The headmaster's office was far cozier than Ren remembered. Warm, almost inviting, though she couldn't quite shake the odd, watchful stillness that seemed to hum beneath the air. The portraits of the former headmasters and headmistresses lined the high walls, most of them fast asleep in their frames, snoring softly beneath tiny embroidered blankets. A few pretended to rest but clearly peeked through half-lidded eyes at the visitor sitting awkwardly before their successor.
Ren scanned the shadowy corners of the room with hesitant curiosity. It wasn't her first time here, not by a long stretch. She had been here in her first year, and then the year after, and again the year after that. It was almost tradition by now, whenever she felt like she'd made a colossal mistake by coming to Hogwarts, she'd somehow end up in this office, standing before Dumbledore and insisting that she wanted to go home. Back then, she'd ranted about how she hated magic, how it ruined everything it touched, how she never asked for any of this. And every time, Dumbledore had listened without interruption, as if her outbursts were simply another form of homework he needed to mark.
Now, years later, she sat once again before his desk. Only this time, she wasn't sure whether she'd come to confess, to accuse, or to beg for help.
Dumbledore cleared his throat gently, the sound slicing through the thick silence like a quill scratching on parchment. He poured himself a faintly glittering liquid from a crystal decanter into a goblet. The drink shimmered in the firelight, rippling between silver and gold. Without a word, he offered one to her.
Ren accepted it quickly, half because she was nervous and half because her throat felt dry as dust. The liquid was cold when it touched her tongue, but as it slid down, it warmed her from the inside out, a strange but pleasant contradiction.
"So," Dumbledore said, finally breaking the quiet. "You have… problems with Mr. Pettigrew?"
Ren blinked, caught off guard. "No," she said flatly. "I don't know him. Don't wish to, either."
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled faintly behind his half-moon spectacles. He said nothing, only tilted his head as if noting the deliberate sharpness in her tone. Ren took another sip of the drink, pretending not to notice.
"I see," he murmured. "May I see your wand for a moment?"
Ren hesitated, then handed it over, the polished wood still faintly warm. Without another word, Dumbledore raised his own wand and tapped the tip of hers. A faint shimmer of blue light emerged, followed by a whisper of echoing magic that revealed the trace of her last spell. Ren's heart dropped.
She hadn't expected him to do that.
"So," he said again, his voice mild, his gaze unreadable.
"He bumped into me. Twice." She said it simply, not as an excuse, but as if stating a fact.
"Which was an accident," Dumbledore countered softly.
Ren's eyes widened in disbelief. "It's your fault," she burst out, her voice breaking through the calm like a crack in ice. "I told you—magic isn't for me! It's bad. You see? It's making me bad!"
For the briefest moment, Dumbledore's lips twitched, as though suppressing a laugh. "Your reasoning," he said, "is far from impeccable, my dear." His tone was not mocking, only faintly amused in that maddeningly wise way of his.
"It was your choice to use that striking spell," he continued after a pause.
Ren looked down. The words stung because they were true. She could have pushed Pettigrew back, or yelled, or walked away. But she hadn't. She'd snapped, and her wand had followed her temper before her mind could stop it. Still, admitting that wasn't an option for her.
"I wanted to speak with you," she muttered instead, steering the conversation away before it could bruise her pride further.
"You may," Dumbledore said, shuffling through a pile of papers on his desk, his voice patient but attentive.
Ren took a breath that felt too heavy for her chest. "I haven't figured out what I am yet," she said finally, the words trembling out of her. "Whether I'm… this," she gestured vaguely, "or the being of the night." Her voice dropped lower ashamed. "I don't know which one's real."
He paused, quill midair, and looked at her over the rim of his glasses. "Well," he said slowly, "that's progress, isn't it?"
Her head jerked up. "But you know what I am. You know who I am." She leaned forward, gripping the edge of his desk so tightly that the papers fluttered. Her eyes glowed faintly in the firelight, desperate and pleading.
"I know as much as you know about yourself, Ren," he said calmly, his expression unreadable but kind.
"I'm in a state of limbo," she whispered. "Half this, half something else. And I'm afraid—afraid I'll end up like him." Her throat tightened. "Like the dark wizard who killed my mum."
Dumbledore's gaze softened, and for a moment, his usual playfulness faded into solemn understanding. "When I met you," he said quietly, "you were an Obscurial. Those afflicted with such a condition are known for their raw, uncontrollable magic. Most of them… do not live very long." He set down his quill and leaned back in his chair. "But you were different. You contained it. Controlled it, even while it tried to consume you. That was… extraordinary."
Ren sat silently, the memory of that terrible childhood moment flashing behind her eyes.
"Many young witches and wizards," he went on, "don't manage to harness their power until they've been properly taught. Yet you, even as a frightened child, kept your magic from destroying everything around you. That tells me something, Ren."
She didn't respond, though she wanted to. The words made sense, but they didn't help. They didn't tell her who she was, only what she'd survived.
Dumbledore leaned forward slightly, his voice gentle again. "Perhaps," he said, "you should explore your vampire lineage as well. You might find that the balance you seek lies not in denying either side, but in embracing both. Harmony rarely comes from rejection."
He smiled faintly, that maddening little smile that felt both reassuring and impossibly distant, as if he already knew how her story would unfold but refused to spoil the ending.
Ren stood slowly, her legs unsteady. "Harmony my ass," she muttered, half to herself. "Right."
She walked out of the office, the soft murmur of sleeping portraits fading behind her. The corridor outside was colder, quieter. Each step echoed faintly against the stone floor, carrying the weight of too many thoughts.