Chapter 230
On the second day of the Christmas holidays, on the eighth floor of Hogwarts Castle, Headmaster Albus Dumbledore sat in a wicker chair beside his desk. Two umbrella-shaped lamps cast a soft glow, yet the entire office was clearly illuminated.
His eyes were half-closed as he endured a sharp, nagging voice.
The portrait of Phineas Nigellus Black, former Headmaster of Hogwarts and ancestor of the Black family, was shouting angrily.
"You actually brought that thing into the Headmaster's office? What are you thinking, Dumbledore?!"
If anyone else had been present, they might have thought the man would leap out of the frame at any moment.
"I believe Professor Dumbledore has his reasons," said another portrait gently.
It depicted a kindly, plump witch in elegant robes—Dilys Derwent—who attempted to calm Phineas.
"I apologize," Dumbledore said mildly.
With a soft flick of his wand, Phineas's portrait fell into an enchanted sleep—though his final expression remained distinctly furious.
Dumbledore then walked toward his phoenix, Fawkes, perched on a tall golden stand. A small blue flame appeared in his palm. Fawkes opened his eyes, leaned forward, and swallowed it.
With a soft trill and a puff of white smoke, the phoenix settled again.
At that moment, a knock sounded at the door.
Dumbledore's hand paused briefly on Fawkes's feathers. A quiet sigh escaped him before his expression returned to normal.
"The password is Chocolate Frog, Harry," he said.
The stone gargoyle stepped aside, and the entrance opened.
Harry Potter climbed the spiral staircase and entered.
It's cold… he thought immediately.
"Professor?" Harry called cautiously, glancing around. The usual delicate silver instruments were gone, packed away. The portraits slept silently.
Dumbledore stepped forward.
"Hello, Harry."
He smiled, though it seemed faintly tired.
"Sit down. I'd like to talk."
With a wave of his hand, a chair slid neatly beneath Harry. He sat, heart pounding. Something felt… off.
"Harry, I want to discuss your scar," Dumbledore said, adjusting his glasses.
"You… know?" Harry asked, startled.
"Your godfather was concerned and mentioned it," Dumbledore replied calmly. "And I suspected you would come to me soon."
"It's not that bad," Harry said quickly, trying to downplay it.
He hated feeling fragile—like something that needed constant protection.
Dumbledore shook his head gently.
"Small signs can point to greater dangers. If your scar pains you during the Tournament, it could be fatal."
Harry met his gaze.
Dumbledore's blue eyes were sharp—piercing.
Suddenly, Harry felt strange.
Heavy.
His eyelids drooped.
Cold.
A deep, unnatural cold seeped into the room.
"So cold…" Harry muttered, his arms flailing weakly.
"It will pass soon, Harry. Endure it," Dumbledore's voice said steadily.
Harry tried to open his eyes, but they felt impossibly heavy.
Despair crept in.
Familiar.
Like that day in third year—
A Dementor.
His mind reacted instinctively.
"Expecto—"
The spell died in his throat.
He couldn't finish it.
"Forgive me, Harry," Dumbledore said quietly.
His wand trembled slightly.
Behind Harry, a Dementor floated silently.
Its decayed, skeletal hands gripped Harry's shoulders. Its tattered cloak fluttered despite the still air.
The freezing cold in the room came from it.
Under Dumbledore's command, it had descended from the ceiling—hidden until now.
Harry's face twisted in pain as the creature loomed over him, draining warmth, hope… and something deeper.
Dumbledore watched.
His expression was conflicted.