When the twisted, humiliated face of Helmut Volk finally vanished in the last flicker of green fire, the tension that had filled the Headmaster's Office ebbed away with it.
Alan Scott bowed slightly, performing a gesture of flawless courtesy far too mature for his age. Then, with Dumbledore's faint nod of dismissal, he turned and left.
The heavy oak door closed behind him with a muted click. The circular room atop Hogwarts' tallest tower returned to its old, quiet rhythm.
The fire in the hearth dimmed until only a few embers glowed faintly red. The delicate silver instruments on their spindly legs resumed their soft, rhythmic ticking, the steady breath of the castle itself.
But the silence did not last long.
On the surrounding walls, the painted figures within the portrait frames began to stir. One by one, the former Headmasters and Headmistresses of Hogwarts woke from their painted slumber, colors returning to their faces.
A low murmur of conversation rippled through the portraits, like the first thawed stream of early spring.
"Albus, that Scott boy…"
A sharp, disdainful voice cut across the room, the portrait hanging highest above Dumbledore's chair.
Phineas Nigellus Black.
His narrow, pale Slytherin face and pointed beard radiated habitual scorn. His dark eyes glinted with judgment as he leaned forward in his frame.
"I must say," he began, his tone dripping with contempt, "there was not a trace of Gryffindor honor in that display! Cunning, audacious, and utterly unscrupulous!"
His voice rose, echoing through the office.
"To extort, yes, extort, a renowned continental enchanter before your very eyes! To turn another man's blunder into a bargain for knowledge! It's the sort of deal one expects from goblins, not wizards!"
His accusation hung in the air, and murmurs of uneasy agreement followed from several other portraits.
"Phineas may have a point," said a kindly-looking witch, her soft features framed by silver curls. Once a healer at St. Mungo's, her tone carried regret rather than anger. "Albus, that boy's composure… it's unsettling. The level of calculation and restraint he showed, no second-year should possess such control. There's no trace of childish impulse in his eyes."
Dumbledore stood silently, his expression unreadable.
Behind the half-moon spectacles, his blue eyes remained calm, lucid, reflective, like deep water in starlight.
He did not speak immediately. He merely turned, walking toward the great arched window. His long robes whispered across the floor, a sound as soft as parchment turning.
Outside stretched the Scottish Highlands, vast and dark beneath a boundless night. Thousands of stars glittered above like spilled diamonds, casting their cold, eternal brilliance upon the glass.
Dumbledore stood there for a while, as if listening to the quiet order of the universe.
When he finally spoke, his voice was almost a whisper, gentle, thoughtful, yet resonant enough to reach every portrait in the room.
"No, Phineas," he said softly.
"He is not cunning."
He turned slightly, the starlight catching in his silver hair and beard, giving him an almost unearthly radiance.
"He simply uses a form of thinking that feels… unfamiliar to us. A kind of logic, colder, clearer, and perhaps, in its own way, more honest, to solve the problems he faces."
His words carried the quiet certainty of deep understanding.
"You saw what happened," he continued, raising one long finger as if tracing the flow of memory in the air.
"From start to finish, he sought no wealth. Not a single Galleon."
"He did not ask for power, no favors from the Ministry, no threats, no leverage."
"All he sought, was knowledge."
The final word lingered, soft yet heavy with meaning.
"Pure knowledge," Dumbledore said. "The most fundamental kind, untainted by ambition, unclouded by greed."
His tone grew distant, almost wistful. His gaze drifted upward through the glass, into the cold brilliance of the stars.
"It reminds me," he murmured, "of someone I once knew… another young man, brilliant beyond measure, insatiably curious about the limits of magic and the boundaries of the world."
He did not speak the name. He did not need to.
Every portrait in the office knew it.
Gellert Grindelwald.
They had all witnessed that age, when two of the brightest stars ever to shine over Hogwarts rose side by side…
and how, inevitably, their paths had diverged into light and shadow.
Silence fell like a shroud.
Even Phineas Nigellus Black held his tongue. The paint on his portrait seemed to stiffen, his sardonic sneer fading into contemplation as he watched Dumbledore's profile outlined against the starlight.
They all understood.
The comparison was both profound and perilous.
At last, Dumbledore spoke again. His voice broke the stillness, lighter now, touched with the warmth of relief.
"But Alan," he said quietly, "is purer than he was."
A faint smile softened his face, part pride, part hope.
"His logic is untouched by the lust for power or the hunger for control. For him, knowledge is an end, not a means. He seeks to understand the world… not to rule it."
The firelight flickered, casting gold across his calm features.
"And that," Dumbledore said firmly, "is perhaps the greatest blessing our world could have."
The room was silent once more.
But this silence was different, no longer tense or judgmental, but solemn, reverent.
The portraits, one by one, fell quiet, each lost in thought.
They looked at Dumbledore, standing tall in the moonlight, a gentle smile beneath his silver beard.
They all knew what his words meant.
Alan Scott, a twelve-year-old Gryffindor student, had already earned a place in the heart and mind of the greatest wizard of their age,
and perhaps, in the long, unfolding story of magic itself.
~~----------------------
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