Dumbledore's tone had changed.
It no longer carried the usual lilting warmth, nor the cryptic amusement that often veiled his deeper thoughts. Instead, his voice sounded distant — confessional.
"Perhaps… perhaps I truly am powerless," he said quietly, his eyes dimming. "So many things unravel because of a single impulsive decision from me. And yet, it's others who pay the price."
He blinked, slowly, as though each motion took effort. His gaze seemed to retreat inward, growing heavier, darker.
"There was a moment… when the connection between Fawkes and you nearly vanished. That place — you must have been in danger. I knew it. And still… I let it happen."
His voice cracked slightly. "I'm sorry, Vizet."
Vizet stared at him, confused. Something about Dumbledore's demeanour was wrong — off in a way he couldn't quite name.
"Headmaster Dumbledore… are you all right?" he asked cautiously.
A strange image flickered in Vizet's mind — an echo from another life. He thought of the old director of the orphanage where he'd once lived. A man who, though weathered by time and tragedy, had remained dignified, even noble.
When that old dean had been young, he'd made reckless choices. There had been family conflict, impassioned arguments, and eventually, he'd stormed away from home, never to return. In middle age, he found success in business, but it came at a price — rivalries, betrayals, and hard lessons.
By the time he longed to reconnect with his family, it was too late. One by one, they had passed away, and the grief hit like a falling avalanche.
But then… something unexpected happened. An orphan he'd once helped, returned to him, bringing with him a plastic bag stuffed full of coins. The repayment of a forgotten kindness.
The orphan turned out to be his grandnephew, long thought lost.
It was then that the man founded the orphanage, shifting his focus from wealth to care, from ambition to meaning.
Still, in his quieter moments, Vizet had seen him grieve. Alone. Silent. Bearing wounds that never fully healed.
And now, watching Dumbledore, Vizet felt the same weight. The same quiet sorrow.
There was something similar in their eyes — men who had lived long, who had erred, who bore the consequences of their choices in silence.
Both had suffered. And both had buried that suffering beneath the burden of leadership.
Yet… it was this version of Dumbledore that moved Vizet the most.
Not the celebrated wizard draped in titles — Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, Grand Sorcerer of the Age.
No.
This man — vulnerable, wounded, painfully human — felt more real than ever.
Dumbledore had always stood tall in the minds of others, but now, he sat beneath the weight of memories and regret. A great man, yes — but a man nonetheless.
And Vizet, somehow, had been allowed to see what so few ever did.
Not even Aberforth, it seemed, had glimpsed this hidden side.
But Vizet had.
And in that quiet ache, in the shadows of a firelit room, something unspoken passed between them — a thread of understanding that bound one soul to another.
"I cared too little for them..." Dumbledore murmured, his voice a rasp in the stillness. "All of this… what's happening now… it all began because of me. And worse — I made the same mistakes again. I watched them unfold… until the second tragedy came to pass."
His hands, resting on the table, had curled into fists. His knuckles were pale, the tips of his fingers trembling slightly. Vizet thought he could see a faint blush of red where Dumbledore's nails had begun to dig into his own palms.
Vizet inhaled slowly and then called out, firm and clear: "Headmaster Dumbledore!"
The old wizard blinked as though waking from a dream. The fog lifted from his eyes, and an embarrassed smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Ah… I may have spoken too much."
He shook his head, weary amusement replacing the grief for a fleeting moment. "I'm always more at ease around you. Perhaps it's because… for more than a decade, I received countless Christmas gifts from countless students and others — but yours, your first and only gift, was just a small box of colourful candies."
His eyes softened, wistful. "I truly liked it."
He glanced toward the window, where the darkness pressed gently against the glass.
"It's getting late. You must be tired. Go back and rest."
But Vizet didn't move. He spoke instead, slowly and with quiet purpose: "When I was studying at the Hog's Head, I often watched those wizards duel. Before a duel, they'd always begin with verbal provocation. It's a trick to shake the opponent's nerves."
He looked at Dumbledore squarely. "Headmaster… that's all Voldemort is doing. He's trying to get inside your head."
"Perhaps he's succeeded." Dumbledore's voice dropped. "If Harry hadn't been protected… if you hadn't been the Guardian…"
He drew a ragged breath.
"Then maybe Harry would've died to the Killing Curse. Maybe Voldemort would've seized the Obscurus. I never wanted to drag either of you into this."
"You didn't," Vizet said firmly. "It wasn't you. Voldemort wanted the Obscurus. He used Professor Quirrell as a tool to drive it out of control. That's what got us involved."
He paused for a moment, then added, "I don't know everything about Harry's past, but if it weren't for him, Voldemort wouldn't have fallen over ten years ago. I'm sure he does hate Harry. But that's Voldemort's hatred — not your responsibility."
Dumbledore listened quietly.
"I think you need rest too," Vizet continued gently. "You've been carrying far too much. Even Mr. Aberforth hinted as much."
Dumbledore knit his fingers together. "What… exactly did he say?"
Vizet considered his words. "Not much. He mentioned Credence… and, well, then he would scold me for not being fun."
Dumbledore let out a soft sigh, but it sounded more like a chuckle. "Yes. That sounds like him. Always so blunt."
Vizet smiled faintly and nudged the plate of bread across the desk. "Headmaster, you should try this too. Like I said… I can't pretend to understand everything you've been through."
"But I can offer a bit of support. Like this bread. Like that night — when you were the only one willing to believe in me."
He met Dumbledore's eyes.
"We're human. We can't be perfect. If you condemn yourself for being imperfect, then you'll live in pain forever. And I don't believe you deserve that."
"Thank you, Vizet…" Dumbledore's voice was thick, roughened by a swell of unspoken emotion. There was a glimmer at the corner of his eye.
"I should be the one thanking you," Vizet murmured, and now, finally, the long day caught up with him. A yawn overtook him before he could suppress it.
He rose with a stretch. "Headmaster Dumbledore… I'll be heading back now. Good night."
"Good night, Vizet," Dumbledore replied, his voice softer than ever.
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After Vizet left, Fawkes fluttered down from his perch and landed lightly on the edge of the table. His bright, intelligent eyes swept over the scattered crumbs of bread. He tilted his head thoughtfully, clearly debating whether they were worth a taste.
Dumbledore sat silently for a long moment, staring at the seat Vizet had vacated. Then he reached out and picked up one of the still-warm slices of bread.
He took a careful bite.
The texture was soft beneath the crisp crust, and the blend of flavours — gurdyroot and wheat — lingered on his tongue. He chewed slowly, almost reverently.
Then, without warning, his vision blurred.
Two quiet tears traced the lines at the corners of his eyes and slid down his weathered face, disappearing into his beard.
Wordlessly, Dumbledore rose from his chair and walked to the Mirror of Erised.
He looked straight into it — without flinching, without hesitation. This time, his gaze held no sorrow.
Instead, it was full of something softer. A quiet warmth. A tenderness that only family could evoke.
He stood there, finishing the bread, his reflection shimmering in the mirror. A faint smile curved his lips.
"Merry Christmas…" he whispered, the words light as a song.
The silence was broken a few minutes later when the door to the Headmaster's office burst open.
Snape strode in with urgency, his robes billowing and his expression grave.
"Vizet's returned," he said at once. "He isn't possessed by the Dark Lord… is he?"
Dumbledore, now composed once more, returned to his chair with a calm expression. "Still monitoring the eighth floor, Severus?"
Snape gave a dry sneer. "It's his owl. As meddlesome as its master — delivers letters and pries into everything with the same insatiable curiosity."
Dumbledore chuckled. "A very apt summary."
He gestured toward the table. "And there's good news..."
"Vizet isn't possessed," he said firmly. "He merely found his way into a rather unique place; and had an unforgettable experience."
Snape's brow furrowed. "An unforgettable experience?"
Dumbledore nodded. "You'll understand... if you try this."
He slid the plate toward Snape.
"Voldemort couldn't do this," Dumbledore added softly. "He doesn't understand this kind of magic. I can guarantee with my life — Vizet is not possessed."
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