Chatting with the Headmaster

"I believe our conversation for tonight should end here."

A calm voice, yet one carrying undeniable authority, echoed from the doorway of the room.

Almost simultaneously with the sound, the previously empty doorway rippled like disturbed water, and the figure of Albus Dumbledore slowly materialized.

He wore a purple robe adorned with stars and moons, his long silver-white hair and beard impeccably neat. The blue eyes behind his half-moon spectacles were sharp and clear, showing no hint of sleepiness.

He had clearly been standing there for some time, having cast a highly skilled Disillusionment Charm.

He first looked at Harry, who was still shaken and pale, 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 his gaze shift to Skofot, who was still chuckling softly, his eyes alight with excitement.

Dumbledore's eyes deepened, becoming complex. There was no anger, no disgust, only a heavy, all-seeing scrutiny.

"Mr. Leoqi," Dumbledore's voice remained steady, but each word carried immense weight, "I believe we need to have a talk. About... what is truly 'practical,' and about certain... dangerous ideas that are absolutely not permitted to be spread at Hogwarts."

Skofot's laughter gradually subsided, but the neurotic curve on his lips remained.

He looked back at Dumbledore, his eyes showing no fear whatsoever. Instead, they were filled with a kind of chaotic, challenging interest.

The real game was about to begin.

Harry practically scrambled out of the suffocating classroom, the heavy wooden door closing behind him, shutting out the eerie atmosphere within.

The moment the door clicked shut, Skofot moved.

His movements were so fast they stirred a breeze, like a shadow gliding close to the ground, he suddenly darted in front of Dumbledore, so close he could almost feel the cool dew clinging to the wizard's robe.

He tilted his head back, the neurotic smile still lingering on his lips, his voice lowered to a breathy whisper:

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

Dumbledore did not retreat. He didn't even blink at the sudden proximity.

His sapphire-blue eyes gazed calmly at Skofot from behind his half-moon spectacles, like two bottomless lakes capable of swallowing any stone thrown into them.

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

Dumbledore's voice was gentle, yet carried an undeniable weight. "Especially when facing... such unique individuals."

The smile on Skofot's face widened slightly, his eyes flashing with a light mixed with challenge and inquiry.

"Unique? Because I suggested Potter commit murder?"

He tilted his head, his tone as casual as if discussing the dinner menu.

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

"The outlet for hatred is not solely destruction."

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

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

"Abyss?" Skofot chuckled softly, his shoulders rising slightly.

"Who knows? Perhaps the abyss is where the truth lies. It's better than drowning in the false warmth of the mirror, wouldn't you say, Headmaster?"

He deliberately emphasized the word "false," his gaze pointedly flicking towards the Mirror of Erised, which now only reflected their two figures.

Dumbledore's eyes deepened imperceptibly for a moment. He remained silent for a beat, as if weighing something.

"You seem to have quite an opinion of that mirror," Dumbledore said, his tone unreadable. "And you are quite confident in what you consider 'truth'..."

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

"I simply dislike self-deception. Desiring what you cannot have is the greatest waste. Instead of weeping at phantoms, it's better to find the person creating them... and deal with them."

He used the word "deal with," which was neutral yet implied violence.

"Deal with," Dumbledore repeated. He slowly took a step forward, closing in on Skofot.

An invisible, immense pressure suddenly emanated from the older wizard, not killing intent, but something more heart-stopping – an aura forged from the sediment of years, wisdom, and immense magic power.

"To solve everything with murder? Is that the philosophy you believe in? The 'practicality' spoken by an eleven-year-old child?"

Under his intense gaze, Skofot's breathing quickened slightly, but his eyes did not waver. Instead, they met Dumbledore's gaze.

"Age means nothing, Headmaster. Some people live their entire lives merely on the surface. I, however, choose to see clearly, and... not shy away from the cost."

"Cost..." Dumbledore sighed softly, the sound filled with countless complex, inexpressible things.

"Do you know what the 'cost' you so casually proposed entails? Not just the extinguishing of life, but the defilement of the soul, and the endless suffering and regret that follows."

"Soul?" Skofot seemed to hear an amusing joke, his lips twitching again.

"That's too ethereal. I only believe in the power in my hands, and the results I can see."

Dumbledore looked at him deeply, his gaze seeming to pierce through his skull, directly into the swirling thoughts beneath.

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

He paused, giving Skofot a meaningful look.

"I've been observing you for some time. Your patterns of behavior... are full of contradictions. Sometimes you're like a drawn blade, other times like a startled cub. What are you testing? Or rather, what are you trying to prove to whom?"

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

These words, though seemingly calm, were as precise as a scalpel, attempting to strip away his disguise and reach his core.

He couldn't show weakness.

"I'm just doing what I believe is right," Skofot evaded the crucial point, his tone regaining that careless inflection.

"As for proving? There's no need. I just feel this world sometimes needs a bit of... more direct stimulation."

Dumbledore didn't immediately retort.

He turned and paced to the Mirror of Erised, looking at his own aged reflection in the mirror, 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 calm.

"And you, Mr. Leoqi, I hope you can channel your... 'directness' and 'stimulation' more into your studies and into how you... interact normally with your classmates."

He turned around, his gaze falling back on Skofot, this time with a clear warning.