HP: Fantastic Beasts And The Right Way To Use Them - 303

Chapter 303: Dinner Is Sorted

Muttering under his breath, Slytherin, cloaked in silver‑green, let his head droop as though his mind had gone blank, and said nothing more.

Seeing that the figure opposite him seemed disinclined to speak again, Dumbledore raised his brows. He glanced at the notebook by his hand, where he had jotted down a few key phrases, then at the surrounding stone walls. A faint glint flickered in his blue eyes.

Something had clearly occurred to him. The corner of his mouth lifted. Folding his hands together, he simply watched the bowed old wizard without saying a word.

No one knew how much time had passed. Perhaps it was the weight of that steady gaze, but eventually the dazed Slytherin suddenly raised his head again. His eyes lit up, as if someone had just been there to plug him back in.

He pressed a fist to his mouth and gave a couple of light coughs.

"Ahem. That is all I know about the Dark Age. We still have plenty of time. Do you have any questions you wish to ask?"

This time, there was no trace of that earlier deadness in his voice. His expression remained cold, but there was now a faint warmth in his eyes, a touch of gentle regard for a younger wizard.

"Even if your questions concern dark magic, I can answer them. I lived through that age, after all."

Dumbledore’s eyebrows climbed a little higher. A smile mirrored Slytherin’s on his own face.

"Excellent. In fact, there are quite a few matters I have long wanted answers to."

He opened his notebook and began working his way down the list, one question after another, asking about every point he had accumulated over so many years.

Time slipped by. At last, Dumbledore closed the notebook, looking thoroughly satisfied.

"Thank you for your answers. You have cleared up a great many of my doubts."

Ever since that incident, he had devoted himself to magic. These insights into dark magic scratched at curiosities that had gnawed at him for decades.

And now that he knew some of the hidden truths of that dark era, he held enough leverage to shift the sealed Age of Darkness, to do things that had been impossible before, without disturbing the seal itself.

It was, without exaggeration, extraordinarily precious knowledge.

Thinking this, Dumbledore drew the wand made of elder wood from within his robes. The corner of his mouth curled in an amused little smile.

If he had received such a gift, he could not in good conscience ignore the problem that might be coiled at its heart.

Besides, the man before him was one of Hogwarts’ founders. In every sense, he ought to do something.

His thoughts moved quickly. He lifted his hand and levelled the wand at the old man’s chest.

"What are you doing?"

Slytherin’s smile vanished in an instant as he saw the white‑haired wizard raise his wand. But before he could react, the tip of the Elder Wand flashed with brilliant light.

The light split at once into seven streams, which streaked out to encircle the table and the dour old man in a ring. A moment later, the beams joined one another, sketching a fiendishly intricate diagram that sealed both table and wizard inside.

Then Dumbledore flicked his wrist. The wand pointed straight at the old man, and a translucent wave of force pulsed outwards, centred on Slytherin.

Wherever the ripple passed, the air and stone twisted, then snapped back into place. Ribbons of grey‑black mist oozed out of cracks in the room and were swept up by the wave, then slowly dissolved. At the same time, the old man at the table clutched his head and began to shake. Strands of the same murky vapour seeped from his body, writhing and trying to flee.

They had nowhere to go. The barrier and runes etched into the floor earlier bound every wisp in place. Not a single thread escaped.

After a few seconds, the old wizard’s tremors began to ease. He lifted his head. His eyes were now a solid, burning red.

Dumbledore’s wand flared again before that look could deepen. A streak of scarlet shot from the tip, struck Slytherin squarely in the chest, and ripped a blood‑red shadow out of him. The shape was flung backwards and pinned against the glowing web of lines at the rear of the diagram.

The pattern began to contract toward its centre. The grey‑black vapour within was compressed at frightening speed. Warped, half‑formed faces surfaced in the seething mist, here for a heartbeat and gone the next. No matter how they strained, they could not break free of the sigil’s bindings.

As the diagram shrank smaller and smaller, the blood‑red stain faded from the old man’s eyes. Beads of sweat stood out along his brow. He slumped over the table, breathing hard, utterly exhausted.

When it was done, Dumbledore lowered his wand and studied the panting figure opposite him, lips quirking.

"I have sealed off every flow of magic between you and the outside world, and locked away everything abnormal in and around you. Now you should be nothing more than a pure shadow. There is nothing left that can control you or tamper with your thoughts."

He tilted his head, tone turning lightly teasing.

"Your hints were far too subtle. Trying to understand them would have taken more work than my old brain cares for these days."

"Now then. Let us talk properly. You have been dropping mistakes ever since I walked in here. What exactly have you been trying to say?"

Under the dim moonlight, a dozen doves picked their way warily through the trees. The one in the lead kept twisting its head this way and that, scanning the darkness and flinching at every sound.

It did not know how they had come to this stretch of woodland beside the lake. It did know that for small, ordinary creatures like them, danger lay behind every trunk and cluster of roots. One careless step and they would be something else’s supper.

That much had been proved by more than enough corpses.

The scenes burned into the leader’s memory would never fade: its kin snatched up one by one, turned into snacks between monstrous jaws, while the survivors scattered, helpless, with no power to fight back against predators far more terrifying than any wild beast.

When they first arrived in this forest, they had been a great flock, hundreds strong. In only a few days, there were barely a dozen left.

Thinking back on everything that had happened, a thin glimmer of moisture gathered at the corner of the dove’s eye.

Even so, their deaths had not been entirely in vain. In the days since, the leader had come to understand that this woodland was not normal.

There was some strange energy saturating the place. Simply by lingering here, it had noticed its mind clearing, its thoughts sharpening. Its hearing had grown keener; its strength had swelled.

Perhaps, if they stayed here long enough, even creatures as ordinary as they were might one day complete some kind of transformation.

It clung to that belief. Clung to the hope that one day, it would be able to lead its flock out of this life of endless hiding, to walk this forest proudly and unafraid.

When that day came, it would avenge every fallen kin with its own beak and claws.

Just as the dove was filling its heart with that fierce hope, a stream of water shot out of nowhere, skimming across the ground beside it and its companions. The water burst apart into a vast net, dropped over them before they could flee, then snapped tight and dragged them all toward a patch of shrubs not far away.

A voice sounded in its ear an instant later, light and almost cheerful.

"Looks like dinner is sorted for tonight."