into the remarkable young woman before me. At a moment like this, if deception were your intent, you'd hardly need to seek me out at all, would you?"
Orli said nothing more. Instead, she reached into her enchanted shoulder bag—the one that never left her side—and withdrew a tome. Dark Magic: The Division of the Soul and Immortality. She'd taken care to age it beforehand: the cover hung in shreds, pages yellowed and brittle with false centuries, complete with carefully crafted wormholes and water stains that suggested decades of neglect in some forgotten vault.
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