Dumbledore's voice was oddly subdued, as if he were confessing a hidden burden.
"Perhaps I truly am powerless… Ruining everything with a single decision, making everyone suffer, forcing others to pay the price for my mistakes…"
He blinked slowly, the light in his eyes fading into shadow.
"At that time, even the bond between Fawkes and you grew faint… That place must have been terribly dangerous, wasn't it? I have to say this to you… I'm sorry…"
Wyzett watched Dumbledore in confusion, a sense of unease prickling at him. "Headmaster Dumbledore, are you alright?"
Suddenly, memories of his previous life surfaced—of the old director at the orphanage, long since passed.
In his youth, the old director had been impulsive, or perhaps it was a clash of ideals that strained his family ties. He'd left home in anger—never to return.
By middle age, he'd built his own career, but tasted all the treachery and deceit that business could offer.
When he finally wished to reconcile with his family, he was met only with the devastating news of their passing. The blow nearly broke him.
Years later, the old director received a plastic bag full of coins—the very money he'd once given to an orphan. The child had found him and returned it.
Most astonishing of all, that orphan turned out to be his long-lost great-nephew.
From then on, he established the orphanage, becoming its director and shifting his life's focus there.
Yet even so, Wyzett remembered catching glimpses of the old director, alone in his sorrow, nursing wounds that would never truly heal, enduring the pain of never seeing his family again.
Dumbledore's current state was hauntingly familiar.
Both men bore the scars of the past, suffering in silence under the weight of their responsibilities.
Yet it was this very vulnerability that made Dumbledore feel more human—more real—than any of his grand titles: Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Supreme Mugwump, Grand Sorcerer… the "greatest wizard of our age." In this moment, Dumbledore was simply a man, not a legend.
He had greatness, yes, but also private agonies to bear.
Agonies he rarely revealed—not even to Aberforth—and yet, by some small grace, Wyzett was allowed to see them.
Dumbledore murmured, "I cared too little for them… All of this is my doing… I even made the same mistake twice, until disaster struck again…"
His hands clenched into fists, and Wyzett could just make out the crescent marks where his nails bit into his palms, faint traces of blood appearing.
Wyzett drew a deep breath, making sure his voice was steady before calling out, "Headmaster Dumbledore!"
"I suppose I've said too much." Dumbledore seemed to rouse himself, a look of helplessness flitting across his face. "I always find myself more at ease when I'm with you."
"Maybe it's because… over the years, I've received many Christmas gifts. But only yours—a box of colorful sweets—truly delighted me."
He glanced at the dark night outside. "It's late. You must be exhausted. Go and get some rest."
Wyzett shook his head, speaking slowly. "When I was studying at the Hog's Head Inn, I watched wizards duel. Before every duel, they'd always trade barbs—trying to throw each other off."
"It's a way to rattle your opponent. Headmaster Dumbledore… that's all Voldemort is doing to you. Nothing more."
"Perhaps I did let him get to me." Dumbledore's voice was laced with guilt. "If Harry hadn't been protected, if you weren't a Guardian…"
"Perhaps Harry would have died to the Killing Curse. Perhaps Voldemort's plot would have succeeded, and he'd have harnessed the Obscurus. I never wanted to drag you into this…"
Wyzett shook his head again, his tone firm. "That's all hypothetical. Harry is safe in the hospital wing, and I'm still in one piece."
"You didn't drag us into anything. Voldemort was after the Obscurus from the start. He had Professor Quirrell teach me precisely to make the Obscurus lose control."
"I don't know all the details about Harry, but if it weren't for him, Voldemort wouldn't have fallen all those years ago. I imagine… he must hate Harry with everything he's got."
"I think you're not the only one who needs a break. You should take some time for yourself too. You've carried so much—Aberforth let slip a few things, and even from that, I could sense the weight you bear."
Dumbledore laced his fingers together, looking a touch nervous. "What did he say to you?"
Wyzett chose his words carefully. "Not much… He mostly mentioned Credence, and then, well… he cursed you a bit. Said some rather harsh things."
Dumbledore relaxed, sighing with genuine relief, as if he truly didn't mind. "That's just like him—always so blunt."
Wyzett pushed the plate of bread toward him. "Headmaster Dumbledore, you should try some too! Like I said, I can't pretend to know everything you've been through."
"But I can offer a little support—even if it's just a loaf of bread. Just as, that night, you were the only one… willing to believe in me."
"We're only human. No one can be perfect. If we call ourselves sinners for that, we'll only live in endless pain and regret."
"Thank you, Wyzett…" Dumbledore's voice was rough, with a catch that hinted at tears.
"I should be the one thanking all of you." After such a long day, Wyzett couldn't stifle a yawn.
"Headmaster Dumbledore, I'll head back to bed. Good night."
"Good night."
…
After Wyzett left, Fawkes fluttered down onto the desk, eyeing the golden crumbs and wondering if he should sample them.
Dumbledore gazed at the now-empty seat, then picked up a piece of bread that was still warm.
He took a careful bite, chewing with slow reverence.
His vision blurred as tears welled up, tracing silver lines through the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.
He rose, walking to stand before the Mirror of Erised.
This time, he did not avert his gaze. There was no sorrow in his eyes now—only a profound tenderness, a gentle warmth for family and for love.
With the bread settling in his stomach, a faint smile touched his lips. His voice, soft as a song, whispered, "Merry Christmas…"
No one knew how long he stood there before Snape burst into the headmaster's office.
His face was grim. "Wyzett appears to be back. He hasn't been possessed by the Dark Lord, has he?"
Dumbledore, now composed once more and seated at his desk, looked up in mild surprise. "You're still patrolling the eighth floor?"
Snape curled his lip. "It's his owl… exactly like its master. Delivers messages when there's mail, learns when there's knowledge."
"An excellent summary," Dumbledore chuckled. "And I have good news…"
"He hasn't been possessed by Voldemort. He just happened to visit a rather special place—and had an experience he'll never forget."
Snape frowned. "An unforgettable experience? Something to do with the magic in that mirror?"
"Yes… Here, try this and you'll understand." Dumbledore pushed the plate toward him. "Voldemort could never create something like this… Wyzett hasn't been possessed—I would stake my life on it!"
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