"I'm frightened, Professor Dumbledore."
Hali crawled into the storage cupboard, chin tucked to her chest, knees drawn tight. From the half-turned profile of her face, the old man could read only sorrow.
Her posture screamed defense and distrust—a silent warning to the world.
The girl had plainly endured far too much.
It was the Demoness's probe.
How would Dumbledore respond?
Or rather—what kind of man was he? That was what Hali wished to know.
The truth would leak through the cracks of his reaction.
"Harriet… I understand," Dumbledore said gently. "Yet you are strong. Fear cannot break you."
In the Headmaster's eyes there was only lucid compassion. Other emotions flickered beneath the surface, but the old man kept them carefully veiled.
He was restraining something.
Interesting.
Suddenly, the girl found the game far more amusing.
She did not fear that the Headmaster might rifle through her mind like some high Spectator. The Fool's blessing still wrapped her in a mysterious grey mist that barred all mental intrusion, and enough of it had survived her return.
What Dumbledore revealed through his reaction reassured her: the wizarding world had not yet lost its humanity. Coupled with his open opposition to Lord Voldemort, it confirmed that—for now—he stood on her side.
So Hali shifted tactics.
"Professor Dumbledore… everyone calls you the greatest wizard," she said hesitantly.
"I thought…"
The little witch twisted a strand of hair around her finger, her voice drying out.
"…I thought you'd know why I became like this."
Her emerald eyes fixed on the old man, waiting.
"No," Dumbledore replied after a moment. "I'm sorry, Harriet. Even Merlin lacked every answer."
His head throbbed.
He was certain the child before him was Harry Potter—the Boy Who Lived, the prophesied savior. The soul was unmistakably there; every charm bound to Harry still responded.
Yet the transformation defied reason.
Harry had changed—no longer a boy. Worse, her temperament had altered as well.
Dumbledore refused to bury the mystery, but neither could he bear to force the child to relive old agonies.
In the gentlest voice he could muster, he offered only a cautious beginning.
"Harriet, such changes are usually magical in nature, but in your case—at least for now—they appear harmless."
He stepped closer and folded himself down to sit just outside the cupboard door, mirroring her posture.
"Child, did you see or hear anything unusual? Say nothing if it pains you."
Hali was eager to speak. Confession, after all, could be the surest path to purpose.
The Demoness feigned terror. Her body trembled as if caught in a storm of pain, as though she were a lone skiff on a midnight sea, battered by howling winds and instinctive resistance.
"I… I seemed to dream…"
Her teeth chattered; her bones rattled.
Dumbledore extended a hand, offering comfort from a respectful distance—careful not to invade her space. At the same time, a silent charm wove fresh bulwarks around her heart.
Hali felt the magic lift a portion of the murk within her. The sensation reminded her of the comfort Miss Justice once provided.
"Thank you, Professor Dumbledore," she whispered. "I feel better."
She wiped away her tears and allowed the cruel past to echo between them.
"There was a pale serpent… or a devil walking as a man. I couldn't tell. All I saw was green light blotting out the sun, death breathing down my neck."
Every word was true. She had fallen into that nightmare more times than she cared to remember.
"Avada…" She faltered. "Forgive me—I can't say the word. It hunts me. Tracks me…"
Then she cried out sharply.
"It found me!"
The terror needed no explanation. It stared out from her pupils.
For a heartbeat, Dumbledore's own heart froze.
He knew that curse.
Voldemort. The Dark Lord. The Killing Curse—and the defiance of fate.
Pity flooded him like a river, carried on the girl's tears.
"Headmaster," she sobbed, "no one came to help. I watched it come closer, step by step. I was… so afraid."
Just as she intended, Dumbledore displayed the precise emotion required.
She flung herself into his arms, soaking his splendid robes.
"If only I had family," she whispered. "A mother, a father… a kind grandfather like in the stories…"
She lifted her gaze to meet his.
"Would someone have protected me then?"
"No, child," Dumbledore said softly. "I will protect you. So will the professors—and Hagrid, whom you've already met. He is a good man…"
He longed to ask what had come afterward—that was the key to everything.
But faced with a weeping child, he could not bring himself to reopen old wounds.
He could only comfort her, and in doing so he finally understood her harshness toward the Dursley family.
A soft core requires a hard shell.
Every cruelty had sprung from a heart without refuge.
A fragile child.
His sigh softened into a murmur as he spoke of wondrous magic.
And the Demoness's plan bore fruit.
"I had to protect myself," Hali said quietly. "My mother's voice guided me…"
She hesitated, as though uncertain.
"Hide. Run. I don't know how long it lasted. But during that ordeal, I seemed to master a strange magic."
She plucked a wisp of black flame into the air.
Dumbledore blinked.
It was unmistakably Dark Arts—yet there was no malice within it.
So he listened.
Seeing his hesitation, she steadied her voice.
"My mother's love gave me courage and strength. It led me to a red griffin, and then…"
A story required its silences.
After a pause, she added the final key.
"I heard it shriek in terror. Then it vanished. When I woke up… I was like this."
As Emperor Russell once wrote: Prescribe the remedy to fit the ailment.
To convince Dumbledore, she needed elements dear to his heart.
A mother's love—he had always said love was the greatest magic of all.
A red griffin—Gryffindor, the house of her parents, and his own.
Most of what she told was true. Only the other world remained hidden.
"Child," Dumbledore said at last, lowering his head, "fear no more. That nightmare will never touch you again."
No further emotion showed on his time-worn face.
"As for your question… I believe I have an answer."
He did not. But conjectures had formed.
Perhaps a powerful spell had allowed her to live a tormented span within a dream.
The change in gender—possibly born from terror and revulsion toward the past, an unconscious attempt to escape identity.
At eleven years old, subjected to such trauma, an uncontrolled magical surge could warp the body. History recorded precedents.
As for the Dark Arts—likely remnants of Voldemort's soul.
Dumbledore chose a gentle lie.
"A magical outburst," he said. "Young wizards sometimes lose control of their emotions and produce unusual effects. A rare few are born with the ability to wield peculiar magics, but…"
His tone grew earnest.
"…that does not reflect your character. Do you understand?"
Was he afraid of dark influence?
Or was he simply trying to protect her?
She weighed the question and saw the truth.
He feared that Harriet Potter might walk a path from which there was no return.
She nodded gravely, fingers clenched in the hem of her robe, ready to bring the scene to its close.
"I understand, Professor," she said.
"I won't fail my parents' hopes."