Chapter 186: Dumbledore's Probing
In reality, Dylan could have gone back to Dumbledore's office right after dinner. However, when Dumbledore got up to leave, Dylan hadn't nearly finished eating, so he didn't pull Dumbledore along.
He walked through the corridor. On either side, the visors of some armoured knights subtly turned with his footsteps. The silver candelabra on the stone walls brightened, their flames casting flickering shadows on the damp walls, simultaneously reflecting Dylan's figure.
He made his way to Dumbledore's office door. The password hadn't changed, and he entered smoothly.
The moment he pushed open the office door, a scent of parchment and bay leaves wafted out. Dumbledore was currently hunched over his wooden desk, flipping through a book. His quill still rustled across a piece of parchment.
"Headmaster." Dylan stood at the doorway, speaking politely.
"Dylan?" Dumbledore paused his movements, looked up, and seeing Dylan, his eyes crinkled in a smile as he tapped the gilded sugar pot beside him. "Fancy a fizzing whizbee?"
Dylan chuckled and shook his head. "No, thank you, Headmaster. I brought quite a few sweets back from the Great Hall."
Dumbledore let out a soft laugh. "Very resourceful, but they are indeed for you all. You can take as many as you like—just don't waste them, or the school governors will start fretting over their Galleons again."
Dylan grinned. "But I imagine you wouldn't fret over them, Headmaster?"
"How can you say that? Waste is not a good habit." Dumbledore feigned a stern expression, but his eyes were still smiling as he winked at Dylan. "What brings you to my office so late? It's rare to see you here. Is there anything I can help you with?"
Dylan also blinked. "Headmaster, I've come to ask you about two matters."
"Do tell?"
Dylan first walked to Dumbledore's desk, then pulled up a chair and sat down. —In reality, there was no spare chair; Dylan had transfigured it from a book.
At this moment, the gears of the bronze unicorn grandfather clock nearby emitted a faint ticking sound. Fawkes, the phoenix, stretched his tail feathers in his perch. Dylan's gaze swept over the Pensieve on the floor, then settled on Dumbledore.
"Firstly, I've been researching alchemy recently, and I hope to ask you about it from time to time. I wonder if you'd be willing to teach me?"
The flickering candlelight in the office elongated Dumbledore's shadow, casting intersecting patterns among the wall of portraits. Dumbledore looked at Dylan. "How did you come to know that I practice alchemy?"
Dylan smiled. "You, along with Mr. Nicolas Flamel, repaired the crack in the Philosopher's Stone when you defeated Grindelwald in 1945—I read this on a fragmented page of Nicolas's Secret Notes in the Restricted Section."
Dumbledore's eyes narrowed slightly. Then he suddenly chuckled. "It seems Cassandra Vablatsky's prophecy has come true again." He set down his quill.
"A prophecy?" Dylan raised an eyebrow.
"Yes, a prophecy." Dumbledore's lips curved. "This prophecy was even recorded: 'There will always be curious young minds who will bring new life to old relics.'" Dumbledore chuckled. "In fact, this prophecy has consistently been fulfilled; there are many curious young people."
Dylan tilted his head. "So, are you willing to teach me some basics?"
Dumbledore nodded. "Of course, I don't mind, but..." Dumbledore suddenly chuckled, his blue eyes behind his spectacles gleaming. "Many believe alchemy is the magic of transmuting base metals into gold, but true transformation begins with seeing the essence of things—do you feel ready?"
Dylan nodded slightly. "For the past few days, I've been studying various books, trying to understand alchemy. I believe I understand its basic logic and won't fancifully think that turning lead into gold is a simple magic."
Dumbledore paused. The Pensieve behind him suddenly began to churn with silvery-white mist.
"My boy, alchemy is a very difficult subject, often only sixth-year students and above are barely qualified to dabble in it."
He continued, "In my view, it is the art of weaving starlight into metal, of forging moonlight into covenants. Are you truly prepared to spend ten, even dozens or hundreds of years, learning how to make lead particles understand the song of morning dew?"
"Professor, I am ready. And—when I held the Philosopher's Stone, it was truly beautiful. Even though I knew nothing of alchemy then, I could still feel its marvel."
"The Philosopher's Stone..." Dumbledore fell silent. Dylan watched him calmly.
Speaking of the Philosopher's Stone, did this old chap actually destroy it? He hadn't heard any news of Nicolas Flamel's death recently.
After a moment of silence, Dumbledore looked up. "My boy, do you think you want that Philosopher's Stone?"
Dylan paused, then after a brief moment of thought, he nodded, then shook his head. "I told you before, for me, the Philosopher's Stone is merely a magical stone worth studying, but it's not worth using—I believe there will certainly be even more powerful alchemical creations that can circumvent the Philosopher's Stone's drawbacks."
Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, his smile growing wider. "It sounds like you're very confident in yourself."
"Naturally—magic itself is the art of forging belief into spells. Without unwavering resolve, even the most exquisite incantations are but fireflies scattered in the wind, aren't they, Headmaster?"
The old man laughed aloud, lightly tapping the desk with his finger. The still-wet ink on the parchment suddenly transformed into fluttering butterflies, circling between the two of them. Dylan looked closely, realizing this butterfly wasn't just the result of Transfiguration. It also seemed to carry traces of magic he couldn't understand.
"Beautifully put, my boy, but remember—though fireflies are fleeting, they can ignite an entire wasteland. Magic favors the confident, but never forgives the arrogant."
Dylan nodded. "I understand."
"In that case, you may come to me with questions anytime. I am usually free on Tuesdays through Fridays at three o'clock in the afternoon."
Dylan's eyelashes fluttered twice. "What about mornings or evenings, or Mondays and weekends?"
Dumbledore winked and smiled at him. "I also have time, but I usually prefer to enjoy various sweets alone in my office—when one gets old, these are the only hobbies one has left."
Dumbledore paused. "And, as far as I know, you, along with Miss Granger, have chosen all the elective courses. You probably won't have much time to come to me during the day from Monday to Friday, will you?"
"That's true—so the times you offered aren't really convenient. I can't come to you at three in the afternoon to study."
"Ho ho ho~ Actually, you can come to me in the evenings too—after all, I don't have many classes to teach, so it won't be too tiring."
Dylan nodded, having settled the matter. Dylan spoke again, "My second matter... it's about your Pensieve." Dylan looked at the shimmering, silvery-white mist swirling behind Dumbledore.
"The Pensieve?" Dumbledore turned slightly, looking behind him. "Do you wish to use it?"
Dylan nodded. "Not just that. In fact, I'd like to observe the runes and symbols carved on the Pensieve up close."
Dumbledore's chin lifted slightly. "Oh, you wish to know how the Pensieve was fashioned?"
"Only you would guess it immediately, Headmaster. I do indeed have that thought—if I can understand the Pensieve's manufacturing principles, I believe my progress in alchemy will be rapid."
"Oh, oh! My boy, alchemy takes time. I know the thirst for knowledge should not wait, but excessive progress might lead you astray." Dumbledore turned back around. "Do you know the Pensieve's purpose?"
"To store memories, to re-experience memories, to enter memories?"
Dumbledore nodded gently. "It seems you truly read a lot of books—Madam Pince always mentions to me how many books you've read in the library."
Dylan chuckled. So Madam Pince likes to tattle?
"The Pensieve can store memories that a wizard has magically extracted from their brain, and it can also completely re-present details buried deep within those memories."
He continued, "It allows the owner of the memories, or others, to enter the stored memories, but you know, don't you? The Pensieve belongs to the school, and throughout the ages, successive Headmasters have used it."
"No one knows who created it; even if you thoroughly research the ancient runes on it, you may not be able to understand its manufacturing principle." Dylan stroked his chin.
Regarding the Pensieve's origin, he did know an unconfirmed legend: the Pensieve was discovered by the Hogwarts founders, half-buried in the ground at the very location they decided to establish the school. As for whether he could thoroughly research the Pensieve's manufacturing principle...
Dylan glanced at Dumbledore. He simply didn't believe it. This old man, as an alchemy master capable of tinkering with the Philosopher's Stone alongside Nicolas Flamel, wouldn't have anything to say about the Pensieve sitting in his office for such a long time.
"I understand that achieving this won't be easy, but I'm prepared to work for it." Dylan's expression was firm. "Studying magic, for me, is the greatest pleasure."
Dumbledore looked at him with some surprise. He remained silent for a while before finally speaking.
"I never imagined you, so young, already possess such insight. I hope you can always maintain this pure original intention, and not... go astray later." Dumbledore's voice became slightly hoarse as he spoke the last part.
Dylan glanced at him again. What was he thinking about now? Was it about Grindelwald, or young Tom Riddle?
Dylan's mastery of Occlumency was already extremely high. At the same time, this spell had also unlocked a peculiar feature for him: Can You Read Me? With this feature, Dylan could operate Occlumency, and as long as the thoughts weren't too intense or the emotions too volatile, he wasn't worried about Dumbledore overhearing anything.
Yes, Dylan had now developed the habit of smiling nonchalantly in front of anyone, even if his mind was churning with internal monologues like "this professor's pointed hat is more frightening than a Boggart." He could manage to not even flutter an eyelash, turning his unspoken criticisms into sweet words on the tip of his tongue.
"Thank you for your guidance, I will keep it in mind. I will only pursue the essence and wonder of magic, and will not, by relying on magic or empty slogans, devastate this world." Dylan said with a smile, "In fact, Professor, I believe that magic is a product derived from the world. If the world is destroyed, magic will also become distorted."
"So you can rest assured, I will not do anything to harm the world." Dylan's words made Dumbledore pause again.
"You..." Dylan tilted his head. "Is something wrong?"
"Your idea is excellent."
"I think so too!"
Dumbledore smiled faintly. The question he had initially wanted to vocalize ultimately remained unspoken. This child was very clever.
Even more clever than he had imagined. And since he had already said so much, why should he press further? Knowing that the child's true heart was indeed pure was enough.
With that thought, Dumbledore stood up. He walked to the Pensieve. Silvery-white mist faintly swirled from it, enveloping him. Dumbledore's already white hair was enshrouded by this silver mist. Silver strands and mist intertwined.
The mist descended along Dumbledore's hair, condensing into tiny starlight on his shoulders, making his full head of white hair seem as if spun from moonlight. It exuded both the scholarly wisdom refined by years and the mysterious aura of the memories hidden within the Pensieve.
"I'm actually very willing to talk to others about the Pensieve's function, but it seems no one else is particularly interested." Dumbledore stroked the rim of the Pensieve. The ancient runes on it flashed with faint silver light under his gentle touch.
"Since you're willing, I can now teach you to identify some ancient runes—they do have many uses, but they are more inclined towards memory-related aspects."
Dylan's heart swelled with joy at this. He also stood up. "Really, Professor?"
He walked towards Dumbledore. The carpet under his feet felt soft. When he reached Dumbledore's side, Dumbledore gently waved his hand, the edge of his robe brushing the Pensieve's rim. Some ancient runes, touched by the churning silver mist, gradually glowed with a faint blue light.
"Look at this intertwined set of runes." Dumbledore's finger hovered above the mist. Fragments of memory, like tiny diamonds, condensed on his fingertip and rustled into the basin.
"It signifies stripping away and rebirth—not referring to the rebirth of life, of course. See here, every groove has swallowed the dawns and dusks of Hogwarts' past Headmasters."
As Dumbledore's words fell, the swirling silver mist suddenly churned into a vortex. A silhouette in a medieval robe appeared within it. Then, the figure continuously shifted.
"This is..." Dylan stared at the changing figures for a moment, then turned his head to look at the surrounding walls. "The memory figures of the past Headmasters?"
"Yes, my boy, they are gathered here by the runes."
....
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