Talking with the Headmaster

"I believe our conversation should end here tonight."

A calm voice, carrying unquestionable authority, sounded from the doorway.

Almost the moment the voice rang out, the air in the previously empty doorway rippled like water, and Albus Dumbledore's figure slowly emerged.

He wore a purple nightgown patterned with stars and moons. His long silver-white hair and beard were impeccably groomed, and the blue eyes behind his half-moon spectacles were sharp and clear, without the slightest trace of sleepiness.

He had clearly been standing there for some time and had cast an exceptionally sophisticated Disillusionment Charm.

He first looked at Harry, who was still shaken and pale-faced, his gaze gentle and reassuring.

"Harry, I think you need to go back and rest. This mirror will be moved elsewhere tomorrow."

Only then did he turn his gaze toward Skofot, who was still chuckling under his breath, his eyes feverishly excited.

Dumbledore's gaze became deep and complicated. There was no anger in it, no disgust—only a weighty scrutiny that seemed capable of seeing through everything.

"Mr. Leoqi," Dumbledore said, his voice still steady, though every word carried immense weight,

"I think we need to have a talk. About... what truly counts as 'practical,' and certain... dangerous ideas that Hogwarts will never permit to be spread."

Skofot's laughter gradually ceased, but the nervous curve at the corner of his mouth remained.

He looked back at Dumbledore without the slightest fear in his eyes. Instead, they were filled with a chaotic, provocative interest.

The real game was only beginning now.

Harry practically fled the suffocating classroom on all fours, and the heavy wooden door closed behind him, cutting off the strange atmosphere within.

Almost the instant the door shut, Skofot moved.

He moved so fast he stirred a faint breeze. Like a shadow gliding close to the ground, he darted before Dumbledore, close enough to almost feel the chill of night dew clinging to the other man's nightgown.

He raised his head, that lingering nervous smile still on his lips. His voice was low, breathy.

"You finally came out. I thought you planned to keep watching."

Dumbledore did not step back. He did not even blink at the abrupt approach.

His bright blue eyes watched Skofot calmly from behind his half-moon lenses, like two bottomless lakes that could swallow every stone thrown into them.

"Observation is the prerequisite for understanding, Mr. Leoqi."

Dumbledore's voice was gentle, but it carried an unquestionable weight. "Especially when faced with... such a unique individual."

The smile on Skofot's face widened slightly, and his eyes gleamed with a mixture of provocation and curiosity.

"Unique? Because I suggested Potter kill someone?"

He tilted his head, his tone as casual as if they were discussing dinner,

"I merely gave him a... more direct solution. Hatred needs an outlet, doesn't it? Suppression only breeds weakness."

"The outlet for hatred is not limited to destruction."

Dumbledore spoke slowly, his gaze passing over Skofot's pale face and overly bright eyes.

"The direction you are guiding him toward will only drag him, and more people, into the abyss."

"The abyss?" Skofot chuckled softly, his shoulders twitching faintly.

"Who knows? Maybe reality lies at the bottom of the abyss. Better than drowning in the false warmth inside that mirror, wouldn't you say, Headmaster?"

He deliberately stressed the word "false," casting a pointed glance at the Mirror of Erised, which now reflected only the two of them.

Dumbledore's eyes deepened almost imperceptibly for an instant. He fell silent for a moment, as though weighing something.

"You seem to have considerable insight into that mirror," Dumbledore said, his tone giving away neither pleasure nor anger. "And great confidence in what you consider 'reality'... as well."

Skofot's smile faded, and for the first time, he looked slightly more serious.

"I simply dislike deceiving myself. Longing for what you cannot obtain is the greatest waste. Rather than weeping at phantoms, it is better to drag out the person who created them... and deal with him."

He used the neutral yet violent word, "deal with."

"Deal with." Dumbledore repeated it, then slowly stepped forward, closing in on Skofot.

An invisible, immense pressure suddenly radiated from the older wizard. It was not killing intent, but it was even more chilling—a presence forged from age, wisdom, and formidable magic.

"Use killing to solve everything? Is that the philosophy you believe in? The... 'practicality' spoken of by an eleven-year-old child?"

Under his stare, Skofot's breathing quickened slightly for a moment, but his eyes did not retreat in the slightest. Instead, he met Dumbledore's gaze head-on.

"Age means nothing, Headmaster. Some people live their entire lives and still only see the surface. I merely chose to see clearly and... not avoid the price."

"The price..." Dumbledore sighed softly, and that sigh contained too many complicated, unspoken things.

"Do you know what the 'price' you so lightly propose truly means? Not merely the end of a life, but the corruption of the soul, and the endless pain and regret that follow."

"The soul?" Skofot looked as though he had heard an amusing joke, and the corner of his mouth twitched again.

"That is far too intangible. I believe only in power held in my hand and results I can see."

Dumbledore looked deeply into his eyes, as though his gaze could pierce through Skofot's skull and look directly at every thought swirling beneath it.

"Power..." he murmured.

"You seek power, Mr. Leoqi. There is nothing inherently wrong with that. But what drives that power? Is it the careless manipulation of others' fates, as you did tonight? A disregard for the value of life? Or... something else?"

He paused, giving Skofot a meaningful silence.

"I have observed you for some time. Your patterns of behavior... are full of contradictions. At times, you are like an unsheathed blade; at others, like a startled young beast. What are you testing? Or rather, to whom are you trying to prove something?"

Skofot's pupils contracted slightly. The old bee really had been watching him all along.

These words sounded calm, yet they were as precise as a scalpel, attempting to strip away his disguise and touch the core.

He could not show weakness.

"I am simply doing what I believe is right." Skofot sidestepped the issue, and that careless tone returned to his voice.

"As for proving anything? There is no need. I merely think this world sometimes needs a little... more direct stimulation."

Dumbledore did not refute him immediately.

He turned and walked to the Mirror of Erised, looking at his aged reflection and the blurred figure of the black-haired boy behind him.

"The mirror will be moved tomorrow," he said with his back to Skofot, his voice returning to its usual steadiness.

"And you, Mr. Leoqi, I hope you will devote more of your... 'directness' and 'stimulation' to your studies, and to learning how to get along with your classmates... normally."

He turned around, his gaze settling on Skofot once more, this time carrying a clear warning.