In the Headmaster's office, twilight streamed in, illuminating tiny dust motes dancing in the air. Fawkes the phoenix dozed on his perch, his fiery tail feathers gently rising and falling with each breath, occasionally letting out a soft, dreamlike trill.
Dumbledore stood before the Pensieve, his beard nearly touching its rim, reflected in the constantly swirling silvery liquid within the basin.
His blue eyes were intently fixed on the swirling memory.
"Again," he murmured softly to himself, his voice deep. "The clue must be hidden in some small detail."
Dumbledore picked up a small crystal vial from his desk. The silver strands within the bottle writhed slowly like living things, leaving fleeting traces on the glass.
He pulled out the stopper, allowing the floating silver threads to slide into the Pensieve, merging with its contents.
After a long exhale, Dumbledore bent down, once again immersing his face in the Pensieve.
The silvery liquid swirled, engulfing him, and the world spun and twisted around him.
After the familiar sensation of falling, he found himself once more in the decrepit old Gaunt shack.
The scene in the memory was so vivid, he could even feel the muggy summer air enveloping him.
The black gemstone glimmered between Morfin's rough knuckles. Dumbledore's gaze followed it intently, his eyes gleaming with an almost painful yearning.
"Ariana," the name slipped silently from his lips.
He involuntarily reached out, even though he knew it was merely an illusion, still wanting to touch that black gemstone—the Resurrection Stone, that legendary Hallow said to bring back the dead.
His fingertips passed through the illusion, grasping only emptiness, just as he had tried countless times in his dreams to grasp his sister's hand.
Morfin and the young Tom in the memory were oblivious to his presence, continuing their conversation.
Dumbledore forced himself to concentrate, trying to find clues in their fragmented words.
Returning to reality, the Headmaster muttered to himself, his voice tinged with undisguised disappointment: "Why isn't it here? Where else could it be...?"
Outside the office window, twilight was swallowing the last vestiges of sunlight, casting his shadow long across the wall adorned with portraits.
The sleeping Headmasters in their frames seemed to sense his anxiety even in their slumber, stirring restlessly.
Dumbledore straightened up, though his back remained slightly hunched.
He had re-watched this memory of Morfin repeatedly, almost able to recite every detail, yet he still couldn't ascertain the whereabouts of Marvolo Gaunt's ring.
"Fawkes," he turned to the phoenix, his voice betraying deep weariness. "Am I too fixated on an object that may long since have been destroyed, and... on a hopeless expectation?"
The phoenix opened its golden eyes, its gaze seemingly capable of piercing the soul. It let out a soft trill, neither affirmative nor negative, more like a silent comfort.
Dumbledore gave a wry smile and walked to the door, gently stroking Fawkes's feathers.
"You're right, old friend," he whispered. "I just find it so hard to let go."
Then, he walked back to the oak cabinet filled with memory vials.
His fingers glided over rows of small bottles, the names on their labels faintly visible in the dim light: Horace Slughorn, Bob Ogden, Hepzibah Smith—each name held a story, or a secret, behind it.
Dumbledore took out the vial labelled "Hepzibah," hesitating. But ultimately, he placed the vial back, opting instead for Ogden's memory.
The memory once again took him into the past, but the result remained disappointing.
Nearly an hour later, Dumbledore took off his spectacles and rubbed the bridge of his nose. The candlelight flickered on his aged face, casting deep shadows.
All memories pointed to the same dead end—no one knew where Marvolo Gaunt's ring had gone, except for the boy who already knew the answer.
"Tom," Dumbledore softly spoke the name, his tone a mix of complex emotions.
He drew his wand, lightly touched his temple, and a wisp of silvery-white memory was slowly drawn out.
Mrs. Cole's office smelled of disinfectant, its paint peeling on the walls, revealing yellowed wallpaper beneath.
The younger Dumbledore—his hair and beard then still auburn—sat on a rickety chair, clad in deep purple robes, smiling as he watched the matron of Wool's Orphanage, seated behind a cluttered desk.
"As I said in my letter, I am here to discuss Tom Riddle's future, to arrange a place for him," the Dumbledore in the memory said, his voice much livelier than now.
"Are you related to him?" Mrs. Cole eyed him warily. She was a bony, weary, and anxious woman.
"No, I am a teacher," Dumbledore said. "I've come to invite Tom to study at our school."
"So, what kind of school is this?" Mrs. Cole pressed. Her gaze lingered suspiciously on Dumbledore's unusual attire.
"The school's name is Hogwarts," Dumbledore calmly replied.
"Why are you interested in Tom?" Mrs. Cole still didn't relax her guard, her fingers slowly drumming on the desk.
"We believe he possesses some qualities we are looking for—"
The old Headmaster's face showed deep sorrow.
The memory fast-forwarded, and Mrs. Cole began to describe Tom Riddle's peculiar behaviour. After every few sentences, she would take a swig of gin.
"Peculiar, in what way peculiar?" Dumbledore gently asked.
"You're taking him away no matter what?" Mrs. Cole cast an inquiring look at Dumbledore, her gaze showing no hint of drunkenness.
"No matter what," Dumbledore repeated firmly.
Mrs. Cole narrowed her eyes at him, seemingly judging whether to trust this stranger.
Finally, she seemed to make up her mind: "He frightens the other children."
"Do you mean he's a bully?" Dumbledore asked.
"I imagine he must be," Mrs. Cole said with a slight frown, "but it's hard to catch him in the act. There have been some incidents... some nasty incidents..."
She took a long swig of gin, spilling some onto her chin this time.
"A summer outing—you know, once a year."
"We take them out to the countryside or the seaside—ever since then, Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop haven't been quite right, and when we ask them, they just say they went into a cave with Tom Riddle."
"Tom swears they were exploring, but something certainly happened in there. I'm sure of it. And there have been many, many other strange things—"
The scene changed again, and Dumbledore saw the young Tom Riddle—a pale, handsome boy with astonishingly black hair and eyes.
The boy sprang from the bed, backing away from Dumbledore, his expression extremely annoyed:
"I didn't do anything to little Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop. You can ask them yourselves; they'll tell you."
The memory slowly faded, and Dumbledore found himself back in his office.
Outside the window, dusk had already fallen. A dark, unnatural cloud was gathering in the distant sky. It spread slowly like ink dropped into clear water, devouring the last of the light.
Dumbledore slumped back into his armchair, took off his half-moon spectacles, and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his long fingers.
"So many clues," he murmured, "yet they don't form a complete picture. Where could it be—"
Fawkes let out a soft trill, flew down from his perch, and landed on Dumbledore's shoulder, gently preening his white hair with his beak, as if comforting a sad child.
After a moment, Dumbledore opened his eyes and put his spectacles back on. His gaze fell upon a Daily Prophet on his desk, which read: "Muggle Disappearances Resurface, Ministry of Magic Helpless."
He picked up the newspaper, his eyes swiftly scanning the article's content:
"According to Ministry of Magic officials, who prefer to remain unnamed, another Muggle disappearance occurred this Wednesday in Westminster, involving three families, a total of twelve individuals. Disturbingly, they vanished without warning during the night, leaving no signs of struggle, no witnesses, as if swallowed by the darkness."
His frown deepened. The article mentioned that the Ministry had ruled out magical creatures like vampires, werewolves, and trolls as culprits but refused to disclose further details, citing the need to "avoid panic."
He put down the newspaper, suddenly struck by a thought, and walked quickly to a black wooden cabinet in the corner of the room. Opening the cabinet door, he found neatly stacked copies of the Daily Prophet from the past few months.
Dumbledore personally carried a large stack of newspapers back to his desk.
Under the flickering candlelight, he meticulously leafed through each one, his finger tracing every line of text, searching for any overlooked clues.
As he read deeper, a terrifying truth became clear: over the past three months, there had been reports of Muggle disappearances almost every week, and the numbers were steadily increasing.
Previous reports had merely briefly mentioned one or two people missing in an inconspicuous corner of the newspaper; recent reports had become front-page news, and the number of disappearances had risen from single digits to double digits.
Most striking was an exclusive report by Rita Skeeter, titled: "Muggle Prime Minister's Roar: 'We Can't Keep This Hidden Much Longer!'"
Dumbledore adjusted his spectacles and read carefully:
"Last night, under conditions of extreme secrecy, the Muggle Prime Minister held an emergency two-hour meeting with our Minister for Magic, Harold Minchum. According to insiders, the atmosphere of the meeting was 'tense enough to cut butter.'"
"'The time when we could claim nothing was happening is over!' the enraged Muggle Prime Minister practically roared. 'We can't keep this hidden much longer!'"
"The Muggle Prime Minister listed a series of anomalous events in recent months: bridges collapsing without cause, a surge in vicious murders, unseasonable and bizarre hurricanes, and especially the recent Muggle disappearances."
"'Too many people are vanishing!' the Prime Minister said. 'My opposition sums it up thus: the whole country is gripped by panic.'"
"Despite the Muggle Prime Minister's strong insistence that his 'absolutely reliable' Cabinet Secretary should be privy to all these 'peculiar happenings,' Minister Minchum vehemently refused, adhering to the principle that it 'should only be exposed to the reigning Muggle Prime Minister, in a way that best preserves secrecy,' and warned the Muggle Prime Minister not to act unilaterally –"
"I truly wonder how this Rita Skeeter managed to get such secretive information," Dumbledore pondered, frowning. "Though she's known for exaggeration and embellishment, the core content of this report is likely true."
But the real question was—why would Death Eaters abduct so many Muggles? Although Death Eater activity had indeed become more rampant recently, such large-scale abductions, rather than brutal killings, did not align with Tom's usual political agenda.
Dumbledore put down the newspaper, stood up, and paced back and forth in his office.
"This doesn't seem to be for simple slaughter," the Headmaster muttered to himself. "If it were killing, the bodies should be left at the scene, as a means of intimidation. Abducting living Muggles—what would they need so many living people for?"
A terrible conjecture gradually formed in his mind:
Some extremely dark rituals in black magic require human bodies as ingredients, much like what Mulciber did in the Hogsmeade village graveyard previously. But the scale and execution this time, compared to the botched attempt last time, might suggest a grander, darker plan.
Outside the window, a bolt of lightning flashed across the sky, and distant thunder echoed, breaking the quiet of the office.
When Dumbledore looked up, the black cloud had already covered half the sky, rapidly moving towards the castle.
He walked quickly to the window, seeing the trees at the edge of the Forbidden Forest swaying violently in the howling wind, leaning in the same direction.
"Fawkes," Dumbledore called softly. The phoenix immediately looked at him. "Help me get Minerva here."
The phoenix let out a clear trill, indicating understanding.
"Go on, old friend," Dumbledore said softly.
A flash of fire, and Fawkes vanished. Dumbledore turned back to the window.
Watching the increasingly dark sky, he remembered the eyes of the young Tom Riddle.
"Tom," he said to the empty room, "what are you plotting this time?"
When Professor McGonagall rushed in through the door, Dumbledore was taking a heavy travel cloak from a hanger.
"Albus, what's happened—" her voice was slightly breathless from her hurried run.
"You're here, Minerva," Dumbledore said, fastening his cloak without looking up. "I need you to temporarily assume the duties of Headmaster. If I don't return within a week—" He paused, pressing a folded note into McGonagall's hand. "—act according to the instructions on it."
Professor McGonagall's knuckles whitened as she clutched the note. "Is this connected to the one whose name cannot be spoken?"
Dumbledore took one last look out the window.
The black clouds now completely shrouded Hogwarts; the castle lights appeared particularly dim in the eerie darkness.
Distant, frightened cries of owls could be heard, as if the entire school sensed the approaching storm.
"Yes," he said. "Thank you for your trouble, Minerva."