The conversation did not end quickly.
Dumbledore did not press in obvious ways, nor did he accuse or corner. Instead, he asked—slowly, carefully—circling topics rather than striking them directly.
Each question seemed simple on the surface, yet carried something beneath it, something meant to test not just answers, but intent.
Victor answered just as carefully.
Time passed without either of them acknowledging it. The instruments in the office ticked on, Fawkes remained silent on his perch, and the castle beyond grew quieter as night deepened.
By the time Dumbledore finally leaned back slightly, the conversation had already stretched well into midnight.
"That will be all for tonight, Mr. Malfoy," he said, his tone unchanged, as if they had only spoken for a few minutes rather than hours. "You have had a… rather eventful evening."
As Victor stood and turned, his attention flicked briefly to the phoenix; he reached out as if to touch it, but it snapped its beak sharply at his hand.
He pulled back, unfazed. "It seems your bird hates me, Professor."
After that, he left the Headmaster's office and began walking back toward his dormitory.
"This old man…" he muttered under his breath, irritation slipping through his usual calm. "Those questions go in circles. If someone wasn't careful, they'd end up answering things they didn't even realize they were saying."
He shook his head slightly, still walking.
"If I were an ordinary kid," he added quietly, "I'd have slipped up halfway through."
Victor let out another quiet breath and continued down the corridor toward the Slytherin dormitory, the exhaustion finally settling in now that everything was over—for tonight.
Back in the office, after the door had closed and the quiet of midnight settled once more, Dumbledore remained seated, fingers lightly resting against each other as he reflected on the conversation.
A faint smile appeared.
Some of Victor's answers had been… unexpected.
When asked about his long-term goals, the boy had replied without hesitation that he intended to make his parents retire from pure-blood nonsense, get married someday, and spend his life traveling without unnecessary complications.
Then there had been the moment Dumbledore had asked how he knew about the Chamber of Secrets.
Victor had blinked, tilted his head slightly, and replied, "Wait… that was actually the Chamber of Secrets?" with such a straight face that even Dumbledore had paused for a fraction longer than usual.
It had been either an excellent performance—
Or something far more interesting.
Dumbledore's smile faded slightly into something more thoughtful.
"That child's thinking…" he murmured quietly to himself, "is rather different from those of his house."
For a moment, it reminded him of another student from long ago.
Tom Riddle.
The comparison stayed with him, though not in the way most would think.
Tom Riddle had been controlled, precise, and quietly ambitious, with a clear direction from the beginning. There had been disdain in him, especially toward Muggles, something that shaped many of his choices.
Victor did not show that.
He observed, calculated, but without that same underlying hatred. He formed connections where Tom never had. A Muggle-born girl counted among those he spoke to without hesitation, and that alone marked a clear difference.
That part, at least, did not concern Dumbledore.
What did—
He leaned back slightly, fingers resting against the arm of his chair as the thought returned.
"How," he said quietly, "does a boy manage a basilisk Animagus form?"
There was no known case of such a transformation.
Animagus magic followed strict boundaries. It reflected the wizard, but it did not cross into magical creatures, let alone something as rare and dangerous as a basilisk.
Yet he had seen it.
Clearly.
"Not talent alone," he murmured. "And not something easily taught."
The answer wasn't obvious, and that was enough to hold his attention.
Dumbledore's gaze shifted briefly toward Fawkes, then back to the quiet room.
"An unusual student," he said softly.
Dumbledore sat in quiet stillness, the ruined diary resting on his desk as his fingers turned it slightly, studying what remained. The damage was clear, the magic within it broken, yet the impression it left behind was far from ordinary.
"And this diary…" he murmured under his breath, his voice low and thoughtful. "How was it able to preserve him? Tom Riddle died many years ago."
He paused, his gaze sharpening as he considered what he had witnessed.
What had appeared in the chamber had not been a simple memory. It had spoken, reasoned, and drawn strength from another. That required more than clever enchantment. It required intent.
Something designed.
"If such an object can sustain a fragment of him," Dumbledore continued quietly, "then it may also explain how he escaped the Killing Curse."
The idea settled into place, not complete, but no longer vague.
He leaned back slightly, the diary still in his hand.
"It would seem," he said, almost to himself, "that I must look more closely into the objects connected to Tom Riddle. The things he valued… the things he chose to keep."
After a moment, his thoughts shifted.
"Mr. Malfoy…"
The events of the past two years were clear enough. Whatever his father's loyalties had once been, Victor had shown none of that devotion. His actions had not followed that path.
For now, that was sufficient.
His attention returned to the damaged book in his hand.
"Now, Tom," he said softly, his voice calm but probing, "what exactly are you hiding from me?"
*****
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