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Chapter 42: The Wheel of Fate Turns
🕑 Added 2025-03-10 04:11:59 +0000 UTCThe phoenix named Fawkes gently used its beak to tidy Ian's messy hair.
The air grew heavy with silence.
Two pairs of eyes locked onto each other.
Albus Dumbledore, his hand half-raised in an awkward motion, seemed unsure whether to put it down or keep it up. Despite his mastery of Occlumency, even he couldn't fully hide the awkward expression that flickered across his face.
"It seems Fawkes is quite fond of you. That's rather rare," Dumbledore finally broke the silence, his voice carrying a trace of surprise. "Most of the time, he maintains a rather aloof attitude toward humans."
"Professor..."
Ian was well aware that the fluffy creature perched on his head was one of the most formidable magical beings in existence. He shot Dumbledore a pleading look, doing his best to keep his head perfectly still.
He had always been fascinated by phoenixes, but that fascination didn't mean he wanted one literally grooming him. It was akin to a cat lover suddenly finding themselves nose-to-nose with a lion—admiration didn't necessarily mean they wanted such close contact.
"There's no need to worry," Dumbledore reassured him, peering at the scene through his half-moon spectacles, his blue eyes glinting with intrigue. "Phoenixes possess intelligence far surpassing that of humans. Fawkes is merely playing with you."
That explanation did nothing to ease Ian's tension.
It wasn't just that Fawkes was perched atop his head—it was what the bird was doing. The phoenix wasn't just preening him; it was carefully smoothing out his hair as if he were one of its own.
"Mrs. Elena once mentioned that you enjoyed being around birds," Dumbledore mused, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "Perhaps you possess an innate affinity for magical creatures, much like Newt Scamander."
That seemed like the most logical explanation.
It was well known that only those of the Dumbledore bloodline could summon a phoenix in times of crisis. Phoenixes were not creatures that reproduced in the traditional sense; rather, their existence was bound to a specific magical lineage.
At least, that was how it had always been believed.
However, when it came to Fawkes, this particular phoenix was bound solely to Albus Dumbledore. Its will and emotions were inextricably linked to him alone.
"Newt Scamander? The author of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them?" Ian asked, still maintaining his rigid posture, his balance carefully adjusted to accommodate the weight of the large bird on his head.
Dumbledore chuckled. "Indeed. He and I have been dear friends for many years. We've fought side by side more times than I can count." His expression took on a thoughtful quality. "If he knew there was a student like you at Hogwarts, he might finally accept my invitation to teach here. I believe I'll have to write him a rather persuasive letter."
"I don't think I have any special talent..." Ian muttered, trying not to move his lips too much lest he provoke the phoenix. "All I know is that your bird is having way too much fun at my expense."
Fawkes had moved on to Ian's eyebrows now, carefully smoothing them down.
It was far too close to his eyes for comfort.
And Ian couldn't help but wonder—did phoenixes have a curiosity about moving eyeballs?
The mere thought sent a shiver down his spine.
Who would have thought that a master at handling birds would one day be handled by a bird instead?
"That's enough, Fawkes. We should be on our way," Dumbledore finally intervened, recognizing Ian's distress.
"Chirp!"
With a reluctant cry, the phoenix finally took flight, a streak of fiery red soaring through the air before landing gracefully on Dumbledore's shoulder.
"If you ever need anything, you're always welcome to seek me out—or Professor Snape," Dumbledore added. "Despite his demeanor, he has a good heart. We'll both be more than willing to help you with any challenges you might face."
Whether he was referring to magical studies or something else entirely was left unsaid. With a warm smile, Dumbledore gave Ian a final nod before disappearing from the room with Fawkes in a swirl of magic.
The space settled once more.
Silence returned.
Ian let out a slow breath, his body still tense from the encounter.
Perhaps it was his frayed nerves, but he failed to notice the faint shimmer of an intricate marking on the back of his hand before it faded from view.
Even Dumbledore, with all his keen observation, had overlooked it.
Or perhaps...
No one else could see it but Ian.
Dumbledore materialized in the dimly lit corridors of Hogwarts.
The castle was bathed in soft moonlight, casting elongated shadows across the ancient stone walls. The glow of the torches flickered gently, painting the winding halls in a warm, golden hue.
"Fawkes, you were rather forward tonight," Dumbledore murmured, stepping toward a window where the phoenix settled on his shoulder once more. "I believe you may have startled the boy."
"Chirp..."
The phoenix let out a low, musical trill.
"You think he needs your care?" Dumbledore mused, tilting his head slightly. He didn't speak the language of phoenixes, but after years of companionship, he had learned to understand Fawkes' intent.
"Chirp!"
The bird responded firmly.
Dumbledore exhaled slowly. "Fascinating... two extraordinary children."
A gust of wind swept through the corridor, rustling his robes as he gazed at the moonlit landscape outside. His usually composed expression betrayed a flicker of uncertainty. His mind turned, filled with questions.
He was thinking.
Pondering.
Murmuring to himself.
"I only hope it's not what I fear..."
The elderly wizard's silhouette seemed smaller under the weight of the night. His shoulders, once so firm and resolute, carried a quiet exhaustion.
And then—
The sound of approaching footsteps echoed through the corridor.
A figure draped in black robes emerged from the depths of the castle, carrying several small boxes in his hands. The scent of rare herbs and potions filled the air.
"Severus," Dumbledore greeted without turning around. His voice, however, carried unmistakable certainty.
"Ah, Albus," Severus Snape drawled, his expression as sharp as ever. "Still awake, I see. Perhaps you'd like a dose of Dreamless Sleep Potion? It might spare you a night of restless brooding."
Dumbledore finally turned, his gaze falling on the potion ingredients in Snape's hands. "While I suspect I won't be sleeping well tonight, I'd rather not become reliant on potions."
Snape merely raised an eyebrow. "A foolish decision."
His tone was as biting as ever.
"Still working on the Felix Felicis?" Dumbledore asked, keenly observing the ingredients. He wasn't just making small talk—it was a way to shift the conversation.
"If you change your mind, you know where to find me," Snape muttered before turning to leave.
But then—
"Wait a moment."
Snape paused, glancing back with mild impatience.
"Changed your mind already?"
Dumbledore shook his head. "No, this is about something else. A simple request, if you will. It's purely a matter of curiosity, so I hope you won't read too much into it."
Snape crossed his arms, his patience thinning. "Get on with it, then."
Dumbledore hesitated for the briefest moment before lowering his voice.
"When you have the time, I'd like you to look into the Prince family records. Specifically, the last five generations. See if there was ever a marriage between the Prince family and the Dumbledore bloodline."
For once—
It was Severus Snape's turn to be caught completely off guard.
