In the Headmaster's office, the slanting rays of dusk filtered through the windows, casting fine specks of dust adrift in the air. Fawkes, the phoenix, dozed on its perch, its fiery red tail feathers rising and falling gently with each breath, occasionally letting out a soft, dreamlike murmur.
Albus Dumbledore stood before the Pensieve, his beard nearly brushing its rim, reflected in the swirling silver liquid within.
His blue eyes were fixed intently on the spinning memories.
"Once more," he murmured to himself, his voice low and resonant, "the clue must lie in some detail."
Dumbledore lifted a small crystal vial from the desk. The silvery threads inside writhed slowly, like living things, leaving fleeting traces on the glass.
He uncorked the vial, letting the floating silver strands slide into the Pensieve, merging seamlessly with its contents.
With a long exhale, Dumbledore leaned forward, once again plunging his face into the Pensieve.
The silvery liquid spun, engulfing him, and the world around him twisted and warped.
After the familiar sensation of falling, he found himself once more in the crumbling Gaunt family hovel.
The memory was so vivid he could feel the stifling summer air enveloping him.
A black gem glinted faintly between Morfin's rough knuckles. Dumbledore's gaze locked onto it, a flicker of near-painful longing in his eyes.
"Ariana…" The name slipped silently from his lips.
He reached out instinctively, though he knew it was merely an illusion, yearning to touch the black gem—the Resurrection Stone, the legendary Deathly Hallow said to summon the dead.
His fingertips passed through the phantom, grasping only emptiness, just as he had countless times in dreams, trying to hold his sister's hand.
In the memory, Morfin and a young Tom Riddle remained oblivious to his presence, continuing their conversation.
Dumbledore forced himself to focus, straining to catch any clue from their fragmented words.
Back in reality, the Headmaster muttered, his voice heavy with undisguised disappointment, "Why isn't it here? Where else could it be…?"
Outside the office window, dusk was swallowing the last threads of sunlight, stretching his shadow long across the portrait-covered walls.
The sleeping former headmasters seemed to sense his unease in their dreams, shifting restlessly.
Dumbledore straightened, though his shoulders remained slightly hunched.
He had replayed Morfin's memory so many times he could recite every detail, yet he still couldn't trace the whereabouts of Marvolo Gaunt's ring.
"Fawkes," he said, turning to the phoenix, his voice laced with deep exhaustion, "am I too fixated on an object that may have long been destroyed, and… a hopeless expectation?"
Fawkes opened its golden eyes, their gaze piercing as if they could see through to his soul. It let out a soft cry, neither affirming nor denying, more like a wordless comfort.
Dumbledore gave a bitter smile and walked to the door, gently stroking Fawkes' feathers.
"You're right, old friend," he said softly, "but I simply cannot let it go."
He returned to the oak cabinet filled with memory-filled crystal vials.
His fingers glided over the rows of bottles, the names on their labels flickering in the dim light: Horace Slughorn, Bob Ogden, Hokey… each name concealing a story or a secret.
Dumbledore picked up the vial labeled "Hokey," hesitated, but ultimately placed it back, choosing Ogden's memory instead.
The memory pulled him back into the past, but the result was, as expected, disappointing.
Nearly an hour later, Dumbledore removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. The candlelight danced across his aged face, casting deep shadows.
All the memories led to the same dead end—no one knew where Marvolo Gaunt's ring had gone, except for the boy who already held the answer.
"Tom…" Dumbledore whispered the name, his tone a complex mix of emotions.
He drew his wand and lightly touched his temple, drawing out a silvery thread of memory…
Mrs. Cole's office reeked of disinfectant, its peeling paint revealing yellowed wallpaper beneath.
A younger Dumbledore—his hair and beard still auburn—sat on a rickety chair, clad in deep purple robes, smiling at the harried matron of Wool's Orphanage seated behind a cluttered desk.
"As I mentioned in my letter, I'm here to discuss Tom Riddle's future and make arrangements for him," the younger Dumbledore said, his voice far lighter than it was now.
"Are you family?" Mrs. Cole eyed him warily. She was a gaunt, exhausted woman, her face etched with anxiety.
"No, I'm a teacher," Dumbledore replied. "I'm here to offer Tom a place at our school."
"And what sort of school is it?" Mrs. Cole pressed, her suspicious gaze lingering on Dumbledore's peculiar attire.
"It's called Hogwarts," Dumbledore answered calmly.
"Why would you be interested in Tom?" Mrs. Cole remained guarded, her fingers tapping slowly on the desk.
"We believe he possesses certain qualities we seek…"
The old Headmaster's face bore a deep sorrow.
The memory sped forward. Mrs. Cole began describing Tom Riddle's unusual behavior, pausing every few sentences to take a swig of gin.
"Strange, in what way?" Dumbledore asked gently.
"No matter what, you'll take him away?" Mrs. Cole shot him a questioning look, her eyes sharp despite the alcohol.
"No matter what," Dumbledore repeated firmly.
Mrs. Cole squinted at him, as if weighing whether to trust this stranger.
Finally, she seemed to decide. "He scares the other children."
"You mean he's a bully?" Dumbledore asked.
"I'm certain of it," Mrs. Cole said, frowning slightly, "but it's hard to catch him in the act. There have been incidents… nasty ones…"
She took a long gulp of gin, some of it spilling down her chin.
"On our summer outing—you know, the annual trip.
"We take them to the countryside or the seaside—after that, Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop were never quite right. When we asked, they only said they'd gone into a cave with Tom Riddle.
"Tom swore they were just exploring, but something happened in there, I'm sure of it. And there were other things, so many strange things…"
The scene shifted, and Dumbledore saw young Tom Riddle—a pale, strikingly handsome boy with jet-black hair and eyes.
The boy leapt from his bed, backing away from Dumbledore, his expression furious. "I didn't do anything to Amy Benson or Dennis Bishop, you can ask them yourself, they'll tell you…"
The memory faded, and Dumbledore found himself back in his office.
Outside, the sky had darkened. An unnatural black cloud was gathering in the distance, spreading like ink in water, swallowing the last traces of light.
Dumbledore sank wearily into his armchair, removing his half-moon glasses and rubbing his brow with slender fingers.
"So many clues," he murmured, "yet they don't form a complete picture. Where could it be…?"
Fawkes let out a soft cry, gliding down from its perch to land on Dumbledore's shoulder, gently preening his white hair as if comforting a grieving child.
After a moment, Dumbledore opened his eyes and replaced his glasses. His gaze fell on a copy of The Daily Prophet on his desk, its headline reading: Muggle Disappearances Continue, Ministry at a Loss.
He picked up the paper, his eyes scanning the article:
"According to an anonymous Ministry official, another Muggle disappearance occurred in Westminster on Wednesday, involving three families, totaling twelve people. Disturbingly, they vanished without warning in the night, with no signs of struggle or witnesses, as if swallowed by the darkness."
His brow furrowed deeper. The article noted that the Ministry had ruled out magical creatures like vampires, werewolves, or trolls but refused to disclose further details, citing the need to "avoid panic."
Dumbledore set the paper down, a sudden thought striking him. He strode to a black wooden cabinet in the corner, opened it, and retrieved a stack of Daily Prophet issues from the past few months.
By flickering candlelight, he pored over each one, his fingers tracing every line, searching for overlooked clues.
As he read, a chilling pattern emerged: over the past three months, Muggle disappearances had been reported almost weekly, with numbers steadily rising.
Earlier reports mentioned one or two people vanishing in obscure regions, tucked away in small columns; recent ones had escalated to front-page headlines, with double-digit disappearances.
Most striking was an exclusive by Rita Skeeter, titled Muggle Prime Minister's Outrage: We Can't Keep This Hidden.
Dumbledore adjusted his glasses and read closely:
"Last night, in a highly confidential meeting, the Muggle Prime Minister met with our Minister for Magic, Harold Minchum, for a tense two-hour discussion. Sources say the atmosphere was thick enough to cut with a knife."
"'The days of pretending nothing is wrong are over!' the furious Prime Minister reportedly roared. 'We can't keep this hidden!'"
"The Prime Minister listed a series of anomalous events over recent months: bridges collapsing without cause, a surge in violent murders, unseasonal hurricanes, and, most notably, the recent Muggle disappearances."
"'Too many people are vanishing!' the Prime Minister said. 'My opposition is calling it a national panic.'"
"Despite the Prime Minister's insistence that his 'absolutely trustworthy' Cabinet Secretary be informed of these strange events, Minister Minchum firmly refused, citing the need to maintain secrecy only with the acting Muggle Prime Minister and warning him against taking unilateral action…"
"How Rita Skeeter gets hold of such classified information is anyone's guess," Dumbledore mused, frowning. "Though she's known for exaggeration, the core of this report is likely true."
The real question was—why were the Death Eaters abducting so many Muggles? While their activities had grown bolder, large-scale kidnappings, rather than outright murder, didn't align with Tom's usual political motives.
Dumbledore set the paper down and paced the office.
"This isn't about simple killing," he said to himself. "If it were, they'd leave bodies behind as a terror tactic. Abducting live Muggles… what do they need so many living people for?"
A horrifying possibility took shape in his mind:
Certain dark magic rituals required human subjects, as Mulciber had once done in Hogsmeade's village cemetery. But the scale and coordination of these abductions… compared to that crude attempt, this suggested a far grander, darker plan.
A flash of lightning tore across the sky, followed by distant thunder, shattering the office's stillness.
Dumbledore looked up as the black cloud now covered half the sky, advancing swiftly toward the castle.
He hurried to the window, watching the trees at the Forbidden Forest's edge sway violently in the howling wind, all leaning in the same direction.
"Fawkes," Dumbledore called softly, and the phoenix met his gaze. "Fetch Minerva for me."
Fawkes let out a clear cry, understanding.
"Go, old friend," Dumbledore said.
With a flash of fire, Fawkes vanished. Dumbledore turned back to the window.
As the sky grew darker, he recalled the eyes of young Tom Riddle.
"Tom," he said to the empty room, "what are you planning this time?"
When Professor McGonagall burst through the door, Dumbledore was already taking a heavy traveling cloak from the rack.
"Albus, what's happened—" Her voice was breathless from her hurried dash.
"You're here, Minerva." Dumbledore fastened his cloak without looking up. "I need you to act as Headmistress temporarily. If I don't return within a week…" He paused, pressing a folded note into her hand. "Follow these instructions."
McGonagall's fingers whitened as she gripped the note. "Is this about You-Know-Who?"
Dumbledore glanced out the window one last time.
The black cloud had fully enveloped Hogwarts, the castle's lights faint in the eerie darkness.
In the distance, owls screeched in alarm, as if the entire school sensed the approaching storm.
"Yes," he said. "Thank you, Minerva."
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