The fire crackled, flames twisting high, casting golden light across the stone walls of Dumbledore's office. The warmth should have been comforting, but Sia barely felt it. Her hands curled around a mug of hot chocolate, its rich scent filling the space between them.

Fifteen minutes. That's how long she had been sitting here. Long enough for her breathing to slow, for the panic to fade into something colder. He had said nothing in that time, allowing her the silence she needed.

Now, as the grandfather clock ticked steadily in the corner, he finally spoke.

"Would you like to tell me what happened?"

His voice was gentle, coaxing rather than demanding. He never asked questions idly; each one was placed with careful precision, like chess pieces on a board.

Sia's fingers tightened around the mug.

What do I say?

The truth was a tangled mess. A curse-bound secret wrapped in centuries of silence.

She forced a shrug, keeping her expression carefully neutral. "I lost control."

Dumbledore didn't react immediately. His sharp blue eyes studied her over his half-moon spectacles, unreadable. "It was more than that, wasn't it?"

The words made her tense. He had felt it-her magic reaching, hungering. She had nearly tried to take from him. And yet, here he was, offering kindness instead of fear.

She swallowed hard. "I-" She hesitated, then forced out, "It won't happen again."

He sighed, leaning back in his chair. "That is not my concern, Miss Ashford."

The name made something twinge inside her. A sharp, wrong feeling.

Not Ashford. Never Ashford.

But she couldn't correct him.

She wouldn't.

Her family would never forgive her.

The Velthornes had erased themselves from history for a reason. If she spoke now-if she tried-would the curse punish her? Would she even be able to say the words?

Her breath hitched.

Dumbledore's gaze softened. "You are afraid."

She looked away. "I don't know what you mean."

"You do." He said it with certainty, as if he could see straight through her. "And I believe, perhaps, there is more than one reason for it."

Her pulse quickened. She had to be careful. "You're making assumptions."

"Am I?" He tilted his head, the firelight glinting off his silver beard. "You have carried this burden alone for quite some time, haven't you?"

She flinched. Don't answer. Don't engage.

"Power such as yours does not appear overnight," he continued. "Nor does it stay hidden without great effort."

The heat from the mug seeped into her palms, grounding her.

Dumbledore was too perceptive. Too close to the truth.

She had to shut this down.

"I can control it," she said, her voice flat.

Dumbledore did not look convinced. "Perhaps. But no one should have to do so alone."

A pause.

Then-

"I can help you, Sia."

She stiffened.

Not Miss Ashford this time.

Her name.

Or at least, the one she claimed.

Her lips parted, but no words came.

Dumbledore waited, patient as ever.

And for the first time in a long while-

She didn't know if she wanted to keep hiding.

The fire flickered, casting long shadows across the room. The warmth of the hot chocolate seeped into Sia's hands, but it did nothing to thaw the ice lodged in her chest. Dumbledore's words lingered in the air between them, too soft to be a command, too piercing to be ignored.

I can help you, Sia.

She wanted to scoff, to roll her eyes and pretend his offer meant nothing. She had spent years teaching herself to survive alone-to suppress, to endure, to hide. Help was a foreign concept, one she had never been foolish enough to rely on.

But something about the way he said it made her throat tighten.

She forced her voice to stay steady. "You don't even know what you're offering to help with."

Dumbledore's eyes, sharp and knowing, held hers. "That may be true." A pause. "But I suspect that is because you will not allow me to know."

A muscle in her jaw twitched.

He was giving her a choice.

He wasn't demanding answers. He wasn't forcing her into a confession. He was waiting-as if he already knew that pushing too hard would only make her retreat.

It made her hate him a little.

Because it made her want to talk.

Her fingers clenched around the mug. She could feel the weight of her family's silence pressing against her ribs, the unspoken warning stitched into her very being.

The Velthornes are meant to be forgotten.

If she told him-if she even tried-would the curse activate? Would it wrench the words from her throat, twist them into meaningless nothings?

Or worse-would it hurt him?

She had read of such curses before. Ones meant to protect family legacies, to ensure secrets died with their keepers. Some inflicted pain on the one who tried to speak. Others punished those who heard.

She didn't know which one the Velthornes had used.

She had never tested it.

She exhaled sharply through her nose. "It doesn't matter."

Dumbledore remained silent, studying her with that infuriating patience.

"I'll figure it out," she said, setting the mug down on the desk with more force than necessary. "I always do."

He sighed. "Miss Ashford-"

Ashford. Not Velthorne. Not Tenebris Nyxborne Velthorne.

She seized onto the name like a shield.

"The Ashfords don't have a history of... whatever this is," she said coolly. "You should know that."

She watched carefully for his reaction. If he had suspected anything about her true heritage, now would be the moment for him to slip.

But Dumbledore, as always, gave nothing away.

"The Ashfords," he repeated, as though tasting the word.

Sia kept her expression neutral, waiting.

Then he nodded. "Yes, of course."

Relief flitted through her-quick, fleeting. He wasn't prying. He wasn't pressing the issue.

But something about the way he said it made her uneasy.

Like he was agreeing with her while knowing full well that she was lying.

She looked away, her hands curling into fists in her lap.

"Does your family know?" he asked quietly.

Her breath caught.

She hesitated a second too long.

"I-" She cut herself off, frustrated at her own hesitation. "It's not their concern."

The lie tasted bitter on her tongue.

Dumbledore didn't argue. Instead, he only studied her for a long moment before saying, "You are very good at pretending, Miss Ashford."

She flinched.

He saw too much.

And she hated that.

"Pretending what?" she said coolly, forcing herself to meet his gaze.

"That you do not need help."

Silence stretched between them.

The fire crackled. A clock ticked somewhere behind her.

And for a moment-a small, foolish moment-she almost gave in.

Almost.

But then she thought of her family.

Of their warning. Their secrecy.

Their fear.

And the moment passed.

She stood, smoothing out her robes. "May I go now?"

Dumbledore watched her, as though debating whether or not to push further.

Then he nodded.

"Yes, Miss Ashford."

She turned on her heel, heading for the door.

But just as her hand touched the handle, he spoke again.

"Should you ever choose to stop pretending," he said softly, "my door will remain open."

Her fingers curled tightly around the handle.

She didn't respond.

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