At Tom's prompting while his whiteboard was flashing with increasingly urgent questions, Ariana recounted the events of Transfiguration class in complete detail.
According to her account, the situation had been remarkably simple, at least from her perspective. Before class officially began, Professor McGonagall had asked about the unusual gloves Ariana was wearing which was a reasonable question from a professor known for her keen observational skills and intolerance for unexplained magical items in her classroom.
Ariana had simply demonstrated the gloves' function honestly, showing how they allowed her ghost hands to grip solid objects, manipulate her wand with proper dexterity, interact with the physical world in ways that should have been impossible for a ghost.
During the demonstration, the stored magical energy had depleted as the gloves' charge was running low after long use, so Ariana had politely requested that Professor McGonagall channel some magic into them to recharge their capacity.
A simple enough request, really. Ariana had thought nothing of it.
But from that moment forward, Professor McGonagall's demeanor had changed noticeably. She had grown increasingly distracted throughout the lesson, her attention was drifting from the students' matchstick-to-needle transformations to the gloves on Ariana's hands.
The instant class dismissed, Professor McGonagall had collected Ariana without explanation and marched directly toward the Great Hall, clearly intent on locating Tom.
Upon learning from various Hufflepuff students that Professor Flitwick had already taken Tom away for discussion, Professor McGonagall had turned immediately toward Flitwick's office dragging Ariana along.
Finding that office empty, McGonagall had made the logical jump and brought Ariana directly here to Dumbledore's office.
As for what exactly had triggered Professor McGonagall's urgency, what precisely she wanted to discuss with Tom and her? The professor hadn't explained, and Ariana hadn't dared ask too many questions.
After all, Professor McGonagall was her House Head. Surely she wouldn't do anything harmful to a student at her own brother's school. Right?
Listening to Ariana's explanation, Tom understood. The gloves. Of course it was about the gloves. That seemed to be the only logical explanation for this particular union of attention.
But the question was: why?
They were just a small trinket he'd crafted casually in a few hours. Certainly useful, definitely clever, but surely not significant enough to warrant summoning the headmaster? Unless the gloves contained some deeper significance, some hidden property that even Tom himself hadn't realized when making them?
'That seems unlikely though. This level of toys should be creatable by plenty of skilled wizards... probably? Maybe? I think?'
He watched Dumbledore and McGonagall conversing in low, intense tones across the desk, their expressions looked serious. His confidence in his assessment was began wavering slightly.
Dumbledore, for his part, paid no attention to Tom and Ariana's whispered chat; he was simply listening intently to McGonagall describe the effects of the gloves.
Initially, learning that the gloves could be worn by a ghost hadn't particularly surprised him.
After all, Tom himself could interact with ghosts. And that burlap sack Tom had used to literally abduct Ariana from her portrait had also possessed the ability to contain a ghost. So, gloves made from similar materials exhibiting similar properties seemed logical within expected limitations.
However, this composure didn't last long because then Professor McGonagall mentioned, "Wearing these gloves, ghosts can regain their sense of touch."
Hearing this, Dumbledore sat straight upright, his previous relaxed posture was vanishing.
Allowing ghosts to touch physical objects was already extraordinarily rare. But restoring actual tangible sensation? That was exponentially more significant.
If word of this capability became public, if the gloves' construction method was published or replicated... the consequences staggered him. How many people would choose to 'continue' as ghosts after death, knowing they could still experience the physical world?
The boundary between life and death, already leaky in the magical world, would become even more blurred.
The social, ethical, and theological complications alone could occupy philosophers for decades.
But even that revelation, world-changing as it was proved merely the appetizer for what Professor McGonagall said next. The professor's voice dropped slightly:
"Additionally, according to Ariana's testimony and my own direct observation, even after the stored magical energy was completely depleted, the gloves continued to function at reduced capacity."
Upon hearing this, Dumbledore instantly became agitated. His mouth opened slightly. His eyes went very wide behind his half-moon spectacles.
Merlin's beard! What had he just heard? Alchemy tools could still function after magical depletion?! That's... that's not... alchemy doesn't work like that!"
Professor McGonagall nodded with the grim satisfaction of someone whose own worldview had been thoroughly scrambled and who now took comfort in witnessing the same happen to others.
Misery, as the saying went, loved company.
"I experienced precisely the same reaction when I recharged the gloves and observed Ariana still capable of gripping her wand afterward," she said.
It was precisely because she understood alchemy that she knew how defied common sense this behavior was, and the more she understood and mastered alchemy, the more she appreciated the shock this phenomenon brought.
Normal alchemical items were basically magical batteries with specific programmed functions. They stored power, released it according to their enchantments, and went inactive when depleted. That was the nature of the craft. You couldn't have an enchantment function without power any more than you could have a fire burning without fuel.
Except apparently you could, if you were Tom.
At that moment, Dumbledore finally understood why Professor Flitwick had fainted. Because even he felt his head spinning with dizziness. The foundations of his understanding were cracking like ice under spring thaw.
"Ariana, Tom," he said, his voice carrying an edge of desperate need for experiential confirmation. "Please come here."
After listening to McGonagall's account, Dumbledore had developed a powerful urge to verify these claims personally. He trusted Minerva's judgment implicitly.
But some part of him still clung to hope. To the possibility of error, misinterpretation, some small detail that would make this situation less reality-shattering than it appeared.
'Perhaps she misjudged the magical depletion,' his mind offered desperately. 'Perhaps some residual charge remained, too subtle for her to detect but sufficient to power the enchantments. That would still be remarkable, operating on near-zero power but at least it would stay within understood magical frameworks.'
While it was extraordinary for an alchemical artifact to work properly under these circumstances, he could still accept the former compared to 'it being able to be used without magic.'
However, when Ariana handed him the gloves and he felt them for the first time, that fragile hope began crumbling immediately.
"Wait." His fingers traced the material, testing its texture. "What are these made from?"
The sensation was entirely unfamiliar. Not dragon hide, he'd worked with that plenty. Not any known magical leather—acromantula silk, basilisk skin, re'em hide, none matched this peculiar quality. The material felt almost like leather but not quite, with an elasticity and warmth that didn't correspond to any substance in his experience.
What were these gloves made of?! They looked vaguely familiar, yet he couldn't recognize them at all.
(This? I made it with parchment, bandages, and moonstone powder.)
Tom counted on his fingers, explaining with a smug look,
(The parchment provides structure and magical capacity. The bandages add softness and flexibility for comfort. The moonstone powder harmonizes their properties, binding them into a unified material. That's what created the gloves you're holding.
Unfortunately, this material can only store so much magic.)
"???"
If Dumbledore's face could form question marks, they would have appeared physically above his head. His expression cycled through confusion, disbelief, and something approaching existential horror.
'You're saying this thing is made of? Is that right? That's... that can't... you can't just...'
The difficulty of what Tom was casually describing of taking completely disparate materials with no natural compatibility and fusing them into something new with novel properties compared to a Muggle chemist somehow combining gaseous hydrogen and oxygen into liquid water using only their bare hands and willpower.
Without equipment. Without understanding the underlying molecular processes. Just... doing it, because they thought it should work.
It was conceptually, theoretically, practically absurd.
After several moments of internal struggle, Dumbledore managed to compose himself enough to actually test the gloves properly. He channeled his own magical power into them, felt them accept and store the energy, then deliberately drained them completely.
The last whisper of hope died when Ariana donned the empty gloves and successfully picked up a quill from his desk.
The movement was slightly awkward, required more concentration than it would have with full charge, but it worked. She gripped the quill, lifted it and set it down. All without any magical energy powering the enchantment.
Fortunately, Dumbledore had been building psychological resilience through Tom's various previous incidents. The cumulative shocks from the bizarre potion brewing, the History of Magic transformation, the Charms catastrophe, and now this revelation about the gloves' materials had created a kind of emotional buffer,, like repeated exposure to mild poisons building immunity.
If this had been his first encounter with Tom's peculiar relationship with magical law, he likely would have joined Professor Flitwick in unconsciousness.
"Alright," he said eventually. "I understand the situation. The implications will require considerable thought."
He looked between Tom and Ariana, his expression was softening slightly into something more grandfatherly, and less shell-shocked.
"It's getting late. You two should head to the Great Hall—you might still catch a hot meal if you hurry."
Tom needed no further word. He was out of that office immediately, practically dragging Ariana with him. Explanations could wait. Implications could wait. He didn't know what problems the gloves might cause and frankly didn't want to know. They were a gift for his friend. As long as they didn't harm Ariana, the rest was somebody else's concern.
After watching the two students flee and really, there was no other word for that hasty retreat, Dumbledore sat in pensive silence for several minutes.
Then, unexpectedly, he chuckled.
"An experience this extraordinary," he murmured, pulling fresh parchment toward him and selecting his favorite quill, "should not be enjoyed alone."
He began writing with quick strokes.
"Old friend," Dumbledore said softly to the letter as he sealed it with wax and his personal seal, "I hope this rekindled your interest in the world's mysteries. It seems we've barely scratched the surface of what magic can accomplish."
He gave the letter to Fawkes, who accepted it with a melodious trill that might have been amusement. The phoenix spread his scarlet wings, flames were blooming around him in preparation for travel.
A moment later, Fawkes vanished in a flash of fire, carrying his letter toward a destination only Dumbledore and the phoenix knew.
What Dumbledore did after their departure, Tom neither knew nor particularly cared about. His immediate concerns were considerably more practical and food-focused.
He and Ariana stood in the corridor outside the Great Hall, close enough to hear the ambient noise of students eating and talking, close enough to smell the lingering scent of roasted meat and fresh bread.
But they weren't moving forward toward that food. They'd been stopped.
It wasn't that they didn't want to go in, but someone had blocked their way, and this person truly surprised him:
[Malfoy? What are you doing here?]
Indeed, standing in the corridor with a casual posture was Draco Malfoy.
He stood alone in the corridor, unusually without his two bodyguards, Crabbe and Goyle.