The stone was more beautiful than he'd ever seen it. Light springing up from the old wooden fireplace reflected off its every facet, creating a dazzling golden mosaic that danced across the sturdy cabin walls. The old, wizened man had to push his glasses down to the crook of his nose to avoid an onslaught of blinding radiance. He sighed, glancing away from the ring and staring around the empty lodge that had become his latest abode. No amount of beauty could replace the sense of loneliness plaguing him now.
Dumbledore missed the sound of conversation — the cacophony of sounds, the clamoring of so many voices seeking to be heard. He thought of the great hall with nostalgia, memories flashing through his mind of countless students grabbing for mountains of food. One student in particular he remembered being extremely enthusiastic about his appetite.
Sometimes for hours, Dumbledore would sit and ruminate over old times, wondering what exactly had happened in the world since his revival. He thought of his old students, remembering especially Harry Potter's round spectacles staring up him, magnifying two sparkling eyes screaming out for a better world.
It was with great pain that Dumbledore had decided to stay away from these old pupils he would now be proud to call friends. It's always just better when the dead stay dead and the living are allowed to continue on with their lives. However great the pain of isolation may be, the old headmaster was determined to bear it in the name of a normal life for those who had always seemed to have a blinding trust and compassion for him. It was always bittersweet to think about those old times. They were like his children. But of course, they have their own children now, he thought. Children they would die for — children to whom he could only possibly bring trouble.
Struggling to veer off course from this always disturbing and melancholy train of thought, Dumbledore turned his attention back to the stone, gazing at his old friend in a perplexed manner, curious as to its new, more grandiose form. The Resurrection Stone had never before had this magnificent golden plating, nor the strange ornate script now running around it, its swooping letters hypnotizing in their complexity. For some reason, a chill went down the old man's spine when he opened his mouth in an effort to begin sounding out the unintelligible language. He knew from experience that trusting these sorts of instincts was the key to survival. But when a man dies once and comes back to life, he develops a very irrational sense of invincibility. Or perhaps this is just the realization that death will come despite the keenest of instincts even at the most crucial of times.
` As he began to read the script aloud, Dumbledore could feel something very strange happening. He felt like an arm was gripping his shoulder, shaking the words from his mouth against his will. It may have been his choice to start the reading, but whatever new force the Resurrection Stone was playing host to had a will of its own.
Suddenly, a noise erupted from the fireplace. Ash spewed from the flames, and settled into another of the many layers of dust already accumulated on the cabin floor. The fire seemed angry, flickering from blue to orange, and hissing like an angry cobra. The old man's wizened eyes widened with astonishment. He had never seen anything like this.
Slowly, a shape began to form in the fire. At first he thought it might be just another man, resurrected from the dead. This was, after all, the Resurrection Stone's purpose. Maybe the script was just something that had escaped his notice in the past. Slowly, however, he realized that this could not be so.
The figure taking shape was inhuman, deformed. Slime dripped off of its body, and the fire hissed and blew smoke whenever the grotesque form touched the hearth's surface. A single foot reached out of the fire. It was a foot that could not possibly belong to something from this earth.
"Precious?" the squealing voice echoed from within the fire.