After an intense potions class, Altair headed to the principal's office. Harley had given him a message saying that the principal wanted to see him in his office after class. The girl didn't know why, but it was after he had presented his idea for the inter-school Quidditch tournament. What did he want him for? Altair had no idea.
He looked at the paper again and said, "Chocolate frog," right in front of the stone gargoyle guarding the door to the Headmaster's office.
The gargoyle moved out of the way, and a spiral staircase opened up for Altair.
Knock! Knock!
His knuckles knocked on the door, and the next second, the door opened as if by magic. Albus was standing in front of a large window behind his desk, looking out at the Hogwarts grounds with considerable happiness. The castle was bustling with the first days of school. The students had not yet entered the stressful stage of their education.
"You're here," Albus said in a somewhat cheerful voice. "I have a serious matter to discuss," the man said, his smile souring a little.
"Your smile faded pretty quickly," Altair said, observant.
"Ah, I'd like to keep my smile on all the time, but I'm not very good at lying," the Headmaster replied, adjusting his glasses.
"You're a good politician, lying is in every part of you," Altair said as he sat down. Dumbledore gave a small, sardonic laugh.
"There are ways of not telling the truth that don't involve lying," Albus replied. "Being a good politician teaches you how to do that," he added. "Surely you've heard about the Quidditch tournament, right?" Dumbledore got to the point this time.
"I have. Harley was furious about the cancellation," Altair let a small smile curve his lips at the memory. "Even so, I don't see what that has to do with me. I'm terrible at flying," he felt a tingling sensation in his back.
"It has a lot to do with it," Albus sat down across from Altair at the desk between them. "Lemon drop?" he asked, offering him a jar. Altair took one and ate it immediately. "What would happen if the tournament takes place?" he asked, as if it were a test.
"Victor will get all the attention. So unless he's a participant in the Triwizard Tournament, it will be overshadowed," Altair replied, the candy in his mouth was quite good.
"Which would lead to a third party getting involved... sabotage, rigging, any kind of manipulation," Dumbledore's eyes sparkled.
Altair sat up straight in his seat.
"What can Voldemort do in the tournament?" he asked suddenly.
He looked at Albus, evaluating him again. He was an old man, an old man who had played too long. Taking advantage of such a situation, of a simple request from his granddaughter, was something not every man could do. Altair had not even initially considered the possibility of Voldemort interfering in the tournament, only considering the social and political repercussions.
But Albus's mind was completely focused on Voldemort.
"Voldemort could seek to weaken you, after all, according to our theories, he seeks your body to be reborn," Albus crossed his arms over his stomach. "That would leave openings for us to find accomplices, straggling Death Eaters, or new ones," he said, the last word with obvious bitterness. He was not happy to think that one day, one of his students might serve under Voldemort.
"How can we be sure he wants my body?" Altair said. "It's not that I deny I'm involved, but I'm not sure if he wants all of me. Maybe just a part to be reborn, something that connects him more closely to my blood," Altair said, remembering how he had been reborn from Harry's blood in the canon.
"A good question, honestly, that would be the best option. But Tom Riddle, oh, did I ever tell you? That's his real name," he commented casually. Altair didn't think much of it. "He's proud of his roots, of his blood. If he can possess your body, he will. Allow me to be a little blunt, but he doesn't care about you; he doesn't consider you an important enemy. Just like me," Albus said, his eyes shining. "To him, you are an object, a source of power. Or so I would say if I were the same Tom who made the Horcruxes," Dumbledore looked intently into Altair's purple eyes.
"So... you want to find out which Voldemort we're talking about," he said. "Yes, the one with more madness than cunning, or the one who started the civil war," Altair understood the old man's words.
Voldemort, as he divided his soul to create Horcruxes, became more unstable. Towards his followers and the wizarding world. Before, he was more pragmatic, more inclined to plan each of his steps, but then brute force and mental instability made him more prone to cruelty. He didn't see Dumbledore as his final enemy because of a profecy.
Dumbledore had searched for the Horcruxes during the holidays, and Altair cooperated and gave him directions. But he found nothing. Either Voldemort had moved them, or he had returned them to his soul. In the second possibility, Voldemort regained some of the calm he had as a young man. That would make him more dangerous.
Even so, two Horcruxes had already been eliminated: the book and Helga's cup, which Voldemort had failed to recover. Neither Harley nor Azalea was a Horcrux, which left only the possibility that Lily or Charles was, but neither had a mark, and it was unlikely that Lily would have missed it before. Voldemort's soul was already incomplete.
"Yes, knowing what we're fighting is sometimes more important than the fight itself," he said. "This will put you at risk," Albus told him.
"I've been at risk since I was born. Any step toward Voldemort's destruction will have my support," he told the old man.
"Well, then I'll have to convince the other schools and the Ministry to approve the tournament. Funds may be needed," he said into the air.
"I'll provide them." Altair didn't have much love for money, and he already had plenty. A little for the tournament didn't bother him at all.
"What pleasant news!" Albus said, smiling again.
"I have a question, Professor," Altair said, hesitating whether to bring it up.
"Go ahead," Albus gestured with his hand.
"Bloodline magic," Altair watched as the old man's eyes narrowed.
"It's a disgusting type of magic. It allows the patriarch of a family to have control over his descendants. Not slight control, no, it's the kind of control that would lead them to take a knife and stab it into their own heart, or worse, into the heart of the person they love most." Albus looked at him, the tension in the room rising. "Why are you interested in this kind of magic?"
"Is it reversible?" Altair asked.
According to the books he had consulted, this type of magic consisted of a ritual, one that affected the patriarch and his seed. In this way, each of his descendants would fall under his control.
"No. I'll admit, your question is a little worrying," Albus looked as if he was about to enter his mind to find out what he was thinking.
"That's a shame," said the boy. "I had plans for it. But I won't risk it if it's not reversible," he lamented aloud. Albus asked about the plans.
And he replied.
"It's not an idea to be dismissed, if we consider your theory to be the truth." Albus finally said, calmer. Although a small touch of suspicion still shone in his eyes. "Although I would like my great-grandchildren to be completely free," he added. "Spells and rituals are not set in stone. You can take a Lumus and modify it to turn it into an attack spell that burns with the same intensity as a flame. Or make it explode so that it becomes blinding. If you can modify the ritual to make it reversible, your idea could be carried out," Albus said.
"I'll need to research it thoroughly," Altair said. "Thank you, Professor," he said as he left.
Altair had about two and a half times more mana than the director, but he still felt danger in his presence. Not the kind that would crush him, but the kind that could do him enormous harm if they faced each other. He wondered what the old director had in store to make him feel that way.
"I wouldn't lose to him... but I don't want to face him either," Altair came to that realization.