Dumbledore's words were cold, but I didn't show the slightest hint of fear as I replied.
"You haven't the faintest idea, Headmaster," I let slip, letting out a low laugh laced with a tinge of genuine mania. "From Death Eaters on this continent to cultists in the depths of the Amazon. But don't adopt that moralistic stance, don't pretend you're ready to execute me right here... We both know you won't. Not in this building. Not under these circumstances."
"At this point, boy, I am not certain what limits I am capable of crossing either," Dumbledore stated, without an ounce of mercy in his countenance. "Unforeseen accidents are also known to happen in the corridors of the Ministry."
"I don't think it would be wise for you to play that card," I mocked subtly, keeping my head hidden between my knees, refusing to grant him the benefit of a glance. "My parents would never forgive you if something happened to me. Although... I must thank you for not sabotaging my performance out there. I have absolutely no interest in them finding out about the nature of this... other life I lead."
"No parent would want to discover that the son they raised with love is, in truth, a manipulative, corrupt, and heartless being," Dumbledore murmured, and for the first time, a trace of real fatigue tarnished his voice. "The Weasleys do not deserve to carry such an ordeal... But my silence toward them does not prevent me from acting accordingly with you."
"Heh, heh, heh..." The laughter bubbled from my throat with greater intensity, purposely accentuating the spasmodic shivering of my shoulders to maintain visual consistency from the window. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, Albus, but unleashing your power right now would only destroy the scenery. You would achieve absolutely nothing of substance... Beyond vaporizing another blood clone."
The provocation was a direct dart to his pride, an explicit reminder of the tactical fiasco he had suffered in his own office. I saw the Headmaster's lip twitch rhythmically. In that microsecond, I was an identical, ungraspable reflection of that other brilliant student who had slipped through his fingers decades ago. I was forcing him to relive the weight of his greatest failure, the certainty of having allowed another monster to flourish right under his nose.
"Do you never face your problems in person?" he inquired with veiled annoyance, realizing that this supposed duel to the death, which had shaken the political foundations of Great Britain, had been nothing more than a board game to me where I had merely sacrificed a plasma pawn. "Is there even a true you behind so many masks?"
"I don't usually question the legitimacy of my own resources, Headmaster. Although I concede that using doubles in a duel of honor qualifies as a subtle cheat," I commented calmly. "But ramble all you wish. Regardless, I doubt you have the time required to design an effective countermeasure against my network of clones. You won't need to concoct one of your famous long-term sacrifice plans, nor delegate the burden of my execution to the next generation of heroes. There will be no major conflicts between us after today... We will have no reason to fight."
"You seem dangerously certain of your assertions." (Dumbledore)
"Of course I am. You see... I have a little surprise reserved for you back at the castle. One that, while I don't know if it will make you weep on your knees at my feet begging for mercy, will definitively erode all the animosity you harbor toward me," I sketched a final smile hidden in the gloom. "I shall await you in your office when this bureaucratic circus concludes. There I will hand over your gift... And, if it serves as a token of my most sincere courtesy, this time I can guarantee that I will attend with my real body."
Dumbledore let out an imperceptible huff, keeping his wand firmly channeled beneath his robes.
"I do not believe you possess the necessary credit for me to believe that." (Dumbledore)
"As you prefer," I concluded, allowing the smile to dissolve as I transitioned back into a muffled, rhythmic sob, much more subdued than the initial one.
Right at that moment of mathematical synchronicity, the wooden door swung wide open. My mother crossed the threshold in a rush, holding a glass of water with trembling hands and running immediately toward my position. Upon confirming that my breathing had stabilized and that the tremors were subsiding, a profound relief softened Molly's features. She turned her face toward the Headmaster, giving him a look heavy with immense and sincere gratitude, believing the old man had worked a therapeutic miracle on my mind. Dumbledore, caught in the threads of his own institutional farce, could only force a painful, artificial, and hollow smile.
Almost immediately, my father entered the room, his face livid from bureaucratic exhaustion, anxious to get us out of the Ministry and return us to the safety of The Burrow. After reiterating the family's thanks to a Headmaster who remained hieratic, I was escorted down the corridor, flanked by my protectors.
I walked away, playing the role of the perfect victim until the very last moment; a gear broken by the fatality of destiny, leaving Albus Dumbledore lagging behind in the dimness of the waiting room, his gaze fixed on my footsteps and a suffocating oppression crushing his heart.
My words continued to gravitate at the center of his consciousness, intertwining with every single ramification of my actions. There the old man remained, static in the middle of the bleak room, before being forced to leave the place to submerge himself fully into the problematic and chaotic aftermath that my victory had sown within the Ministry of Magic.
Upon crossing the threshold, Dumbledore confirmed that the outside world was still plunged into a feverish turmoil. Cornelius Fudge, barricaded behind a modest, improvised podium, was pouring out a grandiloquent speech while a pack of journalists surrounded him with floating quills and loaded questions. The Auror corps had already removed the inert remains of Lucius Malfoy, methodically covered beneath an official tarp. Of Narcissa Malfoy, however, not the slightest trace remained in the Atrium; the lady had evaporated from the scene long before the Ministry guard processed her husband's corpse. Practically a handful of seconds after the definitive verdict was rendered and she saw her husband's corpse up close, she had simply walked away, disappearing without leaving a single public tear behind.
In his capacity as the most prominent and influential figure of the era—Headmaster of Hogwarts, guardian of the "victorious student," and Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot—Dumbledore found himself invested with an inescapable civil responsibility. Protocol demanded that he appear before the media, offer an apparent technical clarification of the facts, appease the panic of the masses, and issue his ethical assessments on the litigation. It was a colossal bureaucratic and media gear that threatened to devour entire hours of his afternoon; however, far from being a setback, that siege proved strangely beneficial to him.
For my part, I possessed the necessary margin to polish the surprise at the castle. Although it was something I could do in the blink of an eye, it would have been unnecessarily humiliating if the old man to return prematurely to his office only to find an incomplete setting. On his end, Dumbledore shared that same tacit desire to prolong the time before his return. He harbored not the slightest doubt about the veracity of my warnings; he knew a "gift" awaited him in his office, so while his physical body fulfilled the demands of external diplomacy, his mind wandered on a radically different plane. His intellect was operating at full capacity, analyzing how to confront me, unraveling the mystery of my clone network, and calculating the terms of our future coexistence.
Naturally, despite the lack of certainty regarding what awaited him at Hogwarts, the Headmaster did not fear an outbreak of madness or a violent attack against the institution. He had studied me with utmost meticulousness and knew I was no lunatic. I would not harm the student community without a compelling justification; furthermore, he was aware of the deep and complex romantic relationships I maintained with several links in the female student body. Dumbledore interpreted those bonds as an informal system of counterweights; emotional anchors that, in the ultimate instance, would act as a handbrake should my ambitions attempt to overflow the boundaries of the tolerable. This subtle "control," this appearance of moral limits, was the sole argument that had dissuaded him from activating direct forceful measures against my person, assuming I was still a being with whom one could "negotiate."
The hours unraveled in a parsimonious fashion. Dumbledore made not the slightest effort to cut his appearance short; his statements were clear and fluid, but devoid of any bluntness that could bring the debate to a close. In this manner, he artificially extended his stay: first he attended to the press entourages; then he interviewed the team of investigators from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement who were analyzing the anomalous behavior of the barrier, and finally, he secluded himself in a private audience with Fudge. The old man paid only superficial attention to most of these matters; perhaps the mystery of the dome sparked a genuine flash of his academic curiosity, but the Ministry analysts and his own obtained no results that could prove useful to him at this juncture.
The public, ignorant of the background, dissolved into praise for the Headmaster's conduct. Everyone admired that a wizard of his stature would sacrifice his day to respond with evangelical patience to every official who approached, projecting the false image of a leader deeply distressed and committed to a transparent resolution of the tragedy. His prestige aggrandized within the corridors of power, without anyone suspecting that such impeccable prudence was nothing more than a crude strategy of dilatoriness to buy minutes of thought.
However, when the first purple hues of twilight began to tint the sky, the margin of waiting ended. It was no longer possible to delay the return. In fact, Fudge himself, perceiving such a prolonged and dominant presence of Dumbledore within the domains of his administration, was beginning to look visibly uncomfortable and nervous, fearing that the old man intended to politically capitalize on the power vacuum left by Malfoy.
Dumbledore took his formal leave, drawing a sigh of genuine relief from the Minister, and undertook the journey back to Hogwarts. He declined the use of the direct Floo Network to his office; instead, he summoned the flash of his phoenix, Fawkes, who seemed to have finally concluded his silent and rustic territorial duel against that other phoenix of unknown origin.
A flash of crimson fire crackled at the outer boundaries of Hogwarts, materializing the old man's silhouette. Dumbledore crossed the cast-iron gates and slowly walked into the castle grounds. He advanced with an expression so severe, rigid, and darkened that the few students and professors who crossed paths with him in the entrance halls retreated in intimidation, hesitating to approach him, bewildered by the unusual gravity weighing down their headmaster's countenance.
With slow steps, the old man walks through the corridors and rooms of the castle, while in his mind he prepared the final details of his plan. Today, once again, the weight of age made itself felt, and exhaustion overwhelmed him once more... truly, he envied those old men who could enjoy their old age... but he did not have that privilege, because too many people depended on him.