I'm wide awake, there's no more chronic pain in my bones – I feel more alive than ever. The difference a few days can make. It'd feel like a rebirth if there wasn't a catastrophe to be averted …

I would've bet my life on never hearing my own knocking on Albus Dumbledore's office door, yet here I am. After nightfall, visiting the man who revealed the world of magic to me with utmost remorse and skepticism.

The old door opens but a crack at first, and I'm surely too calm when Albus Dumbledore glances at me with no more excitement, remaining silent for a moment.

We almost examine each other, our thoughts equally protected and yet so obvious.

"Hello, Tom."

"Good evening, Professor."

He lowers his gaze to me and notices, probably for the first time in years, that I'm not even trying to be politely hypocritical.
No fake smile on my face, not today.

"Do you wish to come in, without a mask?"

"If you'd spare a moment of your precious time," I retort.

"We have all the time in the world, Tom. All the time in the world."

Stepping aside, he gestures for me to come in. Generosity so typical of Albus Dumbledore.

Entering his rooms, I can't help but acknowledge that he's got style. And a penchant for crimson as well as Art Deco – that cannot be denied.

"Tea?" he offers, making me snort out of reflex.

"Laced with Veritaserum?" I slowly shake my head. "No, thank you, sir. That probably won't be necessary today anyway, for the first time since we've known each other."

"You're making it pretty exciting," Dumbledore jests, turning his back to me to observe the Black Lake through one of the high windows in his huge office. "As you surely know, Tom, I was always a tad reluctant about you, and your aspirations. You do your house proud, and as an old Gryffindor myself, I do in no way say that with hostility … No, you embody everything that Salazar Slytherin wished to see in his students. Profound ambition, obvious dedication and a considerable amount of nature given talent. Many already see you as an important figure in the future of our world."

"What do you see?"

He doesn't turn around, his eyes never leaving the night outside. The first quarter of the moon is dimly reflected in the Lake. "I've been looking out over the shallows of this inland body of water from this office since we first met in London, Tom. Come closer, too – come, look at it." He waves me over to the window and then looks back at the glittering surface of the water. "People are divided whether they should call it the Great Lake – or the Black Lake."

"Sir, greatness and darkness are not mutually exclusive. I bet that's the crux of what you're getting at."

"Indeed, Tom." He briefly glances at me, then shifts his gaze back to the Lake. "Whenever I can't sleep at night because the day is still too present, I watch the surface of the water. Quite often, you see, mostly, actually, there is nothing unusual to notice. But still waters run deep, as the saying goes. And now and then, quite suddenly, almost imperceptibly, I watch something rise to the surface that nobody else sees. No one but me … But these seldom movements – they are real. Authentic. And the truth has the amazing characteristic of still being the truth even when no one believes it. Or wishes to believe it."

"Since your colleagues are praising me to the skies, you must at times feel quite lonely with your resentment towards me –"

"No resentment, Tom," he immediately corrects me, looking me straight in the eye for that matter. "Concern. Sincere sympathy –"

"Sympathy?" I give him a bitter smile. "Professor, your constant skepticism, this subliminal, condemning mistrust – you can't possibly have been telling yourself for years that it's doing some good?"

"That's how you perceived it?" He doesn't even blink. "I'm very sorry, Tom."

I shake my head, holding his gaze just as casually as he does mine. "You're lying. Because the Black Lake directly in front of you is by no means the first deep water that has worried you. While everyone is amazed by its greatness, no one wants to acknowledge the darkness. And although your experience of such still waters, combined with constant observation, should've given you the best idea of the demons that may rise from the depths, you have long since decided to stand by in supposed innocence, washing your hands of it all."

"You speak in riddles, Tom."

"As do you. So shall we perhaps spare ourselves the metaphors and allegories?"

"If you don't mind me being blunt –"

"Never," I assure him. "I only ever minded hypocrisy disguised as goodwill."

"Very well," he says, nodding. "Let's be frank, then. The main reason for my … possible prejudice towards you – and I hate to admit this, since I would rather see myself as an objective person – was and is rooted in your obvious parallels with a character who was once very close to me, and who developed in a direction that I deeply regret. Highly intelligent and gifted, and without a doubt, capable of doing great things. And causing great darkness."

"I was eleven years old, sir," I say, likely a bit too reproachfully, "when, because of your past, you decided I was suspicious."

"I know, Tom, but you were different. In no way like the other children. You were able to concentrate magic at such a young age, without a wand, mind you, better and more intuitively than I have ever witnessed – that is extremely rare. And probably the only reason why you didn't become an Obscurial, despite all your suppressed anger. Your magic was an outlet. Which was, by the way, even stranger than an eleven-year-old already using Unforgivable Curses …"

"The cook in the orphanage was a violent subject." I shrug. "With me only once, though, if you get my drift …"

"Oh, I do. I did. And yet you must admit that it seems rather disturbing, also for the other children –"

"It was not exactly a comforting place to be … as you so neatly put it, different."

"Mrs Cole had no way to see the signs. I am well aware of that … But if we are honest – and we agreed to be – it was and still is you yourself who's a danger to others."

"I did what was necessary to stay sane. The means and ways to achieve that would, of course, never match your noble maxims, but I just so happened to find myself with a little lack of role models …"

"No need to be cynical, Tom." He looks down, almost in odd amusement. "I know the principle of cause and effect. You were the only child I ever gave a Hogwarts letter to that did not want any help from me. You directly told me that you didn't need me to accompany you to Diagon Alley. You were always on your own, therefore very independent, from an early age on." He nods at me, regret drawing his features tight. "You had to grow up long before I visited you, out of necessity. And that must have been something that made me believe that you were in no way in need of protection. Unlike the others I hoped to protect. From –"

"Me."

"Yes." He nods. "I regret that, Tom, especially since the Easter holidays. You, too, were just a young soul in need of support … Rest assured that I recognize my mistakes for what they are. A leap of faith might have shown you different directions, but I fear that my obvious mistrust in you has only awoken the opposite of my intentions in you. Any attempt at honesty, no matter how subtle, has been suffocating because of my preconceptions, for it is evidently not your nature to bow to authority. You rather long to show authority its limits, and that you have succeeded in."

I'm not actually surprised by these revelations – but by Albus Dumbledore saying them out loud.

"You slipped away from me, Tom, right before my eyes," he continues. "So I can only assume that I'm partly at fault for whatever you were trying to do to yourself still only a few days ago."

"How much do you know?"

"I saw you with red irides, Tom," he almost whispers, and for the first time ever since I've known him, I notice genuine guilt in his face. "Professor Slughorn claims he has not given you any information, but he answered you a question about dark magic, didn't he?"

"It's not his fault," I all but sigh, "and trust our conversation wasn't particularly helpful. Initially leading the way, at most …"

"I've been looking through the Restricted Section of our library myself," Dumbledore says before abruptly striding over to a shelf on the opposite wall. He pulls out the very book Harper and I were holding in our hands before Christmas – with the split oak on the cover, representing the soul.

"You've read that, haven't you?"

I try my best to suppress any defiance within me and simply nod. I need him – he needs me. There's no point in getting into polemics now.

Probably with similar thoughts running through his mind, he gestures to the sofa and two opposite armchairs in the middle of the room. "Let's sit down."

I do as he asks and promptly find myself in one of the armchairs, glancing at him on the sofa over a coffee table.

He lets a cup of tea float to each of us – even though I protested earlier – and takes a sip before putting the book next to him, saying, "It thankfully failed to mention how a Horcrux is created. As any other source in the castle – I've combed through everything. Even the Ministry has nothing on them anymore, no one in Azkaban could give me any hints –"

"Frustrating, yes," I admit, barely suppressing a tired smile. "I had to realize that right before you did."

"I knew it was a play for time and that I had to act quickly, but the lack of sources seemed reassuring to me. Ancient, occult magic, but not even I could access any information on it – how did you do it?"

"You probably wouldn't believe me."

"Try it," he demands, nodding at me. "Please do. Not only because there must be a reason why you are here right now and because I suspect that a little trust will be necessary, but also … also out of honest interest …"

Revealing connections to Slytherin and thus Echidna and the Chamber of Secrets I'll fervently avoid. I could, however, at least offer Grindelwald as a somewhat reasonable explanation.

"I was in Albania during the holidays, sir."

And he immediately knows what that means.

"He's more versed in the Dark Arts than almost anyone else." Dumbledore closes his eyes thoughtfully, just for a second. "How did you find him? Why didn't he kill you on the spot?"

"Queenie Goldstein."

"Ah," Dumbledore breathes out, a glint of surprise sparkling in his eyes. "He's always trusted her, of course … A very kind witch. Really talented at Legilimency, probably just as good as you are if I judge it correctly. Did she owe you a favor, Tom?"

"Not me, but ladies from Soho …"

"Including Ms Vivian?" I hate how Dumbledore is so quick to jump to correct conclusions … "The orphanage wasn't far from this part of town, was it? That explains your lucky hand at cards."

I lean back in the armchair. "In the end, the house will always win. That's all one needs to know."

"Well, Madame Maxime could certainly tell you stories about Vivian's time at Beauxbatons … So that would be the one who'd helped with your alleged dragon pox, if only that had been the true reason for your devastating physical condition?"

"The trick is to always speak a little truth, isn't it?"

"Sure, Tom, it is … So you found your way to Albania and got the chance to talk to him. To negotiate?"

I nod.

"What did he ask in return? You can't talk to men like him without paying your debts."

"I noticed," I confirm, Dumbledore becoming increasingly concerned.

"Gellert is only interested in very specific artifacts he's been searching for decades," he specifies.

"As luck would have it, I was carrying one of them with me," I admit. "A Deathly Hallow." I let that sink in for a moment.

Dumbledore's reaction, however, is different than I'd have expected. I was prepared for anger, accusations and being expelled, but Dumbledore – as so often – proves that he simply cannot be fooled.

"That can only mean one thing, and I deliberately avoided believing it for a long time," he gravely says. "The prophecy … You are that child." More to himself than to me, he mumbles, "I feared it was true back then, in the orphanage, but it seemed so far-fetched out of all the possibilities in the universe." He looks up again. "That's really interesting … I did underestimate you, Tom, despite all my concerns."

To my honest chagrin, I feel no different about him.

"And," he continues, "I'm more than glad that you're here after all."

From now on, things are going to get uncomfortable, I just sense it. Because I had misjudged him just as much as he had misjudged me. Because he's about to put two and two together and discover my true origins …

"Glad?" I stall, with but a spark of hope that he won't go into it any further. "I'm afraid we'll see if you're truly glad about it when we end this conversation."

"Then let's continue accordingly," he says, smirking. Heavens, I just don't trust the man … "Well, you were lucky to hold the Resurrection Stone. Helpful indeed, in his opinion, according to the prophecy." In a tense mixture of bewilderment and superstition, he inches forward to regard me intently. "Am I right, Tom?"

"Why are you sure it was the Stone?" I can't help but raise an amused brow just like him as I begin to speculate. "I had an odd feeling you might have tracked down one, too. So you actually know about the –"

"The whereabouts of the invisibility cloak. Yes."

What I thought was an almost impossible absurdity in Albania turns out to be another irony of fate – and reality.

"The ring with the stone, however," he adds, "I was never able to find. Now it's obviously too late to save it – but where was it, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Curiosities are practically lying on the street where I come from," I vaguely answer.

Dumbledore eventually nods, knowing full well that I won't tell him any more details about it. "How does the ritual work?" he asks instead. "You look much healthier than you did a week ago. Not so pale, not so hungry. I was genuinely worried about you – but I'm unsure whether your health is a good or a bad sign …"

"Depends on the perspective," I find. "It's not one, but five rituals. The first of them to be held in a full moon night, the last in a night of new moon. The soul's light is gradually being banished into an object of choice, admittedly with quite an amount of pain and by repeating an incantation – but I didn't complete the fifth ritual, and therefore did not ultimately split my soul."

"Why not?" More hopefully he adds, "Was the murder missing?"

"Sir, you surely remember the rabbit."

"That's got to be the worst lie you've ever told with a straight face, Tom."

"Possibly."

He tries not to be too reprimanding as he guesses, "Was it the man your boggart turned into years ago?"

Actually … why not.

I hesitantly nod, pretending to be coy so that he doesn't end up thinking I'm lying because I confirm it too quickly.

"Surely it was an accident?" he is reluctant to even ask. "You were but a child, you wouldn't have –"

"The man fell off a cliff," I inform him while Morfin, all his blood, and the rusty old nail, come back to me. "I'd made a postcard showing the very cliffs we were standing on float, he saw that from afar. And in his awe, he tripped and fell." A blatant lie – the corpse in the cave had already been down there, decomposing when I reached the water-washed entrance, but whatever makes Dumbledore stop asking any more questions will do …

"The ritual is said to require a murder."

"An accident resulting in death was apparently enough."

"Very well," he says, taking another sip of tea. "Then why didn't you complete it?"

"Mind and body must be in agreement to release the soul – in the end, that wasn't the case with me."

"Some sources say that happens because of love, Tom. And that the agony such a blockage can bring almost drives people mad, or costs them their life."

"Gasping and on my knees I learnt that the hard way, yes. But you know me – better than I'd like you to. I'm ambitious, as you mentioned … I was close."

He nods, breathing a sigh of relief. "Thank heavens you wanted to salt your breakfast back then. I'm very glad you still have full possession of your soul, Tom, even if you'll probably regret your plan every year at the end of October from now on." I give him an incredulous glance, but he only continues thoughtfully. "The price of immortality is ultimately our humanity. The price of trying to shed it is an annual lesson in humility …"

"See, sir, now you're speaking in riddles."

"You don't have to burden yourself with it just yet, Tom. It's fine."

"It's fine?" I shake my head impatiently. "What do you mean by that?"

"You think it's a disadvantage, don't you? Humanity. But it isn't."

"It very much is," I reply, annoyed by his evasive answer, "especially considering that your old friend knows me well now and will certainly want to interact more regularly."

"Why were you allowed to leave?" Dumbledore asks. "It wasn't just an exchange, was it? The Stone for information alone wouldn't have required to let you go …"

We're getting closer to the core of the problem – and I can see it in his face. He suspects what we are about to discuss, even if he hopes it won't turn out that way.

"I have agreed to an unbreakable vow dictating one more favor."

"An unbreakable vow?" Dumbledore repeats as though the words and their meaning alone should make me question myself.

"Yes, sir. A little less theatrical than a blood pact like the one you two made all those years ago, but still quite binding."

Dumbledore intuitively inches back in his seat and glares at me. "Tom, what were you thinking?"

"You see, we've reached the point where I'm no longer sure whether you are still glad about our conversation …"

"That entirely depends on your vow."

"I'm not sure how to word this diplomatically, especially to you, but –"

"Say it," Dumbledore demands.

"I swore to break your blood pact."

He just blinks at first, then he leans toward me again. "You did what?" In disbelief he stares me down, not even trying to hide his doubts regarding my sanity for another second.

Still I nod. "I thought you'd find that a bit problematic …"

"I've been trying to break that pact for years," he whispers to me, "and you swear on your life that you could? Risk the death of everyone you care about? That was beyond foolish, Tom, do you really crave to destroy yourself and others so fervently?"

"Complications down the line are almost to be expected, yes," I admit. "But at least I'm not coming to you with empty hands …"

He regards me intently as I pull out a vial with Echidna's yellow-shimmering poison, holding it up to the light of the lampshades.

"What do you think you have right there?" he asks under his breath. "I've tried every potion under the sun, Tom, and I've tried them all several times. What do you think you bring me?"

"Something that has never been watered down under the sun, sir."

He shakes his head, sighing audibly. "Tell me exactly what this is, right now, or else –"

"I can't."

"Do not lie to me! You're holding up the venom of a basilisk, and you're as aware of it as I am. But where did you get it from?"

Damn it …

"How do you know it's venom of a –"

"Because I've been looking for it for years!" he talks right over me, getting up to demand the vial. I hand it to him so he can inspect it and, admittedly curious, I watch him until he seems no less irritated.

"Where is it from, Tom? Where did this poison come from?"

I try to evade the question again. "Was your search for it as unsuccessful as the one for clues regarding the Horcrux ritual? You don't seem to have that much luck with that sort of endeavor, sir –"

"Tom, tell me!"

I sigh, then I nod fatalistically and begin with yet another white lie. "Are you somewhat familiar with a woman named Nagini?"

"Indeed," he confirms, glancing at the vial against the light. "A remarkable person who in no way deserves her curse. Do you get on well with her?"

"Sir?"

"I can speak to snakes. I found out when we've been to the country on trips – they find me, they whisper to me. Those were your words when we first met."

I inwardly groan. I knew that honesty would one day cause me trouble, but I could've hardly imagined that this detail hinting at a connection to Slytherin would become so damning …