In the ancient and solemn headmaster's office at Hogwarts.
The magical lights flickered, casting shadows on the surrounding walls. The flames in the fireplace quietly burned, the warm light reflecting on the silverware and portraits.
Yet it couldn't dispel the faint chill lingering in the air.
This was the feeling brought about by the eerie, empty suits of armor, the portraits of past headmasters hanging on the walls, their gazes seemingly silently watching everything in the still space.
No one spoke.
No one showed any unusual expression either.
"Riddle."
Behind the massive desk, Dumbledore sat quietly, his silver beard shimmering faintly in the light, with a hint of an elusive expression in his deep blue eyes.
"Heh." The armor didn't move, but a low chuckle arose in the air, as if it came from a great distance, or as if the surrounding space was resonating.
It was hard to tell where exactly the sound originated.
Very ethereal.
"What have you done to Malfoy?" Dumbledore, however, wasn't bothered by these oddities; he merely spoke calmly, gazing at the face of the armor.
His tone was calm, but it carried an undertone of undeniable authority. Yet, the suit of armor referred to as Riddle did not immediately respond to Dumbledore's question.
It stood there quietly, like a silent statue.
In the quiet atmosphere.
Dumbledore also didn't continue speaking; he retained his usual patience, and after a long while, it was finally the armor that shook its head, a low and hoarse voice emanating from the surrounding environment.
"You're always like this, Dumbledore." The armor's voice was cold and raspy, with a metallic scraping quality, "Always asking questions you already know the answer to."
"It's simple; I gave Malfoy a chance to live. Otherwise, he would have died, no, ceased to exist." The tone did carry a trace of Riddle's feel.
Yet.
It clearly came from the bizarre armor.
"Are you trying to tell me you have a merciful side?" Dumbledore still gazed at the armor in front of him, the metallic body of the armor gleaming coldly.
And where the visor should have been was a void of darkness.
There was no flesh and blood inside.
Yet Dumbledore seemed to see something within... a soul? Not knowing if the word sufficed, the form in which the armor existed exceeded Dumbledore's realm of understanding.
"Why don't you ask the one controlling me... that master of mine?" Riddle's voice echoed again, still carrying a mocking tone towards Dumbledore.
The seemingly empty visor appeared to manifest a pair of scarlet eyes.
Flickering and vanishing.
"Oh, and instead of worrying about this," Riddle's voice carried sarcasm, perhaps even glee, "think about how you are going to survive first."
"Grindelwald can't help you."
Riddle's tone was filled with absolute conviction.
Dumbledore's expression didn't waver in the slightest, though the motion of his fingertips paused subtly. And Riddle seemingly observed all this, the young Black Demon King's voice echoed again.
"Dumbledore, my foolish master says I like to court death, but in my view, you're the one who loves courting death the most. Even in all the history I've experienced, there's no one more inclined to it than you."
"Who do you think you are? Do you think you have... the essence of my foolish master?" The voice carried a hint of disdain and mockery, echoing in the room continuously.
It was sharp as a needle.
Accompanied by Riddle's pleasure.
Dumbledore merely maintained his poker face in response, with silence, the room falling into prolonged quiet, with only the past headmasters in the portraits exchanging uneasy glances.
"Is it really worth your joy, Riddle?" Dumbledore slowly stood up, walked to the window, gazing at the distant Black Lake, his pupils flashing with certain emotions.
"Don't underestimate... my determination to survive."
He answered only this way. The armor's laughter echoed in the air, and then, as Dumbledore drew his magic wand, he suddenly swung the Elder Wand in its direction.
In the next moment.
The figure of the armor dissipated like smoke.
As if it had never existed.
Things seemed to grow increasingly bizarre.
Only.
Apart from the group of former headmasters in the office who didn't dare make a sound, fearing another move by Dumbledore, no one knew about the matter, the silent room holding only the call of a Phoenix.
As if responding to Dumbledore.
...
Time passed by.
The night would fade away.
The dawn's glow softly spread across the Hogwarts campus. The next morning, the students of Hogwarts woke up one after another, beginning a new day's learning.
Ian, of course, was no different.
After a hearty breakfast, it was time to start a fulfilling day.
Sunlight poured through the tall windows into the Transformation Class classroom, tiny specks of dust floating in the air. Professor McGonagall stood at the podium, preparing to give the second-year students a Transformation lesson on new content.
What could be seen.
The classroom was neatly arranged with desks and chairs.
Sunshine streamed through the windows onto the desks, forming patches of golden light. Professor McGonagall, dressed in a long dark green robe, looked dignified and elegant.
There was a hint of expectation and seriousness in her gaze, holding a beetle in her hand.
"Today, we will be learning the technique of transforming a beetle into a button. This is a rather challenging transformation, requiring everyone to concentrate and master the techniques of using magic well."