The two teens stood awkwardly before the stone gargoyle guarding the Headmaster's office, neither saying a word as they stared up at its unyielding, stony face. The silence stretched, broken only by the distant sounds of the castle.
"Well…" Hermione started, her voice a little strained, breaking the silence. "We didn't really think about how to get in without the password, did we? It's not like it's written on a sign."
Harry huffed, folding his arms across his chest, a wry smirk on his face. "Brilliant security, isn't it? In a life-or-death emergency, when time is of the essence, let's just hope you remember the exact flavor of lemon candy the old goat was craving when he picked the password. Or perhaps the name of his favorite knitting pattern."
He had to wonder what the point of such a system was, how would someone who wanted to meet the Headmaster for something truly urgent be able to reach him like this, needing a password to get to him? It seemed utterly impractical.
Hermione shot him a look, a mixture of exasperation and agreement, but before she could reply, the gargoyle began to grind aside on its own, its stony body rumbling, revealing the spiral staircase behind it.
"Of course," Harry muttered, a faint, cynical smile on his lips. "He has a bloody surveillance system on the damn stairwell, monitoring who's waiting. Typical old goat, always watching."
Hermione nudged him lightly in the side, a silent admonition. "Be nice, Harry. We're here to ask for his help."
He gave her a deadpan look but followed as she led the way up the winding stairs. They ascended in silence, the soft creak of the rotating staircase their only soundtrack, the anticipation building with every step.
At the top, the door swung open without a sound, revealing the Headmaster's office.
Inside, Dumbledore was seated behind his desk, his twinkling blue eyes at the ready, radiating an aura of that fake benevolent wisdom. A dish of lemon drops was already extended like an olive branch, a silent offering of peace and comfort.
"Harry, Miss Granger. Please, come in. Do take a seat. And perhaps a lemon drop?" His voice was soft, warm, grandfatherly. Would it be wrong to punch an old man in the face.
Harry didn't answer, his expression unreadable, his jaw clenched. Hermione offered a polite, strained smile but declined the sweets with a shake of her head. They took the two chairs offered before the desk, and the silence lingered for just a beat too long, thick with unspoken tensions.
"I must say, I was quite saddened when you refused to speak with me, Harry," Dumbledore said at last, his voice soft, his gaze solemn, fixed on Harry. "It pains me to think I've lost your trust, my boy. I had hoped we could discuss matters openly." He made a sad, disappointed face, a practiced expression if Harry had ever seen one.
Harry had to grit his teeth, his hands clenching under the table. This wasn't even acting, he was genuinely irritated to be in this man's presence, were he another that gullible to fall for this man's trusting aura.
This old goat was seemingly trying to look for trouble, trying to play the victim. He moved to say something, a sharp retort already forming on his tongue, but Hermione seemed to sense that whatever was going to come out of his mouth wasn't what you would consider kid-friendly, or conducive to their goal, and decided to speak quickly, cutting him off.
"I asked Harry to come, Headmaster," she interjected smoothly, making sure to emphasize that it was she who had decided they should come here, subtly taking the blame off Harry. "He's been having… some problems, and I thought it best if we came to you, as you're the most knowledgeable person in these matters."
Dumbledore's gaze shifted to her, then back to Harry, his eyes narrowing slightly, a flicker of curiosity. "What sort of problems, Miss Granger? Is this related to your recent… absence, Harry?"
Hermione hesitated, glancing at Harry for a moment, then said gently, her voice low with concern, "His scar, Headmaster. It's been acting up. He's been in pain."
Now Dumbledore's face turned serious, the twinkling in his eyes fading, replaced by a keen, focused intensity. He leaned forward, fingers steepled, his gaze fixed on Harry's forehead. "Harry, my boy, can you describe exactly what you've been feeling? The nature of the pain, its frequency, its intensity?"
Harry didn't respond immediately, his lips pressed into a thin line, reluctant to give Dumbledore any more information than necessary. Hermione elbowed him lightly under the table, a silent plea, and he relented with a sigh, knowing he had to play his part.
"It's nothing serious," he said, his voice flat, dismissive. "Just some random flare-ups. Comes and goes. Like a headache, really."
"Does it correlate with anything specific?" Dumbledore pressed, his voice soft but insistent, probing for details. "Dreams? Surges in magic? Perhaps… a connection to Lord Voldemort?"
Harry froze—just for a second, but it was enough for Dumbledore to notice, and for Hermione to pick up on his discomfort.
"Only after the dreams," he muttered.
Dumbledore's eyes sharpened, a sudden, intense gleam appearing in their depths. "What dreams, Harry? Can you elaborate?"
Hermione leaned in slightly, her expression eager, interested, and Harry sighed again.
"I've been having dreams about Voldemort," he said, forcing himself to sound reluctant, as if revealing a painful secret. "He's angry, or rather was, really pissed at Malfoy. Something about that diary from second year, the one that possessed Ginny. Said Malfoy lost it, and that it was an important part of his… plans." Harry paused, letting that sink in. "Then later, he got… excited. Said something about a ring. He seemed to be planning to move it soon."
"A ring?" Dumbledore asked, his voice suddenly strained, and both teens could see the flicker of something in his gaze, not just interest, but a deep, unsettling recognition, a flash of something akin to dread, quickly masked.
"Yeah," Harry said, his eyes watching Dumbledore carefully, noting the subtle shift in his demeanor. "It seemed important. Like the diary. Something special, something he'd hidden away."
"And did he say where it was, Harry?" Dumbledore's voice was almost a whisper, laced with an urgency he rarely displayed.
"Little Hangleton," Harry replied casually, as if recalling a mundane detail. "There was a shack. I think he hid it there. A very old, dilapidated shack."
Dumbledore leaned back slowly in his chair, his gaze distant, his mind clearly racing, processing the information. He was silent for a while, his fingers steepled, his eyes fixed on some point beyond Harry. Then, he looked back at Harry. "What did it look like… the ring, Harry?"
Harry fought the grin threatening to spread across his face, a surge of triumph bubbling within him. This was it. The hook. He picked up a quill from Dumbledore's desk and sketched quickly on a piece of parchment. A small, simple ring with a cracked black stone set into a plain silver band. In the center of the stone, the triangular symbol of the Deathly Hallows stood clearly, unmistakable.
He turned the parchment and slid it over to Dumbledore.
The change was immediate. Dumbledore's eyes locked on the drawing. He didn't blink. For a heartbeat, he didn't even breathe, his entire being focused on the image. The mask of calm fell completely, revealing a raw, desperate hunger, shock, and a flicker of deep, personal regret.
For a long moment, the Headmaster stared at the drawing as if it held the secrets of the universe, or perhaps, his deepest desires and greatest failures. Then, with a visible effort, the mask snapped back into place, his features smoothing over, though a faint tremor remained in his hand.
"Well," Dumbledore said, his voice slightly hoarse, a little strained, "it's good you brought this to me, Harry. Very good indeed. This is… highly significant information."
Harry nodded, maintaining his innocent façade. "Do you know anything about it."
"You may go now, Harry, Miss Granger," the Headmaster said, already tucking the paper away into a hidden drawer with surprising speed, ignoring Harry's question, his attention clearly elsewhere. He was already rising from his chair, effectively ending the conversation, dismissing them with a wave of his hand. "This is… delicate business. Very delicate. I have much to consider."
"Wait—" Hermione started, her voice sharp with indignation, frustrated at being dismissed so abruptly after such a revelation.
But the old man was already moving, turning away, rummaging in one of his drawers, his back to them, effectively ending the conversation. The door clicked shut behind them a moment later, sealing them out.
Hermione was fuming, her face red with frustration and disbelief as they walked down the spiral staircase. "I can't believe him! After we come all the way here, and you told him all that, all those important details, he just shoos us away like we're children?! He didn't even offer an explanation!"
She turned to him, "I'm sorry, after I made you go at the end, we got nothing."
Harry shrugged, giving her a small, reassuring smile. "You were worried, Hermione. You did what you thought was right, and you got me to come. I'm not mad at you. Definitely not for worrying about me."
She softened slightly, her anger deflating a bit. "Still. You were right, Harry. He's hiding something. I saw it. The moment he saw that drawing, he knew exactly what it was. He recognized it."
He nodded, a knowing glint in his eyes. "Yeah. Let's head back. You've got perfect duties soon, don't you? And Ron probably needs reminding."
That, thankfully, got her rambling about patrol schedules, Ron forgetting his shift last week, and the general incompetence of male prefects. Her indignation shifted from Dumbledore to Ron, a more familiar and less unsettling target.
But Harry's mind wasn't on her words. It was on the image of Dumbledore's face when he saw the drawing.
Jackpot.
The man had fallen for it—hook, line, and sinker.
Everyone who knew Dumbledore deeply enough knew he was obsessed with the Hallows. And the Resurrection Stone? That had been his greatest regret, his ultimate temptation, and ultimately, his downfall in the original timeline. He had sought it for years, driven by guilt and a desperate desire to atone for his past.
All Harry had to do was dangle it a little earlier, present the information in a way that bypassed Dumbledore's usual caution. He had given him just enough truth, wrapped in a plausible lie, to trigger the old man's deepest desires and regrets.
The moment Dumbledore had dismissed them, the moment he had turned away to rummage in his drawers, Harry knew he'd won. The man would rush off now, maybe tonight, maybe even immediately, to retrieve it himself. He'd touch it, try to use it, to see his family again, to seek forgiveness. And when the curse took hold… Well. That would be the beginning of the end for Albus Dumbledore.
Harry chuckled quietly, a low, satisfied sound, drawing a suspicious glance from Hermione, who paused mid-rant about Ron's slovenliness.
"What's so funny, Harry?" she asked, her brow furrowed.
"Nothing," he said quickly, straightening his face, though a faint smile lingered. "Just… believe Ron is a perfect with you, I can't imagine the work you put him through."
She rolled her eyes, clearly unconvinced. "Ron can handle a little extra work."
"Poor guy," he replied, his smile widening.
They walked down the corridor toward the Gryffindor dorms, her voice trailing off into another tangent about prefect duties, and his mind filled with anticipation. Dumbledore… was already done for.
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