The biting cold had turned the vast expanse of the Black Lake into a single, jagged sheet of ice. Beneath the pale moonlight, the Forbidden Forest—swaying violently in the gale—looked more like a shimmering, turbulent sea than a woodland.
"Before Easter last year, I recall you wrote to me claiming you were exploring an ancient Greek wizard's ruin in the Jura Mountains. You even sent me five pints of dragon blood and forty ounces of dragon liver," Snape noted.
He and Amossta walked side-by-side toward the castle perched on the cliff. As they passed the Quidditch pitch, Amossta glanced toward the flickering orange glow of Hagrid's hut. Snape took the opportunity to study the young man beside him. Amossta's features had grown sharper, his gaze deeper than when he had graduated three and a half years ago. Snape's voice carried an unreadable edge.
"Shortly thereafter, The Daily Prophet ran a rather curious story. The Norwegian Ministry of Magic reported an illegal breach of their dragon sanctuary. Someone had stolen a priceless Norwegian Ridgeback egg and slaughtered a Red-Scaled Dragon in front of two bewildered Muggles. Tell me, Amossta—I assume there is absolutely no connection between these events?"
"What do you think, Professor?" Amossta withdrew his gaze from the hut and looked up at the one illuminated window in a row of dark castle towers. He smiled faintly. "Or rather, what kind of answer are you hoping to hear from me?"
Snape's lips curled into his habitual sneer, but the retort died in his throat. He realized with a jolt that the young man beside him was no longer the impoverished, solitary student who preferred his own world to the company of others. He had grown into a wizard whose depths even Snape found difficult to sound.
"To me, it doesn't matter," Snape said, his voice dropping. "I only wish to remind you of one thing."
The warm reunion Dumbledore might have envisioned did not happen. Snape put his head down and marched toward the castle entrance.
"I hope you know what you are doing. This school is not as tranquil as it appears—especially these last few years. If your habit of keeping a low profile hasn't changed, I suggest you maintain it. Especially in front of Dumbledore. My final advice? Leave here as soon as possible. Leave the British Wizarding World entirely until the dust settles... if your brain is still as sharp as it used to be, you understand exactly what I'm saying."
The stone gargoyle outside the Headmaster's office seemed to bare its teeth in silent protest as it hopped aside, as if annoyed by the unusual amount of traffic tonight.
"Thank you for the warning, Professor," Amossta said softly.
Snape had no intention of entering. As Amossta passed him, the younger man offered a small, knowing smile. "I've always known what I'm doing. And I'm perfectly aware of the risks I'm taking."
Inside the office, Dumbledore had already changed into a clean, dignified set of wizarding robes. He had clearly sensed their arrival; as the wall slid shut and Amossta stepped into the room, the Headmaster was already standing behind his desk, his face bright with a welcoming smile.
"Good evening, Headmaster Dumbledore!"
Despite his mental preparation, Amossta felt a flicker of phantom tension as those brilliant blue eyes—eyes that held a century of wisdom—settled on him. His heart hammered a rhythm of involuntary respect.
In the fire-basket, Fawkes the phoenix stretched a curious neck out from a pile of ash, chirping at the familiar voice.
Thirty feet away stood a man whose tall, thin frame contained more than just a sea of magical power. Albus Dumbledore's life was a living history of modern Europe. Looking at him, it was hard to imagine how the Dark Lords of the first and second generations had ever managed to stand against him for so long.
"Welcome, welcome!"
Dumbledore beamed, extending a hand as Amossta approached. His piercing gaze swept over Amossta's face, lingering only for a fraction of a second on his pale violet eyes before settling on the snow-dusted strands of his gray hair.
"Good evening, Amossta. I must apologize for making you travel in such wretched weather. As compensation, may I offer you a drink?"
"Thank you. That is exactly what I need."
Amossta sat as invited. Dumbledore moved to a bookshelf, opened a cabinet containing a Pensieve, and reached under a trapdoor to pull out a vintage bottle.
"For the sake of my health, I've had to surrender most of my collection to Poppy Pomfrey. But this one... frankly, Amossta, I haven't shared this with anyone yet."
"Ogden's Old Firewhisky. Over eighty years old... that's priceless," Amossta said, catching the rich, spicy aroma filling the air. He offered a modest smile. "Thank you for your generosity, Headmaster. This drink alone makes the trip worthwhile."
Time had granted the expensive spirit a velvet thickness. Amossta took a small sip, waiting for the warmth to return to his frozen fingers.
Dumbledore was in no rush to start the formal interview. He watched Amossta with a gentle, patient gaze. Though he asked nothing, he seemed to be finding the answers he sought, and the results appeared to satisfy him.
"Severus told me that for the last two years, you've been following in the footsteps of the great pioneers, exploring magical ruins lost to time," Dumbledore said warmly as the color returned to Amossta's cheeks. "I am delighted to see that you haven't forgotten to refine your magic since leaving school. It makes me feel that my educational philosophy hasn't been a total failure. At least Hogwarts has taught a few people that there are better places in the magical world than the Ministry of Magic."
Dumbledore made no mention of the Board of Governors or the Chamber of Secrets, which caught Amossta—and his carefully prepared scripts—completely off guard.
"In my youth, graduates weren't in such a hurry to find a career. We took graduation tours. I had planned to go to Greece with an old friend to find creatures of myth, and then to Egypt to observe the crucibles of the alchemists... Sadly, certain accidents interrupted my plans. It is a regret I carry to this day." Dumbledore's eyes clouded with a moment of distant memory.
"My choices likely stem from my Muggle upbringing," Amossta replied, setting his glass down. He smiled in agreement, but internally, his guard went up.
He had rehearsed this conversation a dozen times. He expected Dumbledore to grill him on his movements over the last two years, to probe his motives for returning, or to dissect his plans for the Chamber of Secrets investigation. Instead, the old man seemed content to simply chat.
Was it possible? Amossta didn't believe Dumbledore was being simple. He remained vigilant while feigning interest in the topic.
"Children from wizarding families take the wonder of magic for granted. But for someone like me, who grew up in the Muggle world, the fact that a flick of a wand can make a miracle bloom is a precious thing. Compared to that, power and wealth seem... insignificant."
"Do not be too modest, Amossta. There are many children from Muggle homes, but the reverence and tireless pursuit of knowledge you possess is a gift uniquely yours," Dumbledore said, the light in his spectacles reflecting his approval. "Most importantly, after all your experiences, you still use the phrase 'miracle bloom' to describe magic, rather than 'power'—"
Dumbledore winked playfully. "When you were a student, Professor Snape frequently expressed his concerns to me regarding your interest in the Dark Arts. That was what led to our many 'accidental' midnight meetings in the Restricted Section."
Ahem!
Amossta choked on his whisky. He wiped his lips, his expression a mix of sheepishness and the awkwardness of a child caught in a prank.
"I'm surprised a wizard as busy as you remembers such trivialities, Headmaster. I was never intoxicated by the 'power' of the Dark Arts. I simply believe that all magic—dark or light—is part of a whole. It is all worth learning... or rather, worth referencing. Blindly rejecting it only highlights our own ignorance."
"Of course, of course. A very philosophical sentiment," Dumbledore nodded. Then, his expression turned solemn. "But not everyone possesses your clarity of self or your strength of will, Amossta. That is why Professor Snape's concern for you was not without merit."