Miss Cordelia, It's Time

When Gavin opened his eyes, Dumbledore was sitting across from him.

The old headmaster hadn't changed position—hands folded, body leaning forward, blue eyes peering over his Half-moon Spectacles.

Over the past three weeks, Dumbledore had learned to read the results from Gavin's face: a deep frown meant failure, a blank expression meant he was still thinking. This time, he saw neither.

Gavin looked relaxed, even a little excited, as though a crushing weight had suddenly lifted from his shoulders.

"Success, then?" Dumbledore asked, settling back in his chair.

"Mm."

Dumbledore's mouth curved slightly. "Then tell me, Mr. Gu, how do you intend to compensate a hundred-year-old man you've put through three straight weeks of this?"

"Compensate?" Gavin looked up at him. "Do you know what I just discovered?"

Dumbledore gave him his full attention.

"You—your consciousness—were the problem," Gavin said. "I'd barely left the beginner village when I ran straight into a final boss. Then that boss raised his hand and said, 'Here, use me as your test subject.'"

"I spent an entire week trying every approach I could think of, only to discover that the problem was the test subject himself."

Dumbledore blinked.

"So," he said slowly, "I held up the experiment?"

"Objectively speaking, yes."

A brief silence followed.

Dumbledore picked up the cup of honey tea on the table. It had gone completely cold. He took a sip, his gaze drifting toward a corner of the ceiling.

"I meant to help," he said, with a rare trace of embarrassment in his voice.

Gavin looked at him. The greatest white wizard of their age sat holding a cup of cold tea, trying very hard not to look as though he was examining his mistakes.

"Your intentions were good." Gavin stood and smoothed the creases from his robes. "But next